#trying something new with the lighting here

[witchywithwhiskey]

what good girls get after movie night

pairing: bucky barnes x female reader

summary: movie night in avengers tower gets interesting when you and bucky barnes test the limits of your secret relationship.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), thunderbolts* spoilers, smut, pwp, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, vaginal fingering, edging/orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, come eating, semi-public fooling around (under a blanket during movie night), 'need to be quiet so we don't get caught' trope, sneaking around/secret relationship, dirty talk, light degradation, praise kink, teasing, biting, pet names (sweetheart, baby), established relationship, both bucky and reader are members of the new avengers—let me know if i missed something!

word count: 3.1k

a/n: here's my first ever entry for @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer event!! idk yet how many weeks i'll be able to write for, but i'm gonna try to do a couple at least. and to start us off, we've got a very dirty Bucky Barnes and some New Avengers tower shenanigans 😅 hope y'all enjoy! ♡

prompt: “Mind your own damn business.” | [Secret Sex/Relationship | Embarrassment | Denial]

It was movie night in Avengers Tower—or rather, New Avengers Tower—and you plopped down in one of the end seats of the overstuffed couches in the lounge. 

You always made sure to show up early so you didn’t end up crammed between John Walker and Ava Starr. Their bickering could ruin any movie.

Sure enough, the pair entered the lounge not long after you, arguing about who won some sparring match during their training that day, and whether it was cheating for Ava to use her powers. She was threatening to phase into his room and stab him while he slept as they took their seats on another couch. 

You breathed a sigh of relief that they weren’t sitting near you. The seat next to you was still open, and you had hopes for who would take it—though you tried not to look hopeful as the others filtered in. 

Alexei Shostakov, Yelena Belova and Bob Reynolds entered the lounge a few minutes later. Yelena flopped down on the floor, while Bob sat on the couch closest to her, the two of them having a conversation that was much more civil than the continued bickering between John and Ava, which had devolved into threats of bodily harm.

Alexei went straight for the remote to the massive TV before settling into the lounge’s only recliner armchair. Everyone had long ago agreed that was always his spot because he fell asleep five minutes into the movie and snored like a fighter jet mid-battle.

Just before Alexei hit play on the movie, Bucky Barnes slipped into the lounge and took the empty seat next to you. Immediately, your heart began to beat a little faster, and you tried to hide your joy as you looked around at the others on the team.

You’d spent hours wondering whether everyone else knew you and Bucky were sneaking around together, trying to keep your relationship secret so it wouldn’t get back to Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Neither you nor Bucky knew how Val would react, and you both figured it was easier not to find out. 

That night, no one was paying you and Bucky any mind—Yelena was snapping at John to shut up while Alexei’s recliner creaked loudly as he settled into it. You figured they either hadn’t noticed how close Bucky was sitting to you, or they didn’t care. 

Knowing The New Avengers as you did, you truly couldn’t determine which was more likely to be true. 

Finally, the movie began. The sound was turned up to a nearly deafening level, and you let your worries about what the team did or didn’t know fall away. 

A few minutes in, Bucky grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and he casually tossed it over the two of you. When you looked at him and caught his eye, the ghost of a smirk danced at the edge of his mouth, and you shot him the barest smile in return.

Glancing around the room, you made sure everyone was engrossed in the movie before curling into Bucky’s side. You threw your legs over his thigh while his metal arm wrapped around your shoulders, tucking you into his body. 

Ducking your head, you hid a pleased smile as you got comfortable. Your body relaxed into Bucky, your fingers holding the blanket up to your chin so it covered as much of your entwined limbs as possible. 

Snuggled up with your secret boyfriend, you settled in to watch the movie in peace. But Bucky had other ideas.

While everyone else was focused on the TV, Bucky shifted so he was curled more around you, his hand slipping onto your knee beneath the blanket. 

Just that touch had tingles of warmth dancing up your thighs to settle heavily between your legs, your body already beginning to crave Bucky’s. But with the team littered throughout the room, you did your best to ignore your reaction to Bucky’s touch. 

Then, oh so slowly, Bucky began to slide his hand up your thigh. His palm was blazingly hot through the thin cotton of your leggings, teasing you with his heat when you truly wanted him to be touching your bare skin. 

The higher his hand got, the less you could ignore it. Especially when his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thigh, earning a choked whine from you. 

“Bucky,” you gasped on the softest exhale you could manage, well aware that there were two other super-soldiers in the room. No matter how loud the TV was, there was always a chance someone would hear you, or—god forbid—sense you another way. “We can’t.” 

Lifting your head, you looked around the lounge with quick, sharp eyes. 

Thankfully, Alexei was already asleep, the loud rumbling of his snores drowning out the quieter moments of the movie. Bob looked totally engrossed in the TV and Yelena was playing with one of her knives while she kept an eye on Ava and John, who were bickering again, though about what you couldn’t tell.

“Shh, sweetheart, watch the movie,” Bucky murmured teasingly in your ear, clearly having done his own sweep of the room and noting that no one was paying any attention to the two of you. 

Bucky took advantage of the team’s distraction to slide his hand even higher up your thigh, until his big palm was cupping your pussy through your leggings. It was all you could do to bite down on your plush lower lip and hold back the sharp gasp that wanted to escape. His hand was so big and it felt so good pressing between your thighs.

A smirk slashed across Bucky’s face, his hungry eyes watching your expression closely so he could devour each and every one of your reactions. He pressed his fingers into your throbbing slit, watching as your lips dropped open and your eyes went hazy from the pleasure pulsing in your pussy.

He kept rubbing your cunt, and you knew the moment he realized you weren’t wearing any panties under your leggings because a soft growl rumbled in his chest. You’d already soaked through your leggings, and you were certain his fingers were growing wetter and wetter with every swipe of your pussy.

“You’re such a little slut, baby,” Bucky purred, ducking his head so his mouth was right against your cheek. You could feel the rasp of his stubble against your skin, and you squirmed on his lap, trapping his hand between your thighs, which only made him chuckle. “You wanted this, didn’t you, sweetheart?”

His words were so condescending and filthy, they had your heart racing in your chest, battering against your ribs. Embarrassment heated your cheeks, but you didn’t protest Bucky’s accusation—because he was right. You had foregone wearing panties hoping it would give Bucky easier access to do exactly what he was doing.

“You wanted to fool around during movie night, didn’t you, baby?” Bucky murmured, his impish grin pressed into your cheek. “You wanted me to rub your bare pussy through your leggings while the rest of the team are right here.”

It was so dirty, what the two of you were doing, but you didn’t want to stop. So even though his last words weren’t a question, you nodded. You lifted your eyes and looked at Bucky from under your lashes, letting him see all the naked desire in your expression. 

Bucky’s grin widened, turning wolfish and hungry as his eyes sparkled in the dim blue light of the TV. His hand rubbed your pussy harder, thumb pressing tight circles into your clit, dragging you tenaciously toward the edge of your release. 

“They could catch us at any second,” he warned, his voice still low enough that only you could hear. “And then they’d know just what a filthy little slut you are for me, huh?”

“Bucky, please,” you rasped on a stifled sob, turning your head and burying your face in Bucky’s neck. Your shoulders trembled, fingers curling into fists as you clung to his t-shirt. The pleasure rolling through your body was made even more overwhelming by the need to keep quiet.

“Don’t worry, baby, I won’t let them catch us,” Bucky rumbled soothingly, his hand between your thighs slowing to draw out your pleasure. “You just be a good little slut—stay quiet and let me play with your sweet, greedy cunt during the movie.”

“Yes, sir,” you whispered into Bucky’s neck, pressing a kiss to his skin as you spread your legs wider for him beneath the blanket.

“Good girl,” he cooed against your temple, making you quiver from the pleasure. 

For a long while, Bucky rubbed your dripping cunt through your leggings, getting the fabric soaking wet while stoking your pleasure to a constant, burning heat. He was merciless, playing with your clit and your puffy pussy lips as if trying to get you to slip up and make a sound.

For your part, all you could do was try to be good. You muffled your moans in the warmth of Bucky’s neck, huffing out soft mewls and breathless whimpers that were drowned out by the movie playing on the TV and Alexei’s snores.

When you thought Bucky was going to edge you like that for the entire movie, he pulled his hand from between your thighs. Without warning, everything sharpened around you, your mind surfacing from the haze of constant pleasure.

Despite the reprieve from his torture, you nearly whined at the sudden loss of Bucky’s touch. Your fingers curled tighter in the soft cotton of his t-shirt and you were about to say something—but then he hooked his fingers around the waistband of your leggings and slid his big hand inside.

Bucky’s warm, calloused fingers pushed between the messy, swollen lips of your pussy, and the feeling was so good—so filthy and exquisite—that you were nearly helpless to it. At the last second, you ducked your head and sank your teeth into the hard muscle of his pecs to stifle the moan that demanded to spill free.

A grunt came from Bucky when you bit him, and you lifted your head in time to catch him glancing furtively around the room. When it was clear that everyone else was distracted by the movie or each other, you both breathed a sigh of relief. 

Bucky’s fingers, which had stilled against your pussy, slipped deeper between your thighs. Two pushed into your hole, spearing you open and sinking inside you to the knuckle. They stretched you deliciously, stroking against your sensitive inner walls, and for a moment, you forgot yourself.

“Oh god, Bucky,” you breathed on a sigh of delight, pushing your face into his neck in a belated attempt to muffle your sounds of pleasure. He smelled like salt and leather and you wanted to lick him and moan with abandon.

“Shh, ya gotta be quiet, sweetheart,” Bucky chided you, his tone warm with affectionate teasing. “You don’t want anyone catching us, do you?”

Pleasure was throbbing through your body, so sharp and insistent, you could hardly bring yourself to care about getting caught anymore. You just wanted some relief—you wanted to come.

“Need you,” you whined as quietly as you could manage. “Please,” you begged pitifully, tugging weakly on Bucky’s shirt, as if that would sway him toward giving you what you wanted. 

A reprimanding growl rumbled in Bucky’s chest and when he spoke, his mouth brushed against your ear, his words filling your head. 

“If you can be a good girl and be quiet for the rest of the movie, I’ll take you back to my room and show you what good girls get,” he said, and then, as if deciding to make his point even clearer, he went on. “Good girls get to come on my big, fat cock while I spill my seed in their greedy, hungry cunt.”

His words were a lightning bolt straight to your pussy, and you nearly moaned again. You had to bite down on the base of Bucky’s throat to stifle the sound, and as soon as it passed, you pulled your mouth away to respond.

“I can be good—I can be good, I swear,” you promised in a rushed babble, a whine in your tone as you nodded your head against Bucky’s shoulder. 

“Good girl,” Bucky purred in your ear, his metal arm tightening around your shoulders and tucking you deeper into his chest. All the while, his fingers fucked your dripping hole slowly, torturously, ramping up your pleasure before easing you back down.

Bucky brought you to the edge three more times before the movie ended, rumbling in your ear to be a good girl and not come on his fingers so he could reward you later. It was a near thing each time, but you managed it, your body trembling more and more beneath the blanket concealing your bodies.

He’d let you wind down after each edge while he slipped his hand from your leggings and licked your desire from his fingers. His eyes would glimmer with barely leashed lust as he held your gaze, making you watch him taste you while you quivered in his arms. Then he’d start the process all over again.

By the time the movie was over, you were wound so tight, you knew you’d explode the second Bucky slid his cock into your aching, hungry cunt. And you couldn’t wait another minute for that release. 

The second the credits began to roll, you yanked Bucky’s hand from your leggings, the super-soldier letting you free his fingers with a low chuckle. Then you tossed the blanket off your overheated bodies and hopped up, heading straight for the door with Bucky hot on your heels.

“Where are you two going?” John called as you tried to make a hasty escape, drawing all eyes to you and Bucky. “Don’t tell me you guys are tired already, we only watched one movie! Bucky might be ancient, but what’s your excuse, rookie?”

“Mind your own damn business, Walker,” you snarled, hurling the comment over your shoulder as you picked up your pace. 

You didn’t care anymore if the team knew about you and Bucky and what you got up to when you were alone in the tower. All you could think about was the pounding pulse between your thighs and your need for release. 

Looking over your shoulder, you caught Bucky’s eye, and he looked just as desperate and hungry as you felt. With a jolt of understanding, you realized he didn’t care if anyone else knew either, and the thought made you smile happily at him. His wolfish grin answered you and urged you on.

As the two of you retreated from the lounge, you heard John whining to the others, “What’d I say?” The last thing you heard was everyone else—save for Alexei, who was still asleep in his chair—laugh at him.

Once you were out of sight of the team, Bucky hauled you over his shoulder and took off. He jogged through the winding hallways of the tower until he got to his room. There, he pushed quickly through the door and locked it behind him, before tossing you down on the bed.

“Leggings off now, unless you want me to tear them off you,” Bucky growled, already yanking his clothes off. 

You grinned at his impatience, as if he wasn’t the one who’d tortured you for the last two hours by edging you during movie night. But you decided to save your teasing for later, because you wanted him too badly to say anything. Instead, you just tore of your own clothes as quickly as you could.

Then Bucky was on you, his hips bullying between your legs, his cock smacking against your wet, needy pussy. Your thighs spread wide to welcome him into your body, your lips parting on an obscene moan when he crushed you into the bed with his heavy form. 

In one thrust, he was inside you, and you let loose an uninhibited scream of pleasure that filled his room, bouncing off the walls and shattering the stillness of the night. 

Just as you’d predicted, you came the moment Bucky slid home inside your pussy, your release helped along by the way he was grinding the base of his cock into your clit. He knew exactly what he was doing, pushing you over the edge with relentless efficiency. 

And you were helpless to it. The pleasure coursing through you, crashing over you in blissful waves had you trembling and whimpering beneath him, riding out the overwhelming release with your thighs wrapped tight around his waist.

“That’s it, sweetheart, you’re coming like a perfect little slut on my cock,” Bucky praised you, brushing kisses to your cheeks before capturing your lips in a filthy kiss. “You were such a good girl, so quiet and perfect for me while I played with your pretty pussy.”

Bucky started rolling his hips, thrusting into you with deep strokes of his cock, filling you up over and over again. You could feel the twitching and throbbing of his hard length, but he didn’t let up, just set a brutal pace, pounding into your cunt. Before your release had even fully subsided, he was urging you toward another.

Gripping your jaw in one hand while he braced himself on his metal arm, Bucky held your face still, his eyes locked on yours. There was a promise of pleasure in his feral gaze, in the slash of a smirk on his face, and you couldn’t help the eager grin that pulled at your lips at his next words. 

“Now it’s time for me to show you what good girls get after movie night.”

Bucky Barnes was a man of his word, and show you he did. He fucked you long and hard, making you come so many times you lost count, until the evidence of your pleasure was seen in the uncontrollable quivering of your exhausted thighs and the amount of come—both his and yours—making a mess as it spilled from your body. 

Meanwhile, the rest of the New Avengers team gave Bucky’s room a wide berth for the night. They all had a good idea about what the two of you got up to when you slipped away from the others to be alone; they all knew about your “secret” relationship and your not-so-secret cuddling during movie night. (Thankfully, that was all they knew about.) 

Well, everyone knew about you and Bucky Barnes except John Walker. But he was always the last to figure out anything. 

All told, it was a pretty standard movie night in the New Avengers Tower.

thanks for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

[watchmegetobsessed]

UNDONE

A/N: i've started like 3 wips these past weeks but finally finished one! so here is some boss!harry for you, let me know if you want more of it, bc i feel like i could def add to this story!

WORD COUNT: 8.1k

WARNING: sexual content

SUMMARY: Harry is obsessed with Y/N. The only problem is that he is her boss, so he keeps this obsession to himself. But everything changes after one drunken night.

MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!

Harry has a love-hate relationship with the glass-walled meeting rooms in the office. Aesthetically they are bringing that well-known, usual vibe of every corporate office, nothing new, nothing unusual. Often, he is irritated that people tend to peek inside as they walk past towards the coffee machine or the restroom. He knows it’s second nature, they don’t necessarily try to intrude, but it tends to frustrate him when he is in the middle of a meeting and a random guy is just staring him down from outside. He tried to get the glass covered, but HR declined, they said something about transparency that just pissed Harry off even more, then he just gave up.

But lately, there’s been an advantage of those see-through dividers, because if people from outside can see in, that means Harry can see everything and everyone outside.

Like right now, as he is sitting by the oval table, laptop in front of him while the lawyers are talking about all the legal documents that are needed for their next deal, it’s an important step and Harry is usually great at focusing on what matters, but today his attention is somewhere else.

Outside of the meeting room, right by Y/N’s desk. 

She is the latest addition in the department, a talented analyst who joined a little over three months ago. Harry knows she is great, because he was there at her interview. He is usually not one to attend interviews, but the hiring manager got sick and they needed someone from management to be there as well and Harry had a spare hour he wanted to use to get a little ahead on that tender he’d been working on, but that got thrown right out the window. 

It was the last thing he wanted to do, listen to some random analyst who probably never even saw a DWH system, they always think they are qualified to deal with anything, but then they see just how much data they need to work with and then freak out. Harry was convinced it would happen that time too, but he was wrong.

Y/N walked in there, seemingly nervous, fidgeting with the hem of her cardigan, looking like a frightened little rabbit, so innocent, so sweet, something surprising happened. 

Harry was in awe. 

He found himself being drawn towards her, interested in how she’d perform at the interview. He kept a straight face as the recruiter beside him asked her some basic questions and then he took over for the professional part. 

He gave her his hardest questions, things even seniors might not know, he quizzed her about topics that are way too specific to work around and… she excelled. She couldn’t answer every question, but she worked up a logic she would use to at least try to tackle the matter and Harry knew she would succeed if she had the right materials. 

She blew his mind away. Once she left, he turned to the recruiter and said:

“I want her. Get her to start next week.”

And she did. Next monday, she was holding her onboarding package, eyes bright as she got seated at her desk, ready to start working. 

Now she is sitting at the same spot, wearing her blue light glasses, her eyebrows slightly furrowed behind them as she is working on something on her computer. She is wearing a long sundress today with a yellow cardigan to cover her shoulders. Harry has noted her colorful outfits every morning when she strolled into the office, brightening the otherwise dull atmosphere. It’s a whole floor full of developers, analysts and other IT professionals, they are not known for their exquisite fashion taste, but Y/N is different. Her wardrobe is full of colors and pieces others wouldn’t consider as business casual, but somehow she always makes it work. 

She is the kind of person that has a nice word for everyone, she often brings coffee to Linda, whose desk is across from hers and they usually have lunch together, Harry has noted. She is always happy to help others, she is great at seeing problems differently and quick to come up with solutions. She is definitely a favorite among her colleagues.

Unlike Harry.

Not that he wants to be liked, he is head of IT, he needs to lead, keep everything under control and make hard decisions. He is not stupid, Harry knows most people in the department fear him, he is not known for being friendly and chatty. He usually has so much work he doesn’t have time left to get a coffee with anyone, not that he would have anyone to invite. He is the gruff boss who is always busy and people try not to cross paths with. 

He doesn’t mind it. He likes to be focused on his work and most people don’t realize how hard it is to be the one to decide about budget cuts, downsizing and restructuring, because they don’t see what goes down behind these decisions, they just want to blame someone and that’s usually him. They don’t want to be friends with the big boss who fired their work bestie, even if it was a known fact they never did their job.

It was never an issue for him how his employees saw him. Until her. 

Someone stops by Y/N’s desk and he watches her face light up as she gives them her attention. He can’t hear what she is saying, but when she laughs, it rings in his ears. He loves hearing her laugh.

“So what do you think?” one of the lawyers asks him and he snaps back, realizing he has no idea what they were talking about in the last five minutes. He quickly looks down at his notes so far, but there’s no use. 

“Uh, I’ll leave it to you. I have to go now, do you think you can have everything set by the end of next week? We need it for the next sprint.”

“Sure,” the guy nods, his name is something with a J, but Harry can’t remember what it is. 

He is relieved that he could dodge admitting he has no idea what was talked about, shutting his laptop he murmurs a thank you for the group and he is the first one to walk out of the room, heading towards his office. 

Y/N is not at her desk when he walks past and he looks for her, hoping he is not too obvious, but he sees no trace of her. Is she having coffee with that guy who walked up to her desk? Are they planning something outside of work? Does he want to date her?

Harry’s thoughts are racing as he closes the door behind him, shutting out the general buzz of the open office outside. With a sigh, he sits down in his chair, places his laptop onto the desk, but leaves it unopened for a bit as he rubs his face with his hands. 

He always has control. He plans and keeps himself to his plan, he gathers data, analyses and then makes a new plan. Easy as it is. This is why he likes his job, IT is usually exact, the problem might be deeply hidden, but it’s always exact, he just needs to find the data.

But he’s been feeling chaotic lately. He is disoriented, can’t focus at meetings and finds himself thinking about her when he is supposed to be working. He just can’t help it. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out, then rolls his head, his neck cracks and he lets out a groan before opening his laptop and trying his best to get back to working. The code opens in front of him and he focuses on the lines he’s been trying to rewrite, but right when he is about to start typing, there’s a knock on his door. For a second, he feels irritated that he was interrupted again, but then he looks past the screen and sees her.

Harry nods and Y/N walks through the glass door, holding her laptop to her chest, smiling shyly. Harry likes to think that this smile is for him only, that he is the reason to bring it to her lips, though he doubts he has such an effect on her. But still, it’s a nice thought. 

“Hey,” he greets her as she crosses the room and sits across from him. 

“Hi. Am I disturbing you?”

“No,” he shakes his head.

“I finished those tables you asked for yesterday, but I wanted to run a few things with you.”

“You… finished?” he asks as Y/N unfolds her laptop, nodding. 

“Yeah.” She places the laptop onto his desk and he leans closer, focusing on the screen as Y/N explains what she found unclear, but Harry is still stunned when she is done talking.

“Is it… Is it bad? Not what you thought of?” she asks, seeing his face.

“No, it’s… Y/N, you did this all by yourself?”

“Yes?” Her answer sounds unsure and panic settles in her visibly. “I-I’m sorry if it’s–”

“Y/N, this is brilliant.”

She is taken aback by his compliment, it wasn’t the first time, but it feels like a gift every time for her. 

“It is?”

“Yeah. I mean, I didn’t doubt you could do it, but I didn’t think it would turn out this great and you also finished so fast, I thought it would take you the entire week at least.”

“Well… I did stay in a little longer last night,” she admits with a soft chuckle and it tugs on his chest right away. He looks at her over the desk, their eyes meet and for a second, warmth spreads through his veins as he fights the urge to reach out and touch her. 

Clearing his throat he leans back in his chair.

“Send it over, I’ll leave comments on those sections and then you can start the migration.”

“Thank you,” she nods, taking her laptop and heading to the door.

“And well done, Y/N,” he calls after her. She just nods and smiles at him before walking out. 

Harry watches her return to her desk, takes some deep breaths and forces himself to return to the code on his own computer. 

***

Linda wiggles her eyebrows at Y/N once she is sat at her desk. 

“Did you two eye-fuck again?” she asks and Y/N gapes at her, quickly looking around to see if anyone heard her, but luckily, everyone is too busy.

“Linda! That’s–We don’t do that.”

“Oh please,” she scoffs, twirling her pen around between her fingers. 

“We just went over the tables. He said I did a good job.” She shrugs, but Linda doesn’t miss how the corners of her mouth curl up, though she tries to hide it. 

“You do realize you’re the only one in this whole department he has ever complimented, right?”

“That’s not true.”

“It is. Zach go the best reaction from him last spring, when he spent two weeks refactoring a fucked up code, Harry said it was acceptable. That’s all. The fact that he said you did a good job is just another proof that he is into you.”

“Would you stop talking about the head of IT being into me?” Y/N hisses. “Come on, let’s get a coffee before you start screaming it.”

They go down a floor where the coffee station has better options and once they both have a mug full of coffee, they settle by a high table in the common area. 

“I have a confession to make,” Y/N admits, but avoids looking her in the eyes. “Okay, go for it.”

“I’m meeting Archer today.”

“Y/N! Not your fucking ex! Why?!” Linda gasps. “Do you really hate yourself that much?”

“I don’t hate myself,” she gives her a look, before returning her gaze to her mug. “He texted me the other day.”

“And you texted him back?”

“Well, yes, of course.”

“Boo! You should have blocked his number a long time ago!”

Y/N has thought about that. A lot. Her asshole ex has come back a couple of times since they broke up about a year ago, they shared one or two nights, but it always ended with him disappearing and leaving her shattered. His comebacks slowed down the process of getting over him a lot and though she feels like she is finally okay, she couldn’t just ignore his text.

“That’s not like me,” she shrugs, ignoring the thought that she knows Linda is right. 

“Hun, what do you think will happen today that hasn’t happened before?”

The question stings, right in her chest, because she knows it’s true. Her logical side knows Archer won’t just magically apologize for the way he treated her, even though it’s the only thing she wants from him at this point. To admit that he was in the wrong. 

“We’ll talk. That’s it.”

“Please don’t sleep with him,” Linda sighs desperately. “He doesn’t deserve your time.”

“I won’t,” she says, though she is not entirely certain it’s the truth. 

“Uh-huh, okay.” Linda checks the time on her phone. “I gotta go, I have a meeting in ten.”

“I’m coming too, I have a lot to do.”

Grabbing their mugs they head out of the common area, back to the upper floor. 

***

Harry didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He is the last person to be interested in anyone’s private life in the office. 

But when he heard Y/N’s voice as he was about to walk into the room, he stopped and hid behind the wall, listening to a conversation that was truly not meant for his ears. 

Hearing the two women talk about Y/N’s ex has ignited something new in him, especially when it became clear that he has hurt her in the past. Harry is not one to become violent, he channels all his tendencies in the gym while boxing, but from what he heard of the guy, he would have gladly punched him in the face. A few times.

Maybe more than a few.

The short conversation tickled his curiosity about what happened, but when he heard that they were about to leave, he quickly walked away so they didn’t see him. 

Now as he is back by his desk he can’t focus on the code in front of him at all, his thoughts are only about this mysterious ex Y/N is apparently meeting today. At one point, he even considers giving her some extra work to keep her in late and preferably miss the meeting, but that would be too petty even for him. Instead, he spends the next hour pretending to work while he just keeps fantasizing about different scenarios of what happened between Y/N and the guy. 

Slowly, the office starts to empty out as the end of the day nears. Desks get abandoned, lights are turned off and Harry is still there, since he barely got anything done that day. 

He sees when Y/N packs up her stuff and leaves and his jaw almost breaks as he holds himself still and just watches her walk out. 

“I’m fucking insane,” he mumbles under his breath, willing himself to do some work now that he can’t get distracted by Y/N every time she leaves her desk. 

It’s all new to him. This obsession he’s been feeling since the moment he saw Y/N at the interview. An invisible string has been pulling him towards her and it’s unlike anything he has felt with his exes before. 

He wasn’t obsessed. He didn’t think of them all the time. He didn’t lose focus when he was seeing someone. But with Y/N, he is losing his precious control and it’s almost scary. 

He finally manages to lock in for some work and time flies by. Next time he looks up from his screen the whole office is empty, only his desk lamp giving light and the green haze of the exit signs. It’s past nine and he can hear the cleaner vacuuming somewhere on the floor, so with a tired smile he shuts his computer off, gathers his things and heads out. 

He moved less than a year ago and the place he bought is within walking distance of the office. He knows it might have been a stupid idea to get a place just because it’s close to his working place, he probably won’t work there his whole life, but he doesn’t see himself switching for a long time, so it’s convenient. 

With his backpack hanging off one shoulder he steps out into the warm evening, the afternoon rush is over, now the nearby bars and restaurants are full of workers desperately needing to let some steam off before heading home. 

There’s a small park he walks through before reaching his street and it has always been dear to him, a nice change in the scenery of concrete and glass in the middle of the city. There’s even a small pond along the path that takes him across the park with benches and a handful of ducks are usually circling in the water peacefully. 

Older people from around like to come here and sit or take a short walk and they are the only people Harry likes to watch. He admires their slow pace, no rush, just enjoying what they have, a state he dreams of reaching too. 

Tonight, as he passes by the pond his eyes spot a familiar figure sitting on one of the benches. He stops in his tracks, questioning if his sight is right, because the person sitting there with her head hanging low looks just like Y/N. As he slowly approaches he notices the soft shaking of her shoulders.

She’s crying. 

***

Y/N has been sitting on that bench for… God knows how long. Could have been minutes, could have been hours. She was planning to cry her eyes out at once, then move on by the time she gets home, but apparently, she needs more time to get herself over than she estimated. This spot seemed like a great one, it’s far enough from the lights so people don’t notice she is crying, but she definitely did not expect to be noticed by her boss.

“Y/N?”

Harry’s voice makes her jump and as her head snaps up, she finds herself staring up at the person she least expected to see. His eyebrows are furrowed, concern is written all over his face as he stands a few feet away from the bench, as if he can’t tell if it’s a good idea for him to get closer. 

“Oh, hi!” She quickly forces a smile on her face, but she knows she is fooling no one. She wipes her tear-soaked cheeks with the back of her hand and prays her mascara is not smudged all around her eyes in panda style. “What–What are you doing here?”

“I live nearby, I’m on my way home. What are you doing here? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just… I was just taking a walk and now I’m… not.”

Her brain does not function. She knows what she said didn’t make any sense, but she can’t think of something else to say. She is way too busy thinking about how Harry is standing right there just after her ex made her wait for him for an hour before texting her he is not coming and when she called him to confront, a woman answered his phone.

It didn’t take long for Y/N to draw the conclusions: Archer was only trying to hook up with her tonight, but apparently found someone else and ditched her. A classic move from an asshole like him, but that doesn’t make her feel less like shit. Mostly because she should have known better and not believe he would do anything other than hurting her. 

Harry just stands there for a few moments and Y/N is expecting him to walk away and pretend like he didn’t even see her, but he surprises her when he walks over to the bench and sits beside her. 

“Do you want to… talk about what happened?”

“Nothing happened,” she answers right away, but when she looks at him, it’s obvious he doesn’t believe her. With a sigh, she turns her gaze back towards the pond. She is hesitating between keeping it all to herself or just dumping it on Harry and then deal with the consequences later, but right when she is about to make up her mind, he speaks up.

“Is this about… your ex-boyfriend?”

She turns to him with wide eyes. 

“How do you…”

A guilty look takes over his face before he shrugs.

“I heard you talking about him earlier. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

“I shouldn’t talk so freely with Linda in the office,” she chuckles, shaking her head. They sit in silence, when Harry peeks at her she seems deep in her thoughts and he is desperate to get her to talk, but doesn’t want to push her too much. 

As a last resort, he says:

“Do you want to have a drink?”

***

The tequila is burning her throat, she can’t help the frown as she bites into the lemon. When she looks at Harry, she is not even surprised he has the same, unbothered look on his face he had after the previous two shots. 

“Uh, how are you taking it so well?” she coughs and then takes a sip from her beer. They were lucky enough to find a table at a bar nearby and she was quick to accept that maybe getting drunk is what she needs right now, even if the alarms are still going off somewhere in the back of her mind, because doing it with Harry might not be her brightest idea. 

“I guess I still have some left of my college years,” he shrugs and she starts laughing. 

“Don’t tell me you were a party animal in college,” she snorts. The three shots and half a beer has definitely set her tongue free and took away her sense of embarrassment after saying everything that’s on her mind. She will surely regret it in the morning, but right now she couldn’t care less.

Harry likes this version of her. She is always bubbly and talkative, but in his presence he often senses her nervousness. Now there’s no trace of that and he is sinking in every moment of it.

“What do you think I was like in college?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. 

“I don’t know,” she shrugs, the words slurring a bit on her tongue. “Like a… hot nerd?”

He quirks an eyebrow at her and she realizes only then that she just called him hot. 

“I-I mean… I don’t–What I meant is–”

“I was a nerd,” he says, saving her from her rambling. “I was in the robotics club, spent a lot of time in the library, trying to hack their system so I didn’t have to return some books I wanted to keep.”

She can’t help, but laugh as Harry is smiling at the memory as well.

“Did you succeed?”

“What do you think?”

“For sure.”

“Correct,” he chuckles, taking a sip of his beer. “But I went to parties. I had this friend group from highschool, some of them were friends with the popular kids so we were always invited.”

“I can’t picture you with a red solo cup, filled with cheap booze.”

“But it happened,” he chuckles. “Luckily, photos have been deleted from social media.”

“Did you wipe the internet?” she asks, leaning closer as if she was asking him about a secret.

“No, but I did message those who had the photos posted when I was getting higher in my career.”

“Clever,” she nods and grabbing her beer, she takes a few swigs. Then her smile fades. “Maybe I should tell you what happened, right?”

“Only if you want to.”

Sighing she leans back, pursing her lips as she squints her eyes, looking back at him. She can’t think straight. Her thoughts are jumping, one moment she is thinking about Archer, the next all her attention is on how plump his lips look when they are wet from the beer, or the way his top two buttons of his shirt have come undone and she is seeing fucking tattoos, along his collarbones. 

She wants to kiss them. 

“I was stupid enough to think that I matter to him and he wouldn’t… hurt me. But he did. That’s it, lesson learned.”

She would love to look unbothered, like it doesn’t affect her, but she can’t. Her throat is closing up and when Harry calls out her name softly, she looks up at him with tears in her eyes and wobbling lips. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be crying, I know. I’m sorry!”

“Don’t apologize,” Harry shakes his head, but it’s like she didn’t even hear him.

“I know it’s stupid, but I just thought it might be different this time, that he might apologize and I can finally… I don’t know.”

“It’s not stupid. It’s not. You’re allowed to hope, to want to be treated the right way.”

“But I should have learned my lesson before!”

“You could have, but it’s okay. You will now. You’re smart, smarter than you think. You’ll get over it, doesn’t matter how long it takes, you will get there. I know it.”

“How?” she asks in a whisper, unable to break the eye-contact. 

“I don’t know how you’ll do it, but–”

“No,” she shakes her head. “How do you know it?”

He slowly runs his tongue over his lips, thinking his words through before speaking them.

“I just do. Do you believe me?”

Without hesitation she nods.

“I do.”

***

“If someone said one day I would be waiting for an Uber with my boss, drunk out of my ass at two am, I would have laughed them in the face.”

Y/N is holding onto a lamp post with one hand, twirling around it like a little kid as Harry stands by the curb, one hand in his pocket, the other one holding his phone, tracking the Uber that’s supposed to pick Y/N up and take her home. He is watching her with a tiny smile, it’s great to see her so carefree after her breakdown earlier. 

“Which part is so unbelievable?” 

She stops and steps closer to him. She can’t stand still, keeps shifting her weight between her feet and Harry is on alert in case she loses her balance. 

“All of it,” she grins up at him, blinking lazily. “Except the drunk out of my ass. That happens sometimes.”

“Really?” 

“Ooh, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Am I in trouble?”

“Because you get drunk sometimes? You’re an adult, you can do whatever you want.”

“Yeah, but… you’re my boss,” she giggles, then starts swaying as if she could hear some music. “It’s not professional to get drunk.”

“Not when you’re working. But you’re not at work right now.”

“Nope,” she shakes her head, popping the ‘p’ sound. “I’m on the street, with Harry Styles, after drinking with Harry Styles! And now I’m gonna go home in an Uber that Harry Styles ordered for me!”

“Are you enjoying saying my name?” he chuckles, glancing at his phone again, The car is five minutes away. He is already dreading the moment it arrives, because that means the night ends. But he knows she has to get home and sleep it off.

“I do,” she sings. “It has a nice ring to it. It’s a cool name for a cool guy.”

“Oh, so I’m cool?” He knows he shouldn’t take advantage of her drunken state and keep her talking, but he just can’t get himself to stop.

“Yeah. You’re cool and smart and scary sometimes and mysterious, but not tonight,” she giggles as she keeps swaying around, while Harry can’t take his eyes off her, not when she is talking about him. “People at the office are scared of you, but I think you’re great.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. You’re amazing, I always look forward to seeing you. Sometimes I…” She giggles at whatever she is thinking about, completely oblivious at how intently Harry is listening to her. “Sometimes I ask you about things I know just so we can talk.” She shakes her head with a chuckle, but it’s enough for her to lose balance.

She gasps when she starts falling, but he is quick to grab her by her arms, yanking her towards him to keep her from smashing against the concrete. She is not laughing anymore, especially when she realizes that her chest is pressed against his, hands still holding her arms firmly. And his eyes are piercing into her gaze in a way that takes her breath away. 

“I love when you come asking questions,” he admits. “That’s usually my favorite part of the day.”

Her eyes widen at his words and when his gaze shifts down to her lips, they part as she gasps for air. Her chest presses even more against his as she fills her lungs and she feels even more dizzy now than before. 

“I want to kiss you.”

The words blurt out of her before she could think them through, unaware of the effect they have on Harry. His gaze darkens and it moves down at her lips again. But before he could say or do anything, the Uber pulls up beside them. 

Harry lets go of her, then opens the door.

“Get some sleep, Y/N. I’ll see you on Monday.”

She blinks at him a few times as he just stands there, waiting for her to get inside. She is confused. Drunk and tired and the longer she stays there the more awkward she feels, so she finally gets into the car, then Harry shuts the door and the car starts moving. 

Y/N turns around and sees him still standing there, hands in his pockets, his head hanging low. Then she slides down in the seat, closes her eyes and then replays those couple of moments when she was pressed up against him over and over again until the car stops at her apartment building. 

***

Sunday evening Y/N contemplates calling in sick. Preferably with something that keeps her away from the office… forever. 

Once she woke in the afternoon of Saturday, sobered up, with a killer headache, memories from last night came crashing down on her and the embarrassment took over instantly. She spent the rest of the weekend in agony, cursing herself out for being so stupid. 

Did she really tell her boss she wanted to kiss him?

Yes, she in fact did. After getting drunk with him, crying about her ex and telling him all kinds of stuff she never planned on admitting to him. Like that she finds him cool and smart and sometimes scary. 

But the kissing part is obviously the worst.

No matter how badly she dreads Monday morning, time doesn’t stop or slows down, the week starts and she has to go to work and face the consequences of her actions. 

