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the captain | s. crosby

warnings: sexual content, strong language, MDNI, 18+, NSFW, minors please do no interact, smut.

summary: Sid is given a hard time by his gf about his very stoic interactions with the media. he's not going to let you off so easy.

request: Younger reader and Sidney are already dating, but she can’t help but roll her eyes at his impeccable media training and family friendly personality in the media he does for the league, so she makes fun of him and takes a strong interest in pushing his limits 👀 (aka ends in smut)

word count: 6.3k

a/n: sorry for the extended hiatus guys! i should be back to regular uploads at this point in time and i am currently working through the request list! more to come to keep your eyes peeled guys! thank you for your patience with me! angelsuecult returns!! also to the original requester please don't hesitate to reach out if i completely missed the mark on this and you want me to retry! and requests are still open and update so dont forget to check that out!

--

You’re pretty sure Valentine’s Day games are a scam. Some cruel cosmic joke designed to make girlfriends sit through 60 minutes of freezing cold air and overpriced concessions just to watch their man play his heart out in a sport that could, at any moment, take all his teeth and potentially a limb.  

Not that you minded. Much.  

Sidney had played his ass off tonight—like he had something to prove. Not that he ever really didn’t, because the man didn’t know how to do anything half-assed. Especially not when it came to hockey. Or you, for that matter.  

But of course, it just had to be Valentine’s Day.

You stood now in the tunnel by the player’s exit, phone in hand, watching as Penguins fans in Crosby jerseys flooded toward the concourse, buzzing about the win. Your fingers flew over your screen.  

You: You know I was going to blow you when you got home, but I’m reconsidering because you just had to make it about you tonight.

Three dots appeared almost immediately. Then vanished. Then nothing.  

You rolled your eyes and snorted. “Coward.”  

The man had just been named first fucking star of the game. Of course he had. Two goals, one assist, and a faceoff win percentage so sexy it made you squirm a little. You knew his media obligations were kicking off soon—he was probably just peeling his sweaty gear off now, miserable about the idea of answering questions about “how it felt” and “what went right tonight.”  

Sid: Can’t believe you’re texting me shit like that while I have to sit half dressed with 5 cameras pointed at me.

You bit your lip and grinned.  

You: I can. 

You: You looked good tonight. Real good. Like I’d let you put it in my ass kind of good.  

You: Kidding. Kind of.  

Another pause. He was slow replying, which you’d expected, and it only made you smirk more knowing he was probably trying not to react in front of his teammates or, worse, the media guys. You could practically see his jaw tightening as he tried to suppress a smile, annoyed but secretly delighted.  

You could picture him already—still in his gear, slumped at his stall with his towel around his neck and that half-annoyed, half-resigned expression on his face. Someone probably tossed a mic in his face already. He was probably giving them that polite nod, the “Sure, go ahead” look, all while internally screaming. Sidney, Sidney, Sidney. Too private for his own good.

Sid: Go to my place. I’ll be done soon.

Sid: Stop texting me this shit.

You laughed out loud, drawing a glance from a nearby couple as you stepped out into the cold Pittsburgh night.

You: Oh baby, I haven’t even started.  

You: Maybe I’ll be in your bed.  

You: Maybe I’ll be in your shower.  

You: Maybe I’ll be in that stupid jersey you “don’t like me wearing because you take it seriously.”  

You could practically hear him groaning through the screen.

Sid: You’re an asshole.

Sid: Say the same shit every time anyway.

Sid: “Good team effort, got the bounces, lucky to come out on top.”

Sid: Happy now?

You: You forgot “credit to the guys” and “just trying to play the right way”

You: Gotta hit all the NHL buzzword bingo squares.

You: And don’t forget to smile like a humble Canadian virgin!

No reply. You let that one simmer. He was either suffering or plotting. Maybe both. Probably both.

You pulled your coat tighter around you, breath fogging in front of your face as you made your way to your car. The wind cut through your jeans, but your smile stayed in place. There was something so satisfying about teasing him after a big win—especially when he hated the attention but couldn’t stop being the best guy on the ice. You just couldn’t help yourself.

You got in the car and cranked the heat while pulling up the radio broadcast. They were still recapping the game, gushing over Sid like he wasn’t just a man who’d once tripped over his own shoe in the hallway.

“…and of course, Crosby with a textbook finish. You can see why he’s still one of the most consistent players in the league…”

You rolled your eyes, mimicking the voice in the car. “Oh yes, Sidney. So clean. So polished. Such a gentleman. Definitely didn’t say he was going to fuck me through the headboard if he scored tonight.”

