#tech head center

[distortedheart]

I'm on here like only to complain lately why am I like this. So sorry. musical preparation will be killing me in the streets

[fishymedic]

This is especially applicable to his overworking, immediately post act 3 but also.... If he's been indoors working his ass off medically treating people his whole sense of time passing gets thrown off kilter.

-people checking in on him should probably update him on the world outdoors/prewarn him before leaving out of the building with him (the worst is dragging him out for a lunch break because his ass will be like 'nah it cant be that late into the day- what do you mean it rained?')

[satoblue]

sometimes i think of satoru who never left the grasps of his clan, who never went to jujutsu tech, who never made friends and was isolated bc he was seen as greater than — a version of satoru who isn’t like the one we know.

he is cold and calculated, prideful and silent. he doesn’t tease or joke — he mocks. never having grown out of these traits since he was a child, he’s never had a reason to hide them. incredibly lonely, yet he is used to it. might even prefer it.

and the blindfold. as he’s grown older, continued to master his technique, he’s learned ways to hone the power of his six eyes. rarely is he ever seen with it off. it is a protective shield as much as it is a weapon.

guarded even at his wedding ceremony, a courtship he cared for very little and had no decision in making — he hadn’t removed it for the seemingly special day. this wasn’t a moment of celebration for him after all. he found no joy in such things.

satoru had assumed, with his distant demeanor, that you would come to avoid him just the same, realize there was no hope for you in this union preordained by your clan and his. after all, this marriage was fulfilled out of duty — not love.

and yet, what is it about him that intrigues you so? that you would rather trail behind him wherever he goes, wherever that may be?

satoru is not easily amused, nor is he easily impressed, but the way you choose to keep up with him as he intentionally walks far distances to tire you out fills him with both — along with a nagging irritation because you simply won’t take the hint and leave him be.

what game are you playing at? you must have an ulterior motive. you are already wedded to him, the strongest. is that not enough for you? for your family?

apparently not.

when satoru enters a room, he won’t even glance your way if you happen to occupy it — as if you’re a stranger and not his wife. will barely notice you there until you walk up to him and greet him, your husband.

he’ll do his part, exchange formalities but nothing more. no where is he required to participate in your game of cat and mouse in public.

yet, even in the face of his snide remarks used to scare you off in private, at every turn — you were there consistently. waiting. for what?

if there were two words to describe you, it would be persistent and troublesome. most would stop at any attempts by now after being faced with his lack of interest.

he is both annoyed and intrigued at what the response may be. mainly due to the fact you don’t seem to be losing that spark of yours. if anything, his behavior has you more riled up. satoru couldn’t shake you off no matter how hard he tried. you always found him, always knew where he liked to go to hide from you.

and you’ll talk when you manage to catch up. a lot. about the servants, the food, idle gossip, your family. he’s never met anyone so chatty. but then again, he was never one for small talk. so, maybe it is a good thing. you ramble on about practically any topic that comes to your head. and he realizes in a way, alike himself — you have no filter.

satoru speculates that you have some type of scheme up your sleeve, when really, you just want to get to know the man you were made to marry.

everyone knows who he is, but at the same time, they don’t. it’s complicated. you want to learn more about him, you want to know how expressive those eyes are under that mask. you want to know what makes him tick. the things that make him angry, cry (if possible), or even laugh.

he has a pleasant voice — you’ve deduced — from what little words he speaks, and you’d like to hear him laugh. at least once. you’d like that a lot.

it is why you chatter on. about anything really. and you take it as a win when you say something so far fetched, so absolutely absurd to his ears that the corner of his lip betrays him, fighting not to twitch upwards. and maybe he does come to enjoy it a little.

he’s always been the center of everyone’s attention ever since he was a child. but yours in particular seems to stick lately. he can always feel when someone’s eyes are on him, yet, it is your gaze that seems to stand out amongst them.

or maybe it’s because… he’s starting to watch you too.

[buckysleftbicep]

what home feels like 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (5 + 1 trope)

warnings: loads, like mountains of fluff, soft!bucky, some angst, bucky in an apron, team shenanigans

summary: the 5 times bucky thinks of proposing to you and the 1 time he does

word count: 6.1k (i couldn't help myself 🥹)

author's note: hi loves! i am in the middle of my vacation and i had this written during my layover, and i just couldn't wait to let you guys read it, so here it is! i hope you'll love it as much as i do! love ya and stay safe out there! 💌

The first time Bucky thought of proposing to you, you were asleep on his chest, and the world was still.

The sun filtered softly through gauzy curtains, turning the room to gold, that liminal hush between dawn and morning, when the world had yet to stir. 

The compound was silent. Peaceful. A rare luxury. And in the center of it all was you, curled in the tangle of Bucky’s arms, your face pressed to his chest, your breath warm and even against the fabric of his shirt.

One of your hands was fisted there, right over his heart, like you’d been afraid he might drift away in the night and needed something to anchor you. As if your body, even in sleep, refused to let him go. 

He didn’t mind. He never minded. In fact, if he had it his way, he’d never move from this moment at all. He could stay like this forever. And maybe, for once, he actually believed he deserved to.

Alpine lay nestled between your legs, a puddle of white fur with her chin resting lazily on your calf. She let out a soft mewl, stretching languidly, paws reaching toward the warm patch of sunlight spilling across the bed before curling tighter into the cradle you made for her.

Bucky watched her for a beat, the corners of his mouth twitching, and then looked back down at you, the way your lashes flickered in dreams, the way your lips parted with each slow breath, your features soft and at peace in the golden quiet.

There was a kind of stillness in the air that made everything feel sacred. Like nothing bad could touch the room you shared. Like the outside world, the violence, the ghosts, the endless fight didn’t exist here. 

Just you. Just him. Just this.

And his heart ached a little with the weight of it, of how far he’d come, of how long it had taken to get here. To something this gentle. This good.

Because this life had once seemed impossible.

Germany, 2016.

The first time Bucky saw you, he had been standing at the far end of the airport carpark in Berlin, still learning how to breathe in spaces that weren’t cages.

Still unsure of who he was supposed to be outside the Soldier. Still half-listening, half-drifting.

Steve had brought you in, voice warm, saying you’d be helping with strategy and tech coordination for the joint ops.

There had been a familiarity in how he spoke to you, like you were someone he already trusted. That alone had caught Bucky’s attention. 

And then… then you walked in beside him.

Wearing jeans and a simple button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, your hair pulled back in some easy style like you hadn’t even put much thought into it.

You had a notebook in one hand, and your eyes were wide, bright. Like you hadn’t yet learned to keep your guard up in this line of work. Like the job hadn’t bled the softness out of you.

And Bucky… Bucky had stared.

Not out of rudeness—not really. But because you’d laughed. Full-bodied and unfiltered.

Scott had said something dumb—some half-witted quip about old men and bluetooth—and you had tipped your head back, laughing like it was the best thing you’d heard all week.

The sound of it went straight through him.

It didn’t just catch his attention. It wrecked him, a little. That laugh landed somewhere behind his ribs, somewhere he hadn’t even realised was still raw. And for the first time in a long time, something in him stirred. Something slow and silent and stupidly hopeful.

Then you turned to him. Your gaze met his.

You smiled.

Held out your hand.

“Hi, I’m (Y/N),” you’d said, your voice warm, effortless and kind. The kind of voice that made people feel safe. The kind of voice that felt like a hand resting lightly on a wound.

“You must be Bucky.”

He hadn’t said a word at first. Couldn’t. His brain had short-circuited under the weight of your gaze and the gentle curl of your mouth. His pulse roared in his ears like it did in combat zones—sharp, hot, all-consuming.

But then, somehow, he managed a smile. A real one. Small. Tentative. But genuine. And when he took your hand in his, shaking it carefully, cautiously, something in his chest locked into place.

He remembered how soft your skin had felt against his calloused fingers. How you hadn’t flinched at the sight of the metal. How your touch had lingered just long enough.

You didn’t seem put off by his silence. You’d just nodded, eyes full of something unspoken, and walked off with Wanda, the two of you giggling about something he couldn’t hear. Just like that, you were gone. But the space you left behind stayed.

That’s when Sam had sidled up beside him, elbowing him just hard enough to knock him out of his daze.

“You know if you keep staring, it’s gonna get reak creepy,” he said, smirking.

Bucky had scowled at him. Sam had just grinned wider, all smug and knowing, before turning back.

But even then—Bucky knew.

Knew he was already in trouble.

Because something had shifted. A compass needle inside him, snapping north.

And from that moment on, he’d been tilting toward you.

Now, as he looked down at you all these years later—your lashes fluttering in dreams, your nose scrunching as Alpine adjusted herself—the same flutter stirred in his chest. The same ache, the same quiet kind of awe.

The kind of wonder a man feels when he realises he’s been given the one thing he never dared to ask for.

You shifted in your sleep, barely a breath of movement, but your hand remained curled tight in his shirt, right over his heart.

A reflex, even now. And Bucky let his vibranium fingers trace along your spine, the weight of them light, slow, gentle. Careful not to wake you. He wanted to hold onto this moment just a little longer.

That’s when he thought about the ring.

The one you’d pretended not to look at in the window of that little shop in town last week, red velvet box, delicate curve of diamonds catching the light.

You’d been with Yelena and Bob, arms full of coffee cups and teasing each other about something John had said.

But as you passed the display, you slowed.

He’d noticed it. The way your gaze had lingered. The way your fingers shifted slightly on the cup, like you were reaching for something you wouldn’t admit to wanting. The way your smile curved at the corners, quiet and wistful, like a secret you didn’t plan on sharing.

He saw it and tucked it away.

And now, with you asleep in his arms, your heartbeat matching his, the sun painting gold into your skin, Alpine’s fur warming your legs and that familiar weight of your hand pressed into his chest—he made the decision he’d been dancing around for weeks.

He was going to buy it.

Because this—this lazy Sunday morning with your body draped over his, your love stitched into the silence—this was it.

This was forever.

The second time Bucky thought of proposing, the kitchen had smelled like toast and sunlight.

It was late morning when he found you in the kitchen, barefoot on cool tile, hips swaying to the distant echo of Taylor Swift playing from a speaker;

The track was barely audible—warbled through the walls, a little staticky at the edges, but you didn’t seem to care.

You moved with it anyway, letting the music carry you from one counter to the next like it had been written for this exact moment—lazy, sun-warmed, still wrapped in the quiet of sleep.

You were wearing his shirt—that old red henley he loved and you’d stolen without apology—sleeves pushed up to your elbows, the hem brushing mid-thigh and clinging in places where the steam from the kettle had warmed the air. 

Your hair was still mussed from sleep, strands curling at your temples, and one sock was scrunched halfway down your ankle like you’d forgotten to pull it all the way on.

You held a wooden spoon in one hand like a microphone, lips parted, eyes closed, your voice rising with the chorus as you spun in a loose, lazy circle in front of the stove.

You were completely at ease. Utterly unbothered. Just lost in the song and the morning and the rhythm of your own joy.

Sunlight streamed in through the half-open blinds, casting golden stripes across the floor and lighting you up like something out of a dream.

You looked like every warm Sunday morning he’d ever wanted, the kind of morning he didn’t believe he’d ever actually get.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, watching the way your feet padded across the tile, how your hips swayed, how you bobbed your head to the beat like no one was watching—because you didn’t think anyone was.

And maybe he should’ve said something—greeted you, teased you, but the words stayed lodged in his throat, caught somewhere behind the knot that had formed in his chest. Because there was something about you like this that undid him.

Completely.

You were radiant in a way he didn’t think you realised. The kind of radiant that came from joy—unfiltered, unguarded. The kind that wasn’t curated or calculated or polished for the world.

The kind of beauty that only existed in the in-between spaces—in the stretch of a yawn, in a wooden spoon masquerading as a microphone, in the way your laugh cracked when you hit the high notes wrong.

And god, he thought, watching the sway of your hips, the grin playing at your lips, this is home.

You.

You were home.

He thought about the way you’d slowly, gently introduced him to pop culture like it was your personal mission to drag him into the 21st century. 

The curated playlists you made, some with real titles and others labeled “Bucky’s Soft Bitch Era” just to get a rise out of him. The back-to-back movie nights where you made him swear, hand over heart, that he wouldn’t fall asleep during The Notebook.

He remembered the first time he said TokTok by accident and you’d nearly fallen off the couch laughing, giggling so hard you landed half in his lap. 

He’d rolled his eyes and muttered something about the whole app being made by “brain rot,” a term you taught him. but you’d refused to correct him, smirking every time he repeated it wrong.

You’d made it all so effortless. The joy.

He hadn’t known it was happening—not at first. Not until it was already too late to stop. Until you were part of everything. His mornings, his evenings, the space between missions, the quiet between nightmares. The laughter between breaths.

You hadn’t forced him to change.

You’d just given him something worth changing for.

He smiled to himself, one hand curling loosely around the coffee mug, now half-cold in his grip.

You were singing now, his shirt shifted with every movement, slipping just slightly off one shoulder. The sight of it—your bare skin against his worn cotton, the easy claim of it—made his stomach twist.

And maybe it was stupid.

Maybe it was too soon.

But the thought still rooted deep in his chest and bloomed like something inevitable.

I want to come home to this for the rest of my life.

He could see it, so vividly it ached. This kitchen, your voice, that damn wooden spoon. The rest of your lives written in sunlight and bad karaoke, laughter and bare feet on tile. He wanted to memorise this, frame it. Carve it into stone so it would never change, never fade.

Because at that moment, it wasn’t just love.

It belonged.

But he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

Because the moment felt too perfect, too suspended in its own little pocket of magic, like one wrong word might startle it, might shatter the stillness and send it fleeing out the window with the breeze.

So he let it be.

Let it unfold in golden quiet, you twirling in his shirt, bathed in sunlight, the world narrowed down to the music and the soft clatter of silverware in the drying rack, the steam rising from your forgotten tea on the counter.

And Bucky stood there, still and quiet and entirely undone, holding a lukewarm cup of coffee and the sharp, aching certainty that one day, maybe soon, maybe not, he was going to ask you.

The third time Bucky thought about proposing to you, you were laughing in the golden light, beer in hand, surrounded by people who loved you almost as much as he did.

The sky had started to turn.

That soft stretch between afternoon and evening where the sun melted into everything it touched, bathing the world in a low, amber haze. The backyard was warm with the glow of it—fairy lights strung lazily along the rails of the compound’s rooftop. 

Smoke curled up from the grill, rich and familiar, while laughter rippled across the patio like music. Somewhere in the corner, Bob’s speaker hummed with old rock music and the occasional burst of static.

It didn’t matter. Nobody seemed to mind.

You were laughing again.

That soft, breathless kind of laughter that tugged at the corners of Bucky’s mouth every damn time he heard it. Like some part of him lit up in response—quiet and instinctive, like your joy flipped a switch inside him that nothing else could.

He stood just outside the patio doors, a paper plate in hand—barely touched—but his eyes were on you. 

Only you.

You were perched on the arm of John’s chair, elbow resting on his shoulder like it was second nature, beer bottle tilted carelessly in your hand. John was mid-sentence, half-defending himself from whatever teasing you were throwing at him, and you were clearly winning. 

Your smile was crooked, mischievous. Familiar. The same one you always wore when you knew you were about to land a joke that would ruin someone’s ego for the rest of the week.

“You’re just mad because I’m funnier than you,” you said, clinking your bottle against his in mock sympathy, your tone soaked in smug satisfaction.

John groaned dramatically. “Please. I’m hilarious.”

Yelena snorted from the grill without even looking up. “You are a tragedy.”

Bob raised his hand like he was in a courtroom. “She’s not wrong.”

“You people have no taste,” John muttered, but there was no real bite behind it.

“You overcooked the burgers,” Bob added casually.

“Exactly,” Yelena chimed in, jabbing a fork in his direction with finality. “He’s lost all credibility.”

Over by the cooler, Alexei was deep in what could only be described as a passionate retelling of something that definitely hadn’t happened—this time about his red guardian days and a hand-to-paw brawl with some Siberian bear. 

He waved his arms dramatically, chest puffed out, his voice rising with each sentence like a man delivering a one-man play. 

Ava had tuned him out completely, scrolling through her phone with surgical focus and only humming in vague acknowledgment whenever he shouted the word “bear” a little too loud.

It was chaotic, the kind of mess Bucky never would’ve imagined himself a part of—let alone something he could belong to.

But he wasn’t listening to any of it.

His eyes were on you.

The way you leaned into the warmth of the moment, head tilted back in laughter, eyes crinkling at the edges like sun lines. The way you had this unspoken ease with the people around you—even the ones who hadn’t always been easy to love. 

You fit into the team not like glue, but gravity—like you kept everyone tethered without even meaning to.

He shifted, let his free hand drift toward the pocket of his jeans. His fingers brushed the small velvet box tucked there.

He remembered the aftermath of what happened in New York, it had been brutal.

For everyone. But especially for John.

No one really knew what to say to him. No one quite knew how to reach him, not after it came out that Olivia had left. That the wife and baby he said was waiting back home had already left months before.

He was splintered.

You hadn’t flinched. You hadn’t hesitated.

You’d found John on the compound steps the night he returned, still bloodied and shaking, the seams of his restraint barely holding—and sat beside him.

No grand entrance. No fuss. Just a quiet presence. You didn’t offer him pity or force conversation. You didn’t tell him it would be okay, you didn’t lie.

You had reached over and took his hand.

Held it, steady and solid—while the others kept their distance. It was simply, completely unremarkable on the surface.

But it worked. Somehow. Quietly. Without demand.

And Bucky had watched it unfold, breath lodged somewhere behind his ribs. Because that was the thing about you. You never tried to fix anyone, but somehow, you still managed to help them heal.

You were everyone’s lighthouse in the dark, even the ones who pretended they didn’t need one.

Especially them.

It was only a week later when the compound had gone still when Bucky had found himself at the dining table, elbows braced, shoulders tight, knuckles white around the edge of a ceramic mug he wasn’t drinking from. 

He sat there for a long time, unmoving, eyes fixed on nothing, haunted by something he couldn’t name. The image of what he saw in the void still crawled under his skin—loud in the quiet, vivid behind his eyes.

He hadn’t noticed you until you spoke.

You padded in barefoot, still warm from sleep, wrapped in his shirt that hung off one shoulder. Your hair was tangled, voice soft and low like you hadn’t used it yet that day.

You didn’t ask what was wrong. You didn’t need to.

You just pulled out the chair beside him, sat down, and reached for his hand. No preamble. No questions. Just your fingers curling gently around his.

“I’m here, James,” you whispered, voice so quiet he barely caught it. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

And that—that was all it took.

He hadn’t said anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight as the tears came fast and quiet and unexpected.

Your grip never loosened.

And then Bucky blinked, too, like waking from a dream.

The memory dissolved around the edges, softening into the golden blur of now. 

You were still laughing with John, chin resting on your hand, your bottle now empty and forgotten.

The sky behind you had turned a dusky pink, streaked with orange and fading blue. The fairy lights blinked overhead like slow, lazy fireflies.

Bucky swallowed hard, throat thick, heart heavy with something he didn’t quite know how to hold. Something fragile and infinite.

The ring burned in his pocket.

Yelena sidled up beside him, two plates balanced in one hand, her eyes trailing the line of his gaze before she leaned in just enough to bump her shoulder against his.

“She’s good for you,” she said simply, like it was fact, like it had always been obvious.

He blinked, pulled his eyes from you long enough to glance at her. She was right.

“I know,” he said softly, mostly to himself, his fingers brushing the velvet box again, like the shape of it grounded him.

Soon.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he just stood there in the glow of fairy lights and fading sunlight, and let himself love you in silence.

The fourth time Bucky thought of proposing to you was during that one particular movie night.

The rec room buzzed, the lights were dimmed, shadows stretched across the walls in flickering shapes, and someone had dragged in extra bean bags and pillows from the training room—turning the entire floor into a makeshift nest of mismatched blankets and old couch cushions. 

The screen glowed in the dark, casting soft blues and golds onto lazy limbs and half-finished bowls of popcorn.

You were curled beside Bucky on the couch, shoulder pressed into his side, legs tangled loosely beneath a shared blanket.

One of your socks had slipped off sometime during the first act. He didn’t even know when. He just knew your toes were cold when they nudged against his shin—and he hadn’t moved away.

He didn’t think he ever could.

The room smelled like buttered popcorn and worn fabric, like sleep and safety and leftover takeout from the kitchen. 

Ava was stretched out across two bean bags with Alpine curled on her stomach. Bob had his head tipped back, already snoring softly, while Yelena and Alexei were still arguing in hushed voices about who cried harder during The Lion King.

It was quiet in a way that only felt possible when you were all together. The kind of quiet that wasn’t empty—just easy.

You shifted slightly, your fingers brushing over Bucky’s hand beneath the blanket. And then, without thinking, you began to trace the ridges of his knuckles. Absentminded. Familiar. Like muscle memory. 

Like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had.

It was your comfort habit. Your way of grounding yourself when the day had been too long or your eyes were growing heavy. 

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t even look up.

Your breathing slowed and your head dropped against his chest.

Bucky watched you as your eyelids fluttered, your face softening in sleep, lips parting slightly with each slow breath. Your lashes twitched like you were dreaming already—and god, you looked peaceful. Completely undone by comfort and warmth.

You drooled a little. Right there on his chest.

And he chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head like it didn’t knock the breath out of him. Like it didn’t make his heart twist with something so fierce and tender he couldn’t look away.

Because this—this stupid little moment, your drool soaking into his shirt and your body heavy against his side—this was it.

This was love.

This was the kind of night that carved itself into your bones without even asking.

The movie ended in the background—soft fade-to-black and swelling music—but Bucky didn’t move. People started shifting. Groaning. Standing. 

Bob staggered to his feet, mumbling something about a sugar crash. Alexei wandered off in search of leftovers.

Even Yelena, who usually never missed a chance to call Bucky a “domestic menace,” didn’t say anything this time. She just shot him a look, eyes soft for once, and tugged Bob toward the hallway by the sleeve.

Eventually, the room emptied.

But he stayed right where he was.

Blanket pooled over both your legs. Your body curled into his. One of your hands still loosely wrapped around his.

