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abyssyby · 5 months ago

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Touch, touch, touch

—every time you and sylus touch is out of necessity, until it isn’t just.

ʕ ꈍᴥꈍʔ: baby’s first drabble! hello! soft, yearning, aching, hand-flexing sylus has been eating away at my brain like a maggot (affectionate). here’s the first of hopefully more of whatever this is ♡ i havent written in a hot MINUTE, so feedback is super appreciated. i hope you enjoy! ❀ -urs

sylus x reader | fluff, longing, dressing wounds, dates, and touches

The hunter’s attempts at sneaking up on him amuse him and make his chest ache at the same time. It was an all-too-familiar sight— her face and her eyes watching him like a hawk’s, her motions like a wild cat’s. A knife in hand isn’t favorable, sure, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. He’s barely looking when he catches your wrist with his sturdy fingers, head gracefully turning to look at you with no trace of urgency.

“Kitten.” glowing rubies scrutinize your failed attempt at causing harm. Or a good startle. He couldn’t read if that was murder or mischief in your eyes. Either way, he liked it. “Nice try.”

𓇢𓆸𓇢𓆸𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Always so lost when it comes to the base, Mephisto is your only friend. The halls were made to be a labyrinth to anyone who dared trespass. Only Sylus and the twins truly know the way. Sylus spent hours programming the bird to know the ins and outs of the base, so he is your beacon. But he flies quick, and after shaking him like a tambourine that one time, he doesn’t really care if he loses you.

“Shit.” you mutter, turning in a circle. A comical fork in the hall before you. You just wanted to find the library Sylus has been so proud of. You wonder how you’ll ever get there. You wonder how you’ll ever get out…

Warmth on your shoulder and a sturdy grip on your arm maneuver you towards the rightmost hallway. Sylus towers over you, unimpressed. “He went that way.”

Cheeks growing warm, you wanted to punch him— for sneaking up on you in a most idiotic state. But you thank him instead, shaking him off and stalking after the stupid bird. Maybe you’ll give him another shake for good measure.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

Amongst all your injuries, the broken nail on your thumb irks you the most. At least the lock is broken, and you’re safe and warm inside the safe house. The uncharacteristically charismatic safe house with leather couches, plush rugs, and a fancy fireplace. It smelled of white ginger incense and cinnamon. If you weren’t so dizzy and cold from the blood loss, you’d be living it up in this gold brick bungalow.

Slumping against the door, respectfully getting only the wood floors wet and not the carpet, you assess the situation: bruises and scrapes (no big deal), gunshot to your shoulder, bullet still lodged and bleeding slowly (not so bad), and possible concussion (maybe a little concerning), broken thumbnail (big issue).

You know exactly what you need to do. Where the first-aid kit may be, how to dig the bullet out, and what to bite on when you do it. Simple, easy, quick— as you were trained to do. A few winces and groans, and you’ll be fine. You lose a slow and steady breath. You’ll be fine…

A few minutes to rest wouldn’t be so bad. Just a few breaths, a moment to rest your eyes, to calm your heartbeat and slow the bleeding. Just a minute. Just a minute.

The click of the broken lock disengaging wakes you, sends you into a panic. How long have you been out? Instinct makes you reach, point, and cock your gun to the door— where it meets a dragon’s rock-molten glare. He scowls at you, incredulous— maybe at the blood on the polished mahogany floor, seeping between its crevices. Or at the shattered, high-end biotech door lock. Or the fact that you broke in. You have no energy to ask.

“You welcome this house’s owner by pointing a gun to his head?” he asks, but his voice carries no venom, nor does it any humor. He’s kneeling the next time you blink, hands hovering over your left shoulder. There’s something in the scrunch of his brows, the crease beneath his eyes, the short breaths he tries to hide— as if he’d been running, panicking.

“How…?”

“A safe with a broken lock tends to make itself known, sweetie.” he murmurs, too focused on all the blood. Too much to be coming from you. “Although the treasure usually doesn’t walk right in.”

He applies pressure. You groan. “What?”

“Can you stand?” he asks. You try, but at the first sign of strain on your face, he stops you and moves you himself.

He lays you by the fireplace, leaves the room to retrieve a first aid kit, and then works carefully in the dim light. He doesn’t speak a word, and you wonder if it’s because he’s mad. It is pretty shameless of you to break into his property. And you suppose pointing a gun to his head is even worse.

He shouldn’t have to do this. He shouldn’t be dirtying his hands with your mistakes, dealing with the consequences of your poor and ill-tempered decisions. Shouldn’t have to be dealing with a bloody floor and a broken lock— and it’s all your fault. Guilt, cold and sickening, bubbles up in the pit of your stomach.

But his hands are gentle and soothing. His presence, the sound of his breathing is lulling you into calm-surfaced waters with a current that runs rapidly, dangerously beneath. You hate that you want to drown.

“Sylus…” you start as he wipes his hands on his thighs, finished with stitching up your wound.

He holds out a pill. “Take this.”

You blink at him.

“Painkiller.” he nudges your hand open, and you wince as he hits your thumb. The broken nail making its presence known once more. He freezes, wondering if he’d done that. If he’d missed a broken bone. He didn’t check for sprains. He opens his mouth to say something.

But you cut him off, bringing your finger to your lips and sucking. “I broke it when I picked your lock.”

“Your finger?” he sounds mad.

“My nail.” you clarify, voice quieter now. A response at his own tone.

The cord that pulled his shoulders taut and froze his spine breaks its tension. He exhales. The rest of him follows, and with softness, he whispers. “Let me see.”

You lift your hand to him carefully, and his strong fingers wrap around the base of your thumb and your palm. He inspects it with such care you’d think it was a protocore worth his time. “Looks bad.”

“Feels bad.” You confirm, tugging at your hand. But with no real force. Maybe just to see if he would let go.

He doesn’t. In fact, he looks pained. Maybe he had been looking pained this whole time— when he cleaned your cuts, when he pulled the bullet out of your shoulder and stitched up the gaping hole. Too engrossed in your guilt, you hadn’t noticed that what you thought was anger on his face was something else entirely. Anguish. Worry. The last fraying thread of composure his sanity clings to tonight. His grasp tightens around your hand, and he cleans it with the same tenderness he gave your worse injuries.

Then he pulls your hand up to his lips. His breath ghosts over your skin, heat lacing through your veins, down your arm and pooling in the crevices of your chest. “Call me, next time. When you need help.”

He gauges your expression. He looks different here. His usual blood-cursed irises now looking like sweet, warm honey in the glow of the firelight.

“Please.” He insists, voice low and imploring. It snaps you out of your reverie, and you nod. That’s enough for him.

You spend the rest of the night talking, or at least he tries to keep you talking. You still did have a concussion after all.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

You shouldn’t be surprised, and yet. In the mirror, you scrutinized yourself in the dress he bought you. The shifting hues of black and red at the movement, how the gloves looked like starlight and felt like butter on your arms. How the heavy diamonds adorning your ears and your neck glimmer in the ambient light of his guest room.

There is a knock on the door and at your command, it swings open to reveal an equally stunning leader of Onychinus.

The strap of his watch catches his skin as he pushes the door open. He’s scowling at his wrist when you see him. And as he looks up, he meets your wide-eyed gaze in the mirror. There is a rupturing, caving so grand in your chest at his heated gaze. A smile he cannot help graces his dangerously, beautiful lips. “You look…”

“My dress,” you say at the same time. Desperate, quick to fill the silence that stuffed the room now that there are two people in it. Now that he— handsome and alluring— is in it. You need to get a grip. “Can—“ you pause when you realize he was speaking too. But he simply gestures for you to go on. “Can you help me?”

Sylus takes in the ask and nods. Willing the thrumming in his chest to cease and his breathing to steady as he comes up behind you. Closer and closer until you feel the heat of his fingers on your skin.

“I’m going to—“

“Go ahead.” you feel his knuckle glide up the skin of your back as he zips you up snugly in the dress. So perfectly fit, you tried to find a flaw— but there was none. The glitter didn’t scratch under your arms, the fabric didn’t itch around your waist and it draped just below your ankles. it was soft and flexible enough should you have to move more than needed during tonight’s operation, you could.

Something stirs in you that Sylus, under the guise of wanting to handle things himself, still took to account specific, necessary modifications for your comfort without you having to say a word.

“Thanks.” you say, catching the reflection of his eyes again. His own lingers on the zipper for a moment before he pulls his hands away like he’d touched fire. He grunts in reply. Whatever he came in to say was lost to him, and frankly, he had no interest in getting it back.

“Take your time.” he says instead, voice tight. Then, unable to say another word, he turns on his heel and marches out with a rigid spine and stiff shoulders. Unbeknownst to you, his ears had gone as crimson as his irises. Meanwhile, you curl in on yourself, nails digging into your arms as you drop to your ankles, willing yourself into a ball to distract from the inferno in your chest.

Good thing the dress was stretchy.

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

“Sylus?” turning, you wonder how it was possible to lose such a tall, formidable man.

The crowd is an ocean that pulls you within its current however-much you push against. He asked you, very kindly, actually, to stay by his side— or so you recall. And yet the pastries, the trinkets, the lanterns and the small stall with the adoptable pets have charmed you like the lilt of a flute’s tune.

The Linkon plaza is never this crowded, if it weren’t for the new year festival. From his cave, you thought you’d lure him out and show him how bright and happy a celebration should be beyond the confines of the base. Sure, the lanterns are up, the gold coins are scattered, the streamers and confetti have littered the floors of the mansion (thanks to the eagerness of the twins), but being out with the people celebrating the arrival of a new year is still, you argued, different.

“I don’t need anyone else.” He’d said when you coined the idea. With his gentle look, and the hint of a challenge beneath a raised brow. You turn away before he spots the visual evidence of the prickles you feel under the flesh of your cheeks. He still does, anyway. It makes him grin.

Never truly one to deny you, he agrees on one condition: stay close. And here you are… not.

“Excuse me— sorry.” You weave through people as gently as you could, straining your neck trying to look over countless heads to find familiar moon-touched hair. A part of you itches in frustration— with his height, he should find you easily. Why wasn’t he looking for you?

The crowd spits you out by a sidewalk where children have gathered nearby to watch a puppet show. He’s impossible to miss in his red coat and bright white hair. There he stood in the back of the short crowd, watching intently as the paper dragon dances with the princess.

You wander next to him quietly, not wanting to disrupt his intrigue. There was a far-away look in his eyes that made you wonder if he was watching at all. When he flinches ever so slightly as the dragon is slain, you’re sure he is.

He feels your hand slip into his palm, and his fingers instinctively find their place between the spaces of your own. And something like freshly cooked rice or a hearty soup travels down into your chest at the feeling that this— this was right. You should have been doing this from the moment you arrived; then you wouldn’t have wandered, then you wouldn’t have strayed. You make a mental note: don’t let go.

He thinks of how well you’ve gotten at sneaking up on him.

Your grasp tightens. “There you are.”

“You left me.” he says, his voice a little raspy from underuse. Unlike yours, that has been yelling his name the moment you realized he was gone.

“No, I didn’t.” you insist, nudging him. “I just lost you for a second.”

“Felt like ages, sweetie.” he says, looking at you. He means to tease, but his words carry the weight of a lifetime.

“Sylus.” you frown. You don’t like the way his features look haunted by a specter you cannot slay. Your free hand comes to touch his face, fingers brushing just below his eye, easing lightness back beneath his skin. “I found you.”

And as if by your touch, his soul snaps into place. This one, now. Not any other life before. His brows unfurl and his distance from sea to shore recedes. A tenderness. A gratefulness. A prideful, present sort of affection. “You did.”

“Wasn’t easy.” you huff, shoulders sinking in frustration. Spreading out the tension as the air between you has gotten too thin. But your hand stays in place, curling around his jaw to stabilize itself. Your thumb has a mind of its own, rubbing the back of his hand. To ground him, you say. For him. For… you, too. “There are too many things, I got a little overwhelmed.”

He smirks, reaching up to your face and swiping his thumb over the corner of your lip. It comes away stained with blue icing. From the very cupcake that lured you away. He brings it to his lips and tastes it. “Show me.”

“Hm?” you blink, distracted at the act. The sound of your pulse muffling your ears, drowning out the droning of the crowd.

“Show me the many things.” he says again, a chuckle sanding his tone. His voice is clear as day, the only true thing you hear in the cheerful chaos of the festival. He shakes your joined hands. “I’ve got you.”

𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 𓇢𓆸 ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

thank you for reading!

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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

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Mr Oblivious

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar Piastri is absolutely oblivious to the fact that people try to flirt with him. It drives Lando nuts. Felicity finds it very amusing though.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Lando Norris had a very simple opinion about Oscar Piastri:

The man was smart, fast, loyal to a fault — And completely, hopelessly, oblivious.

Especially about certain things.

Like, say, the fact that every now and then, some thirsty influencer or overly-friendly interviewer decided they wanted to test their luck around one of McLaren’s golden boys.

Case in point: today.

It was supposed to be a simple media day.

Smile, wave, answer a few questions without accidentally swearing — easy stuff.

And then she showed up.

Some influencer.

Lando didn’t catch her name.

Didn’t want to.

Her outfit was orange enough to suggest she'd Googled "McLaren colors" five minutes before showing up.

Her laugh was the kind that made Lando want to put himself in an ice bath.

But what really got him was the way she locked eyes on Oscar from the moment she walked into the room.

Like a hawk spotting a particularly delicious rabbit.

And Oscar — sweet, pure, unsuspecting Oscar — stood there politely, posture perfect, nodding like he was about to explain suspension geometry to a cactus.

She sidled up to him with all the grace of a Bond girl in heels, flashing teeth and dimples and Lando could see it coming.

Could see the slow-motion train wreck unfolding with the inevitability of a Ferrari strategy call.

She sidled closer.

Tilted her head. Big fake lashes, even faker laugh.

"So, Oscar," she purred, "looking very fit this season. What's your secret?"

Lando, standing just off to the side, already felt his skin crawl.

Oscar, meanwhile, nodded thoughtfully like she’d asked him about chassis balance.

"Consistency," he said, serious as anything. "And good hydration habits. Also core strength. That’s really important for maintaining control in high G-force corners. I’ve been working with a new strength and conditioning coach. Core engagement and flexibility training. Lots of functional range mobility exercises. Very important for endurance."

Lando nearly dropped the can of Monster Energy he was carrying.

He physically turned away, took a moment to compose himself, and turned back — and she was still going.

She giggled — the kind of giggle Lando associated with botched lip filler and red flags — and twirled her hair like they were in a teen movie from 2004.

"Flexibility, huh?" she said, her voice doing That Thing™. Then winked.

WINKED.