Maybe Harry won’t be there. But he is always there. 

Maybe she can hide all day and avoid him… until the rest of her life or until she finds a new job. Very unlikely, but whatever. 

Her palms are sweating as she swipes her card at the gates and heads up to her floor. She’s getting paranoid, thinking that everyone in the elevator knows what happened on Friday, even though no one even bats an eye in her direction. 

Luckily, as she logs into her computer at her desk, work swamps her and provides enough distraction to stop her from throwing up when she sees Harry for the first time.

It seems like he is having a busy day too, he is in and out of meetings for the most part of the noon, she only sees him passing by or sitting in his office with his AirPods in, a sign that he is in an online meeting. But even when he is free for a short time, Y/N makes sure she avoids facing him. She even considers moving to another floor’s common room with her laptop for the day if it means she can survive without running into him and God forbid, talking to him. 

But then comes an email. 

It’s a bit after lunch time when it pops up in her inbox and her stomach drops to the floor right away when she sees it’s from Harry. Then another wave of anxiety washes over her when she reads it.

FROM: Harry Styles

Come to my office at your earliest convenience. -H

“Oh shit,” she mumbles under her breath and it catches Linda’s ears across from her, who gives her a questioning look. “Nothing.” She just shakes her head, grabs her laptop and then heads to Harry’s office with shaking knees. 

Is this the part where he tells her behavior was unacceptable? Did he maybe report her to HR for what she said?

She knocks on the door with a sweaty hand, Harry looks up from his screen with a blank face and nods at her to go inside. 

“Hey. I got your email.” She sounds like a frightened little girl as she closes the door behind her and stills, hugging her laptop to her chest. 

“Thanks for coming right away.”

Harry pushes his chair back lazily, stands and rounds the desk before leaning against it leisurely, his eyes glued to Y/N who is still standing by the door, too scared to go further. He doesn’t like the distance.

“Come, sit,” he nods towards one of the chairs in front of his desk. 

Obediently, she walks over and takes a seat, blinking up at him with wide eyes while he looks unbothered and almost… bored. He squints his eyes at her, tilting his head to the side a bit before finally speaking up. 

“Is there a specific reason why you’re avoiding me all day?”

Her lips part at his question and her first instinct is to deny.

“I-I’m not–”

“Y/N, you are. Normally, you would have already asked me at least two questions, but instead you walk out of the office every time I step out of mine. You are avoiding me.”

She shuts her mouth, trying to come up with something to say that could save her, but nothing comes to her mind. 

“I’m sorry.” Her gaze drops to the floor, his stare is too intense for her. “I’m so ashamed about… everything I said on Friday, I didn’t know how to face you. I said all that… inappropriate stuff you definitely shouldn’t have heard. like… ever. I’m sorry.”

“Y/N,” he softly says, but her gaze remains on her shoes. “Y/N, look at me, please.”

Finally, she dares to move her eyes back to meet his and then he continues… in the most surprising way.

“What I’m about to say, it’s going to be fully unrelated to work. Can you treat it as something outside of this setting?” Y/N nods. “Use your words, I need to hear you say it. Do you understand that this conversation is outside of work?”

“I understand,” she answers weakly, her mouth running dry. 

“Good.” He nods and then continues. “Do not feel sorry for anything you said. I’m glad I know all of that. The only downside of it is that now I need every ounce of self-control not to bend you over this desk and fuck you until you forget your own name.”

This time her mouth hangs open. For a moment she is not entirely convinced she hasn’t just imagined it all. That it wasn’t just her sick mind playing tricks on her. But then he speaks again.

“Did you hear what I said? That I want to fuck you into oblivion on this desk?”

“Yes,” she breathes out, trembling. 

“Good. Now I want you to go back to your desk and think it through whether you want that too or not. If you decide that you feel the same way, stay late and come back here when everyone is gone. Understood?”

“Yes.”

She feels dizzy, but not the same kind she felt on Friday, this is entirely different. Turning around she walks out of the room, but she’s on auto pilot as she returns to her desk. She leans back in her chair and slowly looks around.

No one in the room knows what just happened. Everyone is just minding their own business while Y/N is on the verge of fainting.

“You alright?” Linda peeks out from behind her screen with a concerned look on her face. “What did he want?”

If only she knew! Y/N thinks. She is dying to share, to take the whole conversation apart and analyze every bit, but she can’t. Instead, she forces a smile to her face.

“Just checked in with me about the migration.”

Linda examines her suspiciously for a second, but then her phone rings and she returns to her work while Y/N opens her laptop as well, but as she stares at the document in front of her she was working on before Harry’s email, she can’t even make out a word. 

Instead, she is busy thinking about what happens when the office empties out. 

***

Harry was dragged into some urgent issue sometime in the afternoon and it gave him enough work to take his attention away from prying outside, impatiently waiting for everyone to leave while making sure Y/N is still there. 

He answers one call after the other while emails keep popping into his inbox and he loses track of Y/N. When he finally drags his gaze away from the screen he looks up and finds the whole floor empty. All of it.

Meaning that Y/N left as well. Groaning he stands from his desk and walks over to the window, staring out into the night that has slowly creeped up on him. He truly thought she would stay. That she felt the same desire and thirst as him and she wants to explore whatever it could be, but maybe he read it all wrong. 

How will this affect their work? He should have thought of that before telling her he wants to fuck her on his desk. Who even does that? He is supposed to be her boss, her mentor, this was so incredibly inappropriate, he is thinking about reporting himself to HR and–

There’s a knock on his door. 

Turning around he freezes when he sees Y/N standing there with doe-like eyes and with just one look she is already making his pulse jump. He nods, barely noticeably, but she sees it and lets herself inside, closing the door behind her even though it’s truly just the two of them now. 

“Hey,” she sheepishly says, stopping exactly where she did earlier when he wrote her that email. This time however, Harry is the one to cross the room and then stop just inches away from her. She wonders if he could hear the wild hammering of her heart in her chest, the dizziness is back and she hides her hands behind her back so he doesn’t notice them shaking. 

“Did you think about what I said?”

Harry talks slowly and clearly and she couldn’t tell just moments ago he was freaking out too. But now that she’s there, every racing thought is gone from his mind, all he is thinking about is… her. 

“Yes.”

“And what’s your conclusion?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” There’s a tiny bit of sassiness in her tone, just enough to start a fire in him. 

She catches the way one corner of his lips curls up as he takes another small step towards her, his hands come up to cup her jaw on either side and he gently tilts her head back, angling it perfectly. Then slowly, he leans closer until his lips are almost touching hers, but then stops. As if he is giving one last chance for her to change her mind, but she is still there, waiting for him to finally break down the wall between them and he gives in. 

He lets his hunger take over instantly. There’s no testing the waters, feeling each other up, he kisses her in a demanding, needy way that takes her breath away at first, but she is quick to react the same way. 

Her hands move to his shirt, grabbing the fabric at his stomach while his hands are still holding onto her face, but then they slide down her sides, settle on the back of her thighs and she knows exactly what he wants her to do. So without breaking them apart, she jumps up, he catches her with ease as she wraps her legs around his waist and he blindly carries her to the small sofa by the wall. 

He sinks into the cushion and she straddles him, giving her a bit of advantage in height this way, so now he is the one to crane his neck while she is leaning down to meet him. 

It’s a mess, lip biting, tongues crashing, soft moans and grunts, his palms wander over his thighs and ass and then he sneakily peels her soft pink shirt out of her tight jeans so his hands can slip under the fabric and feel her heated skin. 

She is desperate to feel more, to ease the aching throbbing between her legs, so when she starts rolling her hips and grinding against his rapidly growing bulge, he can’t help the moan that slips out of his mouth, right into hers. 

His head drops to the back of the sofa and she takes the chance to kiss her way down the column of his neck. After dozens of fantasies doing the same thing during meetings, now she is finally tasting his skin, gently nibbling on a spot that has his hands grab onto her ass, pushing her even more into him. 

When their lips meet again her fingers dance down his chest, feeling up his abdomen through his shirt and then settle on his belt, she starts undoing it, but he is quick to stop her, which breaks her out of her trance., scared that she did something wrong. 

Reading her from just one look, Harry shakes his head softly.

“I know I said I want to bend you over my desk, but I don’t want the first time I’m inside you to be here. So we are gonna do it differently for now.”

As he speaks, his fingers work the buttons of her shirt, one after the other until the white, lacy bra is revealed underneath. 

“Is it fucking Christmas?” he breathes out, hooking a finger into one of the cups and tugging it down so your breast spills out of it. An airy chuckle slips out of her, but it quickly turns into a gasp when he sucks her pebbled nipple into his mouth, even gently biting and tugging on it. Her fingers comb through his hair, his fingertips massaging his scalp as her grinding continues. 

“I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do,” he murmurs against her chest, one hand freeing her other breast from the bra as well, so he can pay equal attention to them both. “You’re gonna grind that needy cunt of yours against me until you come, just so you can see what it is like when you’re not even undressed and imagine what will happen once I get to unwrap you.” He smacks her ass gently, a moan slipping out through her parted lips. “And I’m gonna leave marks all over tits and suck your nipples until they are so tender you can barely touch them, so when you go home and see yourself in the mirror, you’ll remember every moment of what’s happening right now.”

His hands grab her hips and make her roll them harder, his erection and the seam of her jeans rubbing into her soaking wet cunt. She eagerly takes the pace he dictated, desperate to chase her release that’s building in the pit of her stomach rapidly. 

“Do you like that? Do you like my plan?” he asks, his lips brushing against her nipple, teasing her with his touch just enough to make her whine and ache for more. 

“Yes,” he nods eagerly, hands clasping the back of his head to pull him closer to her chest and feel his lips on her heated skin again and he complies happily. 

“Then let me feel how badly you want to come.”

If someone told Y/N in the morning, that tonight she would be dry humping her boss like a horny teenager, she would have checked that person into a mental hospital. Yet here she is, grinding against Harry’s massive bulge, shamelessly rubbing her cunt against his erection while his mouth is full of her breast. 

He has already left a few marks on her and she knows she’ll have to wear turtlenecks for the next 2 weeks, but she couldn’t care less. 

“Fuck, I’m so close,” she cries out when she finds just the right angle where the seam of her jeans and the tip of his restrained cock rub her clit perfectly, sending sparks through her nerves. 

“Go on, want to see you come undone.” He bites the side of her left breast and she hisses, but it feels so good, so fucking great she moans loudly, her head falling back at the sensation.

“Harry, I–Ah!”

His hands grab her ass and he pulls her in, making her fall forward, her chest pressing up against his as she buries her face into his neck, fastening her movements as her orgasm is nearing. 

“Come on, Y/N. Let me see you come undone.”

“Wanna feel you inside,” she whines, but keeps moving.

“I know and you will. Just not now.”

She whines again in a disapproving manner, but doesn’t stop and Harry’s hips start moving as well. He encourages her a few more times, his lips brushing against her ear, sending shivers down her spine and right when she thinks she can’t take it anymore, the bubble pops. 

She gasps and moans, her movements get dragged out and Harry forces her to look him in the eyes as she rides out her joy. She loses track of time, can’t tell if it lasts for seconds or hours. But when it’s over she collapses into his arms. 

“You did so good. So fucking good,” he murmurs into her ear, kissing the side of her face wherever he can reach. When she finally catches her breath she sits up straight and looking down she sees that he’s still hard underneath her. 

Instantly, she reaches down, ready to take him out and take care of him, but he stops her again. 

“Not now.”

“But you… didn’t–”

“I know,” he smiles softly. “But if we go further now, I won’t be able to stop and I told you, I want the first time I’m inside you in a different setting.”

She understands and it’s flattering knowing he wouldn’t be able to control himself if they continued, but it feels unbalanced now that only she came. 

“Are you sure?” she asks, hands flattening on his stomach. 

Smiling, he nods. “Very sure.”

She thinks to herself for a bit and reaching up Harry brushes a lock of hair behind her ear as a smile stretches slowly across her face.

“What is it?”

“So… this means there will be a next time?”

The playful glint in her eyes amuses him. She is sitting on his lap, her chest still exposed, lips swollen from his kisses while his erection is still straining against his pants and she asks if there will be a next time. 

“Oh yeah. I will watch you come undone over and over again in every possible way. If you let me.”

She bites into her bottom lip, sheepishly blinking down at him, but her answer surprises him for a moment.

“I’m not letting you.” His face falls and his heart drops into his stomach, but she is quick to continue: “I’m begging you.”

“Oh baby, for that, now I’m adding  spanking to when I’m bending you over my desk and fuck you.”

Her smile only grows wider.

“Please, Boss!”

Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!

[marvelstoriesepic]

Not the Time I Meant to Call You

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You burned the past to be free of it. And now it tries to burn you back. That is the moment you finally find the courage to reach out to the one person you know will pull you from the fire.

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: emotional abuse; harassment by an ex partner; gaslighting (implied, not Bucky); house fire (graphic); fire; smoke inhalation; near-death experience; panic; anxiety; medical trauma; hospital scene; toxic relationship themes; protective!Bucky; Bucky being a hero, what is new

Author’s Note: Here is the second part to All up in Flames. Please proceed with caution guys, and read the warnings because this does get angsty. There are heavy themes around fire and if you are sensitive to such content, then either stay away or read with care. I did try my best to research fire protocols and safety measures, but please remember that this is a work of fiction. I cannot guarantee the accuracy of all procedures, and it shouldn’t be taken as advice on how to act in a real fire situation! I hope you enjoy ♡

Part one

Masterlist

You are trying very hard not to cry over a dog in a bee costume.

Which is, you think, an admirable effort considering the week you’ve had.

The dog park is noisy in that specific, unfiltered way that only wide-open space filled with too many small, yappy creatures can be. It smells of dirt and treats and city wind, and the sun is too bright for your eyes, but not your skin, and your shoes are already flecked with grass strains you don’t remember collecting.

Natasha is somewhere to your left, throwing a tennis ball for her aunt’s golden retriever named General as though she’s got something to prove. Said it would be good for you to get out. “Fresh air,” she said. “Can’t spiral with a golden retriever licking your knee.”

You hadn’t really put up much of a fight.

It’s hard to argue when your phone keeps lighting up like a faulty traffic signal - missed calls, text messages, voicemails. All those numbers are burning a slow hole into your palm. He probably calls you with the number of his fiancé. It makes you sick.

You haven’t responded.

You keep not responding.

But you’ve listened to his voicemails. And you hated yourself for it. Hated that he talked to you as though you were an old coat he forgot at someone’s house and now suddenly he wants it back.

He’s not yelling but it’s the persistence that wears you down. The little messages that slip through every block, every new setting. The way a new number appearing on your phone feels like a match being struck against your spine.

Because no matter how many times you say it, there is still a part of you that can’t shake what you did. Of how it felt to stand in front of Nolan’s pile of leftover possessions and set a match to it, watch it burn to ash.

You did it to reclaim something.

To breathe again.

But sometimes - at night, when the messages come through in batches - you wonder what would happen if he found out. What he would do if he knew. If he suspected.

You didn’t exactly want to come to the dog park. You didn’t want to smile at strangers or pretend to be charmed by dogs in hats or feel the edge of sunlight on your collarbone and think that you should be okay by now.

You sit on the nearest bench and press your knuckles to your brow, trying not to let your eyes dart to every man-shaped figure near the gate. Trying not to scan for shadows you’ve already erased from your life. The world smells of bark and breath and baking cement.

The sky looks as though it forgot how to commit. It’s the color of chewed-up erasers and the backs of old receipts - washed out, waiting. The kind of weather that sticks to your skin, heavy and indecisive, as though maybe it wants to rain but forgot the script.

Natasha is squatting by General, adjusting the harness. She glances up at you and squints.

“You good?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then try to smile like that’s not a contradiction.

“Do you want to throw it for him?” she asks, tossing the half-slobbering tennis ball in the air and catching it with the same hand.

You grimace. “Yeah, no, thanks.”

Then she holds out the leash to you. You shake your head. General has already been dragging you around the perimeter like a four-legged drill sergeant with a sudden vendetta against squirrels. It worked for ten minutes, but you don’t feel like doing that again. And he seems rather busy trying very hard to dig a hole to China.

You wince at the mud he is digging up that very effectively lands in his fur. “Your aunt’s gonna kill you.”

Natasha snorts beside you, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at the scene. General has abandoned the hole and now starts making a very aggressive effort to roll in a mud puddle with all the glee of a war criminal.

You smile, the corner of your mouth hitching up. “Tell her he got in a fight with a skunk. She’ll probably be proud,” you hum.

“She will,” Natasha agrees. “She’ll say it builds character.” Leaning back, she tosses a stick lazily in General’s direction. He ignores it with majestic disdain.

“He hates fetch,” she says amused. “Prefers war crimes.”

You laugh, small but genuine. Let the sound carry.

The air around you moves gently. Laughter and dog tags and barks swirling in the breeze like falling leaves. You take a long breath and let it out slowly.

“Easy, buddy- hey, hey, gentle. That’s not a chew toy, come on.”

Your head snaps up before you can think twice.

Because that voice has become quite familiar. Too familiar. Warm. A little raspy here and there.

Of course, it’s him.

Bucky Barnes, in jeans and a dark blue shirt that already has dog hair colonizing every inch of fabric. Shoulders broad, biceps hugged, and a red and white bandana tied loosely around his neck as though he is one picnic away from being someone’s Americana-themed daydream. He is holding a leash - attached to what looks like a pit mix with an underbite, large paws, and a tail that helicopter-spins every time it sees movement. Though he’s got eyes that say I’ve seen some stuff.

The dog lunges forward. Bucky doesn’t flinch.

Natasha sees him exactly two seconds after you do. “Well, now look who we got here,” she drawls under her breath, eyebrow lifting with slow, luxurious smugness. “That’s some coincidence. This is getting interesting.”

“Don’t,” you warn her in a whisper, but you can’t help the staring or the weird thing your stomach is doing.

“Don’t what?” Her tone is all innocent sugar and no subtlety whatsoever.

“You breathed suggestively.”

“I’m just admiring the view.”

You are too.

Because he hasn’t seen you yet. He crouches down now, trying to coax the dog - who apparently answers to Tank - into something that resembles good behavior. But it’s hard to ignore the way he moves. So you don’t. Your gaze is fixed on that careful control. That firm patience. His hands, steady. His voice, low and kind and laced with humor.

Your chest does a thing you don’t have the energy to think about.

You can’t hear what he says to the dog, but you can somehow feel it. It thrums through you like a vibration. He seems to try not to scare the animal, as though he knows what it’s like to be too much and too afraid at the same time.

He still doesn’t see you, too focused on the dog.

But the dog is not focused on him.

It’s like he feels you staring.

And then he stares back. With a gaze so intense, it’s as though he sees you made of bacon and belly rubs and destiny.

Something uneasy churns in your chest

The pit mix wiggles in one fluid motion and the leash slips through Bucky’s fingers.

The dog barrels forward.

Your stomach drops.

Time slows. A low rumble of a bark and then a series of joyful, guttural grunts as this four-legged cannonball launches itself toward you as though he was born for this moment.

“Oh sh-” Bucky’s voice is sharp behind him. “Tank! No!”

But the dog is already bolting across the park as though he is auditioning for the canine Olympics with the manic, cheerful energy of a toddler on espresso.

You squeak as the dog leaps onto the bench, all 50-something pounds of him squirming onto your lap, tongue out and very interested in licking every inch of your face.

His tail is wagging enthusiastically and he is lapping at you with the aggressive determination of someone trying to polish a window with their tongue.

“Tank!” Bucky’s voice is harsh and loud, a thunderstorm. “No! Get down! Off, come on- off!”

But you’re laughing, choking on fur, getting pressed into the back of the bench as paws dig into your thighs and the dog noses at your cheek as though he is looking for peanut butter behind your ear.

“Tank! Off!”

Bucky’s voice again, slightly panting now as he finally catches up, grabbing the harness and yanking the dog back with all the frustrated dignity of someone who just lost a game they didn’t agree to play.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes breathlessly, tugging Tank back gently but firmly. “He’s usually- he’s not- God, I’m so sorry. He’s still in training.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve and squint up at him.

And that’s when he sees you.

His eyes go wide. His mouth parts slightly as though he meant to say something but forgot what it was. There is surprise. Then there is softness. Something melting into the lines of his face. Something that settles behind his eyes like sunshine finding a window.

“Oh- it’s- you’re- hey,” he stammers out.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, hey.”

Bucky looks a little stunned. A little horrified. A little amazed. “I’m so sorry. Again. He’s-” He takes a look at the dog, then back to you. “He’s never done that to anyone before.”

Tank lets out a single, satisfied woof.

You glance at him, then back at Bucky. “It’s alright, really.”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Still, I- shit. I’m sorry. I swear he’s not dangerous, he just- he wants to play.” Bucky shoots a sheepish look at you, then at an amused Natasha who stands there with her arms crossed, then back at you. “You okay? He didn’t- he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

You try to catch a breath but fail. “No, he didn’t, don’t worry. I’m okay.”

Bucky huffs out a relieved breath, tightening his grip on Tank. He looks at you, and the light in his eyes warms. They are blue and just the tiniest bit wide. The corner of his mouth tips up, crooked and cautious.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, a little quieter.

You still can’t quite breathe right. “Yeah. You too.”

Tank flops down in the grass before you, bopping his nose at your shoe as though he doesn’t trust you not to vanish.

You shake your head fondly. “So… what’s his story?”

Bucky’s grin softens further. “He’s a rescue. Firehouse took him in after a hoarding case a couple towns over. He was half-feral when we got him. Wouldn’t let anyone near him. First week, he lived under a desk and growled at shadows.”

You look down at the dog with sympathy.

Bucky crouches beside the bench now, fingers remaining curled around the harness, his eyebrows raised halfway to the sky. “He’s seriously never done this before. I mean- not unless you’re holding a bacon. Are you holding bacon?”

“Not that I know of,” you respond amused.

Natasha stands there smirking, watching you with twinkling eyes. “Well well well. Look who’s the animal whisperer.”

Rolling your eyes, you swat at your red-headed friend, keeping your movements slow enough not to startle the dog. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bucky nods toward Natasha. “I’m not saying she’s right, but he definitely seems to like you.”

“He’s got taste,” Natasha adds slyly.

“That, he does.” Bucky’s gaze is fixed on Tank.

Natasha is smirking.

You grow warm.

General is trotting up now. He pauses beside Tank, regal as a lion, then lets out one polite bark and proceeds to sniff him, nose twitching with delicate judgment.

Tank wiggles and sneezes in his face.

Bucky reaches out to pet General softly. “And who are you, buddy, huh?”

“That’s General,” Natasha answers.

Bucky looks up, eyebrows raised. “General?”

“Short for General Mayhem,” she states. “Named by my six-year-old cousin. He thought it sounded cool and dangerous.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

“You see this?” Natasha murmurs, gesturing with her chin toward General, whose tail is twitching low and tight like a predator preparing to pounce. “That’s him flirting.”

You narrow your eyes. “He looks like he wants to murder him.”

“That’s how he shows affection,” your best friend says proudly. “It’s a family trait.”

General takes off then, running in a loose, chaotic arc, tongue lolling sideways, ears flapping like banners.

Tank tries to tear after him, but Bucky’s grip is strong and he doesn’t break loose.

“Uh-uh, buddy. You’re staying here,” he warns, not at all looking like this show of strength is making him sweat. Tank keeps trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s hold, but he keeps him close. His eyes drift up to yours through the curtain of wind-tousled hair. “We’ve been working on manners, but… well, you see how that’s going.”

“Oh, I think you’re managing just fine,” you answer with a grin.

Bucky chuckles softly, looking at you again. Not quickly. Not nervously. Just softly. Intently.

Natasha returnes, dragging General back to your corner of the park with all the resistance of someone trying to reel in a dump truck.

The golden retriever immediately starts sniffing out Tank again.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands back up, brushing nonexistent dirt from his jeans, keeping a strong hold on Tank’s leash.

“So,” Bucky says, to Natasha now. “General, huh? He yours?”

“God, no. He’s my aunt’s. Russian aunt. Scary lady. She thinks dogs should have jobs. He’s trained in four languages and only listens when it’s convenient for him.”

“Almost sounds like this one,” Bucky deadpans. Then nods at the pit mix who’s now lying upside down and chewing on a clump of dandelions like a misunderstood poet. “The guys at the station called him Tank because he crashes through every room like he’s made of steel.”

You smile, looking at the lopsided dog.

“Do you think this is a permanent situation for you guys?”

“No one claimed him,” Bucky says, voice dipping quietly into something gentler. “And now he’s kind of latched on. Just needs to socialize a little more. Get some good training. But might be a permanent situation, yeah.”

“Like a firehouse mascot?” you grin.

He shrugs, but there is a gleam in his eyes as he looks down at you. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Tank bumps his nose into your knee again, and you scratch behind his ears.

“He really does like you,” Bucky says softly, eyes on the way you touch the dog.

You hum. “He seems to have been through some shit. But I’m sure he’s in good care now. And I’m sure he’ll behave at some point.” You keep your eyes on the dog. But you feel Bucky’s gaze on you. And it makes your stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way.

General has now adopted a low, slow stalk, tail wagging in dangerous arcs as he inches toward Tank.

“This is going to end in blood,” Natasha sighs, as she tightens the leash again.

But Bucky is still glancing at you. At the softness in your face, the way your knees are pulled up onto the bench now as though you’re bracing for something that won’t come.

“Hey. Where’s your other friend?” he asks, casually.

“Wanda?” you blink. “Oh, she’s- she’s working today. Double shift.”

Bucky hums.

And you stare at him for more than a second.

He’s asking about your people. Not out of obligation or politeness. Out of interest. Because he wants to know. Because he’s listening.

Natasha coughs. Loudly. On purpose.

You both turn.

General has one paw on Tank’s head now, and Tank is lying down in full surrender, tongue out, tail thumping the grass.

“Best friends,” Natasha declares.

You laugh. Bucky laughs.

The sun shines a little warmer.

****

It starts with the ceiling.

Your apartment’s ceiling, specifically - the one you stared at for forty-eight minutes this morning with your phone buzzing once. Then twice. Then three times, like a persistent tap against an already bruised part of your brain. A new number lighting up your screen again, and again, and again, and you know it’s just a synonym for his name.

You still didn’t answer. But he continues calling. Texting. He even sent you screenshots of your favorite songs as though that somehow meant something. And each time you don’t answer, it’s like dragging your tired soul uphill barefoot, hands full of the weight you swore you already let go.

So you leave.

You don’t brush your hair. You don’t put on makeup. You shove your feet into the first shoes you can find, a worn canvas tote over your shoulder, keys in hand before you’ve even fully convinced yourself where you’re going.

Just out.

Just away.

Just somewhere with people and produce and sunshine and the kind of air that doesn’t taste like memories gone sour.

You’ve left your phone on the kitchen table - face down, volume off.

You told Wanda and Natasha you were going out for fruit. They told you to get oranges, or honey, or a distraction. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t have to.

They knew you needed to be alone sometimes, even if they tried their best to distract you.

So now you’re here, walking through the open sprawl of the farmers market with your arms crossed and your face tilted toward the sun, trying to remember what it felt like to want anything at all. The breeze is soft. Smells of ripe tomatoes, lemon soap, kettle corn.

Wooden booths spill over with plums and figs and jars of pickled things. The scent of sourdough and espresso. A toddler is losing his absolute mind over a balloon shaped like a strawberry.

It feels manageable. Which is something. It feels like air, and you take it in.

You’re not looking for anything.

You’re not looking for anyone.

The sky is a soft blue silk someone forgot to iron. A child is screaming somewhere nearby. The wind is polite. It tucks your hair behind your ear as though it’s trying to be helpful. Some other kid is singing off-key to their dog.

You’re just wandering, shoes soft on gravel, following the color and chatter through the stalls.

You let yourself pretend to be a person who likes to browse.

Grapes that are glistening. Bundles of basil so fragrant they make your head spin. Jars of jam in flavors you never heard of - things like honey plum and lavender peach.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite fire hazard.”

You freeze.

An actual freeze, standing there with your hand mid-reach toward a bunch of thyme, and your pulse doing something inadvisable.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes.

In jeans and a navy hoodie, hood down, sleeves pushed up. His hair is a little longer than you remember, tied back in a short knot, and he’s smiling that slow, surprised way that makes you feel like the morning has turned inside out.

He looks like summer if summer had a soft spot for you.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he’s trying not to smile too big.

Your heart decides to practice gymnastics. Your voice, mercifully, cooperates.

“I could say the same,” you reply, trying for breezy and landing somewhere near breathless.

He nods, eyes sweeping briefly over you - not as though he’s checking you out, but he’s checking. Taking you in. Your oversized sweater. The circles under your eyes. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach the corners today.

“You doing okay?” he asks gently, without preamble. His voice doesn’t push. Just opens a space.

You hesitate.

Then shrug, something brittle in your chest. “I needed some air.”

He nods, as though he perfectly understands. As though he really does. “Bad week?” His voice is low.

You want to lie. Say no, say you’re just craving figs or something ridiculous and poetic.

But instead, you nod. “Yeah,” you get out, and it sounds a little heavy even in your own ears. “Something like that.”

You don’t tell him about the missed calls or the way your stomach knots every time you walk past your front door. You don’t say the name of the guy who made your life feel like walking on thin ice barefoot, always waiting for the crack.

But you don’t have to.

Bucky doesn’t press. Just watches you as though he is memorizing the lines of your face for any small shift in weather.

“Glad you’re out,” he remarks after a second, voice deep and sincere. “It’s a nice morning.”

“Could use more sunshine,” you answer, because there’s nothing else in your mind that could fit.

He grins. “Hey, I’m trying.”

You snort, just a little, and the tension in your chest cracks open enough to let in the scent of rosemary and warm bread.

“Is this your usual Saturday routine?” you inquire, fiddling with a frayed thread on your sleeve. “Or do you just stalk open-air markets for fire safety offenders?”

“I only stalk interesting ones,” he responds easily, still granting you that soft smile.

There is a moment of quiet between you, and you’re both standing a little too close for strangers but not close enough for anything else.

The crowd swirls around you both. People bargaining over radishes, someone dropping a jar of honey with a crack - simple weekend chatter in the background.

“How’s Tank?” you ask, genuinely interested.

Bucky’s mouth softens. “He’s good. Still a little weird around other dogs. Still doesn’t understand the concept of stairs. But he’s getting there.”

You grin before you mean to.

“That’s a relief.”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah. He even got clingy. Always has to follow someone around.” He exhales a huffed breath, it’s a little bashful. There is a glint in his eyes now - teasing, maybe. Admiring, definitely. “He’s a good judge of character.”

Your stomach somersaults. Something loose and ridiculous and hopeful starts threading your insides together.

“He was sweet,” you tell him, remembering the weight of the pit mix in your lap, the wet, slobbery affection, the surprise of Bucky’s voice when he recognized you. “Even if he nearly took me out.”

“You held your own,” Bucky states confidently, the glint in his eyes brighter now.

You giggle quietly, glancing down, fingers fumbling with the strap of your bag.

A breeze blows past and flirts with your hair. Somewhere, a vendor calls out that strawberries are two for five.

Bucky shifts his weight. His fingers brush the handle of his bag but don’t fidget. There is a gentleness to him. A patience that could break your heart.

He is careful.

“I was actually hoping I’d see you again,” he begins with a clear of his throat, voice quiet.

Your eyes snap up.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Not here, I mean. Just… eventually. Didn’t think it’d be here, but- hey, I’m not complaining.”

You laugh softly, heart stammering.

“I didn’t think I’d see you either,” you admit. “I, uh. I wasn’t sure…”

Bucky’s smile fades just a touch - not in disappointment, but in that careful way people get when they’re making room for your story.

“I get it,” he says, genuine. “Truly. No pressure. At all.”

There is a small pause in him. A recalibration. You can feel it, the way you can feel a shift in the wind before it touches your skin.

“Hey, listen,” he says again, still quiet. “You don’t… I mean, I don’t want to assume anything. Or be too much. Or too forward. I just-” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “If you ever need anything. Like if you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or simply vent about something. I’d be around.”

His hand dips into his back pocket, pulls out a work wallet. He retrieves a card - simple, clean, name and number, folded corners as tough it’s lived a little - and holds it out.

But he doesn’t push it toward you. He just offers. Gentle.

There is something in your chest that twists painfully.

“I don’t wanna make anything weird. Or come off like I’m… pushing,” he goes on, tentative. Talking a little faster. “Only if you want. No pressure. Just- figured I’d offer. I hoped I’d meet you again, and I just didn’t wanna, uh- yeah, you know.”

He shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. Suddenly bashful.

Your heart is near your throat. You reach for the card slowly. As though he might pull it away again if you’re too fast.

“Thanks,” you tell him. It comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He shifts again. Nervous, maybe. Or just respectful. As though he knows this isn’t easy for you. As though he doesn’t want to pile anything else on top of what’s already there.

Then he tilts his head, opening his mouth, seemingly believing he has to explain himself some more. “Maybe you’ll need some smoke detector advice someday. Or fire extinguisher refills. Emotional support waffles.”

“Waffles?” You want to smile. So wide.

“Yeah. I make good ones. Ask Steve.”

“Steve?”

“Oh, right.” He winces apologetically, and it’s the most endearing thing. “He’s that tall blond guy. Rogers. Known each other since childhood.”

You smile. Nearly fondly. “Well then I will have to take your word for it.”

He chuckles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Your chest aches. Not in a painful way. But in a maybe-there’s-still-good-guys-on-this-planet kind of way.

You look up at him.

His smile is something quiet and relieved.

He looks away first.

“I should-uh,” he gestures toward the other end of the market. “I promised the firehouse I’d bring back peaches. They get weirdly emotional about it.”

You laugh, and it feels real. Not just muscle memory.

“I’ll let you go then,” you say sweetly.

He starts to walk away with a wave. Then stops.

Turns back just slightly. “Don’t feel like you have to call, okay?”

You nod. Your throat closes. “Okay.”

“But if you do,” he adds. “I’ll be around.”

And then he waves goodbye with a last glance over his shoulder, walking off with his hands in his pockets, steps unhurried.

You watch him disappear behind a stall selling fresh bread.

Your fingers curl around the card in your hand.

And you don’t feel like crying.

Not today.

Not right now.

Because the air smells sweet. The sky is clear. And somewhere, maybe, something good is beginning.

Something that makes you feel warm without a fire burning.

****

Bad decisions oftentimes start with a maybe.

Maybe you should just hear what he wants.

Maybe if you talk to him one more time, he’ll stop.

Maybe closure is a real thing and not just a word people throw around like confetti.

You hadn’t meant to actually talk to him again.

Hadn’t meant to let his relentless calls get to you.

But it rang at the same time your thumb was hovering above a different name, a different number - the one Bucky gave you. Simple black type on a white card still tucked into your phone case. You didn’t even mean to look at it. But you had. For the third time today. For maybe the hundredth time since he gave it to you last week.

You thought about texting. Something harmless. Something funny. Something soft. But your thumb froze. And that was when his number lit up your screen again.

You saw it and thought of mold. Of wet towels left in gym bags. Or old perfume evaporating off a scarf you forgot to burn.

But your thumb twitched.

Your thumb tapped accept.

It shouldn’t have. But it did.

You hated how familiar his voice still sounded. Like a song you used to love before you listened closely to the lyrics and found out they were garbage. The same casual tone, the same too-easy drawl like nothing had ever really gone wrong. Like the last six months didn’t happen.

He wanted to talk. That’s what he said. Just a talk. Said he still had some of your things. Things you never asked back for, because what could they possibly be? And what could you possibly want them for now?

But you said yes.

You don’t know why.

You tell yourself you can relish in telling him that you burned his stuff.

You tell yourself it is bravery, even if it is shaped like something else.

You wear jeans and an old hoodie and steady your pulse. You leave your phone in your back pocket and your self-worth tucked under your collarbone.

He opens the door the way he always has. A little too wide. A little too confident. A smile with too many teeth.

It’s an ugly apartment. You forgot how ugly it was. Not physically, though the couch still sags like a dying animal and the curtains are the color of depression.

It’s ugly in the way it smells of memories.

He talks too much. Laughs too loud. Does that thing with his tongue against his teeth as though he is chewing on a punchline.

“Still got that painting your mom made,” he says, smirking as he rifles through a box that looks suspiciously like it hasn’t been touched since you left. “Not exactly my style, y’know, but whatever. Thought you’d come crawling for it.”

You blink slowly. “I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” His voice twists sharp. A rusted hinge creaking closed.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. You shouldn’t have come. You knew you shouldn’t have come. But you did. As though your body still thought it owed him something.

“I didn’t ask for anything back because I didn’t want anything back,” you express, finally. Your voice is low, but firm. “I didn’t want to be here again. I didn’t want to see you again.”

He turns. There is something brittle in his posture. Something ready to snap.

“So why are you here then? Huh? Thought I’d say sorry?” His eyes shine in disbelief. “Right. That’s rich.”

“No,” you shoot back. Blood rises in your ears. Your fists tighten, small knots of nerves and shame. You remember the exact sound his voice makes when it drops low and mean, and you hate it. “I thought you wanted to return my stuff.”

“Oh, that?” He tosses a shirt into a cardboard box. Shrugs. “You want this one? Think it still smells like you.”

You don’t answer. You should leave. You should leave right now. But your feet don’t move, as though they are listening for the next note in a song that never ends right.

“And where is my stuff then, huh?” His gaze is penetrating. Demanding. “Doesn’t fucking look like you brought it with you. So why would I give back your shit?”

You flinch. Not visibly. You hope not visibly.

Regret, like a scent, lives in the drywall. In the leather couch that’s seen too much. In the one dead plant that still lays in its pot as though it could relearn to grow.

You’re standing with your arms crossed tight across your chest, as though if you hold yourself hard enough, you won’t fall through the floor.

You’re already angry at yourself. Already chewing on the bitter little pill of what the hell did you think would happen.

“Huh?” he goes on, voice harsher. But he doesn’t come closer. “Where's my shit?”

“I burned it,” you blurt out all at once, taking a step back.

His face cracks.