And Bucky leaned his head back against the couch, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I want every night like this,” he murmured, barely above a whisper.

It wasn’t even a thought—just something that slipped out, something too true to hold in.

He looked down at you again, the words still blooming on his tongue, soft and certain.

He nearly asked.

Right then.

Nearly reached into his pocket for the ring that had never left his side since he’d bought it. Nearly tilted your chin up, brushed your hair out of your face, and told you he never wanted to do this life without you.

But then—

You snored.

Not loud. Not obnoxious.

Just enough to break the spell.

And Bucky laughed under his breath, the kind of laugh that cracked his chest open a little. He dipped his head, pressed a slow kiss to your forehead, and breathed in the soft scent of your shampoo, your skin, the safety of you asleep against him.

“Soon, baby,” he whispered, lips against your temple. “I’ll ask you soon.”

And in that quiet, golden stillness, as the credits rolled and your breathing evened out again, Bucky knew he could wait.

Just a little longer.

The fifth time Bucky thought of proposing to you, it was in a hospital ward.

Sokovia had been burning.

The sky was thick with smoke and dust, buildings gutted by fire and shrapnel, streets vibrating beneath their feet as another explosion rocked the earth in the distance.

The air was chaos—civilians screaming, radios crackling, the stench of blood sharp against the tang of ash and diesel.

And through it all, Bucky could still hear your voice in his ear—calm, clear, steady, a tether in the madness as you moved beside him.

“There’s two trapped in the north alley,” you’d said, breathless from the sprint, dirt streaked across your cheek. “I’ve got them Buck, go cover the evac point.”

He should’ve listened.

God, he should’ve listened.

But you were always the brave one. The reckless one when it counted. The one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant pulling someone else out. And before he could stop you, before he could argue, it was already happening.

The shot came out of nowhere—a single, clean crack that split the world in half.

Then motion.

You.

Slamming into him with a force that knocked the air from his lungs — all instinct and desperation. The bullet was meant for him, but it found you instead.

The sound it made when it hit you would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Not a scream. Not even a gasp.

Just a sickening, solid thud, and the look in your eyes, just for a second, before your legs buckled and you collapsed into him like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Bucky caught you before your knees hit the ground.

He hit his knees with you, arms tightening, hands already pressing hard against your chest, where blood was blooming fast. Too fast.

The warmth of it soaked his fingers, thick and terrifying, spilling between them like time slipping away.

His breath stuttered. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking—both of them slick and red—no line anymore between man and machine, just one desperate body trying to hold another together.

“Nonononono—baby, stay with me,” he begged, voice cracking. “Look at me. Come on, just look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered.

Barely.

You were gasping, breath catching on every inhale, body struggling against gravity and pain—but still, somehow, you found his hand. Still curled your blood-slicked fingers into his like it mattered. Like he mattered.

And then—the whisper.

Barely a breath.

“It’s okay, James.”

You tried to smile. You tried. Even as your chest heaved, even as your face paled. You were still trying to make him feel better. Even then.

And then your eyes slipped closed.

Your hand went slack in his.

“No—” His voice broke. “No, baby, please. Please—stay with me. Stay.”

He screamed for help, hell he shouted it until his throat tore open.

It wasn’t words anymore. It was a sound. Something raw and helpless, a sound he hadn’t made in years—maybe ever. The comms burst to life in his ear, voices overlapping—Alexei calling coordinates, Ava yelling his name, John barking into his comm and Yelena screaming at Bob to send a medic to your position.

But Bucky heard none of it.

Just the ringing. Just the static in his head. Just the crushing silence of your body going still in his arms.

Blood on his hands, blood on his knees, blood on your lips.

And you weren’t moving.

The hallway outside the operating room was too clean. Too bright and way too quiet.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly, and Bucky sat slouched against the wall, the chill of the tile seeping through his suit as he clutched a cup of coffee gone long cold. It had stopped steaming ages ago, untouched, forgotten. He didn’t even remember someone giving it to him.

His front was still damp. His knees stained, his fingers raw from scrubbing your blood off in the sink—not all of it had come out.

Yelena sat nearby, arms folded, her head bowed in a silence she never wore. Bob paced. John stood against the far wall with his arms crossed tight over his chest, unmoving. Nobody had spoken in what felt like hours.

Then the door opened.

And Bucky was on his feet before the surgeon even stepped fully into the hallway.

“She made it.”

Three words.

Three impossible, world-shifting words.

Bucky didn’t remember moving, he didn’t remember dropping the cup or pushing past the doctor or the sound of someone calling after him.

He only remembered one thing:

Your name. In his mouth, in his heart. Like prayer.

You had looked so small in the bed.

The hospital sheets were too white against your skin, the steady beep of the monitors barely loud enough to be real.

Your chest rose and fell beneath the thin blanket, each breath shallow but steady. Your face was pale, lashes resting against your cheeks, an IV threaded into the back of your hand.

But you were breathing. Alive.

Bucky stood at your bedside, his hands hovering before he let himself reach—let his fingers wrap gently around yours, careful not to jostle the wires and tubes. He brought your hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to your knuckles like you were made of glass.

Only then did he let himself breathe.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, voice cracked and hoarse. “God, I thought—”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t shape the rest of the words around the tremble in his throat. His eyes stung, vision blurring.

He sat down slowly, legs folding under him, and leaned in until his forehead rested against yours.

And there, in the soft hum of hospital machines and the scent of antiseptic and blood and you, he whispered:

“I can’t lose you.”

And in that moment, Bucky knew with more certainty than he’d ever known anything that he didn’t want a life unless it was with you in it. That love wasn’t a question anymore. 

It was you. It had always been you.

The day Bucky proposed to you, it didn’t go as he had hoped.

The plan had been simple.

Well… sort of.

Bucky had spent most of the afternoon in the kitchen with Alpine circling his feet and panic setting in somewhere between how hard can it be? and why is this bread still doughy on the inside?

He had bribed Bob and Yelena with a full month of coffee runs to get you out of the compound—bought himself a few uninterrupted hours. Just enough time to pull together something romantic. 

A quiet night with a dinner he made just for the both of you. Something that felt normal—something that felt like home.

You deserved that.

You deserved wine, and music, and a man who tried.

And god, was he trying.

He’d even worn the apron you got him last Christmas—Kiss the Cook (or Else)—tied it on with absolutely no protest, even though he had grumbled when he found it.

The fabric was too pink, the font was too aggressive. You had giggled when you gave it to him and well, he had never actually worn it.

Until today.

It was stupid. It was stupidly perfect.

And then everything went sideways.

The sauce burned—thick and bitter and clingy, turning the pan black and smoky before he could scrape it off."The bread didn’t rise right—not the first, second, or even the third time. Each loaf slumped in the center like it had given up halfway through baking.

Bucky had followed the recipe twice. Nothing worked. The wine bottle tipped when he reached too fast for a spoon. It spilled across the counter, down the cabinet, pooled under the fruit bowl. Then he dropped a fork into the pan of sauce, tried to fish it out and burned his hand. Swore loudly enough that Alpine hissed and darted under the kitchen table like he had somehow betrayed her on a spiritual level.

The smoke alarm nearly went off.

He hit it with a dish towel and muttered threats at it.

It was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster.

And that was before he heard the front door creak open.

His whole body froze.

He turned slowly, eyes wide, just as your footsteps reached the edge of the hall—too light to be Bob, too quiet to be Yelena. He knew your walk by now. The soft padding of your soles. The way you always slowed down when your hands were full. The way the silence always shifted when you entered a room.

And his stomach sank.

You were home. Too early.

The clock on the oven blinked at him uselessly, and he barely had time to wipe his hands on the apron when you walked into the kitchen.

You stopped short.

Still holding your coat, still glowing faintly from the wind outside and the laughter that hadn’t quite left your face.

And then you saw it.

The smoke, the scorched pan, the puddle of wine dripping a slow trail toward the floor. The half-risen bread like a sad little crater on the counter.

And in the middle of it all—Bucky. In the pink apron. Covered in flour and tomato splatter, clutching a wooden spoon like it might just attack him.

You blinked.

“Was this all for me?”

Bucky looked like a deer caught in a trap.

Or maybe more like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar—big and awkward and helpless, covered in guilt and powdered sugar.

“I—” He swallowed. “I realised I haven’t taken you out on a real date.”

He shifted, the wooden spoon still in his hand like he didn’t know what to do with it anymore.

“I just… I wanted to make tonight special.”

Your lips twitched.

The kitchen smelled like defeat and oregano. The oven was beeping at nothing. Smoke hung faintly in the air like an accusation. And still, your heart cracked wide open.

You stepped toward him—slowly, gently—and rose onto your toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

“It’s okay, Buck,” you murmured, lips brushing the curve of his jaw. “I’ve got leftover cereal.”

Your tone was teasing, warm, affectionate in the way only you could be. Forgiving. Soft. Home.

You turned, half-laughing, reaching for the cupboard above the microwave, the one that always held your comfort stash. Granola and that one sugar cereal you swore was for cheat days and ate every Sunday anyway.

You reached for the handle.

And Bucky’s heart stuttered.

He watched your hand move in slow motion, watched as your fingers curl around the cupboard door, the hinge creaking faintly.

His stomach dropped.

“Baby, wait—no—”

But it was too late.

You opened the door. Your fingers paused.

And there it was.

Tucked behind a half-finished bag of granola and an emergency box of toaster waffles sat a small red velvet box. Not fancy or flashy, but unmistakable. The kind that didn’t belong next to cereal.

The kind that meant something. The kind that meant everything.

You didn’t move.

Just stared.

And across the room, Bucky stood frozen, apron crooked, hair still damp from the steam, sauce on his cheek, and absolutely no words left in his mouth.

“I was gonna ask later,” he muttered, voice low, thick with something heavy. “There was a whole thing. Music. Dessert. A ring not hidden behind cereal.”

He sighed, shoulders sagging.

“I ruined it.”

You didn’t say anything at first.

You just looked at him—really looked at him. At the mess behind him. At the pink apron barely clinging to its dignity. At the way he stood there like he still expected the floor to swallow him whole.

And your eyes welled up.

Your smile tugged softly at the corners of your mouth, cracking you wide open like a sunrise.

“Yes,” you said.

Bucky blinked. “But… you didn’t even open it.”

You closed the cupboard gently and turned to face him. A breath caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh as you stepped forward.

“I don’t have to.”

And that was it.

That was all it took.

Bucky crossed the kitchen in three slow steps, reached for your face with both hands like you were made of something precious—fragile and entirely his.

He kissed you like he was carving the moment into memory. Like nothing else existed but the space between your lips and his heart.

Then, wordlessly, he lifted you onto the counter, settling between your legs, hands braced on your thighs like they were the only anchor he needed.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking. “You have no idea.”

You laughed, watery and real, arms wrapping around his neck as you pulled him closer.

“I do,” you whispered. “Me too.”

The kitchen was still a disaster.

The bread was half-baked. The wine was staining the grout. The sauce had scorched itself into the pan so deeply it might never come out.

But none of it mattered.

Because this—this—was perfect.

And it always would be.

a/n: i hope you enjoyed it!! if you did, please leave a comment or a reblog! thank you my love 💖

[ilovolderman]

Dinner Interrogation

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: Sam hosts a dinner to uncover the truth about you and Bucky’s relationship.

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, lasagna, lie detector abuse

A/N: this can be read as a standalone even though it's part of a series called "You Said What". it doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8. thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

Sam Wilson was finished pretending.

Tonight, he was pulling out all the stops: Dinner. But not just dinner. A full-on sting operation with lasagna and lightly weaponized appetizers.

This wasn’t just a meal. This was war. Operation: Love Actually (But They're Lying).

"Casual, not suspicious" was the theme. He wore a turtleneck for authority. And the guest list? Handpicked for psychological pressure:

You (suspect #1)

Bucky  (suspect #2)

Sam (the host, investigator, and emotional wreck)

Natasha (because she lives for drama)

Tony Stark (for tech backup and snark)

Steve Rogers (for “dad energy” and moral guilt leverage)

And Peter Parker, who thought he was just invited for lasagna and board games.

The living room was dimly lit. The table was set. The lasagna was pre-ordered. And in the center of it all, hidden beneath an innocuous decorative centerpiece? A portable StarkTech lie detection device.

Sam checked it one more time. Still green. Still calibrated. Still ready to catch romantic criminals.

You arrived first. Oversized hoodie. Sleepy smile. Suspiciously content.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "That hoodie is two inches too long in the sleeves. EXHIBIT J."

Bucky arrived a few minutes later. Entered through the kitchen like this was a sitcom. Casual. Too casual.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Staggered entry,” he whispered to himself. “Classic deflection tactic.”

Steve gave Sam a look. “This is a friendly dinner, right?”

Sam didn't blink. “Oh, it’s friendly… to the truth.”

Dinner began.

You sat across from each other. Just far enough to look innocent. Close enough to smile at each other when no one was looking. Too choreographed. Too coordinated.

The lasagna was passed around like a peace offering. Peter asked three times if it had walnuts. (It didn’t. He still didn’t trust it.)

Then Sam stood.

“Game time,” he said with a smile that had war crimes energy. “We’re doing a little truth circle. Like spin-the-bottle but without the bottle. Or the fun. Or the spinning.”

Tony groaned. “Oh great, here comes summer camp counselor Sam.”

Steve frowned. “Is this really necessary?”

Natasha was already pouring herself wine. “Shhh. This is better than HBO.”

Beneath the table, the lie detector pulsed.

Sam began.

“Alright. Easy question. Bucky—ever been in love?”

Bucky gave a slow shrug. “Once or twice.”

Green.

 “Recently?” Sam pressed.

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Define recently.”

“Within the last six months.”

Bucky just smirked. “Hard to say. Time’s a social construct.”

Still green.

Peter blinked. “This feels intense for lasagna night.”

Tony sipped his drink. “You have no idea.”

Sam clenched his jaw. “Right. Fine. You,” he pointed at you. “Same question.”

You looked positively angelic. “What, if I’ve been in love?”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely.”

Green.

“Recently?”

You tilted your head. “In a cosmic sense?”

“IN THE LAST SIX MONTHS.”

You smiled. “Possibly.”

Green.

“Can i go next?” Peter asked

Sam ignored him. “Okay. Next question. Ever kissed someone who lives in this building?”

You and Bucky shared a brief glance.

Then, in perfect sync: “No comment.”

Green.

Sam nearly flipped the table. “WHY IS ‘NO COMMENT’ STILL GREEN?!”

Natasha actually laughed into her wine glass. “It’s calibrated to detect lies,” she said, sipping wine. “Not cheeky evasion.”

“Then they are hiding something!” Sam barked, pointing at you “That proves it!”

Bucky leaned back, arms crossed. “Proves we’re smart. Not guilty.”

You bit your lip to hide a smile.

Sam rounded the table. He pointed to your hoodie. “That is HIS hoodie.”

You raised your brows. “Is it?”

Bucky shrugged. “All hoodies look the same.”

Natasha muttered, “Lies. That’s his ‘Wednesday hoodie.’ I’ve seen him fold it.”

Sam snapped his fingers. “HA! COLLATERAL CONFIRMATION.”

You smiled serenely. “Or maybe we just do laundry on the same day.”

Peter whispered to Steve, “This is better than that time Vision tried to cook.”

Sam glared. “Alright. Final question. And I want both of you to answer. Clearly. Slowly. With eye contact.”

He paused for effect.

“Are. You. Dating.”

You both paused.

Then turned to each other.

Then to Sam.

And in the exact same deadpan voice: “No.”

Green.

Sam stared at the device. Then at you. Then at the ceiling. Then back at the device.

“I’ve been betrayed by science.”

Bucky leaned forward. “You okay, man?”

“No!” Sam snapped. “I’m living in a romantic Truman Show and none of you are helping!”

Tony patted his back. “Want some wine?”

“I want answers!”

From under the table, the lie detector shorted out with a sad little pop. Probably from emotional overload.

Peter leaned over to Natasha. “Do you think I could fake-date someone for this kind of dramatic energy?”

Natasha didn’t even look up. “You’d crack in three hours.”

You stood and stretched. “Well, this was enlightening. Thanks for dinner, Sam.”

Sam stood, pointing dramatically. “This isn’t over! You hear me? You can lie to the machine. But you can’t lie to me forever!”

Bucky stood too. “Wanna bet?”

You both started walking toward the door.

Sam pointed wildly. “They’re leaving at the same time!”

Peter: “So?”

Sam: “They didn’t come together!”

Natasha: “Neither did your sanity.”

The door closed behind you.

Sam collapsed into his chair.

Five steps out the door. You both broke. Laughter exploded between you like a popped balloon.

Bucky slung his arm over your shoulders as you leaned into him, giggling helplessly.

“That—” you wheezed, “—was actually cruel.”

He grinned, crooked and smug. “He’s going to short-circuit in his sleep.”

You gave him a sideways look. “The lie detector literally did.”

“Friday probably auto-filed it under 'emotional casualties.’”

You both collapsed into laughter again, and after a moment, he held out his hand with that familiar spark in his eyes.

“C’mon. Lets go to our spot.”

He led you up onto the building’s roof. The door creaked open and the city met you with open arms — the soft hum of traffic below, the wind gentle in your hair, and a sky stretched out like a quiet secret. The rooftop was empty, peaceful. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to you and no one else.

Bucky pulled off his hoodie and draped it over your shoulders without a word. You didn’t even protest, just slid your arms into the sleeves and hugged it close.

It smelled like him. Warm. Safe. You sat down against the low wall at the edge, legs stretched in front of you, and he sat beside you, one arm around your shoulders like it had every right to be there.

Silence settled between you again.  but the good kind. The kind that felt earned. Easy.

“I’m perfect,” you said after a while, answering the question he hadn’t yet asked.

Bucky turned his head toward you, a little surprised.

“I just… I don’t love pretending around them,” you admitted, looking out at the skyline. “I mean, I know we’re not lying. Not really. But… it kind of feels like we are. Like we’re sneaking out after curfew.”

He was quiet for a second. Then: “We don’t have to pretend forever.”

“I know.” You leaned your head on his shoulder. “But it’s also kind of fun.”

 “Very fun,” he agreed. “Especially when you get that smug look.”

You blinked up at him. “What smug look?”

He grinned. “That one. The one that says ‘we made out in the stairwell and Sam has no idea.’”

You groaned, laughing into his shoulder. “We are going to be the reason he needs therapy.”

“Worth it.”

Bucky leaned down and kissed your forehead. Then your nose. Then finally your lips—soft and lingering, like you had all the time in the world. His hand cupped your cheek as your fingers tangled in the hem of his shirt. When he pulled back, you stayed close.

“Think they’ll ever figure it out?” you whispered.

He looked at you like you were his whole world. “I kind of hope not.”

You laughed softly and leaned against him, your hand finding his, your fingers slipping into the spaces like they belonged there. Above you, stars peeked through the clouds, and below, the city buzzed on like it didn’t know your little secret.

From far below, through a cracked window, Sam’s voice echoed faintly into the night:

“FRIDAY, CROSS-REFERENCE EVERY PHOTO OF THEM FROM THE PAST YEAR. I WANT BLINK RATES. I WANT STANCE ANALYSIS. I WANT SHADOWS CHECKED FOR HAND-HOLDING.”

You leaned your head against Bucky’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “We’re safe.”

Back inside, Sam stood triumphantly at the whiteboard he had forcibly dragged into the living room, the wheels squeaking on the hardwood floor as if the entire house was questioning his sanity.

Natasha leaned lazily against the wall, wine glass in hand, her expression somewhere between bemused and concerned.

Peter and Steve were seated at the dining table, playing Scrabble — although Peter had already exhausted every single letter in his limited vocabulary to spell out variations of “Stucky.” (He was still trying to get “Stucky” onto the board despite Steve pretended not to know what it meant.)

Meanwhile, Tony, as usual, was on the couch, projecting photos into the air with what could only be described as a mix of disappointment and genuine curiosity. He flipped through a series of images with the skill of someone who had spent years perfecting the art of snooping.

"Okay," Tony said, clicking through the photos on his holographic display like a man on a mission. "Three feet apart in May. 1.7 feet apart in July. September? Clearly sharing one churro. No context. But I’m sure that was more than a snack.”

Sam scowled at the screen, scribbling furiously on the whiteboard like he was composing the next great espionage novel. “Okay, okay,” he muttered to himself, pulling down a string of yarn across various photos of you and Bucky, as if it was going to somehow solve the mystery. "I need a new plan. A better plan.”

Tony glanced over at him, the kind of look only someone who knew Sam for way too long could pull off. “What’s your next move? Secretly record their Netflix history and analyze their most-watched shows for clues?”

Sam paused for a moment, considering it. Then he snapped his fingers. “...Actually, that could work.”

Natasha slowly lowered her glass, an expression of disbelief dawning on her face. “Sam. You’re kidding, right?”

Sam stood back, “Get ready,” he said ominously. “This will work. I will finally know the truth.”

Natasha looked at the others with a half-smile, then back at Sam. “You’ve officially lost it.”

Tony nodded sagely, popping a piece of popcorn in his mouth. “I feel like we should all start taking bets on whether Sam will completely implode by the end of this.”

Sam, grinning maniacally, “Let’s just see who cracks first.”

next part

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[seumyo]

KENJI SATO ✰ 10:43

“Working overtime really doesn’t suit you, Sato.” The teasing sentence made Kenji grunt in disapproval, slumping against his couch.

“Wow, I didn’t notice. Thank you for that valuable input, [Name],” he says, rolling his eyes at you. 

He can’t help the sarcastic reply. Kenji’s schedule was all over the place. His life has been all over the place ever since his return to his home country, Japan. And now he not only has to take care of himself—which, in his defense, was fairly simple when he just had to worry about himself—he has to worry about an infant Kaiju!

What a wonderful (not) icing on the cake.

“Ken is really appreciative that you made time to fulfill his request, or, shall I say, cry for help, [Name].” Mina’s familiar voice flurried from a distance, closing in to your right in a breeze. 

“Hey! It was not a cry for help—it’s more like a... Asking a friend for a favor,” Kenji says, trying to ease his brain with what’s coming out of his mouth (like it was on autopilot, scrambling to defend himself and the pride he had left).

