#super wide angle

[sigalrm]

Apartment buildings by Pascal Volk

[turtleblogatlast]

Big ol’ eyes

(Wip of a comic I’m working on - wanted to draw the babies with big eyes again haha)

[marvelstoriesepic]

Weakness

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: You use Bucky’s only weakness to your advantage until it bites you in the ass.

Word Count: 7.2k

Warnings: feigning injuries; a sprained ankle; bruises; hiding injuries; combat fighting training; sparring sessions; mutual pining; Bucky being a doting sweetheart; Bucky being smug; Bucky being worried

Author’s Notes: This idea has been sitting in my drafts as a rough outline for months lol and I finally got the inspiration to make something out of it. I hope you will enjoy this! ♡

Masterlist

You love sparring with Bucky.

Maybe because you love the man.

But there is so much more to that, honestly.

You have basically sparred with anyone out of the team.

Steve is methodical. Always a teacher, always Captain. He calls out corrections in a way he does orders, his patience long-practiced. His strikes are accurate, economical, as if he calculates the exact amount of force necessary to bring you down and delivers it precisely, nothing wasted. But you always know he is holding back. He does not say it but you feel it in the way he controls every movement, never quite giving you the full weight of his strength. You learn from him, but there is always a ceiling to what he will allow you to take from the fight.

Natasha is sharp. She doesn’t coach you, doesn’t slow down, doesn’t hold back. She fights you like she fights anyone. You feel the sting of a bruise blooming before you even realize she struck you. And yet, when you get a hit in, when you shift fast enough to slip past her guard, her smirk is quicksilver - pleased, challenging, like she has just discovered something worth sinking her teeth into.

Wanda fights like she plays. Some days, she keeps her powers at bay, working only with what her body allows, light on her feet, swaying rather than striking. But she is not used to this. Not using her powers in a fight. So most of the time, she teases, powers tugging at your wrist mid-swing, a flicker of scarlett at the edge of your vision before she is suddenly behind you.

Sam is solid. He fights with his whole body, never wasting energy on anything that doesn’t serve his goal. He takes up space, keeps you on the defenses, his moves seamless. But he is generous too, throwing you a verbal lifeline mid-fight - “too slow, come on,” - challenging you in encouraging you. And when you get him down, he grins, bright and wide, like he wants you to win.

Clint fights like someone who doesn’t need to win, just needs to keep moving. He is slippery, dodging rather than blocking, grinning rather than growling. He makes a game of it, laughing at your frustration, forcing you to loosen up, to adapt, to try something unorthodox. He doesn’t spar to overpower. He spars to frustrate, to outlast, to make you think three steps ahead.

But Bucky.

Bucky watches you. Always. Even when he isn’t facing you directly, even when he’s standing in the shadows at the edge of the gym, you have his attention. It is something you have learned to steady yourself beneath. Because it never really seems to waver.

He is mindful. Of your form. Of your tells. Of how far he can push you. He does not go easy on you. Despite the obvious differences in height and weight and him being a super soldier. But he fights you like an opponent worth fighting. He fights you like himself. Precise. Controlled. Thoughtful. When he corrects you, it is not instruction, just a simple adjustment with the brush of his metal fingers nudging your wrist into a better angle, a small nod when you adapt.

And when you take him down - when you surprise him, when you shift your weight at the last moment and send him to the mat - there is that laugh breaking out. He is not stunned at the way you overpowered him. Not disbelieving. He merely laughs. A short burst of warmth, rare and genuine, something boyish in the way it escapes.

You live for that laugh.

Because Bucky knows your competence. He does not gift you victories because he knows you don’t need them in the first place. He expects you to win. He knows you can. And will. He does not say it outright, but you learned to read the subtle body language in the years of knowing him - the glimmer of something pleased in his eyes, the upturn at the corner of his mouth.

And when he helps you up - fingers gently curling around your wrist to pull you to your feet - he lingers just a little too long.

So yes, you love sparring with Bucky.

Basically, on the first day as an Avenger it was drilled into you that knowing your enemy is everything - know what you are up against, who you are fighting, how they move, what makes them weak.

You are good at this. At observing. You know how to study people, how to pick out patterns, how to find the smallest crack in an otherwise impenetrable wall and press until it splits wide open.

Still, Bucky Barnes is not an easy person to read.

But perhaps it was just a little too much fun figuring out what exactly his weaknesses are.

He doesn’t have many. His body is conditioned for war, his mind sharpened, his instincts too honed to give much away. If he has vulnerabilities, they are subtle. Nearly imperceptible to anyone who isn’t looking closely enough.

But you have been looking closely. For the better part of a year.

And then, about five months ago, something clicked.

Bucky Barnes does have a weakness.

A glaring one, in fact.

One so obvious you nearly laughed out loud when you finally pieced it together.

It’s you.

You are his weakness.

Bucky is a creature of routines.

The kind that keep him grounded in a world that still feels like shifting sand beneath his feet. And somehow, you have become part of them.

You don’t remember when it started, exactly. But you know that when you stumble into the kitchen in the morning, still half-asleep, Bucky is already there. Always. Sometimes with coffee already poured for you, sometimes just sitting at the counter like he’s lost, waiting like he’s been expecting something. You.

You tested it, once. You woke up later than usual, wanting to see if he still lingered. And sure enough, when you finally stepped into the kitchen, he was there, nursing a long-gone cup of coffee that was somehow still halfway filled, gaze fixed on the entryway even before you entered. Like he hadn’t been planning on leaving until he saw you. It’s when he loosened his grip on the poor mug. Flexing his fingers, as if he was close to shattering it.

Bucky is not a fan of crowded spaces.

He likes corners, walls at his back, exits in view. He keeps a respectable distance from most people, moving on silent feet, always aware of what’s around him.

Except when it comes to you.

You began to notice that in the common room. How he lets you sit closer than he does with anyone else, how he doesn’t shift away when his knee bumps his. How, when you walk side by side, he moves to make space for you without thinking. How he stops standing near the door when you are in a room, like some unconscious part of him doesn’t feel the need to watch his six when you are there.

And then there are the small things.

The way his arm comes up instinctively when you reach past him for something, like he is preparing to steady you or get it down for you if it is something you can’t reach. The way he steps in front of you if something startled him, body moving before anything else.

Little things. Automatic things.

And the most endearing part is, that he genuinely does not seem like he knows he is doing all that.

Bucky is strategic on missions.

He follows the plan without a hitch, keeps his cool and executes flawlessly.

Until you are in danger.

Then he gets frantic. He even tends to snap at Steve. He gets tighter, sharper, more lethal. It seems like instinct.

Just last month, you got cut along your thigh that you managed to patch up before the mission was even completely over. But Bucky was stoic and brooding. Frown on his face the whole time. He saw the blood, saw the way you had a limp in your step and something utterly cold settled in his eyes.

Sam later mentioned to you with a weird wiggle of his eyebrow that the man whose knife slashed you never had the chance to land another hit on anyone.

You started testing him in small ways. Seeing if he moves when you move. If he adjusts his strategy to keep you in his line of sight. If he listens to your voice above all others in a debriefing, even when Steve is talking.

And he does. Every time.

Bucky got mad at Clint once because he ate the last donut that was meant for you. Clint was genuinely terrified. He even went out to get you new ones.

Bucky picks up stuff from the common room he knows belong to you and takes it to your room.

Just yesterday, there was a book on your nightstand. One you had mentioned offhand in conversation weeks ago, something you said you wanted to read someday. And you know for a fact that Bucky got dragged into the city by Sam and Steve the day before.

After years as an Avenger, you learn to fool people.

You know how to smile when you need to, how to shake things off, how to deal with missions gone wrong or people unsaved.

But you can’t fool Bucky.

He just knows when something is off. He notices the way your voice shifts, the way your shoulders carry tension differently. You don’t have to say anything. He just knows.

And he never pushes. He lingers. He makes himself available. He sits beside you in silence when you don’t feel like talking. He glares at everyone who wants something unnecessary from you in times like those.

And then he would just go, come on, let’s go do something.

It is basically just watching a movie or cooking a dinner or baking cookies, but everything is more fun with him, and soon enough your smile touches your eyes again.

Bucky does not share.

He does not share his food. He does not share his belongings.

But he does with you.

When you are out and freezing, he shrugs off his jacket and tosses it over your shoulders without a word.

He lets you take fries off his plate and lets you drink from his cup, much to Sam’s surprise and disgruntlement.

Bucky does not talk about his nightmares.

Not to anyone.

But on certain nights, when sleep refuses to hold him and his mind is drowning in things long past but never gone, he finds you.

You were in the common room when it first started. Months ago. Nursing a mug of tea, when he wandered in, looking lost and exhausted.

With a single glance at him, you nodded to the couch, shifting over to make space, and he came sitting down without a word.

He let you talk. He even seemed to relish it. Intertwining his hands at his front and laying his head back against the backside of the couch, closing his eyes and listening to your mocked aggravation at the fact that Sam left a half-eaten sandwich on the counter again.

He stayed until the sun crept in through the windows, slight snoring making you smile.

It happened again. And then again.

After a while, you started recognizing the signs when his nightmares are getting worse again. The way he drifts into whatever room you are in and stays locked in his own when you are gone on a mission or out with the girls. How he leans against the doorway for a second longer than necessary before stepping inside, like he is debating whether he has the right to be there.

Sometimes, he’d pretend he’s just passing through. He would linger in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee he doesn’t drink while you are having your conversation with Wanda and Natasha.

One night, he even came to your room. Knocking and standing there with his hands fidgeting at his sides, eyes shamefully lowered, looking so much like a puppy in search of some love.

He didn’t pretend. He didn’t offer excuses. He just stood there and you saw it in his eyes.

You took him in your arms and then you took him in.

First, he sat down on the floor beside your bed, back against the wall, knees drawn up like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. He didn’t say anything for a long time. You just sat beside him on the ground, laying your head on his shoulder.

Eventually, his breathing evened out, head falling onto yours.

He would fall asleep like that. Until you managed to get him to lie down in your bed beside you. He usually sleeps like a baby when he’s with you.

You are not stupid. Neither are you naive. You have always been good at reading people, at knowing them, at watching them, and deciphering the things they do not say.

And you know what this might mean.

You certainly know what it means to you.

The way your pulse picks up when Bucky walks into a room so casually because you are there. The way your stomach flutters when his gaze lingers on you. The way your chest gets so unbearably full when he does all those smallest things for you.

But you think you also might know what it means to him. He seeks you out for everything, on instinct or not. Smiling seems to come so easily to him when he is with you. You are the only person he lets into his personal space - the only person he doesn’t startle away from when it comes to accidentally touching.

But Bucky Barnes is not a man who allows himself to want things easily.

So, you will not force yourself upon him. You will not push. You will not demand. You will not take what he does not freely offer.

Because you understand that he does not fear pain, or war, or perhaps even death.

But he fears something real, something good, something that cannot be fought off with fists or buried beneath old ghosts.

Because he does not think it is something he deserves yet.

But you are willing to wait. Until he is ready. Until he is sure. Until he knows that this is what he wants.

And if he never is, if he never comes to you with certainty in his hands, if he never crosses the space between you - then you will wait anyway.

Because for him, you would wait forever.

****

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

There’s a smug grin on his face as he’s circling you.

And you know why it is there.

Because you are currently three losses deep into a losing streak against Bucky. And that just won’t do. You need a win.

You move first, closing the distance fast, testing his defenses. He blocks. A quick jab - he dodges. A feint - he doesn’t bite.

He knows your patterns, how you move, how you think. But you know him, too.

You go low, aiming for his legs, but he anticipates and shifts out of reach. “Getting predictable there, doll,” he drawls, smirking.

Yeah, you’re gonna wipe that off.

Rolling your eyes, you adjust. A punch goes up that isn’t meant to land, just to see how he reacts. He blocks high, but his balance shifts and there is a brief opening. A second and you are too late.

You strike fast, sweeping low again, and this time, you actually catch him. Not enough to take him down, but a start.

Bucky huffs, rolling his neck. “Not good enough, but better,” he teases, smirk still in place.

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, lunging again.

He meets you halfway, and for a moment, it’s just movement - sharp and fast and fluid, but you keep your balance. You duck, weave, block.

You land a hit, but it barely fazes him. He grabs your wrist, twisting - flipping you, but you are prepared, rolling and springing back up.

“That all you got?”

“Come find out.”

He laughs brightly before going in for attack. You block his strike, twisting out of reach.

It’s definitely not all you got.

He is not expecting you to cheat.

Not that you call it cheating anyway.

You decide that it’s time to take advantage of that weakness of his.

After all, it has worked before. And it will work again.

Bucky feints left. You dodge, pivot, but let your foot catch just so against the mat to send you off balance. The stumble isn’t exaggerated - it doesn’t need to be. You land on your side, letting out a sharp breath as if this is not exactly what you were expecting, and grab your ankle, wincing.

Bucky stops immediately. Just like always. It’s the first time you feign your ankle getting hurt but he reacts all the same.

His shift is instant. His whole body tenses. Taking a step toward you with his brows furrowed tightly, he scans you like he’s already running through every possible way to help you. Carrying you to the medical wing, for example.

“Shit, doll. You okay?” His voice is softer now. Concerned. So genuinely worried, you might actually feel bad.

He crouches without hesitation, without a thought, eyes so intensely fixed on you. And that smug grin is as predicted wiped cleanly off his face.

“Lemme see-”

He reaches out to you but that is when you strike.

You twist up, leg sweeping out and knocking his feet from under him. His surprised noise is so satisfying as he goes down, flat on his back, sprawled across the mat.

Silence.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Bucky groans loudly.

You are kneeling beside him, grinning, chest heaving. “Kinda needed that win, Barnes. No bad feelings, yeah?”

Bucky just stares at the ceiling for a long moment, one hand scrubbing down his face. He exhales sharply, muttering something under his breath, something that sounds suspiciously like every goddam time.

The last time you used your little trick on him, you had sold a jab against your side, staggering back and exhaling sharply as if he hit some sensitive point. He froze instantly, eyes wide. And you spun him into a flawless takedown.

The time before that it was your shoulder. All you needed was a slight grimace in fake pain and his whole demeanor changed in an instant. His hands went up slightly, a step in your direction and that was your opening to duck under his arm, and bring him down with a precise twist.

Yeah, alright, people might believe that that technique is a little mean and it certainly wouldn’t help you at all in the open field, but Clint did tell you to try something unorthodox.

You stretch, still smirking, and tilt your head at him. “You know, you’d think after falling for this multiple times, you’d have learned by now.”

Bucky’s head rolls to the side and he glares at you. Not in anger, not even close. Just that specific kind of exasperation that you have come to learn is something only you get to see from him.

He huffs. “Should’ve known you’d pull this shit again.”

“Should have. And here I thought I am predictable.”

He gives you a flat, unimpressed look.

“Can’t believe I was worried.”

“Aww, you were?” you say sarcastically, lightly. Almost in a sly sing-song voice, because is is always worried. That’s the whole point of this.

Another hand drags down his face, but there is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

****

You exhale deeply, rolling your shoulders, as you make your way down to the gym.

Your muscles are stiff. Everything aches in that dull, stubborn way that promises it will get worse before it gets better.

The bruises that paint your ribs throb with your pulse. You remember the sharp, biting crack when you hit the ground.

It was a mission for Steve, Nat, and you, though you definitely could have used some backup.

You feel terrible.

And you hadn’t told Bucky any of that when you came home yesterday, sometime late.

Instead, you sent him a quick I’m fine. Training tomorrow? and buried yourself in sleep before he could pry. You know how he gets, after all. How his worry manifests, his eyes linger and his mouth tightens when you brush him off. You did not have the energy for it last night. And you don’t have it now. He does not have to know what hits you have taken due to your own recklessness. You already got a lecture from Cap. Don’t need it from his best friend.

So you show up. Because, if you don’t, he will know something is wrong.

Bucky is already waiting for you, standing loose and ready on the mat. His eyes snap up the moment you enter, scanning you the way he always does. Checking.

You ignore his gaze.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” you say, tossing your water bottle onto the bench, forcing something light into your voice.

He smirks, arms crossed. “That what’s gonna happen?”

You step onto the mat, careful not to wince, careful to keep your breath even despite the sharpness pulling at your ribs. “Don’t sound so doubtful, Barnes. I’ll let you eat the mat.”

He snorts, tilting his head. “I sure like to see you try.”

He raises his hands, shifting into a stance, watching you closely. Too closely. There is something probing in his gaze today.

“How’d the mission go? Steve mentioned you guys ran into some-”

You don’t give him time to finish - time to think.

You move, fast, hoping to catch him off guard.

He sidesteps, but you strike again.

And immediately regret it.

Your ribs scream. Punishing. Your breath stutters, but you grit your teeth and keep going, keep pushing forward and attacking because if you pause, he will most definitely notice.

It goes on for perhaps a minute and you think you might actually be able to bite away the pain your whole body is consumed with, but then you stumble.

It’s a half-second of hesitation, a misstep that normally wouldn’t happen. But it causes you to trip away a few steps. Sharp pain courses through your ribs and a hand instinctively shoots up to your side. A hiss slips past your lips. Loud enough for him to hear.

But instead of reacting the way he always does - immediately stopping, immediately reaching - he just huffs amused, shaking his head.

“Bad time for trying that trick again, sweetheart. Shoulda known better.” There is that smugness in his tone.

His voice is light, teasing. His eyes are sharp, watching.

You grit your teeth, saying nothing.

He thinks you’re faking.

Which - fine. You have done this a few times. But now, with every movement grinding against the ache in your ribs, you wish he would just stop you.

Because it’s getting harder to hide.

It’s getting harder to see.

Bucky seems confused for a second when you don’t react to him at all, but doesn’t have time to act on it as you are going in for the next hit.

And Bucky dodges you too easily like he doesn’t even need to try. You swing again, slower than you should be, weaker than you should be - and he sidesteps, frowning.

“Tryin’ a new strategy?” he asks, but his voice is careful. His eyes are assessing.

You don’t answer. You can’t. You just go again, ignoring the way your body protests, ignoring the way you are moving wrong like you are just a second behind yourself. You hope maybe muscle memory will carry you through.

It doesn’t seem like it.

Bucky stopped throwing punches himself, only staying in defense mode and he won’t stop fucking looking at you.

And then you pivot too fast - twist wrong.

White-hot pain flares through your side so fiercely, it rips the breath from your lungs. A harsh, unsteady sound falls out. You can’t catch it. You stagger, grip tightening into fists, trying to push through.

But Bucky’s expression now definitely shifted. Amusement gone. Smugness gone. His face is hard.

You ignore that and try to go in for the next hit, but Bucky steps in fast, too fast for you to counter in your state, hooking an arm around you, pressing your back against his chest. He doesn’t throw you - he could, easily, he would - but he just halts your movement, stopping you clean in your tracks.

The pain spikes again and you gasp sharply. Your knees nearly buckle and Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

His hands are firm around you. Steady. But his breathing is not. It’s fast, strained, the muscles in his arms locking as he keeps you upright.