“What?”

“I burned your things,” you repeat, voice a little more hesitant. But still somehow firm. “I didn’t want them anymore.”

There is silence that feels like the inhale before a slap.

Then he laughs. Not a laugh, really. Something worse. A sound without humor. A shape without softness. It’s sharp and mean and wrong.

“You’re insane.” His voice is crackling ice underfoot.

“Maybe.”

He starts pacing. Cursing. Muttering things under his breath that make old bruises bleed again.

And then he goes over to your pile.

Your sweater. A half-read book. A toothbrush. Pencils.

You think maybe he is going to shove it at you. Demand you take it and get out. You would be fine with that.

But that’s not what he does.

He pulls out a lighter.

One of those fancy electric ones with a plasma arc.

He clicks it on. A hiss. A flame.

You take a sharp breath.

“Nolan!” you warn.

“Why not?” he says, voice dangerously calm now. “We’re doing fire now, right? I’ll play.”

He stops and grabs something - your old notebook. The one with the red leather cover and pages full of dreams you hadn’t wanted to remember. He lights the corner.

“Omg, Nolan, stop!” you shout. “What the hell are you doing?”

The paper shrivels into black lace, turning inward, hissing as though it lives. He drops it on top of the clothes.

A single thread of smoke trails toward the ceiling in a lazy, indecisive curl. You watch it the way someone might watch an ink stain bloom on a shirt - unsettled.

Nolan is still talking.

Still pacing in that way he does when he’s on edge - half fury, half performance, all nerves masquerading as ego. His words have gone jagged, slurring with heat. Every sentence heavier than the last. Weighted with resentment.

“You think you can just burn my shit down?” he snaps, and you wonder if he even hears himself. If he understands how strange it sounds, how cracked. He’s got that look in his eye again - the one that once made you flinch and now just makes you tired.

“Put it out,” you order harshly, gesturing to the fire.

But it’s already licking up the fabric. It eats with the mouth of a beast. The knit sweater you left behind many months ago has been reduced to cinders on one side.

You lunge forward, grabbing a throw blanket, trying to smother the small flames, but they are growing. You forgot how fast fire moves.

“Help me!” you yell, panicking.

But Nolan just stands there, stunned.

The flame consumes the carton and now starts crawling across the cheap rug. It touches a plastic bin and the bin sags, sighs, melts.

Nolan hesitates.

His face splits between pride and dread, one eye twitching with the effort of pretending he is still in control. His thumb hovers over the lighter still. As if he might be able to rewind the fire back into silence.

You start swatting the air with an old pillow off the couch. It does nothing. Just pushes the smoke around.

The fire is bigger now.

Hungrier.

The smoke thickens. Begins to bloom from the rug, unfurling across the floor like a snake looking for ankles.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” you snap.

But he’s frozen. Staring at it. Staring at you.

“Why aren’t you?” he yells back.

You try to remember what Bucky said.

You try to hold onto it - his voice in that fire safety class. You try to remember the sequence of things, the order of calm: Assess. Alert. Act. Breathe.

But there is no calm now.

Just fire.

You’re shaking, and your palms are slick and useless, and your heart is pounding like a wild creature.

“Do you have an extinguisher?” you shout, coughing, turning to Nolan, whose face is lit with flickering orange. He stares at the curtain swallowing itself in flames as though he doesn’t understand it. As though the fire is the problem - not his temper, not the lighter still warm in his hand.

“No!” he yells. “Why would I have a-?”

“Then why the fuck did you set something on fire in your living room?” You can’t believe this is happening. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to hit him and disappear.

But all you do is spin in a frantic circle, looking for something, anything to smother the fire. The old blanket you tried already is a scorched mess on the floor. A sweatshirt is melting in the corner. His apartment is a graveyard of clutter and bad choices.

You fall to your knees, eyes stinging, stomach trembling with too many fears and not enough oxygen. You drag your sweater sleeve over your nose and crawl toward the base of the door. You remember you should cover the gap beneath the door. The towel trick. You remember the warning signs. You remember him.

But this isn’t a stovetop mishap. This isn’t a pan left on too long or an overzealous toaster. This is rage. This is Nolan. This is intentional.

You spot a pillow, hurl it under the doorframe, press it into the crack with your knees.

“If it’s too big to handle,” Bucky had said, “you get out. You call us. You don’t be a hero.”

You feel your chest begin to shrink. Your lungs pull taut. The room smells of plastic and anger and something chemical that doesn’t belong in air. You cough, hard, and stumble back. Your eyes sting.

The fire reaches the curtains.

They go up as though they’ve been waiting. Flames shoot vertical, dancing fast, bright and hot. Orange tongues curl in laughter. Smoke darkens and the room is a storm cloud. Your breath hiccups.

Nolan finally moves. He grabs a towel. Swings it at the fire but it doesn’t do anything.

He spins, eyes wild now, and shouts at you. “You started this!”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

The doorknob is already red. Glowing. It starts hissing when your fingers get close.

Nolan rushes over and tries to touch it. His palm jerks back. He swears. Drops a ragged, “shit- okay, okay,” and starts moving toward the windows.

But it’s too late.

The windows won’t open. The smoke eats the oxygen and you swear the walls are closing in.

You are coughing terribly. Thick gray smoke creeps up your nose, your throat, your eyes. You can’t see.

Stumbling backward, you hit the coffee table with your knees.

You don’t remember unlocking your phone.

Your lungs are fighting for a breath they can’t find, and your eyes are stinging so bad they’re practically sewn shut, and everything is wrong. You cough. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Cough.

The smoke is everywhere. In your eyes. In your mouth. In your throat.

A sour, chemical fog that coats your insides, turning every breath into something punishing. Your fingers are slick with sweat. Your vision a wash of heat and blur. You can barely see the glowing screen.

You don’t even remember pressing his name. Maybe your thumb moved on its own. Maybe your body made the decision for you, the way it sometimes does in the worst moments - when logic is buried beneath fear and your lungs are screaming and your heartbeat is running through your ears like a siren. You don’t remember.

But you must have pressed it.

Because the line connects.

“Barnes.”

His voice.

God. It’s his voice.

Of course, it is. You fucking called him.

You try to speak. Try to say his name. Try to form a word, any word, but all that comes out is a broken cough - violent and dry and helpless. The sound of your panic gurgling out of your chest.

Then silence on the line.

“Y/n?”

You gasp. Wheeze. Cough - wracked, your body bending with the force of it. Your phone drops to the floor, chest convulsing, the sound of flames rising behind you, and it feels as though they already are inside you.

Then his voice again. Sharp. Cataloguing.

He snaps into action. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

There is already movement in the background. His boots against concrete. Radio static flaring, fast instructions in the background.

“Fire,” is all you can croak out.

“Fuck. Okay. Okay. It’s okay- Can you talk? Just try, alright? Need you to say something, Y/n. Need you to tell me where you are!”

You’ve never heard his voice like that. It isn’t low and easy, isn’t the gentle sort of teasing he used in all your meetings before. It isn’t calm. It isn’t composed. It isn’t clipped and professional.

It’s shaking.

You sink to the floor and press your phone to your ear. As though it might pull you out of this nightmare and into him.

You cough again. A ragged, awful sound. “Bucky,”you croak, finally, and it tears out of you like a scream you didn’t have the air for.

The sound he makes isn’t a word. It explodes out of him like something breaking. You hear gear shifting, footsteps quick, boots slamming against the floor, the loud slam of an emergency cabinet opening.

“Where are you?” he snaps. “Tell me where you are. Talk to me. You just gotta tell me where-”

“Can’t- breathe,” you rasp, coughing again, and trembling so hard the phone almost slips.

“Okay.” His voice is trembling too. Rough. “That’s okay. You’re doing great. Just- fuck- just hang on. I need to know where, sweetheart, please. Tell me where.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Force your brain to focus. Nolan is somewhere behind you but the smoke has made him a ghost. The fire’s hiss is louder than Bucky’s voice now. Louder than your thoughts.

Nolan shouts his address out, coughing, pacing.

Bucky’s voice cuts back. Loud. Sharp. “I need confirmation. Hey- sweetheart- are you there? Is that where you are?”

You swallow. “Y-yeah. That’s it. Third floor. I- he- he lit something and it caught- Bucky it spread. We can’t get out.”

Behind you, Nolan coughs violently. “You don’t have to tell him everything-”

“I’m trying to get help!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me, you’re the one who-”

Tears sting in your smoke-smeared eyes. “Get down, Nolan! Crawl!”

“And what are you now, huh? You think-”

“Hey- hey!” Bucky’s voice is harsh. Urgent. “Okay. Listen to me. Cover your mouth with something - whatever you’ve got. You’re gonna stay low. Both of you. Crawl to the farthest wall from the door if you haven’t already. Do you see smoke coming through it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, coughing into your elbow. The fabric of your sweater is damp from sweat, and it stinks of fear.

“Can you block the bottom with something - towels, jacket, anything.”

“I tried. It’s still coming through. I- Bucky, I tried to put it out, like you said, I-”

“I know,” he interrupts, voice cracking slightly, dry and gentle. “I know, sweetheart. I know you tried. I’m proud of you. You did so fucking good calling me, okay? You hear me?”

“I can’t see anything,” you whisper. “It’s all smoke.”

Your hands tremble as you crawl. Nolan’s coughing has grown louder and more uneven, as though his lungs are learning how to fall apart.

“We’re coming. I’m on the truck. Just stay with me. Stay low. Try to find a corner or something near the window if you can. Don’t touch the doorknob again.”He’s obviously trying to hide the raw edge in his voice, but you hear it nonetheless.

“It’s hot.” Your voice is an ash-covered whisper.

“Okay. Okay. You don’t try to touch it again, alright? Don’t touch anything. Don’t open anything. You’re staying right where you are. You did the right thing, sweetheart. You did everything right.” He talks as though it’s a prayer. A lullaby spoken with desperation.

There’s a flurry of noise behind him. Muffled radio calls, the wailing of sirens into the wind, yelling voices.

You can picture him - knuckles white, leg bouncing, one hand pressed to his ear as if willing the sound of you to stay close.

“You’re not alone,” he emphasizes, voice thick. A rough, frantic rasp like a match scraped too many times. “We’re coming for you, sweetheart. I swear to God. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I was stupid,” you choke. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should’ve told him to go to hell.”

“Hey,” Bucky interrupts you fast, voice sharp with emotion. “You’re not stupid. Don’t ever say that. You’re not responsible for someone else losing control, you hear me?”

You nod, eyes burning now with something more than smoke.

“I just wanted to be done.”

“You will be,” he promises, his voice a storm swallowing itself. “You’re gonna walk out of there, and that chapter’s gonna stay behind. You’ll never have to see him again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Bucky,” you sob, barely holding on.

And his voice breaks when he says your name back. Not just once.

“I got you. You’re doing so well. You’re doing perfect, Y/n. I’m so proud of you. Just a little longer. We’re almost here. You just gotta hang on for me, yeah? Just try to breathe. Let me hear you breathe.”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you.

Another panicked call of your name.

“I’m here.” Your voice turned into smoke itself.

You can hear the fire truck now. A distant roar. Like a cavalry arriving on a battlefield that’s already gone to ruin.

You can hear his frantic breathing.

“Bucky, I’m scared,” you whimper.

“I know, doll. I know.” His voice is soft now, too soft, as though maybe he is crouched in the back of the truck, hunched over the phone with his head in his hand. He talks as if he could speak you safe again. “But you’re not alone, okay? And you’re doing so well. We’ll get you two out. I just need your voice, alright? Don’t hang up. I’m almost there.”

You don’t register the exact moment you drop your phone, only that you keep hearing Bucky’s voice before it slips from your hand.

“Don’t close your eyes, sweetheart- stay with me-”

The door is glowing. Glowing as though it wants to become the sun. Glowing like warning and goodbye all at once.

You taste the fire. Breathe it. Feel it coat your throat like ash-painted molasses.

Bucky’s urgent and desperate voice is only registering as a blurred cloud engulfing you.

There is a thunderous sound. A crack. A groan. Wood screaming as it splits. Metal breaking open.

Then comes light.

Blinding and orange and rolling with smoke.

A change in the air - slight and sharp and sudden.

The hot room breathes.

A gust of wind stabs inward, dragging smoke toward the shattered pane as though it’s trying to pull the panic out by its throat.

And then shouts.

Boots.

The room collapses around your vision. You are sagged against the floor. Head lulling.

People crash through the smoke. No, not just people. It’s him. Bucky. In full gear. Mask sealed to his face. Shoulders wide, body big, so big, bulked in turnout gear and panic.

You almost don’t believe it.

For a second, you think he might be something your brain cooked up to calm you down. A mirage with a radio. A hallucination in navy.

But then he says your name. Yells it. Muffled through the voice amplifier in his mask, but desperate.

You open your mouth. Try to say his name back.

But he is already lunging, crashing toward you like a storm. Suddenly he kneels. And suddenly-er you are airborne. Up. Scooped into his arms, pressed into his chest.

You feel the sound of his heartbeat before you hear it - thudding against your side, frantic, furious.

You want to tell him you’re okay, that you’re sorry, that you meant to call him under different circumstances, that you didn’t mean to worry him.

But all you can do is let your body go limp in his hold.

His jacket smells of sweat and smoke and something cleaner underneath - some sterile tang of extinguisher foam and ash and whatever this moment is turning into.

You press your forehead into the curve of his neck, where the helmet meets the collar of his gear.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart-” he keeps saying it, over and over, like a chant.

His voice is strained now. Hoarse. Desperate. Shaky. Strangled through a throat that’s trying not to break open in front of everyone. He lifts you higher against his chest and sprints, shouting orders as he crashes through the hallway.

“Clear a path!”

“Make room! Get oxygen ready!”

“She’s fading! Move!”

He holds you as though you already caught the fire. He holds you like absolution.

You drift in and out, eyes fluttering as Bucky runs through smoke-filled corridors and splintered doorways and the skeleton of someone else’s anger turned to flame.

But you still feel the shift in his arms. The way he squeezes you when you cough. How his gloved hands cup the back of your head, shielding you from debris. How he leans his body to block falling soot as he barrels toward the stairwell two at a time, breathing hard, mumbling things you can’t hear.

Or maybe they’re not for you. Maybe they’re for himself.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare go quiet on me. Hang on. Stay with me. Come on.”

Your hands curl weakly into the strap across his chest.

He bursts through the front of the building, and the world opens up - wild and wide and full of oxygen.

The roar of the crowd. The red-and-white flash of emergency lights bouncing off soot-covered brick.

Someone tries to take you from him - another firefighter, older, calm - but Bucky growls under his breath and shifts you closer, ducking his head like a shield.

“I’ve got her,” he grunts, thick and hoarse. Shaking. “I’ve got her.”

They don’t argue.

His boots only then screech to a halt when he arrives at the ambulance door and two EMTs step forward with a stretcher and an oxygen mask in hand.

He lays you down gently, so gently, as though you are made of porcelain and poems. He pulls the mask off his face and immediately goes back to touching you. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb streaking soot from your cheek. The other wrapped around your wrist, searching for your pulse.

“She’s got smoke inhalation,” Bucky barks. His voice is too loud. Too full. His hair sticks to his forehead. His cheeks are streaked with sweat and worry. “She’s conscious, but barely. I need- can I-”

One of the medics puts a hand on his shoulder, while the other cares for you. “We’ve got her. You did good, Cap.”

But when you’re wheeled into the ambulance, he steps in with you. Without a word. The medics don’t say anything. Perhaps because of his expression.

You feel his eyes on you.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart,” he says, low. Gutted. “I got you out.”

Your eyes find his. Somehow. You can barely keep them open. Can barely feel the oxygen mask over your face. Can barely feel his hands on you.

His breath shudders. And for a second you think he might cry.

But he just swallows, jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitch.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, stay with me. You gotta stay with me.”

You try.

You really do.

But this moment does not seem to want to hold you in its arms the same way Bucky just did.

It wants to let you go.

It does.

****

Hospitals always smell like endings.

Even in the quiet, even with the windows open and the soft beep of a heart monitor keeping tempo with your breath. There’s something sterile and final about the place. A hush that doesn’t belong to any one person.

You wake slowly. Float up from the bottom of a deep, smoky ocean, lungs burning even in memory.

The world is all soft edges and clean white. The blanket draped over your legs is tucked in too neatly.

Sunlight filters through fog. Like a dream dragging its feet on the way out.

Everything aches in soft, unfamiliar places. Behind your eyes. In your throat. In your chest, where the air settles heavy, too new.

You blink against the brightness, throat sore and mouth dry, vision hazy.

He falls into your line of vision in an instant.

Sitting beside you in the room’s single chair, pulled as close to your bedside as it could go, knees wide, elbows on them. Head bowed as though he is praying or thinking or maybe both. His fingers are steepled against his mouth as though he’s been holding his breath for hours.

The gear is gone, but the exhaustion is not. He’s in a dark hoodie and sweatpants now, his hair damp, pushed back as if he ran both hands through it and forgot to fix it after.

He looks big here. Too big for the tiny chair. Too solid of all this silence. His foot is bouncing. His hands are clasped. His face is half-hidden behind a knuckle.

But he is here.

He is truly here.

You manage to whisper his name.

Your voice is hoarse and frail and hardly audible. But his head still snaps up.

And oh. The relief on his face could bring down buildings.

He is up in an instant, the chair scraping back, but he stops at the edge of your bed as though he is not sure if he can touch you. His hand hovers gently on the bed rail.

His eyes are red-rimmed. You don’t know if it comes from crying or from staying awake. There are soft bruises under them. You wonder how long he’s been here.

“Hey,” he breathes.

Your throat scrapes when you try to answer. A dry, ragged rasp. “Hey. Bucky, I-”

“Easy.” His voice softens even more. He is cooing. “Don’t try to talk too much, alright? Take it slow.”

You try to clear your throat and immediately regret it. He’s already got a cup of water in his hand, straw tucked between your lips before you can blink. You drink, slow and small sips, until the burn dulls a little.

He catches a drop of water with his thumb when it leaks over the side of your mouth.

You try to smile. It trembles at the corners. But you need to keep talking. Keep explaining. The words just fall out, messy and cracked and full of everything you feel.

“I didn’t mean for this to be when I called you.”

He stiffens, only a little. Not because he’s upset - because he’s listening too hard. Because every syllable you manage seems like something he wants to tuck into his jacket and guard with his whole life.

Pushing out a breath, you keep going. “I wanted to call you. I almost did. Before. So many times.” Your voice breaks on the tail end of it, dry and uncertain. “But I got scared. And then Nolan- he just kept calling, and I thought maybe if I just talked to him once-”

“Hey,” Bucky eases tenderly. He leans in, hand ghosting close to yours. Not quite touching yet, as though he’s afraid to ask your skin for too much. “You don’t have to explain everything right now. I told you, there’s no pressure. I wanted you to take your time.”

“No, I-” you protest, emotional. “I’m sorry, I- God, I’m so stupid, I-”

“Hey, no. Don’t.” His voice interjects you so gently you almost cry from it. “You called. That’s what matters. You called me when it counted.” He glances at your hand and touches it lightly. You let him.

You swallow. “But I-”

He shakes his head kindly. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “I don’t care when it happened. I just care that you did. That you’re here. That I got to you in time.” He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “And I swear-” he pauses, runs a hand down his jaw, seemingly trying to put himself back together. “I swear, I’ve never run so fast in my damn life.”

You lace your fingers with his. His palm is warm. His grip is careful. Asking you if this is okay. You squeeze once.

He is leaning over you, staring as though you just handed him something precious he doesn’t know how to hold.

“And next time you need someone, please don’t wait. Doesn’t have to be fire-level urgent, okay? Doesn’t have to be about him. If you need help picking fruit at the farmers market, or Wanda’s making you do one of those weird tea cleanses again, or you’re just lonely at 2 am - you call me.”

You smile. Or try to.

His smile is smaller. Sadder.

“I’m here, alright?” Bucky adds after a moment, voice rough but certain. “You’re not alone.” He takes a deep breath. There is something new in his voice now. A gentle grit. “But I’m not here to rush you. I’m not here to push. I like you. You probably already figured that out. But I want this to be whatever you need. At your pace. No pressure. No expectations. I just want you safe. I want you to breathe easy again. I want to be someone you know you can lean on. Nothing more than that, not unless you want it.”

Your breath hiccups. Your eyes sting.

He nods toward the IV in your arm. “Right now, the only thing that matters is getting you back to okay.”

You blink. Your throat is tight.

Silence, again. Soft and clean and full of feeling.

You look at him for a long time, studying the scruff on his jaw, the fine line between his brows, the way his eyes search your face as if he is still making sure you woke up.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you whisper. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He exhales a long breath. Blinks hard. Rubs the heel of his palm over his mouth.

“I like you, too.”

You hear his breath catch.

You say it softer. Slower. More certain. “I want you to know that. I really like you.”

His eyes are whole. With something warm and breaking wide open. You wonder if he even realizes he is holding your hand tighter now.

And you look at him as though maybe your heart’s been trying to find his this whole time.

His thumb brushes over your skin so lightly, you almost don’t feel it. But you do. Of course, you do. It sends tiny shivers running through your body. Lets your skin prickle.

“He’s not gonna come near you again,” Bucky states quietly, a little bit firm. “You don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

And you still. Your eyes go wide a tiny fraction. Because how could you have forgotten?

“Nolan.”

Something tightens behind Bucky’s eyes. Something that does not flinch but does not smile either.

You say his name again, slower this time, unsure why your lungs feel colder now. “Is he…”

“He’s okay,” Bucky affirms, but there is a jagged note to the words. “Got some burns on his hand and inhaled a lot of smoke, but nothing that won’t heal.”

He doesn’t say don’t worry but you hear it.

He also doesn’t say he deserved worse, but you hear that too.

You study Bucky’s face - how his jaw ticks, his nostrils flare ever so slightly. His posture has changed, too. Not tense exactly, but watchful. Guarded. As though he is sitting on something stretched too tight between staying soft for you and not punching a wall with his fist.

“He…” Bucky exhales and rubs a hand through his hair as though it might soothe the fire out of his voice. “He asked about you.”

That surprises you. Your lips part, but you don’t know what question you’re asking yet.

“He wanted to know if you were okay.” Bucky pauses. Looks away, just for a second, as though he is chewing on something bitter. “Said he didn’t mean for it to go that far. That he was just mad. That it was a mistake.”

The words hang in the air like smoke without a source.

You stare at the blanket pulled up to your ribs. You don’t know what you’re feeling. Grief, maybe. Not for Nolan. For the version of yourself that still picks up when he calls.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Heavily. You don’t know why. Maybe just for existing in this mess. For dragging Bucky into it. For not seeing it all coming sooner.

“You don’t owe anyone an apology,” Bucky grounds out, and this time his voice is sharper. A crackle of heat under the words. “He doesn’t get to hurt you and then feel bad about it after the fact. He could’ve killed you.”

You stare at him.

And he softens.

A little. A blink. A breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head and looking down at his boots. “I didn’t mean to snap. Just-” He rubs the back of his neck. His face twists into something pained. “I rushed into that apartment and saw you on the floor and-” His voice breaks a little and comes back shaky. “It was like time stopped. Didn’t even see anything else. Just you.”

Silence swells again, full of unsaid things and tight lungs and hearts pounding.

You squeeze his hand gently.

And then the door clicks open.

Wanda peeks in first, her hair a frizzed halo, cheeks blotchy, eyes wide and wet. Natasha follows behind, chin set, jaw tight. She looks composed, but you know she isn’t.

“You’re awake,” Wanda sighs, already by your side, reaching for your other hand. “God, I’m gonna cry again-”

“You look like hell,” Natasha deadpans. But she is smiling. Just barely.

You smile back. It takes effort. But it’s true.

Bucky keeps watching you as though he is afraid to blink. As though he doesn’t want to miss a second more of you breathing.

And even though your chest still hurts and your throat stings and you feel as though your world just burned down another time, there is something brightening in your heart.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Wanda chastises weakly, adjusting your blanket, and giving you the gentlest kiss on your forehead. “You scared the hell out of us.”

And you feel that crater inside you - the one the smoke didn’t touch. The one carved out by fear. By how close it all had been.

“I didn’t mean-”

“We know, dummy,” Natasha cuts in gently, and it’s not an accusation. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a pause. You just breathe slowly. Staring at the ceiling.

“God, I swear,” Wanda mutters, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against your wrist. “If I ever see that bastard again…”

Natasha snorts, her voice tilting toward something sly. “I’m sure your personal guardian here will take care of him. Should’ve seen him when the paramedics mentioned Nolan.”

Bucky, beside you, goes very still.

You feel his hand twitch against yours. He’s still holding it. Hadn’t let go.

He hasn’t said anything since the girls came in.

Now he looks like stone. His gaze flicks away.

You can feel the tension building in his chest - his breath shallower, his jaw clenched. His thumb presses slightly harder against your palm, as though the thought of your ex walking around freely is the worst thing he’s ever had to picture.

“No worries, guys,” you say and even the thought of his name is foul in your mind. “I’m done with him.”

You lift your eyes to Bucky. It’s not even intentional. You just have to look at him. Maybe you need him to hear it clearly. Need to make sure he heard it.

His eyes find yours. Dark and blue and lit up with something rougher than hope. Something hotter than worry.

His mouth tilts into something relieved. And you think, maybe, even a little bashful. As though he didn’t expect to be included in this part. As though it is hitting him slowly, that he is not a stranger in your orbit anymore.

And something in him seems to let go - not all at once. But in pieces. Like melting ice, cracking and softening and spilling into warmer water.

He nods. Small. Doesn’t seem able to speak.

But his hand in yours says everything.

Wanda and Natasha both go quiet. Watching him. Watching you. Watching this. This thing happening between you.

Outside the window, the sun climbs a little higher into the sky.

And he keeps looking.

Keeps absorbing.

Keeps memorizing.

Just like you.

“Heroes are ordinary people who make themselves extraordinary.”

- Gerard Way

Part One

[azzibuckets]

worth the wait part one

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

a/n: happy pride! here's part one of a new series of pazzi enemies to fwb to lovers. feel free to let me know your thoughts, and live reacts are always greatly appreciated!

word count: 4.3k i believe

wtw masterlist

2018 - Minsk, Belarus 

Clang.

The ball spins pathetically around the rim once, twice, before falling desolately to the side. Azzi fixes her eyes on the floor as she jogs to rebound it, refusing to meet the the stare of her coaches. It’s her fourth miss in a row, and usually she’s able to shake it off and focus on the next shot if it weren’t for the cocky, arrogant, blonde headed bitch—that shouldn’t be so good at basketball but somehow fucking is—snickering behind her.

“Fudd, I think you’re supposed to be aiming for the net,” the blonde in question says under her breath, glee written across her face before she dribbles the ball between her legs, steps back, and shoots it so cleanly that it falls through the net without disturbing a single thread. 

Azzi grits her teeth, trying to resist the urge to chuck the basketball at Paige’s smirk. But not wanting to get benched by her coaches that are always droning on and on about sportsmanship and supportive team culture, she settles for a hard shoulder check instead, sending Paige wincing and grabbing her arm like the typical drama queen that she is. 

Azzi rolls her eyes. Usually she’s all for teamwork and bonding and all that sappy crap, but she’s also never been on the same team with a girl whose sole intention seems to be pressing on every one of her nerves until she explodes. “Fuck you, Bueckers.”

“I mean, geez,” the blonde wiggles her eyebrows, her smirk widening from cheek to cheek. “Get in line.”

“I wouldn’t touch you even if you paid me a million dollars,” Azzi mutters, shuddering at the thought of even hugging her.

“I don’t know,” the older girl drawls. Her fingers graze across Azzi’s shoulder, sneaking under the cloth of her jersey to brush over the ridge of her muscle. “You feel pretty tense.” She trails her hand slowly down her arm. “If you ever need some stress relief, you know where to find me.”

“Don’t touch me,” Azzi snaps, jerking away. Paige only winks before jogging to catch up with the rest of the team as they break on the bleachers. Cheeks turning pink, Azzi groans and stomps away.

From day one, Paige has been like that: flirtatious, easy-going, charming. Everyone on the team had naturally gravitated towards her last season—that is, everyone but Azzi, if you don’t count the first week that they’d met. During tryouts, she’d been mildly intrigued by how a bone-skinny white chick was crossing over the most seasoned girls on the team, and when Paige had nodded coolly at her and they’d had a brief conversation, that intrigue had turned into interest. The way Paige had looked at her, had sidled closer and whispered a joke in her ear, had made Azzi feel seen on a team full of players so much older and experienced than she was. But to hell with that, Azzi thinks. Because since then, she'd gotten to know Paige for who she really is, and the older girl is nothing but a self-conceited asshole.

༉‧₊˚✧

“I don’t know,” Sam Brunelle says, taking a slow sip of her water. “I think she’s pretty hilarious.”

Azzi stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “She’s immature,” she corrects. “She makes fun of people and she can’t go one goddamn minute without making a stupid yo mama joke.” 

“I mean, yeah, I guess she likes to have a lot of fun,” Sam relents. “But she keeps the team light-hearted. I think that’s pretty important.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” Azzi fumes. Paige has always been supportive of everyone else on the team, cheering them on from the bench or hyping them up after big games. Azzi, on the other hand, has never received the same treatment. Their history is a bitter war of sharp elbows and sneers; she can't even remember the last time Paige had said something remotely nice to her. “She leaves you alone, but she’s always messing with me.”

Sam, one of the oldest on the team and ever the wiser, tilts her head to study the dark haired girl carefully. “I think she’s always messing with you ‘cause you’re the only one that doesn’t like her.” She shrugs. “Maybe she cares about your opinion.” She leans in closer with a conspiratorial whisper. “Maybe she wants to be friends.” She utters the last word like a bad word, and Azzi rolls her eyes and throws a crumpled up napkin at her. Sam breaks out in laughter at the look of disgust on the younger girl’s face.

Azzi’s about to respond when she’s interrupted by a tray dropping loudly on their table. The devil herself plops down in one of the seats, stretching out her legs as if she hadn’t just rudely cut off their conversation. Then she has the nerve to blow out a long, tired sigh, as if she’s doing them a favor, gracing the two girls by just being there. Azzi’s jaw tightens in exasperation, but Sam is all sunshine and smiles. “Hey, P,” she grins, dapping Paige up.

Azzi glares down at her plate, trying to ignore Paige breathing heavily next to her. Maybe if she pretends that she doesn’t exist, the blonde will finally leave her alone. 

But panting and breathing get louder and louder, and Azzi swears she can feel it hot on her cheek. Snapping her head, she turns face to face with Paige, who’s looking over her shoulder—way too close for comfort, has she ever heard of personal space?—with twisted lips and furrowed eyebrows. “Yo, that shit looks nasty,” Paige says, eyes trained on Azzi’s plate.

“Ugh, get away from me,” Azzi complains, roughly pushing her away. Her heartbeat, having quickened from their proximity, begins to slow down, but her body physically recoils. “And it’s called vegetables, Bueckers,” she adds flatly. “Maybe you should try eating healthy for once too.”

Paige sits back in her seat, clearly pleased from her knack of getting a ruse out of Azzi so easily. Pointing her fork at her pasta, she says, “Carbs,” then at at her corndog and says, “Protein,” and then at the dollop of ketchup on her plate and says, with an overly pleased smile, “Vegetables.”

Sam immediately cracks up as if Paige had made the funniest joke in the world. Azzi stomps on her foot under the table. “Your eating habits are gonna catch up to you one day,” Azzi sniffs, shoving the last of her broccoli into her mouth, hoping she can get the meal over with as quick as possible so she can hide in her room, away from annoying blondes that breathe too loud and give unwarranted, wrong opinions.

“Until then, I’ll still be breaking your ankles,” Paige grins, clearly referencing the moment in practice earlier that day where Azzi had tripped over her own feet in an attempt to defend Paige’s drive to the basket. She’d been so angered by the pure confidence on Paige’s face and the trash talk in her ear the entire scrimmage, that everything she’d learned about lateral footwork had flew out of her mind as she’d fallen on Paige and even fouled her in the process. 

“God, you’re insufferable.” Azzi gives Paige the dirtiest look she can manage. “Who even invited you to sit with us?”

“What, I need an invite to bond with my teammates?” Paige leans over again, shoulder poking into Azzi's as she reaches over her to snatch the garlic bread from her plate. “You don’t mind, right? Since you got your veggies and all?” Before the younger girl can even blink, the garlic bread is stuffed inside her mouth, and Paige starts chewing loudly without breaking eye contact with Azzi. Sam snorts in disbelief. 

“Oh my god!” Azzi stands up, cheeks reddening with anger. “Are you actually a child?” Pushing her chair back loudly, she leaves the dining room in a storm.

Sam winces. “Are you trying to kill her?”

“Not my fault she gets all hot and bothered just like that.” Paige wipes a crumb from her lip, napkin falling away to reveal a satisfied smile. 

Sam shakes her head knowingly. “You like it.” She’s known both of the girls for more than a year now, and by now she’s used to the fact that they have their own dance. It’s weird, and they have a funky sort of chemistry that they’ll both probably refuse to ever address, but it makes for some good drama, Sam thinks. 

Paige snorts. “No, I don’t. People that uptight need to loosen up every once in a while. It’s good for them.”

“It’s okay to admit that you like seeing her get flustered.” Sam nudges Paige’s arm, a twinkle in her eye. “For someone who claims to hate her, you talk about her an awful lot.” 

“Nah, shut up Sam.” Paige stands up abruptly, moving to grab her finished plate. 

“You want me to shut up?”

“Yes,” Paige grunts, pushing her chair in. 

“So I guess you don’t want me to tell you about the room assignments?” 

Paige freezes. Turning around slowly, she glares at the taller blonde. “What room assignments?”

Sam takes a piece of paper from her pocket. “Oh, nothing,” she says airily, waving it. “Just that you and Azzi are rooming together tonight.”

“What?” Paige grabs the paper from Sam, scanning it anxiously. True enough, it says Room 310 - Paige Bueckers, Azzi Fudd. “But I thought I was rooming with Hailey!”

Sam beams. “I guess the coaches changed their mind.”

“No.” Paige paces around, gripping the paper so tight it turns into a ball in her hand. “I can’t room with Fudd. She probably sleeps with a stick up her butt too!” 

“She’s not that bad, P,” Sam defends. “You guys are more alike than you think.”

“I’m not bossy, or a party pooper, or incapable of having any fun,” Paige shoots back, offended that Sam would even liken her to someone who doesn't think yo mama jokes are funny. Because who doesn't think yo mama jokes are funny?

Sam shrugs. “I’m just saying. You guys have an awful lot of assumptions about each other. Maybe if you actually spent some time together, you’d change your mind a bit.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Paige scoffs, even though it makes total sense. But she’s never really been logical when it comes to Azzi, and she’s not about to start now. “Whatever. I’m gonna go check on the room and make sure she doesn’t have her hands all over everything already.”

Raising an eyebrow, Sam watches her go too. 

When Paige reaches the room, she takes second to square her shoulders and catch her breath. Azzi has a way of makes her upset like no one else can, her heartbeat always skyrocketing and chest heaving after their arguments. But she needs to control herself, to uphold the facade of unbotheredness. Taking a deep breath to calm herself down, she slides her key card over the lock and opens the door with a swing. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Azzi’s jaw drops, the halfway folded shirt in her hand dropping on the bed.

“Surprise.” Paige smirks. “Hey, roomie.”

“Nuh uh.” Azzi massages her temples, panic embedded in the lines of her eyes. “This is not happening right now.”

“I know.” Paige closes the door with her foot and drags her suitcase and duffel bag in. “Too good to be true, huh?”

“I thought I was rooming with Sam!” Azzi says indignantly. 

“And I thought me and Hailey were gonna be together,” Paige grumbles. “Trust me, I don’t wanna be here any more than you do.”

Azzi flops back on the bed, groaning, and Paige freezes when her shirt slides up to show the tan skin of her abs, muscles flexing as she reaches to grab a pillow. Swallowing hard, she forces her eyes away. Now was not a good time to be admiring the body of her sworn enemy, no matter how good she looked. “I can’t room with you,” Azzi repeats. 

“Yeah, well.” Paige tosses her backpack on the armchair and starts unzipping her suitcase. “It is what it is.” She starts rummaging through her clothes, a pile of USA gear and Hopkins hoodies slowly starting to form next to her as she searches. 

“What are you doing?” Azzi asks, stunned by how the blonde has managed to make a mess of their room in a mere two minutes.

“Deciding my fit for tomorrow.” Paige scrunches her eyebrows as she looks between two blue shirts, both exactly the same except one slightly darker in shade. “Gotta look good for the ladies.”

“Paige, you wear the same thing every day.” Azzi stuffs the pillow over her face in an effort to suffocate herself and end this nightmare. “The color and pattern doesn’t matter when it’s still shirts and sweats.”

“It’s cute that you pay so much attention to what I wear,” Paige says, “But I actually brought jeans and flannels this time. So yes, it does matter.” 

“Whatever.” Azzi gets up and heads for the bathroom, kicking aside a neon green hoodie in her way. Paige yelps, reaching for the ugly piece of clothing and cradling it in her hands. “Don’t make a mess. I’m gonna take a shower, if you know what that is.” 

Paige narrows her eyes, bringing the hoodie closer to her chest. “Don’t leave your products out, or I’mma use all of them.”

༉‧₊˚✧

Paige wakes up before her alarm clock. Sun streams in through the windows, casting a golden haze on everything in the room, including the girl asleep on the bed beside her. She’s snuggled into a pink blanket that she’d brought from home, lips slightly parted as quiet snores come from her mouth. She looks soft, vulnerable, her guard down in a way Paige has never seen before. 

Her mouth goes dry for a second, and she doesn’t know why. Shaking her head at herself, Paige stares up at the ceiling. The team has film before breakfast, then a workout, followed by recovery, lunch, more film, evening practice, and team dinner. It’s a packed day, and Paige already feels the lethargic pull of sleep from just sitting in the warmth of her sheets. Forcing herself out of bed, she begins to get ready.