Oscar, God bless him, nodded solemnly.

"Yeah. Critical for cockpit comfort. Limited hip mobility can lead to premature fatigue during longer races."

Lando just stared.

The influencer stared.

Oscar stared earnestly back. Oscar blinked at her with the open innocence of a Labrador Retriever about to explain knee cartilage.

It was like watching someone flirt with a toaster.

And then — then — she tried it.

She went for the kill.

"Well," she said, laughing in a way that definitely wasn't natural, "maybe you could show me some... flexibility exercises later?"

Lando choked on air.

Oscar, bless him, just looked mildly puzzled.

Lando’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

Oscar thought she wanted workout advice.

Meanwhile, this woman was basically trying to climb him like a tree.

"I mean," Oscar said, frowning thoughtfully, "I guess? If you’re interested in physiotherapy protocols? There's a lot of hip flexor and thoracic mobility involved."

He paused.

"Although," Oscar added very seriously, completely unaware he was standing in a verbal minefield, “you should always get a doctor’s clearance before starting any high-intensity exercise program.”

The influencer blinked.

Lando stared at the heavens.

Why.

Why had the universe given this man a marriage, a child, and a heart of gold, but no flirting radar whatsoever.

Lando was so angry on Oscar’s behalf he actually saw red.

Because it wasn’t just the flirting.

It was the disrespect.

Oscar — who had a wife who fixed racing models better than half the paddock. Oscar — who had a four-year-old daughter who beat engineers at Sudoku. Oscar — who literally carried his entire family in his heart wherever he went.

He wasn’t available.

He wasn’t interested.

And he damn well deserved to have people respect that without needing to tattoo MARRIED. TAKEN. HAS A BUMBLEBEE-OBSESSED DAUGHTER across his forehead.

And then — because clearly the universe wanted to personally test Lando’s self-control — the influencer winked.

Like, full-on, slow-motion, cartoon-style winked at Oscar.

Oscar blinked back, confused.

Then said, very seriously:

"You should also stretch regularly to avoid cramping."

Lando actually made a noise — somewhere between a groan and a dying animal.

The influencer tried to recover, laughing awkwardly, but Oscar had already turned — calm, unfazed — and was politely thanking the PR rep for organizing the media day.

Lando stormed over, practically vibrating with protective rage.

"Mate," he hissed when Oscar finally wandered off-stage, "you realize she was hitting on you, right?"

Oscar frowned. "Was she?"

"YES," Lando hissed, arms flailing. "She was basically ready to throw herself at you!”

Oscar looked genuinely perplexed.

"But... I’m married."

"YES," Lando repeated, louder, like he was explaining quantum physics to a pigeon. "You are married. You have a kid. You are the dictionary definition of off-limits."

Oscar scratched the back of his neck.

"Maybe she didn’t know?"

"She definitely knew," Lando muttered darkly. "You are actually wearing your wedding ring for once and Bee’s little bead bracelet. You might as well walk around holding a sign that says 'I love my wife and daughter more than oxygen.'"

Oscar shrugged, entirely unfazed.

"I mean... it’s true."

Lando stared at him.

Somewhere between admiration and absolute rage.

When they reached the McLaren motorhome, Felicity was there — perched on the couch, Bee asleep with her head on Felicity’s lap, Button the Frog tucked under her tiny arm.

Oscar’s whole face lit up like a sunrise.

He crossed the room without hesitation, dropped a kiss onto Felicity’s hair, and gently stroked Bee’s back.

Felicity smiled up at him, all soft and warm and easy, like they had a language no one else could hear.

Lando stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching it all unfold.

Watching how Oscar's whole world just locked into place around them, without hesitation, without second thought.

Yeah.

Let them flirt. Let them try.

Oscar Piastri had everything he needed right here. And he was smart enough — good enough — to never even glance anywhere else.

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/F1TeaSpill: BREAKING: Influencer tries to flirt with Oscar Piastri.

Oscar responds with “core strength” and “doctor’s clearance.”

Meanwhile, Lando Norris nearly combusts in the background.

[attached: video clip]

@/pitlanechaos: Not Oscar offering that woman a PHYSIOTHERAPY REFERRAL I’m losing it. He thought she wanted professional advice. He’s too pure for this world.

@/felicityfanclub (pinned tweet):

‼️OSCAR PIASTRI IS MARRIED

‼️HE LOVES HIS WIFE

‼️HE LOVES HIS DAUGHTER

‼️HE IS OBLIVIOUSLY LOYAL

‼️AND WE ARE HERE TO DEFEND HIS GOLDEN RETRIEVER ENERGY

@/formulawoah: This man said “consult your doctor” instead of realizing she was flirting. He’s not oblivious. He’s loyal at a molecular level.

@/landohmygod: Lando Norris being 1 second away from lunging across the paddock like an angry chihuahua deserves its own Emmy. He was FIGHTING for Oscar’s honor.

@/suspension_nerd: If I was that influencer and Oscar hit me with “thoracic mobility is important” when I was trying to flirt, I would simply evaporate on the spot.

@/gridgossip: This man has a wife who fixes telemetry errors in her sleep, and makes him bento boxes everyday. AND A DAUGHTER WHO BEATS ENGINEERS AT SUDOKU. What did you THINK was going to happen??

@/F1psychology: Watching Oscar Piastri react to flirting like it's a sports injury safety video is the most fascinating psychological case study I’ve ever seen. Also, Lando's visible rage is priceless.

***

Oscar waited until Bee was down for the night.

She’d fallen asleep curled up around Button the Frog, one arm flung dramatically across her pillow like she was staging a nap-themed protest. He’d kissed her forehead and tucked the blanket under her chin, switching the night light to its soft pink glow before slipping out of her room on quiet feet.

He figured... if Felicity was going to hate him, she probably shouldn’t have to do it in front of their daughter.

Which was stupid. He hadn’t done anything wrong.

But the pit in his stomach wouldn’t go away.

He was sweating, suddenly aware of how clingy the collar of his t-shirt felt. His hands wouldn’t sit still — twitching, tapping, twisting his wedding ring around and around until the skin beneath it burned.

He felt fifteen again. Awkward and uncertain and too full of words he didn’t know how to say.

And then Felicity padded into the living room, hair twisted into a lazy bun, bare feet soft against the floorboards, wearing one of his old McLaren hoodies that hung off her like it still didn’t understand how it ended up lucky enough to be wrapped around her.

She looked soft. Tired. Safe.

She smiled when she saw him, sweet and a little sleepy, like she was expecting him to ask about what tea she wanted or whether he’d remembered to order oat milk.

Oscar nearly chickened out.

Instead, he sat up straighter — awkward and abrupt — and blurted:

"Someone tried to flirt with me today."

Felicity blinked.

Tilted her head slightly, eyebrows raised — curious, not alarmed.

"Okay," she said, in the same tone she might use if he told her they were out of clean towels.

Oscar frowned.

"No, like — really tried. At a media thing. In front of cameras."

She just blinked again. Still calm. Still patient.

Still not mad.

Just... waiting.

Oscar swallowed.

"And I didn’t realize it was flirting until Lando nearly had an aneurysm."

That earned him a real laugh — soft, sudden, surprised. The kind of laugh she gave him when Bee said something absurd or when Oscar accidentally fixed something in the kitchen by whacking it with a shoe.

It went straight to his chest.

God, he loved her.

"And I was worried—" he continued, words stumbling out now like they’d been dammed up too long, "I was worried you’d think I was — I don’t know — encouraging it or — or being stupid, or not noticing because I wanted to miss it—"

Felicity crossed the room in three quick steps, not breaking eye contact once.

She dropped onto the couch beside him, slid her legs over his lap like she did every night, and tucked herself against his side like she’d always belonged there.

"You thought I’d be mad," she said, amused, "because some random influencer tried to flirt with you?"

Oscar nodded miserably, guilt still clinging to the back of his throat.

Felicity pulled back just enough to look up at him.

Eyes shining. Smile small and full of something dangerously close to laughter.

"Oscar," she said slowly, "I saw the whole video. You tried to offer her hydration advice."

He groaned, already regretting every decision he’d made since opening his mouth.

"Please don’t remind me."

"You told her to stretch her hip flexors," Felicity said, delighted. "Oscar, you sounded like a yoga instructor trying to scare off a client."

"Bee probably would’ve handled it better," he muttered, rubbing at his face.

Felicity laughed — a real one this time, head back, eyes crinkled, full-body kind of joy.

Oscar melted a little.

She curled closer, arms winding around his waist like she didn’t intend to let go anytime soon.

"I’m not mad, love," she said gently, brushing her nose against his shoulder. "She never stood a chance."

Oscar blinked down at her, stunned. A little breathless.

Felicity grinned up at him.

"You are so... mine, it’s not even funny."

She said it like a joke. She said it like a truth carved in stone.

Both were true.

Oscar let out a long, shaky breath, tension finally bleeding out of his chest.

"I just didn’t want you to think—"

She kissed his cheek, quieting him with the ease of someone who knew every version of him — the champion, the kid from karting, the dad who braided Bee’s hair with frog clips.

"I married you," Felicity whispered. "I know exactly who you are. I trust you with my life. And frankly, if anyone tries to flirt with you again, I might just send them a condolence card."

Oscar laughed, startled and in love and still trying to figure out how he’d ever ended up this lucky.

"And also," Felicity added, smirking like a fox who had absolutely won, "it’s way too funny to be jealous about."

He buried his face into her neck, overwhelmed by the warmth of her, by the sharp edges of her wit and the soft edges of her love.

"You’re ridiculous," he mumbled, muffled by her skin.

"And you," she said, threading her fingers through his hair like he was something precious, "are very bad at realizing when people want you." A beat. "And your brain is permanently stuck on ‘wife good, daughter best, car fast.’"

Oscar smiled, eyes closed, letting her steady him with nothing more than her heartbeat and her presence.

"You really aren’t mad?" he asked, still half-disbelieving.

Felicity leaned back, just far enough to look at him fully — bright-eyed and ferociously sure.

"Oscar," she said solemnly, "you are the most obliviously loyal man I’ve ever met. If I had to design a loyalty test, it would look like you."

Oscar kissed the curve of her throat, slow and reverent.

"Good thing I only ever wanted you," he murmured.

Felicity’s arms tightened around him, like she could will him into her bones.

"Exactly," she whispered.

Exactly.

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melshifting · 3 months ago

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EFFORTLESSLY BLESSED ― Ultimate 'Lucky Girl' Pack for your DR ‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧

❝ I swear, the Universe is obsessed with you.❞

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Doors open when you approach — not just automatic ones. People hold them for you, even from an unnecessary distance, to make life a little easier for you.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ You get free stuff… a lot. Brands send you PR packages even if you’re not an influencer, baristas “accidentally” make an extra drink and give it to you even if it's not your birthday.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ An actual bad day...? — even when everything seems wrong, you always end up in the right place at the right time; the universe orchestrates your schedule so you get even better opportunities.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Limited-time offers! — you always get the last of anything without even realizing how close you were to missing out.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Lost & Found — somehow, anything and everything finds their way back into your hands, as if the universe keeps an eye on your belongings.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Your instincts are eerily accurate — you always pick the fastest-moving line at checkout, the restaurant with the best food. Decisions flow through you.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ You're the priority. — trains, waiting rooms, crowded events; someone always gets up and gestures for you to sit. They don’t even know why.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Money magnet! — a $10 bill on the ground, change in an old coat pocket, that refund you forgot about suddenly appearing in your account at the perfect time.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Best luck with clothes — last one in your size? Always yours. Surprise discount at checkout? Of course. That thing you’ve been looking for forever? Magically waiting for you.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ 10/10 memory — whether it’s your notebook for class or the charger for your phone, you manage to remember the essentials just in time.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ 100% acceptance rate! even on a whim — jobs, programs, exclusive clubs... your applications always land on the right desk at the right time.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ VIP list — bodyguards at events, clubs, or exclusive parties don't ever question if you have a pass, you just look like someone important.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ You always get served first — whether in a bar, bakery, or food truck, you barely step up before someone’s already handing you what you wanted.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ Pet's favorite! — you have that unexplainable magic that makes any animal gravitate toward you and trust you instantly.

꒰ᐢ. .ᐢ꒱ You always find the loophole — whether an extra day on a deadline or an easy way around a problem, solutions come to you like second nature.

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howlsofbloodhounds · 7 months ago

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Why would you leave that in the tags 😭

so how often do we think killer has the thoughts and urges and compulsions to kill

#but yes I agree #its in his programming #and research into tbmc shows it’s really not easy to fight these things #although possible to get better #because these instincts have been trained into him #through use of fear and threat of harm or death #or reset #killing once upon a time has been his only way to stay safe and survive #to escape a reset

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buckyalpine · 2 years ago

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Pick Me

Bucky x reader

The new recruit has her eyes set of a certain set of super soldiers. Especially your super soldier.

warnings: jealously, Angsty bangsty, but also so fluffy fluffy and smutty, clueless Bucky, he really means no harm, go easy on him.

A/n - editing to add: when I first started writing this I loved the concept and wrote a large chunk but then I left it for months cause I struggled to actually finish writing it. This wasn’t even the original ending I had planned but I just wanted to finish it so yes Bucky should’ve done way more, pretend there was a time jump where he does a better job with earning forgiveness 🥲

“Everyone, meet Nicole, our newest recruit for the field agent training program” Tony walked into the common room where you were sprawled out on the couch with Nat, Sam and Wanda while a young woman walking confidently behind him. “She’s going to be staying with us for a couple of months to train before she goes onto the the field” Tony turned back to her, bringing her to his side.

“I’m sure you know everyone but let me introduce you to them anyway. This is the very Natasha, Wanda, Sam and y/n”

“Hey Nicole” You gave her a warm smile, happy to welcome her while everyone else also got up to greet her. “Nice to meet you”

“Oh, ew, just call me Nic! I don’t really go by Nicole” She scrunched her face at the sound of her full name, her eyes scanning the room, clearly looking for someone. “Don’t suppose the very Captain America and Sergeant Barnes are here?”

The hopeful uptick in her voice made it clear that’s who she’d been searching for. Right on cue, the two super soldiers walked into the living room on their way to the kitchen after a morning run.

“Speak of the devils and I do mean devils” Tony snorted beckoning the men to meet the new recruit. “Rogers, Barnes, this is Nicole, preferably Nic”

“Hello handsome” She gave Bucky a bashful smile before turning to Steve and batting her lashes, “and handsome”

“Nice to meet you” Steve reddened at the way she gripped onto his hand before slinking over to the brunette, purposely sticking out her left hand so he’d shake with his metal one. “And you Sergeant”

Bucky gave her a smile and quick shake, excusing himself to get some water while Steve quickly trailed behind him. Tony went on to take her to her room which was on the same floor as yours, all the other spare rooms occupied by a few others who had already started training. Nicole returned to the living room moments later with sweats and a hoodie, her hair tied up, plopping down onto the sofa beside Sam.