“What the hell happened?” His voice is so low, so serious. There is an edge to it, teetering on loosing control.

“It’s not a big deal,” you grit out.

“Bullshit.” Now he sounds harsh.

But his fingers still press so gently into your side, checking you out.

You whimper, flinching.

And Bucky freezes.

“Shit.” He shifts his grip, an arm around your waist, moving you to face him and still trying to support you without making it worse. His heartbeat is fast. You can feel it. Even in his hands on you.

He grabs the hem of your shirt and lifts it enough to see your torso. A breath hitches. It’s not yours.

The bruises are bad. Worse than they were yesterday. Dark and sprawling across your ribs, blooming in ugly purples and reds. You feel the shift in him, the way his whole body goes still.

You watch his tense features in discomfort. His eyes are turbulent, filled with a wildness stemming from something dark that writhes beneath his skin and causes his hands to shake against you. A tremor passes his jaw.

He curses under his breath.

“You didn’t tell me.” His voice drags low.

“I didn’t think it was that bad.”

He lets out a deep and rumbling sigh. Trying to compose himself. “It is bad, Y/n! How come you thought it’s a good idea to train like this, huh?”

He meets your eyes. There is a sternness in his expression. His eyes are heavy.

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

Bucky lets out a humorless breath. Closes his eyes for a moment until he takes a breath in again.

“I was already worried, doll. I always am. You know that, no?” he speaks solemnly. “You think not telling me makes this better?”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He shakes his head, exhaling profoundly through his nose. His grip tightens, but not enough to hurt you. He holds you carefully.

You take in a deep breath. “I- I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t wanna talk about it. I’m sorry, Bucky.”

His jaw is clenched and he bites his bottom lip, staring at the bruises littering your skin for a moment with eyes so dark they make you shiver.

“How did that happen? Who did this?”

You scoff half-heartedly. “Got a little messy. Pretty sure that guy’s not doing that well either.” You aim to get even the tiniest bits of amusement out of him but he might have gotten even more grim.

His touch is slow, a careful sweep of his finger across your skin, studying you for reactions.

He opens his mouth. Something on his tongue he wants to get out, but he hesitates. He swallows. Waits a few seconds. His voice is a rasp. “Don’t do that again.”

“Getting hurt on missions is kind of a normal occurrence, Buck. Not much I can do about that-”

“No, I mean-” he interrupts, voice quieter. “Don’t hide it again. Not from me. I- Just please.”

There is something in his tone that makes you stare for a while longer.

Then, you nod. Just once. But you mean it.

****

It took weeks for you to properly heal.

But finally, earlier today, you got the clearance of Dr. Cho - and Bucky, because he somehow told himself he has a say in that kind of thing - to step onto the mat again and resume training.

There is still a phantom pain in your ribs but it’s locked somewhere in the back of your mind.

But Bucky still would not stop fucking looking at you.

And it never is in a casual way. Bucky always watches you like he is waiting for something. Like his body is ready to move before his mind even has to tell it to. Like he is memorizing you, making sure nothing slips past him.

He is currently standing in front of you on the mat, rolling his shoulders, the stretch of muscle under his shirt shifting with the movement. The tension in his frame hasn’t faded, no matter how much you’ve reassured him. His fingers flex, then curl into loose fists.

Then his eyes find yours.

“Alright,” he says, voice low and edged with something firm, something not up for debate. “Don’t ever pull that shit on me again. You’re good enough as it is. No need for all that, yeah?” There is something heavy in his tone. “I'll even let you win this time if you need it so badly, doll,” he adds with a hint of humor that his voice lacked earlier, bouncing right back into your easy friendship.

You huff out a laugh and stretch your arms over your head, feeling the pull of muscles that have gone a little too long without use. “Trust me Bucky, I’ve learned my lesson.” Your voice is rather light, but it carries an edge as well.

Bucky’s jaw ticks.

There is something like guilt crossing his eyes for a second. Gone as fast as it came but you catch it. His lips are pressed together tightly and he seems to hold back an uncomfortable cough.

You’ve talked about this already. Plenty, in the weeks of your recovery. You told him you wouldn’t have believed him either after the many times you feigned injury during matches. That if anything, it was your own stubbornness that got you hurt and not him.

He only agreed with the stubborn part but he stopped bringing it up.

Still, you see he hasn’t let it go.

He carries too much guilt as it is. You don’t want him to carry more. So, you definitely won’t question his weakness during fights again. It was kind of funny, though, at least you’ll hold onto that.

You roll out your shoulders, shaking off the stiffness, then take your stance. “C’mon Barnes. You gonna fight me or just stand there looking pretty?”

His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smirk, maybe even a ghost of pink at the tip of his ears, but his eyes stay sharp.

He steps in, closing the space, moving with the same impossible control he always does.

You block his first strike, but it shakes through you. The force of it reminds you just how much power he’s holding back.

His eyes snap to your face. He doesn’t stop watching.

Studying.

Testing how you move, how much strain you can handle.

You feel yourself get into it again. The movement, the impact, the swiftness. The gym is filled with the sounds of breaths and footwork against the mat.

Bucky tests you, pushes you.

And you give as good as you get.

Your body remembers even if it’s been weeks. Your muscles adjust, wake up in a way they haven’t in too long. You move on instinct, dodging, striking, thinking, even pulling a move that you copied from Nat. One that Bucky didn’t see coming.

And it honestly looks pretty good for you, until your foot catches.

It’s nothing at first, a simple shift in weight, an uneven pivot that causes your balance to tip slightly off center. But a dizziness suddenly overcomes you and it’s too late to catch you. Your ankle twists, your knees buckle and the floor comes rushing up to you.

You hit the mat hard, landing awkwardly on your side, the jolt of pain snapping through your ankle up your whole leg, sharp enough for you to wince.

Shit.

You suck in a breath, already dreading what this looks like, what Bucky must be thinking. The timing couldn’t be worse. After everything - after the fights weeks ago, after the conversations, after the promise you just made to never feign getting hurt again - what else would he think?

But before you can lift your head, before you can force out some half-hearted quip, Bucky is already there.

Not hesitating. Not wary.

Rushing. Fast and frantic.

He’s at your side, crouching so fast his knees nearly hit the mat.

And you find yourself blinking at him stunned.

You expected him to pause. To hesitate. Maybe even get angry - to assume, even for a second, that you are feigning again, that you had just promised him not to pull that anymore but here you are.

But there is none of that.

Only the same panic from every other time you’ve dropped yourself to the ground on purpose. But this time it is real. There just was no way for him to know that. He still reacts the same.

“Where does it hurt, doll? Talk to me.”

His voice is calm, but his face is tight. His brows are drawn together, tension lining his mouth. The breaths he lets out are just a little too measured.

You blink at him, still baffled at the way with how fast he was there, how fast his reaction was.

“Just my leg,” you say, exhaling slowly. “It’s nothing. I just got dizzy and fell.”

That makes him frown, deeper than before. His hand moves so gently as he lifts the fabric of your training pants to get a look, taking your calve into his other hand. The touch sends a pulse of pain through you but you manage not to let it show on your face. You’ve had worse. You’re an Avenger, after all.

But Bucky’s jaw clenches so tightly at the sight of the swollen bone and the deepening flush of color on your ankle as if it is serious.

“Might have sprained it,” he mutters gruffly, and the displeasure in his voice is so clear.

“Think I’ll live, Buck,” you quip lightly and shift, trying to stand up but his hand doesn’t let up on your leg and he presses just lightly against your shoulders to make you sit back down.

“You still feelin’ dizzy?” he asks, basically ignoring what you said, voice dipping lower. His gaze locks onto yours. Intense.

You shake your head, trying to show him how casual this whole thing is but his eyes won’t stop searching you and it makes your stomach churn.

“I’m fine, Buck.”

His eyes don’t move. He doesn’t let go.

“Why did you even believe me?” You voice it light, but there is something cautious underlining it, you can’t shake. “Could’ve faked again.”

Bucky rakes a hand through his hair with a long breath. He averts his eyes.

“Saw you go down,” he says with a shrug that seems just a little too exaggeratedly indifferent. “S’ enough for my head to go straight to hell.”

That’s certainly not something you expected him to say and you are stunned once again. But you can’t help the way your belly does some delightful flips.

“And you promised me you wouldn’t,” he adds, shoulders straightening, like he is trying to shift your attention from the words he said before. From the admission he made.

“I’m really not going to do it again,” you promise again. But you won’t forget his words.

“I know, sweetheart,” he says sweetly, certainly, but the tension of your current situation lingers.

His touch on you is so damn careful, checking and rechecking, making you tell him what and how something hurts and you almost laugh out loud at his fussing.

“Buck, it’s not like I broke it,” you point out, a laugh in your voice. “I can still-”

“You’re not gonna walk around on that.”

You lift your brow at him, at his tone, an amused smile on your face but he just stares back. Without the smiling part.

Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before standing to his full height, adjusting his stance before crouching slightly again.

“Alright, come on.”

You blink but his hands already settle, one beneath your legs, the other bracing your back, and you barely have time to react before he is lifting you, arms locking as he pulls you against his chest with an ease you could only dream of.

“Bucky-”

“Not a word,” he warns with a grunt.

You sigh, letting your head fall back against his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Don’t care.”

****

A sprained ankle takes anywhere from two to six weeks to heal properly, depending on the severity. You’ve had a few sprained ankles in your career already, so you would know.

But yours sits on the longer end of that spectrum and it frustrates you to no end because what the fuck. You were just done healing and now you got to do it all again.

The first week, Bucky barely lets you breathe without hovering close. He is always there, catching you if you wobble because you are too damn stubborn and rather hop around the compound than use a clutch. Because that would make it too easy, wouldn’t it?

The second week you get snappish. Tony makes sure to leave the room when you enter, Sam gets defensive, Natasha just smirks what frustrates you even more, Vision is a fucking robot only answering in a robotic voice way that drives you up the wall when he gives you a list of stores around New York that sell kettle fries but you only wanted to know where they are in the compounds kitchen. And Bucky endures every tiny bit of it, only that he is entirely unmoved by your attitude. At one point you just taped your ankle and tried to go down to the gym but Bucky stopped you before you could reach the elevator. He already stood there, brow quirked, arms crossed, unimpressed but amused.

By the third week, he sat next to you during team training, watching, studying. You criticized movements, talked about strategies, and laughed at Sam when Nat made him faceplant onto the mat.

Then the fourth week rolled in and you could finally put weight on your foot without wincing. For you, that meant you were good to go train again. But not for Bucky. So that meant another week of waiting.

But now you are back on the mat. Fucking again.

And you promise yourself, you will not fall this time. Not on purpose, not by accident.

Bucky stands across from you, arms loose at his sides, weight balanced, watching as you roll your shoulders and move through your warm-up.

“Got any last words before I kick your ass, Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. That half-smirk, something smug but fond, something that flies through his blue eyes like a spark.

“I dunno, sweetheart. Wouldn’t wanna land you on the sidelines again.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes.

“Bite me, Barnes.”

The moment you move, he matches it.

His reflexes are quicker than yours - always have been, always will be - but your advantage is that you know that. You know him. His patterns, the way he shifts his weight, the way his left shoulder always tenses a fraction of a second before he throws a punch. You don’t need to match his strength to win. You just need to read him.

The first strike comes low, an attempt to test your footing, but you pivot fast, avoiding the sweep of his leg with a practiced step-back. You counter with a jab - not meant to hit, just to distract - but he reads it immediately, catches your wrist, yanks you forward.

You twist, using the momentum, your free hand shooting up - Bucky dodges, barely, but you are already adjusting, using your own imbalance to push into him.

His hands are always steady, whether he’s attacking or defending. He uses his strength not to hurt you, but to push you, to remind you that you can take it.

And you do.

Blow for blow, counter for counter.

You refrain from looking at his face because he looks distractingly hot with his hair falling into his eyes and all, whipping around with his movements.

The moment his weight shifts forward, you are already countering. Stepping out of reach just as his arm sweeps for your waist. Your breath comes sharp as you turn and aim a well-placed jab that he sidesteps.

Bucky’s eyes gleam. Thrilled.

“Not bad,” he calls, already throwing another feint.

“Not trying to be”, you fire back, ducking, moving with him like it’s a dance. Like your bodies know this better than your minds do.

You push - he counters. You feint - he laughs, quick and breathy. You strike - he blocks.

Fuck, you missed this.

But then, he shifts.

And something changes.

It’s in his stance. The way he adjusts - not a mistake, but a decision. And in the half-second, before you react, before you catch on, you realize you don’t know what he is planning.

Your body is moving, a reaction before thought, but he is quicker - and you only feel him wind his arm around your waist, spin you around, and crash his lips against yours.

You stagger, letting out a surprised grunt against his mouth, caught completely fucking blindsided, because - what?

His mouth is firm, demanding - and it sears straight through your skin, your ribs, right into your bones, into your pulse, because Bucky Barnes is kissing you.

It’s not soft.

Not hesitant.

Not careful.

It’s everything it shouldn’t be in the middle of a fight.

It’s so unexpected that you don’t even notice the moment your back hits the mat. Don’t notice the way he takes you down like it’s nothing, like it’s unpredictable, because you weren’t ready.

You didn’t see it coming.

By the time you blink, by the time your brain catches up, he is already above you. Hovering.

His weight is balanced, both arms braced on either side of your head, and he is looking at you like he just won the fucking lottery.

Smirking. So damn smug.

Because Bucky finally found out your weakness. And he used it to his advantage.

Because what else could it be than him?

“You cheated,” you breathe out. Where has all the air gone?

“You kinda started it, sweetheart.” Bucky grins so wide, so proud, so happy. He pants above you. His eyes are shining.

And then he ducks down again.

He kisses you once more.

Slower, this time. Deeper. With something that lingers, something that presses into you as his hand slides along your jaw, something that feels like it has been waiting far too long for this exact moment.

And you don’t fight it.

Because it seems, you no longer have to wait for Bucky Barnes.

“You’ll know… not just in the way they look at you, but in how they’re not looking anywhere else.”

- butterflies rising

[arminsumi]

ㅤ★ ONETWOTHREEFOUR — MAX!

... bully!Gojo loves fucking you in the bathroom stall, turning his creampies into whipped cream inside you. But you know what else he loves? Plugging you up with a vibrator and surprising you by turning it on mid-lecture — and passing the control over to his best friend.

ㅤ★ requested by anon / promptlist

ㅤ★ cws; strictly no under 18s, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, secret public sex/nearly caught (poor confused Choso just getting moaned at), multiple orgasms/creampies, remote toy control, Suguru gets passed the remote, dirty talk, some spanking/ass slapping

There's just no way he can reach your little hole without bending his knees — and still you have to be poised on your tippy toes to let him fuck you.

Body shuddering with your hands splayed against the bathroom stall's pretty pink wall, your skirt fisted in his big hands and your thong pushed to the side of your puffy lips, bully!Gojo thrusts into your poor overused pussy 'till she cries, 'till she gushes, 'till he groans and releases another cumload against your cervix, 'till he turns his creampies into whipped cream.

Sure, his cockhead is oversensitive from plunging into your wet walls, and his balls are sore from slapping into your poor puffy clit for creampie after creampie, and yeah, there's cum dripping down the front of his thighs— but he's fucking you to put you in your place. And with how addicted he is to the feeling of being inside you, getting his pretty pink cock hugged tight by your walls, he just can't stop now.

His hips practically move on their own. His cock keeps telling him not to pull out just yet — it's telling him let's let her have it.

In mock affection, he presses his sweaty cheek against your forehead, white wispy bangs sticking to your skin, eyes glued to your jiggling breasts, big hand coming down to rub your clit. "Insensitive, huh?" he asks in a dangerous coo, "I'll show ya how fucking insensitive I can be." and with that, he's frantically massaging circles on your super fucking sensitive clit.

"Ah! Fuck! T-t-toruuu, I'm sorry! I didn't even mean it, I was just a-angryyy!" you sob out, feeling his mean cockhead rubbing sweet spots deep inside you.

His clit rubbing is ruthless, and he's a messy boy you know he doesn't care that his fingers and palm are coated with your slick.

"Nah, you meant it." he grunts back, blue eyes piercing you with a glare, hips pounding into you from the back, muscles twitchy 'n tensing, "Now stay still 'n take it. I told'ya I was gonna fuck that attitude out of ya, didn't I?"

You let out a strangled moan at his words, nearly going limp against the shuddering bathroom stall's wall. Satoru presses your head against it, smushing your cheek, getting rougher by the second.

He's still tightly fisting your skirt in his hand, other hand sometimes tugging harshly on your pathetically tiny thong — the one he told you to wear today, or else he's gonna throw one of his spoiled rich boy tantrums. He can't resist groping at your soft ass and spreading your ruby red smacked cheeks wide.

Satoru momentarily stills inside you, choking you up with how deep he chooses to keep his throbbing cock, and then he repositions himself; sharp polished black shoes clicking as he spreads his long legs further apart.

"New angle, hope ya like it." he jokes, angling his cock so it curves right against the gummy roof of your pussy, right against that spot.

"Oh fuck!" you cry out when he starts pounding up into your hole, nearly lifting you off your feet with the force of each thrust, makin' your sweaty body jiggle erotically.

He watches you widen your eyes when his cock hits a sweet spot just right, the one that makes your eyes twitch in pleasure 'n your knees buckle.

You're gushing around him, totally soaking his length, pussy too full of his gooey creampies 'n now they're leaking out and running down your thighs.

His cock hits that damn sweet spot again, with more precision than before.

"Oh fuck, fuck! Right there! Fuck me right there, 'Toru!" you chokingly moan, feeling a shockwave of pleasure pulse from your pussy to every point in your body.

"Damn, chill." he chuckles.

Chill? Of course he'd say that while he's fucking you like he's trying to get you cockdrunk. He's pounding into your gummy walls 'n rubbing your clit with this hate-fueled determination.

All you did was talk back to him in class. Just a cutesy little snide remark. You thought it would turn him on. Well, it did turn him on — it also turned his gaze cold and wiped the smirk off his face. Two things that sent shivers down your spine.

Oh, I'm fucked.

The way he leaned back and hummed had your pussy twitching, already getting wet at the thought of what he was gonna do to put you back in your place.

Whiiich brings us back to the last bathroom stall of the men's bathroom, the stall in which your bully is fucking up your guts and turning you into his personal cocksleeve.

He's close, you can tell because that's when his steady, deep strokes slow and he takes two inches out so he can rub annoyingly back and forth across his favorite ridge inside your pussy. And his tell-tale signs? Choppy breathing, brows twisted together, tightened grip on your body, 'n he's got this psychotic smile forming on his face which he likes to press against your sweaty forehead to let ya know how much he's enjoying bullying you.

Just feeling all his cum getting fucked out of your quivering hole makes you want to cum again. It's almost scary. What if you fall apart? You might even scream this time. Nah, who cares honestly? You can't control how your walls squeeze his cock now even though he bitterly scolds you for being too tight, too tiny to take him all.