Traffic cleared slowly as you went to his place, a familiar route etched into your brain. His street was quiet when you pulled in—classic Sid, all understated wealth and privacy. It took you forty five minutes to get from the arena to his house, another five to park and kick off your shoes inside the door.  It smelled like him—like clean laundry, cedarwood, and that subtle vanilla scent of his shampoo you’d teased him for using but secretly loved.

You wandered through his halls, turning on a few lights, getting cozy. It always felt familiar here, even though it was very clearly his space—clean, functional. Like a guy who didn’t like clutter but had more money than he knew what to do with.

You padded into the kitchen and pulled open the fridge. Full of ingredients. Not a single thing you could just grab and go.

“Romantic,” you muttered under your breath, pulling out a container of strawberries instead and wandering toward the couch.

The rest of the house was dark except for the hallway light, left on for you, and your socked feet were silent on the hardwood as you climbed the stairs to his bedroom. The hallway was chilly as you padded toward the bedroom in your socks, carrying the half-eaten strawberries and your phone tucked beneath your arm. Sid’s place had that always-too-clean look to it. Like he tried to live in it, but barely spent enough time home for it to actually look lived in. You made a note to mess it up later. Nothing too dramatic—just a sweatshirt on the floor, maybe a bra hanging off the couch cushion, leave a cup on the counter. Domestic terrorism.

You tossed your phone on the nightstand and peeled off your jacket, fingers brushing over the remote on the dresser.  

TV on.  

Pants off.  

You were in his bed now, wearing his shirt—an old Penguins one that smelled like his laundry detergent and game day nerves—and absolutely nothing underneath.  

Just as God intended.  

The analysts were falling over themselves about his performance.

“…you know what you’re getting with Sid. Every single night. Discipline. Poise. He’s just got it.” You snorted.

“Yeah, discipline until he’s got me pinned under him telling me I’m not going anywhere until I apologize for teasing him about his ‘media voice.’”

Another buzz from your phone.  

Sid: About to start media. They’re dragging it out tonight.  

Sid: You’re lucky I like you.  

Sid: And that I want to fuck you stupid.  

You choked on your laugh, clutching your phone tighter as you wiped strawberry juice from your fingers onto his shirt. You stretched dramatically across the bed and typed.  

You: Wow. Romantic.  

You: Just like I dreamed when I was 10.  

You: “One day I’ll date a hockey player who talks to me like a caveman on Valentine’s Day.”

Sid: Don’t act like you don’t like it. You’re already naked, aren’t you?

You: You’re not even here yet and you already think you know everything.  

Sid: I do know everything. And I know you’re wearing my shirt. And that’s it.  

Sid: Because you’re predictable. And a little slutty.

You covered your face with one hand and laughed out loud into the empty room. Your heart fluttered like a fucking schoolgirl even as you cursed him out in your mind.  

There was something wildly unfair about the duality of Sidney Crosby. The version the world knew—stoic, polite, humble to the point of parody. And then the real version. The one who texted you filthy things from the dressing room and called you a brat with that low rasp in his voice that promised you wouldn’t be walking straight the next day.

He was such a damn con artist.

You: You’re the one who’s gonna cry when I leave you with blue balls tonight.  

You: “Sorry Sid, I got tired waiting for you.”  

You: “Sorry Sid, I used all my energy climbing your stairs.”  

You: “Sorry Sid, I found your toothbrush and that did it for me.”

Sid: You’re such an asshole.

Sid: You’re lucky I’ve been horny for you since warmups. 

Sid: You knew what you were doing, sitting that close.

You had known.  

You always knew.  

And he always played better when he knew you were there watching.  

You yawned, stretched your legs beneath his sheets, and flopped dramatically on the bed, taking up all the space just to be a brat. You could already hear it: his sigh of fake annoyance when he got home, the shake of his head, the way he’d peel your shirt up with one hand and drag your body down with the other.  

You rolled to your stomach, phone buzzing again beside you.  

Sid: I’ll be home soon. You better be exactly where I think you are.

Sid: And if you’re not, you’re done. Actually done. I’ll find a Valentine who respects me.

You: You?  

You: Wanting respect?  

You: I’m sorry. I thought this was Sidney “I’ll fuck you on the bench if no one’s around” Crosby.

No reply. Which told you all you needed to know.  

He was already doing media.  

Probably giving his same bland ass answers.  

Probably planning what he was going to do the second he walked through that door.  

You looked around, debated getting up to light a candle or make the bed look a little less like a war zone. Then shrugged.  

Let him deal with the chaos he caused.  

You flipped onto your back and sighed happily, smirking at the ceiling.  

The remote was still in your hand when the screen switched from the postgame panel to the locker room feed. You didn’t even bother turning up the volume—didn’t need to. You could already hear it in your head.  

