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lovelybarnes · 1 year

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Flirting and Football- B. Barnes

Pairings: bucky barnes x reader Warnings: past assault of reader, as slow burn as i can, au so bucky is different although i tried to not make him so ooc, sort of enemies to lovers?, genuinely can’t remember anymore, crappy writing in the beginning because i started writing this a year ago but i swear it gets better i promise About: request!! Bucky barnes and a college au where reader is the only one who isn’t interested in him basically

The end of your pen rests between your lips, unused as you scan the textbook page in front of you, your eyes thinning occasionally as you read. Your study partner’s book lays open in front of her, ten pages behind, and notebook adorned with two sole words.

She’s reciting the events of a date she went on yesterday or the day before, although admittedly, you’d only caught detached words for the past double-digit minutes. Your careful attention had dwindled down to nods as you subtly tapped at your notebook, then not-so-subtly and finally disappeared altogether as you made miscellaneous noises.

You hum along now, eyes flickering from your notes to the material as you annotate pages with bright sticky notes.

She doesn’t seem to notice your disinterest, gushing about arms and hair, and the kiss that changed her life. The words don’t last too long in your mind, too cluttered with equations and vocabulary to make space for them.

“The girls told me he goes on a lot of dates but I can just tell I’m the one.”

You glance at your open computer, frowning at the slimming battery life, and purse your lips at the time. Sighing softly, you meet Quinn’s glazed eyes, offering her a tight smile you hope is somewhat believable.

“Is he in psychology too?” you ask, tapping on the notes the both of you were supposed to start when she began talking.

“Bucky? Oh no,” she laughs, the finger twirling her red hair pulling away to wave her hand dismissively. “He’s in sports or something. He's on the soccer team, you know.”

You nod. “Wow.”

“I know, oh my god.” She fans herself. “Did I tell you he basically won the last game?”

Probably. You duck your chin, highlighting a sentence. “Isn’t it a group effort?”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Well, yeah, but he scored the winning goal.”

“Okay then,” you agree, deciding that you can finish your notes at your dorm. “I didn’t go to the last game, so what do I know?”

Quinn’s eyes go wide. “You didn’t go?” she exclaims, and you shush her, confirming. “Why?”

You shrug. “I had to do something.”

“You have to go to the next one tomorrow and see him in action. But don’t fall in love,” she warns with a giggle. “He’s mine.”

“Promise,” you reply hollowly, shutting your laptop. “Well, I have to go. This was helpful, though,” you lie.

“Oh, yeah, totally. I have to go too, rest up for the big game tomorrow. Gotta be there early to support Bucky,” Quinn informs. You stack your books to carry them back to your dorm.

“Right,” you respond, standing. “I hope everything goes well with him,” you say as you walk out.

She shoots you a big grin and a nod, her face bright as she agrees.

It’s cold when you step through the doors, bouncing on your feet and hugging your things closer to your chest as you begin to walk toward your dorm. You move to pull out your phone from your back pocket, quickly unlocking it to get to your contacts list. You press on Bruce’s contact and listen to the two beeps until he picks up.

“I hate you so much right now,” you greet, cutting his cheery hello off.

“What? What did I do?”

“‘I’ll be there!’ ‘How could I miss studying physics?’” you mock, imitating his voice. “You left me there, and I was stuck listening to Quinn's monologue about how the quarterback or whatever is the love of her life!”

“What quarterback?” Bruce asks.

“Does it matter? Honestly?” you rebut, taking care to watch your surroundings as you bully your friend. “Your quarterback wouldn’t cheat on you so I’m assuming it’s one that’s not Thor.”

“Okay, okay, I know. I’m sorry about ditching you. Thor and I just finished, we can come by and pick you up at the library. And Thor is a defender. Different sport entirely.”

“Whatever and ew,” you complain. “And I’m already on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“What? I told you to not walk home alone. Just wait for me.”

“Don’t worry. The dorm isn’t that far and you’re not exactly the most threatening anyway,” you remind. “I’ll be fine. ”

“Fine. Keep me on the line and be careful,” Bruce tells you.

“Of course,” you quip. A pause drapes over the two of you, the silence only interrupted by the steady sound of your footsteps on the concrete. You turn, leaves crunching underneath your shoes and you can practically hear Bruce relax somewhat, knowing that you’re nearby. You put him on speaker to hear better. “How’d it go with Thor today?”

��Really good.” The golden thread of happiness threaded through Bruce’s words comes through clear and clean. You can imagine him as he talks into the phone, glancing at Thor to make sure he can’t hear as he plays with his fingers. “I’m really sorry for leaving you there.”

“You’re not,” you amend. “But it’s fine. I’m glad you’re happy.”

“I am,” Bruce confirms.

“I don’t know how you find the time to juggle everything. It’s kind of terrifying,” you laugh, expecting him to tease you back, but his answer comes back honest.

“I know you think of boyfriends and whatever as distractions, but it’s the opposite. It’s not juggling if I have help carrying everything.”

You push your tongue against your cheek, listening to the rustling of the trees. You grab your keys as you arrive at your dorm door. “I’m here.”

“Finally.” You roll your eyes, opening the door to see your roommate and her brother inside.

“Hey Wanda, Piet.”

Wanda smiles at you and Pietro winks before greeting Bruce through your phone.

“Okay, Bruce, are we studying tomorrow?” you ask him, balancing your things in your arms. When Pietro notices, he stands, taking your books from you and setting them down on your table. You thank him and pat his arm.

“Before the game? Sure,” he replies. You take him off speaker, pulling your phone to your ear, not noticing that the mention of the game has caught Pietro and Wanda's attention.

“You’re going?” you question. “I thought Thor was benched.”

“He’s off!” There’s a whoop you recognize as Thor’s that makes you smile. “Which is why it’s an important game we need to go to.”

“We?” you echo.

“We as in you and I,” Bruce verifies.

“Wait, I have to go too? Why?” you whine.

Pietro cuts in, “You have to go! How will we win without our lucky charm?”

You purse your lips and squint at him. “Didn’t you guys win last game?”

“Still! Come on, please,” he insists. Wanda joins in, offering to bake you cookies.

You search your brain for excuses. “I have things to do.”

“If it’s not ‘stay home and binge a series,’ I'll let you skip,” Bruce chimes.

You frown as the siblings grin.

“Yeah, you’re going,” Bruce declares. “They’re not that bad and you know it. Besides, Thor wants you to braid his hair. You know my fingers always get tangled.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically. “But I want it noted that it’s only because I really like cookies.” You focus on Wanda, who nods enthusiastically. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Bruce repeats your words before you hang up, and at the click, you let yourself fall on your couch.

Wanda kisses your head and pats your shoulder comfortingly. “It’s going to be fun.”

“Standing in the middle of students I don’t know as they yell at a ball does not sound fun to me,” you disagree, but she ignores you.

“Even Vis is going,” she argues. “And you know how excited Thor gets when you braid his hair.”

You mutter incoherently.

“We’ll leave at three,” she instructs with a smile.

“I could be doing so many useful things right now,” you hiss at Bruce, remembering the half-written essay you have saved on your laptop, a string of frustratedly typed letters highlighted and waiting to be replaced with something coherent typed just beneath it.

Bruce had made you leave just as you began to taste the word you were looking for, assuring you that going out to see a game would somehow give your fried mind the jolt it needed. With little argument and the promise you’d committed to with a hook of your pinkie, you’d sighed and shut your laptop, leaving your apartment early to see the team before the game.

You could recognize some faces thanks to Pietro forcing you out to a few team celebrations and the occasional game you never paid much attention to. Although he’d laid off a while ago when Bruce and Thor started dating, your best friend had dragged you to every soccer-related event he didn’t want to go to alone. Pietro never minded your absence as much as Bruce did, always satisfied as long as you celebrated or consoled him afterward.

The word you’d been wracking your brain for suddenly comes to mind when you sit next to Bruce on a bench, pulling your phone out of your pocket to note it down, not noticing when the entire soccer team begins to leave the locker room, spilling into the hall where you’re slumped with your best friend.

Thor bellows your name excitedly when he spots you both, heading over. You glance up to give him a smile, quickly continuing to type the stray thoughts you’d been trying to catch when he turns, an extravagant arm extending as if to present you to the few guys with him. “This is the lovely lady I told you all about. She is very smart.”

You laugh at his introduction, tucking your phone back into your pocket. “Thank you, Thor.”

“Of course! And you all know Bruce, of course.”

There are chimes of agreement and greetings for your friend, a few of the players coming up to you. Pietro arrives first, as always, and pecks your forehead. “I, for one, am very glad you came to cheer us on.”

“We’ve heard a lot about you,” another says, huge and blonde, but his features are softened by an open grin. “I’m Steve.” He juts a finger at the brunet next to him, his hair tied up into a neat little bun at the nape of his neck, blue eyes shining as they observe you. “That’s Bucky.”

You smile at them, nodding. “Nice to meet you. I’ve actually heard a lot.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow, pleasantly surprised. “Really?”

You stare at him blankly, opening and closing your mouth like a fish. “I meant Steve.” Steve looks startled. “I saw his work when I was volunteering at the art show last month. It was great, I actually bought the piece with the lilies!”

“Oh.” Bucky blinks blankly, tongue poking into his cheek before he clears his throat and manages a lift of the left edge of his lips. “‘Makes sense someone so pretty would have good taste.”

You stare silently at him for a second, relieved when Steve’s surprise takes a second to process.

“Wait, me?” Steve points stupidly at himself. “My art?”

“It was amazing, I couldn’t let it slip by!”

“I told you,” Bucky tells him, elbowing his arm. He, unlike the other players, wears a dark sleeve over the entirety of his left arm, all the way up to his fingers. His fingertips, jagged pink, peek out. “I wish you woulda let me go. I could’ve seen the art and met her sooner.”

His friend sends him a furtive glance. “Is this your first time coming to a game?” Steve wonders as he turns back to you.

You shake your head. “Pietro is my roommate’s brother and Thor’s my best friend’s boyfriend. They drag me here when they feel like it, but it’s my first time being back here.” You gesture to the hall. “I’m usually a little late because Bruce drives like a grandmother.”

Bruce sighs, sending you a short glance that you respond to with a gentle nudge of his shoulder.

Blue eyes nods, careful to give you his full attention. “Well, I think you should come around more often.”

You scan him for a second. “Why?” you ask genuinely.

He pauses as he begins to explain, eyes pinched in confusion before Thor’s booming voice cuts him off, reminding you that you need to braid his hair. You give them a final smile before standing. “Duty calls, I guess.”

“So you’ll come around?” He calls after you, frowning when you respond with a transparent smile and ingenuine thumbs up. “Huh,” he says.

“What?” Steve responds, a little slowly, knowingly. He knows well what is making Bucky’s features crease in that way, but he’d prefer hearing it from his friend’s mouth.

“Just… wondering why I’d never seen her before. Pretty.”

“Uh huh.” Steve nods disbelievingly. Knowing he isn’t going to be able to push it out of his friend, he begins to walk toward the field, not waiting up for Bucky, the man caught up in his thoughts. “‘Thought it was because the line didn’t work,” he finally tells him, catching Bucky’s attention.

“What’re you talkin’ about, punk? What line?”

Steve snickers. “Any of ‘em.”

The next time Bucky sees you is across the courtyard, arms wrapped around books, your fingers curved protectively around the edges of your laptop. You struggle as you talk to someone he recognizes, bouncing lightly on the balls of your feet as you reach to brush strands of hair away from your eyes.

Why you don’t have a backpack like every other person is beyond him, but it’s the last thing on his mind when your eyes meet his and you smile and wave. Yeah, he knows how to handle this—the attention, the blushing, the flattery.

The hand he raises to wave back freezes awkwardly when he realizes your attention isn’t on him, but rather following something behind his shoulder. His hand lowers as he feels Pietro brush past him and over to you, Wanda following close by. She catches Bucky’s actions and sends him an amused look.

You accept the kiss Pietro drops on your forehead and greet Wanda excitedly, too busy chatting with her to notice the two pens that slip from your pile.

Bucky sniffs, tugging his varsity jacket tighter and deciding to embrace his mistake, walks over to you.

“Hey,” he greets, your name coming out like silk, shooting you a smile. He bends down to pick up your pens, handing them to you with a cajoling rise of his lips.

You return it a pause later. “Hey, um—thanks…” you struggle for a second before you’re cut off.

“Bucky!” the classmate that you were talking to exclaims, and Bucky realizes it’s Quinn, the girl he’d gone out on a date with a while ago. “I saw you on the field yesterday,” she tells him, twirling a strand of red hair around her finger. “You were amazing.”

“I appreciate it,” he thanks her, his eyes flickering back to you for a second, spotting you beginning to step away with a short wave and an elbow to Wanda's side. “I should go, I needed to talk to her,” he starts, acting quickly. “But it was nice to see you again. You look great, I like your necklace.”

Quinn’s fingers reach to pinch at the pendant on her chain, tilting her head at Bucky as she beams. “Thank you!”

Bucky nods, turning to find you gone. He looks around, surprised, but finally catches sight of you turning a corner with your friends. Before he can head toward you, Quinn catches his arm.

“Aren’t you going to ask me out again?” She smiles at him, eyes wide and shiny.

He winces, forcing himself to not glance back at you. “You’re a really great girl, Quinn, but I don’t think we’d work out. I’m sorry.”

“Oh,” Quinn says quietly, not returning the apologetic smile he sends her. He twists his lips and apologizes again before jogging over to you, slowing to match your pace when he finally catches up.

“Hey again,” he quips, offering you a smile. You return it kindly, twirling your pens between your fingers.

“Hey, Bucky.” Probably accidentally, you enunciate his name in a way that makes him realize you didn’t remember it when he came up to you earlier, and he bites back an embarrassed blush. “It was a good game yesterday.”

“Thank you,” he replies easily. “How was I?”

You cock your head at him. “Fine? You… were a soccer player.”

Pietro laughs, pulling you closer. “He’s asking if he lived up to the stories,” he clarifies, shooting Bucky a look. “‘Does another pretty girl think I’m great too?’” he mocks, the imitation edged in his accent.

You hum in understanding, turning back to Bucky. “Stories?” you echo. Your features bear no likeness to the pull Bucky is used to with girls, nothing implying the agreement or validation he’s usually welcomed with.

“Oh, you know,” Bucky starts with a nonchalant shrug, “of the ‘insane stamina’ and ‘could totally carry a bus’ variety. You know, the ‘Winter Soldier’ name.”

Your eyebrows raise. “‘Winter Soldier?’” you repeat, words bolded in an unconscious drama.

“’S my nickname,” Bucky explains sheepishly. You continue to stare at him for a second before cracking a smile.

“Bucky Barnes, right?” you ask him. He pushes his tongue against his cheek at the blow to his ego and nods. “Which one were you again? All the uniforms are the same, I can only recognize Thor and Piet.”

Pietro hoots. “Fifteen, baby!”

Bucky eyes you, his cheeks pulling with an amused lilt. “You wound me, doll.”

“I wound you?” you giggle, unable to help it. “This is our first conversation and I have the power to wound you. I don’t know how I feel about having this power over a stranger.”

Bucky gasps, reaching out to grab your hand with his ungloved hand and wrap it around an invisible knife to plunge it into his chest. He chokes as he mimes nursing his wound. “Just digging it in deeper, aren’t you? Vixen.”

“Oh, come on, you expect me to have learned your number after knowing you for five minutes?” you exclaim with mild indignance, a whisper of amusement betraying it. You click your tongue. “You were fine, I’m sure,” you respond finally. Wanda jabs an elbow into your arm and whispers something to you. Your eyes light up. “Oh, you’re seventeen! The ball hogger! You do realize you’re in a team, right?”

Pietro claps, nodding approvingly at you. “And me, little flower?”

You roll your eyes. “You were fast. Like always.”

“That’s code for ‘the best out there,’” Pietro tells Bucky.

“I think the code for that is Bucky Barnes,” Bucky retorts, turning back to you. “‘Got a favorite player yet?” He asks you.

You tilt a brow at him. “On the soccer team?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms.

“Based off of what?” You counter.

“Anything.”

“Oh.” You think. “Then no.”

Pietro clears his throat loudly.

“What if I get you the best seat possible next game?” Bucky offers.

You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m good where I am.”

“She barely pays attention anyway,” Wanda informs. “All she does is complain.”

You nod. “And I can do that in any seat.”

“Alright… what if you wear my jersey at the next game?” Bucky continues.

You raise an eyebrow. “And you’re convincing me, right?”

“You should be swooning right now,” Bucky argues accusingly, but his words are tinged with a grin.

“Oh, my bad,” you deadpan, placing a hand on your chest and rocking on your heels. You flutter your lashes at him and melt your lips into a watery smile. “Oh my, golly! Benson’s sweaty jersey!”

“Bucky,” Bucky grumbles. “Bucky’s sweaty jersey.”

“Right,” you reply with an attentive nod, laughing quietly. Your attention is drawn by another building and you turn. “I gotta go, but please keep the jersey far away from me.” You point at Bucky and then wave at Wanda and Pietro. “I’ll see you guys around.”

“Me too!” Bucky shouts after you. You only reply with a thumbs up Bucky can tell is sarcastic even if he can’t see your face, slipping past a closing door. Bucky purses his lips, looking after you. “Huh.”

A hand slaps down on his shoulder, and Pietro's laughter bubbles from behind him. “Nice work,” he lies.

Entirely suddenly, your mind feels vignetted with inky stress. You suppose it was predictable, having ignored the weight your responsibilities had lain on your shoulders for as long as you had, but it’s exhausting nonetheless. You blink slowly at your document in a lousy attempt to soothe yourself, feeling as though you were staring at it through a tunnel.

You yawn as you splay yourself out on your bed, stretching your legs out as far as you can. Your fingertips brush your pillows as you let your eyelids fall closed for just a second, thoughts and reminders of the rest of the things you need to do lining your entrance to sleep, but the door is so inviting, the red tape of your to-do list blurring.

Your ringtone cuts in when you begin to reason with yourself, back straightening fast enough to give you whiplash when you open your eyes again. Your hand slams around your phone, blinking fast as you read Bruce’s contact name.

“The thing,” you mumble, remembering Bruce’s insistence that you went to something. You answer his call and fight to not let yourself fall back on your bed, free fingers moving to rub at your temple.

“Hey, are you ready?” Bruce asks, the sounds of conversation in the background.

“Sure,” you answer tiredly, looking down at yourself. Whoever it is you’re going out with can’t be too picky. “Ready for what again?”

“The team’s win? We’re going out to eat at an actual restaurant and everything.”

You purse your lips. “Are we going to a bar?”

There’s a moment of silence on his end, only highlighted by the muffled voices that converse. “...No.”

Nodding earnestly, you stand, stretching and shaking your limbs out in an attempt to wake yourself up, but the attempt is mocked when you yawn once again. You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror and wince, tilting your chin up to get another angle. “Then, yes, I’m ready. I guess.”

“That's great!” Bruce praises. “Because we are outside.”

You frown, grabbing a hair tie from your dresser before walking out of your room, surprised to see your apartment empty. “We?” you repeat as you look around, confused. “Are Wan and Pietro with you?”

“They’re probably already there. And ‘we’ as in I picked up Thor, Steve, and Bucky.”

You grunt in response, shutting off the lights and plucking your keys from the counter before locking up.

“You know Bucky. He’s not that bad.”

There are sounds of protest and you catch an offended ‘that bad?’ before you hang up, waving to Bruce’s car. The door to the back opens before you can touch the handle, a grinning face and shiny blue eyes welcoming you. “Hey, doll, you look great.”

“Bunny,” you greet, ducking your chin in a nod. Bucky gets out of the car, extending a hand to invite you inside.

“I don’t mind that one.” Bucky winks.

You shake your head, crawling inside and saying hi to Steve, nose wrinkling when you realize you’ll be sandwiched between the two guys, and turning when you notice Bucky getting in again. You tug on your seatbelt with a polite smile to Steve, bumping into hard muscle when you aim for the buckle.

“You tryna cop a feel? Could’ve just asked,” Bucky tells you, bumping you gently.

“Oh please,” you scoff, poking him with the metal thing. “Excuse me, seatbelt. Bruce isn’t that great of a driver. He’s in his twenties and gets night blindness.”

Bucky pats your hand gently and takes the belt from you, clicking it into place for you.

“Nice and safe, don’t worry, doll.”

You set your lips into a thin line and look straight ahead, pushing your phone into the space between your thighs so you don’t lose it. “How’d you do on your Norse mythology exam, Thor?” you ask, recalling the nerves with which he’d told you about it a couple of days ago.

“Wonderful! I really enjoy the subject. Thank you for helping me study,” Thor replies cheerily.

“You didn’t even need to,” you assure, stifling a yawn. Bucky frowns.

“Did you get some sleep?” Bruce wonders, eyeing you at a red light.

“Yeah, I drank some coffee,” you respond.

“Not the same thing. Not even close.”

You laugh. “I’ll be fine,” you promise. “Stop worrying.”

“I’m always worried,” Bruce grumbles.

“Hey, how was art today?” you ask Steve, nudging his arm gently. Bucky’s brows furrow, urging Steve to look at him and read his mind with an intense stare. Steve does not.

“You were right. I was being too judgemental,” Steve sighs. “I should’ve listened to you.”

“Listened to who?” Bucky buts in. “How did you know Stevie had art today?” he continues, trying to keep his tone light.

“We talk.” You shrug.

“Oh,” Bucky starts, glaring at Steve. “Do you?”

“Yes.” You nod before actually yawning that time. “I’m sorry.”

“You should sleep more,” Bucky comments, watching you shake your head wearily.

“I have things to do,” you defend. “I sleep enough, it’s the stupid car ride, I always fall asleep in cars,” you defend. “But if it pleases you, I’ll sleep the entirety of tomorrow.” Your voice lacks the thick sleeve of satire you tend to use with him, more vulnerable in your exhaustion. Although your request is still sarcastic, Bucky can tell you know you need it.

“It will,” Bucky says.

For the most part, the conversation ends there, the group splitting into their own things during the car ride. After a few minutes, Bucky feels your head fall softly on his shoulder.

He stops paying attention to what Thor is saying, instead focusing on the way you edge toward him in your sleep, nudging your nose into his shoulder. He can see the way your lashes lay on your cheeks when you’re so close and the pretty bridge of your nose.

You’re more open than he’s ever seen you, eyes shut and lips parted with gentle breaths, and he can’t stop staring at you.

Then the car goes over a harsh bump, and Bucky wants to do everything he can to hold you still, but your eyes flutter open and you sit up, meeting his eyes for a second. “Sorry.”

“It's no problem,” Bucky assures, wanting to keep examining the lines of your face, but you clear your throat, looking forward, and Bucky has no choice but to do so too.

The surprise Bucky feels when he spots you at the celebration party is no match for the sweet excitement at the bottom of his stomach, immediately pulling his sleeve further down over his arm and brushing away loose strands of his hair. It would be embarrassing how much he cares about what you think of him if it weren’t so ridiculously important to him.

He busies himself with getting a drink for you, finding himself wondering if you’d come before, only to go unnoticed by him. There’s a startling burst of anger at himself with the thought, and Bucky blinks, eyes continuing to drift to you. Resolute, he moves toward you but pauses as he observes you.

The look on your face is one Bucky has never seen before—though he hasn’t seen many looks on your face before—but it settles so naturally on your features that it is difficult to argue that it’s unfamiliar. You look intense, but the way your eyes scan Wanda's boyfriend—who’s been dubbed Vision—is dangerous. Cocky.

You say something and your entire face relaxes resolutely, but your eyes remain expectant and arrogant, unamused with your companion’s reply.

Vision—who Bucky has heard is never wrong—sure seems wrong in whatever argument he’s just lost against you, and you know it.

“How’re my favorite geniuses?” Wanda pipes up suddenly, forcing Bucky’s daze away, appearing from an unknown place to sling an arm around you. You snap out of the look, your face softening, but the pleasure of being right dances across your features. Bucky clears his throat and takes a sip from his beer, stepping toward you.

“Oh, you know, out-geniusing the other,” you reply, glancing at Bucky as he walks up behind Vision.

“Hey Dolly,” he smiles. “I thought you had too many books to read to go out.”