“Uh huh. And the favor is? I don’t really think there’s anything I could do to her containment unit or any repairs that’re needed in this place.”

“I just need someone to watch over her.”

(“I just need someone to talk to” is a much fitting phrase.)

“Doesn’t Mina already do that?”

“There’s only so much a supercomputer like me can do to entertain a living being, [Name].”

On cue, Emi croons at the video of you singing on stage. A part time career of yours, because when you’re not developing new tech that boosts the economy, you might as well indulge in your hobbies. 

Kenji wouldn’t admit it, but he has a vinyl or two—or even a whole collection of them—that he considers as priceless as his one-of-a-kind sports car displayed in the basement.

“Would you look at that? She likes your singing.” 

He watches as you take a step closer to Emi, observing how she delightedly squealed at the soft melody being played on the holograms. This 20-foot-tall baby Kaiju reminded you of the time you took care of children at the daycare center.

“I just...” he sighs. You didn’t even notice that Kenji was already beside you, offering you a canned drink. 

“How do you do it? Juggle everything?” He murmurs. “You’re the busiest person I know. Working on your thesis, performing at various concerts, taking on charity work, and whatnot. Hell, if you could run for president, I’m sure I’ll be seeing you in the elections, too.”

A quiet laugh was returned. “It’s not easy, that’s for sure. But within time, you’ll learn just what you need and what you can handle.”

“Mm. Don’t you ever just want to run away from all the responsibilities people place on your shoulders? I can barely take care of this young lady,” he chuckles, though it doesn’t hold even the slightest ounce of humor to it.

“I wish, but then I’ll remember the kids who're so happy to see me whenever I drop by,” you say. “They may be a handful at times, but you’ll be surprised to know just how smart and caring they are. How they take in their surroundings and attempt to figure out who they are. We’re all what they have. The least we could do is give them our time and love all the same.”

Kenji lets your words sink in. Simple and touching. The kind that gets the gears in his head to start twisting.

“You really are a charm with your words; did you know that?”  

“Thanks; I try my best.”

The night continues with Kenji and Emi playing baseball on a simulated field with you by the shed, cheering on from a safe distance. Kenji doesn’t remember the last time he’s been this genuinely happy after his return to Japan. It’s a refreshing feeling that he wants to get used to again. To see the baby Kaiju successfully hit the ball with a swift swing after watching after him is a sight that tugs at one’s heartstrings.

Just like a proud father.

“Come on, girl! We gotta run the bases!”

And as the two celebrate their moment of triumph, the baby Kaiju stomps toward you and giggles happily as she hoists you in the air without much warning. You took it all in you not to shriek and absolutely lose all composure, but when you’re up in the air and are being held to a bear hug like some sort of teddy bear by a Kaiju that could probably crush your bones if not careful, it’s hard to not just scream for your life.

“Oh, ok—ok. Baby, put me down gently, please,” you chuckle nervously. 

“It appears that the little one sees you as her other mother,” Mina adds.

Kenji laughs at the sight, pulling out his phone to take a picture. This is definitely a memory he’d want to remember.

“This is not funny, Kenji. Tell her to put me down.”

“Aw, is Baby not listening to her Mommy?”

“Again, not funny. This is like an out-of-the-blue co-parenting a child with you. With you being my annoying ex-husband.”

“Specific, eh?”

“Shut!”

When you’re just about to leave for the night, Kenji suggests that you sleep over. There’s a lot of spare bedrooms in their manor, he reasons. He also doesn’t understand what came over him to offer, but he doesn’t take it back.

But it could be because he’s missed you. And he’s somewhat afraid that this may be the last time you see each other in a while due to your clashing schedules.

“You’re such a girl dad, Kenji,” you tease.

“Haha, good one,” he says, rolling his eyes at you. He took a couple of blankets from the closet and placed them on the bed.

“Just saying.”

“Whatever you say, Mommy.”

“Oh hush, Daddy.”

That ringed out a laugh from him. “Bleh, that sounds so embarrassing coming from you.”

You shrugged. “Hm? Don’t you think you’re embarrassing too?”

“I’m not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too. I will not be going back and forth like this with you anymore, Kenji Sato. Good night!”

Kenji can’t hide the smile that appears on his face. Yeah, he definitely missed this. 

Definitely missed you.

SEUMYO © 2024. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[lubdubology]

okay, hear me out--Logan falling in love with a pregnant woman.

He doesn't mean too, of course. Pregnancy, babies--never really his thing. But you moved into the apartment (one floor down, two doors over, but he definitely wasn't paying attention) and when he first met you, he was smoking a cigar and he didn't miss the way your nose crinkled at the scent. Before he could make a snide comment, your face paled and you vomited at his feet.

Logan stopped smoking after that, but he swore up and down it wasn't for you. (It was).

He took you to one of your prenatal appointments. Your car wouldn't start and you were running behind. Logan offered to drive you and when you got there, you asked him to stay. How could he refuse a pregnant woman? When the ultrasound tech spun the screen so you could see the baby (that was a baby? Looked like a giant gummy bear), you unconsciously grabbed for his hand. He didn't mind.

Your growing belly threw off your center of gravity. After watching you struggle to tote your laundry down the stairs, he huffed and grabbed your basket, casually stacking atop his own. Somehow, his laundry day always coincided with yours from then on.

When he felt the baby kick, he couldn't stop the smile that threatened to split his face. Logan kissed you for the first time that night.

He knew he shouldn't have let Wade help with the baby shower. Giant, metallic gold penis shaped balloons floated around the apartment. The drinks had penis shaped straws. "What? If it's a boy, this is expertly themed." You found it strangely endearing. It took all of Logan's power not to sink his claws into Wade's chest.

Logan helped build the crib while you sat across from him on the floor, directions balanced on your swollen stomach. You were irritable, uncomfortable from the two little feet constantly pressing into your ribs. You kept critiquing him, telling him he was doing it wrong. He finished with a scowl before helping you up off the floor. You pressed a kiss to his cheek and his irritation instantly bled away.

You thought he was more frantic than you were when labor started. Logan adamantly denied this. But every noise, every beep of the machines set his teeth on edge. You squeezed his hand through every contraction. He became your crutch when the epidural was placed, your head bowed low against his chest. He let you curse him out as you pushed and he didn't correct the doctor when he said, "Congratulations, mom and dad! It's a girl!"

In a universe far, far from his own, you gave him something he didn't think he'd ever get again. A family.

The brainrot for this is so real.

[natsaffection]

Redline 5.2 | N.R

Older!Motorsportboss!Natasha x Younger!RacingDriver!Reader

Warnings: arguing, illegal street race, mention of blood, accident, feelings

Word count: 10,8k

A/N: I’m sorry if it feels rushed, I really didn’t want to make a part 3, or my inbox might actually explode 😅 So… good luck getting through it!

Part 1

The sun hung directly overhead, white-hot and unforgiving, but you barely felt the heat. Your race suit clung to your body, the zip pulled down just far enough to breathe, the Romanoff Racing crest on your chest dark with sweat. A champagne bottle hung loosely from your fingers. You stood on the second step of the podium.

Second.

Not because you weren’t fast enough. Not because you made a mistake. Because you gave it up.

On your right, Willow stood high above, flushed cheeks, dazed eyes, a grin so wide it seemed like her whole body might shatter from the force of it. She bounced slightly on her heels like the adrenaline hadn’t let go yet. Trophy in hand. Camera flashes sparkling around her like a constellation she didn’t know how to navigate.

The announcer was calling your names. Applause. Cheering. Distant horns and drums from the fan zone. And you were smiling, too. But it wasn’t joy. It was reflex. A veteran’s mask.

You turned your head just enough to look at Willow. You weren’t angry.. Not anymore. Somewhere between the call and the checkered flag, the fury had given way to something quieter. Resignation, maybe. Or peace.

This had been the right choice. You accepted that. Willow didn’t need to be punished for being proud. For being good. For finishing first on a day when everyone said she couldn’t.

And Natasha..God, Natasha had done what a team principal was supposed to do. She had protected both cars. She had protected Willow.

It had just hurt anyway.

The paddock was a blur of people and sound and color. Speakers pumping low bass. Crew laughing, embracing, holding up glasses of something bubbly and golden. Champagne dripped from the floor to the walls in some corners.

Willow stood at the center of it all, wrapped in a towel, her race suit unzipped, hair pulled back in a damp braid, a Romanoff-branded champagne bottle cradled in one arm like a baby.

Her smile hadn’t faded once. She made the rounds, techs, PR, mechanics, thanking every single one of them. They cheered when she passed. Someone handed her a mic for a quick sponsor vid. Her voice cracked a little when she spoke.

Meanwhile, you had slipped in through the side door of the garage. You peeled off your gloves slowly, one finger at a time, listening to the distant chaos but not part of it. No one saw you come in. You preferred it that way.

You walked past the engine bench. Past the tire wall. Past the monitors still looping your lap times. You had driven like a god today. And not a single camera had stayed on you after lap 34.

You reached for a bottle of water on the edge of the pit bench. There were still unopened champagne bottles on the table nearby, leftovers from the stash PR had dropped off earlier.

Natasha stood near them, speaking with one of the tire engineers. Her posture was relaxed now. The tension that had lined her face all morning had bled away.

You watched as she handed a bottle to Willow, no theatrics, no applause. Just a quiet nod. You didn’t want one. That’s not what hurt. It was that the moment didn’t include you. Not in the way it used to. Not in the way you were used to being seen. You turned away before Natasha noticed you watching..

The silence in the car was thick in the back seat, so thick you could choke on it. You sat behind Natasha, legs drawn up slightly, your body curled near the window, earphones in again. Hood pulled low. Eyes locked on your phone screen.

Natasha drove, one hand loose on the wheel, the other drumming her fingers softly against the steering column. She didn’t speak.

Willow sat up front, still bright-eyed, still breathless. Her phone was out, flipping between photos of the podium, voice memos of her initial race reactions, media alerts already pinging in from Formula 1 socials.

“God..” she said, laughing softly. “It’s already everywhere.”

Natasha glanced at her. “You’ll get used to-”

You closed your eyes behind your sunglasses. You turned up the music. Louder. Drowning them out. It didn’t work tho, and you opened your news app.

“The Rise of Romanoff’s Rookie”

“A New Star in F1: Willow Petrov’s Victory in Her First Grand Prix”

“Has L/N Lost Her Edge?”

You kept scrolling.

“Tensions Behind the Podium? Sources Say Team Orders May Have Cost L/n the Win”

“Petrov Shines, L/n Fades, Changing of the Guard at Romanoff Racing?”

Your thumb paused. The articles weren’t cruel. But they were full of words like transition, evolution, legacy. The kind of words they use when they’re already writing your ending.

You felt a slow, sick twist in your stomach. Not rage. Not even jealousy. Just that old ache. The one that told you, you might be slipping. That maybe..despite everything, you weren’t what Natasha needed anymore.

Natasha glanced in the rearview mirror. Your face was unreadable. Still. The kind of stillness that didn’t mean peace. The kind that meant you were leaving your body to avoid the pain.

Natasha’s fingers froze for a second on the steering wheel. And for the first time all day, Natasha’s stomach dropped.

——

The afterparty had fizzled hours ago. There were no more cameras, no more journalists lurking in the lobby with subtle microphones, no mechanics slapping backs and shouting over music. Just the low hum of city life below and the warm flicker of golden light spilling from the hotel’s open windows.

You sat on the balcony of the team lounge, legs up on the railing, hoodie draped over you, a glass of something untouched in your hand. The night air was cooler now, but the wind didn’t bite. You didn’t want company. But you weren’t surprised when the glass door slid open behind you.

“Hey..” Willow said softly, hovering near the edge of the doorway. “Can I..?”

You nodded, not looking at her. “Sure.”

Willow stepped out slowly, dressed down in a loose sweatshirt and compression leggings, her hair still slightly damp from a shower. She walked over and lowered herself into the chair beside you, tucking her knees up and wrapping her arms around them.

They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet stretching gently between you like something neither of you wanted to break.

“I, um…” Willow started, then stopped. Tried again. “I wanted to say thank you.”

You glanced over at her, one brow raised. “For what?”

“For…” Willow hesitated. “Letting me win. I mean, I know it was team orders, and Natasha said it was for safety, but, I know what that cost you. I do.”

You looked back out at the skyline. The city pulsed in quiet waves, lights blinking, a train moving in the distance. “It wasn’t mine to keep.”

“That’s not true..” Willow said. “You could’ve ignored her. People do. You could’ve stayed in front, taken it. No one would’ve blamed you.”

You let out a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “She would’ve.”

Willow didn’t answer.

“But she made the right call.” you added after a beat. “Your car could’ve failed. Wolfe was closing. We would’ve lost both podiums. It was smart. Strategic.”

“And it still sucked..” Willow said quietly.

Your jaw flexed. You stared down into the glass in your hand.

“I just don’t want to mess this up..” Willow continued. “Not the driving. Not the team. Not with you. I look up to you. I studied you.”

You turned toward her fully then. Your eyes were tired, but not unkind. “You’re not messing anything up, Willow.” you said. “You’re good. You’re…better than I expected.”

Willow blinked, caught off guard. “That sounded like a compliment and a threat at the same time.”

You finally smiled. “Maybe it was.”

You shared a laugh, small, real. Willow tilted her head. “Do you miss when it was just you?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your eyes went distant. “Sometimes.” you admitted. “But not because of you. It’s not about competition. It’s about…knowing where I stand. When I came here, I had nothing. Just pain, and wreckage, and Natasha. And now I have this…empire I helped build. I just don’t always know if there’s still a throne.”

Willow’s voice softened. “There is. I’m not here to take it.”

“I know.” you said. “But what if I’m the one stepping down without meaning to?”

The silence that followed was heavy, but not sharp. Just true. Willow reached for her water and took a slow sip, then looked back at you.

“Can I ask you something?”

You glanced sideways. “Sure.”

“Would you ever do it again? Step aside?”

You stared at her, long and hard. “No.” you said simply.

Willow nodded. “Good.”

They sat there until the wind picked up. Until the city below dimmed into the hush of midnight. Until the comfort between them didn’t feel like forgiveness or surrender, just a moment of quiet before the world started spinning again.

Most of the team had cleared out to prep media duties. Willow left too to bed. The door opened behind you again, slow and deliberate. Natasha’s footsteps were soft, but the silence was louder.

Natasha crossed the room and sat at the edge of the couch. Close, but not touching. A beat passed.

“This whole ‘silent exile’ routine is…?”

“I’m just tired.”

“You always get tired when Willow wins?”

You snapped your head toward her, eyes narrowing. “You think this is funny?”

Natasha held your gaze, serious, but not cruel. There was something behind it. Not mockery, no judgment. Just…surprise. Like she still didn’t get how the hell you even got here.

“I think it’s kind of unbelievable..” Natasha said. “That you still don’t see what I see.”

You crossed your arms. “Which is?”

Natasha leaned forward now, resting her elbows on her knees. Her voice dropped, calm but firm.

“That girl out there is twenty. She gets excited about free t-shirts. She still calls me Ms. Romanoff by accident.”

You stayed quiet. Natasha’s tone softened. “She’s young, and loud, and yes..good. But she’s not you.”

Your eyes flicked away. “Why do you think that would ever matter to me?” Natasha asked.

You swallowed. “Because maybe she’s easier.”

Natasha blinked, genuinely caught off guard. “What?”

You kept your arms crossed. Tight now. “She doesn’t question you. Doesn’t push back. Doesn’t come with history or trauma or baggage. She just drives and smiles and says thank you.”

“Jesus..Y/n..” Natasha muttered.

You shook your head. “You think I don’t notice how you light up around her?”

“Because she reminds me of you when you started.” Natasha said, suddenly. “Not because I want to replace you.”

You stilled. Natasha leaned back, arms now resting on the couch, looking at you, not angry, but wide open.

“I didn’t fall in love with a clean slate.” she said. “I fell in love with you. The stubbornness. The fire. The goddamn walls you put up so high I had to crash through them to reach you.”

You looked at her now, eyes tight. “So why does it feel like you look at her the same way you used to look at me?”

Natasha laughed, short and breathless. “Because you don’t let me look at you like that anymore.”

That hit hard..

“I try.” Natasha said, voice lower now. “But you flinch. You pull away. You act like you’ve already lost me.”

You looked down. Your voice cracked. “Because I’m scared I have.”

Natasha moved then, finally closer. Her hand rested against your knee, firm and grounding. “You haven’t. she said. “And if I ever made you think for a second that you did, then I fucked up.”

Your lip trembled. Natasha cupped your cheek now, gentle but sure. “You are the one I come home to. Not because you’re easy. Because you’re you.”

Your hands finally moved up, into Natasha’s hoodie, gripping at the fabric like it was the only thing keeping you from unraveling.

“I hate that I think like this..” you whispered. “I hate that I care so much what you think of her.”

“I love that you care.” Natasha said. “But don’t let it eat you. You don’t need to prove anything to me. You already did. A long time ago.”

You looked at her. “So you’re not leaving me for the excited twenty-year-old with a Spotify playlist full of anime intros?”

Natasha smirked. “Not unless you start quoting Fast & Furious again.”

“I said one thing-”

“You quoted family, baby.”

You both laughed, finally, something light. Something real. And Natasha pulled you close.

“I don’t want easier.” she murmured into your hair. “I want you.”

You lay curled on your side on the couch, wrapped in a blanket Natasha had found tucked behind the utility cabinet. Your breathing had evened out, but you weren’t asleep.

You hadn’t let go yet. Your fingers still held onto the edge of Natasha’s hoodie like an anchor. Natasha sat beside you, back against the couch wall, legs stretched out. The dim light from the hallway bled under the door, painting long stripes across the floor.

She watched you. Not to study, just to be near. No pressure. No expectations. Just the gravity of being together, after nearly tearing apart.

After a few minutes, you spoke. Barely above a whisper. “You can go. I’m okay now.”

Natasha didn’t move. “I mean it.” you added. “You must be exhausted.”

“I am.” Natasha said softly. “So I’m staying.”

You smiled faintly into the blanket. “That’s not how sleep works.”

“It is tonight.” You turned just enough to glance up at her. Natasha met your eyes and reached forward, brushing her fingers lightly over your cheek, tucking back a stray hair that had fallen over your temple.

“You’ve had the weight of everything on you for weeks.” she said. “Let me carry some of it.”

You looked down. “I didn’t know how to ask.”

“You didn’t have to.”

A beat passed. Then, with a tired voice, raw but no longer tense, you whispered, “Will you lay down with me?”

Natasha didn’t answer. She just stood quietly, kicked off her shoes, and slid behind you on the couch, pulling the blanket over both of you. She wrapped her arms around your waist and pressed her forehead to the back of your neck.

You melted into her like you’d been waiting all this time to just stop holding yourself up. And Natasha just held you. Breathing in sync. Heartbeats slow.

Your fingers found Natasha’s and tangled them together beneath the blanket.

“Thank you..”you murmured. “For coming back to me.”

Natasha pressed a soft kiss into your shoulder. “I never left.”

Another breath. A hum of comfort. Then silence again, but the kind that felt safe now..Warm.

Your eyes finally drifted closed. And Natasha stayed awake just a little longer, just to make sure you stayed asleep. Because for tonight, there was nothing left to prove.

Two days later, the sun was just beginning to dip. Most of the team had cleared out, techs heading to dinner, PR disappearing to prep media briefings, the garage growing quieter by the minute.

You stood near the back loading dock, arms folded, watching the sky change colors through a gap in the tarped service tent. Your hair was still damp from the post-sim shower, race suit unzipped, a pair of sunglasses hanging loose from your hand.

You checked your watch again. Then checked your messages. Nothing.

A soft breath escaped your lips. Not angry. Not surprised..Not anymore. Natasha had pulled you aside after debrief this morning. Quick, quiet, the way you always were when keeping things private.

“Dinner tonight?” she asked, resting a gentle hand on your back. “Just us. No phones. No PR. I made a reservation, something small.”

You raised a brow. “You made a reservation?”

Natasha smirked. “I know how. Occasionally.”

Your mouth twitched. “You sure you’re not trying to butter me up before you throw another team order at me?”

Natasha leaned in, close enough to press her lips lightly to your jaw. “I’m trying to remind you I’m yours. That’s it.” It was the first time in days you let yourself hope.

The restaurant was fifteen minutes from the paddock. Natasha had already changed, black trousers, blazer over a dark silk top, simple and sharp, understated but still a statement. She was five minutes from leaving. And then the knock came.

“Boss?”

It was the lead performance engineer. His face was tight. Serious. “We need you.”

Natasha’s stomach twisted. “What is it?”

“The gearbox data wasn’t just a race-day anomaly. There’s more. A degradation pattern, unlike anything we’ve seen. We think it started during pre-season testing and no one caught it. Willow’s car may not be safe for the next race unless we recalibrate the entire load offset manually.”

Natasha blinked. “Can’t Luis run the analysis?”

“We’re already over the legal margin for virtual modeling. This is about the human call now. Strategy. If it fails in practice, she could spin out at 240 kilometers per hour.”

She looked at the clock. 6:43.

Then at her bag. Then back to the data pad in his hands. Her jaw tightened. “Fine. Pull the schematics. I want a full paper trace. Get me the torque curves.“ She didn’t think. She acted.

You stood outside, arms wrapped around yourself. You were dressed simply, black pants, boots, a cropped jacket Natasha once told you made you look dangerous in the best way.

Your phone buzzed in your hand.

“I’m sorry. Garage emergency. Gearbox issue. I have to be here. I’ll explain everything later, okay?”

You stared at the message for a long time. Then opened the app and canceled the ride. You didn’t go back upstairs. You just started walking.

10:21 PM

Natasha’s eyes burned as she flipped through the fifth sheet of manual trace mapping. Her sleeves were rolled up, blazer discarded, hair tied back hastily. Grease stained one wrist. Her phone lay beside her, dark and still.

Willow sat two meters away, looking miserable and exhausted, clearly worried not just about her car, but about Natasha’s expression.

“You don’t have to stay..” Willow said. “The others can keep going. I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s not about meaning to.” Natasha said, voice low. “It’s about fixing the problem before it’s bigger.”