“Hey, were doing a girls night, movies, junk food, wine, you wanna join us?” Nat offered with a smile hoping to make the new recruit feel more welcome even though a part of her was wary.

“It’s a lot of fun, I was just about to get some snacks for tonight, let me know what you like” You add with a smile, only to be met with a scoff.

“Mmm, hard pass on that, wine isn’t really my thing, thanks though” She gave the group a tight lipped smile before turning back to the two super soldiers who had also joined at some point, scrolling through phones they finally knew how to use.

“What are you boys up to tonight” She threw them a smile while laying back on the couch and kicking her feet up, letting her hoodie ride up in the process.

“Bucky and I were actually just going get in a work out, nothing much tonight” He said with a smile, not noticing the way Nicole’s eyes lit up.

“Oh wow I actually haven’t been by the gym yet but I guess it’ll be where I spend most of my time for the program”

“You could join us if you’d like, we can show you around” Bucky offered, also missing the smirk that crossed her face, only seeing her bounce right up with an enthusiastic nod.

“Really? That would be great, I’d really appreciate it!”

“Of course, anytime. We’re just about to head down soon” Bucky stretched as he got up, along with Steve, waiting for her to change before heading down. She got up and went off to her room while you picked at the skin on your fingers. You felt a pang of something at the pit of your stomach at Bucky’s offer but you knew he was just trying to make the girl feel like she was part of the team. He knew more about feeling left out than anyone else; of course he’d never want anyone else to feel the same way.

Still.

Something was off.

You shook off the inkling of insecurity you felt, not wanting to over think his intentions. You and Bucky were not official yet but everyone knew there was tension and a clear unspoken dynamic between you both. It was just a matter of time. Unless he had his sights on the new girl...

No.

He wouldn’t do that.

Right?

*****

“She’s getting really comfortable around those two” Nat cocked an eyebrow watching Nicole have a field day sparring with the two men, throwing herself onto Bucky in particular, giggling when he’d help correct her stance or catch her before she slipped. Every since she joined them at the gym, she made a point to only work out when they were both there, finding excuses when anyone else would offer to help her train.

“I guess they are really experienced, so it makes sense...” Your voice trailed off, trying to reason why she was practically glued to their side, again ignoring the uneasiness you felt when Bucky picked her up with ease and set her back on her feet.

“Uh-huh, we’re all experienced” Nat rolled her eyes, plastering on a fake smile when the three finished up on the sparring mat, making their way over to the both you. “You three have a good workout?”

Steve blinked, noting the iciness In Nat’s voice though Nicole seemed unbothered.

“They’re great, can’t beat having the two best soldiers train me” She drawled out, giving them a wink. Bucky couldn’t help the blush that spread to his cheeks, not used to being praised and you couldn’t help the jealously that started to gnaw at you again.

No.

Relax.

“Anytime, Nic” He shrugged while Nat retched internally, deciding to cut through that conversation before it went further.

“You know, if you come by in the afternoons, Agent Hill hosts a great self-defense workshop for women, great way for you to do some networking as well” Nat gauged the way Nicole’s nose scrunched, shaking her head.

“Women’s workshop, sound’s like a drama fest waiting to happen, honestly most of my friends are guys, makes life easier, thanks though” her eyes didn’t leave the brunette, placing herself perfectly between both soldiers. “Besides, I’m pretty good with self-defense already, that's why I got these two helping me with a little extra”

“Anyway! Y/n and I were talking about the event Stark is hosting later night. You’re both coming, right?” Nat looked at the two men before her, purposely avoiding the Nicole but it didn’t seem to matter.

“Are you coming as well?” Bucky asked her, her eyes lighting up again, quickly recomposing herself after. “You could meet a few of the other agents too, get to know some more people”

“Uh sure, I could come by for a bit” She shrugged, coming off as indifferent while shaking with excitement on the inside. “Thanks, Sarge”

You sucked in a breath at the name she kept calling him, always dropping a suggestive tone in her voice. Or maybe you were over thinking it. It was perfectly plausible she was just being nice to the person who was making an effort to make her feel welcomed. Maybe she had bad experiences in other places that made her wary of women, hence why she only stuck to all the guys on the team. You tried to wrack you brain for answers that would make you feel a little better but came up short.

But you didn’t want to be petty.

You were more mature than this.

“We have plenty of dresses if you want to come by and get ready together” You offered again, mustering a smile, making a final attempt to befriend the new recruit but she didn’t even look your way, fully focused on the brunette.

“Uh- not really the dresses and heels type. I’m more of a sneakers girl to be honest” She tossed her pony tail over her shoulder, missing the way Nat’s eyes nearly rolled out of her head while you nodded, watching her sway her hips as she walked off. “I’ll drag myself over if I’m feeling it”

“Oh-okay, then we’ll just see you there!” You called after her while Nat dragged you off, uninterested in your constant attempts to be friendly.

“C’mon, lets get you ready. I’m going to make you look so hot, Barnes ends up on his knees” The red head smirked while you squeaked, feeling your face heat up. “We’re putting you in that red dress, the one that makes his pants feel too tight, don’t think I didn’t catch him adjusting himself the last time you wore it”

“Nat!” You hissed, hoping he didn’t hear, the both of you in a fit of giggles as you made your way to your room. “Oh my god” you hid your face while she dug through your closet, pulling out the tiny dress that hugged your body perfectly, the red color making you stand out in the best way possible.

“Go shower while I get all the make up out, I’m tired of miss pick me trying to get a buy one get one free deal with those two”

You snorted, hopping into the shower, letting the hot water destress your muscles, feeling a little more hopeful with the dress choice you were going with. Nat didn’t waste any time; as soon as you were out, your hair was styled, make up done and heels strapped. You knew you looked good when both Sam and Tony did a double take, letting their eyes shamelessly linger on you with low whistles.

“Y’know if you’re done playing games with terminator, I’d be happy to take his place” Tony wiggled his eyebrows while you giggled, taking a seat on the plush couch of the lounge where everyone else sat.

“What are you ladies drinking” Steve came over with a tray of drinks from the bar, already well aware of what each person liked to typically order.

“I’m good with a beer” Nicole shrugged, rolling her eyes when you took the pink drink from the tray, “Ugh, I don’t know how you drink those, they’re so sweet, do you even taste anything at that point?”

You shrugged, quietly taking a sip of the raspberry lemonade while she gulped her beer, signaling for another after slamming her bottle down.

“You guys took forever to get ready, this is why I can’t deal with makeup and dresses n’shit” she snorted, directing her comment mostly at you, “That’s a pretty bright color, I thought tonight was supposed to be lowkey?”

“Well I think you ladies look beautiful” Thor boomed, not catching the snark in Nicole's voice, his smile wide and voice completely sincere. “Especially you, Lady y/n”

“Thank you Thunder” You smiled, though the giddiness you felt initially had taken a second hit for the night. He beamed, setting down a bottle of Asgardian mead, searching for the two soldiers.

“Alright, where are the two that need this” He looked around for Steve and Bucky, since they couldn’t get drunk off of regular alcohol. Bucky strode in clearly dressed to kill, in all black from head to toe. Steve joined his side, their faces lit up like it was Christmas day seeing the crystal decanter in the God’s hands. Bucky’s eyes flicked back to you, his breath hitching in his throat, seeing you in his favorite dress.

“Fuck sweets, you look-

“C’mon Sarge, how about a little competition” Nicole nudged Bucky, cutting off the trance he had on you, her shoulder pressing into his, biting her lip and eyeing the alcohol, “Let’s see how many shots we can do”

“This might be a lot to handle doll” Bucky chuckled while you froze hearing what he called her. Her eyes lit up again, quickly glancing over to you, her eye brow quirking before leaning into him more.

Since when did he call anyone else doll.

You felt your stomach sink, taking another long sip of your drink instead, but nothing distracted you from the banter that was taking place before you.

“Ugh, finee, I’ll stick to regular vodka, c’mon Buckyyy, lets gooo!” She practically clung off him waiting for him to pour shots, inches away from crawling into his lap as he grabbed the bottles. You couldn’t tell if the flush from his cheeks was from the alcohol or the constant giggles Nicole made whenever he spoke but either way, you didn’t want to watch any longer.

“Where are you going” Nat grabbed your arm as you got up to leave, though you didn’t need to say anything for her to understand. Her green eyes glared at the tipsy solders who were now busy with a game of pool, surrounded by the rest of the team, Nicole practically crawling up Bucky’s legs each time it was his turn. “For fucks sake-

“They’re just having fun, don’t worry about it” You stopped Nat before she stormed over, shaking your head. As much as you wanted to red head to have her way with any of the three at this point, you couldn't be bothered. You were not about to fight for Bucky’s attention; if he wanted to give it to you, he would...

Right?

You thought things would go back to normal at some point. But it didn’t. Nicole made a point of training twice a day, anything to get her hands on the brunette. Anything to feel the cool metal of his hand on her. In fact she’d taken up most of Bucky’s time outside of just training, always finding ways to tag along with Steve as well, all while avoiding the rest of the team.

*****

“What's wrong sweets” Bucky could tell something was on your mind while he stroked your back, his body still warm from the way he took you apart at least 3 times before filling you up till you were dripping and soaking his sheets. He had finally gotten an afternoon off, tossing you over his shoulder when he found you in the kitchen, not letting you get a word in as he shut the door behind him. You wanted to argue back that he couldn’t just have access to you any time he felt like according to his convenience, but as soon as his soft lips were on you, you melted, turning into a moaning mess seconds later.

“I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages” You shrugged, toying with the corner of Bucky’s blanket, starting to feel more like you were just a body to warm his bed than someone he actually wanted to be with. “We haven’t really hung out recently”

You had let yourself relax into his hold only for him to curse under his breath a second later after he noticed the time. He shifted you off him, making his way over to the closet to pull over his jeans and Henley before scrambling around for his wallet and keys.

“Bucky, what are you-

“Sorry doll, I forgot I promised to take Nicole to the corner diner, showing her around a little bit cause she’ll be staying for a few extra weeks”

Fantastic.

“You spend a lot of time with her” You didn’t want to come off as jealous, keeping your voice even, though you were close to tearing someone's head off. Bucky didn’t seem to notice, humming in agreement while sitting at the edge of the bed to pull on his socks.

“Yeah, she’s fun!” Bucky said casually, which only made the weight in your stomach feel heavier. “She almost beat Steve in MarioKart, just when he thought he was unstoppable”

“Hm” You didn’t bother saying anything else while Bucky threw on his jacket, patting down himself to be sure he didn’t miss anything. He caught the way your face had fallen, his cool metal fingers slipping under your chin to tilt your face up.

“How about we hang out after? Around 7, we’ll watch a movie together, okay? I’ll grab dinner for us. Promise doll” He kissed your forehead before jogging off, closing the door behind him.

You were ready by 6, too excited to wait till 7, having showered and changed into something comfy, laying out Bucky’s favorite snacks and adding a few more soft pillows to the bed. You knew it was still early so you didn’t mind lounging around for a bit, anxiously checking the time as it neared closer and closer to when he was supposed to show up.

An hour later, it was 7.

Then 7:30.

And then 8.

By 9, you had left everything as is, blinking back the hot tears that wanted to spill, retreating back to your own room, not wanting to see him at all, even if he did have a good excuse for not showing up, which was highly unlikely. You shut the door, throwing on an oversized t-shirt and crawling into bed, burying yourself under the covers, no longer bothering to hold back the tears that began to soak your pillow.

****

Bucky cocked his head curiously, seeing his bedroom door left ajar, wondering why it was open when he definitely closed it before leaving. As soon as he stepped in, his heart dropped to his stomach seeing the pillows that were propped up against the headboard, his favorite snacks piled on the fluffy blanket, your fuzzy bunny slippers left behind beside his bed.

He cursed under his breath when he realized the time, remembering his promise to you, running straight to your room, only to find it closed with the lights turned off. He tried knocking only to be met with silence, carefully turning the handle and letting himself inside.

“Doll?” He felt his heart break further seeing the small lump under a mountain of blankets, curled up into a ball “Oh, doll” He strode over, sitting at the edge of your bed, careful not to wake you if you were asleep, his hand gently tucking a strand of hair from your face.

“What” Your voice cracked, hoping he’d think its from sleep and not the fact that you had been crying.

“I’m so sorry sweets, we lost track of time, we went out to grab food and then Sam suggested we check out that new arcade just down the street”

We were supposed to do that you thought to yourself, swallowing down the lump in your throat, refusing to let your emotions get the better of you.

“And then Steve and Sam had to leave half way cause they had a mission early in the morning. Nicole wanted ice cream so we went by Carla’s before coming back-

“You took her to Carla's?” You cut Bucky off, your heart breaking further. That particular ice-cream shop always felt like something special you shared with Bucky, the place he took you to when neither of you could sleep. It was the place you shared your first kiss with him, the place where he said he felt something between the two of you. It’s not like you owned the store but it felt like the final straw, your resolve finally breaking.

“Yeah, I-

“Just go Bucky” There wasn’t a hint of iciness in your voice; just disappointment and defeat, both far worse than you being angry. Bucky froze, pulling your blanket away from you, only for you to push his hand away, burying yourself further into the sheets.

“Doll?”

“Don’t call me that” It was the indifference in your voice that left him hurt and confused, mouth opening and closing, “Please leave”

“Sweets, I can make it up to you, I promise-”

“It’s fine James” You shrugged, pulling the sheets higher up, not willing to speak anymore, knowing you’d burst into tears again if you did. Bucky reluctantly decided to let you sleep, figuring you’d hear him out the next day but no.

How wrong he was.

You avoided him in the morning.

And the day after that.

Nearly a week had gone by and you didn’t spare him a second glance, always finding an excuse to evade him whenever he trailed behind you. It didn’t help that Nicole attempted to stay glued to his side, not giving him chance to get you alone.

*****

“What’s with you” Sam watched Bucky slump down onto the sofa, where everyone else lounged around, his face sullen from a lack of sleep, grumpiness amplified because why were you avoiding him so much?

“Y/n isn’t talking to me” He shrugged, while Nat glared at him.

“I wonder why” the red head mumbled, rolling her eyes at his confusion.

“When was the last time you guys spoke” Steve inquired, equally concerned about why you were ignoring his best friend. Bucky was the last person to share stories about his love life but at this point he was desperate. He recalled the events of the last time he spoke to you, promising a movie night, going out with Nicole, taking her for ice cream, running late, apologizing to you afterwards, where did he go wrong?