“I finished them all,” you respond. “And ‘Dolly’? How old are you?”

Bucky clicks his tongue. “What would you prefer, sweetheart?”

“My name,” you state, then squint at him, cocking your head. “Do you remember it? I imagine it’s hard to keep track.”

“Of course I remember.” Bucky scoffs. “I don’t think I could forget.”

You breathe out a laugh. “Right, I’d imagine asking her out to swing dance without it would be pretty hard.”

“Are you asking me to swing dance with you?” Bucky retorts.

You snort. “Yeah, sure.”

Bucky holds out his hand expectantly, covered arm at his side.

Your eyes thin resolutely at him, scrutinizing the details of his face before you shake your head. “You’re ridiculous,” you criticise.

His hand drops and he pouts. “C’mon, pretty please.”

“Do you know what music you swing dance to?” you ask him, wagging a finger to refer to the booming music drowning most sounds inside the house. “Because this isn’t it.”

“I need to take advantage of the fact that you’re here, doll. You said so yourself you don’t go out much,” he complains.

“Yeah, this is why!” you reply, your last words getting louder as the music impossibly gains volume.

“What?!” Bucky shouts, moving closer to hear you better, but you laugh and shake your head, telling him something he can’t make out. When you realize he can’t hear you, you give him a pout.

“And I was just about to say yes,” you say sadly.

“Wha—” Bucky’s cut off by the sharp shattering of glass. With a cringe, your eyes widen as you look behind him, eyes flickering back to him expectantly. He turns and groans. “I have to check that out. I’ll be right back!” he pledges, walking away to see a deadly amount of broken alcohol bottles on the floor, the stench of their contents burning his nose.

When he comes back, you’re gone.

The disappointment that blankets over his shoulders at the fact is just as surprising to him.

You’re in your bubble at the library, a little clueless to everything going on around you as you thumb the corner of a page, your pinky hovering below your book’s cover. You’re a few pages away from something exciting, teeth digging in with anticipation for it, when someone enters your field of vision, a large figure plopping down on a seat in front of you.

You spare them a glance and are surprised to find Bucky, sporting a large grin and his varsity jacket. You observe him suspiciously for a few moments, having never seen him even near the library, before returning your attention to what you’re reading.

“So, you’re actually here, huh?” he asks, and you shush him, shooting him a look to lower his voice. “Sorry.”

“Why are you here?” you question lowly instead, still not putting down your book.

“Anyone can come to the library.” Bucky points out, your name playfully scornful. You level a look at him.

“Yes. Why are you here? With me? You didn’t know my name until, like, two days ago.” You’re careful to keep your voice down.

“First of all,” Bucky starts, beginning to list off his fingers. “We met two weeks and three days ago.”

“Did we?” you drone, attempting to concentrate on the lines of your book once more.

“And, how do you know we don’t just have alternating study days?” Bucky points out.

“I am here every day,” you inform. “And if that were the case, why would you be here right now?” you rebut. “What would you be studying for? Coaching?”

“Maybe I wanted to switch things up,” Bucky defends. “And I’m not studying coaching. I’m studying biomedical engineering.”

You meet his eyes at the revelation, unable to keep the surprise off your face. You fold down the edge of the last page you read offhandedly and let your book flutter closed. “What? Quinn said you were in… sports.”

“Well,” Bucky sucks in a breath as if what he’s about to tell you is a revelation. “Soccer is a sport.”

“I know,” you affirm blandly. “But are you actually in biomedical?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “What, do you not believe me?” he asks, raising a gloved hand to his chest. “I must say, I’m very disappointed in you perpetuating harmful stereotypes.”

“I’m just surprised. You’ve never talked about it before.”

“We’ve talked four times,” Bucky points out. “Although I want it clear that I have tried to make it more.”

“Yeah, what’s that about, by the wayt?” you wonder, setting your elbows on the table and dropping your face into your hands, cocking your head at him. “From what I’ve seen, you have your fair pick of girls and guys.”

“I wouldn’t say that—”

You laugh quietly. “Sure.”

“But I like you,” Bucky explains, shrugging. “You’re smart and pretty and you interest me.”

You scan his face, squinting. Astonishment tints your chuckle. “You are so much better at this than I thought you were.”

“Sorry?”

“At first, I was like ‘this guy? This is the Becky people won’t shut up about?’”

“Bucky,” he corrects swiftly.

“But I see it now. The charm. I’m not falling for it, but I see it.” You nod appreciatively and open your book once again to continue reading.

Bucky frowns in front of you, reaching over to insert an abrupt hand in between the pages. “What are you talking about?”

Sighing, you peel his fingers off the pages and meet his eyes, startled to see their intensity, crinkles at their edges, his lips pinched in a pout. You gasp. “Oh my god, you’re doing it now.”

“Sweetheart, it’s something that just happens naturally, I’m not doing anything.”

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head, turning back to your book. “You are insufferable.”

“And you’re beautiful.”

“And you’re ridiculous.”

“Go out with me, c’mon,” Bucky urges, smiling now. It’s stupidly sweet.

You click your tongue. “Dates are a waste of time.”

“I’ll make it worth it. Promise.”

“I don’t have time to go out with guys I’ve talked to four times,” you explain.

“Alright, so if I talk to you more, you’ll go out with me?”

You wrinkle your nose. “I don’t… I’m not liking where this is going.”

“I will talk to you every single day from now on,” Bucky vows.

“Oh, I was right,” you groan. “I just mean you don’t know me. My favorite color, my favorite book, my order at my favorite restaurant, things like that.”

“I will know all of that,” he pledges.

You laugh disbelievingly. “Okay, Borky.”

A cocky little smirk plays on his lips as he winks. “Bucky,” he says archly.

You learn his name. Completely. Totally. Unmistakably.

It’s hard not to, not when he becomes a constant in your life and not with a name like that.

James Buchanan Barnes. It rolls off your tongue too nicely all of a sudden.

He talks to you every day. Just like he said he would, even if it’s a two-minute conversation over text where he makes sure you get home safe and asks about your day. It would be overwhelming if it didn’t make you smile so much.

He doesn’t get upset when you answer two hours later because you were distracted with work, asking you how Linda the librarian was and if she liked the cookie he got her three days ago.

You relay her enthusiastic message, deciding to brush over the wink and coy smile she sent you at his mention. Then maybe, because you’re finished with your work for the day, you shove aside your notebook and bite back a small smile when he tells you how pretty he thought you looked in the glimpses he had of you today.

Organizing your books into a neat little pile, you message him and Bruce that you’re heading home. And you intend to, you really do, but then Bucky insists you call him the next time so he can walk you home, and you’ve suddenly been sitting at your table, uselessly leaning against your things for ten minutes.

You shoot up when you realize, lightly bewildered with yourself, gathering everything into your arms as quickly as possible, and shoving your phone into your back pocket. You hope Bruce isn’t getting too worried as you push open the library doors, hurrying down the steps and onto the path you usually take. You’re alert as always, careful to listen past the crunching of leaves beneath your feet and watch for shadows that edge past yours, digging your keys out of your pocket to hold them in the spaces between your fingers.

It’s three minutes in when you begin to feel unsettled. Your phone has vibrated three times in your back pocket in the past two minutes, but the darker section of your path is coming up, and chills rush up your neck as you imagine what the distraction could cost.

A shadow follows nearby, inching closer and closer until your hands are shaking and you’re on the verge of running.

Fingers wrap around your arm and you shriek, books slipping from your arms when they wane. Stumbling back, you tug yourself away from the intrusion, breaths coming out in big, wet gasps when you turn. Bucky’s wide blue eyes meet your glossy ones, hands up in surrender when he catches the tremble of your bottom lip.

A tear streaks down your cheek in profusing relief that it’s only him, the anger indistinguishable beneath it as you stumble into Bucky on wobbly knees, his name braided in a whimper. His arms settle around you hesitantly, guiltily.

“You scared me,” you whisper. “Don’t you know not to sneak up on people?”

“I'm sorry,” he replies sincerely. “I didn’t think—”

“I'm just relieved it’s you,” you interrupt, fingers fisting his shirt. You’re far away, stuck in a memory very far away, and yet it feels enough like you’re standing in it. Your grip is a vice, forcing him closer still until the pads of your fingers can feel the warmth of his skin beneath his shirt.

Bucky murmurs your name, a large palm stroking up and down your back in comfort. His voice is mournful. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You snap out of it at the nickname, pulling away from his embrace as if you’d awoken. He doesn’t startle, only stares at the furrow of your brow and the light that reflects off of your cheeks. Swallowing hard, you blink away the rest of your daze, eyes falling on your things scattered on the ground.

“My computer,” you remember, frantically dropping to your knees to search for it.

Bucky doesn’t pry, kneeling next to you to help pick up your books, taking the ones you’d stacked up sloppily into his arms. You carry your laptop with a careful grip, relatively unharmed.

“I should get going,” you tell him, motioning to take your things from him but he refuses, ushering you into his car.

It’s silent for a while after you halfheartedly agree, obviously still embarrassed. Bucky’s hesitant to probe, but the guilt at what he could’ve reminded you of gnaws at his gut.

You can feel his stare each time he glances at you curiously; cautiously, as if you’ll burst into tears spontaneously.

“I was attacked once.” Your voice is quiet, soft for the obvious teeth the words pierce you with. “Walking home from the library,” you explain. “It’s why Bruce doesn’t like me walking home alone.”

“You… someone…” Bucky pinches his lips into a tense line, fingers tightening around the wheel. “Why?” It’s painfully incredulous.

You look down at your lap, the left edge of your lips pulling into your cheek. “I was alone. It was easy.” What’s left to say seems painful for you to push out. “He didn’t like me very much.”

“I'm sorry,” Bucky offers after a tense second, unsure of what else to say and how angry he can be for you.

“For what? You didn’t have anything to do with it,” you retort, offering him a weak smile in an attempt to lighten the mood.

“For scaring you,” Bucky insists sincerely. “For the fact that it happened in the first place.” You don’t respond, watching as trees and lights flash past the window.

“It really wasn’t as bad as you think. The label makes it seem worse,” you palliate. “He hit me once and pushed me against a wall. A bruise was the worst of it. Both physically and to my bank account.”

Bucky’s frown stays, quiet blanketing the both of you.

“So, why’d you come get me? How’d you know I was only on my way?” you chime suddenly.

“I wanted to check up on you. You weren’t answering your phone.”

You pause, meeting his eyes with an inquisitive pinch to your features. “So you drove to find me?”

“Technically, I just wanted to drop by your apartment to make sure you got home safe, but that sounds better, so let’s go with it.” Bucky shoots you a grin. An olive branch.

You accept it as you mimic the sweet curve of his lips. “Ah, yes, and that’s how Barnacle gets ‘em. Being charming and funny and sweet—”

He lets a light chuckle slip past his lips, sparing you a delicate glance. You’re already looking at him, softer in your gaze than he’s ever seen you.

He hums inquisitively. “You think I'm charming and funny and sweet?”

You laugh openly, shaking your head but not negating his words. You hug your laptop closer to your chest, constellations reflected in your shadowed eyes as you look through the window. “I think—” you inhale in relief. “We’re here.”

Bucky slows to a stop when he reaches your dorm, shutting off the car and stepping out as you pack up. You only notice his actions when your fingers slip past the handle once you move to open your own door, huffing air out of your nose when he smirks wantonly at you.

“Thank you,” you grunt, climbing out and clutching your things.

You walk ahead, listening to the door slam and the subsequent sound of shoes quick against the pavement until he walks steadily beside you. “So, you wanna do that again soon?”

You laugh, motioning to grab your keys. “Do what again?”

He steals the jingling set from your fingers, moving hurriedly to the door when you make a noise hald surprise half indignation. He jams a silver one in, cringing when it doesn’t fit. You glower as you reach him, eyeing his hands as they continue to shove the wrong key in the lock. “It's the bronze one—no, the other one. How do you not—”

The door swings open, a satisfied smile parting Bucky’s face.

“Thanks,” you sigh, taking back your keys as you step inside. He stands outside awkwardly, kicking a pebble around with his foot. You squint doubtfully at him after you’ve set your things down and he’s not following behind you like you thought he would be. “What’re you doing?”

“You have to invite me in,” he explains.

“What, like a vampire?”

He blinks. “Yeah, like a vampire.”

You grin toothily. “Vucky…” It drips in an exaggerated accent.

“It's cold out here,” he reminds.

“Maybe you should go home then,” you suggest.

His face drops for a second and you find yourself feeling a tug of something sickening at your stomach. Like a reflex, the offer leaves your throat before you can help it.

“Or. Come inside.” At his hesitant posture, you suck in a bubble of air. “Do you want to come in? You’re welcome to.” I want you to.

He stares at you long enough for you to squirm before a smile breaks through his face. “Really?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, flimsy regret already churning in your gut. “Yeah. Just come on in already. It’s cold outside, dummy.”

It’s startling the first time you miss Bucky's ever-constant presence.

You’d rather not admit it, but it’s hard not to—not when he finds you between classes to carry your books, teasing you about your lack of a backpack but always leaving you with only your laptop and a pen in hand. You can’t help the smiles when he “coincidentally” bumps into you at your favorite coffee shop enough times to have your order ready when you arrive on your tea day.

His goofy jokes while you study at the library get less annoying and, annoyingly, more endearing. You suddenly know a whole lot about biomedical engineering and Bucky. You know his sister’s favorite color and can spout stories about Steve before he grew five times his size like you were there yourself.

It's infuriating, you think, but you don’t mind as much when Bucky's making you laugh with lovely crinkles at the edges of his eyes.

“I like the ocean,” you say sometime at the library, books spread on the table, ignored. He looks up from his notebook in surprise, putting down the pen you’d lent him two weeks ago. “It’s the reason why my favorite color is blue.”

His own blue glitters as he nods, listening. “‘Thought it was because of my eyes.”

You reward him a laugh and a roll of your eyes. “I really wanted Atlantis to be real when I was little,” you tell him. “And mermaids. Even if they were the ugly ones that murder you,” You confess in a rare moment of transparency, meeting his eyes before you clear your throat, bringing your attention back to your laptop.

“I like space,” Bucky offers. “It's endless.”

You nod in acceptance, clearing your throat as if to rid yourself of what you’ve given him.

“You collect those squished pennies, right?” Bucky asks.

You’re startled that he remembers, and it takes a second for your brain to catch up. “Uh—yeah. Why?”

Bucky turns to dig around in his bag, pulling out something small and bronze and shiny with a brilliant smile. ”I went to this little souvenir shop the other day and found one of those machines.” He extends it to you and flips it slowly between his index and middle. “It has a little fuzzy monster thing on it. I don’t get it, to be honest.”

It never crossed your mind that he would do that for you. A startling line of electricity runs up your arm when your fingers meet his, quick to take the penny from him. “Thank you,” you mutter, observing the coin in the light. The large eyes of the embossed little monster stare back at you. “This is really nice of you.”

“It’s not big deal,” Bucky shrugs. “I just thought you’d like it.”

Honey fills your throat. Gulping, you glance at the clock, nearly relieved to see it’s time for you to leave. “I gotta go,” you tell him, gathering your things. The smooth edges of the penny dig into your palm. He stands in tandem, rolling his shoulders.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll walk you.”

“You don’t have to,” you begin.

“I want to. Besides, it would kind of feel weird not to after so long.”

You nod along. “Right.”

He ducks his chin in affirmation, picking up his stuff too. Furtively, he lightens your own load.

You notice but know better than point it out and argue, remembering how you ended up bedrudgingly carrying only a pen last time.

“Does Sam still have your car?” you ask as you leave the library.

“Yup. One more week, he says.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Well, he’s been saying that for two, so…”

You laugh, staring up at a big tree vignetted orange.

Bucky nudges you lightly as you begin to drift away, preventing you from walking into the street. He guides you past a fissure in the sidewalk as you gasp at something in a boutique’s window. “There’s a sale at the bookstore!”

“Wanna go tomorrow?” Bucky asks.

You nod. “Can we?”

“Sure, we’ll just leave the library a little earlier,” Bucky suggests, balancing the books in his arms.

“Someone’s sure of themselves,” you tease. “You’re walking me home tomorrow, too?”

“Of course. I have been for months,” Bucky points out with a shrug.

Your jests die on your tongue as you realize he’s right, the discovery shocking when the memories of your solitary walks are further away than you had thought; suddenly, you remember that the dog you’d pointed out two weeks ago was more for his benefit than yours.

“Weeks,” you argue weakly, throat suddenly dry.

“Weeks could definitely be months,” Bucky reasons.

You ignore him, stopping in your tracks. “Why?”

A frown tugs at his lips as he pauses as well. “Because weeks add up to months?”

“Why have you been walking me home every day for months?”

“‘Thought it was weeks?”

“Bucky,” you say, a little urgent.

He shrugs boyishly, near flippant but your things in his arms don’t let you believe that. “I don't want you to walk alone.” Then, “I wanted to make sure you got home safe.”

Shocked pupils dart around wildly and it’s difficult to swallow before you steady yourself, clearing your throat. Your features are pinched in a sort of raw determination—open, honest. “Thank you.”

He smiles and it’s soft as he shrugs lightly, nearly nonchalant.

Before you let yourself get too caught up in the curve of his lips and realize you’ve imitated it unconsciously, you look away, clearing your throat in relief when you spot your door.

“Right. Um, thanks again.” You take your things from him before he can think twice about it, speed walking to your door.

“Wait—” he stammers out, confused and too late when you give him a wave and a quick goodbye before slamming the door shut.

You swallow hard on the other side of the door, wide eyes staring aimlessly into the darkness. In the dreaded stillness, you can feel the heat that creeps up your neck and floods stickily into your face, the prickling static that needles into your palms. Shakily and illicitly, a hand drifts up to your chest, pressing to feel the thundering beating of your heart.

You curse to the silence, letting your eyes flutter shut in candied disappointment.

Bucky thinks you’re acting weird.

No—he’s sure you’re acting weird.

He knows you now, can recognize the sarcastic lines of your cheeks when you wrinkle your nose and poke fun at him. He’s memorized the genuine curve of your lips when he’s said something so cheesy it circles around to sweet. He knows you at your angry and at your happy, but he doesn’t know this.

You’re being nice to him. Sticky nice. Not you-nice.

He tries teasing first, poking a pencil into the flesh of your arm and asking if you’d fallen in love or something. You’d scoffed, blinked fast, and swatted him away. But you didn’t say no.

He’s aware he’s a fool to think so large of a lack of something, but he can’t pretend like it doesn’t inspire something in him, something like hope, like nectar, sticky in his throat.

He wonders if it clogs words up in yours—if it’s the reason you’re so quiet.

You stare through your computer, steam from your tea disappearing into the air as you blink. There’s a sweet indent in between your eyebrows, similar to the one you get when you study something you don’t completely understand, usually accompanied by the nail of your thumb between your teeth. But this one is lighter, more unintentional. You’re struggling with something but he can’t figure out what.

Your eyes flicker up to his, glinting in the light when you catch them on you.

“What?” you blurt. It’s louder than you intend, and you purse your lips in that embarrassed way that you do, shrinking down into your seat. “Why are you staring at me?”

“You’re pretty,” he says honestly.

He waits for your usual flustered reaction and you give it to him, but it’s vignetted with something, different in the quick blinks of your eyes and the thumb you brush over your nose.

“I'm hungry,” you complain, ignoring his compliment.

“I'll buy you something,” Bucky responds immediately, already pulling out his wallet.

“You don’t have to,” you remind. “I wasn’t asking, I was just—”

“I know, it’s fine,” Bucky insists.

“I can pay. It’s my food.”

“It’s just a meal.” He squints at you. “You never pass up a chance of food on me.” He presses the back of his palm against your forehead and leans in closer. “Are you feeling okay?”

You heat up beneath his touch, shaking him off with a scowl. “You make me sound awful. Fine. Buy me my food then.”

Bucky raises his hands in surrender, wallet between his index and middle finger rising with his shoulders. “I will.” He squeezes your shoulder before he walks away, dipping down to your ear to whisper, “And you’re not awful.”

You huff, pinching your lips together as you watch him get in line, nudging his fingers into his wallet to take out money.

Arbitrarily, you’re annoyed. Bucky Barnes is infuriating, with his long charcoal lashes and lilting chuckle and nonchalance in giving things you want without your asking.

Your laptop screen darkens with your lack of attention, and you’re left staring at yourself, scrutinizing the thin lines around your eyes as you squint. You’re being ridiculous; you can’t be angry over Bucky being a sweet guy.

“They musta’ known you were coming,” Bucky whistles, balancing a bowl and a small bag already darkened with grease spots in his arms. You take the bowl from him, warmth seeping into your fingertips.

You furrow your brows at him when you pop the lid off, barely realizing you’d never told him what to get. “You got me cavatappi pasta,” you realize. You look upset.

“Yeah?”

Distressed, you snatch the bag from him, shoving your fingers inside to pull out two large chocolate chip cookies. “And chocolate chip cookies.” Your voice rises and falls with a slightly unhinged twinge, features pulling as you examine what Bucky got for you. Your comfort food; the token you’d never explained to him.

“Yeah. It’s what you always get. And I know you always want two cookies but only get one because you’re afraid you won’t finish it, but we can split it or you can save it, or—what are you doing?”

You sweep everything into your arms, holding the food tightly behind your books.

“I have to go.”

“What? We just got here.”

“I have an appointment.”

“For what?”

“For—things—it’s—” you huff. “I have to go.”

“Are you sure you don’t need a ride? I have my car back, you know,” Bucky offers, already beginning to get up, but you shake your head, his actions hitting something in your chest.

“I'll be fine, thanks for the…” you exhale sharply. “I'll see you later.”

You run off, ignoring his confused call of your name as you slam the door behind you.

Hot soup dribbles down your fingers as you speed walk back home, but you barely notice, struggling to remember why you’d rejected him before.

“I hate him,” you mumble, fully dishonest as you struggle with your keys. “I hate him so much.”

“Hate who?” Bruce asks from the table, sparing you a glance from his computer. His eyebrows join as he takes you in, every panting and crazed inch of you, mouth parting and head tilting. “Uh.”

“Bucky,” you reply, setting the a la carte box down hastily. You drop the cookies next to it.

Bruce stares at you.

You make a big gesture with your hands toward it, pursing your lips. “He bought me that. Just—insisted. He's so—” you sigh frustratedly. “I didn't even—he bought me cookies.”

“Okay.” It's long and hesitant. “And that’s bad because…” he begins to shake his head. “You don’t like cookies?”

Your shoulders drop.

“You hate cookies and pasta. You think they’re awful,” Bruce tries.

“No! I love soup and cavatappi and—he’s ruining everything! He's such an idiot!” you rub your face, nuzzling your nose into the crevice between your joined hands.

Bruce examines you for another second before: “Oh.”

“What?” you snap, meeting amused brown. “What?”

“Nothing,” Bruce muses, but his lips are set in a careful smile, amusement poorly hidden. “Just that you finally learned his name.”

His thoughts are pathetically obvious in his tone, lips in a thin line and eyes crinkled.

“Don’t,” you warn. “Bruce Banner—”

“I didn't say anything.”

“Do not think what you’re thinking,” you demand. “He’s a player and a distraction and—”

“Okay.” Bruce has never been one to argue, but his one word answer makes you more frustrated than anything else he could’ve said.

You puff and gather your food, striding to your room with a glare at your best friend.

For the first time since you met Bucky, you follow through on an excuse to miss the game. It’s not a majorly important one—although Bucky pouts when you tell him either way, insisting that he needs you there for good luck—but you still feel a strange ache at the bottom of your stomach when the game begins and you’re too far away to cheer for him.

The edges of your lips are downturned, brows pinched as you stare at your phone before you realize what you’re doing and snap your attention away.

Scoffing, you shake away thoughts about soccer and the memory of Bucky's sweet blue eyes when he’d teased you, a strange tone of real sadness beneath his playful jests.

You pause, lifting your hands from your computer to eye the time once again. Furtively scanning the work you’re nearly done with, you allow yourself the distraction and grab your phone, fingers dancing in anticipation when your lock screen is littered with icons of messaging apps.

You click Bucky’s name first, smiling softly as you read a quickly typed summary of the game he probably sent after the first half was over. He sounds hopeful and excited, like he always does when he talks abouts soccer, but he signs off with a mispelled reminder that he misses you and a red heart. You check Wanda and Bruce's messages next, your face falling when you learn the second half hadn’t gone as well.

Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you glance at your work again and then at the clock, taking a quick breath before you force yourself to write a quick conclusion you promise yourself you’ll revise when you get home.

The game is over by the time you arrive, easily finding a parking spot in the midst of everyone’s departure. You hear disappointed grumbling as you make your way inside the stadium and cringe, striding toward the locker room.

Your name in Bruce’s voice makes you pause, turning to meet his pulled, bushy eyebrows and pinched lips. “What’re you doing here?”

“I finished early,” you explain. “And you said the game wasn’t going great so I thought I'd come and make sure the team’s okay.”

Bruce's features morph into something like realization and then into his poor poker face, lips pursed so tightly they’re edged white. “Right. The team.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, since it’s the whole team, I should let you know most of them are in the locker room moping, but Bucky wanted to leave early.” Bruce looks pointedly to the right.

“What? Why?”

Bruce shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe he said something about seeing you, but since you’re here for the team—”

“Shut up, Bruce.” You squint meanly at him, making him swallow a laugh as you spin around and continue on your path.

You bump into Bucky when you turn a corner, familiar hands coming to rest on your arms distractedly before his eyes brighten in recognition. He says your name in surprise, shaking you gently as if to check that you’re real. His hair is damp from the quick shower he’d just taken, dark spots from water droplets around the collar of his gray shirt. He smells like soap and Bucky and it makes you a little dizzy.

“Hey, I heard about the game,” you say. “I wanted to check up on you.”

“Oh. I was just coming to see you. I told you that you were our lucky charm.” Bucky laughs but it’s not completely honest, his disappointment about the loss shining through.

You frown, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, you shove your hands into your coat pockets, pulling out a crinkled baggie in each one. “I brought you something.”

Bucky steps back, eyebrows furrowed as he notices what you’re holding. “Are those orange slices?”

Nervous now, you let your arms drop. “Yeah. I, uh—figured they’d maybe give you a boost and—” You cut yourself off, laughing awkwardly. “It was dumb.”

“My mom used to bring me orange slices after soccer practice,” Bucky mumbles.

You perk up. “Yeah. You told me about that and I thought maybe you’d like them.” The end of your sentence lilts like a question, answered by the quick movements of Bucky's fingers when he takes a baggie from you and pulls it open, taking a slice out to grin happily at it.

He dips his fingers in again and hands another to you, bumping his own small slice against yours. “Cheers.”

As soon as he bites into it, the juice from the fruit runs down his fingers, eyelids falling closed in a delighted hum. You barely realize the sap has streaked sticky orange down your arm, too.

He breathes out your name as he opens his eyes, a dazzling blue in the fluorescent lights of the locker room hall. “I forgot how…” He shakes his head, drifting off, and takes the other bag from you, pulling you to him. He sighs big and warm, rumbling through his chest.

You rub your nose against his sweatshirt, breathing in deeply. There's the fresh scent of citrus and then the lavender body wash you’d bought for him faint beneath his own distinct smell. He thanks you blithely, a lot lighter.

You shrug it off and force yourself to pull away, shivering at the loss even if you initiated it. “Do you want to get something to eat and watch that new episode of The Great British Bake-Off we missed last week?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, hand drifting down to pull yours along. His skin is sticky and sweet against yours, orange juice smearing on your palm, but you can’t find it in you to care.

You feel sick when you step outside; a sticky, prickly rush that coats your throat in sap. It’s cold enough to make goosebumps rise on your skin, dark enough for the stars to drown in ink. Any appetite you had disappears, replaced with something clammier and painful, a twisting anxiety as a result of a bad day and a completely avoidable situation.

The bags with your food bump warmly against your knee, plastic handles pulling against the skin of your wrist. If you stay as you are, there will be indents of them once you finally put the bag down.

Something like dumb, chest-puffed stubbornness tugs incessantly at you when you contemplate calling Bruce to come pick you up, a biting voice snapping pathetic for even thinking about it convincing you to shut the door behind you, locking away the choice of warmth and safety and shame.

It’s very silent when you begin to walk, the crinkling of your bag loud and in tandem with your steps. You let it slide down and hook on your fingers, carefully aware of shadows that might peek out behind yours and off-space footsteps.

Lonely fingers curl in on themselves, missing the comforting frigidity of the keys you’d forgotten at home. Your dying phone vibrates in the tight grip of your hand, spurring your steps faster. A dark lump appears on your shadow’s shoulder, and you freeze, spinning around violently to face the street, empty behind you.

You turn back around hesitantly, breath trembling. You could’ve sworn you felt someone else behind you.

Eyes rounded and wet, you begin to walk again, feeling an uncomfortable heat in the space where your ribs meet. Your required cognizance turns frantic, making your fingers shake and oxygen difficult to get into your lungs. There’s an echo to your footsteps. When you blink, there’s the ghost of an unforgiving hand on the back of your neck, the sharp slam of your jaw against brick. You gasp when you open your eyes again, a hand flying to the aching skin of your neck as you spin.

Your eyes promise that there’s no threat lurking behind darkness, but your mind blares with an assurance that there is. Ducking behind a wall, you scramble for your phone, cheeks cold with air-slapped tears as you press the call button for the first contact your fingers find.

Bucky’s voice is confused and comforting when he answers.

“I think—I think someone is following me,” you whimper, pulling your legs to your chest. Your food warms the side of your thigh.

“What? Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” you cry. “I’m sorry, I should, it’s just—I was walking home from the restaurant and I heard something and I can’t concentrate, I can’t breathe—”

“Okay, it’s okay. Try to breathe, okay? Can you tell me what restaurant it was?”

You can picture the glowing sign, the faded wallpaper, the flowered curtains, but you can’t think, barrelling you deeper into panic. “I can’t remember—I—”

You can hear Bucky open his door. “Hey, it’s okay. Were you eating there or picking up to go?”

“To-go,” you answer tearfully, concentrating on the box pressing into your flesh.

“Okay. For you and Bruce or just you?”

“B-both of us.”

“You’re doing great, sweetheart. Try to take deep breaths, I think I—”

There’s a hollow click before it’s silent, the calm you’d been grasping at completely gone. “Bucky?” you plead. “Bucky?”

You pull your phone away from your ear, vision going blurry when you tap desperately at the screen and it doesn’t respond. Dead.

There’s a tremendous weight on your chest, your elbow knocking against the wall behind you with your attempts to draw in a breath. You shove your head in between your knees and try to remember Bucky’s voice, forget the cold fear that another clammy hand will reach for your hair and tug you up.

You need to get home. You can’t move.

You stifle your sobs with your leg, clawing at your shins and trying to think of anything else. You shove your hand in between your stomach and your legs, letting your phone fall to your thighs as the tips of your fingers reach the round hills of your collarbone. Your palm digs into your flesh until the beating of your heart pulses against your thumb, aching when you force it to stay put.

Thump, thump. “O-one,” you force, restraining your fingers from curling. Thump, thump. “Two.” A deep, shuddering breath that makes your mouth snap closed and your eyes flutter into darkness. Thump, thump. “Three…”

It’s how Bucky finds you, your nose deep between your knees, counting watery and muffled. He’s frantic when he sees you, panic like needles against his chest prickling to a pounding ache. He should be more cautious, stand still a few feet away for a few seconds, step slowly. If he were a little less in love, maybe he would; but he’s not, and the relief that you’re solid and no longer a tenuous voice on his phone is too much a relief.

He calls out your name and rushes forward, lowering himself down to his knees before he touches your arm. You flinch, shoving a strong hand against him, a horrible mix of anger and fear contorting your voice.

“It’s me. It’s Bucky.”

You still push yourself back against the wall, but your eyes finally meet his. “Bucky,” you test. “Bucky.”

It’s a silent, cold beat before you blink clearly, irises looking back a little less hazy. You murmur his name once more and promptly burst into tears, launching yourself into his chest. His arms wrap around you in tandem, pleasing the closeness your fisted fingers crave. He takes in your tears, steadily smoothing a hand over your back, desperation in the way he hooks his chin over the crown of your head.

“Are you okay?” he asks too soon.

You make a noise of which answer he can’t be sure of, so he gathers you up in his arms to push you away, only a little, only for a second to stare at you.

You grip at his shirt, cheeks shiny. And then, “I thought I was really gonna die this time.” Hearing your admittance causes a shift on your face, still crumpled and unready to deal with this. “Just for a second and—” Your lips twist to keep words back.

Bucky pulls you back in.

“Will you take me home?”

His compliance is wordless and patient, hooking a finger through your takeout and grasping your hand with his free one, guiding you to his car. He helps you inside, setting the bag at your feet before he buckles your seatbelt and pushes strands of hair away from your sticky face.

Your breathing steadies while he drives, concentrating on the cool puffs of air hitting your collarbone, the lingering warmth from the food you’re suddenly starving for. But the wash of panic has left a shameful residue and a subsequent otiose apology on your tongue, making the once comforting silence expectant.

Your chest weighs when you finally spot your door, fighting to pull words from your mouth at the dimmed lights, but Bucky beats you to it, clearing his throat without unlocking the door. His left hand lays clothed on his lap, face stormed with uncertainty, but there’s a resolute edge that makes him look at you.

“I’m sorry,” you start, misunderstanding.

“Why?”

You aren’t sure, only certain of how guilty you feel. “For… bothering you. For making you comfort me. I’m sorry that you had to see me like that."

“Don’t apologize.” He clenches his jaw. “I don’t want you to…”

He shoves his sleeve up, taking a deep breath as he pinches the fingertips of the glove. “I know that wasn’t something you were ready to share with me. I understand, I…”

His gaze is heavy, flickering between your face and the fingers peeling away his glove. He swallows hard when it’s pulled off completely, looking away from the sight of his skin.

You can’t help the way your eyes track down his arm. It’s scarred with angry raised lines, ending at his fingertips and disappearing into his shirt sleeve.

“I was in a fire once,” he says. “‘Got some scars too.”

“Is that why you wear—” You trail off at his nod. “Why are you… why are you telling me?” you ask, wincing at how the question sounds, but Bucky seems to understand what you mean.

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he lies.

You blink at him, slipping a sure hand into his and squeezing. “Thank you.”

His eyes stay startled on your interlocked fingers, stubborn even beneath his gaze. He laughs hollowly then, squeezing back before he finally meets your eyes. “You, too.”

Your fingers are wound tightly around Wanda’s arm, the nails digging into her sweater giving away what your face is trying to hide. You’re zeroed in on Bucky's figure as he runs across green after blurry white.

The energy from the others who cheer in the stands makes you buzz, a rush of confidence urging you to jump to your feet when Bucky passes the ball to Pietro and then has it once again, close enough to the other team’s goal to make you clench a hand in anticipation.

With the flesh of your thumb between your teeth, you can’t help but lose your breath when it looks like Bucky's going to try to make it, only for it to be knocked out from your lungs when he crashes to the ground from the impact of another player.

Your mouth parts in a surprised o, tongue playing his name before you can stop it.

It's eerily silent in the stadium for a second as Bucky lies on the field, before it disappears into a fold of angry screams.

You’re not worried.

Bucky has never gotten hurt on the field before—”I’m too good,” he had promised you with an uneven grin, annoying in the way that he’s right—and the only times it’s seemed otherwise have been lies, a mere play he put on for the free kick. He had shaken his head disappointedly at you when you’d gotten worried, condemning you for not trusting him. He’s playful when he’s flustered.

So you’re not worried, because you know Bucky is fine.

Except he hasn’t moved in a little while too long and you don’t think it’s ever taken him this long to fake it. Although, maybe it feels longer because you can’t take your eyes off his figure.

You’re not worried.

Your fingers say otherwise, thumb tapping against your alternating fingers so frantically they get jumbled together, clumsily bumping into the crevices between them.

“Is he hurt?” Wanda asks.

“No,” you say automatically, stretching your fingers out like a starfish as if to rid evidence of your anxiety. “No, he’s fine.”

It's another moment that seems too long and the lines of Wanda’s worried face deepen, breaths a little faster. “He's not… he’s not getting up.”

“He’s fine,” you insist. “He has to milk it.” Glancing up at the timer, you nod definitively. “Yes, he has to milk it to get the penalty kick.”

“What?” Wanda asks, meeting your eyes in confusion.

“The hit didn’t seem that bad,” you lie unsteadily. “He has to milk it. He’s fine.”

Your panic escapes in the highs of your voice, something translucent hiding it when you clear your throat. He's still not getting up and it makes your breath comes out quickly. “He has to be,” you admit.

Wanda’s brows furrow, eyes searching your face once Bucky finally limps weakly to his feet, giving the ref a short nod. A sigh large enough to make you bend slips past your lips, caught in a relieved laugh as you gesture to him.

“I told you,” you tell her.

“He’s limping,” she points out.

“It’s fake,” you assure, fingers digging round shadows into your temples. “He’s doing his hero face, he’s completely fine.” It comes out more relieved than you thought it would.

He gets his penalty kick, makes it, of course, and it’s another few, a lot slower minutes before the game is over, but you’re making your way down thirty seconds before, too much attention on the game rather than your footing on the stairs.

You stumble over your feet, barely caring when the whistle blows to indicate the game is over, and turn in the direction of the hall to the locker room. Your anxiety nearly seems silly now, not as oppressive now that the soaked towel you’d been waterboarded with was dry. Yet, it still prickles at your fingertips, faint but enough to ache.

It's only a couple minutes before you can hear the pattering of feet, the stress that the outliers are Bucky, limping like he did on that field, nudging at your mind. The players wave at you, surprised, and your heart grows heavier and heavier with each passing team shirt that does not have “BARNES” on the back.

Then he’s there, completely fine and near the end of the line. He's grinning at the apparent win, letting Steve shove him proudly. His eyes widen in surprise when they catch sight of your own, saying something to his teammates without looking at them as he steps toward you.

“Hey, what’re you—”

Unable to help yourself, you throw your arms around his neck, the prickling disappearing the moment you touch him. He is hot and solid in your arms, but most importantly completely fine.

“Hey,” he coos, hugging you back.

You allow him a moment before you pull back abruptly and smack his arm.

“Ow!” he complains, grabbing your hand.

“You asshole! What’s up with the drama?”

“What, did I scare you?” Bucky teases, smirk dropping when your deadpan doesn’t glitter with playfulness. “Doll?”

“You took your sweet time getting back up,” you continue, ignoring his words. “You’ve never taken that long.” You’re alone in the hall now, eyes frenetic over his figure.

He softens then, chin pulling closer to his neck so his eyes can give you a reassuring smile. “Hey,” he says softly, tapping your wrist with his index, “‘m fine.”

“I know,” you contend, but it comes out a little relieved at hearing it in his voice. “I told Wanda that.”

His cheeks apple at your statement, amusement twinkling back in his eyes. “Of course. My girl knows I can't get hurt.”

You scoff at the term of endearment, nervous energy dissolving. “I'm not your girl.”

“Not yet!” he proclaims.

You wrinkle your nose, stepping away from him. “You stink. Go shower.” You pat his shoulder as a goodbye, beginning to head back out.

“Sure know how to charm a guy,” he mumbles, watching you walk away with a dopey smile.

You’re in your room, laying on your stomach with your computer in front of you and a drink Bucky had bought for you sitting on your bedside table.

He's sitting against your bed, scanning over a document. You should be doing something like it, but you can’t help but be distracted. He's quiet for once, features set in something not playful and not serious, a small knot between his brows indicating his concentration.

He looks pretty. You can’t be blamed.

If he notices your gaze, he’s kind enough to not point it out, although it’s unlikely. It’s undoubtedly heavy.

He’s staring down at his hand when he speaks up for what seems like the first time since hes arrived. His fingers dance nervously before he shoves them away from his view, edges of thick tissue peeking out as a bracelet on his wrist. “Do I make you uncomfortable when I flirt?”

You blink owlishly at him, unsure how to answer. He sounds so serious, guilty. “No.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable, I'll stop.”

“I know you would. But it doesn’t. Is something wrong?”

Bucky cringes. “You don’t really flirt back. I just want to make sure it’s not because I make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t! I just… don’t really flirt. I don’t really think there’s a point if I’m not dating.”

“You don’t date?” He’s known this. To a point, which he thinks is not completely accurate now that he hears the way you say it.

“No.”

“Not even guys you like?”

“Especially guys I like, ” you clarify, cringing with the difficulty of putting so many feelings into so insignificant words. “Things get messy. It’s just… distractions and it’s never worth it.”

“You think love isn’t worth it? That it’s a distraction?”

You shoot him a look, huffing a little disappointedly, as if you’d expected him to understand something and he didn’t. “Why do people always twist my words into something so cynical?

I didn’t say that. Not love. I never said love, I just—it never ends well. It’s always something you pour so much into and get so little back.”

Bukcy shifts. “That’s not true. A relationship is fair, or at least, it’s supposed to be.”

“Ah, but see, ‘supposed to be’ and ‘is’ are two different things. I’d rather just skip the entire thing.”

Bucky frowns. “I don’t think you should.”

“You don’t think I should?”

“I don’t… I’m not telling you what to do, but I really think you should try. Love can be really great. And you deserve that.”

Your nails pinch at your fingers. “But what if it isn’t?”

“Then it isn’t.” You move to rebut, but Bucky continues. “But what if it is?”

You refuse to answer, chewing on your bottom lip.

Bucky gazes at you, waiting for a response before he realizes he won’t get one. He doesn’t push, turning back to his work.

“Why do you care so much?” you ask.

He sucks in a breath before admitting, “Mainly because I think you would really enjoy being loved. And very partially because I’m selfish.”

You hum. “You’re a really good guy, Bucky.”

“I try.”

You scowl lightly. “Incorrigible. Annoying. But really good.”

Bucky laughs. “Don’t forget—what was it you said about me? Charming? Sweet? Hand-to-heart hilarious?”

You launch a pillow at his head. “Nuisance is what I should’ve said.”

“Mm, a little contradictory but what’s life without some juxtaposition? Maybe I’m a man of many talents.”

The tip of your index finger shoves into his arm.

You fall into a peaceful silence once again when the laughter dissolves, your fingers busy away at your keyboard. There's a moment where you’re thinking, staring intently just past your computer and Bucky is staring at you, a thoughtful expression on his face, stony and all.

“Will you?”

It takes you a second to realize he’s talking to you. “Will I what?”

“Give it a chance.”

You want a moment to ponder it, because you know the right answer but you aren’t sure if you want to pick it. “Give what a chance?” you play dumb, but he doesn’t buy it.

You look to your side, unfocused eyes lazy on an ugly painting.

“Yeah, maybe.” You want to tell him it depends who it is, that you have very strict rules mentioning annoying brunets with blue eyes who walk you home from the library and never shut up, but you don’t, eyes travelling back to him slowly. His silence when they finally meet his own tell you he knows anyway.

Quickly looking back down, you avoid his gaze and continue to work.

You melt into his side, delightfully prickling when you lean in a little closer to take a sip of your drink. Eyes shimmering in the lame lights of the bar, you’ve never looked so openly bright, hardly containing your delight and everything you can spilling past anyway.

There are enough people in the place for it to feel rightfully uncomfortable, sweat-sticky skin bumping into the arm he has around your chair and making the heat rise, but Bucky can’t seem to notice.

It would feel plain ignorant to do so—to not focus completely on the stitched pride in the dips of your smile or the warmth of your palms as they splay flat on his arm.

It’s not enough to just have your fingers tug at him during conversations with strangers, he feels he should imprint the feeling of your touch like a branding.

You say his name in conversation, cruelly dragging your hand down to bracelet around his wrist and squeezing. You make a little shimmy with your shoulders that can’t help but make him laugh. He zeroes in on your lips, trying to make sense of what you’re saying.

You’re cute. You’re too sweet to be in this stuffy bar with him.

You turn to him brightly in the midst of another exclamation and he feels himself transported.

He can feel the end buzzer vibrating up to his fingertips, the breeze on the heat of his skin when he’d looked up, eyes searching for you like a habit.

Your features are shrunken into the memory, suddenly far away but still pulled into the biggest beam you could muster, hands clapping ecstatically.

“Bucky,” memory-you says liltingly, too clearly.

When he blinks, he’s back in the present, the tip of your index dimpling his bicep, your face close enough for him to count each individual eyelash. He grins without really thinking about it. “Bucky,” you repeat, a little harsher but still teasing.

“Yeah?” he responds finally.

“We’re complimenting you and you aren’t paying attention? Are you feeling okay?” you frown, lips downturned but the edges of your eyes still crinkled with happy lines. The back of your hand meets his forehead.

“Fantastic,” he says, his left hand vining up to hook around your fingers and lay them on his lap. “Just won a game, didn’t you hear? All by myself, too.”

You shake your head at him, turning back to who Bucky realizes is one of your friends. Carol, you’d said.

“See?” You say accusatorily.

Carol grins. “Yeah. Kind of hard not to when you describe it so thoroughly.”

That catches Bucky’s fluttering attention, an eyebrow shooting up questioningly in your direction. Your lips part in betrayal at Carol, and you begin to take your hand back from Bucky, but he hooks your wrist before you can.

“I think Maria is calling you,” you tell her. “You should go see what that’s about.”

“Now, now,” Bucky starts. “Actually, I think I want to know how thoroughly you talk about me, sweeheart.”

“That's my cue,” Carol laughs, dipping a beer at you both. “I'll see you guys later. Congrats on the game.”

She bounces to her feet and takes off, leaving the two of you alone. Bucky nudges a finger in between your ribs, making you jump and swat at him. “Hey!”

“You talk about me to your friends?”

You stare at him, bottom lip pushing out defensively in your tipsiness. “Well, the star football player is one of my best friends, shouldn’t I be allowed to brag?”

“Best friend, huh? Bruce gonna be jealous?”

You wave him off, making a small, stubborn sound. “He ought to get over it with how much he ditches me.”

“See, I would never.” Bucky presses his free hand to his heart in oath. “Star football players are very reliable. Scoring goals, keeping plans, etcetera.”

You grin at the reminder, something sparkling beneath your skin like static, jolting your fingers when it begins to brim. You splay an excited palm on his shoulder out of pure excitement, seeming to relive the night.

“I am so proud of you,” you say. Saccharine, words stout with a smile and pride. “You did so well today.”

You’re startlingly genuine, entirely proud. Bucky can’t bring himself to tease or flirt.

“Thank you.”

You smile prettily, the light in your irises shifting at his authenticity. “I am,” you insist.

You just want to tell him, for him to hear you and understand how much you mean it. Your pupils flicker to a spot above his shoulder, distant for a second as your face brightens more. You laugh disbelievingly.

“I don't know all that much about football but from what I do, you’re certifiably extraordinary.” You sound out the word, unwilling to mess it up when you mean it so much. You try again. “You made a really great play.”

“Impossible,” Bucky corrects completely unsubtly, but it’s soft, blurred by yellow light from above and buzz from you.

You observe him for a second. “I think you’re amazing,” you say thoughtfully, not in an effort to compliment but in a sort of realization. “What… type of person…” you start but don’t continue, tongue unable to keep up with everything running through your mind. The walks home, the paid lunches, the attention, the ability.

You inhale sharply, as if realizing you’re drifting off and trying to pull yourself back in.

Bucky knows what you expect—what he expects of himself—but he can’t bring himself to tease you, reiterate your words with an artful curve of his lips. He can’t concentrate enough to ignore the prickly warmth at the bottom of his stomach. He glances down at his watch.

“Should we go?” he says instead, casual but urgent. “It's late.”

He stands before you can process his offer, still a little drunk from stolen sips but only enough to make contrasts lighter. You blink up at him from your seat for a second before nodding, two short, stressed lines between your brows. He shouldn’t have been so abrupt.

Kinder, he helps you from your seat and guides you toward the door, keeping you away from stray elbows with benevolent redirection.

Your breath curls visibly in the air when you step outside, white and dissolving until it is replaced by another, longer exhale. You wrap your arms around your torso.

“C'mon,” he urges, guiding you to his car. “Let’s get you warm.”

“Should you be driving?” you ask as he searches his pockets for the keys, standing at the car door, watching him. “And what about the others?”

“Didn’t drink,” he answers, patting his coat pockets until he finds what he’s looking for.