Somewhere inside, something was twisting. Because she knew. She knew this wasn’t just another missed evening. This one mattered. And she hadn’t been where she promised to be.

11:34 PM

You lay on the far side of the bed, one arm under the pillow, phone still unlocked on the nightstand, the message from Natasha opened but unanswered.

You weren’t angry. Not yet. But you felt it again, that creeping thing under your skin. The slow, familiar ache of realizing that even when someone loves you, they can still leave you standing alone.

And the worst part? You understood why. That was the part that made it harder to forgive. You got up. Didn’t bother dressing properly. Just slipped on a hoodie, track pants, sneakers with no socks. Tied your hair back loosely and left without turning on the lights.

The gym was dark. Motion-sensitive. The fluorescent panels flickered awake as you stepped in. You hit the treadmill but didn’t start it. Just stood there.

Until the stillness became too loud again. So you moved. First to the weights. Then pull-ups. Then quick body circuits until your arms burned and your heartbeat finally drowned out your thoughts.

Sweat dripped down your back. Your breathing came faster. It helped, but it didn’t fix anything.

And still..no message from Natasha. No knock at the door. Not even a check-in.

When your water bottle ran dry, you grabbed it and wandered toward the garage. Not for any reason. Not to see anything. Just habit. Just to move.

You didn’t expect anyone to be there. But as you turned the last hallway into the service bay- You saw them.

Natasha and Willow.

Still in team gear.

Still awake.

Still working.

They were crouched beside the car. Natasha’s sleeves rolled up. Hands dirty, grease on her forearm. A panel open on Willow’s rear suspension. Manuals laid out on a low bench.

Willow was watching closely. Nodding. Then she reached, she picked up a wrench. And Natasha turned to her. Your stomach dropped. She said something. Her voice was soft. Almost smiling. Willow gave a quiet nod.

You turned and walked out. You didn’t hear and saw the rest. You slammed the door harder than you meant to. The silence that followed was deafening. You stood in the middle of the suite, trembling, not from exhaustion, not from rage. Just from the sick, sudden weight of enough.

You wiped your forehead with the sleeve of your hoodie. Sweat and tears mixed somewhere near your eyes, but you refused to let either fall. You dropped the empty water bottle onto the floor. And stood there. Staring at the wall. Every thread that had been fraying these past days finally snapped in silence. And you were done pretending you didn’t feel it.

10 min earlier

The undercarriage schematic was spread out across the workbench, half-covered in coffee rings and fast-food wrappers from the overnight shift. Natasha was halfway through rechecking torque measurements when she realized how late it was.

She rubbed at her temple with the back of her wrist, exhaling long and slow. Willow stood nearby, watching her, curious, unsure.

Natasha appreciated her interest. Really, she did. But this..this par, was sacred. She never let anyone touch her car during recalibration. Not you. Not engineers. Not even herself without silence.

And so, when Willow quietly reached for a wrench, likely just wanting to help, Natasha paused.

“You don’t have to do that.” she said.

Willow blinked, immediately withdrawing. “Oh- sorry. I wasn’t trying to-“

“I know.” Natasha said. “It’s not about you. It’s just…this is the part I do alone.”

Willow nodded quickly, stepping back with both hands raised. “Understood. Sorry. I’ll go get some rest.”

Natasha nodded without looking up. “Goodnight.”

And just like that, Willow left. Natasha exhaled again. Sat back against the stool. Rolled her sore shoulder. It wasn’t until she looked at her phone, battery nearly dead, screen lit with the last text she sent to you three hours ago, that she felt it.

The hallway was quiet. Carpet soft underfoot. The whole floor wrapped in the kind of stillness reserved for dead-of-night regrets and things you can’t unsay.

The door opened, and Natasha stepped inside. She was exhausted. Her jaw ached from tension. Her back was tight from hours hunched over schematics. She was about to call out for you when she saw you:

Standing and waiting by the window. Arms folded. Hoodie on. Face red and wet and burning with something that was not sadness anymore.

It was fury. Natasha froze mid-step. “I’m so sorr-”

“You were working with her.”

Your voice was low. Controlled in a way that sounded dangerous. Natasha blinked. “What?”

“I saw you.” You took a step forward. “In the garage. With her. Just the two of you. Just like always lately.”

Natasha’s brow furrowed. “I wasn’t- We weren’t doing anything. We were fixing her car-“

“You were laughing.”

That stopped Natasha cold. Your voice cracked. “She picked up a wrench. You smiled at her. And I just…watched.”

“Y/n..” Natasha said slowly, stepping closer, palms half-raised like she was approaching something fragile. “That’s not what you think.”

“You never let anyone touch that car..” you said, voice rising now. “Not even me. Not ever.”

“She didn’t help. I told her not to. She put it down.”

“I don’t care if she built the damn gearbox, Natasha. You let her get close.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“Then why does it feel like it?”

The room went still. Natasha’s lips parted slightly, caught off guard. Your hands were shaking now. “I waited for you. I got dressed. I showed up for that stupid dinner because..for once I thought maybe you saw what’s happening to me.”

“I do see you-”

“No!” you snapped. “You see what you want to see. You see the teammate. The PR-safe, obedient, team-first girl who steps aside when you tell her to. You see the ghost of who I used to be before she walked in and made it easier to manage everything without me.”

“Stop it.” Natasha said sharply.

“You promised me I wasn’t fading..” you said, voice dropping into something broken. “And now you barely look at me.”

“Jesus.” Natasha muttered, scrubbing a hand over her face. “Are we seriously doing this again?”

You stood up. “Yes, we are. Because I keep seeing it. And you keep brushing it off like I’m making it up.”

“I’m not brushing anything off.”

“You’re defending her more than you defend me.”

That was it. Natasha stepped forward, calm gone, heat rising. “You don’t get to stand there and accuse me of betrayal every time I do my job, Y/n.”

“It’s not just a job anymore! You treat her like she’s..like she’s the future of this team!”

“She is part of the future!”

“And what am I?” you barked. “The past?”

Natasha didn’t answer. The silence was loud. Too loud. Your voice cracked. “You could’ve chosen me tonight. But you didn’t. Again.”

“I was going to.” Natasha shot back. “But I also have a team to run. A team with a mechanical failure that could’ve killed a rookie if I ignored it.”

“She’s not your responsibility-”

“She is, Y/n! That’s the entire point of my job-”

“You used to make time for me anyway.”

Natasha’s eyes narrowed. Her voice dropped, dark and dangerous. “You never let me finish a single thought without interrupting.”

You froze. “What?”

“Every fight. Every conversation. Every attempt to explain myself, you cut me off. You decide the narrative, and God forbid I don’t fit inside it.”

“Because I’m tired of rehearsed answers-”

“I’m tired of repeating myself!” Natasha shouted.

“I waited for you. Dressed up. Told myself maybe you’d actually prove me wrong tonight, and you didn’t even notice.”

“I noticed!” Natasha roared. “I noticed every goddamn second! But I’m not just your girlfriend, I’m running a goddamn team!”

Your voice cracked as you screamed back: “I NEVER ASKED YOU TO CHOOSE!”

“Yes, you fucking did!” Natasha shouted, louder than she meant to. “Every fight, every sigh, every passive-aggressive look when I talk to her, I hear it! You want me to put you first every single second or I’m the enemy!”

You were crying now. Fists clenched. Arms shaking. “I’m trying to protect myself!”

“From me?!”

You shouted: “From feeling like I don’t matter to you anymore!”

“You’re the most important thing in my life!”

“You don’t act like it!”

“Because I’m TIRED, Y/n! I’m so fucking tired of trying to prove I love you in ways that you immediately rip apart!”

Tears spilled over your lashes, but your voice just got louder. “BECAUSE I’M SCARED I’M LOSING YOU AND YOU DON’T EVEN NOTICE!”

“I’m here every night, and all I do is get screamed at!”

“Then LEAVE!”

“Maybe I should’ve!”

You went still. So did Natasha. The air punched out of the room. Natasha immediately stepped forward. “I didn’t mean that-“

But your body folded in on itself. You grabbed your phone, your jacket, your bag with shaking hands.

“Where are you going?” Natasha whispered, her voice finally cracking.

You didn’t even look at her. “My old room.”

“Y/n”

You turned, eyes full of hurt so deep it didn’t even look like anger anymore. “You keep saying I don’t let you speak. Fine. Here’s your silence.”

Door closed, and then it was just Natasha. Alone. Breathing hard. Regret coiling through her chest like smoke. And all the things she’d finally said, were exactly the ones she never wanted to.

In your room, you couldn’t stop pacing. The light in the room was dim, just the glow of a desk lamp you hadn’t turned off. Your racing jacket hung over the chair like a memory. You moved back and forth across the small space, your fingers pulling at your sleeves, jaw tight, breathing shallow.

Every echo of the argument replayed in your head, louder, harsher, more cutting. Natasha’s voice. Your own. The way everything just blew up.

“Maybe I should’ve!”

The sentence throbbed in your skull. You ran a hand through your hair and sat on the bed, only to get back up seconds later. You couldn’t sleep. You couldn’t even sit still. So you grabbed your phone. Swiped the screen. Opened Instagram. Mindless scroll.

Until..A story.

One of the drivers you spoke to last week. A short video of a black car idling under neon lights, tires hot with burnout smoke. A laughing voice behind the camera. Someone shouting “Let’s see what the boys really got tonight!”

Your breath caught in your throat. In the background, under the glow of streetlamps, a car. Not a race car, a street-tuned

You stared at it. They’d invited you.. You hadn’t said yes, but the invitation had stayed in your mind like a devil in the corner. Your fingers moved before your brain could catch up, and you were out the door in five minutes.

Natasha lay on her back in the bed, staring at the ceiling. The sheets were tangled around her legs, too hot, too cold, too wrong. She’d tried to sleep. Tried to silence the echo of your voice, but guilt lived in her chest like a second heartbeat.

“I’m scared I’m losing you!”

Natasha blinked into the dark. Then she sat up fast. She couldn’t leave it like this. She swung her legs out of bed, pulled on a hoodie and soft pants, grabbed her phone..still dead, and slipped out of the room.

The hallway was too quiet. When she reached your old room, she knocked once.

No answer. Twice. Nothing.

Her gut twisted, so she opened the door, and froze. The light was still on. The sheets a little rumpled. A half-drunk water bottle on the desk. But no you.

No shoes. No phone charger. No jacket. Gone.

“Shit.”

Her heart dropped. Just then, a voice behind her.

“Hey, Natasha?”

Natasha turned, jaw clenched. “Not now.”

Willow held up her hands. “Sorry. I just…thought you’d want to see this.”

She held out her phone, Instagram open. A paused story. Natasha’s blood went cold. The frame showed a street-lit parking lot. A car lined up with two others. And in the corner, barely visible but unmistakable, you, leaning against a car.

Natasha snatched the phone from her. “When was this posted?”

“Two minutes ago..” Willow said, worry in her voice now. “They tagged the location.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She was already walking.

“Where are you—?”

“To go get her.”

Willow called after her: “Should I tell security?”

“NO!” Natasha barked. “You tell no one.”

She was doing 80 in a 50 zone. The GPS pinged the pin on the map, a tucked-away industrial lot just outside the city. She knew the type: unregistered circuits, drivers with too much ego, zero control, no helmets.

Her grip tightened on the wheel. “Fucking hell, Y/n…”

Her jaw was locked. One hand clenched the steering wheel so hard her knuckles went white, the other flicked the high beams on and off through the darkness like a warning.

She wasn’t just angry. She wasn’t just scared. She was furious that you would risk everything, your life, your career, the team, just to escape for one night.

But even deeper than the rage, she was terrified. Because if something happened to you out there…

She’d seen what street racing could do. Crushed frames. Fire scars. Bodies slumped under tarps while a crowd looked away.

You knew better. And yet… Her phone lay useless in the passenger seat, still on Willow’s screen, the frozen Instagram story of the street, the smoke, the blur of a backup car she recognized like muscle memory.

Her thoughts twisted tighter with every mile: What if you raced? What if they crashed? What if you’re not answering because-

She pressed harder on the gas. The moment she turned into the lot, her heart dropped. Blue lights. Two ambulances. A police car blocking the exit.

Smoke still hung low in the air, mixing with exhaust and the sting of hot metal. One of the cars was nothing but a crumpled shell, front end folded in like paper. The second had wrapped around a streetlight, its rear half nearly torn free.

And worse? Your car wasn’t visible. People were shouting. Flashlights swung across the crowd. Medics were hauling stretchers. Phones were recording.

Natasha stopped the car in the middle of the road. Didn’t park, didn’t shut the door. She just ran.

“Y/n?!”

No one turned. She shoved her way past someone filming. “MOVE!” Her voice cracked with a sharp edge no one questioned.

She scanned the faces, but they all looked the same: drunk, dazed, anonymous. And then, she saw the wreck up close. Blood on the side window. A glove hanging from the mirror. A long strand of hair tangled in a shattered door hinge.

Her knees almost gave out. Her voice broke entirely. “No, no, no…”

She grabbed a man by the vest. “Who was in that car? Tell me who was driving!”

He looked at her, wide-eyed. “I-I don’t know, I- two, one of them was yelling, the other-“

“Was it a woman?! Did you see a woman?!”

And then, behind her, “Natasha?”

She turned like she’d been shot. You were there. Standing near a metal railing just beyond the chaos, arms wrapped around yourself, jacket pulled tight. Your face pale, eyes wide. Your voice barely above a whisper.

Natasha froze. For one breath. Two. Then she moved- no, she sprinted. And when she reached you, she didn’t say a word, just threw her arms around you, gripping you like she wasn’t sure if you were real or not.

You stumbled into it, arms pinned, breath caught. “Nat-”

“You don’t do that to me!” Natasha shouted, pulling back just far enough to look at you, eyes wet, voice ragged. “You don’t disappear and bring me to this- THIS!”

You tried to answer, but Natasha wasn’t finished. Her voice cracked harder. “I saw the wreck. I thought it was you. I thought I was going to walk over and find your-“ Her voice cut off. “I thought you were in there. I thought I lost you.”

Your eyes glassed over. “I didn’t race..” you whispered. “I-I was going to. But I backed out.”

Natasha just looked at you. “You don’t get to scare me like that!”

“I’m sorry..” you whispered, so small, so hollow, like it barely escaped your throat.

Natasha reached up, hand cupping your cheek roughly. “No. You’re not. Not yet. Not until you understand what it felt like to see that wreck and not know. Not until you know how fast I was willing to lose everything just to get to you.”

You said nothing. You just leaned forward. And Natasha pulled you in again, not soft..but safe.

——

The road was quiet now. The flashing lights had disappeared behind them. The industrial lot was miles back. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the horizon was softening, that cold blue-gray of a day trying to start.

Inside the car, it was silent. You sat curled against the passenger-side door, legs pulled up, jacket zipped tight. You hadn’t said a word since they left. Just stared out the window, arms wrapped around yourself, your face unreadable.

Natasha gripped the wheel, knuckles tight, jaw clenched. The adrenaline was gone now, but the fear lingered. It pulsed under her skin like something sour. She could still feel the moment when she thought you were gone. When she saw that wreck and didn’t know.

She couldn’t shake it. They hadn’t spoken, not really. Not until you exhaled a shaky breath and broke the silence with the smallest voice:

“Can you pull over?”

Natasha glanced at you. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

That was it. Just no.

Natasha blinked, then nodded. She eased the car off the road and into a small dirt clearing. The gravel crunched beneath the tires as the car rolled to a stop.

The air was cold. You stepped around the front of the car, then just…stopped. Your back was to Natasha. You didn’t move for a long moment.

And then, your shoulders started shaking, and Natasha moved. She crossed the space between you and wrapped her arms around you from behind, pulling you in, holding you tight as you broke, really broke, the sobs silent at first, then raw and deep.

“I’m s-sorry..” you gasped. “I didn’t- I wasn’t thinking, I just- I needed everything to stop..!”

Natasha closed her eyes, holding you. Her chin rested on your shoulder. “You could’ve died.” she whispered, voice cracking. “And I wouldn’t have known until it was already too late.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t answer your phone. I saw the crash. I-” Natasha’s voice broke fully now. “I thought I was going to have to identify you.”

You turned in her arms. You looked like a wreck, hair wild, eyes red, face pale. But you were there.

“I didn’t race..” you said again. “But I almost did. I wanted to. I was two steps from getting in the car. And then they went ahead of me. And when they hit- I saw what would’ve happened. What could’ve happened.”

Natasha touched your cheek, gently this time. “And?”

“I felt sick. Like I’d swallowed all my anger and it turned to lead in my chest.”

You looked down. “I don’t deserve to be here with you.”

Natasha’s voice came quiet. “Don’t say that.”

“I scared you.”

“You did.”

“I scared myself.”

Natasha took your hand. “Then let’s just…sit for a bit, okay?” You sat for hours. The only time Natasha spoke again was just before they pulled into the driveway.

“If you want..” she said quietly, “I can cancel Willow’s contract.”

Your head turned slightly. Your brows furrowed.

“What?”

Natasha didn’t look at you. “If that’s what it takes for you to feel safe again. I’ll do it. No press. No drama. I’ll take the heat.”

You blinked. That offer hit hard, but not in the way Natasha expected. Because it wasn’t what you wanted. It never had been.

You swallowed, eyes back to the windshield. “I don’t want to talk about it tonight.”

Natasha finally turned her head. “Y/n-”

“Please.”

Your voice cracked, just slightly. “I just want to forget it for one night.”

Natasha exhaled. Nodded once. “Okay.”

You didn’t shower. Didn’t undress all the way. Just crawled beneath the covers, your back to Natasha’s chest, both of you fully clothed, like you were too tired to be anything but present. Natasha’s arm curled over your middle. Not pulling. Just being there. And you let it happen.

——

The curtains hadn’t been drawn, and soft sunlight warmed the edge of the bed. But that wasn’t what woke you. It was Natasha’s hand, moving in slow circles over your shoulder blade. Barely-there touches. Tracing the curve of old tension.

The sheets rustled. Natasha was already awake, and eyes open. You blinked, letting out a groggy sigh. Your voice was hoarse. “How long have you been doing that?”

Natasha smirked softly, voice still sleep-scratchy. “Long enough to know it still calms you down.”

Your lips twitched. “You trying to seduce me out of my trauma?”

“Maybe..” Natasha murmured. “Is it working?”

A soft hum escaped your throat, something between a sigh and a laugh. You rolled to face her, finally, and found Natasha’s eyes already waiting.

Then Natasha brushed her knuckles against your cheek. “It’s in the news.”

You didn’t flinch. “Figured.”

“We have a conference in three hours.”

You groaned and buried your face into the pillow. “Seduction cancelled.”

Natasha chuckled. “I’ll reschedule it. Post-conference. Post-disaster.”

You turned back toward her, eyes soft. “Thanks for not saying more last night.”

“I wanted to.” Natasha said honestly. “But it felt more important to just…stay.”

“You did.”

Your eyes met. There was a stretch of silence where neither of you moved, where the morning wrapped around you like a blanket heavier than the one on the bed.

Then you leaned forward, pressed your forehead to Natasha’s, and whispered, “I’ll talk. Just…not yet.”

Natasha nodded. “Okay.”

You stayed like that for a long time. The conference could wait. The news could wait. For now, there were only two people in a bed too big for the weight you’d both been carrying. And in the quiet, in the warmth, in the slow rhythm of being wrapped around each other, there was a peace that neither of you had known in weeks.

“Can we just stay here forever?” you mumbled. Natasha smiled, lips against your skin. “You give the press conference, I’ll fake our deaths.”

“Deal.”

Hours later, the mood in the debrief was cold, clipped, efficient. You sat stiff in the corner seat of the long debriefing table, shoulders squared like you could brace your way through the morning.

The mood in the debrief was cold, clipped, efficient. You sat stiff in the corner seat of the long debriefing table, shoulders squared like you could brace your way through the morning.

Natasha sat beside you, not across the table. Not near the monitors..Right next to you. The team was already assembled, Jared from PR, the strategy director, a few engineers, even Willow, seated opposite with her tablet tucked to her chest.

But Natasha hadn’t looked at anyone else since she walked in. Her chair was turned slightly toward you. One arm draped loosely over the back of your seat. She hadn’t said much, not yet, but she didn’t need to. Your hands stayed in your lap, twisting at the hem of your sleeve. Your voice hadn’t worked properly since you’d woken up.

“Let’s keep this clean.” Jared said. “The street race footage is circulating. No proof you raced, but public speculation is enough. We get ahead of it by framing it our way.”

Natasha’s jaw flexed. She didn’t speak. Jared kept going. “We’ll lean on team unity. Frustration under pressure. Personal responsibility. But we need empathy without opening you up to liability.”

You didn’t look up. Your eyes were on the edge of the table. Jared hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I’ve got talking points drafted. We’ll review together after. And for the joint interview-”

“Wait.” Natasha said suddenly, voice quiet but sharp. Her hand moved slowly, resting lightly on your knee under the table. Protective. Subtle. But there.

You froze. You hadn’t expected that. You didn’t know how much you needed it. Natasha didn’t look at the others. Only at you.

“She doesn’t need a script.” Natasha said. “She just needs space.”

Jared blinked. “We have to shape perception-”

“I’ll handle it.” Natasha interrupted. You turned your head, just slightly. And Natasha met your eyes. Held them. I’m not mad. I’m here. The message was silent, but loud enough to quiet the panic building behind your ribs.

You sat on the bench in the green room, holding a bottle of water you hadn’t opened. The questions would be brutal. The room would be hot. The world would be watching. You should’ve felt prepared. But your throat was tight.

“I’ll be next to you the whole time.” Natasha said, crouching in front of you. Her tone was softer than anyone else had heard it all week. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be honest.”

You looked down. “Honesty might get us dropped by two sponsors.”

“I don’t care about sponsors.” Natasha said. “I care about you.”

Your eyes burned, and then Willow stepped into the room. Quiet, hesitant. She didn’t say anything. Just gave you a look, not challenging. Not pitiful. Just… there.

You nodded once. It was the closest you’d come to a truce. Then you were called in. Three chairs. Three names. Three very different silences.

You sat with your hands folded on the table. Natasha to your right. Willow on the left. The first question came fast.