You can hardly hear the nasty vocabulary he's using on you, 'cause you're too fucked-out on his thick cock, not even caring if the squelching sounds and choking moans escape under the door and echo down your college's corridors. Even if anyone barged in, Satoru would probably just do what he did last week — when someone barged into the spare room while he was in heat 'n balls deep in your pussy — tell 'em to fuck off.

"Fuck me." Satoru groans, "That hot little pussy 's gonna make me cum... 'm gonna cum... gonna fill you up... ahah... fuck."

He's just the type to giggle during the buildup to his orgasm. It sounds almost psychotic — yeah, you knew from day one that he's crazy and his cock is crazy.

His cock gets hotter, then it bursts with thick ropes of cum once again. The both of you savor in the feeling. It's in the aftershocks of his orgasm that Satoru wonders if he's actually falling in love with you.

Then he snaps-to.

"Shit, you're a fucking mess." Satoru grins almost sadistically, sweating like crazy under his uniform.

You're just shivering against the wall as he eases his cum-coated cock out your pussy, sliding past your folds. Cheek smushed against the wall, face looking like you just saw heaven for an hour, you're relishing the buzzy afterglow of getting fucked dumb by your bully.

His hard slap on your ass brings you back to reality. You hear the sound of him pulling his pants up his long legs, dragging up his zipper. The click of his button. Then he plants another hard slap on your stinging cheek.

You groan, teasingly wiggling your cum-filled pussy, feeling his big hands groping the plush of your cheek and spreading it to reveal your twitchy holes — and he just keeps grinning, watching his seed ooze out 'n drip down your pretty thighs — those thighs that are the reason he chased you in the first place.

You'd think he's looking at the Mona Lisa with how he marvels at the sight — but nah, it's just his white, gooey creampies smeared across your lips and inner thighs. "Aw, don't let it drip out or 'm gonna need to plug ya up..."

Trembling, you listen to him unzipping his backpack and rifling around. "What d'you mean?" you ask, looking back at him with a dazed afterglow on your face, but when you do he's already sliding something into your pussy.

"Ahhh, fuck!" you squirm, feeling that hot pink toy push inside and stretch open your cum-soaked walls again. "I'm so tired, gimmie a break!"

"Relaaax, it's just to plug ya up..." he grins mischievously.

"Oh... o-okay... if you say so."

Oh, but what a liar he is.

It's ten minutes after you and him cleaned up and scurried off to your class and took your seats.

Shit — late again. You curse Satoru and his dummy big cock as you settle down.

... then you feel something start to buzz inside you.

"Oh!?" you let out a small gasp.

Vibrations against your sweet spots make your eyes flicker. Your filled pussy freaks out, spasming and twitching like crazy around the toy.

You give a glare of disbelief back at Satoru, who sat two rows behind and above you — duh, so he could always get a nice view of your breasts.

He sees you. He smirks. He raises a pink little controller shaped like a flat egg, and tauntingly shakes it in his hand before clicking a button.

One notch up.

"Nn!" you tighten around the toy.

He watches you freak out from afar, his sweaty face contorting into a diabolically naughty smirk.

Two notches up. Three notches. Off. Onetwothreefour — you gulp and smack the desk — earning a look from your seatmate, Choso.

The toy temporarily turns off.

"... sorry, this question is just so frustrating." you apologize, playing off your random desk smack.

"Yeah, tell me about it. I'm failing this class for sure."

"S-same, honestly." you reply shakily, soothingly rubbing up and down your clenched thighs.

You text Satoru with fervency.

You

'just a plug' my ass! wtf is this thing!

Toru

lol 🍑🔜 and chill... it's just a lil something i picked up for ya

You

ur the devil. i hate u.

Toru

ur hurting my feelings 🥺

Onetwothreefour — max!

"Fuck...!" you gasp again, feeling a dizzy rush as the toy buzzes at max deep inside your pussy.

Choso gives you a concerned side-glance.

"Sounds like you're really having a rough day." he jokes.

You look at him. He's sitting pretty close.

"You have no ideaaaaaahhhhhhh~" you moan back, accidentally cumming right there in front of your classmate.

Immediately clapping your hand over your mouth, you blink at him. Oh no... you just orgasmically moaned against poor, confused Choso's face.

His eyes widen. He blinks. " H u h ? "

Satoru sees this and slides down in his seat, holding in his laughter behind a toothy smile, pearly whites all on display. Now his best friend gives him a look.

"Satoru..." Suguru sighs, catching onto what was happening. "Give the girl a break."

"You wanna try?" he offers Suguru the remote control.

Suguru looks at it. He looks at you, then Satoru, then the toy... and takes it into his hand and chuckles with his best friend behind their textbooks, clicking it to a new pattern.

You just twitch your eyes and then shut them in pleasure, cursing the both of them in your mind while you feel your thighs tremble and feel the toy pulsing. Your pussy squeezes the pink silicone.

And you can hear those dastardly best friends giggling behind your back, watching you wiggle in pleasure, trying to contain your moans. Every time you glance back at them, Satoru makes mocking ahegao faces at you. Suguru just smirks and continues to play with the vibrator.

Oh, you were definitely gonna get 'em back for this.

© 𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐢

𝐓𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠! 💗

[h265-4k-mdvr-vehicle-camera-dvr]

180degree FHD1080P vehicle #sidecamera #IP69K #DVRcam

[leclerc-hs]

off the record! - cl16

pairing: charles leclerc x race engineer!reader (fem) summary: in which you and charles don't correct the headlines OR you and charles are fake dating...key word: FAKE...right? warnings: language, some smut, NOT PROOFREAD (there's prob typos sorry), angst??? word count: 9.1k author's note: hiiii angels! I hope you like this one <3 let me know what y'all think!! hearing from you all is what gives me motivation to keep writing. xoxo. HAD THIS ONE SITTING IN THE DRAFTS FOR SOME TIME

Charles is good at pretending. Almost too good.

He’s too swift in front of the cameras, too convincing when his hand always manages to find the small of your back as you both walk through the paddock like it’s second nature. Like you belong there, belong to him. Too natural in the way he leans toward you in interviews, voice low and warm, muttering things that sound and look intimate even when they aren’t.

Except sometimes, when it doesn’t feel like pretending.

Because no one’s watching when it’s just the two of you in the garage after hours, both of you bleary eyed and sore from leaning hunched over the data too long. He’s still like that. Still standing too close. Still reaching for your wrist when you ramble off, his thumb brushing over your pulse like its nothing. Or when he still calls you amour and cherie in that voice, like he doesn’t remember that it’s all fake.

And you let him. You always do.

Because it’s easier than admitting the truth. That you’ve started memorizing the sound of his laugh. Or the shape of the vein in his throat when he’s super focused. That your stomach twists into knots whenever his eyes crinkle from a smile that feellike its just for you. That you’ve memorized the shape of his mouth when he says your name, whether it’s joyful, annoyed, or exhausted, it’s always gentle. Like he cares. Like he means everything.

And that’s what makes it unbearable.

Not the way he touches you when people are watching. Not the photos or the constant headlines.

It’s the way he looks at you when no one else is around.

Like it’s not pretend at all.

-

It starts in the most ridiculous way.

One stupid photo, taken from the wrong angle at the wrong moment, and suddenly you’re everywhere. 

LECLERC’S SECRET FLING???? MYSTERY WOMAN OR HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT?

You outright groan when you see it. You’re still in the motorhome, alone with the hum of the mini refrigerator behind you and the harsh morning sun streaming through the tinted windows. Your laptop is wide open, untouched, but all you can do is stare at your phone.

Your face is angled slightly toward him. His head tipped just enough to suggest something intimate briefly between FP1 and a strategy meeting, your hand grazing the curve of his back as you both maneuvered through the crowd. He laughed at something you said, probably something dumb, but the photo caught that too. His mouth curved upward, eyes crinkled in your direction. Like something romantic, private, real.

Your stomach churns.

A knock sounds, soft and almost polite, before the door opens anyways. You don’t have to look up to know its him. His scent hits you first. Clean, something warm and familiar that always lingers too long.

“Did you see the news?” Charles asks, closing the motorhome door with a soft click.

You turn the phone screen toward him, “What do you think?”

He glances at the screen for a mere second and huffs out a soft laugh. Not surprised, not even irritated. Just amused, like this is a game.

“Didn’t know you were considered a mystery woman. Let alone my mystery woman,” he says, stepping closer, a towel draped over his shoulder.

“Didn’t know I needed PR clearance to walk beside you,” you reply, brows raised. Your voice is sharp, not in the mood to be flirted with, even if its playful.

His smile dims, just a fraction. “I know it’s annoying.”

“It’s beyond annoying,” you drop the phone beside you. “They don’t even bother to use my name! Just ‘female engineer from inside Ferrari’. Like I’m nothing.”

His gaze softens while he leans against the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees as he sighs, “They’ll get bored anyways.”

“Will they?” You meet his eyes. “Or are they going to spin this until I’m some mystery girlfriend hiding in plain sight?”

Neither of you speak for a few moments.

“It’s not the worst thing in the world, is it?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, not looking at you as he says, “They’re going to write the story either way. Maybe it’s better if we control the narrative.”

You lean back, studying him. “Control?”

Charles finally looks up, and when he does, its with that expression he only wears when he’s working through something dangerous. That soft stillness thats half strategy, half vulnerability.

“They think we’re together already,” he says. “What if we just…let them?”

The silence stretches and you just a stare at him, waiting for the joke, the amused smirk, the cocky laugh. But it doesn’t come.

Because he’s serious.

“You want to fake date me,” You say flatly.

“I want to stop giving them something to chase,” He corrects you, his voice almost a whisper. “If they think we’re together, they might back off.”

You begin to shake your head slowly. “That’s insane.”

He exhales through his nose, not denying it. “Think about it. A few appearances, some hand holding. A smile or two when cameras are around. No one gets hurt.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Right…no one.”

He stands then, crosses the room and leans against the counter next to you, too close like he always is. His gaze skims your face.

“You wouldn’t have to change anything,” his voice is soft. “You’re already next to me most weekends. You’re already in photos. You already…” He pauses. Swallows. Breathes. “You already look at me like it could be true.”

Your heart drops. You open your mouth. Close it again.

He’s not joking. He’s asking.

And the worst part is, part of you wants to say yes.

You study him for a long moment. The way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks when he blinks. The way his hair falls softly over his forehead, sweaty and messy.

“You’re really serious about this.”

He nods. “Only if you are.”

You reach for your phone again, staring at the photo, before putting it face down.

“When do we start?”

-

You feel him before you see him.

There’s a palpable shift in the air…familiar. And he’s there. Just standing outside the hospitality suite, dressed from head to toe in Ferrari red, with his sunglasses slipping on the bridge of his nose as he gives a small nod to someone you don’t recognize. He doesn’t look at you immediately. He doesn’t have to.

Regardless, your pulse spikes.

Your grip on the tablet in your hands tightens, a poor attempt at grounding yourself. You’ve walked beside him before. Done this dance dozens of times. But never with eyes on you like this. Never with your face wrapped up in headlines and edits that call you something you’re simply not.

Charles falls into step with you as if its the most casual thing in the world. As if the press haven’t been breathing down your necks. His scent hits you first, like always, clean and expensive and something so him that it unsettles something deep in between your ribs.

“Ready?” His voice is smooth, and he still isn’t looking at you.

You nod, forgetting that he isn’t looking at you before you mutter a soft I suppose in his direction.

The paddock is nothing but a storm of noise and motion by the time you step out. The sun is shining blindly, heat simmering off the asphalt while other workers buzz around between the garages. Photographers and fans hover like flies on a horses back. 

Your heart is already fluttering in your throat, but you manage to keep your face composed. Neutral. As if there aren’t dozens of cameras fixed on you. Waiting.

His hand brushes against yours…barely. It seems like nothing at first, just the back of his hand brushing your fingers as you walk side by side.

But then it happens again. This time on purpose.

And then you feel it. His fingers curling, slipping through yours with a care that feels almost too fucking intimate.

You freeze. Not noticeably. Your steps don’t falter. But something inside you, burns. 

The cameras go wild. 

You hear it in the shouts, in the constant click click click as people realize what they’re witnessing. Voices shout from nearly every direction. Some screaming his name, others screaming yours. Your heart thuds like a drum behind your ribs.

And then, he stops.

Right there in the middle of the paddock, with the crowd pressing in, with reporters angling their mics and cameras, he fucking halts. His grip tightens around your hand, not painfully, but enough to make you stop walking too.

You turn, confused and startled. But he’s already facing you.

The sun glints off his sunglasses, casting shadows across his face, but its his stillness that steals your breath more than anything. His thumb brushes once, slow and grounding, along your hand as he speaks.

“You okay?” He asks, voice quiet and nearly lost in all the surrounding noise.

Your throat constricts. “I’m fine.” But it’s not convincing. Not to him at least.

He leans in slightly, and for a second, you think he might say something but instead his hand squeezes yours again, then slowly his fingers move. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your knuckles, the exact curve of your wrist, the shape of your hand against his.

And quickly, so quickly that no one but you could catch it, he tilts his head and lowers his sunglasses just enough for his eyes to peek over the top. 

And that is what undoes you. Its not a look for show. His green eyes are dark and searching. He just looks at you like he’s reading his favorite book. Like he wants to consume every single written word of yours.

“You sure?” He says, like the answer actually matters.

You nod.

And within a millisecond his sunglasses slide back into place with one push of his fingers. Mask on again. But his hand never leaves yours.

And you start walking again. Casual, composed, fake.

-

You don’t even bother knocking. Just push the door open with your shoulder and shuffle in like it’s your room. Your shoes are already off before the door fully shuts, mumbling something about your spine being broken as you toss your team jacket over the back of a chair.

Charles doesn’t even look up. He’s on the floor, back against the bed, legs stretched out in front of him.

“You’re late,” He says, voice muffled by the few bites of pasta in his mouth.

“You’re alive,” You shoot back.

“Barely.”

You collapse beside him, shoulder knocking into his as you groan and sink into the carpet as if its the best thing since sliced bread.

“Yeah, well. Next time, try not to scare me half to death on lap 52,” You mutter, pulling your hair out of its pony and letting it fall. “I don’t need to explain to the FIA why I dropped dead.”

He chuckles. It’s low, tired, and warm.

“I’ll  try to keep that in mind. Wouldn’t want to traumatize you.”

You nudge his knee with yours. “You traumatize me daily.”

His head turns towards you, raising an eyebrow as he places his dish onto the ground. “You love it.”

You snort. “I tolerate it.”

“Do you want my pasta?” He pushes the bowl towards you like a peace offering.

You stare at it. “You’re so romantic.”

“Not romantic,” he softly smiles. “Just generous, cherie.”

“You’re luck you’re pretty.”

“You’re lucky I don’t care to fight right now.”

The room is dim, only one lamp on by the bed, casting a warm glow across the room and his face. His hoodie’s rumpled, socks mismatched, and hair still damp from the shower he rushed through.

It’s stupid how at home he looks right now. Not the polished version. Just Charles, the boy who can’t sit still and lets you steal his hoodies whenever your room gets too cold.

“I’d let you win,” You shrug your shoulders.

His brows furrow slightly. “Win what?”

“A fight.”

His grin spreads slowly across his lips. “Oh, so you’re feeling soft tonight, hm?”

“Soft. Exhausted. Whatever you wanna call it.”

“I like you like this,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t make your chest cave in.

“Like what? Emotionally unstable and half-asleep?”

“Exactly.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile breaks through anyway. 

You both fall into an easy silence.

Comfortable.

-

You’re sitting sideways in the too-small balcony chair, legs draped over one arm, glass of wine in hand, with your head tilted back as you laugh. Charles is sitting on the floor beside you, his socked foot nudging the edge of your chair every now and then like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

“You were so fucking smug,” you say, pointing your glass at him. “And the audacity on lap 37?”

He smirks, leaning his head back agains the sliding glass door. “You were on the radio sounding like you were about to reach through the headset and strangle me.”

“I was! You kept ignoring the delta!”

“I did not-“

“You definitely did! You lifted once in turn ten and then just fucking sent it.”

He’s laughing now. Its full bodied and messy, his eyes crinkling at the corners. And in this moment you decide, you love this laugh. This laugh is yours.

“Okay,” he says, catching his breath. “Maybe I did ignore. Just a little.”

“So I was right?”

He takes a long sip of his drink, eyes on yours over the rim of his glass. “Don’t push it.”

You nudge him with your foot. “I’m always right.”

“You’re always loud,” he counters. “I’ve never met someone who could make an entire briefing feel like a personal attack.”

“I’m passionate.”

“You’re terrifying.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling, and he’s still looking at you like there’s something about this moment that he wants to memorize.

-

The room is dark except for the flickering light from the TV, the sound low enough that you have to lean in to catch some of the lines, not that either of you really care.

The rain outside has been tapping against the windows since dinner, soft and steady, with the curtains half-drawn. It smells like shampoo and hotel linen and the candy bar you split earlier, the wrapper still crumpled on top of the nightstand, forgotten beside two water bottles and a single sock that might be his or might be yours.

Your lying on your stomach, head propped up on a pillow, legs bent at the knees with your feet swaying as you scroll through the Netflix menu for, what feels like, the seventh time. Charles is stretched out beside you, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lying between you, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket like he’s unsure if he wants to move them closer.

“Pick something,” he groans, his voice thick with tiredness. “You’ve been scrolling for ten years.”

“I’m feeling out the vibe,” you reply. “You don’t understand.”

“You picked Spaceballs last time.”

“And you loved it.”

He groans, dragging a pillow over his face. You laugh, loud and bright, and Charles turns just enough to look at you. The screen casts you in soft light.

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you for a second too long. And then like it’s normal, he reaches for the back of your shirt and tugs it down where the fabric has ridden up, his knuckles grazing warm skin as he smooths it into place.

“You’re always doing that,” You mumble, slightly dazed.

He doesn’t deny it.

“It just bugs me when you’re not covered,” he says, almost to himself only.

You want to tease him, want to say something clever, but the way he says it makes your stomach twist in a way you’re not ready to think about.

So instead, you settle on a movie. Some stupid, forgettable rom-com, and throw the remote between you with a sigh.

At some point, maybe around the third scene of the movie, you shift. Not deliberately.

Just a slow, natural thing. One of those absentminded movements made out of comfort and sheer exhaustion. You start leaning into him, just slightly. Your head dipping forward, shoulder brushing against his arm, and your elbow resting a little closer to his ribcage than it was twenty minutes ago. You don’t even realize it at first. It just happens.

Charles, on his end, doesn’t move away.

He doesn’t stiffen. Doesn’t tense. Instead, he shifts too.

It’s not much. The way his body tilts just slightly toward yours. The way his hand, once resting flat agains the mattress, curls upwards so that the back of it now brushes against the edge of your waist whenever you breathe.

You shift again, slower this time, letting your cheek rest against the slope of his shoulder, his cotton hoodie soft beneath your skin, smelling faintly of detergent and something warm. Something you’ve begun to associate with home. 

You don’t move.