You frown, slowly running through the night and realizing he’s right, recalling the sparkling water dripping moisture next to his jacket sleeve. The cold and the ennui knock a lot into focus.

He clicks open the car. “And this’ll force ‘em to call an uber. Worst comes to worst, I’ll drop by later to force them home. I just want to get you home first. No drunk footballers to puke on your feet.”

He rounds around to meet you, opening the door, and waiting patiently.

“Why didn’t you drink?” you ask. You’ve seen him drink before, tipsy in that breezy way where he’s a little flirtier with a little less filter. “You won a game. If you ever deserved it, it’s now.”

“I had to be able to drive you back.” He shrugs, cocking his head in the direction of the open car door. “Speak of the devil,” he starts pointedly, reminding you of your frigidity.

Still contemplating, you climb inside with furrowed brows, following Bucky's figure as he shuts your door, jogs back to his side, and settles into the driver’s seat. Rubbing his hands together, he turns to look at you.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Uh huh.”

He clicks his tongue. “Look at that. I think you’re a little drunker than I thought.”

“I am not,” you argue, looking down at yourself and seeing nothing wrong until Bucky reaches over to pull your seatbelt over you. “Oh.”

Bucky breathes out a little laugh, amused.

“I'm just…” You contemplate for a second, sinking into the rumbling of the engine when Bucky turns the car on. Immediately, heat slaps your nose. The glass meets your temple bitingly, jolting your sentence back on track. You turn to see Bucky's attention already on you. “Happy.”

“You’re happy?” Bucky repeats pleasantly, shifting the gear into drive.

“Yes. It was a good day today.”

You feel clearer now, the edges of reality crisper as you look out the window. “I know I already said it, but I'm really proud, Bucky. You win games and ace tests and don’t celebrate with a drink to drive me home. You’re kind of great.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, glancing at you.

You hum an affirmation, inhaling deeply. At some point, Your few-sip buzz dissipated into something different.

Sober, but influenced on the darkness of the sky and the roundness of the moon. It feels safe suddenly, a rush of energy jolting you straight. You stare at Bucky's profile. “Yeah,” you confirm clearly. “It's kind of disappointing, you know.”

Bucky is caught off guard, sparing you a look when he stops at a stoplight. “What?”

“I just thought you’d be different.”

“How?” His brows are furrowed.

You take a moment to ponder. “Not so… you. More of the unforgivably arrogant and ignorant jock variety.”

“So you were expecting me to be one of those cartoon stereotypes?” he teases, looking back at the road with an easier smile.

“Kind of,” you laugh. “But you’re not and that’s really great.”

The red light from outside drapes over his features, pulled as he searches the crevices of your face. In response, it slackens slowly, from thoughtful to a little dazed as you stare back. Without meaning to, you’re leaning in at the same time he is.

His skin flips green.

You fall away from him with a surprised exhale, blinking in confusion.

It takes a second for Bucky to look away after you have, and you consider yourself lucky there’s no one else on the road during the long moment it takes for his attention to switch back to driving.

He doesn’t want to just forget what happened. He doesn’t want to move on from this yet. “What does that mean?” he asks, your compliment playing on repeat in his mind.

You stay silent, trying to figure it out yourself. “I don't… I don’t know.”

He tries to remain unbothered, glancing at you once more to catch your focus unmovingly on him. He pulls into your driveway and turns off the car.

“What about going on a date with me?” he requests, a little more serious that usual but glazed in his usual tone. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he continues. “I'll dress up in that shade of blue you think I look so good in and we’ll go out to eat at that little hole-in-the-wall restaurant I'm still impressed you found. You’ll order that same thing you always do, and we can talk about that novel you’re reading—”

He doesn’t wait for the answer you’ve given before, stepping out of the car and striding over to your side.

You gaze up at him when he opens your door, your buckle unclasped in your hand. He's kind as he always is as he helps you out, hands settling on your shoulders to steady you when you nearly trip over a ridge in the sidewalk.

“Or… or we could go take a walk around the park. Or go to the movies, or the amusement park, or do laundry or taxes or—anything as long as it’s with you.”

And maybe it’s the easy smile, with the glitter of gold pride still sewn into his lips, or the genuine kindness he’s never failed to show you under the mask of the moon. Maybe it’s the proximity. Maybe you just can’t help yourself anymore. You kiss him.

He’s frozen for a solid moment, thick enough for you to start doubting yourself, beginning to pull away when he finally reacts, practically melting into you as his hands frantically pull you closer.

He pulls away hesitantly, torturously, a second later, eyes scrutinizing. “Wait, wait, wait, are you drunk?”

You shake your head, laughing gently at the thumb that pulls gently at the skin beneath your eye to make sure, urgently tugging you back into the kiss when he’s satisfied.

“‘Had to make sure,” he mumbles against your lips. “This can’t happen when you aren’t you.”

“It’s me,” you promise, pulling back. Before you can delve into your mind too deeply, you nod suddenly. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah, okay what?” he repeats, chasing after you to kiss you a few more times.

“I'll go out with you.”

His smile drops, fingers tightening around your hips. “Wait, really?”

You nod. “Yeah.” You grasp his arms tightly. “I should at least try, right?”ey

3K notes · View notes

lucilleslore · 5 months

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lovesick snow really really really scratches a part of my brain that i cannot have the words that explain it and have to go the library of babel to find it. he'd be more easy to manipulate in that state, especially how vulnerable he is to you and how willing he'd do anything for you. like you said in one of your first posts, i'm in love with the idea of it of how powerful the reader is if you want to add more backstory to them.

ok so i went with your idea and gave manipulative!reader and snow the backstory they deserve for the little au we have going here!! i hope you love it <3

➸ so as a kid i see manipulative!reader as a bit of a daydreamer and what do lots of little girls dream about?? their wedding. for you though it wasn’t necessarily about the day, not even the fancy dress or the colour scheme but the person. let’s just say you’re already from quite an influential family but it’s not enough - you want more.

➸ you wanted a husband that’s powerful, motivated. he had to be important and charismatic - someone who could really get you what you wanted from life. you weren’t completely unbothered by the idea of romance though and hoped that’d you’d manage to get them utterly devoted to you, willing to do anything to protect you and make you happy. it’s not a hard thing to ask for, right?

➸ you’d always been aware of coriolanus snow but there always seemed to be better candidates for your attention. then he comes back to the capitol and you can sense the change in him - the unhinged, power hungry aura that seemed to surround him and as he quickly started making a new name for himself, you thought he could be the one.

➸ coryo would never be an easy person to get close to however. so you had to subtly start placing yourself in his life. it was a slow process but you were diligent. ‘bumping’ into him just outside his apartment, having the same social calendar as him, even showing an interest in the games so someone would set up an appointment between the two of you to discuss.

➸ then there was one moment. one that not even you - seemingly the mastermind of your own life - had planned out. it was raining that day, pouring and you were alone rushing back to your apartment. you weren’t paying attention to where you were going and when you stepped out onto the road you weren’t prepared for the onslaught of screeching tires or horns. or for the strong grip that wrapped around your wrist and pulled you back.

➸ coryo was there just as drenched as you were but with a kind of frenzied, panicked look in his eyes. ‘you should watch where you’re going,’ he’d urged. it was the way he said it, the way his hand squeezed at your wrist that had you thinking maybe he’d been noticing your efforts after all. he’d tugged you closer to him as if you’d be safer there and it was probably the most genuine moment you’d had in years, as you blinked up at the blonde man who’d just saved your life.

➸ honestly after that you decide to back off, feeling a little guilty about your scheming but seemingly the universe wanted the two of you on the same path. or maybe coriolanus did. suddenly he was there at family functions, taking meetings with your father, charming your mother at all costs. he’d come to dinners hosted at your families estate and his eyes would never leave you from across the table even when he was in a conversation.

➸ so when your family told you about the marriage proposal you weren’t that surprised, just giddy. everything was finally falling into place. you knew you’d have to be careful. to you snow was charming, doting in a sense but you’d heard the rumours. he could be dangerous and you’d have to make sure you were never in his firing line.

➸ in the beginning of your marriage you try and play coy, let coryo take the lead in things. you like to let him know how you rely on him, always holding onto his arm in public and letting him speak first. basically just playing up to his male ego but something about seeing you feeling so safe with him and letting your guard down has him letting some walls down too. which is exactly what you want.

➸ he’d start to confide in you after a while because you’re just such a good little wife! bringing him drinks in the evening in your pretty dresses, loosening his shirts and playing with his hair. it isn’t his fault he ends up telling you things about his past, things he plans to do in the future - a lot of things that he probably shouldn’t tell you especially since you’ll remember each and every one.

➸ kinda dark but i love the idea of you being able to read people really well and always hyper aware of who coryo surrounds himself with, always sussing out their intentions before he does. you give it a little while but if he’s still not catching onto them you’ll simply make something up. maybe they’re giving you dirty looks or maybe their gazes are just lingering a little too long for your liking, in places they certainly shouldn’t be looking. maybe they’ve flirted with you, maybe they’re making nasty digs but you have coryo eating out the palm of your hand by this point and he’s possessive, protective in a mad, feral way. you’re flat out lying but he eats it up and whoever you want gone doesn’t last much longer after that.

➸ maybe that’s how you get your power. by simply having his ear. people know that they can get what they want through you and by the time coryo is president you have people visiting you nearly everyday. hoping you’ll let them into your inner circle, offering you things in exchange for a word whispered in his ear.

➸ and maybe coryo comes to rely on you this way. you’re a capitol darling, their perfect first lady but behind closed doors you’re separating the good from the bad. the people who can help your husband and the people who’re out to damage what he’s built. people begin to see you as a powerhouse in your own right, someone with a good side they need to be on. or else.

#- nonnies!#coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you

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bubble-dream-inc · 1 year

Text

one kiss (is all it takes)

At first, you regretted agreeing to going to the game with the boys. Turns out a hockey game can be a lot more interesting than you thought.

Or; You and Price get caught on a Kiss Cam.

Pairing: Captain John Price x Reader

rbs greatly appreciated!

WC: 1.5K

a/n: i have no idea how a hockey game - or the military - works. anyways. this was written in an hour, is barely edited and not beta read lmao

tags: just pure fluff and Soap being a smug lil bastard :))

Sighing, you looked at yourself in the mirror one more time, accepting that yes, you did look as tired as you felt, but at that point you had no choice but to make your peace with it and try your hardest to rock those dark eye circles. At least you supposed your outfit looked presentable enough, since even if you were incredibly tired, you still felt like putting some effort into your appearance, telling yourself it was for no particular reason - or person - at all.

It had happened a couple of hours before. Sitting inside the bar across the street from the dingy hotel you and your teammates were staying after a successful recon mission, Soap and Gaz had disappeared for some time, returning later with a couple of tickets to a local hockey game. You found it best not to question how they got those, and, to be honest, you never pegged either of them to be into hockey, much like yourself, but Soap seemed so excited that you didn’t have the heart to tell him you were not looking forward to it one bit. Admittedly, you suspected the same thing happened with Price, who accepted the invitation somewhat hesitantly - you knew north american sports weren’t really his thing - and you admired Ghost for just saying ‘no’ to Soap’s face before returning to his cup of bourbon without another word. So that led you to where you stood at the moment, regretting falling into Soap’s trap and longing for your hotel bed that looked oh so comfortable. A knock on your door took you out of your reverie. Opening it, you found the devil himself standing outside with a smirk on his face.

“Hey, L.t. Ready to go?” You rolled your eyes playfully at Soap’s nickname for your rank, humming in response while you fetched whatever you needed to go out from your room - making sure to grab a coat.

Gaz and Price were already at the end of the corridor, waiting for the elevator, and, after greeting them both with a wave of your hand and a smile, you had to pretend to be very interested in the instructions written on the fire extinguisher by the wall to avoid gawking at your superior. It wasn’t often you got to see Price out of tactical gear and without his beloved boonie hat, and the sight of him in a basic and slightly too tight t-shirt under his jacket was doing things to you. Being pushed close to him in the impossibly small elevator once it arrived, too cramped for four soldiers to fit comfortably into, did not help you in the slightest.

A short car ride later - and somewhat silent, since Soap had lost his aux cord privileges after the last time - you stood in front of the arena, swerving your way between the other attendees, except clearly less excited to be there. As the four of you looked for your seats, you wondered how long it would take for them to notice if you bolted to go back to the hotel and sleep, but decided against it. Soap and Gaz took the first two seats side by side, leaving you to sit at the other end, with Price on your left, and you found it both a blessing and a curse. As he removed his coat, clearly feeling too warm with the amount of people around, and left his bulky (and hairy) arms visible to the world, you decided it was more of a blessing. Not feeling like committing an HR violation, you scolded yourself to stop ogling at your unaware superior, too lost in your musings to realize he was side eyeing you with a knowing smirk.

The first period flew by. You had no idea what were the teams names, you just know they were currently sitting at 1x0 when the first intermission rolled around, and, surprisingly, you were having a lot of fun. The crowd’s high energy and Soap’s enthusiastic cheering - even though he had said in the car he had no idea who was playing - was enough to make you momentarily forget how tired you were from the mission, and the fact it happened altogether. It was very rarely you got to enjoy some down time with your teammates, and that alone made you feel glad you accepted Johnny’s invitation.

Checking the time on your phone, you started scrolling through the various notifications, getting so immersed in the screen that you didn’t notice the way people around you were suddenly staring in your direction. Feeling observed, you looked up to the sight of people hollering and cheering around you, and, for some reason, Soap was angling his body out of his seat to look smugly at you, to which you only replied with a quizzical arch of your brow, receiving a nod upwards in response. Looking at the direction he nodded, you realized the huge screen in the middle of the stadium now displayed a banner written “Kiss cam.”

Directly under a live feed of you and Price.

That definitely could not be happening.

Your blood froze, and you felt like you were both on fire and ice cold at the same time, trying to process what was going on in seconds. Instantly your brain conjured images of you watching with a side eye as Price rejected you publicly to the camera, probably sneering and making a “cut it out” motion with his hand, as if kissing you was something incredibly unimaginable. However, none of those visions came true, since, when you gathered the courage to actually look over to him - with what you imagined was a very wide eyed and flustered expression - he was actually calmly chuckling and smiling with that damn good looking smile of his. Looking this closely you could swear you saw a faint hint of red on his face as he turned to you with a very gentle gaze, clearly considering the idea and giving you a silent chance to back away if you didn’t feel comfortable with it. Of course, you knew that you would never even dream of shying away from an opportunity to kiss your very attractive Captain who you absolutely did not have a huge crush on, but he didn’t need to know that just yet.

So, seeing no resistance from you, he leaned in closer and brought one of his huge hands to rest delicately holding your face, as if you were made of glass, and you felt like your heart stopped beating. Up close like this he smelled faintly of the cigar he liked to smoke and cologne he must have put on when you returned from the bar to get ready to leave for the game, and his blue eyes never looked so intense. You saw him smirk when you leaned in to meet him halfway before letting your eyes flutter close and your lips finally meet.

Kissing Captain Price was even better than you imagined. His mustache tickled your top lip and, in the background, you could hear the cheering of the crowd - particularly Soap’s hollers and someone, who you imagined was Gaz, wolf whistling - but you drowned it all to focus on the feeling of John’s lips moving against yours in a kiss that lasted a second, but felt like an hour inside your head. As you expected it, he did taste exactly like the cigar he smelled as, and a hint of mouthwash, and you found yourself embarrassingly sighing into the kiss.

You decided you could spend a good few hours just kissing your Captain, but any second longer would be positively awkward for your audience, so, regrettably, you broke the kiss, almost going insane by the way he chuckled lowly against you before leaning back as well, giving the camera an uncharacteristic almost bashful smile. So much for not committing that HR violation. You didn’t find the courage to look anywhere, much less the damn camera, so you pathetically stared at your shoes instead, very aware of the way your face felt like a thousand degrees and you must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Distantly, you felt Soap’s eyes on you, burning holes in your face with what you imagined must have been the smuggest smile ever, but you didn’t turn to confirm your suspicions.

Within seconds, the kiss cam had moved on, as well as the entire crowd, and you were the only one still dwelling on it as everyone cheered on another couple put on display. Trying to convince yourself it meant nothing, you shook your head and tried to pay attention to what was going on in the arena, something cut short when John Price himself discreetly leaned over for your ear, not turning his body or taking his eyes off the screen above you.

“You know,” He started above a whisper with his deep, gruffy voice. “If I knew you were such a good kisser, I’d have done this a lot sooner.”

With that, he leaned back into his seat, hand crossed above his stomach and a satisfied smirk on his face as he pretended not to notice the way you stared at him with wide eyes and your mouth gaping open like a fish.

That was going to be one long hockey game.

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lizard-on-a-window-pane · 18 days

Text

5 times you and Miguel walked away from each other and 1 time you didn't

pairing: Miguel O'Hara x reader notes: brother'sbestfriend!Miguel, soccerplayer!Miguel, college au, slow burn, somewhat mutual pining but written from reader's perspective more exclusively, SFW - only slightly suggestive (worst thing is probably a boner), fem reader (pretty neutral though), saying soccer instead of football felt so dirty but oh well, thank you for reading!! word count: 5.9k

You’re having your first lazy day in forever. It’s the first day in recent memory that you didn’t have something to do or somewhere to be. You’re just going to hang out in your apartment and watch your favorite shows or read for fun for once or whatever else you feel like doing. Because you don’t have to go anywhere, you don’t even take a shower, opting to stay in your comfy pajamas, not bothering with any makeup or hair effort, as you lounge around.

You have the place to yourself now, but you share it with your twin brother Alex, the two of you lucky enough to go to the same university.

When you eventually hear his keys scratching at the door, you’re sprawled on the couch reading a novel you’d left half-finished for ages despite actually really enjoying it. School really had a way of making you not read. Or at least never full books.

As Alex opens the door, you’re surprised to hear him talking to someone else. You see his unexpected guest a moment later from your spot on the couch, your college apartment rather small after all. And you’re mortified. Miguel. Alex’s best friend, university soccer team superstar, ridiculously attractive Miguel.

God, why did Alex not warn you he was bringing someone over? All it took was a quick message, for fuck’s sake. And Miguel of all people? Ugh. Well, it wasn’t like you could tell him. “Hey, brother dear, I have a huge crush on your best friend, so can I please get a warning next time he’ll be around? You know, especially so I’m not looking like a total mess when he shows up?”

He’d been coming over a lot recently actually. He and Alex were both on the soccer team and happened to share a few classes too, so their schedules really lined up. Usually, it was nice to get to see him. It’s not like either of them paid that much attention to you when they were hanging out, but Miguel was nice to look at. Even now, they seemed like they were coming back from a casual soccer match or something, and he still looked amazing. His thick, dark hair was messy in the way that made you want to run your hands through it; his t-shirt hugged his unreasonably broad chest and shoulders perfectly, and his sweatpants — fuck, his sweatpants — his ass looked miraculous as he turned to put his gym bag down.

Miguel’s looking at you as he and Alex step into the living room. “It’s Saturday, Y/N, and the weather’s finally fucking nice. Why’re you reading a book? You’re such a nerd,” Alex snaps as he plops onto the couch next you, pushing your legs off to make room.

“I’m a nerd because I’m reading a book? Am I am tomboy because I’m not wearing a dress, too, or are we keeping it to one stupid superficial stereotype?”

Miguel chuckles as he sits on Alex’s other side. “Cut him some slack, Y/N, he took a soccer ball to the head today. Might be making him even more of an idiot than usual.”

You can’t help but worry; you love the idiot after all.

“You okay? Was it bad?” you’re asking as you run your hand over his head looking for bumps. “I’m fine, mom,” he mocks, pushing you away. “And you? You asshole,” he accuses Miguel playfully. “‘Took a ball to the head’?” he repeats, then turning to you adds, “It was him that kicked it!” Miguel starts laughing.

“It was the perfect setup, man. Not my fault you were distracted.” “Whatever,” Alex says as he reaches for the video game remotes. Knowing them, it was time for FIFA.

You’re eager to hide with how you look right now anyway, so you get up to head into your room. “We didn’t mean to kick you out,” Miguel starts kindly. “ You don’t have to go; you were clearly comfortable here.” “Clearly comfortable”? God that sounded bad in your head. He was “super hot”; you were “clearly comfortable.”

“Thanks, Miguel. It’s fine. I was going to —“ but you don’t finish your excuse as you trip on the remote’s charging wire as you step across, falling unceremoniously to your face right in front of them.

“Mierda!” Miguel yells.

Alex immediately asks, “You okay?,” but it’s Miguel who’s up and over you in the same instant.

“You alright?” he asks softly as his hands grab your hips to help you up.

His hands on you were the last thing you needed right now. So much for composure. “Fine. Really,” you say, your breath shaky. You’re kneeling on your living room floor; Miguel’s squatting in front of you, close; his hands haven’t left your body even though you’re no longer prone. He just watches you closely, eyes beautiful and concerned. You stare back into them, and after a couple more shaky breaths finally manage to stand up and step away, looking anywhere but at him. “‘M fine,” you repeat. You turn away hurriedly and go the few steps to your room. Once safely behind closed doors, your face scrunches and your stomach sinks at the sheer embarrassment.

It’s been days since Miguel was at your apartment, and part of you is happy for the lack of pressure but another part of you still gets a funky feeling in her gut at the idea that the last memory of you he had was of a clumsy mess. He and Alex have a game today, and pretending to convince yourself that you just felt like it today, you make yourself up more than usual for it. You’re actually pretty happy with your look as you head out to meet some friends at the match.

They win. Miguel scores. Twice. Alex’s defense is probably the main reason for their clean sheet.

So, hyped up on adrenaline and victory, they’re laughing and messing around with their teammates as a bunch of people approach the sidelines to congratulate them. Alex spots you and makes a goofy face, always so playful when he’s happy. He jogs over to you and gives you a huge hug.

“Stop, you’re so sweaty!” you squeal. He just holds you tighter and rubs his sweaty hair on you, laughing. When he finally pulls away, Miguel is standing right next to him, smiling at the two of you. “Do I get a hug too?” he teases. “I scored two more goals than he did!”

You’re not sure if he’s kidding, and you’re sure the chuckle you give in response is somewhat tense.

But, stepping toward him, you just say, “Congratulations,” and wrap your arms around his shoulders without getting too close. Damn, they were like boulders. Miguel wraps his arms around your waist and closes the distance you’d maintained, giving you a surprisingly intimate embrace. You’re struck by the feeling of him around you. He’s sweaty, too, and you can smell his musk, but instead of off-putting, you find it incredibly arousing. You can feel the rise and fall of his breathing where your chest is flush with his. He’s so warm, and you just want to breathe him in and trace every ridge of his body. But the hug is already lingering too long to be normal, and you pull back a bit awkwardly. Miguel is still looking at you, a subtle smile on his face.

He seems about to say something when a high pitched squeal right next to you startles you.

“Miguel!” a very pretty girl yells at him as she approaches, unabashedly jumping onto his back. She’s in a cheer uniform. “Oh my god, you were so good!” Miguel’s so sturdy, her jumping on him didn’t throw him off physically, but his face looks a little flustered. “Uh, thanks,” he says politely, putting her down. She just giggles and grabs his arm as she compliments him again.

You feel so awkward watching this, so you just turn around and walk away. You don’t see Miguel looking after you.

You’re at the after party with a couple of your friends. The soccer team was quite popular, and the victory parties tended to be good. You’re mostly having fun, but you can’t help but keep looking over to where Miguel is. Man of the match and man with that face, he was obviously the center of attention. People were coming up to congratulate him left and right. He handled it all so graciously. It shocked you how there was no arrogance in his demeanor; he was just the easygoing life of the party.

You wanted to go talk to him too, but you’d already congratulated him and didn’t know what else you would say. The last thing you wanted was to embarrass yourself again. You could go talk to your brother, who was right next to him, but he was busy flirting, and you didn’t want to ruin it for him.

A bunch of people are dancing in the open space between you and Miguel, and the chaos lets you sneak long looks at him without his noticing. But when your friend leans over and asks, “Who do you keep looking at?,” you realize you have to be less obvious. “No one, just curious who Alex is flirting with,” you lie, proud of how quick you were with it.

“You a jealous, protective sister type?” she laughs.