Sidney Crosby, media-trained robot, coming to life in hi-def.

You sighed and settled deeper into his bed, still cocooned in his shirt, bare legs tangled in his sheets. The duvet smelled like him. So did the pillow you were shamelessly half-lying on, half-straddling. Your phone sat close, a loaded weapon in the war of flirtation, but for now, you watched.  

There he was, perched in his stall, sweat-slick hair hidden under a black team hat, compression long sleeve clinging to his chest and arms like it was painted on. No jersey. No pads. Just muscle, all angles and sharp focus, like the game hadn’t even left his bloodstream yet. Cue Captain Canada.

The reporter asked about the team’s energy tonight, and you muttered out loud to no one, “We played a full sixty, stuck to our game, did the little things right—blah, blah, blah.”  

And then, right on cue:  

“Yeah, I thought we played a full sixty tonight… stuck to our game, did the little things right…”  

You cackled.

“Fucking called it.”  

He looked half dead behind the eyes, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, nodding as another reporter threw a question at him. You didn't even bother listening this time. You just watched his face. That twitch of his mouth when he was trying not to say what he really wanted to say. That calm, serious voice he used like a shield. That stupid, safe, polished version of himself that made you want to throw something at the screen.  

Because you knew the real Sid.  

The one who talked absolute filth into your ear with that same mouth.  

The one who made fun of his teammates the second the cameras were off.  

The one who said “fuck” more than he said “I.”  

And then—then—it happened.  

The reporter asked:  

“It’s Valentine’s Day, Sid. You played a great game. Got any plans tonight?”  

You sat up a little. That one actually surprised you. When did the reporters get so bold?

He gave them that laugh—that stupid, breathy chuckle he only used when he didn’t want to give too much away. Then he smiled, eyes low, lips pressed together like he was fighting off the real answer.  

“No,” he said. “Just recover. Get ready for the next one.”  

That was it. That was all.  

You stared at the TV, jaw slightly open.  

“Recover?” you muttered. “That’s your answer? No wink? No cute little nod? Not even a fucking smirk? You lying sack of shit, Sidney Patrick.”  You looked absolutely nuts talking to yourself.

You picked up your phone and unleashed.  

You: “Just recover,” he says.  

You: Wow. My pussy just dried up.  

You: Say hello to celibacy apparently.  

Still no reply. You fired off another.  

You: You are such a fucking fraud.  

You: There is literally a naked woman in your bed. Right now. At your house.  

You: On Valentine’s Day.  

You: But nooo, he’s gonna “recover.”  

You: Go ahead, Sid. Recover. I’ll just be here. Thinking about life. My choices. The fact I could’ve fucked a dentist. Or literally anyone else but hey.

You bit your lip to hide a smile, watching him wrap the interview up, nodding politely, face locked in full Captain Mode. You could practically feel the tension buzzing under his skin. The itch to get the hell out of there and back to you.  

One more for good measure:  

You: When they say “Crosby keeps his private life quiet,”  

You: They don’t know it’s because he talks so much shit in bed the FCC would fine him.

That did it.

Your phone lit up almost the second he stood from his stall.  

Sid: You need to be stopped.

Sid: You need help.

Sid: I’m not even out of the building yet and I’m hard.

You flopped backward against his pillows, laughing like a lunatic.  

You: I’m sorry did you forget you have a girlfriend? Did your nut brain erase me from memory just because you got first star??

You: Not even a cute little “gonna go home to the girl who’s been letting me rearrange her insides all season”???

You: Also don’t think I didn’t notice your compression shirt. You know exactly what you’re doing you manipulative little slut.

Sid: Jesus Christ

Sid: You knew what you signed up for.

You: I signed up for the hot hockey sex. The rest was a scam.

You: Don’t worry, I’ll be asleep by the time you get home.  

You: No recovering necessary. You’re off the hook.

Sid: You’re not gonna be able to walk tomorrow if you keep this up.  

Sid: You want recovery? I’ll give you something to recover from.

You swallowed.  

Slowly.  

Okay.  

So maybe you did like poking the bear.  

And maybe the bear knew exactly how to fuck you into next week.  

You tucked your phone under your pillow and let out a slow breath, heart thudding, a little thrill sparking low in your belly.  

Valentine’s Day.  

Just another game on the calendar.  

Until Sid got home.

And the worst part was, you didn’t even realize you’d fallen asleep. One second you were tucked under his sheets, limbs comfortably sprawled, phone still clutched in one hand and TV murmuring softly in the background… and the next, you were blinking against the warm glow of the bedside lamp and squinting up at a very large, very amused, very smug silhouette looming over you.