It’s ten minutes to nine, the time they’re supposed to meet, when Paige is about to head out the door. Azzi is still fast asleep, and for a second she considers being nice and shaking her awake. But then she remembers Azzi calling her insufferable yesterday, and snickering to herself, she leaves. That girl has never been late to a single workout; it would do her some good to be humbled every once in a while.

Their coach is drawing out a play on the whiteboard next to the TV when Azzi runs in, out of breath, curls a mess and eyes anxious. “I’m so sorry,” she pants. “I slept in.”

“Get in your seat, Fudd."

Azzi looks around the room frantically. The nearest empty seat is next to Paige, damn her, and she’s sure her already annoyed coach wouldn’t appreciate her wasting even more time searching for another seat, so she sidles over and sits down resentfully. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Paige whispers from the corner of her mouth. 

Azzi sniffs suddenly, smelling a whiff of something familiar. Eyes narrowing, she leans in closer and takes another inhale to be sure. “Is that my shampoo?” she whispers angrily. 

“Coconut with a hint of hibiscus and honey?” Paige shrugs, trying to fight back her laughter. “Perhaps.”

“I told you not to touch my products!”

“And I told you that I’d use them if you left them out, so.” Paige continues sketching in her notebook, not bothering to even look over at Azzi.

“You don’t even have curly hair,” Azzi says scathingly. 

“Oops,” Paige says, not looking very sorry at all. “Maybe I shouldn’t have used your conditioner too then.”

Azzi makes a mental note to pack away all her shower products later. Her roommate is actually deranged. “And why the fuck didn’t you wake me up?” she hisses. 

“You were too deep in your beauty sleep.” Paige side eyes her. “Doesn’t seem like it worked, though,” she adds, knowing full well that she’s lying. Paige may be a hater, but she's still gay, and much to her chagrin, Azzi, despite frizzy hair and bags under her eyes, is admittedly pretty.

“I thought teammates were supposed to have each others’ backs,” Azzi grits out.

“I guess you have a point.” Paige shifts her notebook within eyesight of Azzi. “You can copy my notes.”

“Really?” Azzi, stunned by her sudden kindness, huddles in to squint at the paper. Her face falls when she realizes that the only thing on the sheet is a big dick, with even bigger balls. And hair.

“You’re an asshole,” Azzi says, slightly embarrassed that she'd thought Paige could even be capable of being nice for a single second.

“Not a dick?” Paige can’t help it. The opportunity was just too good to pass up.

Azzi doesn't speak to her for the rest of the day. 

༉‧₊˚✧

They win their first game, blowing out Italy 86-48. Paige is giddy, having finished with a solid 12 points and 5 assists, and she’s riding that high until her dad deliver the bad news.

“We’re doing what?”

Bob pats Paige on the back. “We offered to take out the Fudds for dinner, our treat.”

“The Fudds?” Paige echoes incredulously. “As in, Azzi’s family?”

“That’s correct.” Bob nods. “We happened to sit next to her parents during the game and we were talking about how good you and Azzi click together.”

“On the court,” Paige specifies. “And only on the court. Basketball’s the only thing we ever agree on, and that’s being generous.” 

“Don’t be dramatic,” her dad reprimands. “They’re nice people, Katie and Tim, and Azzi seems lovely. We’re going to dinner and we’re having a good time.” His tone leaves no room for disagreement, and Paige slumps down in her seat, defeated. “It’s an up-scale place, so go to your room and pick out something nice to wear. Meet us in an hour in the lobby.”

“Okay,” she mumbles begrudgingly. 

The rest of the drive back to the hotel is silent as Paige stews in her thoughts. Sitting through dinner with Azzi seems hellish, and knowing her parents’ tendency to talk on and on, it’ll surely end up being a multi-hour affair. Maybe she can fake being sick and leave early. Paige brightens up at the idea, and spends the next fifteen minutes devising a plan to fully sell it.

Wanting to put off dinner as long as possible, Paige takes her time heading back to the room, choosing to take the stairs even though her legs are still tired and aching from the game. She’s barely opened the door to her room when Azzi’s scrambled up from the bed and saying, “I need to borrow something.”

“Borrow something?” Paige goes to the closet and begins to ruffle through her more formal tops, starting to put together her own outfit.

“I realized I forgot all my nice clothes at home,” Azzi says. “I only have sweats and shit.”

“Aw, weren’t you just making fun of me for—”

“Paige,” Azzi interrupts. “Now is not the time.”

Paige rolls her eyes. “Okay, fine.” She looks through her clothes again, this time with a wary eye. “I guess you can borrow this.” She throws a long black sleeve at Azzi. 

“Bro, what is this?” Azzi gingerly picks up the piece of clothing with two fingers as if it’s poisonous. “You gave me your ugliest top!” she accuses.

“I didn’t!” Paige turns her back. “Beggars can’t be choosers anyways.”

“Can’t I have something, like, a little bit more interesting?” Azzi pushes past Paige, taking her spot in front of the closet  to look for herself. “Like this,” she holds up a tiny crop top that’s more like a glorified sports bra, and Paige’s eyes widen. 

“Hell no.” The older girl snatches it away from her. “We’re eating dinner with our parents, not going to a party.”

“There’s gonna be cute Belarusian guys at the restaurant, I know it,” Azzi complains. “I gotta look my best.” 

Paige blinks. “I don’t know why you think that helps your case.”

“Well, what about this one?” Azzi points to another crop top, this one slightly less revealing. Paige is about to relent when she imagines Azzi showing up with even a sliver of abs and toned arms out. The thought of having to sit next to Azzi, with nowhere to escape, when she’s looking like that, makes her shiver, and she hates it. 

“No,” Paige says firmly. “You’re shorter than me so it’s definitely gonna show way too much skin on you.” 

“When the fuck did you turn into a nun?” Azzi grumbles.

Paige glares at her. “Look, either you borrow this one or you get nothing. It’s up to you.” 

Protesting under her breath, Azzi grabs back the black long-sleeve and goes to the bathroom to change. Paige changes too and sits on the bed as she waits for the dark haired girl to finish up. When Azzi finally comes out, she stares at Paige dumbfoundedly. “You’re literally wearing a crop top and short shorts.”

“I can wear revealing shit,” Paige says. “You’re fifteen. It would be a crime if I enabled the baby of the team to walk around in clothes like this.” 

“I’m not the baby of the team,” Azzi says, crossing her arms even though she knows she younger than most of her teammates by a full two years. “And fifteen is plenty big.”

“You are,” Paige argues back. 

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Harrumphing, Azzi gives up and leaves the room, forcing Paige to scramble to get her phone and purse in order to catch up. The doors of the elevator are about to meet when Paige hurriedly sticks her hand between them and pushes her way in. “Seriously?” she pants, looking pointedly at where Azzi’s finger had been frantically pushing the close button.

Azzi‘s mouth pulls into a tight line. “You coulda taken the stairs. Lord knows you need the conditioning.” 

Paige scoffs, and the rest of the elevator ride down is silent, both of them bristling. 

Their parents are running late, so they take a seat in the lobby to wait. Paige makes sure to leave an extra chair between them. Silence fills the air between them, heavy and pervasive, until Azzi suddenly asks, “Can I ask you a favor?” 

“No.” Paige’s response is immediate. She'd already very generously let Azzi borrow her clothes. What else could the younger girl possibly need?

Azzi huffs and forges ahead anyways. “Look, my parents are super worried about me.”

“Why?” Paige questions reluctantly. She’s in no mood to entertain Azzi's request for a favor, but her curiosity wins out; why would Azzi of all people have parents worrying over her? Despite how much she dislikes the girl, she can admit that she’s unusually independent and capable. It's honestly half the reason why Paige resents her so much.

“Because…” Azzi crosses her arms, like she’s trying to make herself smaller. “I don’t know. They’re scared I’m not making any friends. Which is completely stupid, because I’m close to Sam and Jordan!” she says the last part defiantly, as if she’s trying to convince herself more than anything.

Paige stays quiet. To be truthful, it’s not a wrong observation. Azzi is more introverted and on the shyer side, and despite being one of the few returning girls from last season, she still hasn’t fully integrated into the team dynamic. 

“And once they saw us play together, they got super excited. For whatever reason, they thought I made a new friend, and the fact that it was you—” Azzi cuts herself off, shaking her head in embarrassment. 

Once again, the blonde is curious. “Why me?” she prods. 

“I don’t know. They’ve seen you play a ton and they admire your work ethic, I guess.”  

“They know what’s up,” Paige says approvingly with a solemn nod.

Azzi holds back from rolling her eyes. “Listen, can we just play it chill at dinner? We don’t have to pretend to be besties, but let’s just hold off on the arguing for a couple hours.” She rubs her palms against her thighs, almost as if she’s nervous, and her pants come away damp. “I just don’t wanna disappoint them.”

Paige opens her mouth, about to crack another joke, but then Azzi looks down, avoiding her eyes, still hunched over herself and looking like she’s trying to disappear, and something about how vulnerable the younger girl looks makes her heart twinge a little. So she plays it off by clearing her throat instead, and busies herself with looking at the receptionist, who’s actually quite pretty. “Yeah, whatever. That’s fine.”

The dark haired girl shifts next to her. Paige swears she sees a small smile flash across her face before it’s quickly controlled into a stony mask. “Thanks.”

༉‧₊˚✧

2017 - Colorado Springs, Colorado 

1 year ago: training camp day one 

“Nervous?”

Azzi’s eyes shoot towards the blonde next to her. It’s her first time actually looking at her face, and she realizes with a start that the girl is disarmingly pretty, golden wisps of hair escaping her Nike headband, and her eyes are a sharp, deep blue. 

“No,” she lies. “I’m making this roster.”

“Nice.” The blonde grins at her, and it’s toothy and big, and it makes Azzi do a double take. “I am too.”

The rest of day one passes by quickly. Every so often, Azzi looks up from a drill and swears she sees blue eyes lingering on her before they quickly look away. She finds out from the yelling of the coaches that the blonde's name is Paige, and the name rolls around in her mind for longer than she can explain. Yet they don't talk again, merely exchanging high fives and mumbling "Good jobs" before they both end up using the bathroom before they head out of the gym for the day.

“You’re something, Fudd.” Paige wipes her hands with a paper towel as she leans coolly against the wall. “Where you from?”

“Virginia,” Azzi says, a little shyly. “You?”

“Minnesota.” Paige leans in closer, ever the charmer at fifteen years old. “But I’ve always wanted to go to the DMV.”

Azzi, flustered by how she can smell Paige's perfume, stammers out, “It’s pretty nice up there.”

“It’s nicer knowing I’ll have a pretty girl to show me around when I visit.” Azzi is fourteen, and this is the first time anyone has so blatantly flirted with her, and she’s kinda confused but she kinda likes it? Still, she's speechless, at an utter loss for words before Paige says, “Well, I guess I'll see you,” her hand brushing Azzi’s hip as she walks behind her to the door. Azzi puts a hand on the counter, steadying herself from the heated feeling of warm fingers against her bare skin.

“Yeah, see you,” Azzi breathes out, but when she looks behind her, the girl is lone gone.

[siri-ike]

As you wish.

Love the art. I especially like the softer lines and shadow on the jumsuit. I think you did a good job implying dimention.

His head throbbed, and everything around him got blurry. But he could still make out certain things. The ground getting closer and closer, the rough outline of his home Fenton Works, the GIW closing in around him. Everything went black. Suddenly, he was restrained, and in a moving vehicle, indistinct voices taunted him. Black, again.

A painful jolt brought him into the present.

He's straped down from shoulders to ankles. He tries to avert his eyes from the bright florescent ceiling lights, but it's like no matter where he looks, they are right in front of him. He feels a hand grab onto his wrist, and he stops moving. It feels like there's a layer of clothing between them. The material doesn't feel like his hazmat suit.

"Are you sure? Feels pretty real to me." A voice asks. It didn't sound masculine or feminine.

"That's exactly what they want you to think." Danny recognizes that voice. It's operative K.

The straps around his shoulders and thighs loosen, and a pair of hands grab him on either side, dragging him to a chair.

Danny looked up. The lights were better here. There were still spots in his vision, but he could make out a masculine figure.

"You've eluded us for so long..." a voice, deep, mature, it wasn't operative K, O, L, or M. This was someone new. " But we've got you now..." He paused. The tone in his voice mocking. He wanted to rub it in. "Phantom."

He looked at Danny and made some sort of gesture to the one-way glass. Suddenly, Danny's vision came back into focus. Were they doing something to him? Remotely?? Finally, Danny could see what the man looked like. Not just that, it was like a handful of sand had been removed from his brain. It was a relief, but at the same time, what the fuck were they doing to him?!

"Nothing to say?"

Would anyone have anything to say to their captors?

"How about we start with something easy? Who is your leader? Hmm?... What are your plans? Take over the country? The military??... How much do you know about us?... How many ghosts are there?... Talk!!" He slammed his hand on the table. There was a knock on the one-sided window. The man left in a huff.

The man was barely gone a few seconds before danny heard a high-pitched peep. It rang for maybe two seconds before it disappeared, and his vicsion blurred again. It was nauseating. For a while, Danny was alone in an interrogation room. Face down on the table trying to cover his ears, but the chains kept his hands just out of reach.

Finally, a woman entered the room. Or at least someone wearing heels. The clacking of her shoes on the concrete floor was, if nothing else, a welcome distraction from the pain.

day 26/27: imprisoned/exposed

oops

Check out my other Phanniemay entries here and all my other doodles here!

[farfromharry]

Years in the making | Lando Norris

Summary: Lando has been in love with you since his brother introduced you to the family when he was 6, but he’s never had the guts nor opportunity to make a move. What about when he finally does almost 2 decades later?

w/c 3489

warnings - a shitty bf i guess, the name jack

━━━━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━━━━

The Norris family had been in her life for as long as she could remember. She and Ollie had met in Primary school and been inseparable ever since. She was close with the whole family, having spent most of her childhood in their home, but there had always been something different about Lando.

Lando was convinced he’d been in love with her since before he even knew what love was. He vividly remembered the day he saw her for the first time. He was 6, she and Ollie were 8. She was coming over to play and from the second she had climbed into the car beside Lando, he was starstruck. He thought she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.

That admiration he had with her never went away. There had just never been an opportunity for him to act on his feelings. 

Life got busy when Lando made it to Formula 1. His time at home decreased, he wasn’t seeing his family as much and he couldn’t remember the last time he saw her. On the lonely days he still longed for her, thought about opening Instagram and shooting her a quick message to ask how she was doing. But he never had the guts. Instead he lurked, liked her posts and lit up at every brief mention of her he got from his brother. 

So when it got to the final race of the 2024 season and he saw a familiar figure standing with his brother just outside the garage, he thought he was dreaming.

The sight of her standing there, flowery orange dress clinging to her skin, hair curled and smile as radiant as the day he met her, it all came flooding back. He remembered everything. All the times he’d dreamed about, every time his heart had raced when she touched him or flashed him a smile. Every feeling he had ever felt towards her was carving out a place in his chest again. They weren’t new feelings– they were ones that had never gone away. 

The smile on his face was nothing short of dopey. Who could blame a guy when seeing his first love again?

He came bounding over to the duo, practically throwing his arms around her when he was close enough. She laughed loudly, a sound he could only describe as angelic. He wanted to hear it again and again for the rest of his life. 

He was the first to pull back, feeling like he had gone too long without seeing her face. Now that he had got her back, he didn’t ever want to stop seeing her. “Hi.”

She smiled brightly. “Hi. That was quite the greeting.”

His cheeks flushed, the skin tinting a light pink. “Missed you,” he shrugged. “It’s been a while.” Far too long in his opinion. He was finding it a little hard to believe she was here now if he was being honest. When he got time he would have to thank Ollie for bringing her. 

“It has, hasn’t it. Last time I saw you, you were like this-” She held her hand beside her waist, exaggerating his height just a little, “tall.”

He rolled his eyes. “Shut up, no I wasn’t.”

Y/N’s eyes shifted to Ollie, asking for backup. “It is kind of true.” Lando couldn’t believe his brother, his own flesh and blood wasn’t taking his side in this. “You were a baby.”

“I was 18!” 

She chuckled. The moment was cut short by someone else joining them. Lando hadn’t ever met him, but he’d seen him in the occasional post or story. Jack. The boyfriend. They had been together almost a year. Not too long, but long enough that Lando felt threatened by him. It was probably weird considering Y/N had only ever seen him as her friend’s little brother, but he always hoped he could be more. Jack was getting in the way of that. 

The atmosphere visibly shifted when he fell into place beside Y/N, his arm nudging hers. No longer was it just 3 old friends catching up, now it was awkward. 

She felt the need to try and make it a little less awkward. “Oh, Lan, this is Jack. Jack, this is Lando.” The 2 men nodded at each other. There was something clearly underlying between them. He didn’t trust the F1 driver and the F1 driver didn’t like him. But only one of them was going to make the effort to keep Y/N happy.  

“Well, I better head back. Nice meeting you, mate.” 

He didn’t spare another glance at the man before he walked away. For Y/N’s sake, Lando would be civil, but he sure as hell wouldn’t be happy about it. Just as he thought his weekend was about to be brilliant, he had to show up and ruin everything. 

He was able to take his mind off it given his focus needed to be on the race. For 2 hours he was thinking of nothing but how to take corners and how to stop Max Verstappen from overtaking him. As soon as he pulled into Parc Ferme in 2nd place, his mind was back on her. He hoped she was proud of him. 

His family were all standing together when he climbed out of the car. Lando congratulated his teammate and Max on their finishing positions, then made a beeline for them. His parents pulled him into a hug first and he could never put into words the joy that bloomed in his chest. His siblings ruffled his hair and offered their congrats. Then there was her.

She was grinning and he swore there were tears in her eyes. She had attended a couple Formula One races in the past, but never one where he’d finished so high up. A win would have been nice, but he was glad she got to see him do well regardless. Clearly she was full of pride for him. She knew this was everything he’d ever worked for and his dreams were really coming true. 

“Well done,” she squealed, tugging him into an embrace. 

Having her in his arms just felt right. It was a natural instinct for him to tuck his head into the neck of the person he was hugging, he didn’t do it maliciously because he knew her boyfriend was right there. Jack didn’t see it that way. He glared at the side of Lando’s head, up until the man pulled away from Y/N. Then he slid his arm around her, like he was staking his claim. Deep inside, Lando rolled his eyes. How could a grown man be so childish?

“Proud of you, kid.” 

She looked so happy that he was struggling to tear his eyes away from her. “You must be my lucky charm.” This wasn’t his best finish of the season, but that wasn’t important right now. He just wanted her to feel special. And if it made him a bad guy for doing so while her boyfriend was right there, then so be it.

Her cheeks burned. “Nope, it’s all you. You’re so talented, Lan and I’m glad everyone’s finally getting to see it.”

They held eye contact for longer than necessary, the tension clear in the air. Jake cleared his throat, which finally burst the bubble they’d found themselves in. He wasn’t a fan of whatever the hell they were doing. Now that it was incredibly awkward, Lando moved away, heading for his team. If he caught the way Y/N’s face hardened right after Jake whispered something into her ear, he didn’t bring it up. 

Lando wouldn’t have had much time to argue it anyway. He was being whisked away for post race interviews and then the podium ceremony. 

Standing on the podium was always a rewarding feeling, but standing there with the knowledge his family was watching made it all that more special. He looked out into the crowd as the winning anthems played, his eyes locking with hers. She was smiling, her hands clasped in front of her face like she couldn’t believe this was real life. His face unknowingly lit up with joy. 

The cheers when he lifted his 2nd place trophy were loud. Shouts of his name like music to his ears. Her voice was the loudest.

The pit lane was much quieter once the celebrations died down. Fans had gone home, engineers were packing things up. There was nothing left to do. That was why he heard the raised voices, it was too quiet. One voice in particular was familiar. He felt the need to check in.

“Grow up, Y/N, this is real life not some childhood fantasy!” 

Lando felt a burst of anger in his chest. “Everything okay over here?”

Jack scoffed and she quickly shot him a glare. It was obvious that they were fighting, but the last thing Y/N needed was for him to know what they were fighting about. It was embarrassing. “It’s fine, Lando. Shouldn’t you be celebrating?” She tried to smile.

He was still tense, looking between them like he was waiting for something to happen. He was testing Jack, silently begging him to make 1 wrong move. “Yeah, was looking for you. You’re coming, right?” He hoped she didn’t let him down. 

The look on her face was one he couldn’t place. She looked unsure, uncomfortable, but he didn’t think it was to do with him. “Of course I am. Wouldn’t miss it.” Jack rolled his eyes, something that didn’t go unseen by the other male. “We’ll meet you there, okay?” She was trying to get him to leave in the most respectful way possible. She loves Lando, but this spat was something that needed to play out in private and his presence was only feeding it. 

Luckily for her, he could tell where he wasn’t wanted. So he smiled, nodding his head. “Okay. I’ll see you later.” He shot the couple one more look and then turned on his heel to begin walking away. He had merely rounded the corner by the time they started arguing again. This time he could hear everything. Maybe he shouldn’t have eavesdropped, but he would call it being protective. The last thing he wanted was for Y/N to get hurt. 

“That is exactly what I’m talking about!”

He could picture her messing with her hair like she did when she got stressed. “You’re being ridiculous! He is a friend. I’ve known him for years.” They were talking about him. If he wasn’t intrigued before, he was now. 

“That doesn’t mean he isn’t in love with you.”

“He isn’t. And who says I’m in love with him?”  

He laughed, cruelly. “Open your fucking eyes, Y/N.” 

Lando couldn’t listen any longer. He didn’t think he wanted to hear her response. He headed back to the hospitality, intending on grabbing his bag and finding his family. Inside he got caught up talking to some of his engineers for longer than he anticipated. By the time he grabbed his stuff and headed outside, it seemed he had missed everything. 

Y/N was standing in his sister’s arms, crying into her shoulder. He could hear her sobs the moment he stepped outside the door and his heart cracked. Jack was nowhere to be seen. Usually he would think that was a good thing, but right now he had a feeling that might be the root of the problem. 

He approached his brother, fear settling in his gut. He hoped whatever happened hadn’t been too serious. “What’s going on?” His eyes darted between Y/N and his sister, to his older sibling. The tears on her face made him panic. 

Ollie placed his hand on his brother’s chest, keeping him from heading over to you. “Mate, now isn’t the time, alright?” His tone worried him. “Her and Jack just broke up.” 

He tried to hide his excitement, but he hadn’t been quick enough. The older man saw the flash of joy in his eyes just before he furrowed his brow and pretended to act concerned. “I’m not a total dickhead, mate. I just wanted to make sure she was okay.”

For years the elder of the two had tried to prevent this from happening. Ollie cherished his friendship with Y/N, just as he cherished his brother, but he knew Lando could be reckless. He wasn’t always the most mature and the last thing he needed was him hurting her and making things awkward for everyone. But maybe keeping them apart has hurt them in other ways. It meant Y/N kept getting into relationships that ended in disaster and a broken heart, and Lando continued his damaging ways. 

Oliver sighed. He needed to let this run its course. Maybe it could be something beautiful. “Fine, just… Don’t fuck this one up, okay?”

He was giving him his blessing and Lando wasn’t going to take advantage of that. For once, he was going to take this seriously. This meant a lot to him. 

Flo saw him coming and excused herself. 

He approached her with a small smile, worried he might be overstepping. If the argument really was about him then he worried he’d be rubbing salt in the wound. The last thing he wanted was to upset her any more than she already was. When she smiled back he knew he was in the clear. Still, Ollie was probably watching him like a hawk. He sat beside her, rubbing his hands together nervously. What was he even supposed to say?

“He was an arsehole.” That was a risky start. 

Luckily she laughed. “Yeah.” She sighed deeply. The guilt was eating her alive. She didn’t know he was going to be so blatantly rude to Lando. She felt responsible for his behaviour. “I’m sorry about him. This had nothing to do with you, he’s just an insecure prick.”

Lando was weighing up his options. She likely knew already that he was in love with her given the fact he had never been subtle, but confessing it to her face was a whole other thing. When was he ever going to get this chance again? It was now or never. “He wasn’t entirely wrong.” He couldn’t go back now. He was going to have to own it.

“What?”

The man sighed. “Y/N, I’ve been in love with you since I was 6.” 

She thought he might be kidding her. For years she had thought his feelings were nothing more than a silly childhood crush. She had expected it to have fizzled out by now. He was Lando Norris, big time F1 driver, rich and famous– he probably had girls throwing themselves at him everywhere he went. What would he want with her? The surprise on her face was obvious. 

“I guess I’ve always been looking for the right moment. Either I was busy or you had a boyfriend, or… I don’t even know. It just felt like we were always gonna clash.” He reached over and took her hand, cradling it in his. “But right now, what’s stopping us?”

She was quiet. Too quiet. He hadn’t addressed the fact she had literally just broken up with her boyfriend, he had gone straight in to telling her he loved her. Maybe this was a horrible idea. His heart was racing and his hands were trembling.

“Please say something.” 

“I just-“ She sighed. “I don’t understand why you’d want me. There’s so many younger, prettier, more successful women throwing themselves at you. I’m just… me.” 

He seemed genuinely upset with the way she was talking about herself, or maybe with the way she was portraying him. Lando had never really been one for the glitz and glamour of F1. Sure he had his fair share of flings, usually with some kind of model who’d had a paddock pass, but did she really think so little of him? That was having fun, convenience, this was everything. She was everything.

He sighed. “Y/N, you…” Where did he even begin? “You’re the one that got away.”

Her face softened.

“You’re my dream girl. I used to think you were perfect, as in hand crafted, inch by inch, sent to show me what I could never have. You don’t know what seeing a girl as cool as you at a young age does to a guy.” They laughed together. She was touched. “I always thought you were too out of my reach, that you could never want a guy like me. You know, you’re older, hot, so ridiculously smart and Ollie was always getting in the way. I think how I feel about you is part of the reason I’m so hard on myself. I want to impress you all the time, I’ve always wanted to.” 

She didn’t know what to say. Having Lando confess his feelings to her after the last race of the season was the last thing she thought was going to happen. This whole day had been one crazy event after another. She didn’t know how much more madness her heart could take. “So, why have you never said anything?”

“Ollie, mainly. I didn’t think he would be too happy if I made a move.” That made sense. Oliver was her best friend. He was very protective over her and the chances of Lando being the ‘right guy’ for her in his eyes was slim. “But also, I thought you knew how I felt and just weren’t saying anything. I thought you were rejecting me by avoiding it altogether.”

“I thought it was a silly crush, or convenient. We spent a lot of time together as kids, sometimes you develop feelings because of the situation, not because of the person.” For years she had thought he liked her purely because she was his brother’s friend. He knew her, but he hadn’t made an effort to get to know her deeply like one would if they were trying to pursue a relationship. She had shrugged it off as unimportant. “I didn’t mean to ignore how you felt. I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “Don’t be sorry. If anything I’m sorry for not just admitting how I felt. Could have saved you a lot of shitty relationships.” 

She laughed at that. “Yeah, tell me about it.” 

A comfortable silence enveloped them. They sat side by side, shoulders touching and barely an inch of space between them. Her eyes roamed the paddock, watching some engineers chat in a group, probably about how wild the season just gone had been. Lando couldn’t take his eyes off her though. This moment was one he had been waiting for for years. He had dreamed about this countless times, especially during his teenage years. It didn’t feel real, at least not yet.

He placed his hand on the side of her face, guiding her to look at him. She went easily. Their eyes met and somewhere somehow, everything fell into place. He let out a breath, one full of nerves. He didn’t want to mess this up, he had waited far too long to ruin it now. 

“Can I?” 

She didn’t respond verbally, just took the initiative to close the gap for him. For the first time since they’d known each other, they properly crossed that line of friendship. Their lips met and things felt right. The kiss had been building for 19 years and was just as magical as they expected. People often talked about feeling sparks with the right person. Lando was experiencing an entire firework display.

She never wanted it to end. Kissing Lando was like oxygen— she needed it to breathe. 

He was the first one to pull away, but she wasn’t letting him go that easily. She chased his lips, nearly on top of him. It caught him off guard, his hands shooting to her hips to keep her steady. 

Clearly he had unleashed something in her that had been suppressed for so long.

Unfortunately at some point he needed to breathe. He couldn’t contain his laughter though. “Y/N, slow down.” His hands found themselves tangled in her hair, his thumb stretching to trace her lips that were now slightly swollen. “We’ll have all the time in the world for that.” 

Her lips curved into a smile. He had always thought she was beautiful, but right now, the way the breeze was blowing her hair, the way she was smiling down at him— the way her eyes sparkled. She had never been so gorgeous. He was even more in love now if that was possible. 

The way her fingers were rubbing against his cheekbones was incredibly distracting. “You promise?” Her words came out so quiet that he really had to be listening to hear her.

He had finally gotten everything he wanted. He would give her anything she asked for. There was no risking this. “I promise.”

━━━━━━━━━♡♥♡━━━━━━━━━

tags: @esposa-do-harry

[wintersportal]

i shifted

i used to think shifting had to feel like something/that it had to be dramatic or full of signs. what actually worked was letting go of the idea that i had to earn it. this is such an IMPORTANT reminder yall.

i stopped trying to “attempt” and started assuming that i shift every single time. no exceptions. no doubts. just trust. it came from things i already knew how to do: lucid dreaming, dropping into the void, daydreaming etc. instead of visualizing everything perfectly, i started feeling it: textures, temperatures. i let music play softly in the background, counted slowly, and told myself truths .

“i’m already there.”

“this is where i belong.”

and my fav: “im finally back home”

i came to realize that every shift was just me going home and this was MY push and MY key. i didn’t have to drop a coin into a magic wishing well to be there. i wasn’t NEW to that reality because it was always mine.

constantly assuming that i “return home” every time i sleep literally made it come true. it’s my fav “method” and its what feels most natural.

how i woke up

i woke up to my bedsheets and the sun lighting up my whole room exactly how i scripted it. the exact pajamas i had written down. the softness of the fabric, the way the light hit the walls. i didn’t even have to question it. of course my first move was to look in the mirror. i wanted to see it with my own eyes and i did. it was me and felt natural. i only spent a few mins wandering in my room and i shifted back here.

when shifters say “let go and let it catch up with you” they’re being fr.

[s1eepy-bear]

‧୨🌿୧ ₊˚ Confetti

pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds x fem!reader

summary: you're the new secretary of the team and you meet them for the first time today. among them, a cute brunette stands out.

c/w: MDNI! silly, fluffy, cute, slow burn

a/n: i thought i would get over being nervous after the first time posting but ig thats not the case lol, hope you guys like this one!

button divide by @bernardsbendystraws~

The elevator rises silently, the ground dropping away as the people outside the ex-Stark Tower quickly become distant dots. “Here, it tastes gross, but you’ll need this.” Mel hands you a cheap paper cup filled to the brim with room temp coffee. You accept it with a quiet thanks, but groan internally. Who in the world would do this to a new employee, but your boss is none other than Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, so maybe you should’ve expected this.

To Val’s credit, she puts up a compelling front to the public. She spoke confidently in court to Congressman Gary as if she had nothing to lose. When you first met her during your interview, she smiled confidently and greeted you warmly with a firm handshake. 

But now, she barely acknowledges Mel when she hands her a piping hot starbucks coffee, fixated on a call with someone important from somewhere important. She was unabashedly thirty minutes late, leaving you waiting around in the lobby area earlier. You wonder if making people wait made her feel powerful.

You sip the stale coffee quietly; the dull, bitter taste makes you wince. Val ends her call just when the elevator emits a soft ding, indicating you have arrived at your floor, though she is still tapping away at her screen with her manicured fingers. Her eyes flicker to you for a moment, then dart back to her phone. “Ah, right.” She mutters dismissively, likely having already forgotten your existence. 

The metallic elevator door gently slides open, the three of you make it a step out, and a blaring POP! Sound erupts and gold bursts at your eyes, causing you all to flinch, eliciting a gasp from you, and a small yelp from Mel. 

“Welcome!” A hulking, tall man in a red Captain America-like suit beams excitedly, his voice booming with a heavy Russian accent on his tongue—the beard on his chin wiry and unruly. His large hands make the party popper in his grip look comically small, and a party hat sits atop his bald head. He stands over all of you, an obviously home-made welcome poster stuck unevenly to the white, pristine wall behind him. Specks of gold, sparkly confetti, gradually float over and around you, reflecting random glints of light everywhere, some stuck onto your hair and shoulders.

You know why you’ll need that coffee now.

“Alexei, what the hell!?” Val snaps, her voice full of fury as she throws her hands up, but the man named Alexei doesn’t seem bothered at all. Mel mutters a small “Oh my gosh” to herself with a hand to her chest, attempting to calm her heart. 

A short woman with a bleached, slicked-back bob appears behind Alexei, doubling over, howling with laughter, trying to catch her breath. “Oh my god, you should’ve seen your face, Valentina- That was too good!” She wipes away tears from the corners of her eyes with her thumb. She also has a Russian accent.

“Yelena, you’re in on this, too?” Val scoffs in disbelief.

“We must celebrate new girl!” Alexei gushes boisterously at first, but your stunned silence finally registers after a few seconds, and his excited beam shrinks. “Oh…Uh, sorry,” he apologizes sheepishly to you, clumsily batting at the confetti in your hair and shoulders. “I’m uh, Alexei Shostakov, The Red Guardian!” He perks up again at the end, clearly proud of his title, and you can't help but let out a small chuckle at that.

“Yelena. Sorry about the scare,” Yelena, still amused, introduces herself, though you already know who she is. “We just wanted to mess with Valentina, you got caught in the crossfire.”

“I swear to god, Alexei, if you just shot something or someone…” A tall, more athletic-looking man with short, dirty blonde hair and neatly kept stubble rounds the corner of a hallway, presumably leading to more rooms. You recognize the person to be John Walker, his shirt is damp with sweat from working out just a moment ago. His gaze subtly hardens when he spots company. “What’s going on here?”

“I don’t have time for this,” Val rolls her eyes. “This is your new secretary, if you will. She will be working closely with the team, taking care of anything you need.” She gives a dismissive flick of her wrist towards Alexei, Yelena, and Walker. 

"You're all theirs," she declares at you, already turning on her heel. Mel offers you a quick, apologetic smile and “good luck” before hurrying after her boss towards the elevator. 

You let out a small sigh of relief, take a moment to reset your emotions, and turn your attention to everyone. “Alexei, Yelena, Walker, it’s a pleasure.” You smile politely and give them your name. You take in your surroundings and suddenly, you lock eyes with a set of dark blue, wide eyes peeking over one of the couches.

Has he…Been there the whole time?

“Oh, um…Hi,” The figure emerges timidly from behind the couch, revealing himself to be surprisingly tall.

Why are there so many tall people here?

He has a head of wavy brown hair, and the ends of his hair curl at the nape of his neck. “I’m uh, Bob.” He smiles bashfully, looking down slightly. His hand messes with the sleeve of his comfy, oversized sweatshirt rather adorably. The dark blue sweatshirt matches his eyes, enveloping him like a warm hug. He closely resembles a puppy that thinks it’s in trouble and you feel an unexpected warmth towards him.

“Hello Bob,” you can’t help but want to tease him. “You’re cute.”

Bob’s face explodes with redness. Yelena whistles loudly as she makes her way to the kitchen. Alexei barks out a laugh. 

“What the hell?” Walker scoffs, acting grossed out. “You just wish she said that to you.” Yelena jokes, to which Walker rolls his eyes at her.

Bob’s mouth opens and closes, busy trying to find an appropriate response. He eventually settles for a small “thank you.”

“No problem, Bob.” He lowers his head in shyness when you give him the prettiest smile he's ever seen. The kind of smile that makes his heart beat a little faster.

“I usually…Don’t hide behind furniture…” Bob stammers out, one hand rubbing the back of his neck out of nervousness.

From the kitchen doorway, Yelena calls out, "Since your official tour guide has abandoned you, I can show you around." She walks into view toward you, a glimmer of mirth in her voice. "Unless you'd rather Alexei give you the 'Red Guardian' version. You'll probably learn less that way."

“Nonsense!” Alexei frowns. “What’s wrong with mine?” 

Yelena smirks playfully. “She will probably be stuck listening to you talk about your trash ass car for hours.”

“My car is not ‘trash ass’.” Alexei tries to protest, but Yelena has already started pulling you away from the common area. Her grip on your arm is firm but not unkind, and she moves with a swift efficiency that leaves Alexei's complaints behind. You catch Bob’s eyes when you look back, he gives you a little wave, a timid smile still gracing his lips as the spacious common room shrinks from view. 

“Catch you later, Bob.” You say more to yourself.

[lanadelspray02]

HOLD ME ANYWAY: CHAPTER 19

paige x azzi

hey guys, so sorry this took longer than usual. i know i left yall on a cliffhanger for a bit too long but i hope you enjoy this new chapter. let me know your thoughts. appreciate every single one of you :)

crossposted ao3 here

masterlist here

wc: 11,680

--------------------

Azzi was mid-laugh when it happened.

They were crossing the nearly empty parking lot just off the edge of campus, the golden light of late afternoon stretching long and soft across the pavement. The air was warm in that end of day kind of way, the sky painted in pink and honey. Azzi was just about to head home for dinner. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, her curls mussed by the breeze. Paige trailed a few steps behind, grinning like a girl who didn’t want the moment to end and swinging azzi’s keys around.

“You know you’re not allowed to look this good on a random day right?” Paige teased, voice light with affection. “It’s actually kind of rude.”

Azzi scoffed and tugged the hoodie tighter around her with mock indignation. “It’s literally just lip gloss.”

Paige narrowed her eyes, still smirking. “You’re lucky I’m obsessed with you. Otherwise I’d be reporting you to campus security for being a public menace.”

Azzi gave a soft laugh, bumping her shoulder into Paige’s in a move so natural it didn’t require thinking. And that was when it happened.

“Azzi.”

The voice came from ahead. Male. Familiar.

Too calm. Too intentional.

It cut clean through the ease of the moment, slicing the air like a sudden drop in pressure before a storm. Azzi stopped instantly, like her entire body had seized up at once. Her laughter vanished, her posture stiffened, and the smile slipped right off her face. The color in her cheeks drained so quickly it was like someone had unplugged her.