He doesn’t either.

You both just let it happen.

-

It starts with a spoonful of cereal to the face. 

Not yours. His.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the bed in a hoodie that’s definitely not yours (it’s his and he’s already made a hoke about it), one hand deep in a box of granola, the other scrolling on your phone, when Charles makes the mistake of saying something smug about your snoring.

“I don’t snore,” You say almost immediately, without looking up.

“Oh, yes you do,” he counters from where he’s standing near the little counter, pouring milk into a bowl. “You sound like a chainsaw.”

You blink at him.

Then, silently, reach for the complimentary spoon, dip it into your bowl of cereal, and flick it directly at his chest.

It splatters against the front of his t-shirt, clinging to the cotton.

He looks down and simply stares at the damage. Then up at you.

“You did not just-“

“I warned you!”

“You did not-“

And then its absolute chaos as he lunges.

You shriek, laughing, cereal long forgotten as you scramble to the far side of the bed, but he’s faster…years of sharp reflexes working unfairly in your favor as he reaches out and grabs your waist, tackling you into the pillows.

“No, Charles…Charles, please!”

“You did this to yourself!”

“Truce! Truce!”

“Too late.”

His hands are gentle, even as he’s tickling you. Even as you flail and laugh and grab at his wrists like you could stop him. Which you can’t, because his grip is ridiculously strong and the room is already echoing with your wheezing.

Eventually, he stops.

Maybe because he’s laughing too hard. Maybe cause he notices the way you’re curled beneath him, face flushed and eyes shining. 

And for one very long moment, he goes still

You both do.

Both frozen. Smiling.

But it fades a little because suddenly there’s this change that feels heavier than it should. A shift in the air that neither of you meant to invite in, but it’s here, demanding.

He clears his throat and rolls off of you with a soft groan.

“You’re the worst person ever ever,” he says, falling onto the mattress beside you.

“You started it.”

He throws the nearest pillow at you. “You cereal bombed me.”

“You deserved it.”

Another moment of silence passes.

Then casually, almost too casually, he says, “You can keep the hoodie, by the way.”

You blink. “Oh?”

“Yeah. Looks better on you.”

You glance at him, but he’s not looking at you.

No. He’s just lying there, arms folded behind his head, with a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth like he didn’t just light a very dangerous fire.

And you don’t say anything. You just tug the hoodie a little closer around you.

-

The paddock is mostly empty by the time you finish up. The sun is low, and you’re walking a few steps ahead of him on the track, laughing at something he said. Not the polite kind of laugh people give him in interviews. But a real, loud laugh.

That’s the first mistake.

Because Charles is watching you. Not in the casual, friendly way he always has, but really watching you. And for the first time since this whole thing started, something in his chest pulls.

You glance back at him, smiling. “What?”

He blinks once, caught. “Nothing,” He starts to shake his head, trying to shake off the feeling. “You’re just…in a good mood.”

You slow down so that you’re walking beside each other again. “What? I can’t be happy?”

“No, you can. You just…” He trails off, lost in his own thoughts, before shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know. You’re just different today.”

You laugh, softer this time. “Maybe I like being your fake girlfriend.” You say it as a joke. It’s always a joke.

But Charles’s smile falters, just a fraction.

And that’s when it happens. Right there. That’s when he realizes he doesn’t want it to be fake.

You keep walking, your eyes scanning the track like you’re picturing tomorrow’s data in your head already. Charles tries…really, really tries, to slip back into that same rhythm. The one where you’re just his engineer, just his best friend, just the person he trusts most in the world as of lately.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

Because you’ve always been that person.

And now there’s a weight in his chest every time you smile at someone else, a hum under his skin every time you say his name, and suddenly your laugh isn’t just nice to hear. It’s necessary. Like a drug. A song he never wants to stop playing.

The breeze picks up a little, carrying the light scent of rubber, and a strand of your hair blows across your face, rubbing against your cheek. You tuck it back without thinking. The motion is small, but it somehow feels intimate. Stupidly intimate. Like something only someone in love would take notice of.

Charles swallows and looks away.

“You good?” You ask, noticing the way his shoulders stiffened slightly.

He nods, almost too quickly. “Yeah, just got a wave of exhaustion.”

You don’t press. You never do. You let him have his silences, even if they stretch too long, like right now. 

You’re talking again, about strategy or the tires, but he’s not really listening anymore. 

He’s thinking about your hands. The way you rested them on his chest during the last media stunt, your fingers spread flat over his heart like you didn’t know what you were touching.

He’s thinking about the fact he didn’t even flinch.

He’s thinking about how he liked it.

You say something funny and laugh, and Charles lets out one too. But it’s small, only half there.

Because it’s not funny anymore.

Because he’s beginning to look at you like he’s already lost you, and you don’t even know that he wants you yet.

And when you reach over to gently tug at his elbow, teasing him about being such a slow walker today, he knows it will only take one moment. One moment to fall completely, stupidly, in love with you.

And you’re just smiling like it’s all a game.

-

It’s late in the afternoon, just after FP2, and the air inside the motorhome has a tired kind of warmth. The kind of energy that once pulsed throughout the room has now dulled into a low murmur. 

You’re curled into he corner of the bench, tablet in hand, thumb swiping purposely through the sector times that begin to blur because you’ve been staring at numbers all day. Your back aches, neck’s tight, and you’ve probably read the same stats of numbers three times while retaining none of it.

All while trying your best to not acknowledge Charles across from you.

Charles. Sitting relaxed, legs stretched out, legs lazily crossed over one another at his ankles. You don’t look at him, not directly at least. But you always feel him.

You can sense his movement more than you see it. The soft pull of gravity as he crosses the room with such ease that no one bothers to notice. His body finds its way beside you, his thighs pressing into yours, his shoulders against your arm.

You don’t look up because you don’t need to.

He leans in until you can feel the warmth of his breath at your temple, his faint scratch of stubble barely grazing your skin.

“What are you changing?” His voice curls its way into the space between your ear and your neck, and it settles there. Warm. Lingering.

You clear your throat, trying to sound casual, something that doesn’t sound like he’s unraveling you. “Playing around with the rear balance,” you say almost too quickly. “That first sector was a mess.”

He hums in agreement, half thoughtful, half amused. And he’s so close that it vibrates through you.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t lean back. Doesn’t pretend this was just about data.

He stays close, too close, almost always. His body angled towards you, shoulders brushing against your arms, thighs pressed against yours with ease. Familiar. Like he knows exactly how far he can lean into you.

And then his hand rests on your thigh. It lands softly, just above your knee, the heat of his skin bleeding through the fabric of your pants. His thumb brushes once. Barely.

Then again. 

You don’t flinch. You don’t correct him. You don’t glance around to see if anyone notices because you don’t care. 

It’s normal.

-

He hadn’t said much on the flight back. Hadn’t looked at anyone after the race either. Not to the media, not the engineers, and not even the fans who were leaning over the barricade chanting his name like he hadn’t lost the entire race from a single lock-up.

You watched him in the garage, helmet on too long, gloves clenched in his lap like he didn’t trust his hands to open.

You waited. You always did.

Now it’s past midnight and the hotel is silent. You’re half-asleep when you hear it. A soft knock, barely audible. You lie still, unsure if you’re imagining it.

Then again.

Three quiet knocks.

You pull yourself out of bed slowly, dragging the blanket around your shoulders, padding barefoot to the door with sleep covered eyes.

You peep through the hole before unlocking it.

Open it. And Charles is there. Barefoot.

Sweatpants and a hoodie thrown on like he couldn’t care less what he looked like. His eyes are tired. Not the good kind. The kind of tired that lives behind the eyes.

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. And you don’t ask why he’s here.

You step back wordlessly and let him in, closing the door behind him as he moves past you like he’s on autopilot.

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.

Because the way he’s looking at you, his eyes heavy and rimmed with pain that he doesn’t let anyone else see, says everything.

He stands in the middle of the room for a second, like he’s unsure if he should sit or speak or leave.

“I fucked it up,” he finally says, voice flat. “We had it all right. All of it. The pace, the tires. I fucking had-“ He stops mid sentence, his jaw locked so tight as if it hurts to talk.

“I saw,” Your voice is soft, soothing.

But he shakes his head once, harshly. “I don’t need you to tell me it wasn’t my fault.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

His eyes flick up then. Guarded. “You weren’t?”

You shake your head.

You cross the room toward him slowly, barefoot, the hotel blanket still draped around you like a gown, and stop just in front of him. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off of his skin, close enough to see the way his throat bobs as he swallows.

“Come here,” you whisper, barely louder than the rain outside.

He hesitates, for a mere second, but then he’s moving. Softly.

He steps into you and lets you fold your arms around him. Lets his forehead press into the skin of your shoulder, lets his hands settle on the dips of your waist that makes your chest ache, because for someone so fierce, Charles has always touched you like you’re something fragile.

You hold him. 

You feel his breath against your neck, feel the way his body is barely trembling beneath your arms.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmur, your lips brushing the softness of his hair. “You can just be.”

He nods against your collarbone.

He just stays there, wrapped in your arms. You slide a hand into his hair, fingers combing through the baby hairs at the nape of his neck.

Eventually, he shifts, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy. “You’re the only place I don’t have to be anything,” He says quietly. “Just me.”

And even though it makes your heart ache, you just nod.

“You never need to be anything else.” You whisper. “Not with me.”

And when you pull him toward the bed, when he lies down with his face partially hidden in the crook of your neck, neither of you speak. You both lay in the silence. 

-

The mirror is fogged up. 

You’ve both been back for less than five minutes, barely kicked off your shoes, and he’s already standing in the middle of the hotel bathroom with his shirt half off, brows furrowed, rotating his shoulder like he’s pretending it doesn’t ache.

“You’re doing that thing again,” you say from the doorway.

He glances toward you. “What thing?”

“That thing where you pretend it doesn’t hurt.”

He exhales. Stubborn. And looks away.

“You’re a shit liar,” You mutter, brushing past him to grab the icy-hot gel from the counter. “You’ve been favoring your other side since the second stint.”

He shrugs, or tries to at least. Winces instead. “Didn’t want to talk about it.”

You roll your eyes, flicking the cap off and motioning for him to sit on the closed toilet lid. “Sit.”

He does. He knows better than to argue with you…most of the time.

You lean over him and start working the gel into his shoulder with slow, careful fingers. You don’t even think about it. It’s not weird. It’s not intimate.

It’s Charles.

You’re draped in his hoodie. Oversized, soft from too many washes, sleeves falling over your hands, and your breath hitches as he leans forward so you can dig deeper into his muscle.

His skin is hot under your fingers. He groans quietly, head dropped forward, and you laugh.

“So dramatic.”

“It hurts,” he grumbles.

You press harder, just to make him squirm. And he does, a hiss through his teeth, and then he laughs.

Charles’s eyes are fixed on the floor.

You press your fingers into the tight knot just beside his collarbone, and it takes almost everything in him to not lean into you. Not to bury his face into your neck and tell you.

Tell you that your hands feel like home. Tell you that he can’t pretend anymore.

But he doesn’t.

Because you’re just smiling at him like this is nothing.

Because when you finish, you wipe your hands against the nearby towel, and pat him gently on top of the head. “Good as new.”

You move past him, leaving the bathroom with a soft laugh. And he stays there. Seated. Motionless.

Hands gripping his knees like it’s the only thing keeping him from following you and pressing his mouth to yours.

-

The ballroom is gold. Actually gold.

Gold chandeliers, gold trim, light reflecting off champagne glasses and sequined gowns. The kind of place that exudes pretentious luxury. And you can’t help but think just how fucking ridiculous it all is.

You stand near the edge of the room, one hand curled loosely around a glass of wine, the other tucked into Charles’s arm.

You’re both surrounded by easy conversations and polite laughter. But none of it sticks. Because Charles can’t focus on any of it.

Not with you standing beside him like that. Not in that fucking dress.

He hadn’t expected it to hit him so hard, but the minute you stepped out of that car, it was like the air had been sucked out of his lungs.

You in black. Hair pinned up. Shoulders bare. A tiny sliver of skin exposed at the base of your spine whenever you turned.

You’re laughing at something some journalist is saying, not performative, just a soft amused laugh as you bring your wine glass up to your lips.

Charles shifts closer. Not for the cameras. Not for the sponsors. But because he wants to. Because he wants, no needs, to feel your body against his just for a second longer, to press his fingers lightly against your skin in a way that says you’re here, you’re mine, even if you don’t know it.

You don’t move or flinch, you just lean into him with that subtle softness you always do. Like your body knows his.

And that’s what kills him. The ease. The naturalness.

Because this, whatever this is, has bled into nearly everything. This has crept up beneath the edges of what was supposed to be a casual lie, and now he can’t tell where pretending ends and begins.

Still he watches as another man approaches.

Someone older. Wealthy. Someone who looks at you like you’re not already standing beside someone, like you’re available.

Charles sees the way the man’s eyes skim the lines of your body, the curve of your mouth. He watches the moment that man reaches for your hand, presses a kiss to your knuckles, and says something that makes you smile.

And in that exact moment, something sharp and awful coils low in his chest. Hot and unfair, and deeply fucking stupid.

Because he doesn’t have the right. Not actually, at least.

He’s allowed to touch you. Allowed to whisper in your ear. Allowed to look at you. But one thing he isn’t allowed to do, is want you like this.

-

He’d stepped away for barely fifteen minutes.

Just long enough to take a photo with some of the sponsors, shake hands, and exchange polite thank you’s. 

And when he came back, you were laughing. Not at him. Not with him.

Charles’s steps falter as he spots you across the room, standing near one of the tall round tables tucked near the corner, your wine glass cradled in both hands, your smile warm.

And beside you, someone unfamiliar.

Someone tall, in a tailored navy suit, hair too perfectly styled, hand resting on the table like he owns the conversation. Charles watches, as this stranger leans in, says something low near your ear, and you tilt your head back and laugh. That real laugh. The one that makes your nose crinkle.

He feels his stomach twist.

He tries not to show it. Tries to keep walking. Because this isn’t supposed to matter. It’s all pretend.

He doesn’t get to be jealous. 

But that doesn’t stop the voice in his head from seething when he watches the man’s eyes drop to your chest. When he see’s your smile linger just a little too long for his liking.

Charles can feel it in his chest. Tight and bitter. 

And when the man reaches out, whether it was innocent or not, it doesn’t matter. Because Charles is already crossing the room.

He doesn’t rush. No, that would draw attention. But his steps are purposeful and the space between you and him disappears quickly.

You see him first.

“Hey,” you say, easy. “You remember-“

Charles cuts in smoothly. His voice even, just loud enough to interrupt, like he isn’t burning from the inside out. He doesn’t even look at the man standing next to you. Only looks at you.

“They’re asking for us,” he says. “Need more photos or something with the sponsors.”

It’s a lie. And you don’t even need to ask to know.

You can tell by the way he says it. It slips from his mouth like a reflex. Like he didn’t need to think twice before pulling you away from someone else.

But it’s Charles. And you trust him.

So you nod. “Okay. Just give me a sec-”

You don’t even finish the sentence before his hand is at your back, firm and warm. Possessive. 

There’s a pressure to his touch that makes your spine straighten, makes the uncovered skin his fingers graze buzz. Like he’s reminding you, and anyone else watching, that this is his right.

He walks beside you, closer than normal, not speaking as he steers you away from the man.

You glance back over your shoulder, offering an apologetic smile to the man, but it wavers, just slightly, when you feel Charles’s hand tighten.

Not hard. Just enough. Enough to say don’t.

The twist in your chest is unexpected. And when you’re both finally out of an earshot, you nudge him lightly with your elbow. 

“Really?” You say, eyes meeting his. “Photos?”

You try to sound amused. Like it’s all some joke. Like nothing has changed.

But he doesn’t laugh.

Instead, he keeps walking. And you can’t help but notice just how tight his jaw is clenched. And when he finally glances back down at you, you forget how to breathe for a second.

Because there’s something in his gaze that doesn’t belong to the version of Charles you normally know.

It’s too real. Too unguarded.

“I didn’t like the way he looked at you,” His voice quiet. 

You blink, lips parting. “Charles…”

“I know,” he cuts in, eyes dropping to your lips for the briefest moment before he meets your eyes again. “I know I’m not supposed to care. I know what this is.”

He sighs, slow and quiet, as his fingers flex against your back.

“But you’re mine tonight,” He says.

And he doesn’t ask.

He’s warning. And that’s when you notice it for the first time. But you bottle it up, lock it tight, and push it into that imaginary little box of yours.

Because there is no way.

-

You’re sitting, more like slouching, on the bed in your gown, a half-empty bottle of champagne bottle still loosely gripped in your hand. Charles is slouched in the armchair across from you, suit jacket thrown somewhere in the room, white shirt rumpled, top buttons undone. His bowtie is still hanging around his neck…loose, forgotten.

The two of you are flushed. Fuzzy. Not wasted, but tipsy.

Tipsy enough to remember.

Drunk enough to stop pretending.

He gets up slowly, walking over to you with such ease, before dropping down beside you on the bed.

“You’re quiet,” he mutters, his voice edged by too much champagne and restraint.

You glance down at the bottle in your hand, then back up at him, giving him a faint smile. “So are you.”

He lets out a small laugh, almost a huff, “I’m trying not to do something stupid.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, “Like what?”

His eyes fall to your mouth, linger, then look back at your eyes. “Like kiss you.”

The room tilts, just a little bit. You set the bottle down on the bedside table without taking your eyes off of him, fingers trembling slightly. 

And then, you reach for him. Instinctively.

You allow your fingers to curve into the loose knot of his bowtie still hanging on his neck, tugging it as you tilt your chin up. And when your eyes flicker to his again, you whisper, “Then don’t try so hard.”

And he kisses you like the fight is finally over.

His mouth crashes into yours like you’ve both run out of time to lie. It’s heat…pure, consuming, and real.

The kiss is deeper, messier, his lips hungry against yours, your bodies moving in an unspoken urgency from holding back too long.

His hands are everywhere, dragging along your waist, the back of your neck, your ribs, your spine, tugging you closer at any given moment.

You gasp when he pushes you flat to the mattress, hovering over you as he kisses down your throat, tongue flicking against the skin right below your jaw. His teeth dragging like he knows it will make you shiver. And it does.

“Tell me you want this,” His lips brush against your collarbone. “That you want me.”

“I want this. I want you.” 

And that’s all it takes.

He’s undoing the zipper of your dress with shaky fingers, his breath catching as more of your skin is revealed beneath the palm of his hands.

Your bra is gone before you even realize he’s unclasped the back of it, and when his mouth meets your nipple, tongue slow, you arch into him with a soft cry that turns his green eyes, black.

He’s on top of you, mouth crashing into yours again, one hand gripping your thigh and pulling it higher around his waist, the other guiding himself to your slick cunt, shuddering against your folds.

And when he finally presses into you, thick and slow, filling you in a way that makes your head fall back and moan, you swear you never want to stop this from happening again.

“Christ,” he grunts, forehead pressed to yours, trying to feel all of you. “Feel so good.”