“I didn’t mean to forget-

“Bucky!” Nat slapped him upside the head while he yelped, looking at her with puppy eyes.

“What did I do?”

“Barnes, you absolute doorknob, you took her to all the spots you take y/n to, you’ve been spending all your time making little miss I’m one of the guys feel comfortable, you’ve made y/n seem invisible and you’re wondering why she’s not talking to you?” Bucky blinked while Nat continued, her annoyance only growing when she saw a message from Nicole pop up on Bucky’s phone.

“You treat Nicole like your girlfriend. Imagine some new guy joins us, makes a point of eye fucking y/n the entire time, finding ways to constantly flirt with her and touch her, you’d be fine with it? Imagine he avoids hanging out with the guys but makes all the time in the world to chase after anything with breasts. On top of that, how would you feel if y/n went out of her way to make said guy feel more welcomed when he clearly just wants to get into her pants. You’d be fine with it?!”

Bucky shook his head, though still not fully understanding because Nicole was just a friend, not someone he’d even be into. Plus, its not like she was into him like that, right?

“But Nicole doesn’t want to-” Bucky started, shutting his mouth when Nat nearly hissed, staring at him while he did the mental math, “Nicole wants to get into my pants?” Bucky looked at Nat wide eyes, ducking the cushion she was about to whack at his face, all the pieces finally clicking together. He groaned, running a hand over his face, realization hitting him like a ton of bricks. Just as Sam and Steve were about to hum in agreement with Nat, she glared at them, their eyes growing wide.

“And you” Nat turned to glare at Steve, his shoulders slumping when he realized he wasn’t in the clear. He squeaked when Nat pulled his ear, giving it a squeeze, “What were you thinking. You didn’t once think it was weird she only trained with you two? Haven’t any of you noticed Nicole doesn’t hang out with any of us, Just you?” Nat waved her hand at the men that sat before her, their dumb stuck faces only adding to her annoyance. “Idiots”

As much as Bucky wanted to hit his head onto a brick wall, he didn’t have time to waste, immediately springing up from the couch to look for you. He checked everywhere he could but you were nowhere to be found. He was so desperate, he found himself shuffling outside of Tony’s lab, hoping FRIDAY would give him your location.

“You’re asking for a lot Barnes, y/n might add my name to the hit list if I tell you where she is”

“Please” Bucky was ready to beg on his knees while the billionaire huffed, watching the former assassin look like a lovesick puppy. He cocked an eyebrow, noting the glassiness of Bucky’s eyes on his desperate face, nodding before calling for FRIDAY to look for you. “Also, I need another favor...”

****

“Y/n, babygirl” He’d never felt such relief before, seeing you make your way to your room, coming back from your hiding spot from the roof, the scowl on your face clearly showing you weren’t trying to talk to anyone one your way over.

“Oh, I’m babygirl now? Has doll now been reserved for Nicole” You couldn’t hold back the sneer in your voice, walking away faster, ignoring his calls.

“Baby, please!”

No.

“Baby, wait!” Bucky chased after you, not willing to let another day go by without you knowing exactly how he felt. He managed to get hold of your hand, gently tugging you towards his chest and spinning you till your back was against the wall, his chest nearly pressed to you. “Please, I-I need to talk to you, tell you how I feel”

“There’s nothing to talk about”

“Yes there is” His voice was earnest, baby blues searching your downcast eyes, his finger tilting your chin up to look at him, “There’s so much to talk about, I adore you”

“Do you also adore Nic?” You scoffed, while Bucky’s cheeks warmed with embarrassment, the pink spreading up to his ears.

“There’s no Nic or Nicole, theres just a y/n, my y/n, only you doll” You rolled your eyes at his response, trying to move away but Bucky wasn’t having any of it, keeping you pressed against him, “I’m sorry darling, I didn’t realize what she was doing or get her intentions. I thought she just wanted to get to know the team better”

“Wow” you huffed under your breath, wishing you had the space to flick the super soldiers forehead.

“I know, I’m an idiot, and I’m an even bigger idiot for not making it clear I’m so utterly and desperately in love with you” Bucky bit his lip as soon as the words left his mouth, he’d said everything under the sun except those words before. But they were true and he’d kept it inside long enough. “I love you, I love you, fuck, I love you”

You squeaked in surprise when he scooped you up in his arms, tossing you over his shoulder, walking over to his bedroom, smiling when he felt your small fists hitting his back, your butt wiggling to be put back down.

“Barnes, put me down, you can’t just say you love me and then carry me away like a complete ogre!” He set you down, kicking the door shut behind him before wrapping his arms around you tightly again, falling more in love with your irritated pouty face.

“I love you sweet girl. God, I’m so in love with you”

“You’re an absolute idiot”

“An idiot who is in love”

“You’re so cheesy” You willed yourself not to smile, ignoring the butterflies that fluttered at his words and love struck eyes. “you’re still a dick”

“I know. M’sorry angel, I didn’t realize what I was doing, I never wanted to hurt you. I should’ve known something was up when all she wanted to do was train 24/7 but I guess I misunderstood her intentions cause I didn’t see her as anything else. I’ve only ever had eyes for you baby, you have my heart. You always will”

“Where is she right now anyway?” You melted into his chest, closing your eyes at the feeling of his lips pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Isn’t she supposed to be leaving soon?” Bucky didn’t respond, his hands starting to wander your body instead, slipping up your shirt, rubbing soft circles on your hips. Without warning, he picked you up again, tossing you on the bed and pouncing on you, peppering your face with kisses.

“Bucky what are you doing” You giggled feeling his beard tickle your skin as he started to trail kisses down your neck.

“I may have requested Tony to have her stay an extra night” Your face twisted in confusion at his words but the devious look on his face made your tummy flutter.

“And he happily agreed because...”

“Because...?”

“I want her to hear how good I can make the girl I picked feel” Bucky smirked as he crawled off you, stripping his clothes off before tearing yours off immeitedly after. “M’not gonna waste another second, gotta let the whole compound know who my best girl is”

****

“OH G-GOD J-JAMES FUUCCCKKK”

“That’s it pretty princess, that’s it, cum on my dick baby, my good girl, fuck you’re so good to me, look at that, God you’re soaked baby”

“Jesus Christ” Nicole huffed, no longer able to ignore the moans coming from Bucky’s room while the rest of the team pretended to be none the wiser, your loud love making carrying all the way down the hall. Bucky happily disabled the sound proofing in his room before pushing his cock in as deep as it would go, railing you into the mattress.

“Baby you look so pretty when you’re all stretched out like this, c’mon you can take more, spread those legs for me baby, open up, c’mon, lemme in”

“HNG PleasepleasepleaseJames”

“So perfect when you beg, cock’s all yours mama, m’all yours, go on and use me, that’s it, ride this dick, you own me”

“Bucky, gonna-c-cum, gonna-cum!”

“Cum for me princess, God I love you”

“You want a snack?”

“Nick?”

“Uh-Nicole?”

“Huh?” Nicole whipped her head around to where Steve was innocently holding out the bowl of popcorn, while Sam stood up to grab more snacks before the movie started. She stared at everyone surrounding her acting as if they couldn’t hear the way you were screaming your vocal chords raw, the super soldier moaning louder than you, “N-no, I’m fine”

Tony cocked an eyebrow at the way her jaw clenched, mindlessly scrolling through her phone while Bucky’s thrusts punctuated with each word.

“Y’feel so. Damn. Good. baby, could spent my whole life like this making love to you”

“Fuck, I love you James”

“Ugh- they’re so loud” Nicole rolled her eyes again in hopes that someone would feel the same but all she got were blank stares back.

“I mean, terminator is practically in love with her” Tony shrugged while the others nodded in agreement.

“They’re cute. It’s about time they made it official, don’t you think?” Nat asked sweetly staring directly at her while Steve tried to chime in as well, his cheeks burning hot pink between the sounds of skin slapping and moaning.

“They sound so happy together” he stuttered out while Sam snorted, choking from laughter.

“Oh God, oh god, fuck-Jamie-JAMIE”

“Yup, real happy”

“I-I think I’m actually gonna call it at early night, stay at the recruiting center tonight instead” Nicole headed straight to the main doors without looking back, the rest of the team giving each other satisfied smirks.

Bucky collapsed beside you, panting, his short locks clinging to his forehead, a thin sheet of sweat covering his body. He truthfully stopped caring about what Nicole could or couldn't hear half way through, meaning every single word he said as he took you apart over and over again. You giggled at his shy smile when he pulled you into his chest, pulling the sheets over you both, kissing your forehead.

“I love you pretty girl. I love you so much”

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uncuredturkeybacon · 21 days ago

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𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚝 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you coach her game and quiet her mind

part two - part three - part four - part five

You met Paige Bueckers on a Tuesday afternoon in late September, your sophomore year at Hopkins.

It’s open gym. You aren’t technically supposed to be in there—you’ve already finished your weight training hour and your basketball season doesn’t start until winter—but the hum of a bouncing ball is too rhythmic to ignore. There’s a familiar comfort to the hollow echo of sneakers and grit on hardwood, something that calls you in like a whisper.

You open the gym door quietly, backpack still slung over one shoulder, and that’s when you see her.

Blonde ponytail swaying. Wide stance. Shot pocket high. Paige freaking Bueckers.

You’d heard of her, of course. Everyone at Hopkins had. Varsity freshman starter. Handles like a string puppet master. Shot like a dream. Girl had already been ranked nationally, and people couldn’t stop talking about her like she was some prodigy out of a sports movie. You thought it was all hype.

Then you saw her move.

And the thing was—she wasn’t just good. She was smooth. Every step calculated, but casual. Every pivot like muscle memory. She dribbled like the ball owed her rent.

She doesn’t notice you at first. Just keeps shooting from mid-range, the ball sailing through net with that soft, cotton-candy swish. Over and over and over.

You step in farther.

She stops, finally turning her head slightly, eyebrows raised. “You lost?”

You blink. “No. Just… didn’t know anyone else was in here.”

She nods once, grabbing her rebound. “You hoop?”

You shrug. “Yeah. But I train more than I play now. Strength and conditioning stuff. I work with Coach Cosgriff sometimes.”

Paige bounces the ball slowly under one hand, studying you with that squint she always seems to wear. “So you're, like, a trainer-trainer?”

You laugh once. “A sophomore trainer. I’m certified in watching YouTube videos and correcting people’s forms at the gym.”

She smirks. “Sounds legit.”

“Totally. Olympic-level.”

There’s a pause. You think she’s gonna go back to shooting, but instead she spins the ball toward you with a flick of her wrist. You catch it without thinking.

“Rebound for me?” she asks.

That’s how it starts.

You don’t say much that first week. You mostly pass the ball back to her and correct her foot placement when she does too many fade aways in a row. She doesn’t seem to mind your notes. In fact, she listens. Eyes narrow, brows drawn together. She nods when you speak. Adjusts. Tries again.

By week three, you’re staying after school just to watch her shoot.

By week five, she’s asking you to run drills with her. “I need someone who won’t go easy on me,” she says. “You look like you play defense like a demon.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You calling me aggressive?”

She grins. “I’m calling you annoying. Like a mosquito.”

You end up training together every week after that.

It’s past 6:30 PM, and the gym lights are humming like they’re tired of you both. You’ve run suicides, jump-rope footwork ladders, and back-to-back spot shooting. She’s collapsed on the baseline with a towel over her face.

“You trying to kill me?” she mumbles.

You grin, stretching near her. “You wanna be the best or nah?”

She lifts the towel just enough to peek at you. “I was the best like three years ago.”

“Complacency,” you shoot back, rolling your eyes. “That’s the first sign of career death.”

She snorts. “You sound like a Nike ad.”

“I sound like someone who’s keeping your ass in shape.”

“Yeah,” she mutters, tossing the towel aside. “You do.”

There’s something unspoken in the air. The gym is empty. Just your water bottles clinking, the soft squeak of shoes as you shift. She looks at you a beat too long.

“You ever think about going into this for real?” she asks suddenly. “Training people?”

“I already am,” you say. “I’m applying to kinesiology programs. Sports science. I wanna do this for a living. Maybe NBA. Or… WNBA.”

“You’d be good at it,” she says, and there’s no teasing in her voice.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You make people better without making them feel like shit. That’s rare.”

You blink. She’s never said something like that before—not with that tone. And something flickers in her eyes like she didn’t mean to say it aloud.

“I’d want you to keep working with me,” she adds quietly. “If I go to UConn. Or wherever.”

“You planning on bringing me with you?” you joke, nudging her shoe with yours.

She doesn’t joke back.

“Yeah,” she says simply.

The dorms are stuffy and the air smells like ramen and underachieving. You moved in early because Paige wanted to start pre-season training before official practices began. You aren’t on the team. You aren’t on staff—yet. But Paige made some calls. And they made an exception.

You’re the one in her corner before the season even starts.

You run her drills. Chart her shot percentages. Track her fatigue, time her sprints, log every mile she runs.

But you also learn her.

The way she hums under her breath when she’s shooting threes. The way she swears under her breath when she’s not getting it right. The way she pulls at the hem of her shorts when she’s overthinking.

The way she looks at you when she thinks you’re not looking.

You see it more now. The lingering. The heat behind her glances.

And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t look too.

You’re lying on your back in her dorm room after a long night of training, the air between you quiet but charged.

“You ever think this… all of it… happened too fast?” Paige asks softly, turning her head toward you.

You meet her eyes. “Basketball or…?”

She doesn’t answer for a second. “Everything.”

You inhale slowly. “No. I think some things happen when they’re supposed to.”

She smiles faintly, shifting closer.

“And what if this—us—is one of those things?”

You glance down between you. Your hands are almost touching.

You don’t pull away.

Neither does she.

“Then I guess we’re right on time.”

It’s weird how easily your dynamic translated to college. She still listens to you. She still trusts your eyes more than anyone else’s.

“Step on your left harder after the spin,” you tell her during an individual session. “You’re floating too long. You’re not getting enough power.”

She nods and tries again. Nails it. Of course.

Afterward, she walks with you back to your apartment, as she’s been doing for weeks now.

"You coming to the scrimmage Saturday?" she asks, kicking a pebble down the sidewalk.

"Obviously. I'll be sitting next to Coach. Telling him what he's doing wrong."

She laughs and bumps her shoulder into yours. "You're cocky."

"I'm right."

“You’re something,” she mutters.

You don’t ask what she means. You don’t need to.

But you can feel it growing. The way she lingers when she talks to you. The way she watches you when you speak with someone else. The way she listens too closely. Stands too close.

And then it happens.

It’s after a game—a blowout win. You’re the last two in the practice gym, her icing her knee, you jotting down some movement notes in your tablet.