Paige slowed, confused for only a beat until she felt it. That instant shift in energy. The way Azzi’s shoulders tensed, the way her hands clenched into small fists.

“Baby?” Paige asked, her voice low and concerned. “You okay?”

Azzi didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Her gaze had locked on something ahead, and her jaw was clenched tight enough to hurt.

Paige followed her line of sight, and then she saw him.

He was leaning against the passenger side of Azzi’s car, like he’d been waiting. A grey LSU hoodie was stretched across his chest, sleeves pushed up like he was trying to look casual. A black watch glinted on his wrist in the sunlight, and designer sneakers stood pristine on the pavement. His sunglasses were pushed onto the top of his head like a prop, hair styled like he was about to be on camera.

He looked like someone who had practiced this.

“Didn’t think I’d actually find you,” he said, taking a step forward. His tone was smooth, disarmingly relaxed. “But then again, it’s a small world, right?”

Azzi still didn’t speak. Her eyes dropped to the ground, fixed on a crack in the asphalt like it might hold her together if she didn’t look up. Her breathing had gone shallow, shoulders locked in place.

Paige stepped forward without thinking, putting herself slightly in front of Azzi. Her stance was calm, but her entire body had gone taut.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice even but unwelcoming.

The guy looked at her now, slowly, taking her in from head to toe. Paige watched his eyes flick over the UConn hoodie she wore, the slight distance between her and Azzi, and then settled on her face. He smiled, the kind of smug, self-satisfied smirk that made Paige’s stomach roll.

“Nothing dramatic,” he said with a shrug that was far too casual for the weight of this moment. “I saw the photo. The little one… she looks a lot like you.” He nodded toward Azzi. “Thought maybe it was time we talked.”

Azzi still didn’t speak. Her arms had crossed tightly over her chest now, every inch of her body turned inward like she was trying to fold herself into a place too small for him to reach.

“You don’t get to talk about her,” Paige snapped before she could stop herself.

He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Look, I’m not here to start a fight. I just think I deserve to be acknowledged. She’s mine too, isn’t she?”

Azzi’s voice finally came. It was quiet but razor-sharp. “You told me she wasn’t.”

He blinked, caught off guard for the briefest second, but quickly recovered. “I was seventeen. So were you. Things were messy. You know how it is.”

“No,” Paige said firmly, stepping in closer now. “You didn’t just panic. You denied her. You made Azzi question everything. And then you vanished like she never existed.”

He met her stare for a moment, then gave another infuriating shrug. “I didn’t know what to believe back then. But now she’s out there. People are talking. That’s big, right? The drawing, the photos, all the reposts. It’s not just a secret anymore.”

Paige’s stomach twisted. So that was it. It wasn’t about Ruby. Not really. It was about visibility. Relevance. Fame by association. Now that Azzi was rising and Ruby’s story had reached the public eye, he wanted in.

Azzi’s voice broke again, quieter this time, but heavier. “You made me take a pregnancy test in a locker room stall. Alone.”

That landed. He looked at her again, really looked and something flickered behind his eyes. Guilt? Regret? But whatever it was, it didn’t last. His expression reset.

“You made me doubt myself,” she continued. “You made me feel like I was making it all up. Like I didn’t even know my own body. And now that she’s here, and she’s loved, and she’s finally visible… you think you get to come back?”

He tilted his head slightly, trying for the high ground. “I’m not trying to take her away. I just want to be part of her life. She’s got my blood. That doesn’t go away.”

“You have no rights here,” Paige cut in, her tone steel. “You gave that up the day you walked away.”

He looked between them — Azzi, still trembling but standing, and Paige, burning with barely restrained fury. His smirk twisted again.

“You two make a good team, huh?” he said. “Just don’t forget it started with me.”

That was it.

Azzi lifted her head. Finally. She met his gaze directly — steady, unwavering.

“You don’t exist in her life,” she said. “You never did. And you never will.”

He paused. Maybe he was waiting for her to take it back. Maybe he thought she might crack.

She didn’t.

He gave one last smile, the kind meant to haunt. “Alright,” he said. “But don’t act like I’m the villain for wanting to know my kid. You never gave me the chance.”

Then he turned and walked off, pulling out his phone and scrolling like none of it mattered. Like he’d already moved on.

Azzi didn’t speak. Didn’t even breathe, it seemed, for several long seconds.

Paige stood there beside her, watching the tremble in her fingers, the way her shoulders had lifted so high they nearly touched her ears. And then Azzi spoke, voice low and hoarse:

“Take me home.”

Paige nodded. No questions. No hesitation.

She unlocked the car, opened Azzi’s door, and waited until she was inside. Then she rounded to the driver’s side, slid in, and started the engine.

The sun had disappeared completely by the time they pulled out of the lot, leaving only a dusky blue in the sky.

Paige kept both hands steady on the wheel. One eye on the road. The other on Azzi, silent, unmoving, and closed off beside her.

She didn’t try to speak.

Azzi would come back when she was ready.

--------------------

The car ride home was silent.

Not the comfortable kind of silence, not the easy, worn-in kind that came after a long day filled with too much laughter or shared exhaustion. This one was heavier. It buzzed between them like static electricity, thick and unsettled, full of words that had no room to land.

Azzi hadn’t spoken since they left the parking lot. She hadn’t moved much either. She was curled slightly toward the window, her arms wrapped tight around herself like she was trying to hold something in or keep the rest of the world out. Her gaze was fixed beyond the glass, but Paige could tell she wasn’t really looking. Not at the blur of trees passing by. Not at the glow of the headlights cutting through the dark. Not even at the crescent moon hanging low and quiet in the sky.

Paige kept both hands locked on the steering wheel, her knuckles white around the grip. She was trying not to look at Azzi too often, even though her eyes kept drifting sideways to the soft reflection of her face in the window, to the slight tremble in her chest each time she exhaled. Paige ached to say something. To reach across the console and touch her hand, her thigh, anything. But she didn’t.

Azzi was too deep in it.

And Paige knew better than to ask her to come back up before she was ready.

So she just drove. Slowly. Gently. Like she was carrying something fragile in the front seat. Because she was.

The only sounds were the soft hum of the tires and the faint tick of the turn signal when needed. Even the air inside the car seemed still, afraid to move, afraid to disturb the quiet Azzi had built around herself like armour.

By the time they turned onto Azzi’s street, the sky had melted into a deep navy. The porch light was on when they pulled into the driveway, casting a soft amber glow against the siding. Behind the front windows, a warm light glowed from the kitchen. Through the gauzy curtains, Paige could make out Katie’s silhouette moving around, rinsing dishes, drying her hands, going about the rhythms of an ordinary evening.

She let the car idle in the driveway for a moment.

Azzi didn’t reach for the door. Didn’t blink. She just sat there.

Paige turned toward her gently, her voice barely more than a whisper. “We’re home.”

The words came out softer than intended — not a reminder, not a push. A reassurance.

Azzi blinked, slowly, like surfacing from underwater. Her hand moved to the door handle with stiffness. She opened it with a faint creak, and the evening air rushed in crisp and quiet, cutting through the stillness like a thread.

Paige got out a moment later, following a few steps behind her up the path. She didn’t crowd her. She just kept close enough to be there if Azzi stumbled.

Azzi walked with a strange kind of urgency, not the fast kind, but the kind that said she needed to be somewhere else as soon as possible. Her shoulders were hunched, her hoodie drawn close. Her hand gripped the house keys like they were the only thing tethering her to the moment.

She fumbled a little with the lock. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to show her fingers were shaking.

The door clicked open with a familiar sound. Normally, that sound meant safety. Tonight, it just sounded tired.

Before either of them had time to step fully inside, a familiar voice rang out — bright, unbothered, and completely unaware of the tension clinging to the air.

“Mama!”

Ruby barreled out of the living room like a tiny, determined rocket, her socks sliding slightly on the hardwood as she skidded to a stop. She launched herself at Azzi with the unfiltered enthusiasm of a child who hadn’t yet learned how to soften her joy. Her arms wrapped tightly around Azzi’s legs, anchoring her in place.

“You’re home! I been waiting and waiting and waiting! You said you’d be back before the soup was done, but then it was done and you weren’t, and now I’m hungry again!”

Azzi stood frozen for a second, caught mid-shift between emotional states. It wasn’t that she didn’t want the hug, it was that her heart hadn’t adjusted yet. Like her brain needed a second to catch up.

Then, slowly, she crouched down. Her arms came around Ruby, hugging her close. Her fingers slipped gently into her daughter’s curls. She pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, lingering there for a breath.

“I’m glad you’re here, baby,” she murmured. Her voice was raw, soft, and weighted like each word had to be pulled out of somewhere deep.

Ruby leaned back with a little frown. “You sad?” she asked plainly. “You look sad.”

Azzi didn’t get the chance to answer.

Katie appeared in the hallway, drying her hands on a dish towel. She took one look at Azzi and knew — the same way mothers always know. Her gaze flicked from Azzi to Paige, then back again, her brow knitting just slightly.

She smiled gently, but her tone was careful. “Hey, honey. You okay?”

Azzi stood slowly, keeping one hand resting lightly on Ruby’s back. “I’m just tired,” she said. The words came out flat. Not sharp, not defensive, just… empty.

Katie took a step forward, concern etched into the corners of her expression. “Dinner’s still warm. Want me to fix you a bowl?”

Azzi shook her head. “No, thank you.”

Katie tried again, her voice low. “You want to sit for a bit? We can talk later, if you want.”

Azzi offered a faint smile. Not the real kind. The kind you put on when you’re trying not to worry anyone. The kind Paige had seen her use at post-game pressers or when strangers asked too many questions.

“I just need to lie down,” Azzi said.

She turned, slowly disentangling herself from Ruby’s grip. Her hand lingered for a moment on the toddler’s shoulder before she pulled away completely and walked down the hall. Her footsteps were soft, her back impossibly straight.

The bedroom door opened.

And then it closed. Quietly.

But to Paige, it might as well have slammed.

Ruby stared after her, bottom lip pushing out just slightly. Then she turned around and looked up at Katie. “Mama’s really sad.”

Katie crouched down and scooped Ruby into her arms. She kissed her on the cheek and tucked her in close.

“She’s just having a hard day, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Sometimes people need a little quiet to feel better.”

Ruby leaned her cheek against Katie’s shoulder, still frowning. “She didn’t eat her soup.”

“I know,” Katie said, brushing a curl away from Ruby’s forehead. “Maybe you and I can draw her something nice. A picture that’ll make her smile.”

Ruby turned toward Paige next, eyes narrowing in concern. “Paigey… did you make her sad?”

The question landed with more weight than Paige expected. She crouched down beside them and met Ruby’s eyes, her voice gentle.

“No, baby,” she said. “I didn’t make her sad. Something happened today that was really hard for her. But we’re gonna help her feel better, okay?”

Ruby didn’t respond right away. She leaned in instead and wrapped her arms tight around Paige’s neck, hugging her with all the strength she could muster.

“You help her,” she said into her shoulder. “Like a band-aid.”

Paige swallowed the lump in her throat and hugged her back just as tightly. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I’ll be her band-aid.”

Katie caught her eyes over Ruby’s shoulder, her expression soft but steady. She didn’t hesitate.

“Stay for dinner, Paige,” she said. “You’re already family.”

Ruby gasped, pulling back with a wide, excited grin. “Yes! Yes, stay! We have soup and bread and apple juice, and I saved a potato that looks like a heart!”

Paige let out a soft breath, part laugh, part relief. She looked from Katie to Ruby, her chest easing for the first time in hours.

“Okay,” she said. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

--------------------

The house was still and quiet by the time Paige sat back down at the kitchen table, the last spoonfuls of soup long cooled in her bowl. She hadn’t meant to stop eating, the meal had been warm and soothing in the way comfort food always was but her appetite had never really caught up to the day’s weight. Her body was in one place, but her heart hadn’t quite landed yet.

Katie moved through the kitchen with the kind of quiet grace that only came with practice. She rinsed dishes, stacked them neatly into the dishwasher, wiped the stove down with slow, circular motions. A dish towel hung over her shoulder. Tim stood at the sink beside her, drying silverware and humming something under his breath a small, absentminded melody that did its best to keep the silence from falling too hard.

Paige pushed her bowl slightly forward, careful not to make any noise. Her voice was soft when she spoke. “Thank you. That was really good.”

Katie turned and offered her a warm smile. “You’re always welcome here, honey. I mean that.”

Paige stood, fingers automatically reaching for the bowl to take it to the sink, but Katie moved before she could. She stepped forward gently and shook her head.

“It’s okay,” she said, her tone kind but firm. “We’ve got it.”

Paige hesitated, fingers still curled around the edge of the dish. Then she let go, slowly.

“I think I’m gonna go check on Azzi,” she said after a moment.

Katie didn’t ask any questions. She didn’t need to. “Alright,” she said. “Take your time.”

The hallway beyond the kitchen was dim, lit only by a soft plug-in nightlight near the baseboard and the warm, lingering glow behind her. The faint hum of Ruby’s cartoons still drifted from the living room, but the tone of the house had shifted — gentler, heavier, like it was holding its breath.

Azzi’s bedroom door was closed. A thin ribbon of light shone beneath it, unmoving. Paige stopped in front of it, staring at the grain of the wood, then raised a hand to knock.

“Baby?” she said gently, her knuckles barely grazing the surface.

There was no answer.

She waited, then tried again. “Can I come in?”

The silence that followed stretched long enough to sting, and then Azzi’s voice came through soft, restrained, and not quite welcoming.

“I’m just tired.”

Paige leaned forward and rested her forehead against the door, her eyes fluttering closed. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’m right here if you need me.”

She stood like that for a moment, hand still near the handle. Then she sank down slowly to the floor, folding herself into the space outside the room. Her back pressed against the wall. Her arms rested loosely around her knees. She didn’t cry, not exactly, but her eyes stung, and her throat carried a quiet ache.

She wasn’t upset about being shut out. Not really.

What hurt was the feeling of helplessness. The knowing that Azzi was slipping back into that internal silence, the one she’d built as a shield for so long — a place where even love had to knock and wait outside.

She sat there in the dim hallway for a while, barely moving, her thoughts circling tight and low.

Then she heard the soft patter of feet, the light, uneven steps of someone small.

Paige looked up just in time to see Ruby padding down the hallway toward her, Sparklehorn dangling by one leg in one hand, a pink marker clutched in the other. Her curls were frizzed from the couch, cheeks rosy from play.

Ruby slowed when she saw Paige on the floor. Her head tilted.

“You sad too?” she asked, voice quiet and curious.

Paige blinked at the question, caught off guard by how much it landed in her chest. She gave a small shake of her head. “No, baby. Just… waiting.”

Ruby didn’t say anything more. She walked forward and climbed straight into Paige’s lap like she belonged there. Her arms curled around her neck without hesitation, and she pressed a soft kiss to Paige’s cheek.

“You’re my Paigey,” she whispered. “I keep you safe too.”

Paige’s breath caught as she held the little girl close. Her arms wrapped around her instinctively, her cheek resting against Ruby’s hair.

“I think you’re the bravest little band-aid I’ve ever had,” she whispered, voice rough with affection.

Ruby made a satisfied sound and nestled deeper into her arms. Her thumb stroked the sleeve of Paige’s hoodie as if to comfort her. Then she lifted her head and looked toward the door.

“Mama?” she called gently. “Can I come cuddle with you?”

There was a pause.

Then the door opened.

Azzi stood in the soft light spilling from her room. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed up to her elbows. Her hair was loose now, and the glow behind her cast a halo around her tired face. Her eyes found them, Paige on the floor, Ruby curled in her lap, and something in her expression shifted. Not fully unguarded, but softer. A little less clenched.

“I’m just gonna go to bed early tonight,” she said quietly.

Ruby wriggled upright. “Okay. I wanna come too, Mama.”

Azzi hesitated. Then she nodded and stepped aside, holding the door open.

“Come on, then.”

Ruby kissed Paige’s cheek once more, then jumped up and darted into the bedroom, Sparklehorn trailing behind her like a cape.

Paige rose slowly, about to turn and give them space, but Azzi reached out. Her hand curled around Paige’s and tugged her gently to her feet. They stood there for a second, hands lingering before Azzi let go.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, eyes on the floor.

“You don’t have to be,” Paige replied.

Azzi looked up, met her eyes. “You should go back to campus. You’ve got practice tomorrow. I want you to sleep.”

“I can stay, if you want—”

Azzi’s voice was gentle but firm. “I know. But… I’ll text you in the morning, okay?”

Paige hesitated. She wanted to stay. Wanted to push a little. But she didn’t.

She nodded.

Azzi leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. It was slow, warm, and wordless — not goodbye, but not an invitation either. Just acknowledgement. “Goodnight,” she said.

“Night, Az” Paige replied.

Azzi lingered in the doorway for one more breath. Then she stepped inside and gently closed the door behind her.

It didn’t click.

It didn’t shut tight.

It just rested there — not open, not closed. Waiting.

Paige stood alone in the hallway, her hand still faintly tingling where Azzi had touched her. She stared at the line of light spilling out onto the floor, then turned and walked back down the hall.

--------------------

The kitchen was still warm with the glow from the stove light. A single mug steamed quietly on the counter, its curl of vapor rising slowly into the air. Katie was rinsing a dish in the sink, her movements unhurried, like she was giving the night permission to settle.

When she saw Paige step into the room, she offered her a look of quiet understanding.

“Come sit,” she said gently, motioning to the table.

Paige did, lowering herself into the chair and folding her arms across the table. She let her shoulders slump a little, the first time all day she let the tiredness show.

Katie walked over, set the mug in front of her, and then sat across from her. Her elbows rested lightly on the wood. Her eyes were steady, kind.

“She didn’t want to talk,” Paige said softly. “She let Ruby in, but not me.”

Katie nodded slowly. “She does that when she’s scared. Not when she’s angry.”

Paige stared into the tea. “I know. It still hurts.”

“She’s been carrying more than she should’ve had to. For years,” Katie said. “And when it gets too much, she builds walls. Not to shut people out. To stop everything from collapsing.”

Paige swallowed. “She told me a little. About the pregnancy. How alone she felt. But she never told me his name.”

Katie’s face tightened just slightly. “Darshay. Darshay Wright”

“LSU guy,” Paige said, voice edged with quiet anger. “She said he just denied everything.”

“He did,” Katie confirmed. “Told her it wasn’t possible. Accused her of lying. Disappeared.”

Paige looked down, her fingers tightening slightly around the mug. “And now he shows up because he saw a photo online.”

Katie’s jaw flexed. “Exactly.”

They were quiet a beat longer.

“I want to stay,” Paige said finally. “Just in case… I don’t know. In case she changes her mind tonight.”

Katie reached across the table and covered Paige’s hand with her own. “Of course you can. You’re family.”

Paige looked up at that. The word hit deeper than expected.

Katie stood and came around the table, wrapping her in a long, grounding hug. “You’re doing good, kid,” she whispered. “You love her the way she deserves to be loved. Don’t doubt that.”

When they pulled apart, Katie gave her a soft smile. “I’ll get you something to sleep in.”

She returned a few minutes later with a navy t-shirt and a pair of soft pajama shorts. “They’re big, but they’ll do.”

Paige smiled faintly. “Thank you.”

Katie brushed her hair back once before letting her go. “Sleep well, honey.”

Paige walked quietly toward the guest room, the clothes folded in her arms. She paused for a brief second outside Azzi’s closed door, then moved on.

The room was still. The silence didn’t feel lonely this time, it felt like something waiting.

Paige changed slowly and slipped under the blanket. She left the door ajar, just in case.

And for the first time all day, she let herself rest.

--------------------

The house had long since fallen silent, tucked under the weight of the night. Upstairs, the old hallway let out the occasional soft groan, the kind that made it feel like the walls themselves were breathing, exhaling slowly after the day’s heaviness. The faint glow from Ruby’s nightlight still seeped through the crack under the bedroom door, painting a delicate golden line across the floorboards. But Azzi wasn’t asleep.

She lay flat on her back, her eyes open and unmoving, fixed on the ceiling above her. The plaster was blank, but her thoughts kept reaching for something in it, some kind of pattern, some shape, some answer she knew wasn’t there.

Beside her, Ruby slept soundly, curled against Azzi’s side with Sparklehorn clutched in one small hand. Her breath was slow and warm against Azzi’s arm, her body loose and trusting in sleep. She was the only piece of the world that seemed untouched by what had happened that day.

Azzi, on the other hand, felt like her insides were unraveling.

The sharp panic from earlier had dulled, but it had left behind something heavier. Something deeper and quieter. It settled in her chest — betrayal, shame, fear, and the echo of every unsaid word pressing against her ribs. But now, there was also something else threading its way through the ache: a quiet kind of guilt.

She looked down at Ruby, brushed a curl away from her daughter’s temple, and exhaled. Then, slowly and carefully, she slid out from under the blanket, easing Ruby’s arm from her stomach and pulling the covers back up to her shoulders. Ruby stirred once but didn’t wake.

Azzi stood for a moment, letting her bare feet find the cool wood floor before padding out of the room. The hallway was dim, lit only by the nightlight’s trail and the faint silver cast of moonlight bleeding in through a nearby window. The air smelled faintly of lavender, the familiar comfort of home.

Downstairs, the kitchen sat in quiet stillness. The moonlight filtered through the window above the sink, catching the curve of the sink and the rim of a mug left out to dry. Everything smelled faintly of tea and dish soap. The remnants of comfort offered earlier, even if she hadn’t taken it.

Azzi moved to the sink, filled a glass slowly, and leaned against the counter. The first sip of water cooled her dry throat, but the buzz in her head didn’t fade.

She still hadn’t spoken to Paige.

She hadn’t opened her door. Hadn’t asked for her to stay over the night. Hadn't asked if she got home okay.

Azzi's thoughts went back to Paige waiting, sitting down near her door even after Azzi had tried shutting her out, she hadn’t left.

Azzi’s gaze drifted toward the front entryway. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw them.

Paige’s shoes.

They sat neatly by the door, right where she’d slipped them off the night before. Azzi stared at them, heart catching in her chest.

She’d stayed.

Even after the silence. Even after being turned away. Even after Azzi had failed to say a single word, Paige had stayed.

Azzi set the glass down slowly, carefully, like anything too loud might shatter whatever fragile grace still held this night together. A wave of guilt climbed up her chest, sharp and twisting, she didn’t deserve that kind of loyalty.

And yet, beneath the guilt, something else bloomed quietly.

Relief.

Without letting herself think about it too hard, Azzi turned and walked up the stairs and softly down the hallway, each step measured and slow. Her hoodie sleeves slipped down over her hands as she passed the framed family photos on the wall, their outlines gentle in the shadows. The air felt cooler here, still carrying the scent of wood polish and sleep.

She reached the guest room door. It was mostly closed, just a sliver of moonlight cutting through the gap.

Azzi paused.

Then, with fingers that trembled more than she wanted to admit, she nudged the door open.

Paige lay asleep on her side, facing the doorway. Her long frame was curled slightly under the blanket, one arm folded beneath her head, the other resting across her stomach. The borrowed shirt had slipped off one shoulder, exposing a sliver of skin at her collarbone. Her hair was mussed from the pillow, strands falling across her cheek. Her lashes fanned dark against skin that looked soft in the moonlight.

Azzi didn’t move. She just stood there, the weight of the doorway framing something so small and so tender it made her chest tighten. The girl she loved — the girl she’d shut out — had stayed anyway.

Not because she’d been asked.

But because she’d wanted to.

Something deep inside Azzi cracked open, not in pain this time, but in quiet surrender. There was nothing to say that could capture what this meant, what it had always meant. But her body knew where it needed to be.

Without turning on the light, Azzi crossed the room. She didn’t bother to close the door behind her. She simply tugged back the edge of the blanket and climbed in beside Paige, moving slowly, carefully, every motion laced with an unspoken apology.

She settled onto the mattress, her heart beating fast, and leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to Paige’s forehead. Her lips lingered, just long enough to let the moment ground her.

Paige stirred.

Her eyes fluttered open, squinting against the dark until they found Azzi’s face just inches away. For a second, she looked confused. Then her expression softened instantly, like sleep hadn’t dulled her instinct at all.

“Hey,” she whispered, voice still hoarse and warm with sleep.

Azzi didn’t pull back. Instead, she shifted closer and tucked herself beneath Paige’s arm, letting her body curl into the curve of hers. Her hand found Paige’s side, fingers brushing fabric.

“Thank you,” Azzi whispered, so quietly it barely reached the air between them.

Paige didn’t ask what for. She just pulled Azzi closer with one arm, her touch gentle, certain. She pressed a kiss to the top of Azzi’s head and whispered back, lips brushing her hair:

“I love you.”

Azzi’s eyes closed as she breathed in the scent of her, sleep and shampoo and something that always made her feel safe.

“I know,” she whispered.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full. Heavy with forgiveness, with steadiness, with the knowledge that no matter how badly the day had started, they’d ended it here…together.

And this time, when sleep came, Azzi didn’t try to fight it. She let her body settle into Paige’s arms.

--------------------

The guest room was quiet, painted in soft gold by the rising sun leaking through the slats of the blinds. Paige stirred slowly, her body still warm from sleep, the blanket tangled around her waist. For a moment, she thought last night had been a dream. The feel of Azzi crawling into bed beside her, whispering thank you, the way Paige had pulled her close and murmured I love you as they drifted off together.

But now the bed was empty. Azzi was gone.

And from somewhere downstairs, Paige heard the unmistakable sound of a toddler mid-meltdown.

Her brow furrowed. The cries weren’t frantic, but they were high-pitched and drawn out, a performance more than a panic. Paige swung her legs over the side of the bed, stood, and stretched just enough to shake the sleep from her limbs. She changed out of the borrowed clothes and back into the outfit she’d worn the day before, smoothing her hoodie and pulling her hair into a ponytail. Then she headed out of the room and down the stairs, barefoot and quiet.

The sounds grew clearer with each step: Ruby’s wailing, a muffled thump, and Azzi’s voice, low, tired, trying to stay calm.

“I don’t want to go!” Ruby cried from the kitchen. “Sparklehorn says no school ever again!”

“Ruby…” Azzi’s voice was soft but stretched thin. “We’ve talked about this, baby. You like Miss El. And you love snack time.”

“I changed my mind!” Ruby wailed. “Miss El says we have to share! I don’t want to share! Sparklehorn doesn’t either!”

Paige stepped into the doorway just in time to see the chaos. Ruby was sprawled on the kitchen floor, tiny fists clenched, Sparklehorn cradled dramatically against her chest. Her face was blotchy and tear-streaked, her curls sticking out in all directions like she’d rolled through a storm. Azzi was crouched beside her, still in pajamas, hair pulled into a messy bun, dark circles visible beneath her eyes.

Paige’s heart twisted. Azzi looked utterly drained. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just deeply, deeply tired.

“Hey,” Paige said softly, stepping inside. “What’s going on in here?”

Both heads turned toward her. Ruby sniffled loudly and blinked at the sight of Paige, clearly surprised.

“You slept here?” she asked, voice wobbling.

“I did,” Paige said, crouching next to her. “I missed my girls.”

Ruby sniffed again, face crumpling slightly. “Sparklehorn says daycare is canceled.”

“Well, I’ll have to speak with Sparklehorn then,” Paige said seriously. “But I did hear there are new rainbow crayons waiting at daycare today. And I was kind of hoping you’d draw me a secret picture to hang in my dorm.”

Ruby’s brows pinched in thought.

“And,” Paige added, lowering her voice into a whisper, “if Sparklehorn could wear sunglasses, do you think she’d pick pink ones or purple ones?”

Ruby wiped her nose with her sleeve. “Purple sparkly ones.”

“Exactly,” Paige nodded. “So maybe we could compromise. You bring Sparklehorn to daycare, draw me the best picture ever, and I’ll walk you in myself. Deal?”

Ruby glanced at Azzi, who hadn’t moved from her crouch. Then back at Paige. Slowly, she nodded.

“Deal,” she whispered.

Azzi sat back on her heels and exhaled. Her shoulders slumped as she finally let go of the breath she’d clearly been holding since before the sun came up. Paige glanced over at her, concern softening her expression.

“I’ll grab her bag,” she offered gently.

Azzi just nodded, too exhausted to say anything more.

When Paige returned from the front hall with Ruby’s backpack and shoes, she paused by the counter, brushing a hand lightly across Azzi’s back. “You okay?” she asked, quiet and careful.

Azzi didn’t look up right away. She just stared at the floor for a moment, then finally said, “Trying to be.”

Ruby reappeared, clutching Sparklehorn and dragging her favorite puffy jacket behind her. She stomped over to Azzi and stood in front of her with big, serious eyes.

“Sorry, Mama,” she said in a whisper. “I didn’t mean to be naughty.”

Azzi’s lips trembled as she leaned down and pulled Ruby into her arms. “It’s okay, baby. I know mornings are hard sometimes. I love you more than anything.”

“I love you bigger,” Ruby whispered, pressing a kiss to her mother’s cheek.

Paige looked away for a second, letting them have the moment. Then, as Ruby picked up her unicorn and wandered toward the front door, Paige turned back to Azzi.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay?” she asked, voice even, but her eyes full of something else — a kind of quiet plea.

Azzi met her gaze. There was hesitation in her features, a crack forming in the wall she’d started building back up. But then she looked away.

“You’ve got practice,” she said. “You should go.”

“I’d stay if you wanted me to,” Paige said, a little more firmly.

“I know,” Azzi said, softer this time. She reached out and gently tucked a piece of hair behind Paige’s ear. “Thank you.”

Then she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Paige’s cheek. Her lips lingered for half a second, like she was afraid to pull away too soon.

“I love you,” she said.

Paige swallowed and rested her hand briefly on Azzi’s waist. “I love you too.”

From the hall, Ruby’s voice piped up again, impatient: “Paigey! We’re gonna be late!”

Tim appeared a moment later with his keys in hand, raising his eyebrows slightly in question as he looked between them. Paige nodded, hoisted Ruby’s bag over her shoulder, and followed him to the door.

Ruby immediately grabbed Paige’s hand, swinging it enthusiastically as they stepped out into the morning air.

Azzi followed them to the doorway and leaned against the frame, watching as Paige helped Ruby into her jacket and adjusted the straps of her tiny backpack. Ruby clutched Sparklehorn proudly and grinned up at Paige like the tantrum had never happened.

Tim unlocked the car with a beep, and the three of them headed down the walkway. Paige with Ruby’s hand in one of hers, Sparklehorn tucked under Ruby’s other arm, and Tim walking quietly beside them.

Just before they climbed into the car, Paige turned and glanced back.

Azzi was still standing there, silhouetted by the soft light pouring from the kitchen behind her, one hand resting against the doorframe. She didn’t wave. But she didn’t look away, either.

--------------------

The car was warm and quiet as it pulled away from the curb, the morning sun casting soft beams through the windshield. Tim drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting comfortably near the gear shift. His eyes were on the road, but his awareness was finely tuned to the mood inside the vehicle.

In the back seat, Ruby was nestled into her car seat, Sparklehorn tucked tightly beneath one arm like a trusted co-pilot. Her curls bounced slightly with each turn of the road, and her pout was still in full effect, lower lip jutted out, arms crossed like she was holding onto the remnants of her earlier tantrum just in case.

Paige sat in the passenger seat, trying not to smile too much. Ruby was dramatic, yes, but she was also easy to read. The anger had melted the second she’d been handed Sparklehorn and promised to be walked into daycare. Now she was just stewing in leftover feelings, not sad, not mad, just caught somewhere between needing to cling to the morning’s chaos and quietly moving past it.

“You doing okay back there, Roo?” Paige asked gently, her voice soft with affection.

Ruby gave a heavy, theatrical sigh. “I guess.”

“Only ‘guess’?” Paige teased. “That’s not the confidence of someone who gets to use the sparkly purple crayons today.”

Ruby turned her head, giving Paige a very serious look. “What if they’re gone?”

Paige gasped. “You think someone else might’ve gotten to them first?”

Ruby nodded solemnly. “Mia always runs.”

“Well,” Paige said, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “maybe you and Sparklehorn need to come up with a secret crayon plan. Like a crayon heist.”

Ruby’s eyes widened. “A mission?”

“Exactly,” Paige nodded. “You draw me the best top-secret picture and Sparklehorn guards the perimeter. Deal?”

Ruby considered this, then slowly uncrossed her arms. “Deal. But it has to have glitter.”

“Obviously.”

Up front, Tim chuckled under his breath. “You’re really good with her, you know,” he said without looking away from the road.

Paige glanced forward, a bit caught off guard. “Oh. Thanks.”

“No, I mean it,” Tim continued. “You’ve got that calm way about you. She listens to you. That’s not always easy, especially with a kid like Ruby.”

Paige glanced at Ruby, who had now decided to hum to herself while staring out the window, Sparklehorn’s mane occasionally being petted like it was her emotional support pet which, honestly, it was.

“I just love her,” Paige said quietly. “It’s kind of impossible not to.”

Tim nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

The rest of the drive passed in easy silence. The kind that didn’t weigh down the air, but made space for thought. By the time they reached the daycare center, Ruby had relaxed entirely, her earlier meltdown reduced to a story she probably wouldn’t even remember by lunchtime.

Tim pulled up to the curb and parked, shifting into neutral before turning toward the back seat. “Alright, munchkin. Time to make some art.”

Ruby groaned dramatically. “Can’t Paigey just be my teacher instead?”

Paige laughed, unbuckling her seatbelt. “I’d be the worst teacher. I’d let you eat cookies for breakfast and play with glitter all day.”

Ruby lit up. “That’s the best kind!”

“Come on,” Paige said, opening the door and stepping out. “Let’s go see if those sparkly crayons survived Mia’s sprint.”

She opened the back door and helped Ruby out of her seat, adjusting the straps on her little backpack before handing her Sparklehorn. Ruby clutched the unicorn to her chest and reached for Paige’s hand immediately, her small fingers curling tightly around hers.

Tim leaned across the seat. “Thanks for coming with us, Paige.”

Paige nodded, sincere. “Of course.”

As they approached the daycare entrance, Ruby slowed. Her grip on Paige’s hand tightened a little, and she looked up with big, searching eyes.

“You’ll come back later?”

“I’ll be back right after practice,” Paige promised. “And I want a full report on Sparklehorn’s mission.”

Ruby nodded, then reached up on tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Paige’s cheek. “I love you.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even said with much emphasis. But it landed like a stone in Paige’s chest. Sweet, certain, and completely unguarded.

Paige bent down and hugged her tightly. “I love you too, baby girl. Now go show those crayons who’s boss.”

Ruby grinned, released her, and skipped toward the doors with Sparklehorn raised like a tiny banner of power. A teacher met her at the threshold, waving with a smile, and Ruby darted inside without looking back.

Paige stood there for a moment, the air cool against her skin. Then she turned and walked back toward the car.

Tim gave her a quiet, grateful nod as she slid into the passenger seat.

--------------------

The car rolled to a stop at the edge of campus, engine idling quietly beneath them. Morning traffic murmured in the distance, but the world immediately around them felt still.

Tim shifted the car into park, then glanced sideways. Paige sat quietly in the passenger seat. She hadn’t said much since they dropped Ruby off, not because she didn’t want to, but because it felt like the words were all bunched up somewhere just under her ribs. Too tangled to get out clean.

Tim rested his forearm casually on the steering wheel and let out a slow breath. “Katie filled me in a little.”

Paige blinked, lifting her eyes to meet his.

He nodded gently. “About yesterday. About… him showing up.”

For a second, Paige didn’t move. Then she gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Yeah.”

Tim didn’t push. He let the silence linger between them, solid and safe. Then, softly, he said, “You did good, kid.”

That was all it took.

Paige’s throat tightened so fast she barely had time to catch it. She blinked hard, trying to keep the tears where they belonged, but one slipped free anyway. She wiped it quickly with the back of her hand.

“She wouldn’t talk to me after,” she whispered, voice shaking just a little. “I—I didn’t know what to do.”

Tim reached across the console, his hand steady as he rested it gently on her shoulder. “You stayed,” he said. “That’s what you did. You didn’t leave, even when it was hard. That’s what matters.”

Paige shook her head slightly, eyes still glassy. “But what if she keeps shutting me out? What if I’m just... making it worse?”

“You’re not,” Tim said, his voice low but certain. “Azzi’s just hurting right now. This brought up a lot. More than I probably even know. But you—” he paused, offering a small smile, “—you’re the calm in her storm, Paige. She might not say it. She might not even know how to let herself lean on you yet. But I see it. I’ve seen it since the moment she let you into Ruby’s life.”

That cracked something open. Paige exhaled, shaky, as her hands gripped the seatbelt.

Tim didn’t let the moment hang too long. With one fluid motion, he reached over and gently pulled her into a hug.

It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t forced.

Just firm and warm and steady — the kind of hug that said I’ve got you without needing a single word. Paige let herself melt into it, her forehead pressed briefly against his shoulder as she let out a breath she hadn’t even realised she was holding.

“Thank you,” she murmured, voice muffled.

Tim gave her a small squeeze before leaning back again. “You’re part of this family now. That means when one of us is hurting, we don’t just walk away.”

Paige swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded again. She pulled herself together just enough to open the car door and swing her legs out.

Tim didn’t start the car right away. He waited, watching her with the quiet patience only a father could master.

Paige turned back, her hand on the door. “Tell her I love her?”

Tim smiled. “She knows. But I’ll tell her anyway.”

Paige hesitated for just a second longer, then nodded and stepped out, her sneakers crunching softly against the pavement. The door closed behind her with a gentle click, and Tim watched her go — tall and steady, the wind catching her hair as she headed up the path toward campus.

--------------------

The locker room was quiet in the way only an empty gym could be, humming faintly with the echo of earlier movement, the distant squeak of shoes still lingering in the air. The sound of a lone shower running in the far corner pulsed steadily, steam curling up toward the ceiling vents.

Paige sat on the wooden bench in front of her open locker, towel draped loosely around her neck, fingers working slowly at the laces of her shoes. Her motions were steady, practiced. She looked calm, almost peaceful — if you didn’t know her. But her shoulders were too tense. Her jaw too still. Her eyes kept drifting toward nothing.