“Unbelievable,” Sidney muttered, shaking his head as he stood beside the bed. His coat was halfway off, his cheeks still pink from the cold outside, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, and that fucking backwards hat still on his head. “All that mouth, and look at you now. Out cold.”

You groaned before you could speak, voice thick with sleep and low like you’d swallowed a blanket. “'M not.”

“You literally just snored,” he said, dropping his bag to the floor with a thud and crouching beside the bed. “Like a full-on little cartoon snore. Tiny inhale, wheeze on the exhale. Real cute.”

“I did not snore,” you mumbled into the pillow. But your voice was gravelly, throat dry, and goddammit—your limbs were heavy with sleep, and he smelled so good, and everything was so warm.

“Look at you,” he murmured, brushing a few strands of hair off your cheek. “Talked all that shit and knocked yourself out.”  

You shifted slightly, nose scrunching, a quiet little groan escaping your throat.

“Mmph.”  

He grinned. Leaned in close to your ear.  

“Babe.”  

Nothing.  

“Babe.” He kissed your cheek. “Hey. Hey. Wake up.”  

You grunted, rolling slightly. “M’tired…”  

You rubbed at your eyes with the back of your hand, barely lifting your head from the pillow.

“…What time is it?”

“Late. Or early. Depends who you ask.” He pressed a kiss to your hair. “You passed out. Didn’t even make it to Valentine’s Day sex.”

You groaned again, voice muffled. “I didn’t mean to. Your bed is criminally warm. I got cozy. My body betrayed me.”

“You talked a lot of shit.”

“Yeah well, I thought you were gonna be faster.”

He laughed low in his chest, slipping his hand beneath the covers to grab your hip and give it a squeeze. He climbed onto the bed with all the smug grace of a man who had absolutely earned this moment of superiority. He leaned down, one knee pressing into the bed right between your legs, and shoved at the covers just enough to catch a glimpse of your legs tangled beneath his sheets.

“You look real cozy for someone who was talking an awful lot of shit about how boring I am,” he said, tone low and teasing.

You squinted at him, your voice a gravelly whisper.

“You are boring. You literally said, ‘recover.’ Who says that on Valentine’s Day? Recover from what, Sidney? Being 37?”

He let out a sharp laugh and pushed your hair back from your face, warm fingers brushing your cheek.

“You’re a little shit,” he murmured.

“And you’re a liar.” You poked a finger into his chest. “You lied to the media. There was an actual naked girl waiting for you in your bed and you gave them the ‘I’m gonna rest up’ speech like a fucking priest.”

Sid rolled his eyes.

“You know I can’t give them anything,” he said. “They’ve been trained like bloodhounds. If I so much as hint at having plans, I’ll have a fucking headline on every sports page tomorrow.”

“God forbid people find out you’re not a virgin,” you deadpanned.

“Watch it,” he warned playfully. “I am a role model.”

You burst out laughing, head tipping back into the pillow.

“Oh my god, you are so full of shit. You talk like you’re running for office, but then you come home and say things like, ‘c’mere, baby, I’ve been thinking about fucking you against the kitchen counter since warmups.’”

He grinned. “Still true, by the way.”

You hummed and looped your arms around his neck lazily.

“You missed your shot then, Captain Celibate. Shouldn’t have let me fall asleep.”

Sid smirked and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“Didn’t realize the threat of dick was the only thing keeping you awake.”

“You should’ve. It’s your strongest feature.”

He laughed again, breath warm against your cheek, before ducking his head to kiss you properly—slow and deep and good, like he had all the time in the world. You melted into it, arms tightening around his neck, legs shifting beneath the covers until you hooked one behind his bent knee, dragging him closer.

Then he nuzzled into your neck again and added, low and dirty:  

“You wanna go back to sleep, or you want me to give you something real to recover from?”  

You groaned dramatically. “You are such a whore, oh my god.”  

“And yet, here you are. In my bed. Wearing my shirt. Wet for me in your sleep, probably.”  

“Shut up—”  

“You were,” he said smugly, dragging his hand up your thigh. “I checked. You twitched.”  

You covered your face with both hands. “You’re disgusting.”  

“You’re worse,” he said, kissing down your throat. “And when you wake up tomorrow sore as hell, I want you to remember who was ready when the moment came, and who—” he nipped your collarbone— “took a nap.”  

“Sidney.”  

“Y/n.”  

You sighed, dropped your hands, and stared up at him.  

“You gonna fuck me or give another locker room interview?”  

He grinned. And with that, he kissed you again, deep and slow and fucking smug. You could feel the smile on his mouth, even as he pressed you back into the mattress like you were the only thing worth coming home to.  