She asks, “Do you ever think about us?”

You stop mid-type.

“Us?” you repeat.

“Yeah. You and me. Not just trainer-player.”

You blink. Slowly. “All the time.”

She’s quiet, like that answer knocked the wind out of her. “So what do we do?”

You swallow. “We try.”

She smiles, soft and quiet. “Cool. So… kiss me?”

You walk over, heart thudding like you’re about to play in front of a sold-out crowd. But this moment—this kiss—is private. Gentle. A quiet victory.

Dating Paige Bueckers is exactly what you expected and nothing like you imagined.

She’s a goof. Always humming Drake songs and using you as a weighted vest when you’re trying to do push-ups.

But she’s also laser-focused, and sometimes that means 3AM texts. My jumper feels off, help. So you drag yourself to the gym with bedhead and bad breath, and she lights up like the scoreboard when she sees you.

The chemistry you have—on and off court—is unmatched.

“Let’s try that pin-down cut again,” you say during a workout. “But sell it harder this time.”

She wipes sweat from her brow. “Why don’t you just play defense on me? That’ll make it real.”

So you do. And she doesn’t get past you the first three tries. Fourth try, she fakes right and spins left—you’re gone.

“God, I love when you push me like that,” she says, out of breath, laughing.

You grin. “Yeah?”

She walks toward you, playful. “Yeah.”

Paige kisses you there, right in the middle of the gym floor, hands on your hips like you're her anchor.

And you are.

You always have been.

There are tough days. Days she doubts herself. When the pressure builds and she doesn’t want to talk to anyone but you.

“I’m not playing like myself,” she says one night, curled on your couch.

You rub her thigh gently. “You’re in your head. You need to come back to your body. You need to play with joy.”

She looks at you, teary-eyed. “How do you always know?”

You shrug. “I’ve always known you, Paige.”

There’s a long pause. And then she says, “I think I want to do this forever.”

“Basketball?”

“You.”

It’s not flashy. There’s no grand gesture. No candlelit dinner. But it’s her. And it’s you. And it’s exactly enough.

It’s senior year now. She’s a legend. You’re her official trainer.

And people still call you Bueckers’ shadow, but now it comes with respect. Because they see it now. That you’ve helped shape her, sculpt her, kept her balanced.

On her senior night, she gives a speech.

She thanks her coaches. Her team. Her family.

And then, looking right at you, she says, “And to the person who’s been here since day one… my first pass, my best read, my forever one-on-one partner—thank you for never letting me forget who I am.”

You don’t cry.

Okay. You do.

But so does she.

Later that night, she pulls you into her room, shuts the door, and murmurs against your mouth, “You were always more than my trainer.”

You smile into the kiss. “I know.”

The moment Paige Bueckers’ name is called, the world erupts.

But she doesn’t.

She just looks at you.

Not the camera, not the stage—you. With that look you’ve seen a thousand times since high school. The one that says we did it.

You’re already standing when she launches into your arms, nearly knocking you back into the row of chairs behind you. Her arms wrap tight around your neck, her face pressed to your shoulder, whispering through the noise, “Don’t let go.”

You don’t.

Not when she pulls back, eyes glassy, hands still gripping your waist.

Not when she walks up to the stage with tears in her lashes and your name on her tongue.

And definitely not when the cameras catch her glancing at you before every answer.

The draft is a blur of bright lights, cheers, cameras, and interviews—but you stay close. Just off-screen. Just like always.

Until the media starts asking questions that aren’t about her game.

“Paige, congratulations on being the number one overall pick to the Dallas Wings! Can you tell us who you brought with you tonight?”

She glances sideways to where you're standing in her shadow. But you know her well enough to read the decision flicker behind her eyes.

She’s not going to hide you. Not anymore.

She turns back to the mic, confidence radiating from her like warm sun. “That’s my person. She’s been with me since high school. Trains me. Puts up with me. Challenges me. Loves me. So yeah—she’s a big part of why I’m here.”

The reporters buzz.

“Who is she to you?”

Paige smiles softly. “She’s everything.”

You nearly choke on your breath backstage.

Paige’s suit jacket is slung over a chair. Her shoes abandoned by the bed. Her Wings hat perched crooked on your head.

She’s on her knees in front of you, chin resting on your thigh, dress shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, her fingers lazily tracing circles on your knee.

“You really said all that on national television?” you murmur, smiling.

“I’ve wanted to say it since we were seventeen,” she replies. “Since that day in Hopkins when you rebounded for me until I cried.”

You slide your fingers through her hair. “You know what this means, right?”

“That I’m your number one overall pick, too?”

You grin. “That, and now the whole world’s gonna know you’re soft for me.”

She leans up and kisses you—slow, full of promise. “Let ’em.”

You lie back on the hotel bed as she climbs in beside you. Her fingers tangle with yours like muscle memory.

“I’m scared,” she whispers eventually.

“Of what?”

“The league. The pressure. Failing.”

You squeeze her hand. “You won’t fail. You’ll figure it out. You always do.”

She turns to face you, nose brushing yours. “Stay with me through all of it?”

You press a kiss to her forehead. “Always. I trained you for this, remember?”

She grins sleepily. “Guess I’m stuck with you then.”

“No,” you say quietly. “You chose me.”

Her silence says everything.

And for the first time that night—long after the cameras stopped flashing and the confetti settled—you both breathe.

The sun’s barely cracked the skyline of Dallas, golden haze stretching long across the parking lot when Paige turns to you, duffel bag slung over one shoulder and her practice jersey half-tucked into her waistband.

“You sure you want to come?”

You raise an eyebrow as you slide into the passenger seat of her car. “Seriously?”

She grins, brushing a hand over your thigh before starting the engine. “I mean, you’re not on staff.”

“Nope. Just the person who got you to number one.”

She leans over at a red light and kisses your cheek. “Damn right.”

The gym is humming with controlled chaos when you arrive—assistant coaches shouting instructions, music blasting, rookies trying not to trip over their own nerves. Paige is handed her gear and directed to the locker room, while you find your way to the bench along the sideline.

You set your bag down beside you, pull out your tablet, and cross your legs. The gym smells like polished hardwood and sweat and the faintest trace of new opportunity.

And there she is—Paige Bueckers—tying her shoes like it’s still high school in Hopkins, rolling her shoulders, bouncing a ball between her legs like she doesn’t know every camera in the room is aimed at her.

Your stylus hovers, and you begin.

Hips tight in lateral slide. Right knee still drifting inward on push-off.

She doesn’t look at you once, but she doesn’t need to. She knows you’re watching. Studying. Calculating.

You catch her third turnover in scrimmage. The coach yells something—timing issue—but you know better.

Drifting right early on corner curl. Jumping the pass. Tell her to settle feet before turn.

The practice stretches two hours. Drills. Scrimmage. More drills. Water break. Media arrives toward the end, clicking cameras, calling out names. Paige answers politely. You watch how her smile fades when she turns away.

When it finally ends, she doesn’t even glance at the locker room. She walks straight to you.

“Alright, hit me,” she says, dropping beside you on the bench, water bottle tucked under one arm, legs wide and hands clasped between her knees. Her jersey clings to her back with sweat. Her hair’s pulled into a tight bun, a few loose curls framing her flushed face.

You smirk. “You sure? I’ve got five pages already.”

“Jesus,” she mutters, leaning over to peek. “You still do bullet points?”

“I upgraded. Color-coded now.”

She groans. “Please tell me red still means ‘sucked.’”

“Red means ‘must address immediately.’ But yeah, you sucked on a few.”

She tosses her towel at you. You duck, laughing. Then you glance down at your screen.

“You rushed your footwork on the baseline pick. Every time. You’re cutting the corner too shallow, and it’s forcing your hips to stay closed when you rise.”

“I felt that,” she says, nodding. “Couldn’t get any lift.”

“Exactly. Also—your right knee’s collapsing again on your jump stop. You need to slow down your load. Breathe through it.”

“Got it.”

“Scrimmage—third possession, you jumped the passing lane too early on the weak side. You overcommitted on a read that wasn’t there. That’s a high school mistake, Bueckers.”

She groans again, flopping back against the bleachers. “Ughhh. Be nicer.”

You smile. “No.”

She nudges you with her shoulder. “Anything good?”

You glance at her, the way her eyes are shining despite the exhaustion. You nod.

“You read the defense perfectly on that skip pass to Crystal. Footwork was clean, timing was elite. Also—your fake hesitation in transition off that turnover? Disgusting.”

She grins. “Filthy?”

“Filthy,” you confirm.

There’s a pause, one of those quiet pockets that only exist with people who know every version of you.

Then Paige stands.

“Come on. Let’s fix my corner curl.”

Half the players are already gone, heading toward the locker room or training room or their cars. But Paige pulls you to the far basket like it’s still your high school gym at midnight.

You don’t even hesitate. You grab a ball and toss it to her.

“Start at the top. Walk me through your cut.”

She moves to the elbow, begins her motion slow.

“Too shallow,” you call.

She adjusts. Again. Again.

“Keep your center low. You’re rising too soon.”

She adjusts. Again. And again.

You step closer, placing your hands on her waist as she resets.

“Watch your hips. You’re twisting before your feet are planted.”

Her eyes flick to you. “You watching my hips or checking me out?”

You give her a look. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You sure?” she smirks, stepping closer, her hands ghosting your sides.

You push her shoulder gently. “Back to work, Bueckers.”

She backs up, laughing.

Across the court, Coach Koclanes is still talking to staff when he glances over and sees the way Paige moves differently with you. The way she listens more intently. The rhythm of it. The ease.

He watches as she finishes her last curl, catches the ball you pass her, and sinks it from the wing—net barely moving.

You jog to grab the rebound. She resets.

And he’s already walking over to her by the time she sinks another shot.

“Paige,” he says, calm but direct.

She turns, wiping her forehead. “Coach.”

He glances across the court, then back at her.

“She yours?”

Paige follows his gaze to you, where you’re dribbling the ball lazily between your legs and checking your notes again.

She swallows.

“Yes, sir.”

Koclanes raises an eyebrow. “Trainer or girlfriend?”

“Both.”

He watches you again for a moment then nods slowly. “She’s sharp.”

Paige smiles. “She’s the reason I’m sharp.”

Koclanes studies her, arms crossed. “Alright. Just keep it professional when it counts.”

“She always does. I’m the reckless one.”

He smirks. “I figured.”

You're sprawled on the couch, tablet in your lap, and Paige is sitting on the floor between your knees, her back against the couch as you gently press into her shoulders.

“How bad was I?” she mumbles, half-asleep already.

“You weren’t bad,” you say. “You were just out of rhythm. New system. New teammates. New everything.”

She sighs. “It’s weird. Being the rookie again.”

You thread your fingers through her hair.

“You’ll adjust. You always do.”

She tilts her head to rest against your knee. “Coach asked about you.”

“Yeah?”

“Wanted to know if you were my trainer or my girlfriend.”

You grin. “What’d you say?”

“I said both.”

You pause. “And?”

“He said you’re sharp.”

You tap her forehead lightly. “Told you.”

She laughs softly.“Thanks for coming today.”

“I’ll be at every practice I can,” you promise. “Always.”

Paige reaches back, wrapping one hand around your ankle. “Feels like we never left the gym back home.”

You smile.

Because you know, deep down, that no matter how far Paige goes—WNBA stardom, championships, international fame—there will always be a corner of a court, a half-lit gym, where it’s just you and her.

The next time Paige asks if you’re coming to practice, you don’t answer. You just give her a look from across your shared bed, tablet already charging, stylus clipped to your hoodie collar. She laughs like she already knew.

"You're such a nerd," she teases, stretching as she slides out of bed.

"And you're late to everything but the gym," you shoot back, already packing snacks into her duffel.

Inside the Wings facility, it's déjà vu—but with a twist.

Paige is looser now. She’s smiling as she jogs out onto the court for warmups. Still focused, still razor-sharp, but her eyes find you through the bleachers like you're her true north.

You're already scribbling notes.

Dribble height off the left—still inconsistent. No dip off the hip before the pull.

She looks smoother today. Reads are quicker. She’s calling out switches and catching mismatches before they fully form. You know she’s watched the film. Your film.

And it shows.

She has a strong scrimmage. Ten assists. Fifteen points. The gym buzzes every time she touches the ball. Coaches watch her like she’s the answer to every late-game possession. But she still looks to you when she’s subbed out, even for just a moment.

A raised eyebrow from you is all it takes to remind her, slow your footwork, release higher, trust the screen.

She does. Nails her next three.

After practice ends, some of the players linger around the half-court line, chatting and stretching. But Paige’s sneakers squeak straight toward you.

She slides onto the bench beside you, water bottle cradled between her palms, jersey clinging to her collarbone with sweat.

“Well?”

You pass her the tablet. “You tell me.”

She scrolls. “Less red.”

You bump your knee against hers. “Because you actually did your hip mobility warm-up this time.”

“Don’t out me.”

You smirk. “I’ll keep your secrets if you keep hitting those high-release threes.”

She hands the tablet back, mock-serious. “Deal.”

You open your mouth to say something else, but someone clears their throat just behind you.

You turn and see him—Coach Chris Koclanes. Arms folded. Neutral face. Calculating eyes.

“Mind if I steal you a second?” he asks—not to Paige, but to you.

You blink, then glance at her. Paige just smiles and gives a subtle nod. You stand slowly, brushing your hands on your sweats as you follow him a few paces down the sideline.

He gestures toward the court. “That was a hell of a session for Bueckers.”

You nod. “She’s a rhythm player. Once she finds her pace, she’s lethal.”

“She credited you yesterday. Said you’ve been training her for years.”

“Since Hopkins.”

“She listens to you.”

You shrug, cautious. “We’ve built trust. I’ve been in her corner longer than most.”

Coach tilts his head, studying you. “You ever worked in a professional setting?”

“Not officially. Internships. Assistant roles. Mostly freelance analysis. Paige has been my primary focus.”

“I noticed.”

You’re silent.

Then he says it, casually—like it’s not a thing that could change your entire trajectory.

“I’ve got a spot open. Player development. One-on-one focus. I want you on staff—assigned directly to Paige.”

You freeze.

“Wait... what?”

He doesn’t waver. “You’ve clearly studied the game. You’ve got rapport. She trusts you more than anyone I’ve seen her with. I want that. I want you working with her officially. You’d be listed as player development assistant, but your job’s simple. Keep her sharp.”

“I—I’d need to talk to her about it.”

“You can. But it’s her job now. Not college. Not freelance. You’ll be part of the system. You in or not?”

You hesitate for the first time in a long time.

You’ve always been by Paige’s side. Always in the shadow just outside the spotlight. But this… this would put you inside the machine.

And that scares you.