She hadn’t said much since they finished running drills. She’d gone through the motions during practice — defense sharp, passing clean, but her shot was off. Not badly. Just... off enough to notice.

From the other end of the row, Nika stepped into view, pulling her sweatshirt on over a sports bra, hair still damp around the edges. She didn’t speak at first, just sat down quietly beside her and started drying her shins with the edge of her towel.

For a few minutes, they sat in silence. The kind that pretended to be comfortable.

“You’re quiet today,” Nika finally said, voice casual but purposeful.

Paige gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Just tired.”

Nika didn’t look at her. She just nodded, like she was going to let it go.

Then she added, “Are you sure that's all?.”

Paige didn’t answer. She kept working on her shoelace, tugging a little too hard at the knot.

Nika turned to face her. “Want to tell me what’s actually going on?”

Still, Paige didn’t meet her eyes.

Nika leaned back slightly, resting her elbow on the edge of the bench. Her tone stayed light, but it was edged with something firmer now, not confrontational, just real.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” she said. “You’re not that good of an actress.”

A soft breath escaped Paige’s nose. Almost a laugh. Almost.

Nika waited.

Finally, Paige slumped forward a bit, her forearms bracing on her knees, hands loosely clasped. She stared at the floor.

“There’s just… a lot,” she said quietly.

“That much I figured.”

“It’s not just me,” Paige added quickly, like she had to make it clear. “It’s Azzi. Something happened. And I don’t think she’s okay. Not really.”

Nika didn’t interrupt. She gave Paige the space.

Paige swallowed hard. Her voice was steadier than it had any right to be, but her words were slow and careful like each one had to pass through too many layers before surfacing.

“Her ex, well you can't even really call him that, he showed up. Ruby’s biological father.”

Nika’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Wait… seriously?”

Paige nodded, finally glancing up at her. “He ambushed her. Waited by her car. Said he wants to be involved now.”

Nika let out a quiet breath, the kind that sounded halfway between sympathy and disbelief.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

For a moment, they both sat with it, the weight of what that meant. What it could mean.

“She hasn’t really talked since,” Paige said. “She’s shutting down. And I… I don’t know how to help her. I keep thinking maybe if I say the right thing or stay close enough, she’ll let me in. But she’s building these walls again, and I can feel it.”

Paige’s hands curled into loose fists in her lap. Her voice dropped even lower.

“She let me in last night. Just for a second. Crawled into bed and held onto me like she was scared to sleep alone. And this morning… she let me help with Ruby. But it was like… she was already somewhere else.”

She paused, then gave a dry, humorless laugh.

“I’m trying not to panic. But I can feel it. She’s slipping.”

Nika’s expression shifted, her usual teasing softness replaced with something quieter. Something protective.

“You’re scared she’s going to push you out,” she said gently.

Paige didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Nika reached out and squeezed her knee. “She won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually.” Nika’s voice was firm now, no room for Paige’s doubt. “Because I’ve watched her fight for you. And I’ve watched you fight for her. And whatever this is, whatever comes next — you’re not someone she just lets go of.”

Paige blinked hard, eyes stinging suddenly, like she’d only just realised how much she needed someone else to say it.

Nika squeezed again. “You’re doing everything right. Just keep showing up. Keep being her person. Even if she can’t say what she needs yet.”

Paige nodded slowly. Her voice came thick. “It’s just hard.”

“Of course it is,” Nika said. “You love her.”

--------------------

The house was too quiet.

Azzi sat alone on the edge of her bed, elbows braced on her knees, phone still glowing dimly in her hand. Her thumb hovered over the screen. She’d been staring at it for ten minutes, maybe longer—long enough for the room to shift around her, for the light through the window to soften and stretch like the day was trying to tiptoe out unnoticed.

The Instagram app was still open. On it, the photo she and Paige had both posted to their stories. Ruby’s drawing—crayon-bold and chaotic in the best way capturing the three of them smiling. It had been reposted.

Not just by teammates. Not just by friends.

A national outlet had shared it. Screenshotting their posts. Captioning it with some clever line about family and found love and the storybook perfectness of a basketball couple raising a toddler together.

Azzi swallowed hard.

Her notifications were full of DMs and tags and links. Praise. Questions. Heart emojis. Nosey strangers. And sitting right at the top, unread but impossible to ignore, was one message request with a preview that chilled her blood:

Darshay sent a link.

Her finger trembled as she tapped it open.

There was no greeting. No context. Just a hyperlink.

Azzi hesitated, then tapped it anyway.

It led to a Twitter thread. Someone had posted the story repost, tagging LSU. Asking if it was true. If Darshay Wright, backup QB at LSU, had a daughter with a rising basketball star. The thread was gaining traction.

And then she saw it.

Darshay’s profile. His face in the header photo, smirking behind dark shades, standing on a practice field. Recent tweets. One in particular: "Crazy what people try to hide until the fame hits. Wild world."

Azzi’s stomach twisted. Heat rushed to her cheeks and ears. Her vision went blurry, too fast to fight.

She flung her phone onto the bed like it had burned her. It bounced once, face-down, and slid into the comforter.

For a moment, she just sat there, chest tight, fists clenched against her knees. Then she stood. Abruptly. Almost violently.

She needed to move.

Azzi left her bedroom and began pacing the hall before veering into the living room. She started picking things up, Ruby’s crayons scattered on the coffee table, a stray sock, Paige’s forgotten scrunchie. She dumped a few toys into their bin, wiped crumbs off the counter that didn’t matter. She moved like someone trying to scrub their own thoughts clean.

She was halfway through folding a blanket when something slipped out from between the couch cushions.

Paper. Folded. Bright with scribbles.

Azzi paused. Unfolded it slowly.

Another drawing.

Ruby had made it last week, maybe the week before. Two tall stick figures clearly Paige and Azzi, they were holding hands mid-dribble, both wearing little UConn jerseys. Ruby had drawn herself as a tiny blur zipping around their feet. And above them, in shaky preschool lettering, was one word: “Team.”

Azzi’s knees buckled.

She sank to the floor with the paper clutched in her hands, eyes flooding too fast to stop. The sob tore out of her throat before she could stifle it, raw and helpless.

She cried for the fear, for the pressure, for the guilt of trying to push Paige away when all Paige had ever done was show up. She cried for Ruby, who deserved nothing but safety and joy. And she cried for herself—for the part of her that still didn’t know how to accept love without expecting it to disappear.

But even through the tears, even curled on the living room floor, she held tight to the drawing. Ruby’s little message. Her reminder.

Team.

Azzi wiped her face slowly. Her breath shook as she stood again, knees unsteady but locked in purpose.

She couldn’t shut Paige out. She couldn’t keep running. Not from this.

If Paige had taught her anything, it was how to stay.

Azzi walked to the bookshelf, pulled out the tiny home printer from the drawer below, and loaded it with paper. Her hands were still shaking as she grabbed her phone, reopened the Instagram story, and screenshotted the grainy image of Paige holding Ruby, Azzi leaning in to kiss Paige’s cheek.

She printed it.

Then she started gathering things, pillows, blankets, Paige’s favorite snacks. She turned off the overheads and lit the small candles tucked in the corners of the room. She cleaned the coffee table. She straightened the cushions. And in the middle of it all, she placed the photo.

It was time to make things right. She reached for her phone, her thumb hovered over Paige’s name for a second before she tapped it. The line rang once, then twice, then connected.

“Hey,” Paige said, her voice warm — tired, but soft. Familiar.

Azzi swallowed. “Can you come over?”

There was a pause on the other end. Just long enough for Azzi to wonder if Paige would ask why. But she didn’t.

“Yeah,” Paige said simply. “I’m on my way.”

--------------------

The door clicked open before Paige even knocked.

Azzi stood there in the entryway, wrapped in Paige’s oversized hoodie, the sleeves pulled halfway over her hands. Her hair was loosely pinned back, a few curls already falling free, and her eyes still pink around the edges, that carried the soft, hollow weight of someone who had cried everything out but hadn’t yet started to feel whole again.

“Hey,” Azzi murmured. “Come in.”

Paige stepped inside, quiet but alert, instantly noticing the shift in the room. The living area had been transformed. The lights were low, with soft amber strands of fairy lights draped along the windows. Candles flickered gently on the table and sideboard, casting a warm glow. Blankets and pillows were piled on the couch like a fort, creating a cozy, almost childlike comfort zone. There were snacks laid out, her favorite popcorn, a bag of tru-fru, two water bottles, and tucked beside it all, a framed print of a grainy photo.

Paige stepped closer.

It was the one of her holding Ruby, the little girl mid-laugh, while Azzi leaned in to kiss her cheek.

Her throat tightened.

She turned back to Azzi, who stood quietly just behind her. “What’s all this?”

Azzi glanced at the photo, then back at Paige. Her voice was soft, trembling just enough to be honest. “I wanted to say I’m sorry. For shutting you out. For disappearing into my own head when you deserved better.”

Paige stayed silent, giving her the space.

Azzi stepped forward slowly. “I saw the drawing we posted, the one Ruby made being reposted by a news outlet. At first, it was sweet. Supportive. But then I got tagged in this tweet. A link from Darshay.” Her jaw tensed. He just posted something public. Said, ‘My daughter’s going viral now,’ like it was a joke. Like he had anything to do with her.”

Paige’s stomach dropped. “God.”

“I clicked the link,” Azzi continued. “Saw his profile. Followers, tags, people hyping him up. I panicked. I felt gross. Like he was trying to attach himself to us just because Ruby’s visible now. So I spiraled. I threw my phone. I started cleaning just to breathe. And then…”

She paused, her voice catching.

“I found this drawing Ruby made of us — you, me, and Sparklehorn playing basketball. She called us ‘our team.’ And it just broke me. I realised I can’t do this alone, and I don’t want to. Not when I have you. Not when Ruby loves you the way she does.”

Azzi stepped closer, until they were nearly touching. “I’m so sorry, baby. I don’t want to push you away when I’m scared. I want to let you in.”

Paige finally reached up, brushing a hand gently along Azzi’s jaw. “You’re allowed to be scared,” she said quietly. “But you’re not alone. Not ever.”

Azzi leaned into her touch. Paige hesitated, then added carefully, “You know, about the whole Darshay thing… I was thinking maybe we could talk to campus security. Just to make sure they know. If he tries to show up again, they can step in. Get him off campus, make sure he doesn’t come anywhere near you or Ruby.”

Azzi blinked, surprised — not at the suggestion, but at the thoughtfulness behind it.

“You’d do that?” she asked.

“Of course I would,” Paige said, her hand still resting gently on Azzi’s waist. “We could talk to Coach, too, if you want. Just make sure everyone’s aware.”

Azzi looked at her like she didn’t know whether to cry again or kiss her.

“I just want you safe,” Paige said simply. “And I want you to feel protected, not like you have to do this all on your own.”

Azzi’s lips parted, her voice a whisper. “I really love you.”

That was all it took.

Paige surged forward, arms wrapping around Azzi’s waist, practically lifting her off the ground as she clung to her. “You’re such a dork,” she said into her shoulder. “You made me wait a whole day for this.”

Azzi laughed softly against her. “You’re squeezing the air out of me.”

“Good,” Paige said. “You deserve to be squished.”

She pulled back only to pepper Azzi’s face with rapid kisses — her cheeks, her temple, the tip of her nose, until Azzi was giggling and swatting at her playfully.

“Okay, okay,” Azzi said, breathless. “Enough or I’m going to start crying again.”

“Too late,” Paige teased, brushing a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. “I see you getting misty, baby.”

Azzi leaned in and kissed her, slow and warm and grateful. Paige melted into it, her hands still resting at her waist like they belonged there.

“Movie time?” Azzi whispered.

“Only if I get to be the big spoon,” Paige said with a grin.

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Babe most of the time you are the big spoon anyways.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Paige replied. “Tonight, I’m your emotional support backpack.”

Azzi burst out laughing, and Paige grabbed her hand, tugging her toward the couch.

“Come on,” Paige said. “Let me love you so hard your bad day forgets it ever happened.”

Azzi looked back at the photo on the table, at the couch she’d made into a nest, at the girl pulling her in like gravity and for the first time in twenty-four hours, she let herself exhale.

--------------------

The movie ended with a soft swell of music and a final kiss, the credits beginning to roll in glowing white letters against a pink backdrop. The living room had gone dim by now, lit only by the flicker of the TV and the gentle glow of candles Azzi had lit earlier. The empty bowls of popcorn and the tru-fru bag sat forgotten on the coffee table, along with Paige and Azzi’s half-finished water bottles.

Paige had stretched out on the couch sometime after the halfway point of the movie, one leg slung over the edge, head nestled against the armrest. Azzi had curled up with her, tucked snugly under her arm at first… but now she was fully on top of her. Legs straddling Paige’s waist, arms looped around her middle, cheek pressed to her chest like she’d fused to her.

“You’re basically a human blanket,” Paige murmured, fingers combing lazily through Azzi’s curls.

Azzi didn’t budge. “You like it.”

“I do,” Paige admitted with a smile. “Baby, I’m not complaining. But if we stay like this much longer, you’re gonna have to carry me to daycare pickup.”

Azzi shifted her weight slightly, still not moving away. “Five more minutes.”

“You said that fifteen minutes ago. Movie’s over. We have to go.”

“No,” Azzi mumbled into her shirt. “You’re warm. I’m tired. This is your fault for smelling like vanilla and being nice to me.”

Paige let out a soft laugh, her chest rising beneath her. “So now being in love with you is a crime?”

Azzi lifted her head slowly, eyes sleepy but gleaming. “Only when you wear that face.”

“What face?” Paige raised a brow.

“That one.” Azzi reached up and gently tapped the tip of her nose. “All dreamy and smug and in love with me. It’s dangerous.”

Paige grinned. “Dangerous, huh? I’m literally pinned under your entire body.”

“Yeah,” Azzi said softly, her voice dropping as she leaned in. “And you love it.”

She didn’t give Paige time to respond. Instead, she ducked her head and began pressing slow kisses along Paige’s jaw, lips trailing down her neck. Paige gasped a little as Azzi sucked lightly beneath her ear, then again just above the collar of her shirt, teeth grazing gently before her lips soothed the spot.

“Azzi,” Paige warned, already breathless, but she didn’t stop her. “We have to go in like five minutes.”

Azzi hummed against her skin, then bit down just enough to leave a mark. “Exactly. Five whole minutes.”

“You’re giving me hickeys like we don’t have to pick up a child in broad daylight.”

“Sparklehorn won’t care,” Azzi murmured, kissing the fresh bruise with fake innocence. “Besides, you started it.”

“I—how did I start it?”

Azzi looked up, all wide eyes and mischief. “You existed.”

Paige just stared at her for a second, torn between exasperation and delight. Then she reached up and cupped her cheek, thumb brushing lightly under Azzi’s eye. “You’re ridiculous. And I’m obsessed with you.”

“I know,” Azzi whispered, finally settling again, head tucked under Paige’s chin.

For a beat, they just stayed like that, wrapped around each other in candlelight and crumbs, the TV flickering quietly in the background. It was the kind of silence that didn’t need to be filled. Paige’s hand moved slowly up and down Azzi’s back, grounding them both.

“Thanks for not giving up on me,” Azzi murmured into her neck.

“Never,” Paige replied. “You’re stuck with me, baby.”

“Good.”

They kissed again, slower this time. Deep and sure. The kind of kiss that made the air heavier around them.

Eventually, Paige groaned and gently tapped Azzi’s back. “Okay, really. We gotta go.”

Azzi flopped dramatically to the side. “Fine. But I’m just along for the vibes. You’re in charge.”

Paige stood, stretching with a quiet grunt. “You really gave me a hickey? During school pickup hours?”

Azzi smirked from the couch. “I gave you three.”

“You’re lucky I love you,” Paige muttered, tossing her the hoodie.

Azzi stood and pulled it back on and leaned in to kiss her again before they grabbed their keys and headed out the door.

They walked side by side into the golden afternoon light, fingers brushing, shoulders bumping, a quiet kind of ease settling between them. There was still a lot waiting ahead hard conversations, public attention, Darshay, but for now, it was just the two of them.

--------------------

The front doors of the daycare buzzed open with a soft click as Azzi and Paige stepped inside, the smell of playdough and animal crackers instantly filling the air. The small entryway was brightly lit, walls plastered with finger-painted masterpieces and construction paper cutouts celebrating the beginning of spring.

Azzi reached for Paige’s hand without thinking, lacing their fingers together. Her grip was a little tighter than usual, not anxious, just full. Full of the morning’s tension, the apology that had softened everything, and the way Paige had kissed every part of her like she was putting pieces back in place.

They turned the corner into the playroom, the sound of little voices bouncing off the walls. A few kids looked up and waved, but one small blur launched from the far end of the room like a rocket the moment she spotted them.

“Mama! Paigey!”

Ruby barreled forward in her pink glitter sneakers, Sparklehorn clutched under one arm and her curls bouncing like they had their own momentum. She didn’t slow down as she reached them, instead, she crashed into both of them at once, wrapping her tiny arms around one of each of their legs, anchoring herself between them with all the strength she had.

Azzi let out a breathy laugh and bent down immediately, scooping Ruby up with practiced ease. “Hey, baby,” she murmured, kissing the top of her head. “Were you good today?”

Ruby nodded seriously, her arms flung around Azzi’s neck like a koala. “I drawed a picture for Paigey. Miss El said it was the most sparkliest.”

“Oh yeah?” Paige grinned, brushing a stray curl from Ruby’s forehead. “Is it for my locker or my heart?”

“Both,” Ruby said proudly, then leaned toward Paige without letting go of Azzi. “You have to carry me too.”

Azzi shifted her weight, and Paige laughed, stepping in to take Ruby into her arms. “What, is Mama tired already?”

Azzi rolled her eyes, smirking as she ruffled Ruby’s hair. “You try hauling a full-sized diva with a unicorn everywhere.”

“I’m not a diva,” Ruby insisted with a dramatic pout, clearly offended.

“No,” Paige said with a nod. “You’re a sparkle-powered chaos princess. Way cooler.”

Ruby beamed, melting instantly into Paige’s chest. “You both smell like popcorn,” she said matter-of-factly.

Azzi blinked, then laughed, rubbing her face. “That’s because we had a movie afternoon.”

“Without me?!” Ruby gasped.

“It was an emergency cuddles situation,” Paige explained seriously. “You’ll be included in the sequel.”

Ruby narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but the giggle she let out gave her away. “Okay. But I want snacks too.”

“We’ll make a stop,” Azzi promised, gently brushing her fingers along Paige’s arm as they turned to leave. “Only the good stuff. Sparklehorn deserves it.”

Back out in the parking lot, the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows across the pavement. Paige opened the back door and gently buckled Ruby into her car seat while Azzi tucked Sparklehorn into the spot beside her.

As Paige straightened, she felt Azzi’s fingers tug softly on the hem of her hoodie. She turned to find her grinning.

“Chauffeur, girlfriend, co-parent,” Azzi listed under her breath with a smirk. “You wear a lot of hats.”

“And you wear none of them unless I remind you,” Paige replied, leaning in for a quick kiss. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Azzi’s smile lingered as she climbed into the passenger seat, her hand finding Paige’s again across the center console. In the back, Ruby was already humming to herself, swinging her feet and petting Sparklehorn.

As the engine turned over and the car pulled away from the curb, Paige looked at them both — Azzi watching Ruby in the mirror, Ruby watching the clouds outside the window — and felt the day settle into something whole.

[whitedarkmoonflower]

Home

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

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

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

Word Count: 9K

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

Bucky stared at his reflection and muttered a curse.

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

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

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

So how the hell did he end up here again?

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

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

Home.

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

His phone buzzed.

A message. She’s downstairs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door clicked open before you touched it.

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

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

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

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

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

You knew who he was, of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hesitated. “Doesn’t matter.”

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

You slipped off your coat and stepped further inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded, stiff and tight. “I know.”

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

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

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

“I won’t need one,” he muttered.

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

“I can handle it.”

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

“Even soldiers bleed,” you said, gently.

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

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

He gave a small, tense nod.

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

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

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

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

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

You could feel him watching, tracking your every move.

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

“Let’s begin.”

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

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

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

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

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

“You can touch me,” you said, quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sharp clink of his belt echoed behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You leaned up, lips near his ear.

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

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

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

You pressed your lips to the edge of his jaw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shuddered.

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

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

And slowly, haltingly, he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were more than ready. The lube stayed forgotten.

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

He thrust into you hard. Deep.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A goodbye.

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

He just stood there.

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

It was two weeks before you heard anything.

You hadn’t expected to.

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

The message came through the agency. 

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

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

You didn’t answer right away. 

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

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

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

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

“He asked explicitly for you,” she said. 

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

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

You agreed before you could talk yourself out of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You waited.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Besides you?” he asked.

You nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You moaned softly into his mouth.

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

“You okay?” you whispered against his neck.

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

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

“Now you do.”

The next request came just two days later.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit.

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

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

You didn’t sleep that night.

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

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

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

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

“James Barnes. Bucky.”

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

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

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

Silence.

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

You hesitated, then made yourself say it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

No more him.

Fuck.

How did you let this happen?

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

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

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

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

There was a long silence.

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

“No,” he said immediately.

“Mr. Barnes…”

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

They paused. “Understood.”

Click.

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

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

What the hell had he expected?

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

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

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

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

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

You knew better than this.

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

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

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

None of it meant anything.

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

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

He didn’t want the burn.

He just wanted you.

But he drank anyway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not…”

“I said I’m fine.”

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

He yanked his jacket on with a grunt. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slipped down the stairs.

Fell on ice.

Walked into a door.

You must’ve been real clumsy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now?

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

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

Maybe you saw everything and just didn’t care.

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

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

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

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

The train station. Were you leaving again? Running?

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

Were you already gone? Was tonight too late?

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

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

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

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

And waited.

You weren’t expecting anyone.

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

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

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

Bucky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t move. 

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

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

You let out a slow breath, then stepped aside.

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

He followed, quiet.

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

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

He did, lowering himself with a wince.

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

Bucky gave the bottle a look.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He flinched.

“Hold still,” you murmured.

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

“I thought you were a supersoldier, or something,” you muttered under your breath.

“Doesn’t mean I enjoy vodka facials.”

You rolled your eyes but kept dabbing carefully. 

“You showed up bleeding on my doorstep, you don’t get to complain about my methods.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes searching yours. “Yeah, but I get to be grateful for them.”

You blinked at that, caught off guard for a second, but you recovered quickly, giving his good shoulder a light nudge. “Just shut up and let me finish saving your life.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said with something very close to a smile on his lips.

You cleaned the blood from his temple, careful around the split in his skin. He kept shifting, eyes darting away, like being under your hands was harder than the pain itself.

“You’re not good at this,” you said softly.

“At what?”

“Letting someone take care of you.”

He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh, but wasn’t. “Don’t really get the chance.”

You didn’t say anything, just focused on the cut above his brow, patched it up, then moved to his shoulder. It wasn’t as bad as it looked, already starting to heal, but he still tensed every time your fingers brushed his skin and groaned when you pressed the vodka-soaked cloth to it.

You folded the gauze, pressed it gently to the wound, and taped it down with steady hands, or so you thought.

When you finally packed up the kit and snapped it shut, your eyes landed back on the vodka bottle. That’s when you noticed it, your hands were shaking like hell.

“You’ll live,” you muttered, grabbing the bottle and taking a long, burning sip, before holding it out to him without looking.

Bucky took it slowly, fingers brushing yours, he hesitated a second before tipping it back for a sharp swallow, then set it down with a quiet clink on the table.

Neither of you said anything for a moment.

The room was suddenly too quiet, you could hear the tick of the old clock on the wall and the soft hum of traffic through the window. 

“In truth I didn’t think you would let me in,” he said finally, his voice rough from more than just the drink. 

You leaned back against the table, arms crossed tight over your chest like you were trying to hold yourself together.

“I didn’t come here expecting anything,” he added. “I just… I needed to see you, make sure you were okay.”

You gave him a look. “You’re the one bleeding all over my furniture.”

That almost got a smile, almost, his lips twitched before falling back into a line.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

Then slowly, he moved, reached out and gently took your hands in his. You froze, caught off guard.

He turned your wrists over with care, thumbs brushing the faint lines of your skin and without rushing, he lifted them to his mouth and kissed them, first the right, then the left.

You didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“For what?” you asked, voice barely above a breath.

He held your gaze, searching for words that wouldn’t sound too small or too late.

“For letting you walk away,” he said finally. “For pretending I didn’t care. For caring too much and never saying a damn thing. For not asking about you, not once.”

You didn’t speak, just looked at him, your wrists still resting lightly in his palms and a lump forming in your throat.

“When you stopped seeing me, I told myself it didn’t mean anything,” he went on, voice rough. “Tried to believe it was just a job, just time I paid for.”

He paused.

“But it wasn’t, not to me. Every second with you felt like… like breathing again.”

“I didn’t come here to make things harder,” he continued. “I just... I needed you to know, even if you slam the door in my face after this – I had to say it.”

He swallowed hard, his grip loosened, just slightly, giving you space to pull away, to run, to reject him like he half-expected.

You didn’t move, your eyes filling before you could stop it.

You blinked fast, trying to hold it in, but the tears came anyway, quiet and unexpected.

“I didn’t leave because I didn’t care,” you said, voice catching on the words. “I left because I did, because I couldn’t go on like that anymore.”

You covered your mouth with one hand, shaking your head like the words were spilling too fast and you couldn’t stop them. “Because it didn’t feel like a job and I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything like that again.”

He stared at you, breath held, like even breathing too loud might break the moment.

“I spent years building walls, Bucky,” you said, voice unsteady. “Telling myself I’d never fall again. Never let anyone in, because the last time I did, it wrecked me and broke me in ways I’m still crawling out of.”

You let out a soft sob, almost a gasp, and he moved without hesitation, pulling you into his arms, warm and solid. You didn’t flinch, if anything, you melted into him.

“I wasn’t scared of you,” you whispered, voice raw. “I was scared of how much I wanted to stay. Of how badly I wanted this to be real and something more … more than just… just fucking for money.”

He exhaled, slow and shaky, resting his forehead gently against yours.

“I might be a damn idiot when it comes to feelings,” he murmured, “but I’m not here to break you, I swear. And I won’t hurt you. Ever.”

“I believe you,” you breathed, barely a whisper. “That’s what makes it so terrifying.”

You didn’t speak after that. There was nothing else to say, nothing that words could carry. You were not sure what this was, neither of you were, but it was something. Something unnamed, delicate and a little messy but nevertheless real and beautiful.

Bucky’s forehead stayed pressed to yours, his breath warm against your cheek and his hands cradled yours like they were the most fragile things he’d ever held.

Eventually, you pulled back. 

“You should lie down,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over the bruised line of Bucky’s jaw. “The bleeding hasn’t stopped yet.”

He looked like he wanted to protest, but you didn’t give him the chance, you took his hand and led him to the bedroom, switching off lights along the way.

He sat at the edge of the bed like he wasn’t sure what to do next. You handed him a clean T-shirt, one of yours, oversized and soft, and he took it without a word.

He tried to pull it over his head on his own but winced halfway through, his shoulder clearly still aching. You stepped in, brushing his hands away gently. “Let me,” you murmured.

Carefully, you helped guide the shirt over his head, easing his arms through the sleeves. As the fabric settled over his chest, you bit back a smile. It looked oversized folded in your drawer, but on him, it clung just enough to stretch around his shoulders, riding up slightly over his abs. 

He didn’t complain, just looked up at you and you shrugged, lips twitching. “I think it suits you.”

Bucky kicked off his boots, then shot you a sheepish look as he reached for his jeans. His fingers fumbled at the button, cheeks going pink like this was the first time he was undressing in front of you, which, considering everything, was kind of ridiculous.

He averted his eyes and turned slightly, like that would somehow make it less awkward, then shimmied out of the denim, keeping his boxers on, and slipped under the blanket like he was trying to outrun the embarrassment.

You didn’t laugh, didn’t tease, just watched him for a second, heart aching a little, for all the muscle and the myth, there was something so soft in the way he still got shy when it wasn’t just about sex, when it was something more, something new.

You slid into bed beside him, quiet, not touching, letting the moment breathe.

Then his hand found yours under the blanket, uncertain, careful, and your fingers curled around his without thinking.

You shifted closer and placed your cheek on his chest. His heart was racing.

A second later, his arms came around you, hesitant at first, then stronger, and when Bucky exhaled, it sounded like he hadn’t breathed easy in weeks.

You didn’t protest, just stayed like that, no words, no labels, just warmth, just this, whatever it was. 

Bucky closed his eyes, breathing in the faint scent of your hair, it wasn’t his place, wasn’t even his bed, but somehow strangely it felt like… like home.

[stargrillzz]

THAT WAY

SUMMARY: You can’t keep up with Bucky's ways.

NOTE: I changed absolutely everything about this profile, but I love this new aesthetic and vibe. xoxo

There was something haunting about 3 a.m. at Stark Tower.

The entire place, usually pulsing with the low hum of life and tech and Tony’s endless inventions, was completely still. The kind of silence that rang in your ears like a warning — or a memory. Everyone was asleep. Everyone except him.

Bucky Barnes sat on the edge of his bed like a statue carved from history and hurt, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Sweat clung to his temples. His dog tags were cold against his collarbone. The shadows stretched across the floor like they were trying to reach him, pull him back. Every time he closed his eyes, Hydra's claws were waiting. The screaming. The pain. The way he could feel the metal biting into his bones. The way his own hands, coated in blood he hadn’t chosen, still felt too real. His throat was dry. His heart was loud.

And then there was you. His fingers hovered near his door, hesitating. He knew it was late — insanely late — but… he also knew you’d open. You always did. Like a warm light behind fogged glass, you never turned him away. Still, he knocked softly, almost ashamed of himself for needing you again.

The hallway was quiet, and for a second he thought maybe tonight, you wouldn’t answer. But the door creaked open not even five seconds later, and there you were — sleepy eyes, hair messy, wrapped in one of those oversized Stark-branded hoodies you always stole from the laundry pile. You blinked at him, voice still hoarse from sleep. “Buck?”

He looked at you — eyes heavy with guilt, with something softer behind it. “I… shit, I’m sorry. I know it’s late. I just—” You stepped back immediately, swinging the door wider. “Don’t apologize. Come in.” He gave a breathy nod and stepped into your room, his broad shoulders brushing against yours. The air was warm, soft. Your room always smelled faintly like vanilla and something calm, like safety. You closed the door gently behind him, voice quiet. “Couldn’t sleep?”

He shook his head. “Didn’t even try. I knew what was waiting.” You didn’t push for details. You never did. He loved that about you. You always gave him space when the rest of the world tried to dissect him. You moved toward your bed, crawling under the covers and patting the empty space beside you. “Do you want to stay here?” Bucky looked at you — really looked at you — and then just nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He sat down carefully beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this — climbed into your bed after a rough night, curled into your warmth like it was the only thing that made sense — but this time, it felt heavier. His silence was louder. You both lay down slowly, facing each other under the covers. The space between your bodies was small, but the tension between you? It filled the room like fog. His eyes searched yours — deep, quiet, like they were trying to memorize every inch of your soul. You couldn’t breathe for a second. Neither of you spoke. You didn’t have to. His eyes said so much — exhaustion, pain, but also something… softer. Something almost like longing. His voice broke the silence. “I really don’t know why I have you.”You blinked, brows drawing in slightly. “What do you mean?” His voice was low, almost ashamed. “With all the bad things I’ve done… I don’t know how I’m lucky enough to have someone like you in my life.” Your chest clenched. You reached for him instinctively, your fingers brushing lightly over his vibranium wrist before moving to his jaw. “Bucky… you didn’t do all those bad things. And you know that. With everything that’s happened to you — everything you’ve suffered — you have every right to be angry, to shut down, to give up.” Your thumb stroked gently over his cheekbone. “But you don’t. You fight every day. You try. You still care. And that makes you more of a hero than most people I know.” His eyes softened as he stared at you, quiet and unmoving. Your words wrapped around him like a blanket — not one that fixed everything, but one that soothed the ache, made it bearable. He didn’t look away. His metal fingers moved slowly — brushing your hair back from your face, lingering on your jaw. The coolness of the vibranium against your skin made you shiver, but not from the cold. His hand cupped your cheek as if you were something fragile — or sacred. He whispered it so softly, like it might break in his throat. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Your breath caught. And before you could answer — before you could figure out whether that meant what it sounded like it meant — he tugged you forward, arms wrapping tightly around you, burying your face into his chest. His chin rested on the top of your head, and he exhaled like the weight of the whole world had just let go. Your arms wrapped around his waist, squeezing gently. You could feel his heart — steady now. Safe. Neither of you said another word. But neither of you needed to. Because even though he wouldn’t say it — not yet — he meant it. And so did you.

The air in the training room was warm — not just from your fire-imbued abilities that occasionally flared mid-fight, but from the way your laughter filled the space like sunshine.

“Come on, Cap, you’re losing your edge,” you teased, breathless, as you ducked under Steve’s punch and slid behind him. Your palm tapped lightly against the center of his back. “Point for me.”

Steve turned, grinning wide. “I’m letting you win. You’ve got a reputation to uphold, after all — Firecracker.”

You groaned. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s fitting,” he smirked, circling you. “Explosive temper, hot hands, and an unfair amount of style.”

Your grin widened, bouncing on the balls of your feet. “That was almost smooth.”

“I’m working on it.”

You both lunged at the same time, arms clashing in a flurry of practiced blows and counter-movements, years of sparring translating into something that felt more like dance than combat. You’d always had this playful rhythm with Steve — easy, comfortable. He was the one who had pulled you out of the burning wreckage of that HYDRA facility two years ago. The one who had looked into your terrified, half-conscious eyes and said, “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.” Since then, he'd been your constant, your big brother and sparring partner rolled into one.

But sometimes, the flirting slipped in. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe just how close you always got in combat. Or maybe — if you were honest — it was to poke at a certain ex-assassin’s nerves. Not that he ever gave you any clear reason to.

Not yet.

You didn’t even notice Bucky when he entered. Not at first. You were too caught up in your fight, in the way Steve’s hands had suddenly locked around your waist from behind, your back flush to his chest.

“Gotcha,” he whispered near your ear, breath brushing your neck.

You laughed, your head tilting slightly into his shoulder. “Dirty move.”

“You love it.”

You did, a little. The intimacy of it. The warmth. The way it let you forget everything else for a second — the nightmares, the pressure, the endless missions. For a moment, it was just sparring and shared smiles and sweat-soaked comfort.

But then, something shifted.

The tension in the room thickened like smoke.

Bucky stood across the gym, his hands clenched tightly at his sides, jaw sharp and unmoving. He wasn’t punching the bag anymore. Wasn’t training. Wasn’t pretending to be casual. His eyes were locked on you. No, not you — on Steve. On the way Steve held you.

You could feel it — that slow-burn crackle under your skin, like you were about to combust. And this time, it wasn’t your powers.

You quickly twisted out of Steve’s grip, a little too quickly, and he stumbled back. His foot caught on the mat and he fell flat on his back, groaning with exaggerated pain.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

“Oh my God—are you okay?” you giggled, kneeling beside him.

Steve blinked up at you dramatically. “You did that on purpose. Wanted to be on top, huh?”

Your eyes went wide. “Steve.”

“What? I’m just asking how long you’ve been waiting for a moment like this.”

Your jaw dropped, but the shock dissolved into laughter. “Jesus Christ, Captain, I didn’t know you had a mouth like that.”

He grinned, hands behind his head. “You don’t know how I have so many things.”

That was the moment the tension cracked.

A sharp, deliberate cough came from across the room.

You turned. Slowly.

Bucky was standing by the bench press now, arms crossed over his broad chest, expression unreadable. But his eyes — God, his eyes — were molten.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked flatly.

Steve propped himself up on his elbows, still smirking. “Just training.”

You pushed yourself off Steve’s chest, suddenly feeling like a spotlight had been thrown on you. “Yeah, um… I just discovered a side of Steve I didn’t think I’d ever see.”

Steve laughed again. “It’s a shame we don’t spar more often.”

Bucky’s jaw flexed. His tone didn’t change.

“Can you get off of him?”

Your heart jumped. You blinked. “We were just—”

“Calm down, Buck,” Steve cut in, casually wiping the sweat off his brow. “We’re literally in the training room.”

“Whatever.” Bucky didn’t wait for a response. He just turned on his heel and walked out the door, leaving a trail of heavy silence behind him.

You stood there for a second, unsure what to do. Your stomach fluttered — not with excitement, but something between confusion and hope. Because Bucky Barnes had looked at Steve Rogers like he wanted to end him. And for the first time in a long time, it meant something.

Steve chuckled beside you, brushing off his shoulder as he stood. “Jealousy, thy name is Barnes.”

You stared after the door, still frowning. “But… why would he be jealous?”

Steve gave you a look, one brow raised. “Seriously?”

“I mean, he’s—he doesn’t act like—”

Steve tilted his head. “He doesn’t act like he’s in love with you?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Looked away.

“I’m just saying,” Steve added, his voice gentler now. “That man barely speaks to anyone. He barely looks at anyone. Except you. And when he looks at you… it’s like you’re the first real thing he’s seen in years.”

You swallowed hard. The words sat heavy in your chest.

Outside the gym doors, down the hall, Bucky’s footsteps echoed away. But all you could think about was the way he’d looked at you — and the way he hadn’t stayed to explain himself.

You didn’t know what was happening. But maybe… maybe he felt it too. And maybe that was what scared you both the most.

The hallway was silent, except for the soft echo of your bare feet on the metallic floor. You were still wearing your training clothes, an old sweatshirt tied around your waist, your heart pounding as if you’d just run ten flights of stairs. You didn’t know exactly why you felt like this. You just knew you weren’t going to sleep until you talked to him.

You crossed the empty common room, passed the couch, and stopped in front of his door. You hesitated. Just for a second. But then you knocked—twice, quickly, like doing it slower would give you time to back out.