"Holy shit," you said, breathless as he tugged your shirt up over your hips, revealing those barely there red panties you wore when you knew he’d be seeing them. Lacy. Dark. A tiny bow on the waistband.

Sid looked smug. “I’m so obsessed with you, it’s disgusting.”

“You're disgusting,” you corrected, but you were already arching up, letting him pull the shirt over your head. 

He laughed low, all pleased with himself. "You love it."

His hand slipped a little higher, fingertips grazing the side of your hip where your underwear were just barely clinging to your curves.

You sucked in a breath you tried to pretend was casual. "Sid," you warned.

"What?" he drawled, blinking down at you like he hadn’t just started setting your entire nervous system on fucking fire. You lifted your head, giving him a look. "You’re fucking pushing it."

Sid grinned, so goddamn starved it made your toes curl. "You need me to spell it out, Y/N Y/LN?" he teased, voice dropping into that dangerous gravel. "Need me to tell you how bad I wanna fuck you?"

You groaned, covering your face with both hands like that could somehow save you. "Jesus Christ, Sidney."

He pulled your hands away, kissing your knuckles like a fucking gentleman, even while his other hand kept creeping higher up your thigh.

"Could just be gentle," he murmured, kissing the inside of your wrist now, right over your pulse. "Real slow, babe. Let you sit on my cock nice and easy. You barely gotta do anything. I'll do all the fuckin' work."

You whimpered, and he fucking heard it.

He grinned harder, absolutely predatory now, shifting to hover over you more fully, careful not to press too much weight onto you.

"Bet you miss it," he murmured against your ear, lips brushing your skin. You literally had sex in his bed this morning but you hated that he was right, you did miss it.

"Sid," you gasped, arching your back automatically, and fuck, he hadn't even touched you properly yet.

He chuckled low and mean, dragging his mouth along your throat, nipping lightly. "Tell me, baby," he rasped. "Tell me how bad you want it."

You shoved at his chest weakly, more for show than anything else. "I hate you," you breathed. "I fucking hate you."

"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled, grinning into your hair. "You love this dick though."

You burst out laughing, half-horrified and half-scorched alive. "You are so fucking nasty," you managed between giggles, pinching his arm lightly.

He caught your hand easily, pressing it down above your head, pinning you with almost no effort. "And you're so fuckin' wet for me right now, I can feel it through your goddamn panties," he grunted, pressing his hips into yours just enough to make you feel the thick, heavy line of him behind his dress pants.

You whimpered again, biting your lip. "Sid," you whispered desperately.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. "Say it," he ordered softly. "Say you want me."

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing hard.

It was so unfair, how good he was at this. How easily he turned you into this trembling, needy thing even when you thought you had the upper hand for most of the day

But he looked at you like you were the best part of his night. Like he couldn’t wait to ruin you in the best goddamn way.

You cracked your eyes open, meeting his gaze. "I want you," you whispered. "You asshole."

Sid’s grin turned downright feral.

"Yeah?" he rasped, nuzzling into your jaw, his hand finally — finally — sliding under your panties, the rough pads of his fingers skimming where you were already slick and throbbing for him. "Good," he murmured. "‘Cause you're not gettin' away from me, princess. Not tonight."

You gasped as his fingers slipped deeper, teasing, and you clawed at his shoulders, your nails digging into the solid muscle there.

"Sid," you panted. "Bed’s gonna break if you fuck me the way you're lookin' at me right now."

He laughed low, dirty, and thrilled. "Then we'll buy a new one," he said, voice rough as he sank two fingers into you slowly and deep. "Hell, babe, we'll break every goddamn bed from here to fuckin' Canada if it means I get to feel you come around me again."

You moaned helplessly, arching into him.

And when he bent down, kissed you— really kissed you, slow and filthy and possessive — it felt like a promise burned into your skin.

Sid could’ve fucked you stupid in under thirty seconds if he wanted. The way you were already whimpering under him, writhing in his hands, he knew it wouldn’t take much.

But tonight — tonight he wanted to be slow. He wanted to wreck you proper. Melt every bone in your goddamn body.

He slipped his fingers out of you with a slow, slick sound that made you whimper again. He fucking loved that sound. Loved everything about you like this — messy and needy and all his.

"You gotta relax, baby," Sid murmured, dropping kisses along the flushed line of your throat, working his way lower. "Can't be tense on me. Gotta stay nice and easy for me."

Sid pulled back from your body just enough to catch you breathless— just enough to see you, all flushed and desperate, lips swollen, hair a wild halo against the pillows. His heart punched hard against his ribs.