But then Paige jogs over, towel around her shoulders, hair a mess, and eyes locked on you.

“You okay?” she asks, sensing the weight of the moment.

You look at her.

At the girl you trained through injuries, through heartbreak, through the hardest years of her life.

At the woman she’s become.

You smile softly.

“Coach wants to hire me,” you say.

Her brows lift. “For real?”

“To train you. Officially.”

There’s a pause.

Then her hand slides into yours, quiet but steady.

“What are you waiting for?”

You show up fifteen minutes early.

Even though you’ve walked through these gym doors a dozen times with Paige, everything feels different now. Your name’s on the clipboard. Your badge is clipped to your lanyard. You’re not just the person she looks for in the crowd.

You’re staff.

Official.

You nod to Coach Koclanes as you pass him in the hallway. He grunts a greeting, mid-conversation with another staffer, but you catch the way he gives a tiny approving nod in your direction.

Paige’s locker is already open when you make it to the court. She’s sitting cross-legged in front of it, re-lacing her sneakers like she didn’t lace and unlace them five minutes ago just to get it right.

She doesn’t say anything. Just looks up and gives you the smallest smirk.

“You nervous?” she asks without looking up.

“Why would I be nervous?” you say, adjusting your tablet bag and trying to sound like your heart isn’t pacing like it’s game day.

“Because you look like you’re about to give a TED Talk instead of coaching me through curls and closeouts.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“That’s what I’m banking on.”

“Y/N?” Coach Koclanes’ voice calls from across the court.

You walk over. “Yes, Coach.”

“You’ll be shadowing the guards today. Track foot placement and timing—specifically the pick-and-pop sequences. If Bueckers misses any lift opportunities, I want it noted.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll run her one-on-one this afternoon. After team breakdown.”

“Understood.”

He claps your shoulder once, short and firm. “Welcome aboard.”

You nod. “Glad to be here.”

Practice unfolds like muscle memory.

You stay on the sidelines during group drills—eyes sharp, clipboard scribbling fast, quiet enough not to distract but focused enough to clock the split-second decision Paige makes before her assist in a half-court set.

Hesitation dribble sets defender. Delay creates opening. Reinforce timing.

During defensive rotations, she switches too late once.

You make a note.

She knows.

On the next possession, she’s early.

By a beat.

You smirk down at your page.

Water break.

Paige jogs past you, towel around her neck. She slows just enough to pass a quiet, “How am I doing, Coach?”

You don’t look up. “Foot’s still sliding out on the stagger screen. Don’t let your heel lead.”

“Got it.”

She grins and disappears into the huddle.

You keep writing.

The court’s cleared of team chaos. Most of the players have filtered out, heading to the weight room or showers. Coaches flutter around, chatting about the next game plan.

You wait with two fresh basketballs and a short list of drills. Paige walks back onto the court, damp hair tucked into a fresh headband, sweat already drying on her skin.

She nods at your clipboard. “How bad is it?”

“Not bad. But I’m not here to tell you what’s good.”

“Of course not.”

You toss her the ball. “We’re going to fix the angle on your split step first. You’re hesitating mid-transition when you don’t need to.”

She shifts into position. “I only trust you to tell me that.”

You smile quietly. “Lucky me.”

The next thirty minutes are the closest you’ve felt to home since stepping into this facility.

You aren’t just watching her. You’re correcting, measuring, coaching her through every breath and pivot.

Her shoulders relax under your voice.

Your fingers brush her knee to adjust her positioning—not intimate, but familiar.

You step in behind her on a jab series drill, guiding her hips gently with your hands to show where her weight should be. She exhales through her nose, eyes laser-focused on the floor.

When she nails it three reps later, she grins over her shoulder at you.

“I forgot how it feels when it clicks.”

You nod. “That’s why we’re here.”

Another assistant watching nearby chuckles. “She listens to you better than anyone.”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

You’re gathering your clipboard and packing up your notes when Coach Koclanes walks over again. Paige’s eyes flick toward you once, but she heads toward the weight room with a soft brush of her fingers across your arm.

It’s subtle.

No one else would notice.

But you feel it.

Coach stops in front of you, arms crossed. “That was a clean session.”

“She’s responding well to structure,” you say.

“No. She’s responding to you,” he replies. “That’s why I pushed to get you on staff.”

You nod. “I appreciate that, sir.”

He watches Paige across the gym, already laughing with teammates in the weight room.

“You keep this up, you’re not just gonna be her trainer. You’ll be a real asset to this team.”

You look at him. “I want to help them all. But she’s the one I know best.”

He nods once. “Then don’t let her down.”

You tighten your grip on the clipboard. “Never have.”

That night, Paige sits beside you on your apartment balcony, toes tucked under her, hoodie zipped halfway, her knees brushing yours.

"You were so locked in today," she says.

"So were you."

She leans over and places a kiss on your shoulder, resting her head on your arm. “You made today feel like home.”

You close your eyes for a second, listening to the hum of Dallas in the distance.

“You are home,” you whisper.

She doesn’t reply.

She just laces her fingers with yours and holds on.

You linger near the back wall, just behind the assistants’ bench setup as the players finish changing. Paige tapes her wrists in near silence, bouncing her knee the way she always does before big games. You know her tells like your own breath.

She looks up once and catches your eye.

You nod, once. A signal.

You're ready.

She blinks slowly and exhales. A signal back.

I know.

Paige Bueckers in crunch time is art. She’s calm chaos. She moves like music. The crowd chants her name before the buzzer even sounds.

You don’t celebrate yet. You just stand with the clipboard tucked to your chest, waiting for the team to return to the bench.

And then she jogs off the court, towel over her head, high-fiving teammates—and her eyes go straight to you.

No smile.

No show.

Just a look that says everything.

I needed you here.

You give a subtle nod, lips parting just slightly, and she closes her eyes for half a second like she’s sealing the moment.

There are reporters. There are lights. Paige answers questions about the debut, the crowd, the shots. One asks if she felt ready.

She pauses. “I was more than ready.”

“What helped you prepare the most for your first game?”

She tilts her head slightly. “Honestly? I’ve had someone in my corner for years. She’s always known what I need before I do.”

A subtle answer.

But you know who she means.

Another day, another practice and you and paige stay past practice to work on more one-on-one training.

She’s standing at the elbow, hands on her hips, jersey damp with sweat. You’re holding the ball. Clipboard tucked under your arm. Your eyes narrow as you step forward.

“Okay. Three reps. Elbow pivot into the dribble-drop. Inside foot. One step. Pull.”

Paige nods. You pass her the ball. She moves—sharp, clean, quick—but her foot lands too flat. You don’t say anything, just tilt your head. She stops, pivots back toward you.

“Too slow?”

“Too flat.”

“Again?”

You toss the ball again. She resets. This time, the movement slices. Sharp plant. Quick pop. Perfect arc. Net barely stirs. You smile, but you don’t say anything. She already knows.

DiJonai Carrington is leaning against the wall near the exit, pretending to be texting. She's not. She’s watching.

She nudges Arike Ogunbowale, who’s walking by.

“Tell me that’s not a couple.”

Arike squints. “You mean Bueckers and iPad Girl?”

“Y/N,” DiJonai corrects.

“Yeah, I mean… they’re always together. I thought she was just training her.”

“Sure,” DiJonai says. “But you ever watch them?”

They both look again.

You’re walking in a small circle as Paige mirrors your movements, copying your footwork in silence, like dancers in slow sync. She laughs at something you say. You roll your eyes but reach out to adjust her elbow softly.

Arike raises an eyebrow. “That’s not just training.”

“Nope.”

You’ve got the court from 7 to 8 a.m. before scheduled practice begins. Paige shows up five minutes early—iced coffee in one hand, her mouth already chewing a bite of banana.

You’re in joggers and a Wings tee, tablet resting on a folding chair, cones lined up like a blueprint for something more serious than just “a workout.”

“You’re in a mood,” Paige says, setting down her drink.

“You’re inconsistent on your left side release. We’re fixing it today.”

She groans. “That’s a lefty problem.”

“It’s a you problem.”

She steps into her shoes and points. “Tell me what to do, Coach.”

You walk through it together.

Left foot plant. Shoulder twist. Off-hand steady. Ball into motion.

You call out commands. She adjusts immediately.

Thirty minutes in, she’s drenched. You toss her a towel and a water bottle.

“Better,” you admit.

“I’m gonna crash before real practice even starts,” she huffs.

You smirk. “You’ll thank me mid-season.”

Paige grins. “I always do.”

“Is it true?” Maddy Siegrist asks during stretching.

“What?” Ty Harris replies.

“That Paige and Y/N have been together since college.”

Ty shrugs. “They’ve known each other forever.”

“I thought it was just a trainer thing,” Maddy mutters.

Ty grins. “Look again.”

Later, during team cooldown, Paige finishes her reps and jogs straight to you. Doesn’t even grab a towel first.

You hand her one anyway.

She dabs her face and says, “Can we run that pick split tomorrow? The one we talked about?”

You nod. “I’ll draw it up tonight.”

She nudges you lightly with her hip. “Add a note that says ‘tell her she’s brilliant’.”

You roll your eyes. “Noted.”

The gym’s closed. The team had morning practice and mandatory lift. Most of the players have left for the day.

You’re not supposed to be here. Not technically. But Paige had asked. Just thirty minutes, she said. Just to walk through that new screen sequence you diagrammed.

So here you are.

You both are.

No cameras. No coaches. Just the echo of sneakers on hardwood and the sound of Paige’s soft exhale as she resets for the fifteenth time.

You're seated cross-legged on the court with your notes spread around you like a campfire circle. She’s walking herself through spacing patterns and foot placement, talking aloud so you can listen for her rhythm.

She misses a step. You catch it instantly.

“Too wide on your pivot,” you murmur.

She sighs. “I felt that.”

“You’re rushing the top foot.”

She stops. Tilts her head.

“You know what helps that?” she says.

You squint up at her. “What?”

She walks over slowly, takes your hand, and gently pulls you to your feet. “You.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You want me to demo it?”

“No,” she says, slipping her arms around your waist. “I want a break.”

You laugh quietly. “Oh, so now I’m a human timeout?”

“You’re my entire recovery system.”

Her fingers hook into the waistband of your joggers. Her forehead presses to yours. Her body still humming from the workout, but her expression soft, flushed in a different way.

You lean in. Her lips brush yours once—slow, careful, reverent.

Then again—deeper this time, her hand rising to the back of your neck. She kisses you like you’re the rhythm she’s trying to memorize.

You sigh against her mouth.

“Oh my god—”

Both your heads whip toward the doorway.

Maddy is frozen, Gatorade bottle in one hand, gym bag slung over her shoulder, eyes wide.

You and Paige instantly take a step apart—hands dropping, space returning.

Too late.

“I didn’t see anything,” Maddy says, blinking. “Except I very much did.”

Paige groans quietly. “Mad…”

Maddy grins—messy, teasing, thrilled. “So… I was right.”

You rub the back of your neck. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“Too late. They’re all going to scream.”

Paige groans louder, dragging a hand down her face. “God.”

Maddy holds up her free hand like a scout’s oath. “I’ll be cool. But like… this is kinda iconic.”

She starts to back out the door, already pulling out her phone.

“Ver—no texts!” Paige calls.

“I can’t hear you,” she says, vanishing around the corner.

Paige is curled up beside you on the couch, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, scrolling through the messages with an embarrassed smile.

“Maddy said she saw a spark fly across the court when we kissed,” she says.

“She’s being dramatic,” you mumble, stroking her leg.

“She also said we owe her wedding invites.”

You snort. “Tell her she’s not getting a plus one.”

Paige laughs softly, then sobers. “You okay with this?”

You glance down at her. “The team knowing?”

She nods.

You rest your hand over her heart. “Feels like they always did.”

She smiles again. Quieter. More secure.

“Yeah,” she says. “I think so too.”

The Wings take the game by six.

Paige finishes with 24 points and 9 assists, carving up the fourth quarter with her signature midrange feints and off-ball creativity. You watched it all from the second row behind the bench, scribbling down your notes in silence, even though you knew everything you needed to say could be told with just a look.

After the buzzer, she walks off the court with her arm draped over DiJonai’s shoulder—grinning, exhausted, and glowing in that way she only does when she’s earned it.

She doesn’t come straight to you like she normally would. She gives you a look—soft, quiet, later.

You nod. Clipboard tight in hand.

Because you both know what’s next.

She’s in front of the mic, jersey swapped for a Wings hoodie, hair damp, eyes focused. The media crowd is familiar now—reporters from local outlets, national sportswriters, and the occasional YouTube basketball guy with a small mic clipped to his collar.

She’s answered three questions already. All standard.

“What did you see on that final possession?” “How has your chemistry with Arike developed this early in the season?” “What’s been the biggest adjustment from college ball to the league?”

She’s smooth. Thoughtful. Never rehearsed, but always real.

And then it comes.

From a new face in the third row. Out-of-town badge. Small outlet, but a big voice.

“Paige—this one’s off-court. There’s been a lot of speculation online recently about your relationship with your player development assistant, Y/N L/N.”

You feel your stomach go tight, even from where you stand just off to the side.

“There are viral clips. Locker room comments. A lot of fans believe you two are more than just athlete and trainer. Do you have any response to that?”

The room doesn’t gasp—but it shifts. Everyone suddenly leans in.

And Paige?

She blinks. Once. Steadies herself. And answers.

Calm. Clear. Unapologetic.

“I think it’s interesting that when a male player trains with someone for years and builds trust with them, no one asks these questions.”

The room holds its breath.

“But when it’s two women, it’s suddenly public interest. People want a headline. A label. Something to screenshot.”

She pauses. Looks directly at the reporter. Not angry—just... resolute.

“Y/N has been by my side since I was fifteen. She's shaped how I play. How I think the game. Whether we’re running drills or sharing silence, she's never once wanted credit for what I’ve done.”

Paige turns her head slightly.

Just enough to catch you in her peripheral vision. She doesn’t smile. But her voice softens.

“So no, I don’t owe anyone a label. But I will say this. Whatever she is to me, it’s not just anything.”

Silence. Then cameras flash. Keys click. But no one says anything else.

You’re leaning against the cool concrete wall when she steps out.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just walks toward you, tugging her hoodie sleeves down like she’s trying to hide how tense her hands are.

You hand her a water bottle. “You handled that well.”

“I hated that,” she mutters.

You nod. “I know.”

She leans her shoulder into yours. “Was I too blunt?”

“No,” you say. “You were just... honest.”

Paige swallows, jaw tightening. “They’ll make it into something it’s not.”

“Let them try,” you say. “They still won’t know us.”

She looks at you now. Really looks.

“Do you wish I’d said more?”