A few seconds later, the door opened. Bucky stood there. Shirtless, wearing the gray lounge pants he used to sleep in, hair slightly damp, like he’d splashed water on his face to calm down. Or to cool whatever he’d been feeling earlier.

His eyes dropped to meet yours, but he didn’t say anything.

“Can I come in?” you asked, voice firm—even though that wasn’t how you felt inside.

He stepped aside without a word, letting you walk in. The room smelled like wood, something clean and warm and his. Dense. Familiar. Like the way he made you feel.

You closed the door behind you.

“Are you gonna tell me what that was about?” you asked, turning to face him.

He crossed his arms, looking down at the floor for a moment. Then he lifted his eyes to yours. They were dark. Intense.

“What was what?”

“What happened in the training room. The way you looked at Steve and me… the way you spoke to me. Cold. Sharp. Like you wanted to rip me out of there.”

He exhaled through his nose, jaw tight, his metal arm flexing like it was burning inside.

“I didn’t like it.”

“What didn’t you like?”

“You two.” The words shot out like a bullet. Then, softer: “Being that close. Laughing. Touching. Flirting.”

His eyes locked on yours like he was searching for something—something he couldn’t say yet.

You frowned, feeling a twist in your stomach.

“What do you mean flirting?” you asked, your voice quieter.

Bucky stepped toward you. Then another step. Barely noticeable, like he didn’t even realize he was moving. But by the time you noticed, he was already in front of you. Inches away.

You could see every little scar on his face, the crease between his brows, the slight tremble in his lips when he opened his mouth to speak but bit down because the words wouldn’t come.

“I didn’t like the way he touched you,” he finally admitted. “I didn’t like that you laughed with him like that. That you looked at him like…”

“Like what?”

“Like he was the only one who could make you feel that way.”

The air stilled. Your chest rose and fell fast, like you’d been running. The room felt smaller. He felt closer. Everything felt too intense.

“And why does that bother you?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at your lips. His breathing was quicker. His human hand lifted, slowly, shaking just a bit, rising toward your cheek… then stopped halfway.

“You know why,” he said. Almost too softly to hear.

“No,” you lied. “I don’t.”

He stepped even closer. And now there was no space left between you.

His nose brushed against yours. His breath warm on your skin. His voice, low and broken:

“Because I don’t want anyone else to have you like that. Because when I see you with someone else, something inside me cracks. Because I want to pull you away and tell you that you’re mine, even if I’ve never had the guts to say it.”

Friday nights in Stark Tower had become something sacred. No missions. No training. Just badly cooked takeout, too many drinks, and a dangerously competitive round of Uno or Mario Kart with some of the most powerful people on Earth.

You were curled up on the couch between Sam and Wanda, a blanket draped over your legs, your hand deep in a bowl of popcorn you were definitely not sharing. Steve was across from you, tossing back a beer and trying to pretend he didn’t take this game as seriously as his old war strategy briefings.

Bucky, as always, sat slightly apart from the group—on the edge of the loveseat that no one else dared to sit on, sipping slowly from a glass of whiskey, arms crossed over his chest like he wasn’t trying to have fun, but still... never missed a Friday.

You didn’t mind it. You knew better than anyone: Bucky liked to observe before he jumped in. He always had.

Tonight’s game was Truth or Dare—Tony’s idea, naturally, because if he couldn’t humiliate his teammates once a week, he might explode.

“Alright, Witchy,” Sam grinned, nudging Wanda. “Truth or dare?”

Wanda smirked. “Dare.”

Sam leaned in like he was about to expose a national secret. “I dare you... to tell us your most inappropriate Avenger crush.”

Groans and laughter erupted instantly.

Wanda looked amused. “Seriously?”

“Yes. The people need to know,” Tony chimed in, way too invested.

Wanda took a dramatic pause, then raised her eyebrows in your direction. “You. Obviously.”

You nearly choked on your popcorn. “Me?!”

“You literally set things on fire when you get emotional,” she teased. “That's hot. Literally.”

The whole group burst into laughter, including you. Even Bucky huffed a small laugh from his corner.

You smiled and leaned into Wanda’s shoulder. “Flattered, but also terrified.”

“Alright, alright, your turn,” Sam declared, looking at you.

“Fine,” you said, brushing popcorn salt off your hands. “Steve. Truth or dare?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Truth.”

“If you weren’t a superhero,” you asked, “what would you be doing with your life right now?”

There was a pause. A soft shift in the mood.

Steve leaned forward, suddenly sincere. “Something quieter,” he said. “A quiet life. Maybe painting. I used to sketch a lot before the war.”

There was a collective silence.

“Wow,” Clint muttered. “Way to ruin the mood, Cap.”

That broke the tension, and everyone laughed again.

You leaned back against the couch, smiling, and turned your head toward Bucky—

And froze.

He was already staring at you.

Eyes locked on you like he wasn’t even aware of it. There was no mistaking it this time—not a glance, not a passing look. This was different. His gaze was deep, unmoving, and there was something in it—something warm and aching and maybe even a little broken. Like you were the only thing in the room he could see.

Your breath caught. Your heart stuttered.

And then, in the span of a blink, he shifted. Looked away. Took a sip from his glass like nothing happened.

You stared at him, stunned, your pulse still racing. Did no one else see that? Did you imagine it?

He looked over at Steve, then at Tony, pretending to be part of the group again.

You couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Minutes passed. People changed seats. Someone spilled beer. Wanda was now trying to get Steve to admit he owned flannel pajama pants. But you couldn’t let it go.

Later, when the crowd finally began to scatter—some drifting to the kitchen, others calling it a night—you slipped away down the hallway, almost without thinking. You didn’t even knock. You just pushed open Bucky’s door and stepped inside.

He was standing at his window, back to you, nursing what had to be his second or third glass of whiskey.

“You were staring at me,” you said softly, closing the door behind you.

His shoulders tensed. Slowly, he turned.

“What?”

“Earlier,” you clarified. “During the game. You were staring.”

He shook his head, too quickly. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Bucky.”

He looked away. “You were imagining things.”

You took a step closer. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend like it didn’t happen. I saw you. I felt it.”

He met your eyes then. For a second, everything dropped from his face—the careful mask, the distance, the safety net he always kept between you. And there it was again. That look. The one that made your knees weak and your heart twist.

But then he blinked, and it was gone. Again.

“You’re my friend, Y/N.”

Your heart clenched. “So that’s all it is?”

“That’s all it has to be,” he said quietly.

It happened one night when everything was almost perfect.

The mission was a success. For once, no bruises. No blood. Just tired limbs and adrenaline slowly fading into the quiet hours of the night. Everyone else had gone to bed, but you and Bucky — as always — ended up on the rooftop of Stark Tower.

You sat beside him in silence, wrapped in one of his sweatshirts you’d stolen weeks ago. Your knees were drawn up to your chest. Bucky had one leg stretched out, the other bent, his metal arm resting on it, glinting silver under the moonlight.

The city hummed softly beneath you. But here, above it all, it felt like time had slowed just for the two of you.

He didn’t speak much. He never did. But tonight, he looked relaxed. Safe, even. Something that only happened when it was just the two of you.

You’d been here before. So many times.

But something felt different.

Maybe it was the way his hand brushed yours earlier and didn’t pull away. Or the way he looked at you when you laughed over dinner, like he wasn’t just listening — he was soaking you in. Like he needed to remember it.

Like he wanted to remember you.

You sighed quietly and leaned your head against his shoulder.

“Do you ever think,” you whispered, “what it would’ve been like if we met under normal circumstances?”

He turned slightly, his eyes soft. “Like if we were just... two people?”

You nodded. “No Hydra. No missions. No Avengers. Just... you and me.”

His mouth twitched in a half-smile, and for a second, he didn’t answer. Then:

“I think I still would’ve found you.”

The silence between you thickened, heavy with words left unsaid. Your heart pounded in your ears.

You lifted your head, searching his eyes.

And there it was again.

The look.

The one that said everything he never said out loud. The one that set your soul on fire and broke your heart all at once.

His hand came up — slow, hesitant — and brushed a strand of hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your jaw, his thumb tracing your cheek like he was memorizing you. Again.

You tilted your head slightly into his palm, eyes locked with his. Inches apart. So close you could feel his breath.

You had been avoiding him for days.

The training room? You didn’t show up. Midnight walks? You made up excuses. And last night, when he knocked softly on your door at 2:47 a.m. — when he needed you, again — you didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Because the truth was, you weren’t okay. Not anymore.

You couldn’t keep pretending that the looks didn’t mean something. That the almost-kisses didn’t hurt. That the words left unsaid weren’t killing you.

So when Bucky finally cornered you in the common room the next afternoon — after you'd brushed him off again — your heart was already halfway to breaking.

He stood across from you, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his jaw clenched like he was holding something in. His eyes searched your face like you were a puzzle he couldn’t figure out anymore.

“Are you avoiding me?” he asked, straight to the point.

You didn’t look at him. You were sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through your tablet, even though your fingers had stopped moving minutes ago.

“I’m tired,” you said.

“You’ve been tired for four days.”

You still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Well, maybe I am.”

There was a long pause.

Then the softest, lowest version of his voice: “Why didn’t you open the door?”

You swallowed hard.

Because if I saw your face, I would’ve broken down. Because I’m trying so damn hard not to love someone who won’t let himself love me back.

“I didn’t feel like talking,” you whispered.

“Y/N…” His voice cracked slightly. “You always talk to me. That’s… what we do.”

You stood suddenly, anger bubbling up in your chest — not at him, not really. At this thing between you that kept building and building and never going anywhere.

“What are we doing, Bucky?” you said sharply. “Because this… this thing between us? It’s exhausting.”

His brows furrowed. “I don’t know what you—”

“Yes, you do!” you shouted, finally looking him dead in the eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I mean when you act like that.”

He blinked, frozen.

“I know your past,” you continued, quieter now, but each word trembling with the weight of unshed tears. “I know everything you’ve been through. And God, I understand why you are the way you are. You have a million reasons to keep yourself locked up. But you don’t get to pretend like I’m imagining things.”

He stepped forward slightly, lips parted like he was about to say something—anything.

But you didn’t let him.

“No. Don’t. You said it was never gonna happen,” you snapped. “You said it with your words, Bucky. But then you almost kissed me.”

He closed his eyes for a second, his jaw tight with regret.

“And we say we’re friends,” you went on, your voice shaking, “but I catch you staring at me all the damn time. You look at me like I’m the only thing holding you together. And then the second it gets too real, you disappear. Or worse, you pretend like it never happened.”

Bucky’s hands had curled into fists at his sides. His eyes — stormy and heavy — never left yours.

You choked on your next breath, your voice breaking now.

“Friends don’t look at friends that way,” you whispered.

And there it was — silence.

The truth, hanging heavy in the air like fog, like smoke, like a fire no one could put out.

Bucky didn’t move. Not toward you. Not away. Just stood there, stunned, wounded, and too scared to say the words you needed.

So you shook your head, taking a step back, like distance would dull the ache.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said softly. “I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with being close to you… but never close enough.”

His voice, when it finally came, was so broken it hurt. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I know,” you nodded, eyes burning. “But you did.”

[smutmind]

This Is Legacy ft. Sooyoung

2nd Gen Idol X You

"You ever fuck an idol who used to have her face on buses?"

That’s the first thing she says after closing the door. No greeting. No warm-up. Just that, tossed over her shoulder like a dare.

You blink. “Uh—no.”

Sooyoung doesn’t look back. Just walks into the kitchen like you’re not already sweating. Barefoot, robe loose at the thigh, like she forgot to tie it all the way. She pours two glasses of whiskey, clinks the ice in hers, and only then glances your way.

“Didn’t think so. You were what, in elementary school when I was headlining?”

You nod, sheepish. “I… yeah. I got into K-pop late. Missed your era.”

She walks over and hands you the glass. Her fingers graze yours—barely—and you feel it like a jolt.

“But you know who I was,” she says. Not a question.

“Of course.”

“And now you’re here,” she adds. Her eyes drop to your chest, then lower. “Cute rookie. Big eyes. Still shaking from rehearsal.”

You laugh, trying to cover the truth. “I didn’t think you’d actually invite me up.”

Her mouth curves. “I know. That’s why I did.”

She kisses you before the next word can form. Her lips are warm, steady—experienced. Her hand slides under your hoodie, pressing flat to your stomach, her palm warm against your skin.

The robe falls.

No ceremony. No show. Just her, naked in front of you, skin smooth, body built from discipline and time. Her breasts full and high, waist soft but firm, thighs thick enough to crush and built to hold. She straddles you on the couch like she’s done it a hundred times—and maybe she has.

She lowers onto you in one smooth motion.

You groan. She’s tight, hot, perfect. Her pace is slow, steady, hips rolling like waves. Her breath brushes your cheek as she begins to move.

“This was how I used to fuck,” she murmurs. “Slow. Careful. Polished.”

You stare at her. Everything about her is art—her rhythm, her gaze, the way her fingers rest on your shoulders like you’re something to be played.

“They liked when I moaned soft,” she goes on, riding you in clean, smooth bounces. “When I smiled through it. It made them feel respected.”

You nod, barely breathing. She feels too good—gripping you just right, moving like her body knows every angle.

“I used to make it look easy,” she says, voice almost fond. “Like I wasn’t in control.”

She leans back a little, letting you see her. Her breasts bounce gently, the muscles in her stomach flexing. Every motion perfect. Deliberate.

You’re stunned. Hard as hell. But something about it feels like performance. Beautiful, hot as fuck—but staged.

Then she stops.

She locks eyes with you. Her breath catches.

“I was never lucky to be there,” she says.

And slams down.

You gasp. She does it again. Her thighs slap against yours now, rough and hard, her pussy swallowing your cock deep.

“I made them feel lucky,” she snaps, voice low and raw. “I smiled, but I never surrendered.”

She fucks you like a storm now. All heat and pressure. Her hands press to your chest, pinning you, hips punishing in rhythm. Your hands grab her ass, trying to hold on, trying not to blow.

“This,” she growls, “is the fuck they never earned.”

You’re lost—jaw tight, chest heaving, cock soaked in her heat. Her moans are real now—broken, guttural, spilling straight into your throat.

And then—suddenly—she changes.

The bounce turns light. Rhythmic. Shallow.

“Oppa~” she whines, voice lilting, almost mocking. “It’s too big…”

You freeze.

Her eyes flash with amusement as she leans down and licks your neck.

“This is what they give you now,” she whispers. “All pout and play.”

She giggles—on purpose. Bounces cutely. Adds a little squeal just for fun.

You feel your balls tighten. It’s hot, but wrong. Familiar, but fake.

“This is what the new idols sell,” she pants, still fucking you. “Breathless. Shy. Like they’re surprised to be wet.”

She grabs your hands, places them on her breasts.

“Squeeze like you’re scared to hurt me,” she whispers sweetly.

You’re trembling now. Cock twitching inside her, balls heavy.

Then she stops again.

Dead still.

“But you didn’t come here for that,” she says, mouth at your ear. “You came here to be fucked by a woman who survived it all.”

She slams down. Deep. Then again. Again. Her rhythm wrecks you—hard, brutal, without apology.

“This is what you don’t get from them,” she growls. “No rehearsed moans. No camera angles. Just my pussy and your cock and everything I’ve learned about what makes men break.”

You cry out. Can’t stop it.

She rides you faster, gripping your shoulders, burying your cock so deep you swear she’s inside your throat.

“You’re gonna cum for me,” she breathes, hips never stopping. “You’re gonna cum because this—this—is how veterans fuck.”

You explode.

It’s not just release—it’s collapse. You’re moaning loud, spilling inside her, body locking up, cock pulsing so hard it hurts. She doesn’t stop. Grinds through it. Takes every drop and fucks you into the couch.

When you finally still, she leans in and kisses your temple.

“They’ll keep selling the fantasy,” she whispers. “But you’ll remember the real thing.”

[itzpookiepooh]

Heyi love your writings! I have request feel free to ignore it if you want to .

Can you write the lads boys reaction to the reader having a contagious virus or infection where she can't touch anyone or have any normal encounter?

I fear it’s in my bones to make this funny somehow

CHEESE TOUCH

Rafayel is dripped down in medical gear. I’m talking suit, hair cap, gloves, the works. Coming home from the doctor’s office was insane enough. He made you sit in the backseat while he had a mask on and zoomed home. Now you were in the guest bedroom while he hands you stuff with a grabby stick.

“Just grab it please.” He mumbled sweetly. Honestly you wanted to laugh.

“I’m trying.” You tell him as you laugh which leads you to cough. He flinches at the sound almost dropping the stick holding the bag filled with hydration.

“I’m trying to be supportive but I’m so scared.” He whispered to himself as his hands tremble. You almost lost it because the situation may be serious but this was too good.

“Is the God of the sea scared of me?” You tease with a hoarse voice. He immediately denies what you said.

“I’m scared of you getting worse!” He corrected you as you grab the bag. You thought of something that would make this better.

“I forgot I coughed on the light switch on the way in here.” You joke making him yelp and spray with disinfectant. The door slams shut as he shouts he loves you and to get some rest through the door. You laugh until you cough which makes him pop back into the room to check on you.

He doesn’t let you leave the hospital let’s be realistic. He’s taking the best care of you while protecting himself from the virus too. You thought he was so sweet. You could kiss him if you weren’t so sick. He checked your IV regularly and unbeknownst to you he worked overtime to monitor you.

“How are you feeling today?” Zayne asks checking his clipboard. You groan trying to sit up.

“Sore but doing great.” You raise your thumb up. He shakes his head trying not to laugh at you.

“Not a good enough sign but getting somewhere.” He mumbles writing it down. You chuckle causing you to cough.

“It’ll take more than a measly cold to take me out.” You flex weakly before wincing and dropping them.

“You have a highly contagious virus.” He tells you through his medical gear as he stares at you blankly.

“Same thing.” You counter as he faces you completely.

“It isn’t.” He states firmly before going to get you a new I.V bag.

Sylus locked down the nearly the whole base. You were going to head home and quarantine there but Sylus refused for you to be alone during this time. Especially since you were barely able to stand on your own after the diagnosis. Really before because Sylus had to take you there…you’re very stubborn.

“A kiss would definitely make it better.” You groggily spoke as Sylus pressed a cold cloth to your forehead.

“Maybe so however, everyone else’s immune system is far weaker than mine.” He says softly with his usual smirk. You chuckle weakly before your head falls to the side.

“Tell them to step their game up.” You joke following a cough. He helps you sit up as you continue to cough.

“You seem to have time to joke about such a serious situation even with you being this weak.” He tells you as you shrug tiredly.

“Rest. You need it.” He mumbles laying you back down as your eyes slowly shut.

Xavier didn’t mind being stuck inside with you. So when he found out you were sick he took it upon himself to personally nurse you back to health. He made you tea and did his very best to nurse you back to health.

“I’ll cook you some dinner.” He said softly leaving the room. Your eyes widen in fear as you move too fast for your body.

“Xavier. Xavier!” You try to yell out to him but he couldn’t hear you. You slump half off the bed in defeat.

Xavier was humming throwing things into a big pot. He goes to turn around his eyes wide as you lean against the wall. He rushes over to you trying to hold you up.

“Why are you out of bed?” He panics his eyes big and worried.

“I’m not hungry.” You pant holding onto his forearms. He sighs in relief.

“It’s from a can I’m just adding seasoning.” You sigh in relief your body almost going limp. The only thing keeping you up is your will to live.

Xavier helps you to bed and strictly tells you not to move. The soup wasn’t half bad either.

He’s in and out of the room like a maid and a doctor. He cleans up your snot rags and hydration bottles every hour on the hour. He runs your bath and while you soak he quickly tries to change the sheets. He does all that while making sure you don’t drown.

“Nope. You need to take this or you’ll never get better.” He argues back to you holding a spoon with liquid medicine.

“It tastes disgusting! I don’t want it.” You whine turning away. Caleb huffs and gets up leaving the room.

He waited 2 hours before asking if you were thirsty to which you said yes. He brought you a drink and you chugged almost half before grimacing. You hold it away from you before looking at him.

“Ew Caleb!” You whine making him chuckle. “Told you to drink it.” He shrugs caressing your head.

These are coming out slower and slower 😭

[wosospacegirl]

Legally binding - Part 3

Summary: Alexia Putellas didn’t plan to become anyone’s legal guardian. But a very determined 12-year-old with a forged Barça contract has other ideas—and she’s already moved in.

Warnings: Alexia and the kid argue again; Alexia wishes she could just drop the kid off at her mom's house, and apparently, twelve-year-old kids are learning about reproduction in science class.

Word count: 6.8k

Legally binding masterlist here

Alexia woke to pressure at her feet. Something heavy and warm, she was still half-asleep when she shifted and kicked it gently, assuming one of her pillows.  

She frowned and opened her eyes, being hit by the morning light coming out of the windows. Then she lifted the duvet.

She saw a head.. A tiny and messy-haired head. 

The girl.

 She was wearing that familiar too tight pyjama top.

Alexia sat up slowly and stared, unsure if she was still dreaming. For a moment, she had even forgotten what happened, had forgotten about the girl, but there she was curled up at the foot of the bed.

Her position looked uncomfortable, she was lying sideways with one arm dangling off the edge of the bed, her head was turned into an awkward angle. 

She looked small. And for a few seconds, Alexia could only sit there, blankly trying to catch up to the sigh in front of her. Alexia just wasn’t expecting it to happen, although she had, and still did, get into her mother's bed when the world was too much to handle.

Although Eli, Alexia’s mom, had chosen to have her, Alexia didn’t appear in her mom's living room, saying she was now her guardian.

Alexia dropped back into the bed with a groan, burying her face in one of the pillows. Maybe she could sleep a bit more, forget this was all happening, pretend she was the only one living in the house.

But she just couldn't, her mind kept circling back to what was happening in her life.

There was a kid in her bed. Her bed.

Was she her kid? Alexia still wasn't sure. All she knew was that it was her real life now, she had to get used to it, just for a little while, at least.

The girl stirred and stretched her arms above her head, then she sat up like it was the most common thing in the world…waking up in the bed of Alexia Putellas.

“Buenos días,” [good morning] she mumbled.

Alexia turned her head slightly. 

“Hi,” Alexia said simply.

The girl rubbed her eyes and blinked at the other side of the room.

“That's your bathroom?” she asked, pointing at the door to the right of the bed.

“Uh... yeah?”

“Great,” the girl said, hopping off the bed and walking to the bathroom.

Alexia just lay there, still in her sheets and staring at the ceiling.  Her brain was trying to decide if she should laugh, scream, or go back to sleep.

She just lost her bathroom privacy to a child. Great.

Alexia should be getting up soon, she had training in two hours. Hell, she had a routine that she was supposed to be starting right now. 

First, she had to do her morning stretching and work out; after that, she had to drink a lot of water while listening to the news, then she had to go over some tactile stuff Romeu had sent her, all that before her morning training at the training ground.

But now she had a twelve-year-old in her en suite bathroom. And she didn’t know what to do with her. It was like her life had gone completely out of her control.

Even when she did her ACL and she had to rely on others for absolutely everything, she still had more control over her own life than right now.

As if the girl sensed Alexia's spiralling thoughts, she reappears from the bathroom, looking much more awake than Alexia, that was for sure.

The kid paused in the doorway, her eyes looking at the bed, at the spot she was sleeping minutes ago, then she looked at Alexia, eyes wide, waiting…like she wasn't sure she was allowed to speak.

“Do you need anything ?” Alexia asked, forcing a smile on her face.

“I... uh... slept in your bed last night,” she said, her voice low and unsure. “Sorry about that,”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Alexia said. “I didn’t see you coming in, or else I would have, hm, given you a pillow, I gue,ss.”

The girl looked at the floor. There was something in her, something that hadn't been there before. Or at least, Alexia hadn’t noticed before. As if the girl had grown nervous overnight..

Alexia watched her closely. Alexia wasn't the best at reading emotions, but it felt like the girl had a hint of embarrassment. on her face, but it was so subtle that it could have been missed.

The kid had never looked embarrassed before…Not when she broke into her apartment. Not when she revealed Alexia had ‘adopted her’

“Well…” the kid started, lifting her eyes to look at Alexia, her cheeks turning pink. “You turned off the lights.”

Alexia blinked, feeling slightly taken aback. “Oh, you don't like that? The dark, I mean.”

The girl shook her head. “It scares me,” she admitted. “I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't see anything. It felt like I was back at the orphanage.”

The words hit Alexia like a slap to the face. She hadn't expected that. She obviously didn't think when she left a kid in a completely dark room. Her mami would always light a night light for her and Alba when they were little, maybe Alexia could do the same next time?

“Oh,” Alexia said softly, “I didn't know. I'm sorry... hm, maybe we can keep them on if you like?”

The girl shrugged.

“It's okay,” she murmured. “I found your room, it wasn't so scary anymore.”

The kid said it like it was the most natural solution, as if going to Alexia’s bed in the middle of the night was the right thing to do when she felt scared

Alexia didn't know what to say. But something about it lingered. Alexia had never been the one people went to when they were scared; she was the one people went to when they needed a word of comfort (football-related) or when they needed to know in what area they needed to get better at to become a great player.

She had never been held to a standard of being someone's safe haven. It wasn't necessarily a bad thing; Alexia was happy that she could help the kid somehow, but it still felt like another weight she had to carry.

Was this weight normal? Did all parents feel that? Did her mom feel that when Alexia was born and she was suddenly responsible for a new life?

..

The omelette was in the pan, and the warm scent of butter and eggs was filling the kitchen with a smell Alexia knew very well. It had become one of her favourite scents. It meant a new day was starting, a new start over, a new beginning for Alexia.

Alexia loved mornings ever since she was a kid. She also always made omelette, so it was nice that at least one aspect of her life was still the same.

She hummed quietly under her breath and was focusing on not burning her breakfast...Well, their breakfasts.

But then Alexia heard it: footsteps in the hallway. They were very quick, as if in a hurry.

“Bye!” The word barely registered at first.

Bye?

Alexia she turned off the stove, and stepped out of the kitchen just in time to see the girl by the front door, one hand was already on the knob.

Alexia moved fast, stepping in front of it. Her arms were already crossed, and her jaw tensed. 

“Bye?”Alexia said in disbelief.. “Where exactly do you think you're going?”

“La Masia,” the girl replied, as if it was obvious. “I have training today…I can still only go once a week, but once you sign me up for the academy, I can go every day.”

And then, the kid just smiled and reached for the door again.

Alexia didn't budge. “No. You're not going anywhere.”

The girl blinked up at her. “Huuhh? Why not? I got my shoes and everything?”

“Because you're twelve,” Alexia said, brows raised. “You can't just walk out of the house like that.”

The girl tilted her head, looking confused. “I told you, Ale, you don't need to parent me. I just need a place to stay and someone to register me for La Masia. That's it.”

Ale. She had never called her that before. Just Alexia.

The girl just stood there, smiling like she couldn't possibly understand why Alexia wasn't going along with this plan, her plan.

Alexia rubbed her temples, trying to bring down an urge to scream.  The kid was stubborn. No, persistent. That was the word. Definitely better than stubborn.

When the girl tried the doorknob again, Alexia placed a hand on it, firm.

“No,” she said again. “Absolutely not. First of all, you can't just walk into La Masia with no guardian papers. Second, this city is dangerous. Third…”

She took a breath, trying not to lose her temper.

“....You're twelve. You don't even know where the nearest store is, let alone how to use public transportation by yourself.”

“But I have been on the metro before!” the girl said proudly. “Well, it was only once, but I know my way around, I can read those metro maps to find my way.”

“That’s not the point.”. Alexia raised her voice slightly, The kid couldn’t possibly think that the only survival skill she needed was to know how to read metro maps.

“The point is that you can't just go running off on your own, okay?” Alexia continued and began to walk around in the living room while the kid just stood there, watching her. “

“I'm responsible for you now. That means you don't leave this house without me knowing where you are, end of story.”

The girl immediately dropped herself onto the sofa dramatically, as if she had just been wounded by Alexia. Then she sat back and crossed her arms, a pouting on her face. “You're being overdramatic.”

Alexia froze.

Overdramatic?

Alexia slowly turned to face the girl, eyes narrowing.

“I'm being what?” she asked, voice dangerous, the same one her mom used to use on her when Alexia was the one sneaking out to play football with some neighbours. 

The girl shrugged, looking bored..

Alexia could feel it. Her patience was already wearing thin.

“You're being all 'parenty,'” the girl said as if Alexia wanting to protect her from getting abducted was some sort of overreaction. 

“I'm independent, Alexia, I’ve been on my own for a very long time, I know how to take care of myself.”

Alexia sighed. Right, yeah, of course, a little kid would know how to ‘take care of herself’.

“No, you don’t,” Alexia said sternly “I don’t care if you think you are street-smart enough to move around Barcelona alone. From now on, you aren’t leaving anywhere without an adult.”

“You are not the boss of me!” The girl said, her voice extremely angry, which matched the frown on her face. “You can’t just ruin my plans like that!!”

Alexia looked at the girl. Well, now who was overreacting?

The kids' cheeks were turning red, if she were a few decades older, Alexia would be concerned about her bursting a vein on her forehead.

For a second, Alexia genuinely considered letting her go. 

Just opening the door, waving goodbye, and letting the kid see for herself how much of a mess and unsafe the world could be.

 But no. She pulled herself together, took a deep breath through her nose. 

Guardian, she was a guardian. She was the responsible adult here, not the kid. The girl was too small and her feelings were just too big.

But if this kid thought she was old enough to manage everything, then fine. Alexia would be honest, at least.

“Look,” she said, kneeling in front of her. “I didn't ask for this either. I didn't ask for a kid to show up on my doorstep and make me responsible for her entire existence.”

The girl frowned even more, clearly not enjoying the direction the conversation was going.

“I was just getting home after training…”Alexia said, gesturing vaguely. “And then you showed up, and now I have a small human thinking she can go out and play football without so much as a lunchbox!”

The girl's expression changed.

“Okay, okay, ” the kid said. “We can get a lunch box and then I’ll go to La masia, how does that sound?”

Alexia blinked. Then dragged both hands down her face. It was going to be a long morning.

“Have you listened to anything I just told you?” Alexias asked tiredly.

“I did listen to you,” the girl replied, crossing her arms. “But I feel like you're the one not listening to me.”

Alexia started, exasperated. “How am I not listening to you? We’re having a conversation, I am talking to you.”

“You just don’t listen!” The kid said. “I have told you my plan, but when I try to do something about it, you are just like ‘no, no, no and no’... You don’t let me do anything!”

“I don’t let you do anything on your plan because it is not a plan.” Alexia snapped, sounding harsher than she meant, “Plans are realistic, they have reasonable steps you can take, what you have is a dream, dreams are not plans.”

The girl looked at Alexia, betrayed. 

“You said in that interview that you supported every child’s dream, and that you wished all of us kids would make our dreams come true! And now you’re saying my dreams are just dreams!” 

“I never said that your dreams are just dreams,” Alexia said slowly. “I said that dreams need realistic plans, and that your plan is not realistic.”

“You didn’t say that.” The girl rolled her eyes.

Briefly, Alexia imagined driving to her mother's house and just dropping the girl off. 

No explanation. No warning. Just let her mom think the kid had chosen her instead of Alexia. Maybe she would believe it. Well, Eli would be a way better mom, or guardian, than Alexia, that was for sure.

“Look, if you insist, you can drop me off, okay?” the girl offered. “I don't mind.”

Alexia was seconds from losing it.

“What part of 'you are not going to La Masia today' did you not understand?" she asked, rising to her full height, hands on her hips now. 

The whole gentle parenting attempt had clearly failed. Miserably. Maybe Alexia should try…rough parenting, instead? Was there such a thing? She should buy some parenting books, maybe that would help.

“You can’t just prohibit me from going,” the girl insisted. “I’m good enough, and, as much as you don’t like it, I have things figured out, you know? I just need you to register me full- time and things will work out.”

“Oh yeah,” Alexia muttered, throwing her arms in the air. “So you're telling me that you, a kid, have it all figured out. Meanwhile, I'm just a clueless adult trying to stop you from becoming the next missing child in Barcelona."

“You're not a clueless adult,” the girl replied, her face had a very innocent and cute expression that made Alexia almost forget why she was mad in the first place. “You're just getting in the way–I need to be there at nine.”

“I'm getting in the way??!” Alexia's blood pressure was spiking, and the kid was to blame.

The girl simply nodded and sat up straighter on the sofa.

“I know the contract said you have to care for my well-being and health and stuff, but really, you don't have to, I’m independent.

Alexia rolled her eyes. Not this conversation again. It was like the kid discovered the word independent and was running with it. They had spent the last thirty minutes going over and over the exact same thing.

“Oh, you're independent, huh?" Alexia said, challenging. “Have you brushed your teeth yet? Have you packed something to eat during training? If you get hurt, who will La Masia call? Do you know my phone number?”

The girl opened her mouth to respond, then paused and closed it again. Finally, realisation settling in her face, because right. She didn’t have it all figured out.

Alexia sighed, pressing two fingers to the bridge of her nose. “You're not going to La Masia,” Alexia said her voice firm. “Not today. We need to figure things out first.”

The girl's eyes widened. “Are you serious?”

“Yes”, Alexia said. “You don't have any school papers. You don't have a guardian note. You don't have– nothing! Not even a proper ID on you!”

The girl looked down, sadness growing on her face as she slowly realised that becoming a professional footballer wasn’t just about kicking a ball around.

When Alexia thought the girl had finally learned that her lesson, that this whole plan was not so easy, the girl opened her mouth again.

“So…can I go tomorrow, at least? I can take a taxi if you don’t want me taking the metro.” She looked up at Alexia, eyes big.

There was a moment of silence.

“You're going to give me grey hairs,” Alexia muttered finally, shaking her head and giving up on the whole parenting thing.

The girl didn't miss a beat. “You already have one.”

Alexia stared, deadpan. “Go set the table. Now.’

“Ughhh, fine.”

The girl pushed herself off the sofa and walked into the kitchen, grabbing two plates and setting them on the table. Alexia returned to the stove, her hands slightly trembling.

She stared down at the omelette.

Was this what parenting was? She had asked that question at least a thousand times, and it was barely nine am.

But is it? Is that what parenting is about? Explaining the obvious? Repeating yourself? Arguing with someone who thought you were the one being unreasonable?

She reached for the spatula with a sigh.

Apparently yes. Yes, it was.

As they sat down to eat, Alexia knew she had to take control of the situation. The morning had already spiralled far past her comfort zone, and if there was one thing she could do was set some rules.

“First rule,” she began as she served the omelette.

“Wait, wait!” the girl interrupted, hopping up from her chair and walking to her room, well, Alexia’s guest bedroom.

“I need to write it down, or else I’ll forget,” she called back. “Sister Maria always made me write rules like…fifty times.”

Well, Sister Maria didn’t sound very fun.

The girl returned moments later with crayons and a single piece of paper clutched in her hand.

Alexia leaned closer to inspect it and frowned.

“Hey!”  she said, taking the paper gently from the girl’s grip. “Where did you get this? This is a prescription slip...you can’t draw on this!”

The girl froze as Alexia held it up. “Oh,” she said, startled. “I didn’t know it was an important paper.”

Her eyes dropped to the floor. There was something in her posture that once again made Alexia's chest ache. Alexia sighed, then she got up and walked over to the coffee table, and sifted through the mess until she found some other paper.

“Here,” she said, handing it to her. “You can draw or write on this, alright? I need the other one.”

“Okay,” the girl replied.

“Now sit back, please.”

The girl did as she was told. 

She had a full plate of omelette in front of her, crayons on her left, and a glass of orange juice on her right. Alexia wasn’t sure how much vitamin C kids actually needed, but she made sure to fill the glass.

“Alright,” Alexia said, clearing her throat. “Back to the rules.”

She took a breath.

“Rule number one: Absolutely not leaving this house without me. Understand? You’re a kid, and this city is dangerous. I don’t care if you know the way to La Masia or not.”

The girl nodded reluctantly while writing it down in pink crayon.

“Rule two,” Alexia continued. “You can’t tell anyone about the guardianship. Not a single person. Okay? We need to keep this between us.”

“Why?” the girl asked, crayon paused mid-scribble.

Alexia hesitated, and her throat tightened. She couldn’t explain the truth, not yet. 

Couldn’t say that the arrangement was only temporary. That in four months, if all went well, she wouldn’t be the kid’s legal guardian anymore. Pedro had promised it was just for the season.

Alexia opened her mouth, but then closed it. The words felt too heavy.

“Because I said so,” she said finally, forcing a smile. “Just… trust me on this.”

The girl nodded without protest, and that only made Alexia feel worse.

“Rule three,” she added. “You’re not going to La Masia until you’re registered in a school. You can’t play football full-time until that’s sorted.”

The girl sat up straighter. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. She put her crayon down with a bit more force than necessary.

“How am I going to play football if I’m going to be in school?” she whined. “I need to focus on football”

Yeah, me too, Alexia thought. I also need to focus on football.

But now? She was going to have to skip training to find a school for this kid. 

Should Alexia choose the school with the best reputation or the one closest to home? What about a private one? Should she care more about the ambience of the school or how academically challenging it was? Her head already hurt.

“Look,” she said aloud. “Just because you want to play football doesn’t mean you can skip everything else. School’s part of everyone's life, and you’ll go, no arguing in that.”

“I’m not a kid!” the girl shot back, arms crossed tightly. “I’m twelve! I should be able to choose whether I want school or not.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow. This girl couldn't be serious right now.

“Twelve-year-olds are still kids,” Alexia said. “You get to choose a lot of stuff in life, school isn’t one of them.”

The girl slumped in her chair, grumbling under her breath. “That’s not fair.”

Alexia sighed again, leaning back. Alexia understood, she really did.  This kid had probably been forced to grow up too fast, and she was probably not treated like a kid back at the orphanage.

“You know,” Alexia said gently, “footballers don’t just wake up and become footballers. You don’t skip all the hard stuff, you know? It takes discipline, work, and sacrifices, which means doing stuff you don’t want to do, like going to school.”

She just pouted. “This isn’t going how I thought it would,” she complained. “This is worse! way worse than I thought.”