"Fuckin' hell, Y/N," he muttered, staring at you like he couldn’t decide whether to devour you whole or build a shrine at your feet. "Look at you."

You whimpered and tangled your fingers into his hair, tugging gently, begging him wordlessly to keep going.

Sid huffed a soft, broken laugh, dragging your panties slowly — so slowly — down your thighs, baring you completely to him. He didn’t just toss them. No. He pocketed them. Smirked while he was doing it. Like the absolute sex demon he was.

And he was hard. So hard it was actually starting to hurt. He was damn near grinding in his pants for some kind of friction.

He pressed a kiss right between your breasts, trailing down your belly. You shivered so hard it made the mattress creak.

Sid grinned against your skin. "You already taste so fuckin' sweet," he muttered, nosing at your core, not even touching you properly yet, just letting the heat of his breath drive you crazy. "Bet you could get me drunk off your pussy right now, baby. All thick and fuckin' sweet just for me."

"Oh my god, Sidney," You gasped, tossing your head back. "You're fucking filthy."

"Yeah, well," he said, voice low and smug. "You like it, baby. You like havin' me mouth off about how sweet your pussy is when you’re desperate."

You made a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob, and Sid finally gave you what you needed — flattening his tongue and dragging it up through your folds, slow and deep.

Your entire body jerked.

"Jesus fuck, Sid," you gasped, arching off the bed, thighs trembling.

He groaned into you, his hands sliding under your ass to tilt you up even closer to his mouth. "You’re fuckin’ drippin', babe," he muttered, voice vibrating against your soaked skin. "Beggin' for it. Haven’t even touched my cock yet and you’re already so fuckin' close, huh?"

"Fuck you," you moaned, trying to close your thighs around his head — he loved when you did that, so desperate you wanted to trap him there.

Sid laughed low, all smug satisfaction, and stiffened his tongue to shove into your leaky entrance, bobbing in and out like he was starving. Every little whimper, every twitch of your hips, just made him harder, his cock aching in his dress pants.

He shifted one hand, dragging two fingers back inside you, pumping slow, gentle strokes in and out while he circled your clit with his tongue, slow and deliberate. His fingers moved slow between your legs, curling deep, working that perfect rhythm only he knew. Your thighs quivered, trying to clamp shut, but he squared his shoulder and pushed them open lazily. "None a' that," he said, smirking. "You’re taking it, baby. Not hidin’ from me now. Not after all that shit you talked on my phone."

You clawed at the dress shirt he was still wearing, trying to yank him back up. "You’re such a fucking dick," you gasped. "Coulda just got me some flowers and left me the fuck alone—"

Sid grinned, slow and greedy, dragging the how tongue down your slick folds, circling your clit just hard enough to make your hips jerk. "And miss this?" he murmured. "Babe, you’re better than Christmas. Better than a fuckin’ playoff win."

He pushed your shirt up higher until your breasts were exposed, beautiful and tender. He palmed one carefully, thumb brushing across your hardening nipple, and you gasped, your legs falling further open for him.

"Sensitive, huh, baby?" he whispered, watching you squirm. "Bet you could come just from my mouth on you right now, no hands, nothing."

"You’re fucking killing me," you moaned, lifting your hips helplessly, trying to get more friction.

He laughed again — slow, dangerous — and dipped his head to take your clit back into his mouth, sucking softly, then harder, pulling a desperate, broken sound from your throat.

You fisted his hair, hips rocking mindlessly against his face, your whole body tightening.

"Sid, fuck," you gasped, "I can't—I'm gonna—"

He lifted his head, grinning at your flushed, wrecked face. "You gonna come for me already, baby? Just from my fuckin' fingers?" he teased, pumping them harder now, twisting his wrist so his palm rubbed against your clit perfectly. "Fuck, that's hot. Goddamn, you're perfect. So fuckin' good for me,Y/N."

"Jesus–Fuck–Sidney." you cried out, arching hard off the bed as you came, gripping his wrist as if to tell him not to stop, body shuddering, your pussy clenched down so hard around his fingers it almost hurt, soaking his hand and mouth with a gush that made Sid groan into you.

He kept working you through it, slow and patient, until you were trembling, whimpering, utterly wrecked.

He kissed you again, deep and slow, until you went boneless against the sheets, gasping for air.

He pulled his fingers out finally, dragging them slow between your thighs, teasing your slit just to hear you whimper again. Then he sucked his fingers into his mouth, groaning low like you were the best fucking thing he'd ever tasted.

You slapped his chest weakly. "You're disgusting," you muttered, still breathless, half-dazed.