“You, last night’s footage paints a concerning picture. Were you involved in the race?”

You lifted your mic. Your voice came quiet but steady. “I was there. I didn’t race. But I shouldn’t have been there. It was a bad choice.”

Another reporter jumped in. “Do you feel like you’ve let down your team, especially the younger drivers?”

You exhaled slowly, but before you could answer- Willow leaned into her mic.

“No one in this room has the right to speak on what she’s carrying.”

Every head turned. Willow sat straight, eyes sharp.

“She’s not just a champion on the track, she’s the one who shows up first, who checks our setups, who stands behind us even when the world’s tearing her down. She’s not perfect. But none of us are. So if this team stands for anything, it’s for having each other’s backs.”

Silence. And then, almost imperceptibly- Your walls cracked. No one expected her to speak, least of all you. The next question came slower. Softer. About engine setups. Natasha took it.

But you barely heard it. Your eyes were still on Willow. She sat tall, hands in her lap, expression unreadable. Not proud. Not performative. Just… solid..loyal.

It hit you like a gut punch. I got her all wrong. You thought you’d been battling some threat. A rival. A replacement. But maybe- Maybe you’d been looking at the only person on this team who never judged you once.

The press was finally over. People scattered. Doors opened and closed. Noise began to fade. You ducked into a side hallway just off the main press room, needing a second to yourself. Your hands still buzzed, like the adrenaline hadn’t quite worn off. You leaned against the wall, eyes closed, trying to slow your breath.

Footsteps approached. You didn’t need to open your eyes to know it was Willow. But you didn’t move away. She stopped beside you, didn’t lean, didn’t fidget, didn’t speak.

Just stood there, and the silence stretched. “You didn’t had to do that.”

Willow shrugged. “Yeah, I did.”

You turned your head to look at her. Willow was staring at the opposite wall. Voice even, steady. “You were the first driver I ever watched. When I was fifteen, I clipped your post-race interview after the Monza win. Saved it to my phone.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

Willow smiled a little. “You didn’t smile in it. You just looked exhausted. And real. I remember thinking, ‘That’s what I want. That kind of focus.’”

You looked down.

“I didn’t come here to replace you.” Willow said quietly. “I came here because I wanted to learn from you.”

You didn’t know what to say. “I thought you hated me by now..” you admitted.

“I thought you didn’t see me at all.”

A pause. Then Willow’s voice dropped, honest and a little raw: “You ever feel like if you mess up once, it’s all gone? Like…the place you earned suddenly slips out from under you?”

You turned to fully face her. “Yeah.”

Willow finally looked at you. “It feels like that all the time.”

You studied her. Saw the sharpness behind her eyes, brave, ambitious, terrified. Just like you once were. You stepped a little closer. “You’re doing good, Willow.”

Willow blinked. It was the first time she’d heard you say her name without tension. You let out a breath. “If anyone gives you shit out there, media, paddock, team, tell them to come through me first.”

Willow’s lip curled into a slow smile. “That includes you, right?”

You smirked. “Especially me.”

You both laughed..light, breathy. For the first time, it felt easy. Not perfect..but safe.

Back at the track, you stood by the window, barefoot, a hoodie slouched off one shoulder, hair damp from a shower you took without even realizing it. Your body ached, not from driving, but from everything else.

Behind you, the door clicked, and Natasha entered. No words. Just the familiar sound of her keys, her quiet footsteps, the small thump of her jacket being laid over the chair.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. Natasha came up behind you slowly and wrapped her arms around your waist, resting her cheek against your shoulder.

The silence between you wasn’t heavy now. You closed your eyes. Let yourself lean back into it.

“Hey.” Natasha said softly. “About the interview.”

“She didn’t have to.”

“She meant it…She looks up to you.” Natasha continued. “And not just for the racing.”

“She doesn’t have to.” you said.

“But she does.”

Another pause. Then, you turned in Natasha’s arms and buried your face in her neck. Not crying, or breaking. Just holding on. “I was scared I wasn’t enough anymore.” you admitted. Your voice was so quiet it nearly disappeared.

Natasha pulled you in tighter. “You were never ‘enough’ to me because of what you did. You’re enough because of who you are.”

Your hands clutched the fabric of Natasha’s shirt. “I’m still figuring that out.”

“I’ll wait with you.” Natasha whispered. “As long as it takes.”

You nodded against her skin. You stood there for a long time. “I don’t want you to cancel her contract.”

Natasha paused. “You sure?”

You looked back over your shoulder. Willow was still in the hallway, arms crossed, now being roped into some joke by one of the engineers.

“She’s good. She’s herself. And that matters.”

A breath. “I want her here. Not just on the team. With us.”

Natasha didn’t say anything at first. Then she smiled. Something slow, relieved, proud. “She’s lucky.” she murmured. “To have someone like you on her side.”

You met her gaze. “She’s not the only one.”

Natasha leaned in, just enough to brush her hand along your wrist. It was a promise, and you..this time, believed it.

Three Months Later – Monaco GP Weekend – 2 Hours Before Quali

You leaned against the wall of the garage, helmet in hand, hair braided back tight, lips curved into a smirk. Across from you, Willow was pacing. Half-nervous, half-hyped. Her suit hung open at the top, gloves shoved into her back pocket. She turned suddenly and pointed at you.

“If I beat your sector time in turn nine, you’re buying drinks.”

You laughed. “If you beat my sector time in turn nine, I’ll name a cocktail after you.”

Willow grinned. “Deal.”

“Hey.” you added, tone lowering as you pushed off the wall. “You ready?”

Willow’s smile dimmed, replaced by something deeper. “Yeah. I think I am.”

You nodded, then reached out and bumped her shoulder gently, affectionate, solid. “Go make me proud, rookie.”

Willow rolled her eyes. “You literally call me that just to flex that I’m not a world champion.”

“You’ll get there.” you said, softer this time. “And when you do, I’ll still call you that.”

You both laughed. It was easy now. Natural. What once felt like pressure had turned into gravity, holding you together instead of pulling you apart.

“Willow’s been faster in the corners all weekend.” Natasha said, eyes on the map. “But your exit speed is giving her a gap on the straights. We’re debating who gets clean air for the second run.”

The room turned to you. You didn’t hesitate. “Give it to her.”

Everyone blinked. Natasha looked up. “You sure?”

You gave a small smile. “I’ve had the spotlight. Let the kid have a shot.”

Willow’s eyes widened. “Wait, are you being…nice to me?”

“I’ll deny it by dinner..” you said. Natasha’s eyes didn’t leave you. She was smiling, but her chest had tightened slightly. Not with worry, but with pride.

Willow had qualified P3. You, P4.

You were both happy..Genuinely happy. You raised your glass from across the table and yelled over the music, “TO THE ROOKIE!”

Everyone cheered. Willow pretended to bow, grinning like she couldn’t believe her own night. It made something in your chest soften. The kind of soft that used to make you ache. Now, it just felt good.

“You’re not just my teammate anymore, you know.”

Willow looked at you.

“You’re mine now.” you said. “Little sister I never asked for.”

Willow smiled wide, teeth showing. “I’ll take it.”

The party had quieted down. The city sparkled beneath you. Monaco felt like a dream in slow motion. You stepped outside, barefoot, hoodie over your race tee.

Natasha was already there, leaning against the railing, hair loose, a champagne glass resting beside her hand. You came up behind her and slid your arms around her waist, resting your head between her shoulder blades.

“You’re warm..” you mumbled.

“I’ve been standing in the same spot waiting for you to do exactly this.” Natasha replied.

You smiled into her back. “Guess I’m predictable now.”

“No.” Natasha said, turning to face you, eyes soft. “You’re just steady. And that’s everything.”

You stood like that for a moment. No tension, no fear.. Just love, real, grounded, still full of sparks, but quiet now. Like embers. Natasha tucked a hand against your jaw. “You’re not the girl I picked up after a crash anymore.”

“No?”

“You’re stronger. Calmer. Smarter.”

You smirked. “Still hotter, though.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Debatable.”

You laughed, and leaned in. The kiss was soft. Familiar. Slow. When you parted, you whispered, “You know I’d still choose you. Even if I wasn’t your driver.”

Natasha held your gaze. “I chose you long before you ever got in my car.”

The city glowed around you. The sound of the ocean below. The wind in your hair. Everything exactly where it belonged.

“You okay?” she asked.

You nodded. “I was thinking about where we started,” you said softly. “About how many times I thought I was going to lose all of this.”

Natasha didn’t flinch. “Me too.”

“And?”

She looked at you. “I didn’t. We didn’t.”

You leaned your head against her shoulder. “I don’t need to be the only star. I just didn’t want to burn out alone.”

“You never were.” Natasha whispered. “Not for one second.”

The city blinked quietly beneath you. And you stayed like that until the moon rose.

Together.

Still here.

Still holding on.

Still hers.

-

-

-

[alohajix]

𝐒𝐚𝐲 𝐌𝐲 𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞

Description: you're new on the tour’s sound crew—professional, focused, and definitely not interested in falling for Harry Styles. But Harry? He takes one look at you and decides you’re his new favorite game. He calls you “new girl,” taunts you during sound check, and won’t learn your name… until you snap. And when the tension finally breaks? It’s filthy, rough, and everything you didn’t know you needed. Turns out, Harry’s mouth isn’t just good at running—it’s good at ruining you, too.

Warnings: a enemies-to-lovers dynamic, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f. & m. receiving), vaginal sex, light choking, spanking, dirty talk, slight degradation & no protection sex. Readers + 18.

Words count: ~8K.

author’s note: this one-shot was written based on this request (because let’s be real… long hair harry lives rent-free in our minds 🖤). if there’s something specific you’d love to see—any trope, dynamic, or filthy little daydream—feel free to send a request over on my tumblr ✨i love creating stories that live in your head the way they live in mine ♡ thanks for your request love, i had so much fun writing it!

*****

I wasn’t the kind of girl who got starstruck. Not really. Sure, I’d listened to One Direction in high school, but I’d never screamed at concerts or plastered my bedroom walls with posters. I was the girl who worked her ass off behind the scenes—setting up mic packs, running cables, keeping things moving for people who got to be loud and adored and center-stage. So, when I landed a spot on the North American leg of the tour’s sound crew, I promised myself I’d stay cool.

Then Harry Styles walked in. Tall. Tattooed. Hair long and messy like he’d just rolled out of someone’s bed. He was wearing black skinny jeans, a loose tank top, and a pair of sunglasses indoors like the world belonged to him—and maybe it did. His grin was lazy. Dangerous. Our eyes met for half a second. And he smirked. Just a flicker, like he knew exactly who he was and what he did to people. And to be fair… my stomach did dip. A little.

But then he turned to one of the crew leads, clapped him on the back like they were old mates at a pub, and didn’t even glance back at me. The spell broke instantly.

“New girl, huh?” one of the older crew guys muttered beside me. “Watch yourself.”

I raised a brow. “Why?”

“Harry likes to play,” he said with a shrug. “Especially with new girls.” Right.

The first three days were fine—long, exhausting, chaotic in the way only a live show could be. I got my bearings fast and earned my keep even faster. But no matter how focused I stayed, Harry made it his mission to get under my skin. Not in big, dramatic ways. He was slicker than that.

“Hey, new girl,” he called across the stage at sound check one afternoon, lips curled like he was holding back a laugh. “That mic’s not going to plug itself in.”

I didn’t look at him. Didn’t even flinch. Just walked past him with a coiled XLR cable in my hand and said, “Try using your hands for once, Styles.” A few heads turned. A few smirks twitched.

Harry’s brows rose. And then he laughed. “Feisty. I like it.” Ugh.

From then on, I became new girl. Not [Y/N]. Not sound tech. Not even hey-you. Just new girl.

“You following me, new girl?”

“Think about me last night, new girl?”

“Bet you dreamed about calling me daddy, didn’t you, new girl?” He said that last one with a wink. I nearly threw a mic pack at his head.

The worst part? He was obnoxiously beautiful. Even when he was annoying. Especially when he was annoying. He had that effortless kind of presence, the kind that made people stop and watch without realizing they were doing it. And I hated that I noticed. Hated that I caught myself looking. That I could smell his cologne when he passed behind me. That his voice got stuck in my head even when he wasn’t singing. I didn’t want to want him. And he knew it. That was the game.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

One night, after a show in Phoenix, the crew was packing up, and I was elbow-deep in tangled cords when someone stepped up beside me.

“You always this good with your hands?” I didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

“Do you ever stop talking?”

“Do you ever stop pretending I don’t turn you on?”

I rolled my eyes and kept working. “You’re not as charming as you think, Styles.”

“No?” he asked, squatting next to me like we were teammates instead of enemies. “You sure? Thought I saw you staring at my ass during ‘Stockholm Syndrome.’”

“That was me trying to figure out how someone that annoying fits into pants that tight.” He laughed. Not fake, not smug—real. It threw me for a second.

Then he said, “You’re fun, new girl,” and stood up again. “Don’t fall in love with me.”

“Oh, trust me,” I muttered under my breath, “you’re safe.”

Later that night, I couldn’t sleep. The hotel room was too cold. My thoughts were too loud. I replayed every word, every smirk, every stupid moment where he got too close or said something that made heat crawl up my neck. He wasn’t flirting. He was taunting. Toying. Poking at me like a lion with a new chew toy. And I hated how much I was letting him.

Still… a very small, very annoying part of me wondered what it would take to wipe the smug look off his face. Would he break if someone pushed back harder? Or would he just get worse? I’d find out soon enough.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The fifth city in six days, and I was running on caffeine and spite. The crew was beat. Everyone was a little snappy, a little sleep-deprived. But I kept my head down, did my job, and ignored the fact that Harry Styles had apparently made me his favorite new toy. He kept finding excuses to be in my space.

“New girl, that’s not how we coil cables,” he said one night with a mock-frown, arms folded as he watched me clean up after sound check.

I didn’t look up. “Then come show me how it’s done.”

He crouched beside me, slow and theatrical, and whispered, “Careful, sweetheart. You keep inviting me to show you things, I might start thinking you mean it.” I didn’t flinch. Didn’t give him the satisfaction.

“I’d rather chew glass.”

He chuckled, stood back up, and strolled off like he’d won the exchange anyway.

The boiling point came the next afternoon. It was a full venue rehearsal day, and the tech team had finally gotten Harry’s new in-ear monitors working after two days of complaints. I’d personally rewired part of the feed myself. It worked. It was flawless. Until he stepped on stage, tested the mic, then tilted his head with a frown.

“I don’t know,” he called out. “Something sounds off.” My stomach twisted. No way. No fucking way. One of the senior techs asked what the issue was. Harry shrugged dramatically. “Not sure. Maybe she set it up wrong.”

She. Me. I could feel the heat crawling up my neck. Everyone looked at me, then back at him. And that bastard? He was smirking. Something inside me snapped. I walked straight out onto the stage, every step sharp and steady, until I was standing right in front of him.

“What exactly sounds off?” I asked, tight-lipped.

He blinked, almost amused. “Not sure. Just feels… wrong.”

“You mean the perfectly calibrated audio feed I spent two hours fixing?”

He tilted his head. “Must’ve missed a wire, new girl.” And there it was again. New girl. Dismissive. Condescending.

The edge in my voice cut clean: “Do you actually have a problem with the sound, or are you just pissed I haven’t begged to suck your dick yet?” Dead silence. One of the other bandmates let out a low whistle.

Harry’s brows shot up—and for once, he didn’t have a comeback. He just stared at me. Mouth parted. Eyes wide. Shocked. Then slowly… so slowly… that damn smirk crept back in. He licked his lips, let out a laugh, and leaned in close enough for only me to hear.

“I’d pay good money to hear you say that again.”

I stepped back, fuming. “Then you better get your ears checked. Because your sound’s perfect. And you’re still a fucking headache.”

I turned and walked off stage without waiting for permission.

I didn’t see him for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe someone told him to back off. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe, deep down, I hoped he was stewing in it—tasting what it felt like to be called out in front of everyone, to be challenged. But that was the thing about Harry Styles. He didn’t back off. He doubled down.

It was late when I went back to the equipment room. Most of the crew had already cleared out, but I wanted to do a final check on the in-ear setup. The hallway was dark. Quiet. I was crouched behind the table, sorting cables, when I heard the door open. Then it closed. Then a click. I froze. And I knew before I even looked.

“Could’ve just told me you wanted attention,” Harry murmured, voice low and smooth as velvet.

I stood up slowly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He leaned against the wall, arms folded, all calm confidence. “You know, for someone who claims they can’t stand me,” he said, “you sure talk about my dick a lot.”

“Maybe because it’s the only part of you that doesn’t talk back.”

He laughed again—deep, rough. “God, you’re good at this.”

I stared him down. “What the hell do you want?”

He stepped forward. Not close. Not yet. But closer. “You were right,” he said, quieter now. “Sound was fine. I just wanted to see if I could get a rise out of you.”

“You always have to win, don’t you?”

“Not trying to win.” His eyes dropped to my mouth. “Just want to know what happens when you stop pretending you don’t want this.” A beat of silence passed between us. Hot. Tight.

Then I said it. Low. Dangerous. “Say my name.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I’m not ‘new girl.’” My voice didn’t shake. “You want to fuck around with me, Styles? Say my name first.”

For the first time, he didn’t smirk. His mouth parted. His eyes darkened.

“[Y/N],” he said, almost reverent. I swallowed hard.

“Good,” I whispered. Then he took a step closer. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

The way he looked at me said it all—like I’d flipped a switch in him, like the cocky, smirking mask had slipped and something darker had crawled out from underneath. Hunger. Need. Control. He moved toward me slowly, like he was giving me time to stop it. To run. I didn’t.

He stopped just inches away. “You’re still mad at me.”

“Yes,” I breathed.

“You still hate me.”

“Absolutely.”

He reached out, fingers brushing my waist, light but firm. “Then why are you shaking?”

I hadn’t noticed. But I was. Because I wanted this. And it terrified me how much.

“I told you to say my name,” I whispered, still trying to hold some control.

He leaned in, lips grazing my ear. “I did.” Then he kissed me. Not soft. Not sweet. Nothing tentative.

It was rough and desperate and full of weeks’ worth of tension shoved into one messy collision. His hand cupped the back of my neck, tugging me into him, and my fingers gripped his shirt like I couldn’t help it. Maybe I couldn’t. He tasted like heat and adrenaline. His lips moved with purpose, tongue slick against mine, taking instead of asking. When I gasped, he groaned into my mouth like it lit him up from the inside.

His hands moved—trailing down my back, grabbing my ass through my jeans, grinding my hips against the hard line of him.

“You’ve been mouthy for days,” he muttered against my lips. “You want to be a good girl now or keep fighting me?” My head spun.

“Depends,” I breathed. “You done talking?”

That earned me a low, wicked laugh. Then he shoved the table behind me clear with one arm, sent cables and gear clattering to the floor, and lifted me onto it like I weighed nothing.

“You’re trouble,” he said, hands gripping my thighs, spreading them.

“You like trouble.”

His fingers snapped open my jeans. “Love it.”

He kissed me again—rougher this time. His hand slid between my legs, over my underwear, fingers pressing right where I needed him. I gasped. Arched. And that was it. Something broke between us. He dragged my jeans and panties down, baring me to the cold air. His touch turned filthy—two fingers dragging through my slick, slow and teasing.

“So wet for someone you hate.”

I reached down, grabbed his wrist, and pushed him harder against me. “Stop talking.”

He smirked. “Yes, ma’am.”

He dropped to his knees like it was nothing. Like it was instinct. And fuck—fuck—the second his mouth touched me, I forgot my name. His tongue licked a slow stripe up my center, followed by a soft, wet kiss to my clit that made my whole body jerk. He moaned like he loved it. Like I tasted better than any stage, any crowd, any ego stroke he’d ever known.

“Harry—”

His fingers gripped my thighs, holding me open, and his tongue didn’t let up. He circled and licked and sucked until my legs trembled and my head fell back. When I was close—so close—I felt him pull back just slightly.

“Say it again.”

“Say what?” I gasped, dizzy.

“My name.”

My fingers fisted his hair. “Harry—fuck—don’t stop.” That’s all it took.

He groaned and buried his face against me, devouring every sound I made as he pushed me over the edge. I came with a cry, shaking, thighs clamping around his head like he was the only solid thing in the world. And he stayed there. Licking me through it. Drawing it out until I was twitching and breathless.

When he stood, his lips were wet, his eyes dark. I didn’t think. I just grabbed his shirt and pulled him to me.

“Need you inside me,” I whispered.

He swore under his breath, dragging my shirt up and off, hands hungry and fast. His own clothes came next—belt clinking, zipper undone, jeans shoved low enough to free his cock. And fuck, he was big. Thick. Hard. Already leaking at the tip.

He caught my gaze. “You want it rough?” I nodded.

He grabbed my hips, dragged me to the edge of the table, and lined himself up. Then paused.

“Say it again.” I blinked up at him. “My name,” he said again, voice low and gritty. “I want to hear it when I fuck you.”

My throat went dry. “Harry.”

“Louder.”

“Harry.”

He pushed in. One hard thrust. My mouth dropped open—no sound came out at first, just a broken gasp.

“Holy shit—”

He didn’t wait. He pulled back and slammed into me again, harder, deeper. The table shook. I held onto the edge behind me, legs spread wide, trying to keep up as he set a brutal, punishing rhythm. His hands were everywhere—gripping my thighs, pulling my hips to meet every thrust. His eyes never left my face.

“You gonna give me another?” he growled. “Or was that pretty little moan all you had?” I whimpered. He grabbed my jaw, not hard, just enough to tilt my face up. “You’re not gonna be quiet now, are you?”

“Fuck you—” He fucked me harder for that. My head fell back with a cry.

“Already am, love.”

I didn’t remember how I ended up on my back. One second, I was clinging to the edge of the table, Harry slamming into me so deep it rattled my bones. The next, he was lifting me—arms around my thighs, carrying me across the room like I weighed nothing—and laying me down across the road case near the wall. He didn’t even slow down. Just shoved back inside me and picked up right where he left off. I could barely speak. Every thrust dragged a sound out of me I didn’t recognize. It was raw. Guttural. Desperate. And Harry looked like he was coming undone. His curls were damp with sweat, jaw clenched, tattoos flexing with every movement. His hands gripped my hips like he was afraid I’d disappear.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he grunted, hips slamming into mine. “So tight—so wet—fuck—been thinking about this for days.”