You cling to his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle there. “Then fuck me.”

And he does.

Harsh, deep, rhythmic thrusts that make the headboard creak and your breath escape in desperate, broken moans against his mouth. His pace is steady, hips snapping harder whenever your moans start to rise, when your nails claw into his back, when your thighs shake around him.

His mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s more hunger, more like need. He kisses you like he can’t stand not being inside of you in every way.

“Fuck, you feel like you were made for me,” he groans. “Driving me insane.”

You whimper against him, tightening your arms against his neck. “Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

His pace doesn’t falter. His forehead presses to yours. “You’re all I think about,” he pants. “Every fucking night.”

You’re both close. And he knows it, because his mouth finds yours again in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue. More claiming than comfort.

And when you come, crying his name out like it’s the only word you’ve ever known, he follows. His hips pounding as he groans into your shoulder, holding you so tightly like you’ll disappear if he didn’t.

-

You’re still in your headset, arms crossed tight over tour chest as Charles climbs out of the car, pulling off his gloves with that sharp, frustrated energy that always festers under his skin when things aren’t working out the way he wants them to.

He tosses the gloves onto the seat, runs a hand through his hair, damp with swear, and gives you a look thats more of a challenge than a greeting.

You glance down at your tablet, even though you’ve looked at the data a dozen times.

“I told you to take more margin in turn six,” you say, voice calm but tight.

Charles laughs. It’s low, humorless, and bitter. “You think I don’t know how to drive my own car?”

You lift your eyes slowly, and the look you give him is sharp. “I think you’re letting your ego get in the way of your brain. Again.”

His jaw tightens and he takes a step closer. Like he wants to rattle your bones.

“You want to talk about my ego?” He asks, words laced with a dangerous edge. “You’ve been walking around like nothing happened. Like I didn’t have my tongue on your skin a few nights ago, like I wasn’t buried deep inside of you while you whispered my name like it meant something. Like I mean something.”

You inhale sharply but don’t flinch. This can’t happen here. Not in the garage.

“And you’ve been walking around like it didn’t mean something.”

He pulls off the top half of his suit, tying it around his waist in jerky, clearly annoyed movements.

“You want me to pretend it didn’t happen?” His voice hoarse now. “Fine. But don’t stand here and act like I’m the only one who did this.”

You blink. 

“I can’t afford to lose you.” You whisper.

And he gets it. And he hates it. Because he knows you’re right.

“Yeah,” his voice is a low whisper. “I know.”

-

The lights are hot.

Not warm. Not pleasant. Hot. In the way that makes your skin feel too tight and causes your eyes to ache from squinting under the glare. 

You’re standing on your mark, back straight, hands at your sides.

Charles is standing right beside you. As always.

Exactly three inches away. At least you counted three.

It’s the closest you can stand without touching him, without the brushing of his arm, without creating that electric, dangerous feeling of his hand on your back, his voice in your ear, you’re mine tonight.

You’re both pretending that it didn’t happen. Neither of you have brought it up today.

Not since he texted you late last night, just one line saying sorry if I crossed a line.

Not since you replied with it’s fine, we were drinking and tired.

It’s not fine.

Now you’re standing under a harsh spotlight with your body angled slightly toward him like always.

You smile when the photographer tells you to. Charles does it too. And he’s good at it.

He turns to you mid-shot, leaning in as if he’s whispering something sweet and private for the camera. You feel the warmth of his breath against the skin of your ear, and you fight the way your heart jumps.

“Are we okay?”

It’s the first time he’s said anything that close to something real in a week.

You keep smiling. Because the sponsor is watching. Because the cameras are still click click clicking.

Because the woman facilitating this shoot looks like she might cry if you didn’t sell this fake love story just a little bit fucking harder.

So you tilt your face toward his, press your hand to the center of his chest, right over his heart…and you nod, like you’re agreeing with some romantic phrase he could’ve said.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “We’re okay.”

The room echoes with praise. “Beautiful, you two.”

Your ears are buzzing and you barely hear the next instruction. Something about posing closer. Hands on waists. More intimacy. 

Charles moves first. He steps forward and wraps his arm around your waist like it hasn’t been a week since he nearly broke you open with one quiet, possessive sentence. 

You place your hand on his chest again. Because thats where it belongs now.

Because this is what you’re good at.

Pretending.

-

The elevator is quiet. And not a comfortable kind. No, this is the kind that makes your tight throat and chest heavy.

The numbers tick upward, each one feeling like a warning.

Charles stands beside you, hands in his pockets, with his shoulders pulled tight. You can feel the tension in the way his foot taps against the floor.

You speak first, voice too light. “Long day, hm?”

It’s pathetic, really. You hate the way it sounds coming out of your mouth, small and weak.

Charles doesn’t look at you, but his jaw clenches.

“You didn’t even look at me once today,” he says, and its not an accusation.

You blink, startled by how hurt he sounds. You open your mouth to respond, but don’t get the chance. 

“You didn’t even laugh,” he looks down at his feet. “Not a real one.”

You glance at him, and he finally shifts to face you. And the look in his eyes makes your stomach turn. Because he doesn’t look angry. No, he looks tired. He looks vulnerable. 

“I didn’t mean to make things complicated,” he says, his voice barely above the sound of the elevator noises.

“It was a long week. We were tired. Drinking.”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

You lean against the wall, holding your hands in front of you tightly.

“The problem is I didn’t say enough,” he mutters. “I meant what I said. At the gala. In the hallway. In your bed.”

And you flinch.

Not because you don’t remember, but because you do.

Every breath. Every touch.

“Don’t.” You swallow hard.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this harder.”

He laughs, once. But it’s bitter. Hollow. “You think this is me making it hard?”

“We crossed a line.”

His eyes flicker, and his voice is so low when he speaks next.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know. I’ve been standing on it for weeks. Maybe longer. Only difference is I let myself believe I wasn’t alone on it.”

Your stomach is twisted in knots and he takes a step toward you. Not touching, but close enough.

“Tell me you didn’t feel it,” he says. “Tell me it was just sex. That it meant nothing to you.”

You don’t answer. Because the truth is there, dying to be let out. But you can’t.

So you remain still.

And when the elevator doors open on your floor, you step out with your stomach in your throat, your feet hitting the carpet with soft thuds.

You don’t look back.

But you hear it.

The sound of his hand catching the doors before they close, the sudden groan of the elevator stalling. And then, footsteps. Fast. Heavy. Angry.

You stop walking, but don’t turn around until he’s already there. His breath is quick and his jaw is locked tight.

“Are you really just gonna walk away?” He asks, his voice is sharp, but not loud. Not cruel. Just full of emotions he doesn’t know how to say calmly anymore.

You turn halfway, just enough to see the frustration etched on his face. His brows drawn tight, mouth tight, fists clenched at his sides like if he doesn’t, he’ll just reach for you again.

“What do you want me to do, Charles?” Your voice is quiet. “Pretend that night didn’t happen? Or pretend it did, and it meant nothing?”

“I want you to stop pretending it didn’t mean everything,” he snaps, taking another step forward, closing the space between you both. “I want you to stop looking at me like I’m asking you for something that isn’t already yours.”

Your skin buzzes.

“I know you feel this,” his voice is shaking now. “Because I see the way you look at me. I feel the way you hold me. The way you whisper my name.. So…don’t stand here and pretend like it was just sex.”

You feel yourself begin to shake.

And all you can say is, “I can’t afford to need you.”

His eyes flicker, anger giving way to something hollow. “Too late,” he says. “You already do.”

And then he turns. Walks away. And leaves you standing there.

-

The garage is nearly empty. Just you and Charles, still in uniform. Like clockwork. 

The scent of oil and burnt rubber clings to the air while you sit, finishing up your notes. Or at least pretending to.

He’s leaning against the edge of the workbench, arms folded, gaze flicking to you every few seconds. Like he wants to say something. Like it’s burning him alive.

You feel it too. 

So, you set your tablet down. “Are you going to say something, or just keep staring at me?”

His jaw clenches. Then, “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”

You look up at him. “And yet, you keep bringing it up.”

“Because you act like it didn’t matter. Like it was nothing.”

You exhale slowly, “What do you want me to say, Charles?”

And he’s pushing off the bench, taking a few steps closer. “You’re angry because I meant it. And I’m angry that you’re still pretending you don’t feel this.”

Your pulse stutters and he’s close now. So close that you have to crane your neck to meet his eyes.

“Don’t do this again.” You say, quietly, like a whisper in the wind.

“Why?” He tilts his head slightly. “Because if I say it again, you’ll have to admit it’s real?”

He takes another step. “I think about you all the time. Touching you all the time. And not just when we’re in front of people. Especially when we’re alone. I wake up thinking about what it would feel like to kiss you when you’re not performing, when no one is watching, when it’s just us.”

Your hands tighten into fists.

“I want to hold you late in the night and tell you things I’m not allowed to say. I want to call you mine  and it actually be true.”

“And you think this is easy for me?” It’s the first time you’ve broken character.

He blinks, slightly shocked. Like he can’t believe he has you starting to talk.

“I go home at night smelling like you,” you whisper, like it hurts to say. “Wearing your clothes. Curling into bedsheets that still feel like your hands were on me only hours ago. And I pretend him fine.”

You look back up at him then, barely holding it together. He’s wide-eyed, not taking the risk to say one word, not when he finally has you speaking.

“I pretend I don’t notice how every part of me aches when you leave. That I don’t hear your voice even when you’re not around.” You swallow hard.

“I go through the motions. Tell myself that this is all fake, and it’s just something we signed up for. But then I catch you looking at me like that and it feels like my ribs might crack.”

His eyes are slightly glassy now. But you keep going, because there’s no going back from this. No way out of this, not with him being so persistent. Not when your emotions could swallow you whole if you hide them any longer.

“I come back to my room at night, wearing your hoodies, and pretend that it’s just because I’m cold and that they’re comfortable. I pretend I’m not holding it closer to me whenever I miss you.”

Silence.

“I love you. And it’s killing me, because every day I have to pretend that I don’t.”

“Say it again.” 

You blink. “What?”

“Please,” he begs. “Say it again. I didn’t think I’d ever hear it.”

Your throat tightens, but you do it anyways. “I love you.”

He surges forward, pressing his forehead against yours, shaking as he whispers, “I’ve been in love with you for so long that I forgot what it feels like not to be.”

His hand moves to cup your cheek, tilting your face toward his. And then he kisses you. 

Like it’s everything. 

Like he’s finally. Finally, fucking home.

[wbellab]

Therapy session | J. Bucky Barnes

this could be read as a standalone or a part 2 of Busy Woman.

summary: after a chaotic mission, you end up attending a therapy session with bucky trying to mend up your relationship. this seems to have worsen up everything.

pairing: tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

cw: angsssst, therapy session, inspired by sambucky session in tfatws, graphic violence, some fluff (crumbles and bits), no use of y/n

3.1 k words

"Alright, Dr Raynor." You stated, more like a question and she nodded. "I get why you want me to talk to freaky magoo over here. But I’m a hundred per cent fine."

You definitely were not fine.

After the failed mission, Sam had dragged both you and Bucky to Baltimore in a failed attempt to get information from a former super soldier. That went about as well as expected. Meaning not at all. And to top it off, Bucky got arrested for skipping therapy.

But the real question was: why were you sitting there with him now?

There’s a high chance that Sam had conveniently brought up the fact that your relationship with Bucky had become a bit rocky— not that you ever really got along. Either that, or the tension between you had been so thick it practically walked into the room before you did.

"It is my job to make sure you both are okay. Sam told me what happened, so yeah." Oh so you were right. "This may be slightly unprofessional but it’s the only way that I can see you getting over whatever’s eating at you."

"This is ridiculous." You muttered.

"Yeah i agree."

"Okay we’re going to do an exercise. It’s something I use with couples when they’re trying to figure what kind of life they’re trying to build together." You let out a snort, not out of amusement but irony. Bucky just rolled his eyes.

"Are you familiar with the miracle question ?"

"I don’t think it’s necessar-" Bucky started but you cut him off.

"No I’m not. What is it ?"

"Okay it goes like this. Suppose that while you are sleeping, a miracle occurs. When you wake up what is something you would like to see that would make your life better ?"

With no surprise, Bucky was the first to answer the question.

"In my miracle, she would talk less."

"Is that why you threw me out of a moving truck asshole?"

"See what i mean." He turned to the therapist, which made you send a glare towards him.

"You both are leaving me with no choice. It’s time for the soul gazing exercise."

"I like this one."

"Oh thank you I love this."

"Oh you should really enjoy this." You told him, moving your chair so that you would be facing him.

"I’m going to."

"I know you are."

"Okay you both face each other." The therapist instructed.

"Let’s do it let’s stare."

"We get close this is a good exercise."

"Thanks doc." You muttered.

"Alright, good get close. Come on closer."

"Well which way you want to go, right or left ?"

"Why do you have your legs wide open. You want me to sit on your lap or what ? You know what, fine." You scooted forward, legs angling inward until your knee pressed between his—and his was between yours.

The position was awkward. Too awkward. You could feel the brush of his knee against your inner thigh, too high, too warm. And though you hated to admit it, you could’ve almost been aroused by it. If your anger toward him didn’t burn hotter than the tension.

"You happy now ?" You huffed, successfully concealing your flustered state—which Bucky hasn’t been able to hide.

He sat stiffly, visibly uncomfortable, like even the slightest movement might set something off. He hadn’t moved an inch since you got close. Shoulders tense, jaw tight, clearly unsure where to look. It would’ve been satisfying if you weren’t equally rattled beneath the surface.

"All right, good. That’s fine." The therapist tried to stop your banter.

"It’s a little close." He muttered.

"It’s very close that’s what you wanted right ?" You retorted aggressively.

"Guys,"you both stopped. "Now look at each other. You need to look at each other in the eyes," you stared right at his blue eyes, a frown on your face similar to his. "There you see that wasn’t so hard."

You just continued staring right in them. Your eyes squinted trying hard not to blink as he did the same back.

You were still mad, furious actually, that he tossed you out of the damn truck without a single word. Like you were just some reckless burden he couldn’t deal with a second longer. And now, you wanted him to feel that. Every ounce of your anger.

So you weren’t about to blink. Not once. Not until he squirmed. Not until he realized you weren’t going to let him off easy.

Probably childish but effective.

"Wait what are you doing ? Are you having a staring contest ?" When none of you responded she snapped her fingers, making you close your teary eyes. Dammit.

"Just blink. Sweet Jesus."

Bucky’s frown was still on his face as he stared at the doctor.

"All right, Bucky, why does she aggravate you ?" A smirk started forming on his lips. He could definitely think of a bunch of reasons why you aggravated him. And when he was about to mention your current interest to his ass, Doctor Raynor cut him off. "And don’t say something childish."

Bucky’s smirk faltered and he let out a frustrated breathe. His jaw clenched as he started thinking, the muscle twitching like he was holding something back. For a second, he looked like he might drop it entirely. But then he sighed, tired of carrying the question around in silence.

"Why are you always flirting with me?" he asked quietly, almost too quietly. It wasn’t sarcastic. It wasn’t bitter. It was genuine, and that made it worse. There was a flicker of something raw behind his eyes, like he hated that he even had to ask. He sounded insecure and he hated it.


"Oh my god is this what it is all about?" You dryly chuckle. "Why are you making such a big deal out of something so insignificant ?"

"Do you flirt with Bucky to push his buttons ?" The therapist chimed in, a bit more interested in the direction the conversation was flowing.

You rolled your eyes. What is it with all these weird questions ?

"I flirt with him because I like him. The button pushing is just a bonus."

"Yeah. Of course you would." His voice was cold. Harsh and condescending. Every hint of amusement disappeared from your face. "Do you get a kick out of messing with people just for fun? You don’t get to flirt with people and then act like none of this matters. Like I’m just something to pass the time until you get bored. It’s fucking disgraceful. And I’m–"

He couldn’t bring himself to say more. You were staring right at him, a frown on your face. How could he bring himself to explain what he was feeling out loud?

Bucky couldn’t believe you. He wouldn’t believe that you simply liked him. This was too simple of an explanation for someone like him. Someone that did horrible things couldn’t be wanted in the first place.

And it wasn’t just his own insecurities getting through him.

No. This was anchored in his brain, as if a small cognitive part of it told him this wasn’t possible. That every small moment of kindness was a lie he wasn’t allowed to believe in. Someone like him don’t get the girl, not really. Not without her regretting it later.

Another part of his brain told him your boldness and playfulness were just a reflection of the value you had of him, insignificant. You were messing with him, knowing Bucky would fall for you.

And how could he not ? You did everything to make him. When you were so insistent with him, bold, charismatic and funny. Clingy and affectionate. You were everything he had been craving since he came back from Hydra. There was absolutely no universe in which James Buchanan Barnes wouldn’t have fallen for you.

"Don’t act like this is real. It’s unfair." He said more softly.

You couldn’t believe what you just heard. It wasn’t mean, not exactly but this was as if. You couldn’t believe you ever let yourself fall for someone like him. He never really understood you.

What you felt in that moment was a deep, gut-punch kind of hurt.

Being told it all meant nothing. That your affection was careless or meaningless. This all shattered something fragile inside you. Everything you ever said or did, thinking it was sweet or meaningful felt exposed, misunderstood. Like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place, something you’d been too oblivious to see or too hopeful to admit.

He would never like you, never reciprocate the feelings.

This wasn’t just romantic rejection. It was emotional rejection. He hadn’t just dismissed your feelings, he’d rejected the way you showed your love to him. And that hit harder than anything else. It was humiliating to care so much, and be accused of the exact opposite.

With a final sigh, you told yourself this would be all over. You were done being taken for a fool.

"You know what’s really unfair? You dismissing my fucking feelings when I have been displaying them so obviously." You bit back, scooting your chair away from him, when you noticed the proximity you still had. "Maybe this is something you would never understand and I’m so done making a fool out of myself just for you to not get the signals." You snapped. Breathe in, breathe out. You turned to the doctor, glaring at her like she'd personally orchestrated this mess. She did nothing wrong but she was the reason why you were here, trapped in this room, sitting across from him. And right now, that was enough.

You didn’t even have the sense to feel guilty for it. Not with the way your chest burned. Not after everything that had gone unsaid.

"You know what Doc I don’t have time for this. We have some real serious shit going on. So how about this, I will squash it, right now. We’re gonna deal with this and when we’re done we’ll go on long separate vacations. And never see each other again."

"Yeah." He sighed, he did not want you to squash it. He wanted to talk, to understand. "I like that." He lied.

"Great then let’s get to work." You turned to the therapist. "Thanks doc for making it weird. I feel so much better. See you outside." You rolled your eyes, stomping to the door. This was a total mess.

"Thank you." She answered, but you were already gone. She turned to Bucky. "That was really great. You’re doing better at expressing your emotions. Maybe next time, we’ll work on the dating part." He completely ignored her, standing up to leave before being interrupted by her. "I know that look." She stared at him as if she would see right through him. "You’re pushing her away."