“No, just curious.” “Is he?” “What?” “Protective?”

“Um, sometimes, depends. Why?”

“Because that guy over there keeps checking you out.” She nods toward an okay-looking guy chatting with someone on the edge of the dance floor. A second later, he was indeed looking over at you. “You should go talk to him!” “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not so interested.” “Why not? He’s hot! I’m pretty sure he’s on the team too. You don’t have to marry him, Y/N, just go dance! You’ve been weirdly tense all night.”

You look over again, and your eyes meet. Before you can do anything else, he makes the decision for you, walking over to you.

“Hey.” “Um, hi.” You exchange names and pleasantries, and he asks you if you want to dance. Without thinking about it, you glance toward the person you really wish you were dancing with. To your surprise, Miguel is already looking toward you. He looks less happy than before. You look back at this guy quickly, hoping neither of them noticed.

You feel slightly bad thinking this, using this guy you weren’t super interested in, but you couldn’t help but feel it’d be nice if Miguel saw a side of you that might make him think of you differently, not just as Alex’s sister. It’s just a dance anyway, so, you accept the offer and head to the dance floor.

You fall into a rhythm with the music, with the guy. The dancing is fun; the guy is fine. Your back is to Miguel, and you can’t resist spinning to catch another glimpse, doing it seamlessly as you keep dancing. Your breath catches when your eyes meet his.

Miguel watching you from across the room is doing much more to turn you on than anything your current dance partner is doing, but you channel your new energy into your movements. It’s not a well thought out decision, though in the back of your mind you know who it’s for, but you start moving a bit more suggestively. You let your hips follow the music, let your hands come up to your hair as your body rolls rhythmically. Feeling especially bold, you even manage to meander closer to where Miguel is, giving him a better view.

Unbeknownst to you, this unfortunately also makes Alex, now unoccupied, notice you for the first time. You don’t hear him leaning over to Miguel and saying, “Gross. I hate seeing my sister with random guys. Let’s go get more drinks.” He drags him away, and Miguel, unable to come up with a good reason not to follow, does.

The next time you spin, all you catch is the backs of their heads.

The following week, you’re coming home from classes, and all you can think about is eating. You’d had to skip lunch to finish an assignment and couldn’t wait for dinner.

When you enter your apartment, you find Miguel sitting on your couch.

“Hey,” he greets. “Hi.” He’s sitting on the edge of the sofa closest to you, and he adorably shifts over to make room, as if you couldn’t just go around. You weren’t planning on sitting anyway, but now that he’s wordlessly extended an invitation, you do. “Where’s Alex?”

“Went to take a shower. We’re gonna play a couple games when he’s done.” He gestures toward the video game console. “Are the remotes charged?” you joke. “I hear it’s a hazard to have the wires across the living room floor.” Miguel chuckles lightly at your self-deprecating humor. He’s turned toward you, sitting in the middle of the couch, his elbow on the backrest as he occasionally messes with his luscious hair. “I felt so bad that day. Taking over your space and tripping you. When you looked so peaceful when we got here.”

“Don’t feel bad,” you laugh, amused but also masking your stirring feelings at the fact that he had thought about it at all. “I was just a mess that day. And I wouldn’t call my pyjamas peaceful, just comfortable. In my defense, though, I wasn’t expecting company.”

“I liked your pyjamas,” he teases, and you roll your eyes. “What? I did! I’m all for comfy clothing; have you not noticed 90% of my wardrobe is gym clothes?”

“Yes, well, you can get away with it. You’re a guy, and you look like that,” you say, gesturing at his body before you really realize what you’re saying. You tense as soon as you do. It just slipped out, the conversation getting weirdly easy and comfortable with him. “Like what?” he asks, but he’s smirking, knowing what you meant. You just roll your eyes again. “No, c’mon, chula, like what?” He lifts his eyebrows in challenge, mirth in his eyes. You’re too busy reeling from the pet name to have mental energy to come up with a retort. You’re grateful for what would’ve otherwise been embarrassing: your stomach grumbling. Miguel looks at your stomach and giggles. “Hungry?”

“Starving,” you say, taking the escape route and walking to the adjoining kitchen. He follows. “You can get away with it too, you know,” he says nonchalantly. You think you know what he means but look back at him questioningly. “The clothes. You always look good.”

You’re glad you’re not facing him, your expression probably revealing your excitement. “Thanks.” “You’re welcome.” He leans on your counter. “So what are you having?” “I don’t know, whatever we have. Haven’t had time to go to the store.” You’re rummaging through your cabinets. “I can make you something,” he offers. You stop and look at him. “What? I’m a great cook,” he shrugs defensively. “Have you never had my tamales?”

“It’s not about you being good or not,” you giggle. “There’s no reason you should have to cook when you’re just here to hang out.”

He just shrugs again, but there’s a tinge of shyness in his typically confident facade.

You turn to open your fridge, and he comes up right next to you. “Oh shit, you guys have jarritos. Can I steal one?”

“Yeah, of course,” you laugh. “Grab whatever you want.”

You didn’t think he would immediately… As you bend over to grab something from the drawers, Miguel reaches up to grab the soda, leaning forward. Both of you moving simultaneously, your ass presses firmly against his crotch. You both freeze in panic, prolonging the position, before you jump up at the accidental contact. His and your “sorry”’s and “I didn’t mean to”’s get jumbled together in the colossally awkward moment. Miguel looks down, then back up again looking startled. He scurries around to the other side of the counter, it now separating you. “Jesus, Miguel, I didn’t do it on purpose! You don’t have to put a barricade between us; it’s not like I’m gonna jump you!” “No, no, it’s not that! Fuck, it’s, uh, fuck…” He looks lost for words. His hand comes to his face, covering it in resigned embarrassment. His voice is a mumble through his obstructing hand, “I’ve a bd’ve uh sitch-ation.”

“What?” He uncovers his face with an exasperated sigh. “I have… a bit of a… situation,” he whispers, looking down.

“Oh… oh!” you say, realization hitting you. Probably largely because of the awkward tension, at least partially at the idea of you giving Miguel O’Hara a boner, you start cracking up. He just stares at you, deadpan, his hands coming to his hips. “It’s not funny.” “It’s a little funny.” His glare cracks the tiniest bit.

“Okay, maybe it’s a little funny. But it’s your fault!”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“Didn’t mean to what?” Alex asks nonchalantly, coming out of his room, lazily drying his hair.

“Nothing!” you and Miguel say simultaneously.

“Okay… should I just pretend that wasn’t really suspicious?”

“Yes,” you tell him. “It’s nothing, really. Just me being clumsy again.”

His eyes are still skeptical, but Alex just chuckles and nods, letting it go at the look on your face. He heads to the couch with an easy “C’mon, man” at Miguel. Miguel follows, giving you a sideways glance and tense smile. When he sits, he immediately puts a cushion on his lap. You grab the first thing that looks edible in your fridge and head to your room.

Two weekends later finds you at another soccer team party. They’d lost this time, 2-1. Miguel scored their sole goal, and the other team’s second had been a sketchy penalty. If the victory parties were good, the defeat ones were wild. Most of the players, Miguel and Alex among them, were drowning their sorrows, especially after such a disheartening defeat.

You weren’t a player, but you had your own sorrows to drown, and you weren’t stopping yourself from doing just that. You’d hardly seen Miguel in almost two weeks, and the few times you had, he’d been cold, keeping interactions mainly to greetings and goodbyes. You didn’t know if you’d done something wrong, if he was still caught up with your little awkward encounter, or if you were just making it up, your feelings for him needing some outlet. Making up stories by constantly obsessing about him was as good as outlet as you could get sometimes. Alcohol was a better one now.

A while into the party, you’re at the bar for your… you lost count… numberth tequila shot. You down it, lick the salt off your hand, and stick the lime in your mouth, cringing.

Your eyes are still closed when you feel a hand on your shoulder. You open them and see Miguel standing beside you. “Maybe switch to water, huh, guapa?” he tells you.

“Why? M’fine,” you slur.

“Maybe, but you won’t be if you keep this pace up.” “And how would you know?”

“Just noticed,” he shrugs.

You squint your eyes accusingly at him. You didn’t know what you’d feel next time you talked to him, but you hadn’t expected to feel this angry.

“You notice me enough to watch how much I drink but not to say more than two words at a time to me for weeks?” He looks surprised. “Y/N…”

You cross your arms and lift your eyebrows in an implied “what?”

When he doesn’t say anything, you just walk past him. You end up walking through the dance floor, and though it wasn’t your plan, you kind of like moving to the music. You’re drunk enough to the lack the inhibitions to just dance alone. You’re enjoying yourself, not even bothering to look back and see if Miguel was still there. A bit later though, you startle as you feel a hand on your ass. You turn and find a random guy you’ve never met before, smiling at you disgustingly drunkenly. You’re taken aback, your mind already a bit slow from the alcohol, so you haven’t decided yet how to tell him to fuck off by the time Miguel is in front of you shoving him away. He’s not overly aggressive but, even drunk, easily moves the guy away from you with an angry “What the hell, man?”

The other guy looks seriously scared and just lifts his hands with a pathetic “sorry, Miguel.”

“Fucking better be, what the hell is wrong with you?” The other guy stumbles away. Miguel turns towards you, and his expression melts from frightening anger to warm concern in two seconds. “You okay?” he asks, his hands carefully grazing your shoulders. You nod and lean into him. At your seeming comfortable, he lets his arms come around you.

“Thanks,” you whisper in his ear.

“Of course,” he whispers in yours, and it sends a shiver down your entire body. You stare into his eyes, your hands resting on his chest.

“Miguel?”

“Yeah?”

“Wanna dance with me?”

They don’t call it “liquid courage” for nothing.

Miguel considers you for a moment, but a soft smirk is whispered across is sharp features. He nods slowly, and his hands move slightly further down your back. You close your eyes at the sensation of his hands running along your body. You run your hands up his chest slowly and wrap your arms around his neck. When you open your eyes, you see his crimson ones boring into you.

You start moving a bit more as you focus on the music to relieve some of the tension you’re feeling. He follows your lead, and soon you’re dancing together much more easily. As a couple of songs go by, you’re both moving freely, staying close to each other the whole time.

You’re so exhilarated, and he seems as enveloped in you as you are in him, so the next time the beat calls for it, you let your body twist rhythmically in his grasp. Your back is now flush with his chest, your ass on his crotch, your hand reaching behind you on his neck, in his hair. His hands are firm on your hips, and when you roll them against him, you hear his whispered “Fuck, mami” in your ear and feel his arm come around your middle, pulling you into him. His hips move in rhythm with yours. You’ve probably never been so turned on in your entire life. You keep this up for a delicious while. You can feel Miguel is hard through his jeans, but he makes no sign of being embarrassed, just continuing to dance with you with expert hip movements that make your imagination go wild. Of course he’d be an amazing dancer. Of course you’d imagine what else his hips could do.

You twist back in his embrace, coming to face him. He holds you close, and you bring a hand to his face. He leans into your touch. You move your face up slightly, and he seems to be following, moving his down. You’re so close, even think you feel your lips graze his, when someone bumps up against you, making you stumble.

Miguel’s strong arms catch you, but the moment is gone, and a second later, he looks startled.

“You okay?” he asks, stepping back a bit, speaking loudly to keep his distance. “Yeah, I’m fine,” you assure, but he seems off.

“Let’s get some air, huh?”

You follow him outside, the sudden change in ambience making your head spin a little. You lean against the wall, and he puts his hand on your shoulder.

“Sure you’re okay?” You nod but don’t say anything, maybe a bit drunker than you thought, trying to ground yourself. He leans on the wall next to you. His body is warm where it grazes your side. You can feel his gaze intermittently on you. You get a little dizzy again, and you lean onto his shoulder. He just lets you, and you stand like that for a while.

His fingers graze the back of your hand.

“Want me to take you home?”

You nod into his body. He wraps a firm arm around your shoulders and leads you away from the party.

You’re home before you know it, the whole journey a blur dominated by his warmth by your side. When you reach your front door, you lean on it and look up at him. His subtle smile elicits your full one. “Thanks,” you whisper. “’S no problem,” he shrugs. “You’ll be okay?” “Yeah,” you nod. You’re already sobering up. “You?”

He chuckles and nods.

“I wasn’t the one downing tequila shots like water,” he teases. Your cheeks warm, and you look down as you chuckle.

“Wasn’t that many…”

He laughs.

“It was, cariño.” Again with the pet names.

“I’m still surprised you noticed.” “I always notice you,” he responds without missing a beat. Your eyes snap up to his, and you see the longing there.

You stare at each other for a heavy moment, then, drunk more on the sensations of your earlier almost-kiss than on alcohol, chasing that feeling, you lean up to try again. Your lips are a breath away from his when he looks down, effectively rejecting your advance. You pull away, mortified.

“Sorry, I… sorry,” you stutter as you scramble for your keys. You turn to your door. “Y/N,” he whispers, his hand holding your wrist softly. “It’s okay,” you say, looking back him, wiping tears from your eyes. “You don’t have to say anything; sorry I misunderstood.”

You quickly go inside and close the door. You lean on it, crying. Miguel, eyes closed, fists clenched, rests his forehead on the opposite side.

Miguel doesn’t come around for a while. Even as days pass, you can’t stop thinking about your night together. Confusion, sadness, embarrassment — all mixing together into a terrible cocktail.

Another match day rolls around, and you can’t stomach the idea of watching Miguel play, of potentially having to talk to him after. You tell Alex you’re really sorry to not support him this time, but that you’re not feeling well. He worries over you a while, unhelpfully but adorably emptying your medicine cabinet onto the kitchen counter, looking through stuff, suggesting this and that, telling you to text him anything you needed that he could bring you after.

A while later, you’ve just slumped down onto the couch, when your stomach sinks at the sight you’re met with. There, at the corner of the room, lie his cleats. He’d been cleaning them the night before and had clearly forgotten to put them back in his gym bag.

“Fuck.”

You lift yourself up, grab them, and head over to the stadium.

When you get there, you pound at the locker room door, and it opens — of course, you couldn’t catch a fucking break — to Miguel O’Hara’s gorgeous face. Though he looks at you intently, you can’t quite read his expression. Then he yells over his shoulder, “Ale!”

Alex jogs over and, upon seeing you, lets out the biggest sigh of relief.

“Oh, thank God. I fucking love you.” He reaches for the cleats you’re holding up to him and gives you a bear hug. “Saved my fucking life, Y/N/N. Thank you.” He kisses your forehead. “You don’t look as sick. You’ll be okay?” He’s clearly in a rush to get back but wants to make sure you’re alright.

You nod and playfully shove his chest, pushing him back into the locker room. “You’re the best!” he yells over his shoulder as he saunters back. Miguel is still just standing there, all geared up for the match. It crosses your sick mind how good the uniform looks on him.

“You’re sick?” he asks.

“Nothing I won’t get over.” You offer him a weak smile. He’s nodding slowly, considering.

“Stay for the match?”

“Miguel, I —“ “Please.” You’ve never heard him plead before. You’re head is nodding before your mind can catch up. He just nods too. “I’ll find you after.” And with that, he jogs back into the locker room.

You’d never known ninety minutes could drag on for eternity, with a half-time’s worth of eternity in between. You’re sure you’re heartbeat was elevated the entire time, your mind and emotions reeling. What was Miguel going to say to you after the match? You had absolutely no read on him during your short interaction before. Then again, apparently you weren’t always great at reading him.

Minute after minute trickles by. At the end of the second half, your team up a goal (yes, Miguel’s), the ref announces an unusually large number of minutes. You moan with everyone else, for your own reasons. What was a potential leveler compared to the leveling of your heart?

Slowly, the minutes pass. The other team builds a mounting attack; they get a good attempt; they miss. The whistle blows; the crowd cheers, and you, you’re frozen in place.

You thaw yourself slowly as the players shake hands, go to their respective huddles. By the time they’re roaming the sidelines freely, you’ve only just managed to leave your seat.

As you descend the bleachers stairs, you catch sight of Miguel. He’s obviously searching, halfheartedly ignoring the congratulations coming from all sides. His eyes eventually meet yours, and as soon as they do, he’s running over to you, meeting you much closer to the bleachers than the field.

He comes to a stop right in front of you and just watches you. You just watch him. “Congratulations,” you say. He chuckles, lightly shaking his head.

“Thanks.”

He takes a step closer to you. “Y/N…” “Yeah?” “I…” “Miguel!” you’re interrupted. “Congratulations! Way to pull it out!” “Thanks, yeah, thank you,” he says hurriedly, looking back over to you. “Listen, I just, I wanted to clear things up after how we left them.” You nod, worrying your bottom lip, your arms wrapping around you defensively.

“I didn’t want you to think that —“

“Congratulations, Miguel! Did it again, man!” And a slap on the back.

“Uh-huh, yeah, thank you,” Miguel responds, turning away, approaching rudeness. “For fuck’s sake,” he says, much more softly. “C’mere.” He grabs your arm and drags you around the bleachers, stopping when you have a semblance of cover. He’s looking around to make sure no one else is about to talk to him, and his worried looks right after he’s just won makes you laugh. The sound draws his attention fully back to you. He smiles at seeing you smiling.

“Where can a guy get a little privacy, huh?” he jokes. “Probably not still by the field where he just scored the winning goal, I’m guessing,” you tease. He chuckles. Then he takes a deep, sobering breath. “Listen, Y/N…”

His tone sounds apologetic, and it makes you immediately think the worst. He probably just didn’t want you to be embarrassed. Wanted to fix things so they wouldn’t be awkward if he hung around, which he’d obviously want to do given Alex was his best friend.

Already fighting back tears, wanting to beat him to the punch to save face in whatever way you could at this point, you cut him off. “Miguel, you don’t have to explain anything or anything. I’m sorry I made more out of a good time than I should have. Please don’t let me keep you from hanging out with my brother even if I’m around, and I hope we can still be friends.” “What? No, that’s not… This isn’t about Alex. I mean, well it is a little bit.” He’s looking unsure. “Just keep things how they were before. It’s all fine.” “Is that what you want?” He looks serious. “What do you mean?” “Is that what you want? To keep things how they were before? To still be friends?”

“I… well… it’s what you want, isn’t it?” “I never said that.” “You didn’t have to. I tried to kiss you, and you pretty much said no to that. Twice.”

“I didn’t. Well, once, yeah I did, but it was only because I was worried you were too drunk. I didn’t want to take advantage of you. And, also, maybe a little bit because I panicked, okay?” He sounds more vulnerable than you’ve ever heard him yet. “I was worried it’d be weird with Alex or that I’d fuck it up with you, and I just, I don’t know, I panicked. And the other time wasn’t my fault. I was going to kiss you if you hadn’t stumbled.” “Someone bumped into me!” “I’m not blaming you! I just, it just, it made me remember you were drunk, and I didn’t want to be like that idiot guy I’d had to push away a while earlier.” “You’re nothing like that guy,” you say sternly. “I…” He’s started to look frustrated, unable to find the words. He runs his hand over his face, takes another deep breath. “What if you try now?” “What?” “I don’t know how to tell you. So maybe I can just show you. Try again, and no one will bump into you. I won’t panic, and I won’t think of all the things that could go wrong. I’ll think of how I’ve been feeling since that night. Absolutely fucking miserable. It’s been eating away at me; all I could think about was making it right with you, but I didn’t know how, didn’t know if I should. But I can’t take it anymore, and if you feel the same way, then, fuck, let’s just stop getting in our own way.”

“Miguel…” “Yeah?” “That was pretty good for not knowing how to tell me.” Your face forms the slightest teasing smirk, your eyes lighting up at the realization of what he’s telling you. “Shut up and kiss me already,” he says, rolling his eyes, unable to help his bright smile, pulling your body to his and bringing his lips onto yours.

You pull him into you, reciprocating eagerly. He moans into your mouth, and you feel his towering body sink onto yours. His arms are tight around you, one hand cupping your head, bringing you close. His kiss is fervent, desperate but concentrated.

You run your hands in his hair, and he chuckles gruffly, the sound muffled by your chasing mouth. You lose yourself in his embrace. You grip him tightly, breaching into his mouth, wanting to kiss him as much as wanting to be kissed by him. You could feel the beginning of a beautiful push and pull as your mouths move together, your bodies mold into each other’s.

You want to kiss him forever, but some loud cheering nearby startles you slightly apart. Miguel is looking deeply into your eyes. He kisses you again, lets his forehead rest on yours when he pulls back. You’re smiling when you say, “You should probably get back. I’m sure people are looking for you.” He groans dramatically and hides in the crook of your neck. He kisses it before saying, “I just want to be with you.”

You giggle, nuzzling his face with yours, holding him close, your hand in his hair.

“Yeah, me too.” He hums into your neck. He plants another kiss there, and one on your cheek on his way up, as he lifts his head again. His rough hands caress your face tenderly.

“This is good,” he says simply. You laugh and nod. “Fuck ‘em. I’ll go over there at some point. Let’s just stay here a little while longer.”

“Okay,” you smile.

Miguel leans back into you, kissing you and kissing you and kissing you.

#miguel ohara #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you #spiderman 2099 #miguel ohara fanfiction #miguel ohara imagine #miguel ohara oneshot #miguel ohara fluff #miguel ohara angst #across the spiderverse #spiderman #atsv #spiderman across the spiderverse #spiderman fanfiction #slow burn #mutual pining #bbf!miguel #soccerplayer!miguel

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simplyreveries · 5 months

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Playin with Gloomurai and Muscle Red except you don't know who they are, and they don't know who you are and you're a surprisingly pro player despite how funky the character looks (pls headcannon?)

playing with them online; idia and lilia

I LOVE THIS CONCEPT??

idia shroud

at first idia laughed at your silly avatar and just thought you were some newbie or something to the game... when you requested to fight him, he was like "hehehe this person is an idiot...easy win" until you absolutely demolished him with some of the best items idia had been trying to get since forever!! he's spent hours grinding trying to get. since then, he kinda took it as his own personal mission to surpass you but it just turned into him enjoying playing with you and it turns into some playful rivalry.

he finds himself waiting for you to be online sometimes... since he's probably a lot more online than you. he'll groan when it takes you a while and complain to ortho about it. this is usually the time you are online!! idia sometimes spams your dms. they're pretty stupid too since he's just trying to be annoying, he thinks it's so funny. though, what is funny is if you knew how different his typing quirks and online personality is different in comparison to his actual real-life self. hes so much more talkative chatting online.

idia loves just going on quests with you in the game and fighting monsters and bosses together. he thinks you two are such a powerful duo together. you two stay up until laaate hours of the night playing together.

he still makes an effort to one up you, like whenever there's special events in the game and golden opportunities for him to get rare and special items, he's all over it. he gets all smug and proud of himself only to be once again for you to one up him.

lilia vanrouge

he finds himself quite impressed with how far you are in this game, lilia enjoys that he gets an opportunity to play with someone like you. and soon enough you two are always playing together. he always playfully tells you that you take up so much of his time! as he finds himself spending more and more time on that game to play with not only Gloomurai but you as well.

lilia totally customizes his character so it matches yours, he thinks it's cute. but that also meant he just had to play some more to actually get some those said items... because you've got the rare, good stuff in this game. but that's fine he made you come along and help him get those items anyway. you two roam around the game fighting enemies and completing quests in your silly matching outfits.

has a habit of telling silver about this friend of his he found through the game, he seems so happy talking about you two and your little game endeavors.

he always praises you whenever you get yet another powerful item, he once again just thinks it's highly impressive with how far you are! he doesn't exactly take that game overly serious he's just content with enjoying playing it with others. besides he already is pretty good in the game. it confuses both you and idia sometimes because he just gets so lucky without even trying half the time.

#disney twst #twst #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twst headcanons #twst wonderland #twst imagines #twisted wonderland #idia x reader #lilia x reader #idia shroud #lilia vanrouge #idia shroud x reader #lilia vanrouge x reader

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tinycozycomfort · 6 months

Text

some quiet evenings

pairing: mike schmidt x f!reader

summary: If he wasn’t so far away all the time, working and worrying and wracked with undeserving guilt, you’d disassemble him completely—down to the fucking marrow.

warnings/tags: no use of y/n, sub!mike, the tone? they're in love, underwear play, c*ck grinding, finger sucking, pet names (baby, honey, etc), the socks stay on, criminally gratuitous descriptions of how good-looking this man is

word count: 2k

rating: explicit! 18+ only, mdni

a/n: huge thank you to @cupofjoel for these amazing fics that were a direct contributor to me watching the movie (and then subsequently falling into a lore hole) and to @pascalisbaby for listening to me fumble my way through this!!

main masterlist

Mike is always tired when he gets home.