Sid grinned and grabbed your hand, pressing it to the bulge straining against the front of his now wrinkled pants. "Yeah? Feel how bad you got me, baby?" he rasped. "’M about two seconds away from blowin' my load like a fuckin' teenager over here."

You laughed, exhausted and glowing and a little feral around the edges. "Good," you whispered, hooking your legs around his waist. "Now fucking do something about it, Crosby."

He stripped his shirt off one-handed, tossing it somewhere behind him, before finally, finally undoing his jeans.

His cock sprang free, hard and leaking, and you made a broken, desperate sound that made Sid’s heart squeeze. Your mouth actually watered.

“Baby… fuck,” he muttered, his voice low and rough as he guided your hands above your head, he tapped his tip against your slick folds, nudging your clit teasing the both of you, you instinctively moved forward, preparing for more stimulation, “You ready for me, huh?”

You nodded, your breath catching in your throat as you felt the warmth of the head pressing against your entrance, so close yet so far. You could barely form words, the need building inside you too overwhelming, and all you could do was let out a shaky breath, your hips shifting slightly against him. “Mhmmm,” you murmured, your voice trembling with anticipation. “need you.”

With a groan, Sidney shifted above you, his hands holding your hips as he slowly pushed his length into you, slowly, inch by inch. The sensation was overwhelming—your heat, your tightness, the way you stretched around him as he filled you. He couldn’t hold back the curse that slipped from his lips as he bottomed out inside you, his breath ragged as he held you close.

"Fuck, baby," he groaned into your neck, "tightest fuckin' thing, swear to god...made for me."

Sid stayed still for a moment, just breathing, letting you adjust, feeling your soft, fluttering muscles pulsing around him.

You let out a soft moan, your head falling back further into the pillow as you adjusted to the feeling of him inside you. The stretch was delicious, filling you completely, and the slow, steady throb of him buried deep inside made your pulse race. You could feel every inch of him, the way he fit perfectly against that gummy spot inside you, and it made you dizzy with need.

It took every ounce of control he had not to just start pounding into you like a goddamn animal.

Instead, he pulled out slow, almost all the way, and slid back in with one long, careful thrust that made you whimper and dig your heels into the mattress.

"That’s it," he murmured against your temple. "Just like that, princess. Let me take care of you."

He fucked you slowly—long, hard, deep strokes,  savoring every twitch and gasp and curse. You arched under him, hips pushing up, body moving with his like you’d been built just for this.

The sound of his hips hitting the back of your thighs filled the room. He kept a first grip on your hips as he continued a consistent pace. At some point your brain just melted. Your eyes could no longer focus on him above you and your mouth hung open, moans no longer falling from your lips. The only thing you could do was tighten around him.

Sid could feel you getting close. He dropped down, his chest pressing right up to yours stopping his thrusts. But in your cockdrunk you started to grind upwards when Sidney wouldn’t move. Caught between needing the break but also wanting him to continue.He wanted this to last though. 

And just like that, he was sitting back, pulling you up with him. Chest to chest, you were now on top. His lips catching yours in something deeper now—hotter, messier. You gasped as he lifted you slightly, maneuvering with muscle memory and intention, letting you sink down completely onto his cock.

“I got you,” he murmured, one hand on the small of your back, the other moving down to stroke your thigh. “Just move how you want. I’ll follow your lead.”

You couldn’t answer — too full, too overwhelmed, too in love — so you just sat on your knees and began rocking your hips in desperation. He knew you were getting impatient. It was in the way your hips started moving impatiently against his aching cock. He knew you needed to come and that you were close. It was in the way you took everything he gave you, every rough upward thrust, every whispered praise.

You leaned forward, one hand braced on his broad shoulder, the other tangled in his hair as you rode him slowly — hips rolling in little waves, the angle hitting all the right places, making your whole body quake.

“‘M close Sid,” you whispered, gasping when his thumb found your swollen clit again.

“Good,” he said hoarsely, “You need it. Look at you. All needy and swollen. You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. You know that?”

“Don’t stop ohmygodohgodfuck-” you whined, burying your face in his neck.

Sidney couldn’t stop even if he tried to. You’re too damn addicting.

He starts to thrust upward, matching the pace in which you're riding him. He desperate to watch you fall apart on top of him. He pushes two fingers into your mouth, you instinctively start sucking on them as if they’re his cock.

“There she is,” he whispers, rough and low.

You clamp down around his cock, coming hard and fast. It rolled through you in heavy, pulsing waves–warm and all consuming–pulling a wrecked cry from your lips.

“Fucking–Jesus–I’m–Goddammit Sid–”

Sidney came with a deep, desperate groan, burning his face in your neck as his cock twitched inside of your pussy. He emptied himself inside, thrusting up lazily a few times, fucking his come deep inside of you, even as you writhe above him in overstimulation. He watches as his cock drags in and out of you, a circle of your cream circling the base as his come leaks down his length and down to his balls. 