He ignored what she said once again. "What was rule number two again ?"

"Don’t hurt anyone." She simply answered.

"Goodbye doc."

This session did not help your case. It was worse and Sam noticed.

"So how did it go ?" He asked you once you were out.

"Get lost." You muttered, going through the door to leave the police station.

Sam turned to Bucky who left the room a few seconds after you, noticing the gloomy stare on his face.

"I get that it did not go as well as expected."

"Oh fuck off."

"Ok guys I don’t know what happened in this room but you need to deal with it like right now before we enter Madripoor."

"There’s nothing wrong. I’m totally fine, let’s deal with the more important matters." You scoffed

"If I may say–"

"Shut up."

"Please don’t."

You and Bucky said at the same time. Zemo raised an eyebrow but wisely chose silence, folding his hands behind his back. It had barely been three hours since Bucky busted him out of prison, and those three hours had already been filled with tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The fallout of that decision had led to a heated argument between you and Bucky, and the aftermath still lingered, electric and unspoken, hovering just beneath the surface.

And this tension would linger for days.

"You should fuck the tension off. Worked well with my wife." Zemo mentioned once in the jet.

"That’s what I told them." Sam grumbled, it seemed like it was the only thing he agreed about with Zemo.

You and Bucky both turned to glare at him in unison.

This was hard. The comments, all the underlying tension. You didn’t want to admit it to yourself, let alone to anyone else but you hadn’t moved on. Not really. It still hurt to think about it. Not in a loud, obvious way but in a slow, aching kind that sat in your chest and made it hard to breathe.


It was over before it ever began. That was the part that stung the most.

You kept your eyes off him. Avoided looking. You didn’t know if he was watching you, and you didn’t care anymore. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

The mission was done. You had stopped the Flash Smaggers’ attack on New York. You’d won.

And yet.

You noticed how close Sam and Bucky had become. You also noticed how far you’d drifted, not just from Sam, but from everyone. Two months. No calls returned. No contact. Just silence. You were alone again. Like before. And somehow, that felt almost familiar. Pathetic, but familiar.

Your boots hit the pavement in steady, silent steps. You were walking nowhere. Just moving.

And then you felt it, the presence behind you. Subtle, careful. But not careful enough. You’d clocked them almost thirty minutes ago. You were trained for this. So you led them here in a dark alley, bad angles.

You pressed your back to the cold brick wall, waited. As soon as the figure passed the corner, you struck. Knife in hand, aiming for the throat.

But they were faster. The blade never made it.


You felt cold metal clamp around your wrist, stopping you mid-motion. Bucky. Of course.

You didn’t hesitate. If anything, that just made you angrier.

You slammed your heel into his solar plexus. He faltered, loosened his grip, and your wrist slipped free. In one fluid motion, you ducked low, sweeping for his legs.
But he was already moving.

Instead, he grabbed your jacket, yanked you forward, and slammed you against the wall with a thud that echoed.

You retaliated immediately, headbutting him hard bone cracking against bone. He staggered, blood running from his nose, and you used the opening to punch him in the stomach.

But before it could collide, he grabbed your wrist, and twisted it back. But you twisted with him, using the momentum to slam your elbow into his ribs again and shove him into the wall.

He gripped your waist, lifted you, and threw you to the ground. Hard.

You hit the concrete with a grunt, For a second, something flickered in his expression, concern, hesitation. And that split-second lapse was all you needed. You kicked upward, catching him in the thigh, rolling to your feet before he could pin you.

You were breathing hard now, both of you bruised, dirt and blood smeared across your clothes, faces cut and scraped from the pavement.

"Stop following me. You think you can just toss me out of a truck, dismiss my feelings and then follow me like nothing happened?" you snarled, your leg connected with the back of his knee to destabilize him. "You don’t get to throw me away literally and come running when you feel like it."

He stumbled back, but he caught himself. "You’re the one who disappeared."

You didn’t even wait. You slammed your elbow to his throat, driving him into the alley wall with a loud thud.

"Because you made it clear I meant nothing to you!"

"I did not mean to hurt you." he spat back, shoving you off him roughly. "You think any of this is easy for me?"

"I don’t care if it’s easy!" You shoved again, fists pounding at his chest now. "You said I toyed with you. You said I didn’t care. You made me feel like I was some stupid little girl who couldn’t take this seriously—"

"You think I don’t feel anything?" His voice cracked, but not out of emotion. Out of sheer frustration. "I was lost and I couldn’t understand you. I was trying to protect you!"

"By humiliating me? By making me feel like shit? You don't get to act like some noble idiot now, Bucky. You’re not the victim."

He lunged again, catching your wrists, holding them against the wall this time. Not gently.

"You think I’m not aware of that?" his voice was low in your ear. "I know I’m screwed up. I know what people see when they look at me. So forgive me if I don’t believe it when someone like you pretends to give a damn."

Your breathing was ragged. The tension between you was suffocating.

"Get your hands off me," you whispered.

He didn’t move. "Say you didn’t mean it."

"What?"

"All the flirting. The drunk night. The things you said. Say you didn’t mean any of it."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. But you didn’t say a word.

That silence was enough.

He let go of you like your skin burned him, and took two steps back.

The distance felt a hell of a lot colder than the fight.

"I was cruel," he said quietly.

"You were," you answered, not softening it for him.

And he nodded, like he knew you would say that. Like he needed to hear it.

“It wasn’t about you,” he said. "But I made it about you. I made you pay for the shit in my head, and that’s on me."

"I no longer care." You lied.

"Please come back." His hand grabbed you arm, softly now. You let him guide you towards him. Although you stayed impassive.

"No. James don’t."

He ignored you and caressed the bruise that was forming on your forehead.

"I’m sorry." He muttered. You couldn’t tell if he meant the bruise or everything else—but your throat tightened anyway.

You frowned, eyes stinging, and before you could stop yourself, everything that you’ve been bottling up had exploded. Tears spilled over and he saw it.

Without hesitation, he pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you like he could keep the world out.

"It’s okay. I’ve got you." He muttered, his hand stroking your hair.

You sank into him, both of you slowly lowering to the ground. He followed without letting go, holding you as tightly as he could while you cried against his chest.

"You deserve better, doll."

"I don’t–" Your choked on a sob. And he only pulled you tighter.

"We’ll figure it out. I’m not letting you go again."

Dirtied, bloodied, bruised. You both looked wrecked. And somehow, in the thick of it all, you decided to believe him. To start over.

Not with promises. Not with pretty words. But with this—his arms around you, your tears on his shirt, and the silence that didn’t need to be filled.

That was how it would begin: in the comfort of the chaos. Not clean, not easy. But real.

a/n: i was about to separate this one and make a part 3 but i m on my exam period so it was either binge writing it or never finishing it. Thank you for everyone all of you I truly appreciate that you liked the first part !

@vxllys @seventeen-x @softpia @just-a-little-awkward @am-3-thyst @freshfreakoaftrash @awinchester83 @stars4birdie @ladyliloslife @starstruckfirecat @hannahbanannax @genlovesdcb @fandomsearcherforcuntymen

@astermwah @spaceunicorn293 @inloveallthetime @bigteefsmallbrain @oceanaroma @winchestert101 @thatgirljas13

[astrolook]

Some Astrology Behind Your Looks

Note: These are just my personal observations over the years, so let me know in the comments if anything hits home! Your Ascendant alone (or just its ruler or the planets sitting in your 1st house) isn’t enough to define your appearance. You gotta look at the aspects to the Ascendant, the planets in the 1st house, the chart ruler, and its aspects too.

The ascendant is like your default character design. Think of it as a "default skin" in a video game. The ASC ruler is like your stylist who works behind the scenes and the mastermind behind your look. The planets in your 1st house, the aspects to your ascendant and to the planets in 1st house is the DLC pack that really customizes your look.

Saturn in 1st/conjunct ASC - Stiff posture. Ages in reverse. Looks 30 at 20 but looks 40 at 60. Deep-set eyes. Wrinkles before 30. Knees, joints, or back always ache even if they are sitting doing nothing. Looks better with age. Ugly duckling as a kid/teen. Sharp defined bone structure as an adult.

Moon in 1st/conjunct ASC - BIG eyes. Puffy cheeks that people want to pinch even when they're grown adults. Pouty lips. Gets sweaty easily. Face constantly changes with emotions so lying here is impossible. Weight fluctuations. Baby face for way too long. Look cute even when crying. Wavy hair but changes with their emotions. Skin is super reactive like blushes easily, bruises easily, sensitive to everything. Round or Moon face.

Pluto in 1st/conjunct ASC - Either scary hot or hot scary. No in-between. A face that barely moves. Either angelic or villainous eyes. Hair is either jet black or deep red or whatever dark shade they wanna color their hair with. Born with a resting face. Unbothered style. Skin either pale as a ghost or deeply striking.

Neptune in 1st/conjunct ASC - Either dreamy or look like they haven't slept in days. Messy at home. Prone to get mysterious acne out of nowhere. Spaced-out eyes. Skin glows weirdly like sometimes as a built-in instagram filter sometimes greasy. Gliding instead of walking. People mistakes them for someone else sometimes.

Uranus in 1st/conjunct ASC - Hair does whatever it wants and never behaves. Either noticeably tall or noticeably short. No in-between. Posture that either as stiff as a board or slouches like a hacker. Randomly winks, raises brow, smirks or stares into nothing.

Sun in 1st/conjunct ASC - Hairline so perfect it looks like CGI. Looks expensive even when broke. Aging slows after 30. Laugh is as contagious as a virus. Neck slightly longer than average. Skin tans fast. Cheekbones pop when smiling. Looks like Greek statue in side angles.

Venus in 1st/conjunct ASC - Dimples, even in weird places. Hips curve like a renaissance painting. Balancing proportions. Gains weight only in right places. Natural symmetrical face. Baby hairs lay perfectly. Doesn't even need nail polish as they can rock without it. Shoulders have a graceful rounded slope. Weight gain makes them hotter. Wide hips, thick thighs and butt. THICC body.

Mars in 1st/conjunct ASC - Forehead vein pops when mad. Prone to random scrapes and scars. Operate at 1.5x speed. Dressing style depends on their mood. Formal when composed, bitchy when annoyed, angelic when warm and boyish when fun. Also hairstyles depend on their mood too. Struggles with hair fall in mid 20's.

Mercury in 1st/conjunct ASC - Mouth is slightly open even when they sleep. Snores. Blinks fast. talk with their hands. Looks younger than they are. Eyes move like they're reading subtitles in real life when talking. Fine or wavy hair sometimes its messy. Nails might be bitten, tapped, or fidgeted with constantly. Short eyelashes. Switchy emotions like smiles one second serious the next.

Jupiter in 1st/conjunct ASC - Gains weight faster than they lose. Rounded or slightly protruding belly if gained even a little weight. Laugh is impossible to ignore. Full wide cheeks like they store snacks there. Broad forehead. Big teeth or an over-exaggerated smile like they are in a tooth paste advertisement. plump lips. Gives "big presence" energy. Large hands and feet.

Sun square ascendant- Face would look slightly irritated even if they don't mean to. Sometimes force their smile or just look like that even when real.

Moon square ASC - Face bloats easily, especially under the eyes. eczema, redness, or dry patches are common. Cheeks puff up randomly.

Venus square ASC - Would think they are not good looking enough. Insecured about their looks. Weirdly pretty. Sometimes looks AI generated. You get me? Lips too big or nose too sharp. Beautiful but off.

Mars opposite ASC - Bad boy/girl vibes. Can look pissed off even when happy.

Sun opposite ASC - Silent but strong type. Can come off either intimidating or bossy.

Uranus square ASC - Unusual eye color, shape, or one bigger than the other. Can't really tell if they are attractive or really unique. It's like features are drawn by different artists.

Neptune square ASC - Can look slightly sleepy or like a fever dream. Soft features but slightly off focus. Look different everytime.

Moon opposite ASC - A living emoji. Puffy under-eyes are permanent.

If you’ve got multiple planets in your 1st house with a ton of aspects, you’re basically ramen noodles - complex, tangled, and impossible to replicate.

DM me for a complete astrology reading! ✨ Check out my pinned post for pricing. 💫

[sigalrm]

Wagen Nummer 482 174-0 by Pascal Volk

[smutoperator]

Erotic Ballet

Nakamura Kazuha x Male Reader

Tags: acrobatic positions, anal, ankles over her head, ballerina, facefucking, facial, gape, (lots of) floor sex, instructor/professor, leg lifting, leg stretching, mirror sex, nude dancing, pile driver, practice room, prone bone, (lots of) splits

Word count: 5041

You have just arrived at the Source Music installations for your job as the new designated ballet instructor for one of the Le Sserafim members. As you approach the practice room, two girls greet you and show you the way. "Zuha is inside already," Chaewon says. "I think you two will have a blast, she's got amazing ballet skills," Yunjin tells you. "We'll do some shopping and come back later," they tell you.

Indeed, as you open the door, a gorgeous yet super athletic girl is right there waiting for you.

"You must be our ballet instructor. It's nice to meet you," Kazuha tells you. "It's a pleasure as well," you answer. As you look at her beautiful body, you feel like pictures don't do justice to her. From her princess face to her muscular long legs, everything about her looks amazing.

"Let's start dancing," you command to Kazuha. The beautiful Japanese girl follows, putting a classical ballet song on the speakers, and you quickly get impressed by the way she moves. She's very graceful yet extremely strong, landing her moves to perfection as she works her long legs, opening them in very wide angles and performing hard landings with extreme ease.

"Wow, I knew you were a ballerina before, but you haven't lost a step despite no longer doing ballet regularly, I should have known that already, from seeing your practices I could tell your transition to hip-hop dancing was very smooth," you tell her. "Thanks, professor, I always want to stay sharp at all the dances I learn, glad you liked it," Kazuha answered.

The more Kazuha kept dancing, the more you became enamored with her. Watching her get all sweaty, those long, toned legs working out, her beautiful face, her sexy butt, everything about her was perfect, she truly felt like a real-life doll, and you were finally ready to make some moves.

"Let's take a little break," you told Kazuha, giving her butt a little tap just as she had started doing her signature move of lifting her legs over her head. "Sure, professor, did I look good in my ballet performance?" she asked. "Definitely, but we still have to make some adjustments," you told her.

"What kind of adjustments, professor? I can do this right now" Kazuha asks you as she finishes drinking some water. "I think we should explore the full fluidity of your body, let you dance gracefully with no clothes on, have you ever tried that?" you ask her.

"P-professor, do you want me to dance completely naked? Isn't that inappropriate?" Kazuha asks you. "Most instructors would say so, but my method works, it makes ballerinas lose their inhibition and get less afraid to make their moves on stage," you tell her. "I know you've got great stage presence already, Zuha, but after this, you'll never be the same," you continue. "If you can dance in front of me without any clothes on, you can deal with any audience," you finish.

"Sure, professor," Kazuha says, taking her clothes off as she starts dancing naked, showcasing her body in full display. Your eyes go straight into her fit abs, as this is the first time you've seen them in person, you are still baffled that such a pretty face like hers got an even hotter lower body.

As you predicted, Kazuha starts her nude dancing performance much more restrained. "Lose your inhibition, forget about me, stay concentrated, and perform as if you're the only person in this room," you tell Kazuha. She tries to do as you ask, but at the same time, she's also starting to get turned on by looking at you as she dances.

Just as you told her, Kazuha finally loses her inhibition, but instead of performing to herself, she starts teasing you, pulling out some erotic moves out of her bag, starting by performing a full split on the floor while she grinds her pussy on it, coating it with a mix of sweat and her juices. She then opens and closes her legs, spreading her cheeks in your direction to gape her little pink asshole for you, finally ending the performance with her signature leg lifting with one of her fingers pointing right at her pussy.

"Professor, can we dance together?" Kazuha asks you. "Sure, let's dance, Zuha," you tell her, pouring some oil into her naked butt and rubbing it before giving her ass a little spanking. "You're gonna shine a lot with me," you tell her.

Kazuha starts softly moaning as she fully embraces her horny ballerina character. "Shall we start with some floor exercises, professor?" she asks you, pushing your body in the direction of the practice room's wooden floor, promptly teasing you with her big butt to a point you can't resist, diving between her cheeks as you start licking her folds.

"Slow down, professor, looks like you're losing your inhibition," Kazuha says as she starts feeling your tongue in her pink holes. "Get on the floor and please me for being an A+ student," she continues, as Kazuha starts spreading her legs until she does a full split, sitting right in your face with her beautiful big ass.

"Ahhhh, ahhhh, fuck, professor, your tongue is so good in her pussy," Kazuha says as you waste no time eating her out. Drops of her sweat fall all over her body and soon her juices also start coating your mouth. "AHHHHH, AHHHHH, AHHHHHH, AHHHHHH," Kazuha moans louder and louder, taking advantage of being in a soundproof room while starting grinding her folds on your face.

You eat Kazuha's pussy with such intensity she ends up closing her legs a bit to deal with the heat. "I want them fully open at all times, show me you're one of the best," you tell her, Kazuha promptly obliging and getting herself back into a full split position, your tonguing in her cunt more intense than ever.

Kazuha looks down, watching your tongue emerge even with your face buried under her big ass, licking her pussy right between her clit and her trimmed bush. She keeps grinding, closing her eyes, and moaning as you tongue her meaty clit that pops out of her cunt. "AHHHH, AHHHH, AHHHHH, AHHHHH," Kazuha keeps moaning.

"That's right," Kazuha says as you reach to grope her little tits while eating her out. "AHHHHH," she feels a big contraction in her abs as you increase the speed of your tonguing, making her close her legs once again, grabbing her slim waist and then unzipping your pants just enough to start jerking your cock off.

Kazuha quickly gets impressed with the size of that throbbing cock, itching more and more to have a taste of it, moaning loud as you pull it back in your pants to touch her tits. "I want to suck your cock, professor, put it back out," she tells you.

"Such a hungry girl," you tell Kazuha, grinding her naked body against your clothed cock while you finger her pussy. "AHHHHH, AHHHH, AHHHHH," she moans loudly as you massage her clit before putting her legs down and worshipping her body. Kazuha then gets on the floor, opening her legs in a full split as she starts sucking your cock. "Ohhhh yeah," you tell her. "I knew you had a big cock," she tells you, popping it in and out of her mouth.

Kazuha spits hard and bobs her head at full speed in your big cock. "Stick your toungue out," you tell her, slapping your cock in Kazuha's mouth before she licks your balls while jerking them off. "Fuckkk," you groan, grabbing her hair as you push it deep into her throat while she grinds her pussy against the wooden floor.

You test Kazuha, pounding her face and then choking and spitting on her a little bit, before going back to the facefucking session. Much to your surprise, she takes it like a champion, even moving her head by herself. "Damn, looks like someone already taught you a lot about that," you tell her. "Yes, my unnies told me all I needed to suck that cock," Kazuha answers, pushing it harder in her mouth.