Tired like the weight of his body is too much to bear, eyes wet and just-open like a seam that’s freshly split. He hangs at the end of his own rope, slumped on the line of his spine, damp across his brow as he sits and undresses at the corner of the bed.

You don’t question him when he says it’s nothing, when he mumbles something about work being a lot of pressure and just needing to make it through the end of the week. For something so mundane—watching unwanted property—it seems off; still you kneel at his back to help him shrug off the lip of his vest and hoodie and creased t-shirt with nothing more than a sigh.

“Didn’t mean to put this on you. I know you work as much as I do—more, even,” his head lolls down towards his lap, fingers sweeping his face as he shrinks with guilt, “I just need to figure out some money for another babysitter so I can actually sleep and you can actually see me and—”

“It’s okay. Don’t know how many times I’ll have to tell you before you believe me.”

He works at the clasp of his pants before you can—another thing he feels the need to take responsibility for, right now—bending at the waist enough to pool them at his ankles, socked feet tapping the ground inside their halos. Nervous, like always, high-strung and erratic for reasons you can’t begin to pull out of him.

“And everything with Abby, she just… I worry about her.”

“She’s asleep down the hall. Got her to eat and everything. You need to worry about yourself, too, y’know.” You widen your thighs, straddling the base of his hips, left hand curling to cradle the strip of skin between his shoulder and neck. He’s warm there, too, tacky and tense when you tuck your pointer up against his jaw. “Look at me, Mike.”

He refuses at first, pushing back against your guidance, reserve strong in the face of shame.

In return, you press harder into him, doubling down, dimpling the underside of his chin in an effort to halt his retreat.

“No,” he whispers, insistent.

Something hot swirls in the core of your spine at his defiance, as small as it is loud, the corner of your lip tugging up in response. He can’t see you, hiding like this, but it’s like he can feel it, knocking a shoulder up to shield himself even more.

He likes this game, you’ve realized—where you let him have his fit just to reel him back in, to prove to him he’s wrong. That special kind of attention to detail—the laborious care of taking the time to peel back his doubts to get to the tender meat of his heart, just to string up your favorite pieces of him as you go. Declarations is maybe the most correct way to put it; he likes to earn the kind of love he can hang on the fridge.

You lean in behind him, cheek brushing the hair at his temple, and his guise falters, body unfurling on instinct. What a sweet man he is, naked save for the rings of fabric on and at his feet, the thin veil of his boxers—the latter failing to hide his own interest. Opening for you like he needs to.

You drag your nose across his lobe, the flesh there raising in little welts, “You do know how much I worry about you, right? How much I want you to relax? Don’t you want that, too?”

He swallows hard, wrist twisting in his lap—restraint, you think, or warning; Mike, ever-courteous, letting you know he’s reached his threshold, fizzing over the top.

“What do you think I could do to make you feel better, honey?” You run the bend of your free hand along his inner thigh, chest flush to his back so you can reach the fold of his knee.

Mike shudders, short puffs of air jutting out of his open mouth. The grip you have on his neck tilts, wrapping your thumb over the knob of his jaw, longer fingers spreading out so you can curve one between his lips. He licks at it, tongue soft where he sucks you in, skipping the gentle work-up to get to his favorite part—more tired than you thought, then.

“I don’t want to have to choose for you, but I will.” You rub the inside of his cheek like you can coax the words out, “C’mon.”

“You could—I want, fuck. I want to be inside you.”

The papery t-shirt clinging to your back stretches, looped material around your hips tacked down by the trickle of slick that seeps out at his words. You were ready for bed when he arrived, more thankful than ever to have nothing else between you and his body, now that he’s ready for something else.

You drag your wandering hand across where he’s straining, hot and heavy, his only reaction a gentle tug of teeth on your knuckle, a too-deep inhale that inflates his chest. Mike’s hands sit limp where they’re glued to his thighs, waiting patiently for your next instruction, seeing if you’ve decided to grant him his request.

It’s not until you wedge your hand free to toy at the waistband of his boxers that he sets into motion, raising off the sheets and letting you strip him of his last shred of modesty, just the slouched cuffs of his socks left clinging to him.

His cock is hard—angry—coming down on his stomach with a dull thud, a sticky pull of precome following in its wake. The muscle under his torso jumps at the impact like he forgot it was even there, too focused on what’s coming next, sold on the prospect of something better.

You guide a leg down the slope of the bed, planting yourself on the floor by his side. He takes the hint, pushing himself higher up on the sheets and resting his weight on the flat of his elbows behind him, quick to obey.

You take your time climbing along him, bracketing him from the front this time so you can take in the full image of his want. He’s flushed across his cheeks, his neck—even the little reliefs in the skin under his eyes are touched by pink. Lips shining, hair clumped with wet at the root—he’s the kind of beautiful he doesn’t even know he’s capable of, sleepy and misty and shaky when you run your fingers against his jaw—still damp from his own mouth—marveling at the rounded edges that find their way in his angular face.

If he wasn’t so far away all the time, working and worrying and wracked with undeserving guilt, you’d disassemble him completely—down to the fucking marrow. Clip him off at every joint just to piece him back together.

“Pretty,” you mumble, mostly to yourself, but you know he hears it when he preens, eyes fluttering and chest squeezing tight in a long exhale.

You loop a thumb through the center of your underwear, swinging it out to fit his cock in with you, settling into his lap more firmly so that the split of your cunt presses against him. He’s trapped there, between your heat and his belly, the whine that slips out of him involuntary but solid.

When you start to move, working up a rhythm, he spits out something like fuck, fuck yes and you nod to feign understanding.

“Oh, is this what you meant? You wanted to be inside here?” You rock into his hips with purpose, the thick shape of him rubbing at your clit like it’s all he was made for, like being inside you wouldn’t even be an idea if he couldn’t take care of you in every other way first.

“No.”

“First yes, now no? You have to make your mind up, baby. You’re not giving me enough to work with, here.”

“Yes. This is–yes.”

He starts to meet you halfway without thinking, grinding up into the cradle of your body in search of a better way to communicate than words.

“So you don’t want to fuck me?”

Mike whines at that, the breakout of red reaching the very edges of his face, bleeding down into his collarbones. He regains some sense of his own body, then, hands fumbling up until they slot above the crease of your thigh, rubbing firmly at your hip bones. Pleading.

You tuck your knees into his side to help him along, ribs stinging where your efforts begin to hurt, happy anyway to push him closer to the edge. A thick lick of heat rises in your chest, the seat of your pelvis, flaring white when you watch him fight for something to say.

“I do—I did, I just. This is perfect. You’re perfect.” He’s panting in between each word, pressing himself to you to punctuate his point, “I’m going to come just like this, if you’ll let me.”

It’s not so spelled out, but he is asking for permission—as he always does—and it sounds like an apology more than anything else. For being selfish, you know he’ll say; for taking his pleasure exactly like you’d asked him to.

You swipe at the curls that are starting to twist at the base of his neck, both for leverage so you can match his pace and to point out another facet of him that falls perfectly into your liking, the glide easier with how much you’ve coated him in that same favor.

The hand you’d hooked into him earlier finds his lips again, slipping in with no resistance, passing harshly against his molars and tongue.

Mike is eager to glean as much fondness as he can off the skin, closing his mouth and sucking fervently.

“Go ahead, then. Said you needed to relax, didn’t I? We’ve got all morning.”

Something flashes in his eyes that reads horribly like but what about work?, as if now would be the time to worry over your schedule—as if anything could be more important than the way his cock swells in anticipation despite the thought.

You redirect the anxiety, not wanting his orgasm to fall flat after all the convincing it took to lead him here, “You have all morning to make it up to me.”

His grip around your middle tightens, suffocatingly so, brows drawing tight, tilting his head so he can take in more of your fingers to slide his tongue against the underside of your palm as he comes in warm threads of slip.

He makes a mess of your chests and the already soaked-through film of your underwear, legs shaking under you as he breathes his way down.

You release yourself from him with a pop, squeezing lightly at his cheek as he cracks a meek smile.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, freshly shy like he hadn’t been aware of what just occurred, so inside his mind he’d left his body, “I didn’t mean to not be able to, um—”

“Fuck me?”

He’s fully glowing by now, this time because of the weight of your accusation, loosening a little only when he sees you grinning back at him. You lean in, pecking at the corner of his mouth to not interrupt his irregular breaths, allowing him just a moment of error before appealing to the side of him that rids him of his nerves, “Get to it, then, if you’re so worried about it.”

#first time writing for someone other than joel checkkk (nervous)#mike schmidt x reader #mike schmidt smut #mike schmidt x you #mike schmidt fanfiction #fnaf movie #mike schmidt imagine

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blackopals-world · 6 months

Text

Vet!Yuu: love advice?

Writer!Yuu: Just humor me, I'm asking everyone how they make their relationships work. You and Leona seem happy.

Vet!Yuu: The best I can say is that sometimes what you want isn't what you need. In our case Leona had partners who just let him do what he wanted because he cared more about himself. I won't let him walk over me nor do I act like a doormat. Sure someone else will let him get away with zero effort but I care about myself. If he got me an expensive gift but had Ruggie pick it out for him then I throw it out. He knows it makes me mad so he has to try to impress me and money doesn't impress me. I know Leona better than most so I know he prefers a challenge rather than someone content to put up with whatever he throws at them. So earning my affection was his goal and he needed to work on himself to achieve it. At one point he slacked off once he believed that he had my interest but learned quickly that I lose interest quickly too.

Writer!Yuu: That sounds exhausting, constantly playing mind games.

Vet!Yuu: Different people need different things. Say what you want the idea that you should love someone how they come is bullshit. It's just something losers say to excuse their mediocrity. Not everyone deserves to be loved for being themselves. A lot of people are pieces of shit.

Writer!Yuu: You sound alot like Leona right now.

Vet!Yuu: We share beliefs on this matter. I don't settle for mediocrity. I want the best and if Leona wants me then he has to be the best. That means self-improvement and hard work. If he doesn't want that then he's free to go. Sure I'll be sad.

Leona:(Interrupting) Will you cry?

Writer!Yuu: Ahh!

Vet!Yuu: Yep, I'll cry my poor little heart out. Then I'll get over it and get back to work.

Leona: (smirking) Can't cry on company time?

Vet!Yuu: Well crying over you is wasted effort. If you leave then I'm not taking you back. You'll be someone else's problem.

Leona:(hugging them) You'd miss me. We both know it.

Writer!Yuu: (sneaking off) I feel like I'm intruding.

#vet!yuu #writer!yuu #yuuniverse #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted wonderland yuu #twisted wonderland incorrect quotes #leona kingscholar #leona x reader #leona kingsholar x reader #twst leona #twisted wonderland leona

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yjhariani · 1 year

Text

You were in game, having your username called by one of the people who happened to be in your team. Well, it seemed like you were part of these people’s team since they sounded like they were friends already.

To be fair, you had been laughing in the past few minutes just listening to these guys talking to each other. It was not necessarily because they had been very tactical about this game as if they were actual soldiers in real life. It was mostly because they were being idiots while doing it.

The one who happened to be calling your username was vegetablesoap. The one named LieutenantGhost seemed to be pissed at him a lot. That was probably why the one named gaztronaut was wheezing nonstop.

Your username was called again when you had not responded.

“Sorry, I was finishing my laughing,” you said once you finally responded.

“Yeah, well, you have any more grenades?” vegetablesoap asked.

“Don’t give it to him. He’s gonna do something stupid,” LieutenantGhost chimed in.

“Negative. Saw a buncha tangos up in that building. Imma blow them up,” vegetablesoap said.

“I’m already inside the bloody building,” gaztronaut announced.

“Do you have a grenade?” vegetablesoap asked.

“No, Soap, I don’t have a grenade. I don’t need a grenade,” gaztronaut replied. “Why would I need a grenade?”

“To blow those bastards up,” vegetablesoap said.

Somehow that made gaztronaut laugh and his laugh got you laughing.

“Whoever you are,” LieutenantGhost said after addressing you, “I apologise for how immature my teammates are.”

“This is the most I laughed in a game,” you mentioned, half laughing.

“And you’re still winning,” vegetablesoap said. “You would’ve won better if you’re giving me that grenade I see on you.”

You looked around in the game, trying to find anyone around you.

“Behind you,” vegetablesoap informed. “No, a little to the left—my left. There—up… up a bit. There you go.”

You found a player scouting and standing up and scouting again before standing up on one of the balconies.

“Just reminding you,” LieutenantGhost said, “do not give him the grenade. I repeat, do not give Soap any grenade.”

“It’d be fun, though,” vegetablesoap reasoned, now moving towards your position.

“I will shoot you both if you give him the grenade,” LieutenantGhost warned.

“Then, Lieutenant’s winning,” you stated.

“Calling him with his rank humanise him, don’t do that,” vegetablesoap quietly said, now standing very close to you in game.

“I can still hear you,” LieutenantGhost stated.

“He’s lying,” vegetablesoap said.

There was something about the way vegetablesoap said that that tickled the hell out of you.

“I mean, Ghost is in the name, I don’t doubt that he’s not human,” you said as quietly as vegetablesoap did.

“Oh, no, don’t take his side,” gaztronaut said.

“To be fair, he’s the only person in front of me right now and that seems to be the most effort of convincing me to take sides,” you said. “I might actually give him the grenade.”

“Yes!” vegetablesoap cheered.

“Fine, I’ll get to yea. Hold on to that grenade,” LieutenantGhost said. “Let me kill these bastards first.”

Just then, the number of players dropped a handful in number.

“Lieutenant, how many did you kill just now?” you asked.

“I’m involved,” gaztronaut said. “Six combined.”

“You did one thing, Gaz,” LieutenantGhost stated.

“That I’m good at!” gaztronaut pointed out. “Recon. And it gives you five kills in stealth that’s executed within a ten second window which the captain said is improbable.”

“There’s a captain?” you asked. “Is vegetablesoap the captain?”

“Yes, I am,” vegetablesoap said at the same time as the other two yelling, “No!”

“Is gaztronaut the captain?” you continued. “Or is the lieutenant secretly the captain?”

“No, there’s another person,” gaztronaut explained.

At this moment, two newly arrived players had stood before you. They were none other than gaztronaut and LieutenantGhost.

“You guys are really into this, huh?” you hummed.

There was a second of pause before the three piled on top of each other in defence of themselves.

“It’s not what you—”

“I mean, isn’t it clear already that we’re—”

“To be completely honest with you, I don’t—”

“—really think it is just—”

“You know what, I’m not explaining myse—”

“I’m really into anything, really.”

“Excuse me?!”

“This conversation is not going straight.”

“Neither are you.”

“Fair.”

Once they finished with a little more gibberish, they finally turned to you.

“So, about that grenade—”

“This grenade?” you asked, equipping the grenade into your hand.

“Do not give it to him. We almost won. I’m not letting Soap blow us up,” LieutenantGhost said.

“Oh, now I got an idea,” you said.

“Everyone, the zone’s closing and we’re on the edge,” gaztronaut informed. “We should run.”

“Do not blow us up,” LieutenantGhost insisted.

“We really should be going,” gaztronaut said.

With a grin on your face, you aimed up and let the grenade loose whilst everyone else was yelling about one thing and another.

“Did you just throw the fucking grenade?” LieutenantGhost questioned.

“Where is it?” gaztronaut said, abandoning his warning about the one closing in.

“I got the grenade!” vegetablesoap yelled.

Before you knew anything, the other two players were walking backwards into the zone that was closing in. It was already a tight alley that you were in and they started screaming about getting stuck. Meanwhile, vegetablesoap was laughing and you heard a character saying, ‘Fire in the hole!’.

The other two players were telling you to get out of here. You looked down and saw the grenade in front of you, in between you and vegetablesoap.

“What the—”

Before you could finish your sentence, the grenade went off and you were sent to the lobby immediately.

Soon, the three players joined you in the lobby, screaming and yelling at each other.

“This is exactly why we never win a game!” LieutenantGhost stated.

“Wait, you never won a game?” you asked.

“Never,” gaztronaut answered.

“But you’re so good!” you whined.

“Every time we’re so close to winning, Soap would fuck us up,” gaztronaut explained.

“For fun! The important thing is we’re having fun,” vegetablesoap said.

“No!” LieutenantGhost said.

“But we’re playing another round, right?” vegetablesoap asked.

“Absolutely,” gaztronaut said.

“Just start the damn thing,” LieutenantGhost sighed.

“What the fuck?” was all you could say.

#simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost #simon ghost riley #simon riley #john mactavish x reader #soap x reader #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader

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xeeroo08 · 9 months

Text

Astr observations 《4》

Disclaimer: I am not an astrologer. This post is only for entertainment purposes, so whatever I have mentioned, if it is reasonates, well and good, and if it doesn't, then please take it with a grain of salt. Thankyou.

🛖 Aries in 3rd house may have a very reckless yet mature behind the scenes relationship with their siblings. They also fight a lot with their siblings for no reason. Surprisingly, this usually goes physical more than verbal. Very playful relationship. There is always a strong urge to hit the other person and irritate them to death. It gives them pleasure. When injured, you might immediately stop the fight no matter how serious it is and take care of each other. Oh, and if someone else dares to trouble any of you, hell would break loose. They can't hear anything bad about each other. In certain cases, this could also apply to mars in 3rd house.

🪵 Dirty mind, Dirty mind, Dirty, Dirty, Dirty mind~ Heard the song? Yeah it's made for those who have their personal planets or ascendant conjuct asteroid Prevert. Trust me, the dumb way to die is by sneaking a glance in their minds. You will be traumatized for the rest of your life and will never look at them the same way again. At any given moment their thoughts are always in gutter. Yeah I am calling myself out at this one. Do I care? No.

🛖 Mars in 10th house folks are really good at dancing. They dance so well.... like you can see the passion in their steps. Dancing can be one of the hobbies in their lives. These people can also be known for dancing professionally and being captivating as hell on social media.

🪵 Lilith in 7th house could indiacte having seen a lot of failed marriages in their life. This could be in their immediate family or even include their own parents. Hence these people have a really different mindset when it comes to marriages. They might even resent the idea of getting married and often question, what's the point?

🛖 Moon in 1st house are babies. Literally babies. Like they look so damn cute and adorable that I just can't help myself but give them a huge hug. They are the most genuine type of people I think because its rarely when what's on their mind is not on their faces. They look so innocent and naive (even if they are legit not.) People just wanna protect them at all costs. They bring out the maternal instinct for them from the other person naturally. But no matter what their warmth is the best comfort zone and their arms are home <3

🪵 Mars in 5th house would definitely be that uncle/aunt/cousin/sibling who spoiled small kids to death and taught them to do weird stunts and create a headache for other family members.

🛖 Transit Saturn in 1st house is really frustrating. It feels like you are doing nothing progressive for yourself and just wasting time. Your efforts go in vain and its really hard to maintain consistency. Sometimes you also realize what mistakes you are making but you find it difficult to correct them. Mental state is always fluctuating and self-confidence is very down. This mainly goes on until the very end when you realize that now you gotta be serious. But when you really do hardwork and break the cycle of laziness, it pays off. Its like an immature, careless kid suddenly becoming a responsible and serious person. Remember, our beloved saturn plays mind games with you. Its either you break free from this if you want the prize or pay the price.

🪵 The people that I have seen to be most likely get cornered, misunderstood and targeted are people having chiron in their 1st house. Its really concerning and hurtful. Because of other idiots these babies get hurt on a very deep and subconscious level. They occasionally have identity crisis and depression is their bestfriend. They try to be happy but life always seems to push something in their way.

For example, I have this relative of mine and she lost her brother a year before she got married. She thought if she starts fresh, it would help. But unfortunately turned out her in-laws were not good people. She was gravely misunderstood by everyone. Even if people knew that it was not her fault, they took great pleasure in gossiping about her, blaming her and literally named her a psycho. Which she is not ofcourse. She was just mentally fragile and instead of understanding her, supporting her, they made her more unstable for no reason.

🛖 Leo venus folks love Cats. They are an animal lover by heart and soul. They are someone who might stop their car in the middle of the road because they saw a really cute cat walking on the sidewalk. Just to go their and mingle with it while thinking, If only I could take it home....

🪵 Cancer moons in 3rd house, please, please stop imitating that baby voice just to butter me up and get your work done. You might think its cute but no, I can see through everything and its so annoying plus immature. Ofc now it doesn't apply to everyone out there but those who do, please take my advice and stop it. Usually I have noticed only underdeveloped people do this but until they realize, its too late and others already find them so annoying. Honestly Cancer moons are so smart yet sometimes they.....*sighs*

🛖 Nessus aspecting Mercury could mean that you often end up hurting people through your words or the way you communicate even when you genuinely don't mean it. These people are really misunderstood a lot of times. Also this works the other way too. For example, you get easily hurt or offended when people speak ill about you. They might just share their opinion on your new home decor but instead you would feel insulted when in reality that's not the case. Not that you would hold a grudge, it depends person to person but you will definitely not overlook that. It would just sting a lot for no reason. You will always wonder, why did she say that?

For positive aspects, this could work out well too, for instance they know exactly what to say and what not to. They can be great negotiators, entrepreneurs and social influencers. They also know how to handle people embodying nessus qualities like a troll or opposition hell bent on creating trouble. Hard aspect people will slowly learn to overcome their problems in communication with time and experience.

🪵 Mars opposite MC screams suppressed anger. The thick tension between their anger and self-image is unbelievable. They don't like to get angry in public. They often gulp down their anger to the last extent because they don't want their reputation to get spoiled because of it. Sometimes its automatic they wanna get angry at someone but end up swallowing it anyway. But please don't test their patience. They might just explode unexpected at any time like a nuclear bomb and destroy everything within their range, not caring about their public image whatsoever.

🛖 Lilith in first house/Conjuct Ascendant are the infamous bad examples of the family while Lilith opposite Ascendant are the good examples with secrets darker than nightsky- always holding their sanity with a single string. Ironically, both are siblings, two sides of the same coin.

🪵 Remember, in one of my posts, I said that I don't relate with Aquarius rising and their unique fashion sense? Well, guys, I finally cracked the mystery! It's not our fashion sense that's unique. It's us. We are the aliens. Ok, that was a bad joke. But really, for example, a few months back, I wore a very pretty dress at my cousin's wedding. And istg people were looking at me like I was an alien, like I wore something totally out of the blue. As if It was not something improper or overdressed but very different than what everyone was wearing, which, of course, was not the case.

Now the funny thing is, if it was someone else wearing the same dress, I don't think anyone would've said anything about it. And voila! It happened. A few days back, I attended a family function, and I saw a girl wearing the same dress in different color and design. And fr nobody uttered a word. Those same people overlooked her as if it was totally normal. As if they didn't just make me talk of the town for a whole week because of that dress. So yeah, finally figured out, it's me, I am the problem.

🛖 Its not always true when they say Earth Mars people are calm and collected. I mean they are but suppose you have a virgo mars but you also have a Leo or Aries or Sagittarius stelium, your Virgo mars will be crying in the corner while that fire stellium will create a havoc and burn down the whole world in matter of some seconds.

🪵 North node in 11th house people are so likable. They are that one friend who knows the entire school and vice versa. So many connections and so many new friends. They just keep making connections left and right no matter where they go. People like to be in their contact. This gives me 'popular girl' vibe.

🛖 You sneaky little thing, you think no one knows how much you love reading smut? Yeah you, I am talking to you, Scorpio Jupiter/3rd house. Look me in the eye, I dare you to deny this.

🪵 Mercury conjuct Mars.... man, they literally spit fire when they talk. Can't win any argument against them. Ngl, I told my friend that I would leave her if she doesn't keep her hands off me special mention to her love language that is playfully hitting me at any possible situation. She just laughed and said, "Go, nobody would take you." Me: Cries silently. Her: I know baby truth hurts. Lemme give you a hug.