You shake your head.

“You said exactly enough.”

Dallas Wings vs. Connecticut Sun

The crowd is loud before the game even starts.

It's not UConn-blue anymore — this arena bleeds orange tonight. Still, there are kids in Bueckers jerseys lining the front rows. Signs that say "Hopkins to Storrs to the League". A smattering of navy Wings hats in the crowd.

You keep your head down as you walk out of the tunnel with the coaching staff. No clipboard today — not your usual one. Today it’s a tablet. Branded Wings quarter-zip. You’re seated next to the coaches. Front row. You’re not just behind the bench anymore. You’re in it.

“It’s a full-circle night for Paige Bueckers — back in Connecticut, where she built her legend at UConn. But let’s talk about something fans might not know…”

“You mean Y/N L/N?”

“Exactly. She’s seated right there on the bench now. Officially added to the Wings’ player development staff this season, but unofficially, she's been Bueckers’ personal trainer and basketball mind since Hopkins High School.”

“I’ve seen it up close. She has one of the sharpest eyes for the game I’ve ever encountered. Doesn’t just do physical development — she reads the floor like a coach with fifteen years in.”

“And you’ll notice it tonight — every timeout, every free throw, every adjustment, Paige checks in with her. Watch for it.”

Timeout. Wings down by 5.

The team gathers. Coach Koclanes talks to the core five. But Paige doesn’t go to him first.

She walks straight to you.

“Every time I fight over the screen, they’re slipping the weak side,” she says, breath quick but eyes locked on yours.

You nod, tapping a graphic on your tablet. “They’re baiting you. Your stunt’s coming too early. Let them close the lane, then rotate.”

“Got it.”

“On offense, they’re loading strong side on you. Reverse it. Skip it before the trap comes.”

“Copy.”

She claps your shoulder once and jogs back to the huddle.

Behind you, one of the coaches mutters, “It’s scary how fast she processes.”

You smile. “She’s just wired that way.”

The arena quiets slightly as Connecticut sets up at the line.

You see Paige backpedal toward your end of the bench. The ref glances at her, but she makes it quick.

“They’re stacking corner help every time we swing,” she says.

You lean forward. “Because you’re not cutting sharp enough off the split. Give the help something to respect.”

She nods, jaw set. “Backdoor?”

You whisper, “Only if Arike clears. They’re watching her eyes.”

Paige jogs back on-court, whispering something to Arike as the free throw bounces off the rim.

The very next play — skip pass. Fake drive. Backdoor cut. Paige lays it in.

Your stylus marks the play with a bright green tag.

“And there it is. Every time she glances at the sideline, it’s Y/N she’s looking for.”

“And you know what’s incredible? They’re not even speaking full sentences anymore. It’s absolutely fluid. That’s chemistry you build over years.”

“There are players who have court vision, and then there are those with a court language. Bueckers and L/N speak their own.”

It’s close. Wings up by 2. Sun with the ball.

Timeout.

Everyone’s shouting. The crowd is on their feet.

But Paige walks directly to you.

“What do I do?” she asks, fast, fierce.

You point at the digital clipboard. “Let her take baseline. You don’t need the steal. You need the stop.”

She nods. “You sure?”

“Always.”

She gets the stop.

The Wings win.

And as the clock winds down and the buzzer sounds, Paige doesn’t jump. Doesn’t throw her arms up. Doesn’t scan the crowd.

She turns.

And she finds you.

She walks straight to you and pulls you in with one hand behind your neck, pressing her forehead against yours again—this time longer. This time with the world watching.

The locker room is buzzing with celebration.

Not wild. Not champagne-and-speakers. Just a grounded, satisfied kind of joy. The kind that comes when you win with poise. When strategy trumps talent. When Paige Bueckers gets the stop that seals the game in the city where she once built her name.

You’re standing off to the side, tablet in hand, quietly reviewing clips when you hear her voice behind you.

“Hey.”

You turn. She’s fresh out of the postgame cooldown, hair tied back again, towel looped around her neck. Her cheeks are still pink from the adrenaline.

“That cut worked,” she says, low so only you hear.

You nod. “Knew it would.”

“I’ll say it in every language if I have to,” she adds, stepping a little closer. “But thank you.”

You smile, voice soft. “You already say it in mine.”

She holds your gaze like she wants to say something else—but then a media assistant calls out, “Bueckers — press in two!”

She winks once. “Meet you after.”

The postgame presser is at full capacity. More media than usual. Because this one? This wasn’t just a win. This was a return.

Paige walks in wearing her warm-up jacket zipped to her collarbone, no jewelry, no flash. Just locked in. She slides into the chair beside Coach Koclanes, a bottle of water in front of her.

First few questions are standard.

“What did it feel like playing back in Connecticut?” “Did you hear the crowd reaction when you checked in?” “What were you seeing on that final defensive play?” “How do you feel still being undefeated at Mohegan Sun?”

She answers each calmly. Firmly. Head high. Shoulders square.

From a reporter in the second row—

“Paige, we saw a lot of sideline communication between you and your player development assistant, Y/N L/N. This isn’t the first time, but it was definitely the most visible. Can you speak to that relationship and how it affects your in-game decisions?”

A pause. The room quiets. Coach shifts slightly in his seat but says nothing.

Paige exhales once through her nose — not annoyed. Just... thoughtful.

Then she looks directly at the reporter and begins.

“Y/N isn’t just a development assistant. She’s my basketball brain outside my body.”

A few eyebrows lift. Cameras click.

“She knows my tendencies, my triggers, my adjustments. We’ve worked together since high school. Every version of my game — from Minnesota to UConn to the league — she’s helped shape.”

Another pause. The air is listening harder now.

“So yeah, we talk every timeout. Every free throw. Every off-ball set. It’s not just strategy. It’s trust.”

Her voice softens slightly.

“I trust her eyes more than film. More than instinct. She sees the angles I don’t.”

Someone clears their throat. Another reporter chimes in.

“There’s been public speculation that your connection goes beyond coaching. Are you prepared to comment on that?”

Paige tilts her head just slightly — and then gives the smallest smile you’ve seen all day.

“I’m prepared to say that what we have is ours. And whatever anyone thinks they see... I hope they understand it’s built on years of work, not just a few looks during timeouts.”

She shrugs once.

“If it looks like more, maybe that’s because it is. But it’s not for you. It’s for us.”

Silence.

And then, one lone voice, “Well said.”

You’re waiting just past the press hallway, tablet shut down, credential badge dangling loosely from your neck. Paige rounds the corner still in her team gear, phone buzzing in her hand, mouth curled into a small, tired smile.

She walks up slowly, voice low.

“You hear that?”

You nod. “Every word.”

“Too much?”

You shake your head.

“It was perfect.”

She steps in, arms sliding around your waist, and rests her forehead lightly against yours — again, the way she always does when the world outside is loud and this little pocket of quiet is the only thing real.

You whisper, “They’ll keep asking.”

Paige whispers back, “Let ’em. We’ll keep answering our way.”

#paige bueckers #paige bueckers x reader #paige buckets #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #wnba x reader #dallas wings #lesbian #wlw #wuh luh wuh

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goldfades · 2 months ago

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𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐌𝐍 𝐍𝐄𝐓 ꩜ paige bueckers ⁵

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MASTERLIST

ᝰ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 2.1k

ᝰ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you were her rookie — quiet and a little in awe of paige bueckers. she was your star junior teammate with a backwards cap and too much charm. it started platonic until it didn’t. after last year’s final four heartbreak, everything shifted. now it’s april, you’ve just won a natty, and paige is drunk, high, and very, very in love with you at a team party. the only problem? you’re still supposed to be a secret.

ᝰ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | college basketball setting, secret relationship, alcohol + weed use (crossfaded paige), fluff, heavy pining, touchy!drunk!paige, reader trying to be subtle and failing, teammates might be catching on, one kiss (hidden), a lot of love and a lot of chaos <3

ᝰ 𝒆𝒗'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔 | shessss baaackkk, i missed writing for paigey poo so here's a quick fic. this was requested by this anon, hope you enjoy!

It started out simple.

You were her rookie. A wide-eyed freshman dropped into the chaos of Storrs basketball, figuring out where to stand during stretches and how not to trip over the Gatorade cart during timeouts. Paige was already a phenomenon by then — two years in, all-world talent, face of the program, eyes-on-you-every-second kind of presence. She played with the pressure of a nation and still walked into practice with her socks mismatched and a bag of fruit snacks in her hoodie pocket. Somehow, she made it all look easy.

And you? You were just trying not to drown.

She took to you fast. Teased you early and often, slung her arm around your shoulders on your third day like you’d been teammates for years. She gave you nicknames that stuck. Talked to you during warmups. Waited for you after practice. It was friendly. Casual. She was just that kind of person — magnetic and warm in that disarming, dangerous way.

Everyone loved Paige. You just happened to love her a little faster.

Still, it was platonic. At first.

She was the sun in your solar system, but you kept your orbit safe. You watched her from across the locker room and let yourself be grateful for proximity. For inside jokes and shared playlists and the way she always passed you the ball when she didn’t have to. It was enough, because it had to be.

But things shifted after the loss.

Final Four. One game short. You still couldn’t say the name of the team that beat you without feeling your throat close up. The locker room had been silent after — just the sound of jerseys being peeled off and someone’s quiet tears. Paige had sat next to you, hair still soaked with sweat, knees bouncing in frustration.

She didn’t say anything that night. Just sat there until the room was empty and you were left alone with the noise of your own failure.

That offseason, everything changed — the team, the training, and the two of you. Paige was different. Not colder, just sharper. Focused in a way that felt like a countdown ticking in the background of everything she did. You became part of her routine — not because you were trying, but because she pulled you into it. Early mornings. Late-night shooting sessions. Recovery days where you lay side by side in the training room with matching ice packs and silence thick between you.

There was a night in June where you both stayed late. The gym was mostly dark except for the soft glow above the hoop. She was shooting free throws in a hoodie that swallowed her frame, and you were half-asleep on the sideline, watching her without meaning to.

She looked over. “You good?”

You nodded. “Always.”

And then she smiled — not the cocky, performative kind, but the rare one. The one that felt like it was just for you.

You don’t remember who moved first. Or who touched who. Just the dizzy, surprising closeness. The way your hands found her hoodie, and hers found the back of your neck. The kiss — soft, unsure, not yet brave enough to mean what it meant.

But it meant everything.

By July, it was official — just not public. There were no Instagram posts, no pre-season whispers. Just a quiet understanding, solidified by pinky promises and looks that lasted too long.

You wanted to keep it sacred. She wanted to keep it safe.

Mostly, you both agreed on one thing: no distractions.

Not this year.

You’d watched the trophy get handed to someone else. Felt the sting of a season ending in silence. Paige had told you, with eyes fierce and voice steady, “We’re not losing again.” And she meant it.

So the relationship — this thing between you — became a tucked-away part of your lives. Hidden, but not small. Private, not pretend.

Azzi figured it out first. She always did. She caught the way Paige looked at you during team dinners, like she couldn’t help it. Said nothing at first, just raised her eyebrows and smiled like she knew a secret. KK caught on later, after a particularly reckless scrimmage where you dove for a ball and Paige went full linebacker to break your fall. Geno — well, Geno walked into the film room one day and caught you both half-asleep on the couch, limbs tangled, her head resting on your chest.

No words. Just a long sigh. A muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

But he didn’t say anything to the team. Didn’t ask you to stop. Just stared at Paige for a little too long during the next film session and offered you a longer leash on your shooting days. You assumed it was his version of a blessing.

Still, you stayed quiet. For the team. For the goal. For the dream you’d both been chasing since the first day of summer workouts.

Now, the dream was real.

The championship banner was hanging. The nets were cut. The confetti had been swept away and turned into keepsake Ziplocs by the equipment staff. There were bruises on your knees and polish chipped from your nails, but there was a ring on your finger and a medal around your neck.

And there was Paige — across the room in a backwards snapback and a net draped around her neck like a trophy chain.

She looked like every bad decision you’d ever want to make.

Loud. Wild. Free.

She wasn’t drinking (yet) — none of you really were, not officially — but she had the swagger of someone who’d just stolen a whole city and didn’t plan to give it back. She was running the beer pong table with Azzi, yelling Drake lyrics and calling herself “Champagne Papi” like it was her God-given title. Every time she made a shot, she shouted “Wet like I’m Book!” and turned to look for you.

Your stomach flipped each time.

You tried to play it cool. Sat on the kitchen counter with KK and a cup of something citrusy, talking about nothing. Let her do her thing. Let the adrenaline run its course.

But you could feel it in your chest. The pull.

She caught your eye once through the crowd and tilted her chin in that way she always did — subtle, but claiming. You. Mine. Us.

You ducked your head before anyone could see you smile.

It was still a secret. But it didn’t feel small anymore.

It felt like something breaking open. Something bright. Something inevitable.

It was all fun and fire until Paige got her hands on the alcohol and weed.

You weren’t even sure when it happened — one minute she was steady-handed, sharp-eyed, yelling over music with her usual borderline-annoying charisma. The next, she was laughing so hard she was folded over a beanbag, clinging to a bottle of vodka like it was holy, and insisting to anyone who’d listen that “net necklaces are gonna be, like, a THING. I'm starting a movement.”

You were sitting on the floor beside her, back against the couch, letting the night pulse around you. Someone was playing trap edits of early 2000s bangers through a Bluetooth speaker. Someone else was trying to stack red solo cups into a pyramid on the kitchen island. Azzi had long since disappeared upstairs with a pack of shooters and a speaker under one arm.

You were just hoping no one noticed the way Paige’s thigh was pressed flush against yours. Or the fact that her fingers had found your wrist twenty minutes ago and hadn’t let go.

Not that she was being subtle.

“Baby,” she said suddenly, leaning into your shoulder with a weight that was more affection than balance, “tell them about how I scored nineteen in the second half even though I got kneed in the stomach. Tell them. You were there.”

You blinked. Swallowed a laugh. “That’s not exactly how it happened.”

“Okay but—you saw it. I was limping. I was, like, emotionally bruised.”

“You literally waved off the trainer and flexed at the camera.”

“Yeah, after I cried internally.”

She was completely serious. Glossy-eyed, flushed cheeks, cap still backwards and askew like she’d forgotten it was on. The net around her neck had frayed slightly at the bottom, and she kept absentmindedly fingering the knots while she talked. It felt like the perfect metaphor — tangled, over-the-top, a little frayed, but absolutely her.

She shifted again, resting her head against your shoulder now, her voice dropping to something quieter. “You looked real pretty after the game. Like, the prettiest. Even with your mascara on your chin.”

You stiffened slightly. “Paige.”