The faceufucking continues as you try your best to make Kazuha gag on your cock, but she's no slouch, slapping your thick cock all over her pretty face and bobbing her head hard, then stroking your cock fast, enjoying your tip pop in and out of your foreskin. "I love this big fucking cock," she tells you, slapping it again.

Kazuha is so sweaty and her mouth gets your cock so wet so quickly that you can no longer resist the urge of fucking her. "You want this cock in your pussy, don't you?", you say to her. "Look in the mirror, you're so beautiful," you tell her, pushing Kazuha in its direction, pinning her against the ballet barre, grinding your cock against her big ass while she moans.

You take your shirt off as Kazuha spreads her right leg in the barre. "OHHHHHH, OHHHHHH," she moans as you reach to finger her pussy as she squirts on the floor. "I always dreamed of getting fucked like that, professor," she tells you. "Then let's fulfill those dreams," you tell her, lowering your pants just enough to push your big cock up her tight pussy.

"AHHHHHH, AHHHHHHH, AHHHHHH," Kazuha promptly starts moaning loudly as your cock stretches her pink pussy. You don't ease up, pumping her pussy hard from the get-go as her tight walls clenching over your cock drive you crazy. "Show me you're the sexiest ballerina ever," you tell her as your right hand grabs her ass.

"FUCKKKKK, FUCKKKK, FUCKKKK, FUCKKKK," Kazuha curses as her pussy gets pounded nonstop, holding as hard as she can to the barre as your thrusts get faster each time. "YEAH, YEAH, YEAH," she screams as your balls start clapping hard against her throbbing clit, you grabbing her waist as her body bounces.

"OH SHIT, AHHHHH," Kazuha screams again as you surprise her by hitting her big ass. Your pants get lower and lower as you pound her pussy, you now choking her neck and letting out animalesque groans while fucking the Japanese ballerina. "What a delicious pussy you've got to your professor," you tell Kazuha. "Glad you liked it," she answers.

You start massaging Kazuha's butthole as you keep taking her pussy. "AHHHH YESS, PROFESSOR, WORK YOUR MAGIC IN MY ASSHOLE, YEAH, YEAH YEAH" she begs as you drill her pussy hard. You tell Kazuha to look in the mirror as you choke her hard. "Look at how slutty you are with your professor's cock deep in your tight pussy," you tell her.

Kazuha clings hard to the barre as you push her further apart from it while drilling her pussy at full speed. "AHHHH, AHHHH, AHHHH," she keeps screaming as your thrusts get more and more animalesque and your hips clap against her plump asscheeks. "OH MY GOD YOU FUCK ME SO GOOD, PROFESSOR," she screams.

"Get on the floor," you tell Kazuha as you finish the first pounding session. The Japanese beauty quickly obliges, positioning herself in a crab position facing the floor while you take your clothes completely off. "Oh that's perfect," you tell her, getting on your knees and shoving your cock straight into her mouth,

You massage Kazuha's tits and kiss her beautiful abs as she bobs her head on your shaft, then slowly reaches to finger her pussy to put more pressure on her. Zuha resists, moving up and down your cock like a champion. You start fucking her face hard, slapping and sucking her tits as you use her mouth like a fleshlight. "Oh fuck," you groan as Kazuha's lips wrap all over your throbbing shaft.

Kazuha shows massive strength, barely budging as you pound her face and finger her cunt. "You like that professor's big cock, you fucking slut?" you ask her, Kazuha not answering cause her mouth is full of your cock.

After you're done, you lift Kazuha up and stick your cock back in her pussy, carrying her back into the ballet barre. "AHHHHH," she moans as you stay with your cock inside her at all moments, her legs fully spread as your thrusts push her hard against the barre. "YES, YES, YES, YES" she screams, the barre creaking as her big ass grinds against it, Kazuha clinging to the room's walls between the mirrors just not to fall.

"FUCK ME HARDER, PROFESSOR, PLEASE," Kazuha begs as you mercilessly destroy her cunt. "If you say so," you tell Kazuha, grabbing her tall body and lifting her in the air, pounding her pussy hard as you carry-fuck her and your balls clap hard against her cheeks. "AHHHH, AHHHH, AHHHH, AHHHHH, YEAHH, YEAHH, YEAH, AHHHH, AHHHH, AHHHH," Kazuha can't stop screaming as she gets drilled hard. "Such a sexy ballerina," you tell her.

You put Kazuha back on the ground but she quickly flips herself upside down. "Hold my legs and grab my ass, professor," she tells you, planting her palms on the floor while spreading her legs, putting her recently pounded pussy right in your mouth. "Eat it, professor," she tells you, as you massage her butt and lick her clit.

"So good, my pussy is so amazing, isn't it, professor?" Kazuha asks as you savor it to the fullest. She pushes her head closer to your cock, stretching hard to perform an extremely acrobatic 69 as she bobs her head on your cock. "I want more of that fucking cock inside me," she says.

"Watch this, professor," Kazuha says as she gets back up and lifts her left leg over her. "Is this your favorite position?" you ask her. "Yes, professor, put it back in my pussy," she tells you as you guide your cock back inside her. "Oh yes, so good, so deep in my tight little pussy," Kazuha says as you grab her leg and fuck her, making sure she doesn't lose her balance, but she once again proves to be strong.

"OH FUCK, OH FUCK, OH FUCK, AHHH," Kazuha screams as you attack her pussy harder, grabbing her bouncy little tits as well. "YES, YES, YES," she continues to scream, stretching her body as much as you stretch her cunt, you now choking her neck as she stands. "FUCK ME, PROFESSOR, JUST LIKE THAT, YOU'RE MAKING MY PUSSY SO FUCKING WET, DON'T FUCKING STOP, RIGHT THERE, RIGHT THERE, YESSSS" she continues to scream as she gets drilled in just one leg.

"That's incredible, you fuck me so good, professor," Kazuha says as she tries to finger her pussy, but you fuck her so hard she has to preoccupy herself more not to fall down.

You drop Zuha back to the ground, her quickly getting her knees to suck your cock. "Professor, you got such a great cock, wanna see me doing the splits on it?" Kazuha asks. "Of course," you promptly answer, dropping to the floor. as Kazuha slowly descends her pussy down your cock and starts splitting her legs more and more the deeper your cock gets inside her.

You spank Kazuha's plump butt, giving her the signal she needs to start bouncing on your cock. "Oh fuck," she moans as your cock impales her pussy. But Zuha shows her strength once again, quickly increasing the pace of her ride and giving you a perfect view of her big butt as she moves up and down that thick cock.

"OH FUCK, THAT'S SO DEEP IN ME, YOUR DICK IS SO FUCKING GODO," Kazuha moans as she keeps squatting on your cock with her legs performing a full split. Of all ballerinas you have fucked before, she seems to easily be the one that uses her flexibility the most to her advantage, as she keeps smashing your cock with seismic bounces that produce an earthquake every time her big butt hits your crotch.

"FUCK ME, FUCK ME, FUCK YEAH," Kazuha keeps moaning, making good work of your cock. You can no longer resist the urge, pumping your cock up her pussy and grabbing her ass as you pound her hard. "DON'T STOP, DON'T STOP, DON'T STOP, FUCKKK," Kazuha screams, matching your thrusts with even faster bounces, her cheeks making loud sounds multiple times each second.

"I want to fuck that ass," you tell Kazuha. "Of course you do, professor, no one can resist a big fat ass like mine," she answers, flaunting her backside assets while she bounces them hard on your cock.

Kazuha gets on all fours on the floor as you start eating her asshole and preparing it for your big cock. She spreads her ass, letting your tongue deeper into her pink anus. You kiss and spank her big butt, diving your cheeks between as she shakes her ass. "You really like my big butt, professor," she tells you.

"Yes, I do. But I'm not gonna fuck it in a conventional way, show me you can be an elite anal acrobat," you tell her. "I'll do what you want me to do, professor," Kazuha answers you.

You put Kazuha's right leg up and insert your cock in her tiny pink asshole. "OH YEAH, HOLY SHIT," Kazuha screams as she tries to hold herself with both hands to the floor, her asshole getting slowly stretched out by your big cock. "OH YEAH, YOU FEEL SO GOOD IN MY ASS, PROFESSOR, FUCK ME, FUCK ME, FUCK ME," Kazuha moans.

You spank Kazuha's butt hard as you clap her cheeks louder and louder. "OH I LOVE THIS BIG COCK IN MY TINY LITTLE ASS," Kazuha screams. "FUCK, YOU STRETCH ME SO GODO, PROFESSOR, YOU'RE GONNA MAKE ME CUM, AHHHHH," Kazuha screams, her asshole getting relentlessly drilled, her legs in a 180-degree position, her butt getting spanked nonstop. "YES, YES, YES, STRETCH THAT FUCKING ASS," she begs.

Kazuha's tight asshole gets destroyed, her having to cling to any support on the floor to cope with the hard drilling you give deep in her butt. "OH MY GOD, YES, FUCK ME," she begs as you put her right leg back on the ground, taking advantage of her weakness and pounding her with her face down and ass up. "Suck this cock, come taste your sweaty ballerina ass," you tell her as you finish the first session, fucking her face hard as Kazuha gags all over your asshole-flavored cock.

"You want more, you slutty ballerina?" you ask Kazuha. "Yes, please, professor," she answers. You promptly give what she wants, mounting on top of Kazuha as you go back to pounding her butt. "Face down, ass up," you tell her. "FUCKKKKK," she screams as your cock finds her anal entrance once again.

"SHITTT, IT'S SO BIG IN MY ASS, FUCKKK," Kazuhs screams as you stretch her asshole wide open, her struggling with the hard pounding you give her, opening a massive gape in her butthole as her face is completely on the floor, Kazua losing her breath as you cover her mouth while on top of her. "I still have a lot of work to do in that ass," you tell her amidst more and more screams from Kazuha.

Another round of Kazuha getting your cock wet with her saliva is enough for you as you quickly insert it back in her but. "Put that head down and throw that butt in that cock," you tell her, spanking Kazuha's ass one more time as she moves up and down your cock while staying on all fours. "Good girl," you tell her, before grabbing her butt and taking control of her hot muscular body. "FUCK, YOU'RE SO BIG, PROFESSOR," she says in between more and more spanking.

"FUCK MY ASS, FUCK MY ASS, PLEASE," she keeps begging, getting exactly what she wants you pick up the speed and attack Kazuha's asshole hard, her screaming and moaning against the floor. You can't resist the urge and put your feet on her head, showing Kazuha you own her as you stomp on her face while relentlessly fucking her ass.

"Whose instructions are you going to follow, you big butt slut?" you ask Kazuha. "ONLY YOURS, PROFESSOR, YOU OWN ME, I'M YOUR BIG BUTT SLUTTY BALLERINA," she moans.

"Then show me," you tell Kazuha, putting her upside down once again and spreading her legs at a 180-degree angle. Her once tiny asshole now looks massively gaped. as you insert your cock with ease. "Can you take it on a pile driver position with your legs wide open, Zuha?" you ask her. "Yes, professor," she answers.

"OH MY GOD, YESSS," Kazuha screams as the looks from the floor at your cock stretching her butthole. "FUCK ME, FUCK ME, YES FUCK ME," she begs as you show no mercy for her, pounding her ass balls deep while fingering her clit. "PROFESSOR, YOU'RE GONNA MAKE ME FUCKING CUM," she announces as you choke her and spank her beautiful porcelain face. Kazuha is getting number and number, her asshole getting more and more sore. "YES FUCK ME, FUCK ME HARDER" she begs, you getting more and more committed to making her unable to walk after this erotic ballet session.

"Let's do some more floor exercise," you tell Kazuha, dropping both your doeies to the floor as you dive to eat her pussy while the pushes her right leg up. After a little pussy-worshipping, you slide your cock back into her ass in a spooning position. "OH YEAH, OH, OH," Kazuha moans, increasingly losing her breath and struggling with her sore asshole.

You grab Kazuha's waist and pound her, groping her tits from behind while she tries to cope with the heat of your cock by fingering her pussy. "OHHHH, OHHHH, OHHHH, YESSS, YESS, YESSS," she moans. After a slow start, you quickly go back to clap her cheeks hard, making her close her eyes as your cock uses her asshole to the fullest. "HMMMM, YEAH, YEAH, YEAH," Zuha moans loudly.

"YOU FUCK MY ASS SO HARD, DAMN," Kazuha screams as your anal drilling seems to have no time to end, moving your body in and out of her asshole and reaching now to finger her clit. "AHHHH, AHHHH, YES, TOUCH ME RIGHT THERE, MAKE ME CUM," Kazuha begs. "You like that, you slutty ballerina?" you ask her. "YES, YES, YES," Kazuha screams.

"HOLY SHIT, YOU'VE GOT SUCH A BIG DICK," Kazuha screams as you wrap your arms around her, never stopping to pound her gaped asshole. You kiss her and choke her as you hammer her ass faster than ever. "FUCK ME, FUCK ME, FUCK ME, AHHHHH," she continues to scream.

"Wanna do the splits on that cock one more time?" you ask Kazuha. "Yes, please," she answers. Without ever pulling out of her ass, you stay on the floor, pushing Kazuha's body on top of yours. "Sit that ass on my big fat cock," you command to her.

Kazuha promptly obliges. She starts slow, only taking the tip up her butt, before slowly adjusting to your massive length, doing a full split on your dick while you massage her butt. "That's what I want, all the way in," you tell her as Kazuha rides your cock with your hands all over her ass. "You look so hot with that big cock up your booty," you tell her. "Thanks, pro…FUCK," she answers before letting out another scream.

You spank Kazuha's butt harder than ever and at a faster pace than ever, taking advantage of her ass in prime position and just within reach of your large hands. "Bounce faster," you tell her. "OH YEAHHHH," she moans, trying to follow your instructions, her big ass making loud noises against your hips.

But you aren't completely satisfied. "If you don't bounce it harder I'm gonna pound that ass myself," you tell her, thrusting your cock up Kazuha's butt. "AHHHH, FUCK, YES, YES, YES," she moans as you drill her ass hard from down low. "AHHH, AHHHH, AHHHH, AHHHH," Kazuha continues to scream, you showing no signs of slowing down, using all the strength in your body to pound her butthole.

Kazuha soon tries to respond, moving her hips faster against your cock. "Yes, baby, good girl, that's what I want," you tell her as Kazuha grinds fast on your cock, smiling as she moves her legs just enough to meet your thrusts. "PROFESSOR YOU FUCK ME SO GOOD, YOU MAKE ME SO WET."

You let Kazuha grind her ass a bit on your cock, before giving her the next command. "Keep those legs spread, I'm gonna push that sexy body right to the floor," you tell her.

"I want more, professor, I want your dick stretching my asshole hard and deep," Kazuha begs as you put your cock back in her butt in a prone bone position with her legs fully spread. "My pussy is so wet, I'm covering the floor with all my juices," she says. "Gape my asshole, I want you to stretch it hard, FUCKKKK," Kazuha keeps begging.

You enjoy the gape in Kazuha's butthole, fucking her very slowly, before finally topping her again, pushing your cock deeper in her ass. "RIGHT THERE, AHHHH," she screams, you picking up the speed. "I'M FUCKING CUMMING, AHHHH, SO GOOD" Kazuha screams as you go faster and faster up her butt, losing her breath so hard that her asshole starts winking to the rhythm of her panting.

"YOUR COCK IS SO FUCKING DEEP, I CAN FEEL IT INSIDE MY STOMACH," Kazuha screams as she gets drilled nonstop. "RIGHT THERE, RIGHT THERE, FUCKKK, DON'T STOP," she continues to beg. "I LOVE HOW YOU FUCK MY ASSHOLE NICE AND DEEP," she says.

"Shake your ass for me," you tell Kazuha, giving her a little time to breathe before you start hitting her butt once again. "Spank me, 'cause I'm a bad girl, I'm the sluttiest ballerina you've ever instructed, professor," she says, enjoying you turning her big ass cheeks red before going back inside her ass.

"OH MY GOD STRETCH MY ASSHOLE LIKE THAT, SO GOOD, SO FUCKING GOOD, AHHHHH" she moans, squirting all over the floor. "Bounce, bounce," you tell Kazuha as she squeezes your cock between her ass cheeks, moving them sideways while you destroy her asshole. "FUCK YOU'RE COCK IS WRECKING MY ASSHOLE SO HARD, THAT'S SO GOOD, MAKE ME CUM AHHHHH," Kazuha screams as more of her juices coat the floor.

"Let's end this right where we started it," you say to Kazuha once you finish it, pushing her back in the direction of the ballet barres. Just like the first time, Kazuha puts her right leg in the barre. You tease her a bit fingering her pussy, but this time you take her in the ass.

You pound Kazuha as she faces the mirror, taking your final turn in her asshole while you choke her hard. "AHHHHH, AHHHHHH, AHHHHH, OH YEAH," she screams, her ashole barely able to handle more thrusts after 40 minutes of fucking. You slide her legs between the barres, grabbing her waists and fucking her while she sits on the bottom barre. "OHHH FUCK, FUCK, FUCK," she keeps moaning.

You take Kazuha off the barre and tie her arms behind her back. "Look in the mirror, you should be ashamed for being such a slut," you tell her. "YES PROFESSOR, BY I'M YOUR SLUT, I'M A BALLERINA WHO LOVES TO DANCE ON THAT BIG FAT COCK," Kazuha screams as you pound her asshole, before muffling her moans against the ballet barre by putting her mouth on it.

"I wanna hear you screaming, Zuha," you tell her, pushing her body in your direction and giving her a rough pounding on a standing doggy. "AHHHH, AHHHH, AHHHH, AHHHH," Kazuha indeed screams, now you can see her naked body in full display in the mirror. Her beautiful doll face, her perky little tits, her insane abs, her pink pussy, and her insanely long legs, all that while you use her beautiful ass like a pillow to absorb your hard thrusts into her backdoor.

"You like that dick up inside that tight asshole?" you ask her one more time, you two fully visible in the mirror now. "YES, I LOVE IT, I WANT YOUR COCK FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE," Kazuha begs. "Who owns this slutty ballerina body?" you ask her. "YOU DO, PROFESSOR, YOU FUCKING OWN ME," she answers.

"I'm gonna cum all over your fucking slutty face," you tell Kazuha. "Give me your fucking cum, please, cum in my face," Kazuha begs. You soon pull out of her ass and start stroking your cock, as Kazuha gets on her knees in anticipation of your load. And what she gets is even better than expected, as you hit her with two huge bullseye cumshots and a pair of smaller loads, covering her face with your sperm over 10 times, her licking your cock and thanking you for the erotic ballet training session.

But just as Kazuha is slapping the still throbbing tip of your cock on her tongue, the door of the practice room opens.

"Zuha we're back… OH MY GOD," Chaewon says, dropping her shopping bags to the floor as she sees Kazuha on her knees sucking your cock with her face completely drenched with cum.

"Looks like they had a lot of fun while we were away," Yunjin says. Chaewon moves in your direction, touching your cock and grabbing a little bit of your cum with her fingers, before putting it in her mouth "Delicious, I can see Zuha must have had a lot of fun," she says, noticing the big gape in her groupmate's asshole.