🛖 If you have no positive aspect to sun in your natal chart, it might be possible that people don't like your personality much. They think you are too egoistical or full of yourself. They might also backbitch about you a lot. Now this is just what I have observed so far. So it may not reasonate with everyone.

🪵 People with Sun conjuct Ascendant make very great leaders. They have a king/queen Aura surrounding them. And when they speak or share their opinion, people actually listen and take them seriously. When they walk in a room, they make sure everyone knows who has the authority.

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wheneclipsefalls · 8 months

Note

Obsessed with your writing! Especially the sully brothers x reader relationship!! If you're taking requests, I would love to see possibly something along the lines of lo'ak being slightly more jealous and possessive even when it comes to his brother, so maybe reader x neteyam are being very fluff and cute alone and it starts to get hot and heavy, and even though they know lo'ak would be jealous Neteyam just can't help himself 😩 just as neteyam and reader are finished and cleaning up lo'ak catches them and gets soo pouty and jealous and reader is soo apologetic and makes it up to him with his own special alone time asgdgdhdhfjfkf 👀🙏🏻

Masterlist AO3

Pairing: Neteyam (23) x Metkayina Fem Reader x Lo'ak (22)

Warnings: oral (fem receiving), explicit MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, p in v, aged up characters, established relationship, polyamory, dom Lo'ak, dom Neteyam, squirting, sub reader, power imbalance, jealousy, sibling rivalry, dirty talk, semi public sex.

A/N: Thank you to the anon that requested this! I had a lot of fun exploring a softer side to these three's dynamic. Also, thanks for being so patient <3

“You’re going to hurt your eyes staring at the sun like that, baby girl.” Neteyam warns you. Still, your gaze is locked to the horizon. The water is calm and clear, only the occasional canoe or ilu and rider surfacing. Nothing showing the shape of what you truly desire to see.

“Yawne.” Neteyam tries again, finally breaking your focus away from the pulsing water. Looking up from your place in the sand, it’s easy to see the fond amusement in Neteyam’s golden eyes. “He won’t be back until tomorrow.”

You huff and turn away from him.

“I know that.” Your efforts to remain nonchalant are unsuccessful with the eldest brother. A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest before you feel his shadow encapsulating your form. He leans directly over your sitting form till his playful eyes meet yours directly, blocking the view of the ocean. Neteyam’s tight braids dangle and sway upside down with the ocean breeze carrying them along.

“Then why do you keep looking for boats?” A hairless eyebrow raises back at you and it becomes hard to hide your pout.

It seems that your attempts at spotting the hunting party were not as subtle as originally imagined. Then again you figure nothing concerning you and the brothers is ever subtle. It’s been five days since Lo’ak left with the hunting party out past the reef. It’s the longest the two of you have been apart since mating. Sure there were times when one or both of the brothers were needed in these groups, setting out across the waves to gather greater supplies for the clan, but that had been when you were teenagers.

Back then you could not verbally call them as yours. Even on those occasions you had been worried and anxious for their return, but those were thoughts that had to be kept to yourself. You can still remember Lo’ak’s smirk the first time you had bounded into his arms after he had been away on a three day journey. He was pleasantly surprised but wasted no time in pressing your body closer to his. Pulling away with inflamed cheeks, you could see the obvious pride that glimmered across his features.

It was clear he knew of your little crush.

Now, having been mated to both brothers for several months, you are acclimated to their presence. You are fortunate enough to wake up with at least one of the Sully boy’s wrapped around you. Each night you fall asleep pressed between them, a game of footsy inevitably taking place throughout the night. Even with each of your busy schedules and responsibilities you seem to always find time to spend with them frequently.

“You’re imagining things.” You insist, trying to look past his curtain of braids.

Neteyam audibly laughs at this. He straightens up before plopping down beside you. Strong arms wrap around your middle and easily manhandle you to sit between his legs. It feels natural to melt back against his warm chest, Neteyam tucking your head beneath his chin.

“My poor yawne, not getting enough attention with only one male to satisfy her.” Neteyam teases and you instantly slap his thigh in reprimand. It’s light and harmless, only there for show of your retribution.

“Don’t say that.” A pout begins to form across your heart shaped lips. Thankfully Neteyam is unable to see it properly with you facing forwards. Still, he seems to sense it all the same, his cooing and amused chuckles not seizing for a moment.

Bent legs cage you in from each side, but the loose embrace is comforting to say the least. It doesn’t calm the storm of emotions and longing that plagues your brain, but the tension in your muscles begins to unravel into a more relaxed posture. Calloused hands dance across your shoulders and sides. The warmth of his hands seem to spread across your skin, subconsciously bringing a blush to your cheeks.

Finally, they settle to knead and work at the knots in your shoulders. Neteyam is an expert at scaring away any forms of physical stress with those skilled hands. His strong grip formed over years of wielding a bow and carrying heavy canoes onto shore, proves to be efficient in digging into the deep muscle that is usually coiled tightly. You have to suppress a moan from escaping your lips.

“He will be alright.”

Your eyes flicker open, unsure of when they closed in the first place.

“Yeah…I know.” You live under no delusion that those words came out confident. Were it not for Neteyam’s great intuition and vast knowledge of your reactions, it’s clear he would still be able to decipher your mood. You’ve always been known for wearing your heart out on your sleeve. It’s a characteristic that can lead to deeper talks and understanding but also the same one that puts you into moods that end with you over one of the Sully brother’s knees.

“Our sweet syulang, always concerned for her forest boys.” Neteyam coos, nuzzling into the back of your neck. The action starts to surface small giggles from your lips, tickling at the sensitive skin. Your sharp teeth gnaw into your bottom lip to try and keep them at bay, but it is already building into full blown laughter. This only spurs Neteyam onward, brushing your thick hair aside so he has better access to your neck.

“Stop!” The pleas for mercy sound anything but intimidating with your radiating laughter sinking into every phrase. Before you know it, his legs have come over yours to keep you trapped while his fingers tickle into the soft flesh of your sides.

You’ve always been ticklish, a fact that both brothers delight in and use to their advantage. Lo’ak was originally the first one to discover it and he had been relentless for the weeks following. Any chance he had to keep you pinned underneath him with desperate laughter erupting from you, he took. It came to the point where you were asking Jake for maneuvers that would get the male off of you.

“Neteyam! M-mercy!”

“Not till you admit how worried you are.” Neteyam insists. At this point you are squirming and frantically trying to kick his legs off of yours for relief. Unsurprisingly, you are unsuccessful with that heavy toned muscle clamping you in place. “Baby girl can’t handle Lo’ak being gone for a few days.” Neteyam teases.

It’s funny how after all this time, hearing the words out loud still makes you blush. You’ve done unspeakable things with these men, gave your body and soul to them and received the same in return, but there is still something about admitting your dependence on them that makes your ears heat up in embarrassment.

“Fine! Fine! I’m a little worried, you skxawng. N-now let me go!” Intermittent hiccups cut your sentences into jambled pieces but luckily Neteyam finally yields. Your lungs struggle to inflate and exhale air quickly, heart beating against your ribcage. The eldest Sully lets you lean back against him once more as he peppers soft kisses along your cheek and temple. You can feel the curve of his lips against your skin.

Arrogant Skxawng.

“Lo’ak will be back before you know it.”

You solemnly nod in response. Neteyam is right, but five days already feels like too much. It’s strange not having his snide remarks and devilish grin interrupting your day periodically. In many ways the brothers are like fire and ice. They have parts of their personalities that oppose one another and yet it feels unbalanced to only have one element without the other. There are moments where you admittedly enjoy spending one on one time with them, but things usually only escalate sexually in these scenarios if they’re quickies. Just simple moments where the heat of passion lures both of you into going further than anticipated.

Although you prefer not to verbally admit it, part of this has to do with Lo’ak’s tendencies. Neteyam isn’t easily bothered by being left out. He’s too busy and sensible to monitor things as inevitable as that. The eldest brother only comes to heated anger when seeing other Na’vi males closing in on you.

Lo’ak on the other hand, is a bit more sensitive to the exclusion. You blame it on the older-younger brother complex that they have grown up in. Neteyam has always been the golden child, spearheading the path for his siblings to follow while Lo’ak spent many of his adolescent years feeling like an outcast. In his eyes, Neteyam was the one that received all the praise and accomplished each milestone perfectly while he was seen as lesser than. It’s been years of healing and growing up, but a shred of those insecurities still lie beneath, no matter how much he denies it. Lo’ak is possessive of what belongs to him, perhaps afraid it could be taken away within an instant.

You consider it a miracle that the two agreed to this special relationship in the first place. Still, that possessive behavior has a way of bubbling to the surface every now and then.

“Five days is already a long time.” You mumble as Neteyam’s calloused fingertips trail to the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs. It lights a flame there, sparkling along your veins into simple tendrils of pleasure. Five days is a long time, especially when you’ve gotten zero sexual relief within that span.

“You think you can make do with silly old me for one more day?” Pointed teeth briefly nip at your twitching ears.

Your lips part to throw back some witty response, but the sensation of long fingers reaching underneath the waistband of your loincloth, makes your mind go blank. It’s borderline humiliating how affected you are by such simple touches, but you’ve been on the edge for days now. Neteyam has been doting and affectionate as always but your nights end with innocent cuddling. Only now can you feel the evidence of his own sexual frustration poking your back.

“Please don’t tease, Nete.” You rangle out a response as the tip of his pointer barely brushes your unparted folds. Going without sex for almost a week is one thing, but you have little hope of surviving it with the mix of Neteyam’s teasing.

“Why not?” He whispers, but those pointer fingers parts your petals and begins to rub delicately at your sensitive nub. Neteyam peeks his head around your shoulder once more. You obediently crane your neck to face him. His lips are soft and patient against your own, a different tune than the passionate one you are used to.

“Miss you.” The words are barely more than a mumble against his lips. Pressing his nose against yours he breaks the kiss and smiles down at you.

“Oh now you miss me too?” The tips of those sharp canines poke out in the smile. “How can you miss me when I’m right here, pretty girl?”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at him. There is no desire to kick up a bratty attitude right now, not when your instincts tell you that Neteyam is willing to reward you for good behavior. Instead, your lashes flutter closed and you give him the most innocent and endearing peck on the lips you can manage.

“You know what I mean, Nete.” His hands recede from your core and gently trace a path up to your hips. “Please?”

The hold on your hips becomes a harsh grip, one that is used to flip you around. Finally facing him you waste no time in straddling his lap. Desperate lips attach once more and you can feel his impressive member rock hard and grinding up against you through the fabric.

Lo’ak on his best days tries to keep his composure, forcing himself to walk back to the shared hut and into your arms instead of tumbling the way he would like to. Today, however, back early from the expedition, he can’t hide his excitement. A few drops of sweat trail down the back of his neck as he helps the others reign in the large net under the beating sun. The younger Sully brother ignores the aches of his muscles and continues to work as fast as possible.

Occasionally his gold orbs snap up to survey the perimeter in search of your form. For once he is relieved to not see you there. This way he can surprise you. Images of your soft body beneath him already fill his brain to the brim. Sleeping side by side with other Metkayina horny men is extremely disappointing in comparison to spooning you from behind as his cum leaks out of your tight pussy.

From the corner of his eye, Lo’ak spots Ao’nung rolling his eyes. He ignores the look, confident that it only comes out of jealousy. Spirit far from being put down, Lo’ak rangles the net together quickly until he is finally dismissed.

Hooks hanging from the netted loincloth clank together as he nearly sprints across the woven pathways of the village. The first place he looks is the marui, naturally, but neither you nor Neteyam are anywhere to be seen. He vaguely remembers the south beach being your favorite place to spend time after a long day of working so he beelines to the other side of the village. His only rest stop is one forced by Jake, who spots him and goes to welcome his son home. Lo’ak gives his father a nod of his head and a rushed explanation before getting back on course.

It isn't until he makes it past the thick cluster of mangrove trees that his ears twitch, catching the sound of distant moans. His first instinct tells him to turn away, leaving the anonymous couple to have their fun, but then there is a distinct whimper that he could recognize anywhere. Lo’ak takes heed to not rustle the fallen greenery loudly as he prowls forward toward the source of the sound.

And that is where he finds you backed up against a palm tree, his older brother balls deep inside you.

“C-close!” Your eyes are squinted shut, the familiar look of ecstasy painted across your delicate features.

“That’s it, baby girl. Give me another one.” Neteyam adjusts your trembling legs that are wrapped around his waist so he can change the angle slightly. This shift has a new onslaught of moans freely falling from your lips.

“C-can’t!” You whine, dropping your head to rest on his shoulder.

Careful to remain silent, Lo’ak studies your form. Your sweet body that has been haunting his dreams for the past five days. However, it’s his own back that he imagines your nails digging into while getting fucked, not his brother’s.

“Don’t be stubborn, baby.” Neteyam grunts, hip rocking upwards at breakneck speed. “I know you can.”

What tips you over the edge though is not encouraging words or the squeezing of those large hands around the plump of your ass, it’s the moment where Neteyam swings his queue over his shoulder and allows your dancing tendrils to intertwine.

“Nete!” Your screech almost drowns out his own feral moan. He curses under his breath.

“Great Mother!” Neteyam groans, and from Lo’ak’s hidden spot in the bushes, even he can infer it's from the way you are clamping down around him. “I love you so much, baby girl!”

“L-love you, Nete.” Lo’ak has to concentrate on the sound to make out your strangled words.

He’s done watching the scene unfold before him. Listening to his brother’s groans he knows how this ends and he has no interest in waiting around to be discovered afterwards. Suddenly, his excitement has dimmed to that of a lonely dread.

Careful to not be seen or heard, he traces his trail back through the array of trees until he can no longer hear the two of you. Lo’ak sets off to distract himself from the lewd scene he had discovered. Truth be told, he had seen and participated in moments like that with the two of you many times. The brothers were used to sharing sexual intimacy with you, but that wasn’t what made his heart clench.

It’s the soft and tender intimacy in that moment that spurs dark feelings inside of him. To see such a sweet scene of love and devotion, all while he has been away. The lurking voice in the back of his head whispers creeping thoughts of not being needed. Perhaps you are not only able to manage but also more content without him there.

Lo’ak knows better than to heed this tempting voice in his head. He knows he has a tendency towards letting these outcast feelings sink in. However, just because he doesn’t let himself believe such sad things, does not mean he is thrilled to see how well the two of you get along without him.

Reluctantly, Lo’ak makes his way back to the Sully residence. Surely at least Tuk will be happy to see him.

“Hold still!” Tuk hisses, yanking on the small braid in retaliation. Lo’ak winces, always surprised by the increasing strength of his now teenage sister.

“Yes ma’am.” He mutters under his breath, but Tuk rewards the comment with a slap to the head regardless. Only five minutes of lacing the new shells through his hair and Lo’ak is already itching to find a way out. He sours at the idea now of waiting for you to realize he is home. Neteyam or not, Lo’ak is anxious to see you.

Tuk giggles in delight as the last of the shell carved beads are finally positioned properly in his hair. She beams proudly at the handy work. It’s clear that she requires no outside approval to know she has done a fantastic job. Of course, he knows it’s expected regardless.

It’s in the middle of giving these compliments that he is knocked to the ground by your charging figure. The two of you fall back in a tangle of limbs as you squeeze him tightly. Finally, out of the dazed surprise, he wraps his arms around your waist. Quick kisses are peppered along his cheeks and nose rapidly before they finally reach his lips.

“You’re back!” Your voice radiates energy and sunshine, but Lo’ak can still hear the echoing of moaned devotions you had been spewing for his brother moments earlier. From the sidelines, Tuk wrinkles her nose at the sight of you two, but even pinned underneath you Lo’ak does not miss the twitchings of a smile on her lips.

“How long have you been back? How dare you not come find me?!” You complain as Lo’ak finally manages to sit the two of you up. Your fingers quickly find the newly beaded braids that hang over his eyes. You grin while fondly twisting the braids between the pads of your fingers.

“I did, but you seemed a little…preoccupied.”

Your smile drops and for the first time, Lo’ak makes eye contact with his brother that is casually leaning against the entryway.

“Oh.” It’s all you can think of to mutter.

“Tuk’s been waiting forever to get those beads in your hair. Surely that must have some priority.” Neteyam quickly cuts in, ruffling her braids messily. The distraction is enough to disrupt what was sure to be an awkward silence between the three of you. Neteyam focuses his energies on maintaining his younger sister’s innocence.

“Naturally.” Lo’ak agrees, eyes never meeting your own.

Neteyam is already set to work, distracting Tuk with inquiries of getting new beads for his own hair. Luckily she takes the bait eagerly, letting you and Lo’ak steam in your own cloud of tension.

“Lo’ak I…I’m sorry, we didn’t kno-”

“No worries.” He swiftly replies while simultaneously lifting you off of his lap. “We should head out before the hunting party devours the rest of dinner. Trust me, they’re desperate for anything besides boiled fish eggs.”

He’s standing and trailing out of the marui with Tuk before you have a moment to protest. Neteyam lets out a heavy sigh, offering you a sympathetic smile and hand to help you up.

The rest of the night doesn’t proceed in much better of a fashion. Lo’ak doesn’t outright ignore you, returning tender touches and responding to questions, but you can feel the reservation holding him back. He doesn’t jump to tell outlandish stories like usual. The younger Sully allows the other members of the party to take the reins of the conversation, only hopping in to aid when specifically called upon.

That night with the three of you back in Neteyam’s marui, the tension is palpable. You try to fill the air with fun stories and comments about how much Lo’ak was missed but neither brother does more than nod and occasionally pass out a one syllable answer. Neteyam affectionately lays a hand on Lo’ak’s head while the younger brother is putting away the fishing supplies, but his arm is brashly swatted away. It’s not an uncommon interaction between the two, something they’ve been known to do since they were teenagers, but there is an added sharpness to Lo’ak’s recoil.

Neteyam’s eyes cut to you, visibly rolling his eyes to show how unnecessarily his brother is being. You give him a reprimanding look, motioning for him to be nice. His attitude doesn’t shift much at the request but he does manage to give his younger brother some space for the rest of the night. A fact that you are grateful for, originally worried that you were about to witness another one of the Sully brothers’ brawls.

As the years have passed and maturity has settled upon each of them, they’ve come to be more respectful of one another. It’s that fact alone that allows this three way relationship to work in the first place, but there are times where the sibling rivalry still peeks out. Times where Neteyam finds Lo’ak dramatic and Lo’ak can see nothing but the golden child that has everyone wrapped around his finger.

Naturally you’ve jumped in several times to mediate the interactions, but you have also come to learn that sometimes they need to be left alone to fight it out. Chances are they are back to being friends again in the morning with nothing more than a few bruises to show from their argument.

Unfortunately, Neteyam seems to decide that keeping some space from you too would help wash away the memory of the scene Lo’ak walked in on. The bed is cold, trapped between the two of them while they both face away from you. A pout sits heavy on your lips as you toss and turn all night. Lo’ak doesn’t move away when you come to spoon his larger form from behind, but it’s still not how you imagined spending the night of his return.

The next morning when you wake with only Neteyam by your side, you decide that enough is enough. You refuse to let another day pass with this hot and cold tension between the two of you.

The village is still awakening, with the orange glow of daylight barely breaking the horizon, only a few early morning stragglers flit along the bouncy pathways. Most are in a rush to get out into the open ocean and make some morning kills. Lo’ak doesn’t have patrol or assignment with the hunting parties today, so it takes some effort to figure out where he has run off to. Luckily, you can recognize the muttered curses in the Sky People language that falls from his lips.

“Damnit!”

The sound comes from underneath the walkway and you know that you are bound to find either your lover or Jake Sully. It’s endearing to see how much of his father’s lingo Lo’ak has committed to his own vocabulary. It’s still a struggle and annoyance to try and decipher what each word means but you’ve started to pick up on the feeling behind the most crude ones.

Flitting across the woven floor you follow the distant muttering accented with the swish of water beneath your feet. It takes you to the edge of the village where you finally hang over the walkway to spot Lo’ak wrestling with something underwater. Laying your body down to peer over the edge, your curly hair falls forward till the ends become dampened by the water’s surface. It takes a few seconds to realize that he is currently wrestling with a tangled net around the base of a support tree.

Even from the distortion from the ocean water, you are able to make out his impressive physique and flexing biceps that yank on the sturdy wire. When he breaks through the water’s top once more for a breath and another round of curses, you allow yourself the luxury of porusing every inch of his majestic body with your eyes. He wears one of your favorite loincloths on him, a laced garment of mangrove leaves dyed a royal shade of purple. It’s a very traditional Metkayina attire only further complimented by his dark inked tattoos and shells swinging from his signature braids.

Today, however, his beautiful dark braids are fashioned into a top knot, showing off his bared neck and shoulders sinfully. A part of you wonders if he chose his attire this morning simply to punish you for yesterday, Lo’ak is no stranger to your preferences and he has been known in the past for using them to his designs. Regardless of intention, it would be a lie to say it isn’t working as you oggle at the shifting muscles along his back while he pulls at the net violently.

The years have been oh so kind to Lo’ak as he has grown into an accomplished male and warrior. The once slim beanpole of a body that you remember him coming to the island with (although even then you were quite infatuated with his appearance entirely) has shaped into a stronger Metkayina build while still maintaining certain Omatikaya physical traits. His shoulders had spanned out to create a surface broad enough for easily harboring canoes and nets full of gain. Even his thighs had become sturdy and encapsulated with smooth muscle. Somehow, however, that form still found ways to narrow into the slim waists known as a forest person trade mark.

It has always driven you to the point of insanity, how well the brothers took the best of each culture and mixed it into your personal heaven.

“Come on!” He grits out between bared teeth, starting to use his weight as a force against the trapped net.

“Fucking Damnit!” He exclaims, starting to wrap the net around his flexed forearm.

“Fuckeng damitt” Your attempt to mimic his words come out rushed and confident but with the clear overshadow of a thick accent. It makes his head finally spin in your direction, startled expression shaping into that of recognition.

“Don’t let Neteyam catch you using that language, yawne.” He warns you halfheartedly, already back to tangling with the destroyed net.

For some strange reason Neteyam has always been more sensitive to your use of obscene Sky People language than anything Na’vi curse related. Something about those fowl words being too dirty for such pretty lips. It’s half the reason you still struggle to understand the meaning behind these thrown English curse words. Still, it’s always an effective way to get either of the brother’s attention.

“What does it mean?”

“Nothing really, yawne. Just don’t use it.”

Your clear pout is wasted on his dismissive attitude, still facing away from you as he puts his sole focus on undoing the stubborn net. The blood is already rushing to your head from being upside down and still Lo’ak has given you nothing close to the attention or reassurance you require.

“You use it.” You point out.

“You know that’s different, mama.” The nickname is enough to finally have a small smile encasing your lips, unfortunately it’s fleeting. “Why are you out of bed? It’s barely dawn.”

Lo’ak doesn’t give you a second to respond before taking in a full breath and dunking under the water again. Your teeth grind together as you wait impatiently for him to stop fumbling with the twine underwater and let you work together a reconciliation between you two. The younger Sully brother has always had a way of expressing his disapproval, the theatrics sometimes enough to have you mouthing off and trying to beat him at his own game. Today seems to be no exception.

Guilt is quickly whittling along your nerves, faster and faster as the silence stretches on and Lo’ak still remains hidden beneath the surface. When his head finally pops up out of the water, the words leave your lips within record time. “I missed you!”

Amber eyes finally flicker up towards you for the first time since your arrival.

“Yawne, I’m working.”

“Is this my punishment?”

He lags at the question, ears twitching and tail coiling together before facing you once more. His dark eyebrow furrow and the edges of his lips downturn.

“Punishment?”

It takes a harsh steadying breath before you brashly begin to give the speech you’ve been preparing since last night. There seems to be so many things to include, so many ways to say you’re sorry. The order and details of this speech are rapidly becoming jumbled until you are sure that not even half of it will come out right even before you have parted your lips.

“I’m sorry about yesterday, Lo. I really am! Neteyam and I just got caught up in the moment and…not that I’m trying to excuse the behavior because yes it was not the most considerate to you. And then the timing of it all was…by Eywa, disastrous. I wanted to be there when you got back! I had a whole plan, was going to pick your favorite fruit but of course I didn’t think you would be back that early. Still I just-”

He sternly speaks your name, cutting off the endless spew of apologies.