I whined beneath him, nails dragging down his back, and that did something to him—he leaned in, wrapped a hand around my throat, and whispered, “Say my name again.”

My body shook. “Harry,” I gasped, voice ragged. “Harry—please—don’t stop—”

“Yeah?” he panted, forehead pressed to mine. “You close?” I nodded, barely holding on. “Wanna come on my cock, baby?” he whispered, filth-soft and wrecked. “Wanna feel you squeeze around me—make you scream it this time.”

And then he angled his hips just right. I shattered. My legs shook. My back arched. My vision blurred as I moaned his name like it was the only word I’d ever known. He followed a heartbeat later with a strangled groan, burying himself deep as he came—hot and hard and endless. The room was silent except for the sound of our breathing. My body trembled beneath him. His arms braced on either side of me, head tucked against my shoulder, chest heaving.

Neither of us spoke. And for once… he didn’t smirk.

When he finally pulled out, he did it slowly, carefully. His hands stayed on my thighs like he didn’t want to let go just yet. He helped me sit up, still panting, still flushed. I looked at him. And for the first time since we met, Harry Styles looked… unsure. Not in a bad way. Just softer. Quieter.

He ran a hand through his hair, cheeks pink. “Didn’t mean to… that rough—”

“You did.” He blinked. I grinned, breathless. “And I liked it.”

That smirk—the one I’d spent weeks wanting to slap off his face—came back, but this time it was different. Warmer. Almost shy. He reached for my shirt. Handed it to me without a word. We got dressed in silence. Not awkward—just full of something that hadn’t settled yet. When I finished pulling on my hoodie, he cleared his throat.

“So,” he said. “Do I still get to call you new girl?” I gave him a look. He held up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay—[Y/N] it is.” He stepped closer again. Not too close. Just enough. “I like saying it,” he added, voice low. “Especially when you’re falling apart.”

I raised a brow. “Cocky much?”

“Only when I’ve earned it.”

I shook my head, smiling despite myself. “Are you always this unbearable after sex?”

He grinned. “No. Usually I’m worse.” I laughed—actually laughed—and he looked almost startled by it. Then he said, quieter, “Wanna come back to mine?” I hesitated. “Not for that,” he added quickly. “Not unless you want to. Just… talk. Maybe eat something. You look like you haven’t had a proper meal all week.” My stomach grumbled. Perfect timing. He grinned wider. “There it is.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. But you’re buying.”

“I’ll feed you and say your name all night,” he said with a wink. “Sound fair?”

I smirked, brushing past him toward the exit. “We’ll see if you earn that privilege again.”

Behind me, he let out a low laugh. And this time, it wasn’t smug—it was real.

*****

@cloudyluun @gem1712 @dipmeinhoneyh @idk199o @harrrrystylesslut @sparxx27 @likea-silhouette @fangirl509east

[reasonsforhope]

"In the Canary Islands, in Barcelona, and in Chile, a unique fog catcher design is sustaining dry forests with water without emissions, or even infrastructure.

Replicating how pine needles catch water, the structure need only be brought on-site and set up, without roads, powerlines, or irrigation channels.

Fog catching is an ancient practice—renamed “cloud milking” by an EU-funded ecology project on the Canary Islands known as LIFE Nieblas (nieblas means fog).

“In recent years, the Canaries have undergone a severe process of desertification and we’ve lost a lot of forest through agriculture. And then in 2007 and 2009, as a result of climate change, there were major fires in forested areas that are normally wet,” said Gustavo Viera, the technical director of the publicly-funded project in the Canaries.

The Canaries routinely experience blankets of fog that cloak the islands’ slopes and forests, but strong winds made fog-catching nets an unfeasible solution. In regions such as the Atacama Desert in Chile or the Atlas Mountains of North Africa, erecting nets that capture moisture particles out of passing currents of fog is a traditional practice.

LIFE Nieblas needed a solution that could resist powerful winds, and to that end designed wind chime-like rows of artificial pine needles, which are also great at plucking moisture from the air. However, unlike nets or palms, they efficiently let the wind pass through them.

The water is discharged without any electricity. There are no irrigation channels, and no machinery is needed to transport the structures. The natural course of streams and creeks need not be altered, nor is there a need to drill down to create wells. The solution is completely carbon-free.

WATER IN THE DESERTS: 

China Announces Completion of a 1,800-Mile Green Belt Around the World’s Most-Hostile Desert

Billions of People Could Benefit from This Breakthrough in Desalination That Ensures Freshwater for the World

Scientists Perfecting New Way to Turn Desert Air into Water at Much Higher Yields

Sahara Desert Is Turning Green Amid Unusual Rains in Parts of North Africa

Indian Engineers Tackle Water Shortages with Star Wars Tech in Kerala

In the ravine of Andén in Gran Canaria, a 35.8-hectare (96 acres) mixture of native laurel trees irrigated by the fog catchers enjoys a survival rate of 86%, double the figure of traditional reforestation.

“The Canaries are the perfect laboratory to develop these techniques,” said Vicenç Carabassa, the project’s head scientist, who works for the Center for Ecological Research and Forestry Applications at the University of Barcelona. “But there are other areas where the conditions are optimal and where there is a tradition of water capture from fog, such as Chile and Morocco.”

In Chile’s Coquimbo province, the town of Chungungo is collecting around 250 gallons a day from a combination of locally-made fog catchers and LIFE Nieblas’ pine needle design, the Guardian reports."

-via Good News Network, December 30, 2024

[dcxdpdabbles]

I love your Freelance Inventor Au so much! (And, like, all your other work,, lol) I can't help imagining Danny finding out about the Batfam and turning to Bruce like, "You let our kids be vigilantes?!" Meanwhile Bruce is stuck on the fact that Danny called them "Our" kids. Or the reveal the other way, with Bruce finding out about Phantom first? He'd freak out- clearly he doesn't know Danny as well as he thought he did. And he can't believe Danny never told him! Meanwhile, Danny thought he mentioned the Phantom thing ages ago and that Bruce just doesn't care.

Since Jazz put the idea in his head, Danny has been unable to think of anything else. The idea that he might be in love with Bruce Wayne and had been for so many years but didn't notice because he assumed everyone felt that it was for that one friend.

It was there whenever he was drafting new blueprints, when he traveled across the world looking for inspiration and investors, when he settled into bed for a good night's rest, and most of all, when he finished his weekly phone call with Bruce.

"Get some rest," Bruce's warm, smooth voice says over the speakers. "I'll talk to you soon. Goodnight, Danny."

"Goodnight," he responds softly. He has a request to stay on the line on the tip of his tongue, but with the time difference, he knows it's not a good idea. And have a good day, Bruce."

The call ended with a click, but he couldn't help but feel their goodbye needed something.

I love you.

That was it. That's what was missing. But did he dare? Could he? Was he confusing love for something it wasn't? Was Bruce even interested?

Danny places his phone on his chest, staring at the ceiling of the latest hotel he booked, wondering if Bruce is leaving for lunch with the kids. He said they were celebrating Tim's new clothesline and wished he was there to cheer the boy and his team on.

Danny is in Toykyo today, presenting his new hologram keyboards to a big company.

Of course, they were the second company allowed the selling rights. Wayne Tech was the first, and Danny kept the production and creation rights. It was one of Danny's most ingenious inventions, if he did say so himself, but the look on Bruce's face when he revealed it to him was far more exhilarating than creating the keyboard or gaining the fat paycheck.

Fenton's Ghost Touch was a set of two rings with a hologram keyboard inside. When someone needed to type, they would spin the rings and double-tab the inner lining, connecting to devices using the Bluetooth function.

A visible hologram would pop up underneath their fingers, or if they wanted (and were good enough typers), they could move their fingers in the air without it, which would still allow them to type.

Danny had chosen to release the line in black internationally with Toyko, but Wayne Tech would release an exclusive color line. The rings were of the same design, all using slick silver bands but with different colors as the activation inner rings and some elegant carvings, unlike the international releases, which were just one solid color.

Fenton's Ghost Touch would come in seven colors: blue, red, pink, green, purple, white, and yellow.

Danny had purposely designed them using each of the Wayne kids' favorite colors and sent them all a set with their corresponding colors. The morning they arrived, he got a picture of them showing off their new rings, smiling widely at the camera from Bruce.

He saved the photo as his laptop background. His phone background already had a picture of him and the Waynes at Thanksgiving. They had crowed around, holding their wreaths with Bruce and Danny in the center.

Danny had been facing the camera, beaming in pride at the kids' work. Bruce was half-turning, his gaze stuck on Danny's face with a strange, fond, soft smile, the kind he rarely saw Bruce give anyone else.

It made him hope. Oh, how he hoped, but it also scared him. What if this wasn't love? Danny has never been in love before, has never fallen to the urges that others describe, and had been so comfortable convincing his asexuality meant he would never have to be the kind of person staying up long into the night overthinking every interaction with another person.

Yet here he was, seeing Bruce in a whole new light and discovering how different everything was because of it. But at the same time, how nothing had changed. He spoke to Dani about this, but his clone-turned-sister had only shrugged.

"You raised kids with the man." She laughed. Dani wasn't like Danny, and although she was more informed than their parents, she had difficulty wrapping her head around not having those feelings. "I think it's past the point of having a crush on him. I think you should go for it. Make it official."

Danny reaches up, rubbing at his eyes. It was midnight, and he had a meeting with another with the Japanese board again at eight. He really needed to rest and be on top of his wits so that he and his lawyer could ensure the contact was in his best interest.

He clicks open his gallery on his phone instead of swiping through photos of Bruce and feeling his heart leap nearly out of his chest. He misses the man.

Since Jazz's conversation, Danny has been practically avoiding him. This is due to his being hyper-aware of himself and Bruce: the way Bruce laughed, the dip in his voice whenever the British accent he picked up from Alfred popped in, the slight facial expressions he made when confused about emotions, the shift from playful to professional in work settings, and most of all, the attention he always bestowed onto Danny.

How the world just seemed brighter whenever he was with the man.

Bruce was his sun, and Danny was nothing more than a flower seeking him out. It made the Halfa want to hide in a hole but dance around in public all at once, and he didn't know why.

He finds a video, tapping the play button before thinking further of it, and melts when the first sound he hears is Bruce's laughter. It's quickly followed by the loud noise of the Waynes' Children. It was taken at the last Wayne game night—at the time, Danny had been in England with Dani.

Tim recorded Damian standing proudly over a map covered in white trains, arms spread into a T position, and Duke screaming accusations of cheating. After Alfred banned Monopoly in the Manor, the game Ticket to Ride quickly took over as the new worst enemy creator.

Dick was in the background sobbing into his hands as Jason tried to confront him. Steph and Cass were each leaning on Bruce's two shoulders, laughing as hard as their father, and Alfred was out of frame but not out of hearing, so when he stated, "Master Dick, how could have gone in the wrong direction? It's the map of the USA, it hasn't change in years!"

"He has a concussion, Alfrie!" Jason protested hotly. "Leave him alone!"

"YOU CHEATED!" Duke raged as Damian continued his pose with the most serious expression he'd seen on the child. It made his heart swell to see Damian copying him.

Danny struck the same pose whenever he beat his sisters at a game, even at his advanced age. Once an annoying brother, always an annoying brother.

The video ends with Tim flipping the camera. His broad grin covered the whole screen as he shouted, "Love you, Dad! Miss you! Can't wait to see you!"

Danny turns to his side, feeling his heart flutter more as the word plays repeatedly in his head. A few years ago, the Wayne Kids—excluding Damian, who was polite to the point it hurt—switched from Danny to Dad when referring to him.

Bruce hadn't made a big deal about it even though they called him Dad. Would that mean the man was happy his kids saw him as a second father figure? Did it mean the man thought of him as....a husband?

Danny groans, burying his face into the cool sheets of his futon, begging his mind to stop for a few seconds so he can rest. After this deal goes through, Danny is going to face the music.

He would go to Gotham and figure out a way to tell Bruce how he felt. He just hopes he has it figured out by then. Danny has an idea, but explaining the mess in his head into words is going to be much harder than anything he's ever done.

Not to mention Phantom. That was a can of worms he hadn't ever touched in Wayne's presence. What was Bruce's stance on ghosts anyway?

Should he practice what he would say about the topic? Turning onto his back, Danny holds up his phone, clicking the screen so the lock screen image of a grinning Bruce appears.

It was from the surprise vacation Danny rented out the hut next to the ones the kids sent Bruce to. It had been taken at sunset, the soft orange and purples of the sky framing Bruce's grin and dancing on his wind-blown hair. It had been a spur-of-the-moment walk around the beach, but from Danny's perspective down below and Bruce climbing back up to his hunt, it had almost appeared like Bruce was descending from the heavens.

Danny had used every film skill he had ever heard Dani speak about to capture the beautiful sight.

It is the best picture he's ever taken.

"I love you," the words leave his mouth in surprise, even though he had meant to talk about ghosts. But when they are spoken, he ducks into ice water and realizes they are true.

He sits up, using both hands to hold the phone in front of him, hoping that somehow, in some unrealistic dream, the words will carry across the world, and Bruce will hear them. Maybe even feel them, too. "I love you, I think I do. Do you love me too?"

The screen goes dark, and Danny sighs. Ten years. Will he really risk ten years of friendship over these little feelings?

Yeah. He thinks he will.

[societyfolklore]

Synthetic Obedience

Title:  Synthetic Obedience

Pairing: Dark!Tony Stark x Lab assistant! Female Reader  

Summary:  When Tony Stark personally selects you for a nanotech interface trial, it feels like your big break. But the tech isn’t what it seems.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, DubCon/NonCon/Mind Control, Bimbofication/Mental Reprogramming, Dehumanization, Objectification, Use of Technology for Control, Orgasm Control/Forced Arousal, Derogatory Language, Praise-Degradation Kink, Lab Setting

A/N: Entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo. Also my first Tony centered Fic.. Square: B3- Made a Slave    Card Number: AA014

You didn’t quite know exactly how it happened. But you remembered how it started.

You’d been a TA at MIT, buried in research papers, grading problem sets, and trying to scrape together time for your own side project- a low-energy neural link interface. It wasn’t groundbreaking by Stark standards, but it had promise. You weren’t even done refining it when you got the call.

You couldn’t believe your luck when Stark Industries reached out to you. You didn’t think lab techs got headhunted. Interns, maybe. Engineers with big-name patents? Sure. But you were still early in your career, working under professors who didn’t even bother to learn your name. And yet here you were, walking into the R&D division of the most advanced tech company on the planet, credentials in hand, heartbeat in your throat.

They said they liked your research. Said Tony had seen the write-up himself.

You thought it had to be a mistake. But it wasn’t.

Iron Man, Tony Stark. You got giddy thinking about it. 

You were sweet, eager to please, and more than a little nervous around Tony Stark...

You were sweet, eager to please, and more than a little nervous around Tony Stark. He was larger than life, brilliant, untouchable, he carried himself like he owned the world, and maybe he did. Still, you worked hard. You stayed late. You double-checked your data, kept your station pristine, made sure you never wasted his time. You barely spoke unless spoken to. But you listened. Oh, you always listened. And when he did speak to you- when he called you by name, it made your stomach flutter.

What you hadn’t expected, though, was how present he was. Tony Stark didn’t just pop in and out of the lab. He hovered. He asked questions. He leaned over your shoulder to see your readouts, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body behind you. Sometimes, when he reached around you to adjust a setting, his arm would brush your side, his hand steady on your back. It wasn’t inappropriate, never obviously so, but it lingered just a breath longer than it needed to.

“You’ve got good instincts,” he murmured once, low and warm against your ear as he looked over your data pad with you. “Don’t be afraid to trust them.”

You nodded too quickly, flushed to your ears, and he chuckled as he walked off.

You had a tiny crush, sure! What junior tech assistant didn’t? But it was harmless. Quiet. He had Pepper, after all. Everyone knew that. Though... you hadn’t seen her around much these days. Still, he’d never look at someone like you. You thought he didn’t notice.

But he was always there. Watching. Smirking. And touching- just enough to make you wonder if maybe he did.

He noticed everything.

He noticed the way your wide eyes followed him when he entered a room. The way you stammered when answering questions. The way you blushed when he looked at you too long. You tried to play it off, keep your head down, but he had this smirk every time, like he knew. Like he enjoyed it.

One afternoon, you were triple-checking a sensor calibration when you heard his voice behind you. "Hey, TA."

You turned too quickly, nearly knocking over a stool. "Y-Yes, Mr. Stark?"

"Tony," he corrected with a grin. "Got a minute? Need a steady set of hands."

"I- I mean, of course. Yes. I’m not doing anything urgent."

He handed you something wrapped in a velvet cloth. When you unwrapped it, you found a sleek silver glove glinting up at you.

"Prototype nanotech interface," he said casually, watching your reaction. "You’re the best candidate we’ve got for a live sync test. Thought you might want to try it out."

Your eyes widened. "Me? Really?"

"You’re smart, focused, and you don’t complain. That’s rare. Plus, I read your MIT paper. Neural sync stabilization through passive microfeedback, right? Sounded hot."

Hot?

You blinked. "Thank you. I- I mean... that’s amazing to hear. I won’t let you down."

He smirked again, but it was softer. "Didn’t think you would. Just slide it on and tell me how it feels. Might tingle."

It was just a glove. Sleek, cool metal. The inner lining was soft, lined with micro-filaments meant to link with your neural patterns. Harmless. Temporary. A basic integration test, you reminded yourself.

You slipped it on, and the moment it activated- a soft pulse, warm and electric. You gasped. It spread fast, licking up your arm and over your collarbone, tendrils of heat sinking into muscle and bone. It didn’t just rest against your skin, it felt like it merged with it. You could feel the micro-filaments slipping in, syncing with every nerve, every breath. Like it belonged there.

You blinked rapidly, lips parting as your body responded to something deep inside. Your breath caught. Your knees weakened slightly, the tingling sensation crawling over your skin and anchoring itself deep in your core.

Tony moved to a nearby console, fingers tapping idly at the interface. He wasn’t in a rush. He didn’t even seem surprised.

“You might feel strange,” he said casually, not looking up. “New tech and all.”

"Something’s... off," you mumbled. 

He tilted his head, watching you with clinical detachment. Not alarmed. Curious.

"Off how?"

You tried to find the words. Tried to ask him to shut it down. But your tongue wouldn’t cooperate. It felt big in your mouth. And then he said, "Calm down, sweetheart," in that smooth, steady voice and you melted. Your spine loosened. Your thighs pressed together, heat blooming between them.

Tony didn’t stop the test.

He just watched.

You lifted your arm, trying to tug the glove loose, but your limbs felt slower. Like resistance had to move through molasses. "It’s doing something- I think it’s-"

“Be a good girl for me and don’t touch the interface,” he said, still offhand, like it was just another lab instruction.

Your hand dropped automatically.

"Yes Sir.."  Why did you voice sound like that? All soft and breathy? 

Your thoughts slowed. Everything felt heavier. Thicker. Like your brain was under water. The edges of your mind felt like they’d been smoothed down, made pliable. A dreamy sort of heat flooded your chest, then lower. Your muscles relaxed even as your nipples hardened beneath your shirt.

You turned to Tony, eyes wide and a little unfocused. He was still typing, but now watching you closely, just beneath his lashes. Studying. Assessing. Smiling?

"Mr Stark, Sir," you murmured, your voice strange in your throat. Soft. Breathy. "Something’s wrong. My brain feels… off."

He looked up briefly, shrugging one shoulder with casual ease. "Yeah, I’m seeing some weird integration feedback. Can’t seem to undo the link just yet."

Your stomach tightened. "Undo the link?"

He waved a hand vaguely, as if brushing off the concern. "New tech, sweetheart. Bugs are normal. I’m working on it. Just be a good girl a little longer. You can do that, right?"

Your knees wobbled. The words hit something deep in your chest and between your thighs. Heat surged again. You shifted your weight, trying to discreetly press your thighs together, but your balance faltered- your limbs too loose, your mind too foggy. You stumbled a step and caught yourself on the bench.

"When can I take it off?" you asked, more desperate than you meant to sound.

Tony turned back to the console, fingers flying as he spoke calmly. "Gotta let the interface finish syncing before I can disconnect it."

That didn’t sound right. Did it? You weren’t sure anymore. Your thoughts felt distant, untrustworthy.

He stepped closer, his voice smoother now, hand brushing your arm. "You’ll have to stay here until we work this out."

You nodded slowly, too fogged to argue.

Then he smiled, said it again

"Good girl."

And you forgot why you ever wanted to take it off.

He stepped beside you, took your wrist gently, and examined the glove.

"Hold still," he said softly, already keying something in near the seam.

There was a flicker of warmth. Then a pulse.

Your skin flushed with heat as the tingling sensation spread through your arm and down your spine. You gasped, a giggle bubbling up before you could stop it as your body shivered with the sudden stimulation.

Tony just watched you.

That small, satisfied smile curved his lips—like he’d just solved a puzzle. Like this was what he had been waiting for. He didn’t talk to you like an assistant anymore. He said your name like it was a command. And every time, it made your breath hitch.

You knew something was wrong. Knew this wasn’t how your mind used to work. You were slower. Softer. Hornier. But it felt good.

It felt right.

You wobbled where you stood, your breath shaky, the heat in your core relentless. You opened your mouth to ask him what was happening again—but before you could, he looked up from the console and said it plainly:

"We need to go downstairs. Can’t have someone else finding you like this." He paused, almost to himself, then added under his breath, "Last thing I need is this getting back to Pepper… she already doesn’t answer my calls as it is.""

Your heart fluttered. Not in fear. In... something else.

You nodded before your brain caught up. "Yes, Sir." 

Tony brought you down to the lower lab.

It was private. Off-grid. The kind of space meant for things no one else was meant to see. The walls were soundproof. The door required a multi-factor biometric scan, and once it hissed shut behind you, the silence was absolute. The lights were dim, casting everything in a sterile blue glow. The air was cool enough to raise goosebumps along your bare arms. There were screens, live feeds, holograms, biometric data. All glowing with soft pulses of information. You barely noticed any of it.