“What?” Her voice was sing-song now. “I can say that. We won. You’re my good luck charm. My... talisman.”

“Talisman?” you echoed, eyebrows raised.

She grinned, loopy and pleased with herself. “My enchanted girlfriend. It’s giving fantasy novel. It’s giving—we ride at dawn.”

Someone snorted nearby. KK, probably. You didn’t turn to check.

Instead, you glanced down at Paige, her legs stretched out across the carpet, the hem of her shirt hitched up slightly from where she kept fidgeting. Her arm had migrated from your wrist to your waist, loose and lazy, and her fingers were now hooked in one of your belt loops like she was anchoring herself to you. Every now and then, she’d give a gentle tug, like she was making sure you were still there.

You were fairly certain she wasn’t aware of how obvious she was being. Or maybe she was. Maybe she just didn’t care anymore — not after the trophy, the press conferences, the adrenaline still wearing off in slow waves.

“I think everyone’s too drunk to notice,” she whispered after a moment, cheek brushing your jaw.

You inhaled sharply. “That’s not the point.”

She looked up at you, blinking wide, adoring eyes. “I love you.”

Your stomach flipped. “Paige.”

“I do. I love you and I don’t care if people know. We won. You can’t get mad at me tonight.”

You glanced around, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement, every sound. KK was across the room deep in conversation with one of the managers. Someone was shouting over a game of flip cup. Azzi was still upstairs. You leaned your head closer to hers, trying to sound stern, but your voice came out softer than intended.

“You’re not in trouble. Just… maybe stop yelling that you’re in love with me across the room.”

“I didn’t yell,” she said indignantly.

“You absolutely yelled.”

“Fine.” She nuzzled into your side. “Then I’m whispering it now.”

You sighed, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

She stayed like that for a while — curled up beside you, tipsy and affectionate, talking in circles about the game and the after-party and how she was convinced her net-chain idea was actually kind of brilliant. She leaned into every touch. Her fingers brushed your knee, your hip, your collarbone — innocent spots, but familiar, unthinking. Like she was trying to memorize you all over again.

Someone passed by and clapped her on the shoulder, offering a half-hug and a “Hell of a game, Bueckers.” She smiled and thanked them, but didn’t move away from you. Didn’t even blink.

Eventually, the party thinned out. The music quieted to a low pulse, and the chaos of earlier mellowed into a lazy buzz of laughter and half-finished drinks.

You were still on the floor when Azzi returned, holding a bottle of Gatorade and one eyebrow arched.

“You two good?” she asked, not even bothering to hide the smirk.

“We’re great,” Paige chirped, already half-asleep against your shoulder. “Better than great. We’re champions. Did you know we’re champions?”

Azzi snorted. “No way.”

“Deadass.”

You shot Azzi a look — somewhere between pleading and I will kill you if you say something. She raised both hands in mock surrender and drifted off toward the couch.

Eventually, you helped Paige up — a slow, giggly process that involved her pretending to be a baby deer on ice skates and you dragging her by the elbow.

She looped both arms around your shoulders once she was standing, the net bouncing against your chest.

“We did it,” she whispered, her lips brushing your ear.

You pulled her closer. “Yeah. We did.”

And you let her kiss you then — just for a second, just tucked into the corner where no one could see. It tasted like orange Gatorade and celebration and something that had been waiting for months to breathe.

You didn’t know what came next. Didn’t know how much longer this secret could stay secret, or if you even wanted it to anymore.

But for now, there was only this.

The win. The night. The girl in a backwards cap and a fraying net, clinging to you like a lifeline.

And love — loud, wild, inevitable — beating out its rhythm against your ribs.

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thereoncewasagirlnamedjane · 17 days ago

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PAIRING | Joaquín Torres x f!Reader

TAGS/WARNINGS | just tons of fluff, and doggos!

SUMMARY | Joaquín is fiercely protective of all the VA’s service dogs in training, so when Sam informs him that there’s a new volunteer arriving to help take care of the pups, Joaquín is prepared to use any excuse to veto anyone who comes in through those doors… until you’re the one who walks in, and he knows he’s lost.

WORD COUNT | 2.0k

⋆ ˚｡⋆˚ NAVIGATION | | JOAQUÍN TORRES M.LIST ˚⋆｡˚ ⋆

I do not do taglists. Please follow my sideblog @ficsbyjane for notifications whenever I post.

✧.* In the Golden Hour

Sam sighs. It’s only ten in the morning and he’s already tired.

Joaquín sits on the floor in one of the VA’s designated meeting rooms, arms crossed over his chest, looking uncharacteristically grumpy even surrounded by six happy dogs poking and prodding at him with their noses.

“You know, you could… I don’t know, help?” Sam says, sidestepping a rogue tennis ball as he stacks up a few chairs and moves them to the back of the room. “What’s your problem anyway?”

“I wanna vet ‘em.”

“Too bad. I already told them they could start today.”

“Without consulting me?!” Joaquín sits up a little straighter now, indignant. Bailey, a curious little beagle, whines now that his face is out of reach and she can’t smother him in kisses.

“And since when did I need your approval, kid?”

“But I’m Mav’s handler,” the younger man insists, and a golden retriever who’s been lying sprawled across a sunlit patch just an arm’s reach away lifts his head, as though recognizing the sound of his name. “I should have a say on who comes in to take care of him when I’m not here.”

Mav, or Maverick, lets out a cheerful woof! His mouth then falls open in that silly golden grin that melts the hearts of everyone he meets, his tongue lolling to the side.

“See? He agrees with me,” Joaquín points at his latest pet project, no pun intended. He reaches over to give Mav some much deserved belly scratches. “Don’t you, buddy?”

“Don’t encourage him, Mav,” Sam half-heartedly scolds, and Maverick slumps back onto the floor with a high-pitched whine. “And you’ve already scared away plenty of volunteers. You think they’re easy to come by, or what?”

“I’m protective of the pups, okay? You can’t blame me for that,” Joaquín points out defensively, softening just a little when Daisy, a sweet and predictably excitable Labrador attacks his extended arm, wanting to play. “…And Mav’s special.”

It’s not that Joaquín doesn’t trust Sam’s judgment, and it is true that he’s protective of all the service dogs in training, but Mav is special.

Joaquín found him when he was still just a pup, a few weeks shy of a year old according to the vet, in some war-torn zone while overseas. It was instinct, he didn’t even think as he scooped up the trembling fur ball and brought him back to base.

While the Air Force weren’t strangers to welcoming golden retrievers among their ranks, Joaquín knew immediately that Mav could do the most good as a therapy dog. With Sam’s help, he got the smiley goldie a spot in the PAWS program and the rest was history.

And it was impossible not to get attached.

So while he’s not opposed to handing over Mav’s leash for a few hours a day, especially now that he’s the Falcon to Sam’s Captain America and he doesn’t always have the time to dedicate to the program, the last thing he wants is for some inexperienced volunteer to come in and mess up Mav’s progress.

“Wow, did you guys hear that?” Sam feigns shock, addressing the other dogs in the room. “Your lieutenant has a favourite.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t do that,” Joaquín winces, not daring to look over at the innocent stares of the VA’s latest round of recruits. “Don’t turn them against me.”

“Hey, you incriminated yourself,” Sam points at him before shaking his head, “I wouldn’t look at Jax if I were you. That look of betrayal—oof.”

“Listen, can’t you just—I don’t know, tell me more about this person?” Joaquín asks, hazarding a glance over at Jax the Doberman, who looks back at him with shining, watery eyes. He’s hit with a pang of guilt, one he tries to remedy by pulling Jax in for a cuddle.

“You’re being too protective,” Sam rolls his eyes. “The new volunteer is good with them, alright? She—”

“These guys would love a serial killer if he gave them treats,” Joaquín scoffs, ignoring the way Axel, a German Shepherd, seems to tilt his head with indignity. “Also… she?”

“Is that a problem? Damn, didn’t know you were like that, Torres,” Sam’s eyes widen, but there’s a telltale smirk on his face that says he’s just kidding around.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” the young Falcon rolls his eyes, although he softens a little when Bailey starts pawing at his knee for some attention. He scratches her affectionately under one floppy ear. “I just mean… well, she needs to be able to handle Beau, for one thing.”

Beau the Rottweiler then jumps up at attention when Joaquín points at him, barking once, twice, as though saying, “I’m here!”

He only looks intimidating, honest. In reality, Beau’s just another gentle giant. Still, if he decides to go running off chasing squirrels on his next walk, most people wouldn’t stand a chance against his speed and strength.

“Why do you think we call him ‘Beau’, huh?” Sam just grins even wider, bending over to pat the Rottweiler on the head. Beau laps up the attention, his bum wriggling excitedly with each wag of his tail. “He’s a total sucker for a pretty face. Aren’t ya, boy?”

“Well, duh, that’s why he likes me so much,” Joaquín grins when Beau huffs as if in agreement, tickling him under his chin. And then, he can’t help asking: “Alright, how pretty we talkin’?”

“God, is that important?”

“Wha-? You just said—!”

“Yeah, but you need to keep the flirting to a minimum, alright? This is a professional environment.”

“Oh, come on, when have I ever—”

“Literally all the time, you incorrigible little…” Sam trails off, exasperated, not wanting to call Joaquín something incredibly rude. “I swear, you should come with a warning.”

Joaquín just smirks at that, picking up the tennis ball when Axel brings it to him, tossing it across the room and starting a flurry of movement and a chorus of joyful barks.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Eh, depends on how you look at it.”

“Okay,” Sam scoffs, “so you’re done giving me crap about the volunteer?”

“Nah, I’m not letting you, or her, off the hook that easily,” Joaquín then looks over at Maverick, who has moved to join the other dogs in the chase for the ball. He and Daisy are play fighting over it. “Alright, well, if I can’t vet her, then I at least wanna meet her first.”

“You’re only saying that because I said she’s pretty,” Sam grabs the dogs’ leashes that are hanging from a hook on the wall, letting out a sharp whistle that echoes off the walls. All of them obediently fall into line, plodding over when they see their leashes out.

“Please,” Joaquín rolls his eyes, “how pretty can she be?”

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that one,” Sam shakes his head, attaching the leashes to the dogs’ harnesses, camouflage-patterned with the words “ARMY” and their names stitched onto them.

Joaquín laughs now, catching the handles to the leashes that Sam tosses toward him. Daisy is connected to Beau and Maverick, while the others are grouped together, all somewhat evenly distributed.

“What, you gonna snitch or somethin—” he starts to fire back, but then movement in the hallway catches his eye. Joaquín glances out the door and almost chokes.

Because walking in through the doorway is easily the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

“Hi Sam—oh!”

Your eyes just light up when you see the dogs, like the moment just before a sparkler catches. Joaquín scrambles to his feet just as you fall to your knees to welcome Axel into your arms, who is the first one to run up to you.

The rest follow eagerly to say hello to their new friend, just swarming you. Beau pokes his head under your arm, Jax is so eager for kisses that he knocks you off your feet and onto your backside, and Bailey immediately jumps into your lap. Daisy is attacking your face, making you squeal when she licks a stripe up your cheek.

“Okay guys, okay!” You’re giggling, and Joaquín has to take a second to inhale, like he’s trying to breathe in that laugh. “Pets for everyone, but wait your turn!”

The dogs don’t listen, just continue giving you sloppy kisses and nose boops. Maverick goes bounding over, the only one of the bunch you haven’t met yet, and noses curiously at the soles of one of your shoes.

Joaquín doesn’t stop him. In fact, he barely registers the fact that he’s let go of the leashes.

“Why, hello there,” you coo, letting Mav sniff the back of your hand before you start petting him in earnest. You check his harness, smiling as you read his name out loud. “Well, aren’t you a handsome one, Maverick?”

The golden retriever looks to his handler, as though proud, like he’s saying, “Did you hear that? She said I’m handsome!”

Joaquín’s never been so jealous of a dog in his entire life.

Once the dogs have finished saying hello and have calmed down a little, you stand up, trying not to trip over them as they circle your legs.

“Ahem, sorry about that,” you clear your throat sheepishly. Sam smiles triumphantly, turning to give Joaquín the smuggest of looks, only to roll his eyes at what he finds. The kid’s earlier skepticism and indignation is nowhere to be seen, only the most idiotic smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Along with the most obvious pair of heart eyes mankind has ever seen.

Joaquín grins. Your hair is slightly dishevelled now, and your nice jacket is covered in dog drool and dog hair but you don’t seem to care. Instead, you just catch his eye and smile.

“Oh, you must be Lieutenant Torres,” and then you step closer and hold out a hand. He can smell your perfume or your shampoo, whatever it is, and for a second he can’t seem to form any words. You glance uneasily over at Sam, who just shrugs.

“Um—yeah,” Joaquín blinks and shakes his head a little, taking your hand with maybe a bit too much enthusiasm. Maybe he even holds on a little longer than is necessary. “Please, just Joaquín is fine.”

“Sure, Joaquín,” your smile grows wider and he can’t help but watch, enraptured, as your lips form the sounds of his name.

“So… the dogs, uh, they really like you.”

“Oh, you think so?” You visibly melt, pressing a hand over your heart. “Thank god, it’s the best endorsement I’ve ever gotten.”

“Well, you know what they say: dogs are a good judge of character,” he offers. You laugh and he chuckles along, all breathless and smitten. To the side, Sam lets out a scoff but he can’t bring himself to care.

“I thought you said they’d love serial killers—” But Sam doesn’t get to finish, Joaquín stepping forward hurriedly to pick up the dogs’ leashes off the floor.

“Hey, I’ve got some time…” Joaquín says, not at all subtle or casual. He steps a little closer, offering you the leashes, letting out an almost imperceptible sigh when your fingers brush his. “Maybe I can show you their favourite route.”

You glance over at Sam, who rolls his eyes so hard you think they might get stuck. Still, you smile up at Joaquín.

“Lead the way, Lieutenant,” you gesture to the door, giggling when he dips his head shyly and slowly jogs toward the door.

You turn back to Sam, smirking as you whisper, “I thought you said he’d give me a hard time?”

“Yeah, well, he’s a pain in my ass, that’s for sure.”

“…He’s cute.”

“Ugh, I oughta throw up in your face.”

You can’t help but laugh.

“Ready?” Joaquín then pops his head back into the room to ask. You spin around, nonchalant, and nod, letting the dogs tug you excitedly towards the door.

Sam watches you all go, huffing a laugh when Joaquín bends dramatically at the waist as he opens the door for you. Shaking his head, Sam turns away to finish reorganizing the room and mutters to himself, “Guess Beau’s not the only sucker around here.”

Outside on the sidewalk, Beau sneezes.

FIN.

Notes: I love these two already, so I miiiiight do a part 2 eventually, one day, idk.

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