“Breathe, baby.” Lo’ak calmly instructs and although your urge to continue talking till things are resolved still bubbles inside, you follow his command. Once you’ve seemed to settle enough to his approval he finally continues. “There is nothing to apologize for. You’re Neteyam’s mate too. You don’t need my permission to fuck each another.”

Although his words are spoken calmly, the edge of his cursing and timber in the tone still sets your anxiety spiking. The Sully brothers may be proud to know you inside and out, but that bridge goes both ways. You recognize this tone of voice, the hint of shame and bridled emotion that Lo’ak carries when he forces himself to not overreact about something. He has a inclination to keep certain emotions locked away when deemed childish or ridiculous, perhaps ones that he was scolded for having in his adolescence.

Truth be told, you don’t require his permission. The three of you have entered into this relationship and agreed to the terms consequently but that doesn’t mean you are proud of how things went down. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should, not when it comes at the cost of Lo’ak’s feelings. There were better ways that yesterday could’ve been handled. A deep frown etches into your features when you imagine how disappointing it must’ve been for Lo’ak to come home and have his first welcome home be nothing more than a reminder of how well you and Neteyam can get along without him.

“It wasn’t sensitive and I’m sorry. I know how you feel about it and-”

“Yawne,” He drops the net and faces you fully, the heat of his attention searing into your skin. “You do not need to apologize to me. I can handle it, I don’t need you to coddle me.”

Slowly your wide tail slinks do the ground, following suit with your pinned back ears. Lo’ak, however, can not hide his own tell-tale signs either. It’s easy to recognize the shift of his own tail and tension creeps through his shoulders. Although he returns to the task at hand, you are far from being done with yours.

You allow your body to flip over your head, cascading you over the edge and into the shallow water. Feet planted along the sandy bottom, the water’s surface reaches considerably higher up your own torso in comparison to where it sits along Lo’ak’s hip tattoos. He’s back to gathering the net, although he can sense your presence easily.

“I can tell you’re upset.”

“I am not mad. Truly.” The brief eye contact is broken as he turns around and digs his heels into the sand, readying himself to tug once more. It only takes a few more tugs for Lo’ak to decide that this method is ineffective. He easily heaves himself back up onto the walkway to retrieve his discarded sheathed knife. When he does, your eyes follow the curve of his sculpted ass, water dripping down the slopes of his spine and hips.

The two of you may be in the middle of whatever you call this disagreement, but it’s been five days since you’ve seen him.

Five days since his five-fingered hands have explored your body. Five days since he has been seated inside of you. Five days since you have had the opportunity to express your love through the passion of tangling limbs and unrestrained devotion.

The throb of your core is insistent as you drink in every detail of his beauty.

Back in the water with knife in hand, Lo’ak stubbornly continues to give you the cold shoulder.

“You’re not mad, huh?”

“Nope.” He mutters, adjusting the straps of his loincloth.

“Well then if you’re not mad…” You trail off, sauntering over to him through the thick of water gracefully. A shiver wracks his spine when your soft fingers trace along each jut of his vertebrae. “Indulge me.” You let your obvious seductive passion drip into each word. Now is not the time to be bashful. You’re ready to outright beg if that is what it takes.

“Yawne…” He sighs, “I really am supposed to get this net un-”

“Forget about the damn net for a minute!” His head whips around to send you a sharp look, but it does little to sway your determination. It’s too easy to see the spark of intrigue in his eyes. “You’ve spent the last five days working, all away from me. You can spare a minute.”

Your hands naturally come to rest along his slim hips as he turns to face you fully, his larger frame towering over you and blocking the orange glow of the sun. You can’t even find it in yourself to be apprehensive or remorseful when those long fingers tilt your chin up and bring you looking directly into that unyielding gaze. Any attention is considered progress and welcomed openly. All it takes are a few strategic maneuvers and this man will be beneath your fingertips. You know it.

“Seems like someone forgot their manners while I was away.” The cool shells along those two loose braids dangle down to your soft cheek. Lo’ak’s calm breath fans over your lips, mere centimeters away from their destination.

“Oops.” You answer coyly, a feigned pout mixed with a shimmer of arrogance laces your features. He doesn’t stop the pads of your fingers from leisurely drawing swirling lines along his abdomen and sides. “Although I hardly think I could be blamed for such a thing.”

An innocent peck is left on his lips.

“You are the one that left after all.” Another kiss and then you’re turning away to make your retreat.

You are barely afforded one step before being pulled back into his embrace, back now pressed against the supporting tree. His lips are on yours in an instant, heated passion and desperation swirling in every movement of his protruding tongue. Barely having fleeting moments to breathe, you return the kiss with just as much enthusiasm and ferver.

Finally!

It takes considerable effort not to let your pride show in a devilish smirk against his lips. Lo’ak loves to consider himself the cunning clever predator in your little game of push and pull, but you can’t help but feel that you are the victorious one in this situation.

A cinching grip around your waist is all you require as a signal to jump and wrap your legs securely around his hips. The new position finally allows some much needed friction along your core, requiring every fiber of self discipline to not immediately grind back against him. Fingers grasping at the nape of his neck, you enjoy the way your mate completely devours you whole. Every worry and hesitation finally flies out the window now that the sweet reassurance of physical intimacy soothes those nerves.

When he finally pulls away, allowing air to reach your lungs once more, his wandering touch trails along your outer thighs. Your ankles cross and you pointedly flex to pull him closer.

“God, I missed you, yawne.” He chuckles, nose pressed against yours.

“Let me make it up to you.” It’s a soft plea, aided by your docile expression and doe eyed impression. It would be foolish to believe that Lo’ak buys the innocent act, but regardless he is too eager to see where this thing goes to truly care. Might as well let you be a little spitfire, he’ll be the one winning in the end either way.

A low hum rumbles in his chest. Lo’ak allows his eyes to linger over your small frame, revel in the way it is so sweetly wrapped around him like a vice. It’s been way too long. Although he prefers to still tease and torment you a little further, he’s too hungry to let things carry on for too long.

“You really want to make it up to me, tanhi?” A stray curl is delicately brushed from your forehead, ears twitching in response to the gentle touch.

“Yes.”

“Well lucky for you I know just the way.”

There isn’t a second allowed for questioning before your world is being flipped around again and you find yourself sprawled out across the walkway. He heaves your smaller frame up onto the padded surface as if throwing another net out into the ocean, effortlessly and with confident familiarity. You half expect him to jump up and join you, scattering away to a secluded spot to finally be together, but then large hands are pulling you towards the edge till your ass almost hangs over.

A small squeak escapes your lips as you try to understand what is happening but then the ties of your loincloth are being unknotted expertly.

“Lo’ak wait!” You attempt to push at his working finger while whipping your head around frantically to see if anyone else has stumbled upon the two of you. This section of the village is a newer addition. It’s lined with recently built maruis meant for newly mated couples, none of them occupied yet. However, that does not deem the two of you safe from random stragglers or curious Na’vi that come to investigate the noises you are sure to make if this man keeps working you up the way he desires. Lo’ak is unswayed by your resistance, gently swatting your small fingers away in slight annoyance.

“Not here.” Heightened awareness of your public location naturally drops your tone down into a hushed whisper. Lo’ak’s lips curl up into an amused crooked grin as he shakes his head fondly. Before you know it, he has successfully unraveled the twine material and starts to try wrestling the fabric away from your pelvis.

“Yes here.” Comes his rebuttal.

“But what if someone hears?” When your legs snap close to keep the fabric in place, his golden eyes snap up to your own cerulean orbs sternly. The raise of those unique eyebrows is a sure sign that you are about to walk on shaky ground.

“Then I guess you will have to be quiet. Won’t you, sevin?”

There is a way out of this, just one mutter of your safeword and Lo’ak is sure to bundle you back up and lead you away. The thought crosses your mind for a moment, but a lingering promise of disappointment at the end of that path advises you against it. It’s impossible to ignore the pool of heat in your gut as you come to realize the true risk of this situation. Sometimes you wonder if you have your own sex drive and logic playing for opposing teams.

“Lo!” You whine, hands coming to cover the blooming blush across your heated face. It’s all the confirmation he requires before parting your legs and finally stripping the fabric away.

The heat of his intent gaze upon your exposed folds seems to sear right down to your core. Even with the remnants of salt water covering your teel skin, he is sure to see the evidence of your sticky arousal seeping out. A feral grin overtakes his expression as he repositions your legs to be bent and spread properly. An unobscured view of your most intimate parts.

He leans in to give his signature little kiss atop your button, but instead of the usual teasing peck you are instead met with a burst of warmth across your exposed parts. He wastes no time in leaving a never ending string of open mouthed kisses to the sensitive area. His tongue mimics the ministrations of your heated kiss earlier but now along your delicate pussy and it’s such a skyrocket from zero to one hundred, it takes a moment to recapture your breath.

“Lo’ak! Wait don’t you think…ah shit! Lo, you’re gonna kill me!” You screech out, barely able to randomly dampen down the volume of your own voice. It feels as if it has been a century since the welcoming warmth of his mouth has swiped along your inner parts and the drastic change is overwhelming to say the least. Caught between trying to wrest his face away from your soaked petals and keeping your head on a swivel to look for passerbys, it’s difficult to keep your brain online.

“Someone is going to catch us.”

His lips finally descend from your pussy, shiny slick already visible along the cupid’s bow of his upper lip. Lo’ak uses those large hands to grip your inner thighs and spread them properly again.

“It’s been almost a week without the taste of you, mama. Not sure how you expect me to act.” He chuckles deeply, eyes already trailing back down to your vulnerable flesh. “Besides,” A finger swipes through the cut of you, drawing another wrangled moan from your throat. “I can tell she missed me too.”

It’s hard to say no to Lo’ak when he is in this state, so utterly pleased with himself as he draws teasing circles along your clit, his beautiful braids tied atop his head just the way you like and broad shoulders creating the perfect surface to rest your dangling legs. Logic and lust do not mix well, one always comes to outcompete the other and seeing the state that he is in after your own longings over the past few days, it seems the desire has the upperhand in this fight.

“So, be a good girl. Keep those legs spread and let me have my breakfast.”

You go to make some smart remark after the devious wink he sends your way but any resemblance of a planned sentence is interrupted by the heat of his mouth on you once more. Lo’ak is insatiable, skipping the common steps of warming you up and instead taking everything you have to offer as his own personal dessert. His textured tongue glides along your inner folds and swirls around the clit with flickering intensity and accelerated pressure.

The only sounds that can be heard are that of rushing water, distant murmurs of the village waking up and Lo’ak’s absolutely feral groans as he eats you out fervently. The years of practicing his breath hold appears to come in handy as he suffocates his own face with your sweet pussy.

While he makes no efforts to keep his groans and whines of pleasure at bay, you are slowly losing the awareness to keep yourself from doing the same. It continues at such a pace that sends tendrils of pleasure crawling up the base of your spin to the tips of your pinned ears. It feels as if bolts of lightning are gathering in your pelvis with nowhere else to go. Your cerulean eyes rangle themselves open so you can stare at the brightening sun with your head sprained backwards. It’s difficult to focus on the changing colors of Pandora's wondrous skies but it’s the only tool at your disposal as one more look at Lo’ak between your thighs is sure to bring on the impending orgasm.

At first, he truly does focus on getting his own fill, messily devouring your unique taste until it paints his dark blue skin. However, Lo’ak seems to find a goal after a few minutes of your muted moans. And that goal is all focused on making you fall apart for him, tremble and break beneath his skilled tongue and let those pretty sounds out without apprehension or care.

The shiny jewels of your top are flipped to the side to join your sprawled out hair as he goes to work on exploring and massaging your succulent breasts. His efforts below don’t break for an instant, finding a way to multitask between palming and exciting your tender breasts and sucking your living soul out from your pussy.

When those skilled fingers cinch around your nipples sharply just as his lips close and suction around your bundle of nerves, it’s the pebble that breaks that stone wall. Pillowy lips part to release desperate whimpers and moans as your back arches lewdly. Somehow it’s possible to feel Lo’ak’s triumphant smirk against your core even as he continues to suction your clit expertly. The heels of your feet are already digging into his flexing shoulder blades and your fingers seem to find their own way into his bun to tug roughly, but that only spurs on a deep groan from the forest boy.

If anything he encourages the rough play, buzzing words of approval along your pussy to keep you going. It’s a wonder that his bun doesn’t fall out after several minutes of your rough yanking. Were you in any better state of recollection you would see the strain of Lo’ak’s neck to keep his head stubbornly in place with every yank of his hair. Still, Lo’ak doesn’t show a glimmer of complaint. His eyes darken into pools of molten good, only visible through the sprawled slits of his eyes the few times he comes up for air or to admire your wreckage.

“Oh Eywa, Lo’ak! F-feels so good, please please don’t stop!”

“Atta girl.”

His dull nails flick at the peak of your right breast, eliciting a sharp shot of pain that melts into thrumming ecstasy. The pleasure is all consuming and hurtling you towards the cliff sooner than you would like. Lo’ak shows no signs of wanting to slow down, even as your grip on his hair tries effortlessly to yank him away. If he continues now you are sure to climax before the two of you have even begun, and the thought of not being filled by him after days apart is disheartening.

“Wait, Lo’ak! Need you inside. Need it right now!”

Your eyes lock, his own peering up at you as he makes a show of unfurling his tongue to lick broad stripes from your pussy to clit. The lewd scene is enough to have that familiar tension coiling in your pelvis.

“Nu-huh, baby. Not yet. I still haven’t gotten my welcome home present.” Sparkling eyes of mischief tickle at your intuition, warning of danger ahead.

“Lo’ak! Sir please!” Hopefully the formal addressing is enough to have him swayed to your side. “If I cum now I don’t know if-ah oh Eywa…Lo! If I will be able to cum again. W-want to cum on your cock.”

There is a moment of reprieve when Lo’ak tenderly kisses and sucks at the plush flesh of your inner thighs. Somehow the younger brother has always had an immaculate memory of which marks were left by him. He nurses those particular spots back to a beautiful shade of purple, leaving the marks from his brother unattended. The lack of response has your wall of suspicion hoisting quickly, but Lo’ak seems to be in a good mood so you take comfort in that. If anything, you start to believe that the earlier hurt has been washed away by this physical intimacy.

When the tips of two fingers nudge at your entrance, you let out a sigh of relief. Only a few more minutes to get you stretched properly and then he will finally seat himself inside of you. Truth be told, there seems to be hardly any need for preparatory measures. The velvety walls of your channel grip his long fingers tightly, pulsing around him incessantly. They are able to twist and scissor inside of you seamlessly, walls fitting around his shape in practiced obedience.

A jolt of pressure stabs at your groin, but then those fingers curl to massage at your g spot. With toes curled and a scrunched face you try to hold yourself back from the edge. This effort seems almost futile when his sticky lips come to fondle with your nub once more.

“Lo! Baby, too much! I-I’m gonna cum!”

A soft kiss is placed directly atop your mound before that smug face is glancing up at you from below.

“I really did miss you, mama.” The smooth brush of his voice darkens into a languid purr.

“M-missed you too, Lo’ak! So much! Need you now.”

The pads of his fingers press and work at that tight bundle of nerves. The building waves of your impending climax are reaching new heights and sending warning signals through your body. Already you can tell that this is about to be a powerful release, one that makes your stomach flips in somersaults.

“God, nothing tastes as sweet as you, paskalin.” His pink tongue comes to swipe along his bottom lip, collecting the sticky substance smeared over his complexion. “You mentioned something about bringing me fruit when I returned?” It’s almost comical the way his voice morphs into a casual tone even as his fingers are knuckles deep inside of you, torturing that sweet spot.

“Yes, I was going to bring you your-ah favorite fruits.”

“Fuck, yawne. You are just too precious sometimes.” He chuckles, pinching your chin and swiping a finger over your parted lips. A trickle of saliva escapes your mouth and wets his thumb in the process. Lo’ak shows no objection, instead pushing his thumb past your lips to press down on your tongue. Automatically, the pink of your tongue lays flat obediently, allowing him to see your mouth clearly. “I appreciate the thought, but you know what I really want, mama?”

It’s not a rhetorical question, evident by the halt of his fingers and the way one eyebrow arches upwards. Gulping down the pooling saliva around his thumb you manage to get out a small “what?” around the digit.

Instead of a verbal response you are met with the sight of his saliva covered thumb trailing down the slope of your neck, across the valley between your breasts and drawing over every curve of your soft body until finding their destination back upon your clit. Just enough pressure is applied to bring forth another wave of white hot pleasure. Successfully, the edge of his thumb manages to slip past the clitoral hood and find home right atop that incredibly small and sensitive button of nerves.

Jolts of lightning laces your nerves with every swipe of that teasing finger, only bringing further pleasure when accented by the other hand working to massage that bundle of nerves from the inside. It’s a measured and merciless onslaught of pleasure, trapping you with inconceivable thrills from either side.

One look at that smug expression painting his face, and realization dawns.

You know exactly what he wants.

“No! Lo’ak, you know I can’t!” Your protests are smeared by the occasional shrieks and moans that endlessly cascade from your lips. The corners of his lips curve upwards.

“Come on, mama. You and I both know you can. Just need to be a good girl and let it go for me.” His argument is further aided by simple flicks of his tongue at the bottom of your clit, between his working fingers. Pressure is already building at an alarming rate. You’ve never seen a volcano in person but you imagine this is the feeling of rising intensity that preludes such a colossal explosion.

“Lo’ak!” Your legs shake and tremble as you try to push back against him. The squirming gets you hardly any relief as the effects of such pleasure seem to already have been draining your body of its energy.

“Safeword if you need to. Otherwise, I will assume you’re just being pouty with me.” Lo’ak warns before returning to the onslaught upon your cunt.

You consider his words for a moment, checking yourself to see if this is really your breaking point, but the idea of stopping now strikes a lash of fear through you. Surely the only way to get through this is power forward and find the precipice of pleasure on the other side. Stopping now would only leave you with a sore cunt and shaking limbs, nothing in comparison to the satisfaction that awaits you. Besides, you trust Lo’ak. He would never intentionally harm you, he’s proven that time and time again. So your lips clamp shut along with your eyes as your body squirms along the woven surface.

“That’s it, mama. Just let it happen. Fuck, look at how pretty your pussy is like this.” He revels in the squelching sound that accompanies his sliding and curling fingers. The heat of your blush radiates from your in waves with the thick haze of your arousal. It causes his nostrils to flare in order to accommodate more of that sweet scent. It’s driving him up the wall, watching you squirm, whine, and clench around him in the middle of the walkway for anyone to see. Even beneath the slightly chilled salt water, he can feel his dick bursting to break free from the confines of his restricting loincloth.

Not yet.

There will be time for that soon, but right now he is focused on getting what he came for.

He can sense the trepidation rolling off of you in waves, even from the clench of your closing legs it’s obvious to see that you are fighting this.

“C-can’t!”

“You can and will. I’ll make sure of it.” The forest boy promises. “It’s all in your head, yawne. Just a little mental block you need to break through.” It takes wrestling his broad shoulder between your thighs to pry them open once more.

“But-”

“Don’t you wanna make it up to me, mama?” The ascent of kisses along your inner thighs is revived once more, plush kisses alternating between heated words of praise and encouragement. “Can’t get enough of you. Five days is way too long, little one. I need a treat.”

It’s obvious from the way your hips bucks and strangled screeches catch in your throat that you are on the precipice. So close to finally getting what he wants, Lo’ak doubles down on his efforts. Soothing drawls of promises and praise flow from his lips without thought. The little kitten licks he leaves under his working thumb gives him just enough of a sample of the sweet juices he hopes to receive soon. Motivation fueling him forward, Lo’ak massages at that bundle of nerves from both sides until you are trying to kick him away.

The pleasure is so all consuming that it almost hurts. It feels as if your body may simply shatter into pieces at any moment.

“I know what you need, mama.” Lo’ak gently guides your kuru braid to the end of the path. Eyes snapping open, a wanton moan leaves your lips as a wordless plea to continue. Begging is unnecessary because Lo’ak manages to swing his own braid over his shoulder and connect the tendrils without delay.

The instant connection gives you something to fall back onto, something familiar and comforting in this depth of uncharted territory. The bond purrs with pleasure from both sides, but it’s his building anticipation and desire thrumming through the mental connection that has your self control disintegrating.

Suddenly, without your volition or permission, the muscles in your pelvis tighten and an alarming sense of impending need for release surfaces. You try to cry out and warn him, sputtering some nonsense about needing to pee but Lo’ak hushes those concerns away, drawing on and on about just letting go. It’s not a choice, not a sensation that is in your control. Those spasming muscles tighten until a stream of your juices is squirting outwards.

Back arched and body tensed, electricity flows through your veins in the form of pure ecstasy, so demanding that it threatens to block out your vision with phantom stars. Lo’ak wastes no time in swooping in. He catches every squirt from your spasming pussy with a undetained urgency. The deep groans and whines that vibrate from his chest almost slide under the radar from your penetrating screams drawing them out. He suckles and feasts on you like a starved man finally offered the luxury of a five star dessert.

The tips of your nails are digging into his scalp and untwisting his carefully prepared topknot. Lo’ak is too focused on drinking in every ounce of sweet juice squirting from you to care about the fallen hairstyle. He groans and slurps up the addicting juices until broken cries fall from your lips and the stream ends.

“Thank you, mama” He groans, taking out his fingers and cleaning your drenched pussy thoroughly with his tongue. The weight of your body weighs heavy on you. It’s too much to consider rolling away to protect your sensitive core.

When he finally takes a breath, lifting his head to lick his fingers, he finds your gaze misted over with a thick haze. He studies the way your soft form is slack and sprawled across the walkway, not the twinkling of a thought present in your beautiful ocean blue eyes. The sun has now risen to paint the village in rays of gold. They dance across your form perfectly, bringing out every beautiful curve that has haunted Lo’ak’s wet dreams for the entirety of the excursion.

“Such a good girl, baby.” Your overwhelming pleasure still drones over tshayelu and leaves his own cock twitching, but there is an undertone of deep seated trust woven there. You’ve given in and given yourself over. With your luscious curls splayed around your head like a halo, Lo’ak is sure he has never seen a more beautiful sight.

“Lo…”

“I know, mama. God I love you so fucking much!” He can’t hold himself back from kissing and exploring every inch of your body. His hands wander greedily to grope and take in every curve of plush flesh and smooth skin painted with those beautiful scribble of stripes. Every inch of explored skin brings you further and further off the edge until you are back in his arms with shaky legs loosely wrapped around his waist.

“L-love you too, Lo’ak.” His neck is a safe place to rest your heated face. “So much.”

The night is far from over, his bulge pressing against your stomach still stirs to your remembrance his promise, but he lets the moment sway and settle for a while longer. You're completely pliant and soft in his arms as he cradles you. The soothing pheromones that draft from him are enough to finally set your muscles at ease. Words are hardly needed as you can feel the radiating satisfaction and pride that flows from his end of the bond.

Proud of himself?

Proud of how he can tear you apart and piece you back together?

Perhaps, but the most overwhelming sentiment that travels is the pride that he feels for you. For the steps you’ve taken today.

This is the first time you’ve ever squirted, although it has been a goal of the Sully brothers for quite some time now. For the longest time it didn’t seem in the cards for you. Even with their dual efforts, you had never been able to get past that mental block.

That is…until now.

Lo’ak takes the bulk of your weight as your legs are doing close to nothing around his waist in this condition. He makes a show of licking his lips and humming in delight, even when you sheepishly hide your face against his neck in response. Strength is finally beginning to seep back into your countenance even as your mind remains offline. The only subjects flashing across the forefront of your mind are the sweet traces of his touch and thrum of satisfaction rippling across the bond.

It isn't long before more of that sweet honey is gathering between your legs and leaking onto his loincloth. You rut up against him. The silent plea to feel him inside does not go unnoticed.

You’re startled by a sudden chuckle from Lo’ak. Blinking up at him you recognize that shit-eating grin showing off his smug attitude.

“What?”

“Just wait till Neteyam finds out.” He laughs with glee as you gasp, weakly trying to hit his chest.

“Don’t you dare!”

He neither promises to keep it a secret or spare his brother from the knowledge of this milestone belonging to him, but every trace of contention is clear. His disastrous return has been overshadowed by this golden memory.

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