You couldn’t stop staring at Tony. He stood against the console like he had all the time in the world. His sleeves were rolled up, his chest rising and falling slowly, measured. His eyes—those sharp, molten eyes—glinted beneath his lashes, dark and burning, like he knew exactly what you were becoming.

The soft glow of the arc reactor under his shirt pulsed with gentle blue light, drawing your attention like a beacon. He looked unreal in the dim lighting, like a Tech God. A superhero. A saviour. Iron Man.

But more than that… he was your idol.

And someone like him, someone that brilliant, that powerful- deserved to be worshiped.

He lifted his head up from the screen, his eyes possessive and intense.

Like he’d made you. Like he was admiring his favourite creation.

“Strip.”

One word. That was all it took.

Your hands moved before your brain could fully register the command. Fingers found the button at your collarbone. The shirt peeled away, slow and obedient, revealing more and more of your skin. It felt ritualistic. Your breath hitched as the cool air kissed your bare chest. As your nipples forming . Your hands undid the zip on your skirt the fabric slid down your hips and thighs, pooling at your ankles.

You stepped out of it, shoulders back, head high, presenting yourself without hesitation. Your chest rose and fell in shallow, excited breaths. Your skin tingled. Your pussy throbbed.

Tony's gaze was molten.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and you whimpered before you could stop yourself.

It wasn’t just arousal, it was relief. Praise made everything inside you bloom. His voice was a balm, a drug, a trigger. You felt warm all over, thighs trembling slightly as your mind swam in that golden haze.

“You wouldn’t say no to me,” Tony murmured, admiring “You wouldn’t scold me or tell me I’m wrong. You wouldn’t look at me like they do.”

His voice was soft, low, coaxing. Dangerous.

“No lectures. No morality speeches. No guilt trips. Just you, here… being exactly what I need.”

He smiled, dark and indulgent.

“You’re perfect for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

He walked toward you slowly, as though savouring the moment. His fingertips skimmed the underside of your chin, tilting your face up.

“You’re even better than I expected,” he murmured, voice rich and dangerous. “Responsive. Programmable. And fuck—look at you.”

He waved one hand, and the mirrors lit up all around you. High-resolution feeds showed you from every angle—naked, glassy-eyed, legs slick with arousal, lips parted in helpless anticipation. You stared at yourself, not recognizing the woman in the reflection.

You looked empty.

You looked perfect.

His.

“On your knees.”

Your legs buckled with eager obedience. You dropped to the cold floor, spreading your thighs and tilting your chin. You didn’t think. You didn’t question. You just obeyed, body trained to respond to his voice like a switch flipped. You were glowing with the pleasure of submission, back straight, chest pushed forward, knees pressed to the cool lab floor like it was where you were meant to be.

Tony’s hand slid through your hair, twining it slowly around his fingers, caressing like he was enjoying the texture of his creation.

“Such a quick learner,” he purred, voice syrup-slick. “You’re not just some assistant anymore, sweetheart. You’re my project. My new toy. My proof of concept.”

He paused, eyes glittering as he looked down at you. “Look at yourself. God, you don’t even know what you used to be, do you? Just a dripping mess made for my cock.”

The words shouldn’t have thrilled you. They should have scared you. But they didn’t. Your belly clenched with need. Your cunt pulsed. You felt proud. Like you’d done something right. Like you were being rewarded. "Open." 

You opened your mouth, waiting, lips parted and slick with anticipation.

He unzipped his fly slowly, deliberately, watching your eyes track every movement with rapt attention. The sound of the zipper seemed deafening in the quiet room. When he pulled himself free- thick, hard, heavy. You whimpered, breath hitching.

Your lips trembled with hunger. You leaned forward just a fraction, aching for the taste.

He didn’t give you permission to suck. Not yet. “You’re such a good little bot now, aren’t you? Didn’t even need to hack your mind to much. This is why it had to be you, you wanted this, wanted me.”

He stroked the head of his cock across your cheek, smearing precum along your flushed skin, then trailed it down to your lips. You leaned into it like a kitten desperate for milk.

“That smart little brain of yours is so quiet now,” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek. “Bet you can’t even remember the periodic table, can you?”

You couldn’t.

You didn’t care.

Not when he finally pushed past your lips, groaning as your mouth enveloped him. You sucked greedily, needily, cheeks hollowing, tongue stroking with practiced desperation. You didn’t have technique anymore, you had instinct. You had hunger. Your thoughts melted into the rhythm, your brain buzzing with the echo of his praise. Each thrust hit something primal, and you moaned around him, the sound muffled but needy, wet.

"Fuck, look at you," Tony groaned, hips rolling with steady precision. "Those empty pretty eyes."

He held your head in place, fingers curled tightly in your hair, guiding you like he was syncing you to his rhythm. "Tighten your lips."

You obeyed instantly, your jaw aching as you clamped down a little harder. He hissed in pleasure.

"Good. Now use your tongue more. Yeah-just like that," he grunted, pushing deeper. "Gonna use that perfect little mouth and throat."

He was rough, unyielding, fucking your mouth like he had every right to, because he did. You were his. Not just body- but thoughts, actions, reactions. Every nerve was tuned to him. Programmed for him.

"You were built for this," he growled. "Good fucking toy."

Spit dripped down your chin as your eyes teared up. But you never stopped. You couldn’t. Every time he said good girl, your pussy clenched. You wanted more. Wanted everything.

When he finally pulled you up, his cock wet and shining from your lips, your legs wobbled. His chest was heaving, eyes locked on your messy, flushed face. He didn’t pause.

“On the table,” he panted, voice rough and commanding.

You stumbled backward, climbing up, limbs trembling as you spread your legs without needing to be told. You were so wet, it was obscene.

And then he slammed into you.

You screamed.

"Fuck, yeah- that’s it," Tony growled. "Open for me. You love this, don’t you? Being my little toy. My empty little slut."

Your entire body bowed off the table, crying out his name- Tony, Sir, God, anything he wanted, as he drove into you again and again. There was no space to think. No room for resistance. Just the endless pulse of need and the way he filled you so perfectly.

And the nanotech responded to everything.

With each thrust, the sensations sharpened, your nerve endings sparked with pleasure that felt engineered, enhanced, manipulated until every brush of skin against skin sent fire through your blood. Your clit pulsed with synced stimulation, your inner walls tightening in perfect sync with his rhythm, the tech ensuring you felt every inch of him with near-electric clarity.

You were his invention in more ways than one.

He pinned your wrists above your head with one hand, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "Tighten around me, baby. You can do it. Just like I programmed you to, squeeze."

"Yes, Sir," you whimpered, obedient even through the haze.

"Good girl. You’re perfect. My fuckdoll. My living, breathing cumdump."

You keened at the praise, back arching, body pulsing around him as the nanotech triggered another wave- an artificial aftershock that left you whimpering, overstimulated and desperate.

He knew exactly what to say. What to program into you. When he told you to come, your body obeyed like a triggered code, the tech sending a pulse to your core that shattered you. You sobbed with the intensity, thighs trembling, toes curling as your cunt clenched tight around him.

"That’s it- squeeze me just like that. Take it. Take all of it."

And he didn’t stop.

Not until he’d filled you to the brim with every drop of him. The tech pulsed once more, almost like it was sealing him inside you.

When it was over, he eased out of you slowly, your pussy fluttering around the absence. He ran his fingers through your sweat-dampened hair as you blinked up at him, dazed and smiling.

He murmured it again, soft and low-"Good girl."

Then his hand curled possessively around your cheek, thumb smearing your tears. “No one else will ever have you,” he whispered, his voice like velvet over steel. “You’re mine. My best creation.”

You smiled wider, blissed-out and pliant, the tech rewarding you with a small, sweet pulse through your spine.

Tony straightened, chest still heaving, and glanced toward the screen. “FRIDAY,” he said, voice sharper now. “Log current test session. Neural response, pelvic pulse sync, submissive compliance—mark it all as successful iterations. Make note Gonna tweak the pleasure threshold for next time.”

“Confirmed,” FRIDAY replied coolly. "Logged. Would you like me to auto-clean her next time too, sir?"

He looked back down at you. You were still lying on the table, your skin sticky with sweat and cum, your legs parted, your body twitching softly as another subtle vibration ran through the glove’s nanotech interface- teasing, gentle, but constant.

You whimpered as he placed your hand over your pussy. 

“After you run full diagnostic.” Tony added, his tone now entirely clinical. “And initiate standby mode in maybe an hour. I'm going upstairs, I’ve got a board meeting in twenty.”

“Yes, sir.” 

The nanotech pulsed again- this time with rhythmic intent, like a low thrum running straight through your nerves. You let out another soft, breathy moan, helpless against the pleasure still drumming through your system.

Tony smirked. “Try not to make too much of a mess while I’m gone, sweetheart.”

And then he walked out, leaving you pulsing and twitching quietly on the table, nothing more than his perfect little invention- waiting for his return.

[frostgears]

gardening

you did something stupid and now you're here in your itchy twice-a-year dress uniform in this bright busy room in the regimental HQ trying to figure out if you're going to be yelled at, shot, or promoted. the room's full of folding chairs. apparently not enough furniture in here normally to contain all the suits and all the brass.

your "ops coordinator" ("we don't say 'handler', grunt, it gives the civilians weird ideas") got pulled off for a side conversation two minutes after you got here and you haven't seen her since. you're looking anywhere for a familiar face. you're coming up empty. at least the woman next to you looks equally stressed. she must be civvie, some consultant or other; soft face, masses of curly hair. she's wearing a blazer and slacks with big round dataframes.

"hey," you elbow her. "what are you in for?"

"gods above and below." she sighs. "everything. but today mostly Neryx-9."

"the ag research station. you were there?"

"hardly," she says. "just came up on my huge list of problems."

"creepy shit. i was front and center for it…"

she cocks her head to listen. you explain.

Neryx-9 had been a cluster of greenhouses on the surface. supposed to be vacant, powered down — actually they'd said "mothballed", then looked at you like you were stupid when you asked what a moth was and what they did with their balls. but not vacant. far from it. you went in with a miniframe. first thing you found was the bodies of the grid authority techs that had called it in. purple mold already growing over them.

"it was wrong," you tell her. "not like that white stuff you get when an open nutripak sits in the fridge too long. i mean, i don't know if that would have been better. i just, i don't know, i didn't want to get any of that stuff on me. frame or no. maybe there was some already on me, but didn't want to get it on anyone else. so i backed out, sat in the airlock, thought about calling for extraction. thought better. backed to the wall, cycled my flight jets until it was starting to get warm even inside the frame, thought maybe i'd cook it off me. my ha– ops coordinator asked me what the fuck i was doing. snapped me out of it, i told her, i need fire. incendiaries."

they'd found them, somewhere. support rigged another airlock outside of the main airlock after you'd yelled at them to keep that shit inside. a miniframe-scale plasma cutter for outside construction work, and some purpose-built low-velocity liquid pyrophoric agent rockets.

the woman in the blazer made a face. "we just have those sitting around?"

"starship boarding actions. when we don't want to breach the hull but we do want to use all the oxygen. splashes around, gets everywhere, but nowhere near hot enough to melt anything structural. only used 'em in sims, of course, not like we get a lot of star traffic. horrorshow shit. or i thought it was, before this."

the outside airlock door opened and you'd taken up what they'd brought you.

you stepped over the bodies of the grid techs into hell. purple and orange jungle everywhere. insane external humidity and particle count. dome after hallway after dome of the shit, growing over the grow lights, growing up the walls, into the vents. you could feel it through your frame, through your suit. it was hungry. it wanted in.

"ma'am, compared to that feeling, that pressure, the first giant critter trying to eat my frame was a relief."

six thick legs, triangular jaws, scales and plates all over, massive paddle tail. it had reared out of a pond and tried to drag you back in with it. it wasn't as heavy as you, maybe, but it was mad as hell and a fast mover, and fuck, what right had anything like that to exist in an abandoned greenhouse? you knew you didn't want to be in that filthy water. who knew how deep it was? it'd clog your exhaust, choke your radiators. you twisted around as best you could in its grip, armed your wrist weapon, and blasted a thousand flechettes directly into its face.

"and that stopped it?"

"well, wasn't much left to be stopped, but yeah. and that's when i found it that it had friends and they could smell blood in the water."

she wrinkled her nose in a way that was either a dataframe input gesture or genuine surprise.

"why not just depressurize the domes, at this point?"

"thought about it. i had breaching charges. but… like i said, this stuff felt like it shouldn't get out. there's not much out there, yeah, but i just couldn't. and i had the cutter, and the rockets. so i decided to make it too hot on the shore for them to get me so easy."

you'd turned the artificial jungle into curtains of flame. the big creatures dove back into the water, giving you a narrow path to keep going. in the burning canopy, smaller things flared and dropped; you hadn't seen them moving until they died.

your handler had been screaming at you to get clear, get back to the airlock, but the flames made that a losing proposition. so you kept going in. Neryx-9 was roughly linear. there was another lock on the far side.

"past the labs, it turned out. and maybe some of those corpses in there had been growing these things, but it looked like the shit got away from them and was growing on them. there were these ribbons of orange moss, growing everywhere, out of containers, branching into foam and fabric and dead flesh — i tried to pull it off someone, before i realized they were all dead, and their skin came off in sheets, brown-black and full of tiny holes. charred, but not. think it was acid."

"something like a lichen."

"yeah, maybe? i learned about those in school. you can see 'em out the windows in a lot of places. they grow on rock, right?"

"they do," she says. "useful. so what did you do then?"

"i set the cutter to max spread and i torched a path through to the far airlock. and i don't mind saying, when i noticed the cutter battery and gas cylinder were doing okay, i started spreading it around a lot more. i just. i had to burn it."

"happens that was the right move," she said. "good instinct."

"please tell me someone did something about that shit."

"well," she smiled, "there's you. you know, you're refreshingly simple. like a cat that somehow had the sense to eat an invasive lizard. and since you didn't drag the bits all over, i tasked a solarsat to finish the job. can't beat a pass with an X-ray cloudpiercer beam for that kind of cleanup."

she wrinkles her nose again, and the general murmuring of a dozen conversations in the room changes as people look to the main wall display, which now shows a collection of greenhouse domes sagging as if collapsed by an invisible weight. the rock under them begins to glow.

"what's a cat?" you blurt out, before the words "i tasked a solarsat" have a chance to sink in. like, her, personally?

"an animal. a dumb little predator that associates with humans. from Terra, way before the Catastrophe. we're not ready for them just yet, but maybe someday."

a door opens to your side, and you both turn to see your handler, looking about at the end of her rope, and next to her, her boss, the major, who reports directly to the colonel.

"shit, there you are. look. you're gonna have to answer some questions. and it's not guaranteed you're going down for this, not yet, so just be honest, but for fuck's sake be brief, don't try to understand or interpret—"

both of their faces blanch. like, almost completely bloodless. eyes wide.

the curly-haired woman in the blazer smiles widely. "don't worry," she tells them, "she already did. she's been very helpful. in fact, i think i might like to keep her." she puts a hand on your knee.

"i'm not sure i understand, ma'am?"

"pilot," the major says, "is there a reason you've been occupying the time of the Director of Planetary Ecology? the woman who keeps this entire planet breathing oxygen and eating something other than rocks?"

and now your face must be bloodless too. the DPE? even you know that position. but you can't remember ever seeing a photo.

"oh, she was just telling me how she improvised containment protocols to prevent someone's experiment with Araukan imports from getting out of hand. clever girl. or lucky, at least."

you risk a glance to your side. she's still smiling. the woman who can steer any bioscience research on this planet, cut off power and water and air to anything she deems anathema to the coming ecosystem, commandeer keystone orbital infrastructure and burn habitats like you burned trees.

"i don't think we can possibly say no, Director," your handler says, carefully.

"no," the Director agrees. "you can't." □

[gojoethereal]

A Mission Beyond Curses

Pairing: Fushiguro Megumi x Reader | JJK x Reader | Sorcerer!Megumi x Sorcerer!Reader Warnings: smut, explicit, virgin reader, possessive megumi, dirty talk, kinda friends to lovers

an: this was a request and my first time writing for megumi I hope I don't disappoint 😣! btw I tired a different writing layout shall I just stick to my usual??

The early morning light filtered through the high windows of the Jujutsu Tech training hall, casting long shadows across the polished floor.

Around the training area, the usual clutter of cursed tools and scrolls lay forgotten for a moment.

Yuji Itadori bounced on his toes, clearly restless, while Nobara Kugisaki leaned against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk playing on her lips.

At the center of the group sat Fushiguro Megumi, stoic as ever, eyes scanning the briefing notes with a quiet intensity.

And then there was you- Bright-eyed, energetic, with a warm smile that seemed to light up the entire room despite the heavy atmosphere.

You didn’t carry any cursed tools; your power was innate, raw, and refined, flowing from your body like a current of energy that could be as gentle as a breeze or as fierce as a storm.

Gojo Satoru, lounging casually nearby with his ever-present blindfold, called out, “Alright, team, listen up. You’re heading to a half-abandoned shopping mall. Reports of a mid-level curse, aggressive and cunning. I’m pairing you up for efficiency. Megumi, you’re with (Y/N). Yuji and Nobara, you’ve got the other sector.” His gaze flicked to Megumi.

"You're joking," Megumi said flatly.

You grinned, looping your arm around his. "Aww, don’t act so thrilled, Fushiguro. I promise not to be too annoying."

"I doubt that," he muttered.

"Tension! I love it," Nobara said, smirking.

"You two are always bickering. It's like watching a rom-com with knives," Yuji added.

You winked at them both, then turned your full attention to your reluctant mission partner. "Come on, Fushiguro. Let's go bond over blood and curses."

He sighed, but didn’t protest.

The group headed out, bantering lightly but with an undercurrent of anticipation. You caught Megumi’s gaze once more, a silent promise to prove you weren’t just a cheerful distraction.

The abandoned shopping mall was a relic of better times, broken glass crunching underfoot as you and Megumi advanced through the dim corridors. The air was thick with the scent of decay and latent cursed energy. Megumi’s shikigami prowled silently ahead, eyes glowing faintly.

“Stay sharp,” Megumi warned, voice low.

You nodded, feeling your cursed energy pulse in response.

Suddenly, a grotesque curse burst from the shadows, snarling with unnatural rage. Megumi acted fast, summoning his Divine Dogs, who lunged forward to attack. You stepped in, your power flaring as you unleashed a precise blast, striking the curse’s side and drawing a low growl from it.

“You’re annoying,” Megumi muttered, eyes on you as you danced around, agile and controlled.

You grinned, “And you’re a grumpy jerk, but I like it.”

He narrowed his eyes, but didn’t retort.

The fight escalated, curses emerging from cracks and debris. Your synergy was flawless despite the teasing. Megumi’s calm planning and your spontaneous energy complimented each other. When one curse lunged at you, Megumi intercepted with brutal efficiency, but you weren’t without your own skills — your cursed energy flowed strong, no tools needed.

A sharp claw grazed your arm, drawing a shallow cut. You hissed but kept going.

Megumi’s voice was rough, protective. “You’re reckless.”

You smirked, “You’re just jealous you’re not the one getting hurt.”

His eyes flicked over the cut, and he cursed softly under his breath before finishing the curse off with a precise strike.

When the last curse dissolved, the adrenaline buzzed through your veins. Megumi exhaled sharply, the tension in his shoulders evident.

You worked in sync—but he hated how well you fit together. It made things worse.

“You’re infuriating,” he muttered, the annoyance failing to mask the trace of admiration in his voice.

You stepped closer, eyes bright. “Maybe I’m exactly what you need.”

He said nothing, but the tight line of his jaw spoke volumes.

---

**Back at Megumi’s Dorm**

The door shut quietly behind you as you entered Megumi’s dorm, a small, bare space that somehow felt intensely private. You set your bag down, watching as Megumi cleaned his weapons, his stoic mask firmly in place.

You leaned against the doorframe, voice teasing but with an undercurrent of sincerity. “You know, you’re wound tighter than a cursed spirit’s grip.”

Megumi didn’t look up. “It’s necessary.”

You stepped closer. "You act like you can’t stand me, but I see it. The way you look at me. The way you bite your tongue when I get too close."

His breath hitched.

"You’re so fucking tense all the time," you whispered. "I want to help you relax. I want you to use me. Let it all out."

You reached for his hand and placed it on your waist. "I’m a virgin. But I want you to be the first. I want you to take it. All of it."

Megumi’s hands trembled.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he cupped your face gently, brushing your cheek with his thumb. "Are you sure?"

You nodded. "Yes. Please."

He kissed you slow, reverent. "Then I’ll be careful—just for this part."

He undressed you gently, laying you on his bed with care. He explored your body with slow hands, worshipping every inch. His mouth kissed down your belly, fingers sliding between your thighs.

"You're already soaked," he murmured. "Is this all for me?"

You nodded, whimpering. "Megumi, please… I need it."

He spread you open, licking through your folds until you were writhing. Then two fingers pressed inside—firm, stretching you, curling just right.

You cried out, hips bucking. "Ah—please!"

“You’re mine, baby,” he murmured against your skin.

You whispered back, voice trembling, “I’m yours, Megumi. All yours.”

His hands were rough, gripping your hips as he pushed deeper into you, his dark eyes locked onto yours. “Good girl,” he growled. “You gonna be good for me?”

You nodded eagerly, fingers tangling in his hair as his lips trailed down your neck.

He was possessive and demanding, his hands spanking your thighs, marking you with red impressions that stung deliciously. “You like that, don’t you, pretty?” he teased, voice low and rough.

“Yes, Megumi,” you gasped, arching into his touch.

His hand moved to your throat, fingers tightening just enough to make you catch your breath, eyes fluttering shut. “Beg for it. Tell me you want me.”

“Please, Megumi,” you whimpered, voice thick. “Take me.

When he finally lined up, he paused, gaze locked on yours. "This’ll hurt. But I’ll make it feel good. You tell me if it’s too much."

You gripped his arms. "I trust you."

He pushed in slowly. Inch by inch. Stretching you until you gasped and clung to him.