"How about we have some fun too?" Yunjin asks.

"Sure, bring the plugs on," Chaewon says. Kazuha can only watch, her ass still sore from so much pounding, but always shocked at how her unnies can instantly flip a switch and go full slutty in a second.

Chaewon and Yunjin get close to the ballet barres and pull their pants down, showing her beautiful big bare asses right in your face. Yunjin grabs a pair of buttplugs, inserting one in each of their assholes, before Chaewon asks you a question.

"Can you teach some ballet for us too?"

[cerastes]

Habe you ever had a "did we even play the same game?" moment with someone?

My favorite game ever used to be Metal Gear Solid 4, it’s still up there in my top favorites, and this time at a party I met a guy that said he didn’t like MGS4 because he felt like it ruined Snake as a character and that it misrepresented him. I asked if he could elaborate and his response was that they took this Rambo dude, this super manly war hero and emasculated him into a weak old man.

I need you to understand that Solid Snake was without exaggeration fundamental in my growth as a person: I am from a latino country, grew up in what’s widely considered the wrong side of the tracks in the middle of nowhere, being macho, manly, tough was incredibly important to me, because that’s how it was in there, and Snake (plus “The Knight In Rusty Armor” by Robert Fisher) basically made me question all of what I’d grown up thinking up until then, because Snake isn’t a badass because grrr manly beef jerky I kill and swear, he is this incredibly solemn guy who hates what he can do, but is the only one that can do it, and if he doesn’t do it, then nuclear war happens, or worse. There’s a whole angle of expectation as a narrative arc in regards to Snake: Meryl expected a glorious, boisterous war hero, Otacon expected a grizzled, badass action hero, Liquid expected Himself But Better In Every Way, Ocelot expected a tool and nothing else, Naomi expected a callous and cold killer… And they were all wrong, he is, ultimately, an exhausted man that cannot stop no matter how much he wants to stop, because if he does, the world might likely go up in literal flames.

So to hear this self-proclaimed superfan of Snake say this just made me skip anger and go all the way to pity. In-universe, those in the know of Snake worship him as an actual God of War, and it’s a common thing that gets addressed in-universe: The whole point of MGS2 is that Raiden could never have won if he tried to be Snake, because you don’t want to be Snake. Snake hates being Snake. Snake isn’t manly because he beat a tank on foot one on one, Snake is admirable because he does the right thing, even if he’s breaking down molecule by molecule as he goes and he wants nothing more than to fuck off and raise dogs in the arctic, but keeps on going anyways because he can do something about it. The most important message he imparts on Raiden and Meryl is Don’t Be Me; Create A World Where Snake Doesn’t Need To Exist.

I felt pity because if you feel like MGS4 misrepresented Snake, then you really and explicitly are exactly the kind of fodder PMC nobody that feeds the proxy wars in MGS4. I think only by skipping every cutscene you can come out thinking that way. The only thing super about him was ficial.

[karingottschalk]

Sigma Corporation of America: SIGMA Announces 10-18mm F2.8 DC DN | Contemporary, the World's Smallest and Lightest F2.8 Zoom Lens for APS-C Mirrorless Cameras – Press Release

[shouyuus]

What about... Vi teaching you how to trib, as a friend of course... I don't know why I'm obsessed with the idea of her being all flustered when you ask her to show you since you've never done it before.

with friends like these

violet; super duper 18+, smut/fluff, lesbian pining, college roommate!vi au (kinda)

"f-fuck -- fuck, vi -- mm -- ngh --"

"j-juuuust like that -- c'mon --" vi is panting, her cheeks so warm her head is starting to spin, and she's not quite sure how she got here -- well no, she knows exactly how she got here -- but she can't quite think for the way she's got you trembling beneath her, your sodden cunts sliding against each other as you dig your nails into her arms, your head thrown back into the lumpy material of her pillow, her name on your lips like a curse or a prayer.

she groans, rucking her hips against yours, shifting her leg to find a better angle. you keen, mouth falling open in a soft pant, your finger scrabbling at her arms. she grins -- a half-feral thing, as she leans down, if only to watch you fall apart for her from as close as she can possibly get.

"vi, vi, vi!"

"yeah? gonna cum for me, pretty girl? gonna show me how good this feels?" she breaths, grunting as she hoists your thigh over her hip and fucks herself down over you all the harder.

it'd been a strange sort of conversation to have on a thursday night, you and her, drunk and high (respectively), sprawled out on the old couch in your living room, vi chuckling as you stutter yourself into a deeper and deeper corner --

"it's just -- i've never understood how it works --"

vi takes another long hit of her j, blowing out smoke, "what? scissoring?"

your blush darkens as you crinkle your nose.

"y-yeah! like how --" you place your mug of box-wine on the table and hold up both of your hands, two fingers extended as you try to simulate the motion, "it just doesn't seem like it'd be -- pleasant?"

vi grins, a bit too wide, reaches out with one of her hands to catch yours, tugging you closer.

"it's not like that -- chill -- chill -- relax your fingers, or -- legs -- whatever --" she giggles, head tipping back as she tries to wrangle one of your hands between both of hers, trying not to think too hard on the way you let yourself be manhandled into her lap, how easily you give into her instructions, how your skin smells just a bit like pastry bread, sweet and buttery and utterly, mind-bendingly delicious.

she swallows, frowning at your hand in hers --

"usually, you're like --" she tries to show you with her fingers criss-crossed with yours, "face to face, but like -- your legs are crossed --"

you giggle, watching as she tries to slot her fingers between yours.

you grab her hands in yours, shaking your head, tipping back even as she tries to yank you back into her.

"at this point, it'd be easier for you to just show me --"

your breath cuts off as vi's hands tighten around you, hauling you up and over her lap, so that somehow, you end up straddling her, your arms propped on her shoulders, your thighs on either side of her hips, her palms warm on your waist as you fight for a breath that she's long-since stolen.

there's a storm brewing behind the horizons of her ocean eyes, and lightning strikes against the flintstones in your stomach, setting your body ablaze as she bites her lips and looks up at you, her eyes going dark in the static-ridden light.

"yeah? you... you want me to show you how it's done?"

you swallow, saltwater and caramel, slick and sweet down your throat as you search her eyes for any sign of uncertainty.

you find none -- only the hard-lined want you'd become oh-so familiar with as the days went on. the way you'd catch her watching you sometimes, right after you shower, the way you'd find yourself watching her, when she's trying to show off how well she a can flip a pancake in the pan, in nothing but boxers and a tank top.

"i-is that weird?" you ask, chewing on your bottom lip.

vi lets out a soft groan, her eyes darkening as she catches the gesture.

"no -- i mean -- we're friends, right?" she asks, her voice so laced with want she can almost taste it.

you nod, your eyes caught in the net of her gaze, almost in a trance as you let your eyes slick down to her lips.

she leans up to kiss you; you lean down to let her.

it's simple after that -- and so, so easy -- her hoisting you up easy as anything, the pair of you tumbling into her bed, her asking in a voice that's almost a whisper (as if she's afraid she'll wake one of you up from this tender, tenuous daydream) --

"is this okay?"

you nod, eager, fingers sliding into her hair as she groans and peels the sleep shorts from you, tugging down your underwear along with it.

it's only been ten minutes, but vi thinks that it's been centuries, or perhaps only the span of a few seconds. she can't think when she's got you pinned beneath her like this, and she knows she must look a bit unhinged from where you are, sweat shining on her skin as she works her hips down over yours, intent on finding just the perfect angle.

"vi -- oh -- that feels --"

"a-ah fuck, princess -- holy shit --" vi jerks above you, a familiar coil tightening in her stomach as she tries to slow down her pace, to draw it out -- she wants to savor this, to remember this --

"vi -- vi -- mmngh -- th-that's s-so good -- you're making me -- oh god --" you're tugging on her arms, fingers looping around her wrists like bracelets, squeezing her tight as your head tips back and vi leans down to sink her teeth into the bared skin of your throat.

"shit, shit, shit -- no one's gonna -- gonna make you feel this good, hm? pretty g-girl -- no one but me -- fuck --" she rolls her hips, a breath hitching out of her as she feels your swollen clits catch, and then you're squirming beneath her, wetness slicking down your puffy pussy lips, the slick of it nearly throwing her off-pace as she sucks a dark hickey into your skin.

"o-only you, vi -- fuck, please, please, please --" you cum with a hard spasm, fire eating through you as vi whines into the crook of your neck, her own orgasm hitting her half a second later. and it's all you can do to reach out and hold her to you, letting her ride out the waves of her pleasure in soft jerks and heavy pants against you.

"h-hoooly shit..." vi puffs out a laugh against your collarbones as she pushes herself back up. you blink blearily up at her, a tired giggle bubbling out of you as vi pulls back and you both grimace at the soft shluck of your bodies coming apart, sticky with cum and sweat and whatever else.

"w-well --" you say, "i -- that was -- i think i get it now --"

vi stares at you for a second before breaking into a fit of laughter. you join in a second later, reaching for a wad of tissues from her bedside table and handing her a few. she takes it from you with a wide grin.

"and you thought it wouldn't be pleasant."

you crinkle your nose, making a face as the pair of you try in vain to mop up the mess between your bodies. vi holds out her hand for your tissue and you hesitate for a second before dropping it into her open palm.

"thanks," you say.

vi shrugs, biting her lip, her nose ring glinting in the warm glow of her study lamp. she turns to toss both wads into the trash bin by the door. you whoop as they fall in, one after the other.

"what are friends for, right?" she asks, turning back around with a loping grin. there's a kaleidoscope of color caught in the rings of her eyes, and a sadness that you don't have the time to unpack. so you shove back the wince that threatens to shake apart your composure at her words and smile right back.

"y-yeah -- right -- friends."

but you're pretty sure friends don't do what you and vi just did. and friends definitely don't wander back to their own room later that night, the smell of her still on your skin, a pulsing want echoing between your legs, a threading need ticking beneath your ribcage at the thought of her name.

[kaelula-sungwis]

Light by Bastian Kratzke Via Flickr: Sony FE 20mm 1.8 G on Sony A7III

[cosmic-dust-poltergeist]

Pt 4 of the Danny is Tim's 99th attempt at cloning Kon. A 3 year old Danny finally meets his not dead anymore template.

[Pt 3: here] [Pt 5:Here]

Danny is so nervous he feels like he's going to throw up. His Template, who was dead and now isn't, is coming over to meet him. He knows his dad wouldn't let the guy near if he thought he'd react poorly to Danny, and Danny is excited about maybe having an adult (barely, technically, since he's 18) to help him figure out his new alien heritage, but he's still scared shitless. He wants this to go well so badly.

"Danny," Tim sighs in fond exasperation, "Come here, sweetheart."

Danny floats himself into dad's lap, tucking himself to his chest.

"Kon has been just as nervous to meet you." Tim kisses the top of Danny's head, just before Danny turns a wide-eyed look towards him. "He's the sweetest himbo and has been gushing about meeting you, but he's terrified you won't like him."

"Rweally?"

"Yeah, one of his deepest desires and deepest traumas is his want of family. But he doesn't want to pressure you into accepting any sort of relationship with him." Tim explains before cracking a sardonic smile. "Which is a big mood. I'm pretty sure most of the younger heroes have imposter syndrome."

"Why?"

"For many reasons. Kon was, and sometimes still is, discriminated against and frankly abused for being a clone. I forced my way into the Wayne family and was repeatedly told I didn't belong. Jason never had a stable life. Damian was a rape baby and raised in the LoA til he was 10. Dick was kicked out by Bruce once he aged out of fostering age. Jason's "not" boyfriend, Roy, was shunned for developing a drug habit after gaining significant trauma." Tim lists off. "A lot of the younger heroes couldn't lean on the adults in their lives, and it leaves scars. We've all found our footing, and deserve everything good we have in our lives, but the feeling of unworthiness is hard to escape."

Danny hugs his dad around the neck. He knew some of this dad and co lore, but it makes him sad each time. No one in his new family family has had easy lives, but are still so nice.

Tim suddenly looks mischievous, "All that to say, Kon has been texting me all morning about what he should wear, do I actually think you'll like him, if he should bring a gift or would you think he's bribing you to like him-"

"Tim!" A guy whines as he enters. He's wearing a leather jacket over a band t-shirt and black jeans. He clothes don't hide how he's shredded and probably 6 inches, at least, taller than Tim. He's holding a puzzle box and looks flustered and embarrassed.

"It's true!" Tim grins at the newcomer, before adjusting his angle to give Danny a slightly better view. "Danny, this is Kon, your DNA donor. Kon, this is my- our son, Danny."

Danny shyly waves as a blushing Kon sputters and protests Tim's choice of introductions.

"What? I did all the work, you just provided the DNA. Maybe if there's a next time, I'll let you help." Tim teases, and is hilariously oblivious to the gutter Danny can see Kon's mind drop into.

Danny has found his dad to be absolutely oblivious to anytime someone is into him, outside of Ra's. Danny watched so many people try to shoot their shot, and Tim cluelessly rebuff them. Danny thought he was doing it on purpose at first, but soon realized, no, his dad just has low self-esteem and truly doesn't think anyone finds him desirable. It's as funny as it is sad.

"So mean." Kon pouts before holding up the puzzle box for Danny to see the design. It's a thousand piece nebula puzzle. "I ended up getting you this puzzle. Tim- Your dad told me you love space and are super smart, so I thought you'd enjoy this puzzle."

Danny blinks, looking between the barely adults, before deciding to be funny. He says in his gravest voice. "So you chose bribery."

Danny gets the glorious view of Kon's face dropping in shock. Tim is literally shaking as he tries not to laugh, knowing Danny is pulling the guy's leg. The Drakes let him flounder for a moment, trying to find a response to that, before Danny can't help giggling, which pushes Tim over the edge and start cackling, startling Kon into silence.

"You should have seen your face!" Tim wheezes.

Kon gets a dopey look on his face. "You're just messing with me."

Danny nods with a grin. He wiggles to be put down, which Tim complies with, still giggling. Danny trots up to his template.

"You're silly." Danny informs him before holding his arms up and demanding. "Up!"

Kon quickly sets the puzzle on an end table near him before picking Danny up. He looks a little nervous when Danny stares hard at his face. "Um?"

Danny takes in all the shared features between them, some harder to see with the 16 year age difference, but it's sort of soothing to see. He gets distracted when he notices Kon's piercings, gasping and taking a closer look.

"How!?" He excitedly, but gently grabs Kon's ear piercings. Danny had gotten similar ear piercings when he was a ghost, and he misses them, but figured he wasn't going to be able to get them done in this body. It being nearly indestructible and all.

"Oh, my piercings?" Danny nods, leaning forward to take a closer look. "I'm sure you noticed it's hard to hurt us, but there's a rock called kryptonite, and depending on the colour, different things can happen."

"I thought kryptonite just hurt?" Danny asks, pulling back to look at Kon's face.

"It can. Green kryptonite is the most common, and it will hurt you. It turns off your powers and slowly poisons you, and if not taken away quickly, can kill us. Gold kryptonite is the rarest type and will permanently remove kryptonian abilities and usually leaves permanent injuries. So please do your best to avoid those types." Kon explains, "Red kryptonite should probably also be avoided, it makes kryptonians angry and turns off your inhibitions, but it won't technically hurt you to be exposed to it. The last colour I know of is blue. Blue kryptonite doesn't harm you or mess with your mental abilities. It just turns off all of your kryptonian abilities for however long it touches your skin. I have a blue kryptonite necklace I wear whenever I want tattoos or piercings."

Danny turns pleading eyes to his dad. "Can I get ear piercings??"

Danny can't help, but notice an infatuated smile on Tim's face before the man huffs a laugh and walks over. He runs a hand through Danny's hair.

"If you still want them when you're 5, I'll let you." Tim hums, "I don't want it to be an impulsive decision, and people will be less weird about a five year old getting their ears pierced. You might still get weird looks since you're a boy, but that's their problem, not yours."

"Okay!" Danny cheers. He hasn't told his dad about his past life/afterlife, so he can understand the hesitance over letting 3 year old get a body mod, even if it's just a single set of ear piercings, on what seems like a whim. He's honestly surprised he only has to wait til he's 5. Tim can be a bit of a helicopter parent, but then again, Tim really wants Danny to be his own person, never once shaming him for not fitting into a mold.

His aunts and uncles and grandpa have all made comments when they think he can't hear about how different or similar he is to Kon. Or when he shows gender non-conforming interests. Tim gets mad at them anytime he realizes Danny heard them. He doesn't want Danny to feel bad about any of it. Siting that "no shit" there's going to be similarities and differences, that's how children work, clone or not, and how gender is a social construct. He usually starts picking apart all of his siblings' behaviors at that point, pointing out what they inherented from Bruce, what is trauma born, and what's uniquely their's so he assumes they're from their respective parents, as well as all the things they do that don't fall under what society thinks their gender should do. It's funny, but also very nice. Danny loves his dad.

The true question right now, though, is: will he love, or even just like, his template? Danny doesn't hate what he's heard and seen so far, but actual fondness or affection needs time.

"How about we head to the gym?" Tim says, "Kon can show you some of his powers."

"Can I fly higher?" Danny isn't allowed to fly more than 4 feet in the air. Which is annoying, but fair. Again, he's 3.

"Only if you stay in arm's reach of Kon when you do."

"Okay!!" Danny cheers, purposely flailing around. Kon's hold on him tightens slightly to make sure he doesn't fall, but it's not painful. Another point to the DNA donor. That's about five in his favour during this interaction alone.

"Already flying, little man?" Kon grins.

"Yeah!"

"He figured out how to fly before how to run." Tim chuckles, "Now he does both any chance he gets. It keeps things lively."

"I imagine." Kon's grin turns a little gooey, before letting himself float and zip to the gym. "Let's have so fun!"

Danny can't help his chuckles. Kon flies there faster than Danny's allowed currently. It's fun!

Danny also can't help but notice Tim isn't in a rush to catch up. Meaning Tim fully trusts Kon with Danny's life. That's a trust that took the rest of the family months to gain, even though Tim knew they wouldn't hurt him. Danny isn't sure what to make of that knowledge, but it definitely makes him more inclined to like his template.

And by dinner time, Danny does genuinely like the guy. He respects everything Tim and Danny have to say, shows Danny a bunch of fun tricks with their powers, and let's Danny lead their games. He's fun, nice, and most importantly, not creepy. He clearly likes his dad in a more than friends way, but is hesitant to act on it, clearly not wanting to fuck up with either Tim or Danny.

Unfortunately for Danny, he can see Tim likes Kon back, but his dad is an idiot and doesn't realize it. So now he has to figure out how to get his dad to realize he's into his template without it being weird.

But really, what was Danny expecting? Trying to clone your "best friend" a hundred times isn't exactly hetero behavior. He decides he's going to enlist Uncle Damian and Uncle Jason. It's for his dad's own good at this point.

He also debates on if he's going to try to parent trap them. He likes Kon, but he doesn't know him well enough to commit to the bit just yet. He'll decide later, once he knows more.