Alexia blinked. Oh this is not how she wanted?

“Oh, you think this is bad? Did you think I wanted a kid to look after?” Alexia snapped, unable to hold back. “You think I woke up and said, ‘today’s a great day to be a parent? Let me go look for some kids!”

The girl flinched, and her eyes widened, before narrowing again. 

“Well,” the girl said, “okay, no need to be harsh.”

Alexia rolled her eyes, but her chest softened. It wasn’t easy for the kid either, even if she was the one who put both of them in that situation. She did it out of despair, fearing she wouldn’t be able to follow her dream.

The kid--Y/n--as Pedro had told her, might act tough, but Alexia saw through it.

“Alright, alright, sorry” Alexia muttered, nudging the plate a little closer. “Now eat, and if you’re still hungry, take more.”

The girl stared at her, but then smiled in that cute way she did.

She picked up her fork and finally started eating, no more complaining about La Masia or school.

They didn't say anything during breakfast, but the silence wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable; it was nice, in some weird way. 

They just sat there and enjoyed their breakfast like they hadn’t just yelled at each other.

Like they were... figuring it out.

..

This was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

Y/n sat in the back seat of Alexia’s car with arms crossed tightly in front of her chest, her eyes fixed firmly on the window.

She had plans. Big plans. The kind of plans that ended with a Ballon d’Or by the time she turned fourteen. But getting dragged around to some school by Alexia wasn’t on her plans, absolutely not.

She was frustrated, and she barely knew what ‘frustrated’ meant.  Maybe she could still get away; she could sneak off under the La Masia bleachers and hide and sleep there. At least she would be close to training.

School? School was a complete waste of time. No matter how important Alexia said it was.

“You can be mad all you want,” Alexia said. “But you’ll go to school next Monday, either you go to school, or you just don’t train at all.”

Y/n didn’t respond. She lifted her chin higher.

“That little contract of yours? It says I have to put you in school, or else I’ll get arrested.” Alexia tried again, wanting to get the girl to say something. She had been quiet ever since she and Pedro had taken the kid to get signed up for the Spain Academy for Girls.

Y/n’s fingers curled into fists in her lap.

Arrested? Good.

Maybe if Alexia went to jail, she would stop interfering and trying to ruin everything Y/n had so carefully planned.

“If that means I’ll finally have the freedom I was promised,” Y/n snapped, turning her head just slightly, “then yes. Go ahead, get yourself arrested.”

The sharpness in her voice surprised even her. Y/b didn’t like being rude. Didn’t like being ungrateful. Especially not to someone who had let her eat as many servings of dinner as she wanted. 

But she was furious. No one was listening to her. No one understood that she didn’t want any of this. She just wanted to play football. That was it.

Alexia’s grip tightened around the steering wheel. Her gaze moved to the rearview mirror, locking eyes with Y/n for just a second before she looked away again.

“You weren’t promised any freedom,” Alexia said quietly. “You made that up in your head. Now you, well, we have to deal with the real consequences of this guardianship, Y/n.”

Y/n. There it was again. She hated it when Alexia used her name. Her real name. She preferred kid. But now? Now, Alexia had gone through her file, she knew her real name, and her story, possibly her medical records as well.

Y/n just wanted to get out of the orphanage and become something. That was her goal, her plan and her dream.

And it had been a good plan, too; it was structured. 

She had just picked the wrong adult to drag into it. She should have chosen someone who didn’t care if she was in school, someone who wouldn’t bother about paperwork or rules.

“I still don’t like it,” she muttered, turning her chin up stubbornly. “This whole school thing.”

Alexia didn’t miss a beat.

“It’s okay,” Alexia said, her voice dry. “You don’t have to like it, you just have to go.”

..

“I don’t want it,” Y/n said while shaking her head, her mouth in a pout, Alexia had come to recognise it as her normal response to being told what to do.

Alexia held up the strawberry-print pyjamas again, this time closer to the girl’s face, as if she could see the tiny fruits on it, she would like it. 

“Please? This is the fifth one I have shown you. You need clothes, ones that fit you.”

“No.”

Right after registering her for the school (a private school) Alexia had called Romeu to say she wouldn’t make it to training. He had sounded nervous, because she never missed training. But when Alexia said it was for ‘personal reasons’ he didn’t push.

Now here she was, in the middle of a kids’ clothing store in the mall, trying (and failing) to convince her twelve-year-old to pick out anything.

“Why not?” Alexia asked, exasperated. “This one is soft and cute. The one you have is too small, it barely covers your ankles!”

“Mine fits just fine,” Y/n said. “I can still wear it.”

“Por Dios, why are you so stubborn?” Alexia let out a quiet groan.

Then, a sales assistant appeared. “Hello! Can I help you two with anything today?”

It was kind of funny, actually, how fast Y/n transformed into a shy kid; she was ducking behind Alexia’s side like it was a safe place,

Apparently, she didn’t like strangers. Alexia wasn’t sure how she had managed to trust her so quickly.

“Hi!” Alexia greeted  “I’m just trying to get some clothes for this one,” she added, nodding at Y/n, “but she doesn’t seem to like anything. Do you have more options?”

Y/n pinched her in the side for that comment. Alexia ignored it.

“Of course,” the salesgirl said and gestured toward the other section of the store. “We’ve got some great stuff for preteens over here. That age is difficult, right…”

“Oh, you’re telling me,” Alexia muttered.

The woman led them to more clothing racks and then went away.

Alexia flipped through the rack and pulled out a navy-blue pyjama set with a whale on the front. It looked warm and cozy. Good.

“Look, this one’s cute…and it’s fleece-lined, so you would be warm.”

“I don’t want it,” Y/n snapped, this time sharper than before.

“Okay. What’s going on?” Alexia frowned and lowered the hanger.

Y/n looked down at her shoes and then to the side. “I just... I don’t have any money with me right now,” she whispered.

“What?” Alexia was so confused right now, she barely knew what to say or what to do.

Y/n moved her feet, not meeting Alexia’s eyes. “I said I don’t have money.”

“And?...”

“To pay for it,” Y/n mumbled. “I’m the one who’s gonna wear it.”

“Wait, you thought you had to pay for it?” If this were the case, then her attitude made sense. The kid wasn't just being grumpy.

Y/n shrugged like it was obvious. “Yeah?”

For a second, Alexia just looked at her. “Nena… you’re a kid, you don’t pay for things like this…It’s my job.”

“But I’m the one who needs it,” Y/n said quickly, arms crossing again. “So it should come from me.” 

Alexia crouched a little to meet her eye, holding the pyjamas gently between them.  “Look, I know you’re used to handling things on your own. I get it. But this? This isn’t one of those things, yeah? Taking care of you, it’s not some sort of favour.  It’s just... being responsible for someone, alright?”

Y/n’s eyes moved to hers for a split second before darting away again. 

“You don’t owe me anything for pyjamas, okay? Or food. Or school. That’s on me now.”

Y/n didn’t answer. But she didn’t argue either. She just stood there.

Alexia gave the pyjama a gentle wiggle. “So... do we hate the whales, or can I take this one to the register?”

Y/n rolled her eyes but didn’t move. 

“The strawberries were better,” she said shyly. 

Alexia grinned. “Good, I liked that one better, too.”

After the pyjamas, Alexia led her into another store, this one for everyday clothes. She was hoping that now that the ice had cracked a little, Y/n might actually help pick things out.

She wasn’t saying no to everything anymore, which was progress. But she wasn’t saying yes, either. Just quietly trailing behind, hands in her pockets, eyes darting across racks without landing on anything.

Alexia held up two jackets. One was a deep forest green, while the other was bright pink and puffy.

“Okay,” Alexia said. “So you like this one–” she shook the green one lightly, “-or this one?”

She looked over to find Y/n staring up at her with the biggest, roundest eyes. Then on the jackets. Then back at her.

She said nothing. Not a nod, not a shrug, just silence...again.

Alexia lowered both jackets slightly. “Nena? You can pick, you know. I’m not gonna be mad, it would actually help me a lot if you told me what you like.”

Then she finally spoke.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to want.”

The words hit harder than Alexia expected.

“You’re not supposed to want anything. Just… pick what you like, what you think is pretty.”

Y/n’s mouth pressed into a tight line. She didn’t answer,  but she did point at the pink one.

Alexia smiled. “Yayy!” she said, a little too enthusiastically. “Okay, this one’s warm, good for the weather this season.”

She folded the jacket over her arm and gently took Y/n’s hand, leading her toward the shirt section now. “I’ve never been in one of these,” the girl said suddenly.

Alexia glanced at her. “Where? This mall? Me neither–”

“No. A store,” Y/n clarified. “I’ve never been in a store.”

Alexia paused. “Wait, never?”

The girl shook her head. “It’s confusing. And big. And it has… a lot of stuff. At the orphanage, we just got clothes…we didn’t pick. I don’t know how to pick.”

Seeing her look so small, so unsure, did something strange to Alexia’s chest. She would take grumpy, stubborn Y/n over this quiet, unsure version of her any day.

“That’s okay,” Alexia said gently. “I’ll show you how to pick. Come here.”

Y/n took a step closer, watching her carefully.

“First, you think about what you need,” Alexia explained, flipping through hangers. “You need everything, but right now we’re looking for everyday shirts. It’s autumn, so we want clothes that are warm, but not too warm.”

The girl tilted her head slightly, paying attention, and for the first time since they had started this guardianship, Alexia felt like Y/n was really listening.

“This one’s a good example,” Alexia said, holding up a long-sleeved black shirt. “It’s simple, it goes with everything, and you can wear it when it’s chilly. If it gets colder, you can just put a jacket over.”

“So…” Y/n said slowly, “…think about the weather first?”

Alexia grinned. “Exactly. That’s a good place to start.”

Y/n nodded, then she pointed at another shirt, a navy blue one with, it had stars all over.

Alexia didn’t say anything; she just added it to the bag. They continued shopping, and it was easier now.

The girl was still quiet, but she started pointing at the things she liked. It wasn’t much, but it was something. And for Alexia, that was more than enough.

By the time they reached the checkout, they had managed to get seven shirts, two jackets, two pairs of pants, two pairs of shoes and one more pyjama set (thank God! This one had the barça logo in it) and some socks. 

It wasn’t everything the kid needed, not even close, but Alexia didn’t want to overwhelm her. Baby steps, maybe she could bring her back another day.

Afterwards, Alexia decided that they should eat. They sat down to eat at one of Alexia's favourite restaurants, and Alexia ordered her usual salad without even thinking, but then she looked at the girl.

“What do you want?”

Y/n stared up at the menu board confused. Her eyes darted from item to item.

“Hmm…” She looked at Alexia, then back at the menu . “I don’t know. hm… whatever you’re having?”

Alexia raised an eyebrow, amused. “Salad? You want salad?”

Y/n hesitated, then smiled sheepishly. “Not really.”

“I didn’t think so. What about some pasta?” Alexia smiled. “ And we’ll get a little salad on the side. Sounds good?”

The girl tilted her head like she was considering, but she nodded slowly. Alexia watched her as she turned her attention back to the table, running her finger along the edge. It struck Alexia again, like it had back in the store, just how much this girl had gone without what she needed.

Not just clothes or choices, but small things. Like being asked what she wanted for lunch.

And god, she was just a kid.

A kid who had forged a contract because she wanted to be a footballer so badly that she had  tricked a stranger into becoming her legal guardian.

Alexia still didn’t know what to do with that. Or how she was going to tell her the truth, that she wasn’t going to stay with Alexia much longer. 

The truth was: Alexia wasn’t fit to keep her.

Alexia knew nothing about raising a kid. She didn’t even remember to feed them properly; they were having lunch at 3 pm, because she had lost track of time and the girl hadn’t reminded her. 

Probably didn’t think she was allowed to?

Sure, Alexia had bought the girl clothes, but none of them actually matched, because she had just let the girl point at things, she didn’t have the heart to say no when an item looked…too much.

So now the sneakers didn’t go with the pants, the jackets didn’t match with half the shirts. But Y/n had looked… proud, almost, when she handed them over. And Alexia wasn’t going to ruin that.

And then…

Fuck

The books. The school book, and the uniform. 

Alexia’s stomach sank, and she even put her salad aside. She had forgotten to buy them. How was she supposed to be responsible for a child when she couldn’t even manage a damn shopping list?

She was a disaster. As a parent. As a guardian. Whatever label people wanted to put on it, she wasn’t cut out for it.

..

When they got home, Alexia was carrying what felt like a hundred shopping bags, her arms sore, and her fingers red from the handles digging into her skin. 

Not even the kid got away with it, Y/n was holding the stack of brand new schoolbooks, her body was slightly bent under the weight.

“Put them on the table,” Alexia said, closing the door behind them and dumping the bags on the sofa with a tired sigh.

Alexia stared at the mess for a moment: shirts, pants, jackets, shoes, socks…everywhere. She was going to have to organise it all. Probably fold it and fit it into the girl’s wardrobe somehow. 

It wasn’t even that much, not really, but Alexia had never folded clothes this small before.

Behind her, Y/n dropped the textbooks onto the dining table, groaning as she shook out her arms. “How much reading does this school want me to do?” she asked, staring down at the books.

“A lot, apparently,” Alexia muttered, rubbing her forehead.

Y/n flipped one of the books open, frowned at the text, then looked up at Alexia, her face scrunched.

“How am I supposed to play football with this many pages to do?”

Alexia rolled her eyes and walked past her toward the kitchen. 

“Forget about football for a moment, yeah? We have got other things to focus on.”

There was a pause, just a second. “You have other things to focus on. I don’t.” Y/n said sharply

Alexia stopped.

Turned halfway around.

She didn’t like that tone, not the words exactly. She also didn’t like that they were circling back to football again, for what felt like the seventh time that day.

“Alright,” Alexia said, voice tight. “Don’t use that tone. It’s not nice.”

Y/n didn’t say anything, she just stared at her, her arms were arms crossed in a very defiant way

Alexia took another deep breath. 

She wasn’t good at this, at talking to kids, at parenting, at figuring out when to push and when to let things go. And today? Today, she felt like she was doing everything wrong.

Alexia crossed the room slowly,and  rested a hand on the back of one of the chairs.

“I know football matters to you,” she said, more gently now. “But you’re still a kid. And school isn’t an enemy, it's not something that's in the way of your dream”

“But if I don’t work harder than everyone else at La Masia, I’ll fall behind, and be bad, bad at football! And then what?”

Alexia didn’t have an answer, at least not one the kid would accept. So instead, she pulled out the chair and sat down.

“Then we figure it out,” she said. “Together.”

Y/n looked at her for a moment, and for a second, Alexia thought she might say something. But instead, the girl just nodded once, and looked away.

Alexia let out a small sigh of relief..

“Good,” she said, voice firmer now. “Now you can start your homework.”

Y/n’s eyes went wide. “Homework??”

“Sí,” Alexia replied, already heading back to the pile of shopping bags. “Science. Page thirty. The school sent me an email, they said you could get a head start on the work you missed while you were at the orphanage.”

Y/n picked up the textbook and flipped to page thirty, putting it down at the table. 

She looked at the words for a moment, eyebrows knitting together, then she cleared her throat and began to read aloud.

“In this section, we are going to study how reproduction works and–”

Alexia’s face went completely red as she ran forward, snatched the book from Y/n’s hands and slammed it shut.

“Actually,” she stammered, trying to put the science book aside, “go study Spanish.”

Y/n frowned. “Spanish?”

“Sí, Spanish. Page twelve. The one with conjugations.”

Y/n hesitated, then shrugged and picked up the Spanish workbook. Alexia sank into her chair across from her, exhaling very hard.

Well, at least that crisis was prevented.

..

A/n: Hope you guys liked it <3

[gpcwsl]

Leah Williamson x Physio!Reader

Not today

WC: 514

Leah Williamson MasterList

MasterList

Warnings: short, and maybe Kyra being a slight pest?

-

Leah Williamson wasn’t the type to hesitate. She was a leader, decisive on the pitch and sure of herself in nearly every aspect of life. But when it came to you, hesitation clung to her like a shadow.

She sat on the leg press machine, pretending to focus on her reps, but her attention was elsewhere. Across the gym, you were helping Alessia Russo with her set, your hands carefully adjusting Alessia’s form. Leah’s gaze trailed over the way your sports bra fit snugly against your frame, how your joggers sat just right on your hips, the definition in your arms flexing slightly as you steadied Alessia.

Leah wished she was in Alessia’s spot.

“You’re so obvious.”

Leah’s head snapped to the side, where Kyra Cooney-Cross stood, arms crossed, smirking.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Leah muttered, going back to her set.

Kyra snorted. “Come on, mate. You’ve been staring at Y/n for the past ten minutes. You look like a lovesick puppy.”

Leah groaned. “Can you keep your voice down?”

“Why? Afraid she’ll hear and finally realise you’ve got the biggest crush on her?”

Leah rolled her eyes, though her heart pounded at the idea. Kyra wasn’t wrong—she was completely and utterly gone for you.

And it all started months ago, in the smallest, most unassuming way.

-

Leah had decided to try a new café around the block from her house. It was after training, and she was craving her usual drink. The place had a warm, inviting feel—nothing fancy, but homey. She stepped up to the counter, ordered, then moved aside to wait.

Then, the door opened, and in walked you.

Leah knew you, of course. Arsenal’s physio, always around during training, your conversations mostly casual. But this was different. This wasn’t a professional setting.

You noticed her immediately, your face lighting up with a smile. “Leah! Fancy seeing you here.”

Leah had never been particularly flustered by anyone, but something about the way you smiled—like seeing her was the best part of your day—made her brain short-circuit.

“Hey, Y/n,” she said, trying to sound cool, casual.

You made small talk, mentioning how you were finally trying this café after hearing great things. Leah nodded along, but her thoughts were occupied by something else entirely.

You were dressed simply—an oversized sweater tucked slightly into your jeans, the fabric cinching at your waist in a way that Leah couldn’t ignore. Your hair was tied up loosely, a few strands framing your face. You looked effortlessly perfect.

It hit Leah like a freight train.

Oh, shit. I’m in love with her.

The thought was terrifying, thrilling, and completely inescapable.

-

“Still haven’t made a move?” Kyra’s voice pulled Leah from her thoughts.

Leah sighed, rubbing her face. “It’s not that simple.”

Kyra grinned. “Oh, but it is. You just ask her out.”

Leah glanced at you again. You were laughing at something Alessia said, your eyes crinkling at the corners. Leah’s chest ached.

Maybe one day she’d find the courage.

Just… not today.

[nameless-ken]

bucky barnes x reader - Ceilings

based on the song by Lizzy McAlpine

warnings: lots of angst with some fluff mixed in

word count: 4.2k

Masterlist

Ceilings, plaster / Can’t you just make it move faster? / Lovely to be sitting here with you / You're kinda cute, but it's

The tower is unusually silent, given it’s the middle of the night and everyone has settled into their beds a little bit ago. 

You lie awake in your bed, limbs tangled in the sheets, body still but mind restless. You exhale slowly, trying to loosen the tension clinging to your chest. Sleep hasn’t come easily lately, not since you moved into the tower. Not since everything changed. 

The building is massive—sleek, modern, and a little too perfect. Long glass hallways reflect the city lights in fractured streaks. The common spaces are stylish but sterile, full of plush furniture that’s more for show than comfort. Your room is tucked in one of the quieter wings, far from the command center but close enough to hear the occasional late-night footsteps of others pacing through insomnia or unfinished business.

Everything about this place feels both too big and too small. Grand in scale, but intimate in the way it reminds you you’re not quite home. Not yet.

There’s an ache inside you. Not sharp but not sudden. Just… constant. A hollow, quiet kind of heaviness that won’t go away. You’re not even sure what you’re waiting for, you only feel like something is missing. Or maybe a particular someone. 

You’ve been part of the Thunderbolts—though Valentina prefers the rebrand, New Avengers—for six months now. Long enough to stop feeling like the new kid. Long enough to memorize the rhythms of this strange second life and the people who fill it.

Yelena is always the first to find you when you’re quiet too long, dragging you into conversations with a smirk and a sarcastic story. She’s blunt, often brutal, but she keeps you anchored. Alexei’s the heart behind the noise. His booming laugh echoing through the kitchen as he tells exaggerated tales from his Red Guardian days. He calls you kiddo and always saves you the last slice of whatever pizza he's hoarded. Bob—kind, quiet, thoughtful Bob—asks about your day with such sincere interest that it almost makes you cry the first time. John is a little harder to read. He keeps a measured distance, always polite but guarded, like he’s still deciding whether you deserve his trust. Ava too, sharp as glass and just as elusive. She moves like smoke, barely making a sound, often disappearing for days at a time. But she notices everything. Leaves small comforts in her wake: a painkiller packet when you’ve got a headache, your favorite tea waiting on the counter after a rough briefing. She never asks why you’re upset. She just knows when you are.

And then there's James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky.

You still can’t bring yourself to call him that, not out loud. James feels safer, more respectful. You’re not sure if you’ve earned the right to call him anything less formal.

He barely looks at you. Not in a cruel way—he’s not dismissive or rude. Just… distant. Like his body is in the room, but his mind hasn’t touched down in days. Like he’s suspended in time while everyone else is trying to catch up.

Still, he has his ways of showing his caring side. You’ve seen it. The small things like restarting the coffee pot after he uses the rest or fixes the jammed training equipment before anyone else realizes. 

Maybe that’s why you notice him so much.

You’ve tried to break through to him even if he can’t sense it. You’ve folded his clean laundry when you see the piles sit untouched for days. You make sure to pick up his favorite protein bars when the supply runs low. You always make sure to offer him lunch if you’re in the kitchen at the same time. 

He never says much. Just a quiet nod. A gentle thank you, barely above a whisper. Eyes that flick to yours for a moment but drift away just as quick.

You know what he’s been through. You’ve heard the whispers. You’ve heard the short version from Yelena and read about it on the internet on one of your nightly deep dives. And still, you feel it. This pull toward him, quiet but persistent.

You’ve told no one. Not Bob. Not Yelena. No one. If they knew, they’d tease you to death. Worse, they might tell him. And that would ruin everything. Whatever slow, careful steps you’ve taken to exist in his orbit, to mean something, however small, would crumble.

So instead, you keep your distance.

And you dream of him. Every night.

You blink—and suddenly, the ceiling is gone.

You’re sitting at one of the small tables in the common room, sipping your morning cup of coffee. It feels different now, warmer even with a steady rain continuously tapping against the windows. It’s peaceful, the kind of moment you want to stretch on forever and never leave. 

James sits across from you. 

Not the quiet, reserved version you see during training or passing in the hall. This James looks relaxed, leaning back in his chair with a genuine smile resting on his face. His hoodie sleeves are pushed up to his elbows and he holds a coffee mug between his hands. He looks at you, not past or through you, but at you. 

“You always this quiet?” he asks, teasingly.

You laugh under your breath. “Only when I don’t know what to say and trying to enjoy my morning coffee.”

His smile grows and he leans forward, elbows on the table now. Closer.

“You trying to say I’m ruining it?” he teases, tilting his head slightly. 

You shake your head, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Maybe just a little.”

He huffs out a laugh, quiet and low, and it settles between you like the steam rising from your mugs. The rain is louder now, steady against the windows but it only makes everything feel softer, more intimate.

“You know,” he says after a moment, voice softer now, “I like being here with you.”

Your breath catches slightly, but you try not to show it. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nods, eyes never leaving yours. “It’s easy. Not a lot of things feel easy these days.”

The vulnerability in his tone makes your chest ache. You want to reach for him, to touch his hand, to say something—anything—that will let him know you understand. But instead, you just nod.

“I get that,” you whisper.

He leans back again, fingers curling around the handle of his mug. His shoulders drop slightly, like the tension he always carries is slipping away as each second passes.

You’ve seen him in fights, stoic and deadly. You’ve seen him in passing, quiet and unreadable. But this version—this James, warm and at ease and right in front of you—it feels like a secret no one else has gotten to see.

And he’s showing it to you.

You glance out the window, watching the rain slide down the glass in crooked little paths. When you turn back to him, you find him already looking at you.

“Can I tell you something?” you ask, unsure where the courage is coming from, only that it feels okay here, with him, in this moment.

He nods, and that’s all the encouragement you need.

“You’re kinda cute,” you admit, voice barely above the rain.

His eyebrows lift in surprise, and then he laughs. Really laughs. The sound feels homely and real, and you swear you’ll remember it forever.

“Just kinda?” he teases, ocean blue eyes twinkling through the gray cloudy sky surrounding you.

You bite your lip, feeling a blush creep up your neck. “Don’t push it, Barnes.”

His smile softens into something gentler, quieter. “It’s lovely,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You tilt your head. “What is?”

“Sitting here with you. It’s… lovely.”

Your heart flips in your chest, a little too fast. A little too hopeful.

The moment stretches, long and golden and safe. You want to live in it. To press pause. To stay.

But already, your dream starts to shift.

The lighting dims. The room feels colder. The rain grows louder, harder now.

This isn’t real.

But you don’t want to believe it. Not yet.

Raining harder / My shoes are now full of water / Lovely to be rained on with you / It's kinda cute, but it's

You're outside now.

The air is fresh and thick with the earthy scent of rain. The sidewalk glistens beneath the streetlights, every puddle catching the reflections. Your shoes are soaked, squelching with every step, but you don’t care. You should care. But right now, you don’t.

James walks beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, hood down, letting the rain hit him full-on. Droplets cling to his lashes, trail down his cheekbones, dampen the curls at the nape of his neck.

You laugh, something he just said lost to the sound of rainfall and he turns to you with that same open smile from the common room. Bright and rare.

“It’s raining harder,” you say through your grin, holding your arms out slightly like you're trying to feel every drop.

He looks up, then back at you. “Think we should head back?”

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

So you both keep walking, neither of you in a hurry. Rain soaks through your clothes and into your hair, but all you feel is the warm thrum of adrenaline and the steadiness of his presence beside you.

There’s no urgency. No fear. Just the rhythm of water falling, your feet splashing lightly with each step, and the soft laughter shared between two people who feel like they don’t have to try so hard for once.

“You’re going to catch a cold,” he says, glancing over at you, but there’s no bite to it, only a flicker of concern in his voice.

You nudge him with your shoulder. “So will you.”

“I’ve had worse,” he murmurs but the way his mouth tugs into that to-die-for crooked grin makes your chest flutter. “This isn’t so bad.”

Your brows knit, but you don’t ask him to explain. Instead, you say, “It’s kind of perfect, actually.”

He glances sideways at you. “Perfect?”

You shrug, still smiling. “I don’t know. Being soaked to the bone, walking in the dark with someone who doesn’t make me feel like I have to fill every silence. That kind of perfect.”

He slows just a little, like the words catch him off guard. “I like that.”

“Me, or the rain?” you ask, teasing gently.

He huffs a soft laugh. “Both.”

You stop walking, and he does too, like he was only waiting for you to set the pace. You’re both standing there now, in the middle of the sidewalk, rain coming down in sheets, and for a moment, it’s like the world folds itself around you. Everything is wet and shimmering and suspended in time.

You look at him, water dripping down his jaw. His hair is flattened but his curls pop out around the base of his neck, his clothes cling to his body, and he looks at you like you’re the only thing worth focusing on.

And for a second—just a second—it almost feels like he might kiss you.

Your breath catches. Your heart stutters.

But instead, he reaches out and brushes a raindrop from your cheek. His thumb lingers for a second longer than it should. Just long enough for you to close your eyes and memorize the warmth of it.

When you open them again, he’s still watching you.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He doesn’t ask what you mean. Maybe he already knows.

Still, he murmurs, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You feel… different when you smile like that,” he says, and his voice is so honest, so exposed, that it startles you.

“Different how?”

He shifts slightly, then states, “Like maybe there’s a version of me who could make you smile like that more often.”

Your throat tightens as you reach for the right words but they get caught in your throat.

So instead, you say, “You already do.”

That makes his expression falter, as if he’s trying not to let himself believe it but he wants to. 

“It’s lovely,” he says again, and this time, when he smiles, it’s smaller. Sadder.

Like part of him knows, too.

That this isn’t real.

But you both choose not to say it.

Not yet.

So short / Then you're driving me home / And I don't wanna leave / But I have to go / You kiss me in your car / And it feels like the start of a movie I've seen before

The sound of the rain softens as you settle into the passenger seat of James’ car. It taps against the windshield, soothing like a lullaby. The heater wraps the car with warmth and everything outside fades into a blur of streetlights and stormclouds.

You glance over at him.

James grips the steering wheel with one hand, the other resting casually on the gearshift. His knuckles are still damp. His jaw is clenched like he’s thinking about something he won’t say.

Neither of you speak. Not right away.

The ride is silent, but not uncomfortable. The kind of silence that feels full, thick with the words neither of you knows how to say. You don’t want the night to end. Not yet. Not when the space between you has finally started to shrink.

You watch the city pass by in sharp glimmers. Everything feels slowed down when you’re with him. As if time is giving you this moment on purpose.

“I used to hate the rain,” you announce suddenly.

He glances at you. “Yeah?”

You nod. “It always made me feel… stuck. Like everything good was just on the other side of it, but I couldn’t get there.”

He’s quiet for a small second, then agrees, “I know that feeling.”

You turn slightly in your seat to face him more fully. “But tonight—it didn’t feel like that. Not with you.”

He doesn’t smile, not right away. But his expression shifts softly as his fingers flex around the wheel.

“I don’t feel stuck when I’m with you,” he admits, so quietly it nearly gets swallowed by the hum of the engine and the patter of the rain on glass. “I don’t feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

The ache in your chest builds from his admission. “That’s rare, huh?”

His mouth tugs up at the corner. “For me? Yeah. You could say that.”

Then, without warning, James eases the car to the side of the road.

The tower is still ten minutes away.

He doesn’t say why he stops and you don’t ask.

He shifts into park and leans back in his seat. His fingers tap once against the steering wheel before falling still. You can hear his breathing. Rapid. Careful.

The entire car feels impossibly small now.

You turn to look at him, heart thudding in your chest. He’s already looking at you. Really looking at you. Not like in the kitchen. Not like in training. Not a flicker or a glance.

This is different.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whisper. “But if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking... I don’t want you to talk yourself out of it this time.”

His throat bobs with a swallow. “I always do, don’t I?”

“Yeah,” you utter, barely a breath. “But I always wish you wouldn’t.”

Your breath catches as he leans in slowly, measured, giving you every chance to pull away.

But you don’t. You couldn’t if you tried.

And then he kisses you.

Soft.

Certain.

Like he’s thought about it a thousand times before and now he’s finally letting himself have it.

Your eyes flutter closed. The world quiets around you, even the rain.

He kisses you like you’re a secret he’s kept for too long. Like you’re something he doesn’t want to lose again. His hand comes up to your jaw, fingers brushing your skin like you might disappear if he’s too rough.

You murmur against his mouth, “Took you long enough.”

He smiles into the kiss just barely. “Wasn’t sure I deserved it.”

You pull back an inch, enough to meet his eyes. “You do.”

It’s not rushed or desperate. It’s gentle but almost euphoric. Like it’s the start of something that could change everything.

And in that moment, your heart swells so big it feels like it might burst. You’re weightless, floating. Safe. Whole.

This—you think—this must be it.

This is real. Finally.

The beginning.

The start of a movie you’ve seen before.

Bedsheets, no clothes / Touch me like nobody else does / Lovely to just lay here with you / You're kinda cute, and I would say all of this / But I don't wanna ruin the moment / Lovely to sit between comfort and chaos

The dream shifts again, soft around the edges like film slipping out of focus.

Now you’re in your room. But it doesn’t feel like your room.

The lighting is low, golden. The air still carries that soft scent of rain, but it's distant now, replaced by comfort and calmness.

You’re lying tangled in sheets, legs wound with James’ beneath the blankets. Your head rests against his bare chest, his fingers tracing feather-light patterns along your spine. Every now and then, he presses the faintest kiss to your temple, like he can’t help himself. Like it’s second nature.

There’s no sound but your breathing. His heartbeat. The subtle creak of the mattress when either of you shifts. The world outside is gone. There’s only this.

You want to speak up but can’t, not because there’s nothing to say, but because there’s too much.

You want to tell him how long you’ve waited for this. How many nights you’ve imagined what it might feel like to be held like this, to be touched like this and not just with his strong, tempting hands but with intention. With reverence. Like you matter. Like he sees you. Really sees you.

That if you say what’s in your heart, the dream might dissolve around you. And you’re not ready for it to end.

So you stay there, curled into his side and hold on just a little tighter.

His hand drifts down your arm, fingers curling around yours. He anchors you. Like he always has, even if he never realized it.

And for a moment, everything is exactly as it should be.

Perfect.

Still.

Then James whispers with his deepened morning voice you wish you could bottle up to keep forever, “I don’t know how to do this.”

You shift just enough to look up at him. “Do what?”

His eyes search yours. “Be… happy. Be safe. Want something and let myself believe I could keep it.”

Your throat tightens. You press your forehead lightly against his jaw. “You don’t have to know how. We’ll figure it out.”

He exhales, a shaky breath. “You make it feel easy. Like I’m allowed to want this.”

“You are,” you murmur. “You’re allowed to want something soft.”

He closes his eyes, hand tightening around yours. “And you? What do you want?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know. But because it might break you to say it out loud.

Still, you do.

“You,” you whisper. “Just you. In whatever way you’ll let me have you.”

He goes still.

Then he shifts so he can look at you fully. His expression is unreadable at first then it crumples, softens into a raw, open and real reaction. 

His voice breaks as he whispers your name. “You already have me.”

And God, it hurts because you know it’s true.

Here, in this dream, he’s yours.

His metal fingers brush your cheek, gentle as a sigh. “I think about this all the time. You. Us. But I never let myself…”

“I know,” you admit. “Me too.”

He presses his lips to your hair, to your temple, to the spot just below your ear. Each one a promise you’re afraid to believe in.

“I wish I was braver,” he whispers.

“You’re here,” you reply. “That’s enough.”

You close your eyes again, soaking in how lovely it is to sit between comfort and chaos with him. James shifts slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

The comfort of his skin and the contrast of cold his metal arm brings, the way he holds you like you’re breakable but in a way that tells you he’d never let you break.

The chaos lives just underneath. There will always be something in you that knows this can’t last.

Trembling at the edges of this moment, like a ripple in a dream you’re trying too hard to keep from slipping away.

But still, you stay.

Just a little longer.

Because this—him, here, like this—is the only thing that’s felt real in such a long time.

But it's over / Then you're driving me home / And it kinda comes out / As I get up to go / You kiss me in your car / And it feels like the start of a movie I've seen before

Your dream changes again.

You barely notice it at first, how the glow has dimmed, how the softness in James’ features fades just slightly. How the air is cooler, the silence pressing down on you a little harder.

You’re back in the car.

The seatbelt cuts gently across your chest. The windows are fogged but the outside world is darker, unfamiliar, like it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Rain beads along the glass again, slower now, heavier.

This silence isn’t like the one before. It’s not full, it’s empty. Something has shifted. You can feel it, even though nothing has been said.

He pulls up in front of your building except it’s not your building. Not really. Just some abstract version of “home” that your mind pieced together in the dream. It doesn’t matter. It’s the end. You can feel it.

He puts the car in park and you don’t make any movement to get out.

“I don’t want to get out,” you tell him.

His hand tightens on the steering wheel but he doesn’t look at you. “I know.”

“Then don’t make me,” you plead. “Not yet.”

James exhales slowly, like the weight of your words hurts him. “This was never going to last.”

“Why not?” Your voice cracks. “Why can’t it?”

Finally, he turns to you. There’s something sparkling in his eyes—remorse, maybe. Regret. Or worse, detachment wrapped in sorrow.

“Because I don’t trust what I want,” he says. “Not with you. Not when it matters.”

You feel your breath catch. “You matter to me.”

“I know,” he says again, quieter this time. Like he hates the way it sounds coming out of his mouth. “That’s why I’m letting you go.”

You shake your head. “You don’t get to make that choice for both of us.”

“I’m not,” he says. “I’m making it for you. Before I break something I can’t fix.”

The silence is thick now. Awful. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to rewind the dream and start over.

But before you can speak, he leans across the console.

And kisses you.

But it’s different this time.

There’s something final in the way his lips meet yours. Something soft and mournful. Like a goodbye wrapped in what could have been love.

Your fingers grasp at his jacket, desperate to hold onto him and this dream. “Please,” you whisper against his mouth, barely audible. “Please don’t go.”

He pulls back just far enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“If things were different,” he breathes, “I would’ve stayed.”

You close your eyes. “They don’t have to be.”

“They always are.”

You kiss him back.

Trying to hold onto it. Trying to memorize the shape of his mouth, the gentleness of his hand cupping your cheek. Trying to make it last.

But it slips through your fingers.

You blink—

—and he’s gone.

The car dissolves into a shadow. The seat beneath you disappears.

But it's not real / And you don't exist / And I can't recall the last time I was kissed / It hits me in the car / And it feels like the end of a movie I've seen before

You jolt awake in your room.

The sheets are still tangled around your legs. The moonlight still spills across the wall.

And you’re alone.

The silence rushes back in, sharp and cold this time. Like a reminder. Like a punishment.

Your throat tightens.

You blink up at the ceiling, eyes wide, heart thudding dully in your chest.

And that’s when it hits you:

It wasn’t real.

He wasn’t real.

Not like that.

You can’t recall the last time someone kissed you. Not in real life and definitely not like that.

You press your palms to your eyes, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill. Your chest aches with the weight of the dream, with the loss of something you never really had.

It feels like the end of a movie you’ve seen before.

The kind where the credits roll in silence with tears streaming down your face. 

You see him in the hallway the next morning.

He walks past, quiet as ever. A coffee in hand, hair damp from a shower. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t speak but he glances at you. Just once.

A small nod.

And then he’s gone.

It’s all you’ll get.

And maybe it should be enough.

But as you stand there, blinking back the ghost of a dream, the echo of his voice, his touch, you know it’s not.

Still, you carry it.

Even if it breaks your heart a little more each time.

thanks so much for reading <3 my Bucky requests are open!!