"So tight," he groaned. "So good for me."

Once he was fully inside, he kissed your forehead. "You okay?"

You nodded shakily. "Move, please."

He started slow. Deep, dragging thrusts. Letting your body adjust.

But when you whimpered his name and begged for more—

Something inside him snapped.

He flipped you onto your stomach, pulled your hips up, and drove in rough.

"You wanted me like this? This what you were teasing for?"

You moaned helplessly, face pressed into the sheets.

He gripped your hair, yanked you up, fucked you like an animal.

“Take it. Take every inch. Don’t fucking run.”

He turned you again, hooked your knees to your chest, pounded into your soaking pussy until the bed shook.

“God, look at you. Fucking made for me.”

You sobbed, nails digging into his back. "More, please, more—"

He knelt, pulled you onto his cock, bouncing you. Your breasts bounced, sweat slicked your skin, and he groaned like he’d die from how good you felt.

"Gonna cum inside this pussy. Gonna fill you so full—"

You screamed his name as he slammed in harder, deeper, grinding against your sweet spot.

Your orgasm hit like lightning. He followed with a broken groan, spilling inside, thrusting through it until it leaked from you.

He didn’t let go. He kept you close, breathing hard.

"Still think I don’t like you?" he whispered, brushing your hair from your face.

You smiled weakly. "I think you might hate how much you love me."

He kissed you again. Slower this time.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked, voice gentle now.

You nodded, heart pounding, a smile spreading across your lips.

“Good,” he whispered, kissing your forehead. “You did amazing.”

Wrapped in his arms, the wild storm inside you settled into a warm calm — the perfect peace after the chaos.

hope you enjoyed my lovesss!!1

[emacrow]

Starlight Toy Galore and Repair Center

"So this is what B wanted us to go under cover and investigate on?" Dick said, looking around the very colorful space theme background toystore.

There were several dozen children running around, some from the streets playing in a playground section, having the time of their life, trading with the owner with their own old broken toy for his toys.

Damian already betrayed them and got sucked into the extra cute extra fuzzy what seemed to be an off-brand of baby alive, blob aliens in another section where there was a bunch of other aliens like toys.

Dick is struggling to keep a hold onto Tim with all of his strength, considering he is eyeing at the awesome looking tech section with a coffee stand corner for adults and parents to chill while the kids play around.

The reason why they were here was that This store wasn't here before 9 months ago and only just got in their radar when a mini green smiling husky three legged puppy with a blue bow toy Keychain of one of hostage in Joker's torture on live to Gotham City spontaneously tripled in sized to a massive adult husky and process to mauled the joker alive in live tv. The sobbing hostage refused to give his toy Keychain close to his chest as he kept mumbling that Milly saved his life once more.

The owner was Danny Nightingale, a very, very tall blind man with extremely long black and white hair in multiple braids with toy crystalized flowers that moved, a frosty blue crown on his head covered in flowers as well. A gentle slim giant of a man who offers a variety of unique, wacky yet creatively fun toys not even for sell but as a trade.

They were supposed to grab a toy for analyzing! Not run around playing with everything!!

And there goes Tim.

Dick sighed as he pressed fingers between his nose before looking up to a section that had a bunch of mini glowing green animals-keychains in a circle rack.

What caught his eyes was one little baby elephant with a circus theme that reminded him too close of zitka.

He couldn't look away, nor could he stop himself from gently picking the Keychain.

A little cute button on the head top garment on the elephant that he pressed lightly.

A tiny, cute elephant noise came with a tiny sprinkle of water squirt out the elephant trunk with a tiny light of starlight rainbow shimmer, which made a smile grow on his face.

Dick ended up trading his bat burger stamped coupons, already walking out, seeing that Tim and Damian were already out with their toys in hand.

Tim was typing on a new tech gimmick toy that looked like Ghostbusters ripoff with glowing humaniod ghosts, and damian fascinated with a a jar full with a swirling bat like blob with a tag that said I am gimgim, thank you for adopting me.

"Well.. B didn't specifically have to give him the toy to analyze." Dick said out of thought before two pair narrowed eyes look back at him, holding their toys closer to their chest.

Dick narrowed his eyes back at them, holding his newly named zitka Keychain in his hand.

Part 2 here <-

[jigeuminunbich]

motive | lee donghyuck (haechan)

synopsis — in which after donghyuck joins jeno on a gym day he finds himself infatuated with his friend’s occasional gym buddy, you.

genre — non-idol!au, fem!reader, comedy, fluff, and strangers to friends to lovers (?)

content — swearing, reader is mentioned to be a gym trainer + nurse tech, also is pretty direct (i won’t her) while hyuck is a loser, a bit more centered on hyuck’s pov than reader’s, jeno is unintentionally playing cupid, hyuck makes one (1) joke about jumping, and featuring jaemin and johnny for like a split second

word count — 4k

playing — motive by ariana grande ft. doja cat

author’s note — ik this is an act of terrorism but: do we all remember hyuck’s gym phase (fact check era)? … yeah. need that. also happy new year omg :D what better way to welcome it than with silly lovestruck hyuck!

i. baby tell me what’s your motive?

“Just five more minutes…”

“Tuh. That’s what you said five minutes ago, c’mon, get up,” Jeno tugs Donghyuck by his ankles, effectively yanking his full-grown roommate from his bed and to land on the ground below him.

“No!” Donghyuck spits, scrambling back to the comfort of his covers before Jeno can stop him.

“You’re the one who asked me to help you get back in the gym, remember?” Jeno sighs exasperatedly, continuing his mission of excavating his stubborn friend from his bed. This time, Donghyuck holds onto his bed’s post to anchor himself.

Donghyuck angles his head to the side as if he’s in thought, “Did I? I don’t seem to recall…”

It was, in fact, his idea. It took a while to break down Jeno’s resolve for the past few weeks and convince him to help him with training with the welcoming of the new year, but it happened. Now, being woken up at dawn just to be surrounded by sweaty bodies was starting to be an idea he regretted having.

Jeno rolls his eyes, “Well I do, now let go.”

“Never!”

“Donghyuck, I’m telling you now if you don’t get up, I will do it myself.”

A habitual snarky snicker ripples through the younger’s chest, “Is that not what you’ve been struggling to do for the past hour?”

Silence hangs in the man’s room as he registers the grave mistake he’s made: making a jab at Jeno. As the seconds tick by like stomach-churning hours, Donghyuck tosses a quick glance backwards to get a grasp of his roommate’s reaction.

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.” Donghyuck pathetically pleads for his life when he meets Jeno’s.

Jeno nods, quietly rolling his shoulders before his bruising grip returns to pull at Donghyuck’s lower half, “Mhm.”

“Wait, agh!”

“Do we really have to do this?”

Jeno inhaled deeply, he wasn’t sure why he thought his friend’s whining would cease once they stepped foot into his usual gym. He thinks back to the many missed opportunities he had at stop lights where he could’ve pushed Donghyuck out the car, but alas it was now a regret he would just have to live with.

“Listen, you don’t have to whatsoever, but I for one will be gladly working out.”

“I—" Donghyuck prepares himself to shoot back at his roommate but his retort fizzles out on his tongue when he catches you in his peripheral sauntering towards him and Jeno.

“Hi, Jeno!” A delicate voice trills, drawing both men’s attention to you.

Jeno’s eyes crease almost on command, a puppy-like smile stretching across his face. “Hey, I didn’t know you trained on Wednesday’s?”

“I don’t usually but I switched shifts with a coworker.” You shrug with your explanation, quickly adjusting your focus to the rigid man that stood beside Jeno.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m ___!” You jut out your glove-clad hand for him to shake.

Donghyuck takes a moment to grasp that you are in fact speaking to him, a winsome smile gracing his features and ridding him of his dazed expression before he meshes his hand with yours to shake. “Hi, Donghyuck, Jeno’s roommate…”

Your grip in the handshake falters to a stop as it dawns on you who exactly has just been introduced to you, “Ah! You’re Donghyuck?”

Said man’s eyebrows jump for a moment, his smirk growing deeper. “So you’ve heard of me?”

“Well, Jeno mentioned in passing that he’d start bringing you around,” you pause as you draw your hand from his grasp to rest both on your hips, giving the comfortably dressed man a quick once over. “And that you might need a little assistance.”

The manner in which you finish your sentence is controlled, expertly hiding your amusement but Jeno does little to shield his humored snickering. Donghyuck’s face falls flat and stoic, immediately shooting Jeno with an intense glare. But it only takes a beat before Donghyuck’s attention returns to you, quickly turning his suave back on.

“Hmm. You’d be the one helping though, right?”

His charm stuns you for a bit, an amused laugh easing from your nostrils, “I would. If I’m available, of course. I tend to train others whenever I’m here,” your thumb gestures backwards towards a middle-aged woman who is stretching across the gym.

Donghyuck peaks around you for a moment, his mouth forming into an ‘o’ shape, “Oh, you’re a trainer?”

“Yep!” you chirp proudly.

“And a nurse.” Jeno chimes, getting an flustered eye roll out of you.

“Nurse tech,” you correct. “I’m in school to be a physical therapist.”

“Wow. And how exactly do you know Jeno here?” Donghyuck furrows his brows, apparently finding it unbelievable that someone like you would be associated with his friend. It’s Jeno’s turn to glare, and you can’t help but giggle at their exchanges.

“Just from around. Embarrassingly he corrected my form when I was working out one day, and we’ve been buddies ever since.” You affirm, gently bumping Jeno’s exposed shoulder with your first.

Wordlessly Jeno nods, supporting your story. Before Donghyuck can probe you any longer, you throw a quick glance over your shoulder.

“Ah, I’ll catch up with you guys later, yeah?” You ask, already walking away from the interaction and back to your client.

“Uh huh.” Donghyuck responds airily, almost as if he’s in a trance. You smile at his antics, delivering a final wave their way before trotting away.

Donghyuck’s eyes linger on you for a moment before dreamily sighing.

“Could you be a little less pathetic?” Jeno grumbles, shaking his head as his friend practically falls over himself over you.

Donghyuck scoffs, completely tuning out Jeno’s insult with his eyes still focused on your figure across the room, “Why the hell didn’t you tell me you knew such pretty people here, Jeno?”

“Because that’s not the point, now is it?" Jeno roughly pats Donghyuck's shoulder, hoping it would deter him from staring holes into your toned back.

Surprisingly it manages to work and Donghyuck peels his gaze from you to focus on his friend who begins stretching his muscular limbs, “Pfft. It is now. What other days is she here?”

Jeno stills for a moment, an exaggerated, scandalized look on his face, “There’s absolutely no way I’m giving you that information.”

Donghyuck pouts, “Will she be here tomorrow?”

“Doesn’t matter. We won’t be.”

“And why not?” The whiny tone in Donghyuck's voice would almost be endearing to Jeno if he hadn't been subjected to it for the past decade and a half. Instead, it makes the grown man sigh deeply before continuing his routine.

“It’ll be a recovery day,” Jeno murmurs dismissively.

This makes Donghyuck ponder for a moment before a wicked expression graces his face, “Hmm. So, if we work out today, we'll have to recover tomorrow?”

“Precisely.”

“So, if we don’t work out today, can we come tomorrow?” Donghyuck quirks a mischievous eyebrow.

Jeno huffs, “Precisely…”

“Cool. I’m going home!”

Before Donghyuck can even make progress toward the gym exit, a strong grip is placed on the neckline of his t-shirt. Comically, the grown man is pulled back into the exact same stop he once stood in by his roommate.

“Never mind.” Donghyuck recedes sadly, setting down his sad excuse for a gym bag on the ground.

ii. might have to curve you if you just can’t talk straight

To say Donghyuck was on a mission would be an understatement. Today was nothing like compared to his first (forced) official gym day. He had woken up with no problems, no Jeno to tug him out of bed. He slipped on his foreign-feeling gym shoes and drove here on his own. Not because he had a sudden desire to fulfill his promise to himself, no. Not because Jeno’s threats finally and genuinely reached his ears, never that. But because of you.

“Oh hey, where’s Jeno?” You come bounding over after several minutes of Donghyuck glancing your way as unsuspectingly as he could muster (spoiler: he did a terrible job).

“Ah, he had a last minute meeting,” Donghyuck waves his hand dismissively in the air. ”I didn’t want to miss out on a chance to get in here,”

You laugh at the way Donghyuck pumps up his obviously flat chest, nodding along despite his antics. “Oh? What are you doing today?”

Donghyuck’s features drop at lightning speed, the cogs turning in his head in real time.

“…uh… I was just gonna… y’know… freestyle a bit. Maybe hit legs—” His slender hands fumble around as he wracks his mind for even a slightly plausible answer to give you.

The giggle you were biting back finally spills past your lips, deciding to end Donghyuck’ suffering, “You have no clue what you’re doing, do you?”

“Absolutely no idea.” He sighs, dropping his head forward shamefully.

You nod, finding the pout on his face incredibly endearing, “Hah. Well, I’m on my own today if you’d like to join me?”

Donghyuck physically perks up at this, his quick change in expression almost sending you spinning. The fondness that graces his pink lips leave a ticklish feeling stirring in the base of your stomach, “I’d like that.”

You smirk, forcing yourself to push away the burdensome sensation. “Cool. Fair warning, I’m not gonna take it easy on you just because you’re a friend of a friend.”

A glint that you can only recognize as mischief twinkles in Donghyuck’s deep brown eyes, almost challenging you, “I wouldn’t want you to, anyway.”

Turns out Donghyuck wasn’t much one for a challenge as you had initially thought.

“Ah, god. Okay, are we done yet?” Donghyuck clumsily tumbles out of seat for the hack squat machine. Not even taking into account the state of the floor that meets him when he braces himself on his hands and knees.

You snort, watching as Donghyuck— now a glistening, drenched mess— crawls around under he lands on his back, nursing his water bottle.

“We’re literally on the second exercise.” You remind slowly.

Donghyuck cranes his neck up from the ground, a horrified look on his face, “What? I feel like I’ve been at this for ages.”

“Do you complain this much with Jeno?” You playfully roll your eyes, tossing him a spare towel from your gym bag.

“Yes.” Donghyuck allows the cloth to cover his face, too drained to even attempt to block it.

“Hm. Tapping out on me already?”

“What? No! I— just give me a minute,” Donghyuck desperately shoots up from his position but clearly moves too fast for the rest of his body to process, having to slump to hoisting himself up by his elbows. You laugh at him, though he was obviously not the gym type you did find him to be incredibly entertaining. He peels an eye open at the sound of your laughter, a handsome smile gracing his face.

Trying to shake the flutter in your stomach from the look in his eyes, you flutter your eyes elsewhere in the gym. Just like his humor, it was undeniable that Donghyuck was attractive.

Donghyuck’s tired smirk deepens the more you avoid his pointed gaze-- almost as if he could sense the line of dialogue in your mind you were actively trying to dismiss, “You good?”

You clear your throat, finally forcing your eyes down to meet Donghyuck’s, “Hm? Are you good is the real question?”

It's Donghyuck's turn to be amused by your behavior, huffing out a breathy laugh before managing to sit up fully, “I’m feeling fine now.”

“Oh?" You quirked an eyebrow, stepping out of the way so he could return to the machine behind you. "Ready for your next set?”

Donghyuck basically shudders at the implication that he would have to put his body through that torture again, grimacing up at you, “On second thought, give me another minute.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Why does the gym hurt this bad?” Donghyuck groans, his cries muffled into the plush of his friend’s couch.

“I’m still tryna figure out why you just randomly went?” Jaemin voices confusedly from his kitchen.

Jeno snorts, attention half-heartedly with the assignment he’s supposed to be completing alongside Jaemin. A session that Donghyuck commonly crashes to prevent him from being quote on quote left out, “‘Cause he has a crush.”

For the first time since the man had successfully wobbled his weight onto Jaemin’s couch, his head darted up, “Ah, I just don’t have a crush, Jeno. We’re in love.”

“Did she tell you that?” Jeno peels his eyes in his roommate’s direction.

“Right by the weight rack, actually.” Donghyuck falsely recounts, head now propped by one of his recently overworked arms.

“Sure.”

“Who knew all it took to get you in the gym was an infatuation?” Jaemin strolls back into the living room, placing down the ice bag Donghyuck had incessantly requested upon first arriving on the coffee table.

Jeno scoffs, “I think everyone would have assumed that was all it took but whatever— it makes my life easier.”

“So, Romeo,” Jaemin deliberately plops down on the lower half of Donghyuck’s sore body.

“Ack!” Donghyuck yelps, his pain so severe from his friend's weight that a bright white flash blinds him momentarily.

“When are we seeing the love of your life again?”

Now that he thinks about it, Donghyuck doesn’t know the answer to this question himself (maybe if he had paid more attention to the workout split schedule Jeno had forwarded him— damn), throwing a hopeful (pitiful) look toward Jeno. The recipient sighs, lolling his head to the side in annoyance.

“She doesn’t work out on Sunday’s.”

“Monday it is!”

iii. tell me everything that’s on your mind

“Who the hell is that?”

“I would assume a fellow gym goer?” Jeno says slowly, fumbling around in his gym bag and not paying Donghyuck a slither of his attention.

“But he’s muscular!” Despite the desperate projection in his friend’s voice, Jeno continues to expertly tune him out.

“Very likely in a place like this…” he hums.

Donghyuck huffs, urgently extending his arms out towards the scene unfolding ahead of him, “Jeno, he’s stealing my wife!”

Jeno rolls his eyes, choosing to spare Donghyuck with a look over his shoulder, “What are— oh, that’s just Johnny.”

Donghyuck looks around bewildered like he isn’t the sole person in the gym throwing a fit, “Am I supposed to know who that bulky fuck is?”

“Dude, he’s like her gym dad— everyone’s actually, nothing to be concerned about…” Jeno shakes his head, completely unsympathetic to his friend’s breakdown.

Donghyuck desperately whips his attention back to you, you and Johnny.

Who the hell is above 30 and named Johnny these days, anyway?

“Look at how hard she’s laughing, I’m gonna jump.”

Jeno bites back an encouraging remark, instead choosing peace, “Why don’t you just— I dunno— do something about it—“ Jeno pans his head back to Donghyuck, mouth gaping to advise him further. “And you’re gone.”

Determined, Donghyuck struts over to you and your interaction. But the closer he gets, the more he truly realizes just how badly this guy could kick his ass— arguably worse than Jeno (and that was saying something).

“Stop it— hey! Oh, Johnny you have to meet Donghyuck,” you gesture towards the man, ignoring how he hilariously ogles up at Johnny like a house mouse. “He’s a close friend of Jeno’s!”

“Hey, nice to meet you.” Johnny warmly extends his hand to be shook, and Donghyuck obediently places his obviously smaller one in his.

Through a tight-lipped smile, Donghyuck replies,“Same here.”

You’re positive that if Johnny didn’t get the cue to recede from the interaction that Donghyuck would still be standing here slowly, but surely further subjecting the older man to a prolonged handshake.

“Did you need something, ‘Hyuck?” The foreign sound of his familiar nickname from your mouth leaves air caught in his throat.

Donghyuck shakes his head profusely, scratching the back of his nape as a vice in this cramped situation he’s found himself in, “Uh, no, no. Just wanted to say hi.”

“Oh, okay,” your lips press into a thin line, bordering a frown.

Johnny smacks his teeth, marking his departure from the interaction, “Well, I’ll leave you kids to it!”

You perk up to bid your friend farewell, “See you next week?”

“Unfortunately!” Johnny waves backwards at you both, delivering goodbyes to fellow gym-goers until he’s officially left the building.

“Hey, you okay?” You return your attention to stiff man adjacent of you.

Donghyuck clears his throat, nodding as he stuffs his hand into the pockets of his sweats, “I’m good. I should probably be getting back to Jen’… he starts getting a little impatient—“

“Donghyuck.” You call out for him before he can even gather up the motivation to inch away from you.

His head pops up and toward you like a puppy, “Hm?”

The resemblance you spot— down to his wide, wet brown eyes— forces you to swallow down a laugh, “I don’t know if you noticed, but I like consistency.”

“… I’m lost.” Donghyuck bats a few long blinks your way.

You sigh, shifting on your feet to lean towards him, “Meaning, if you’re gonna put the moves on me one day, I’d rather you not leave me hanging the next… that is your intention, right?”

Donghyuck looks between both of your eyes as he processes what you’ve just said, you almost think he’ll explode if he continues to think so hard.

“Oh… oh. I didn’t know if you were— are you into me?” He adorably fumbles around, it makes the Donghyuck you remember from his first day in the gym seem like a far stranger.

“Hm. Guess I haven’t made it all that obvious either.” You swing your foot coyly.

Donghyuck gulps, “Heh, yeah. Sorry, I did not think I would get this far,” the tail-end of his sentence sounds as if he’s speaking more to himself. Obviously your admittance still settling in for him.

You giggle at Donghyuck’s endearing deer-like expression, “So, do you wanna go out sometime? Somewhere that preferably doesn’t reek of sweat?” You propose, ruffling through your gym bag while Donghyuck follows your every movement intently.

“God yes—” Donghyuck practically melts at the invitation, earning an amused giggle from you. He clears his throat, shuffling to cross his arms and hopefully hide his swelling embarrassment. “I mean, yeah, that’d be great.”

“Cool. I’ll be expecting your call.” You hand him a small card with your number on it. Donghyuck accepts the card as if he were to hold it too tightly, it’ll shatter into pieces.

“See you around?” You effectively draw his attention back to you before he can trace his eyes over your contact information once more.

Donghyuck nods before he can control it, “You can count on it.” He affirms.

“Good.” You sling your bag over your shoulder, sashaying past Donghyuck with a coquettish wave. Just like you had grown used to, he tracks your every movement until you’ve finally left the gym, daydreamingly sighing to himself before his sweet reverie is interrupted by Jeno’s disgruntled face entering his line of vision.

“Genuinely how?”

“I could teach you a thing or two if you want, Jeno. Lucky for you we’re close enough so it’d come at a discounted price— ouf!”

Jeno tosses a deft kettlebell into Donghyuck’s hold which leads him to crumble forward like a ragdoll, “Play nice before I sick Johnny on you.”

© jigueminunbich 2025