Sid pressed you back onto the mattress, unintentionally thrusting his softened cock into you. You whine softly, already spent and tired and ready for bed. He presses gentle kisses to the side of your face.

“You okay?”

“Mm.” You mumble softly, already drifting off.

You had all the time in the world now. Sid had made damn sure of that.

--

why do people act like i’ve threatened to shoot one of the good presidents when i say i don’t drink

goodnight lb. sleep tight, remember the wise words

“why you so mad. it’s only game”

i’m going to read that one knies fic that’s been at the top of matthew knies x reader for forever and then i’m gonna find the saddest woll fic and read that.

was fun while it lasted 🫡

ahhhhh!!! this was so good! i have a question, did you research fire tips for this? cause i was thinking that for the whole p a s s part and just thought it was funny

All up in Flames

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You just want your toxic ex-boyfriend’s things to stop haunting your apartment. So you let your friends lit the match. But then the sirens come, and with them Bucky Barnes, who puts out more than just the flames.

Word Count: 9.4k

Warning: destruction of personal property; toxic relationship themes (not Bucky); mentions of an ex-partner; anxiety symptoms; fire; consequences of own actions; reader’s ex is an oc; mentions of ghosting and manipulation; Wanda, Natasha and the Reader are roommates

Author’s Note: I'm not sure how this started, but I felt a strong urge to indulge my unexpected obsession with Bucky as a firefighter. This is ever so slightly inspired by a scene from the series friends. There is an, although fluffy, but also really angsty second part coming up to this in the next few days. The writing part is complete, but I still need to finish some editing. In the meantime, I would love to hear what you think. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part two

Masterlist

You are not okay.

You are so far from okay that if you sent a postcard to okay it would get lost in transit, eaten by a dog, and then set on fire.

Which sounds stupid. But that’s about the luck you are blessed with.

The sun is setting and it might be doing you a favor with that. Spilling soft gold across the city skyline, painting your apartment’s tiny rooftop garden in a glow so warm and gentle it almost feels like forgiveness.

But you’re not in the mood for forgiveness.

You are in the mood for revenge. The emotional, irrational, wonderfully dramatic kind. The kind that smells of smoke and fury and the remnants of a man who once claimed to love you but couldn’t even spell commitment if it came with a free fantasy football draft.

Nolan Aspey. Even his name is a rotting corpse in your mind.

You’re sitting on an old beanbag chair shaped like a strawberry. It squelches when you move. You suspect it might be leaking. You don’t care. Your body is wrapped in a bathrobe that isn’t yours. It’s Natasha’s. It’s also silk, red, and wildly inappropriate for rooftop lounging in May. Still, she insisted. Said heartbreak demands drama.

To your right is Wanda, perched on a rusted garden chair stolen from the community center’s Zumba class. She’s nursing a glass of something suspiciously green and swirling it as though it’s a portion, legs crossed, eyes twinkling with mischief. Her nails are black and so is her soul. You love her for it.

To your left is Natasha, preparing your small setup. She’s wearing aviator sunglasses even though the sun is barely hanging onto the sky, and you’re sure she’s doing it for the aesthetic.

You stare at the setup. There is a bottle of wine - half full, or half empty, depending on whether you’re crying or screaming at any given moment - and a Bluetooth speaker playing a playlist titled Sad Bitch Anthems Vol. 1

You don’t feel like a bitch, though. You feel more like 73% pathetic and 27% rage.

Because in front of you, next to the trash can Natasha is placing - on a cracked terracotta platter that used to house a very unfortunate basil plant - is the pile.

Your ex-boyfriend’s stuff. A pile of heartbreak. The skeletal remains of your relationship.

One hoodie that still holds traces of his cologne - a scent that haunts your dreams and also your laundry hamper. Four concert tickets from that indie band he dragged you to. Two dozen Polaroids of smiles that now feel counterfeit. A necklace he gave you from a kiosk in the mall and claimed was real moonstone but it was plastic, who would have guessed. A series of agonizingly handwritten love letters he sent you after ghosting you for a week. A book you lent him that he never returned, except now it’s water-damaged and somehow sticky. You don’t want to ask why. And a mug that says Boss Man.

You’ve always hated that mug.

You stare at the pile and the pile stares back.

“Okay,” Natasha starts, stretching the word out and flicking open a Zippo lighter with a casually pleasing look. “Let’s set this bitch ablaze.”

“I don’t know,” you hesitate, like a woman who knows this is a terrible idea and is about to do this anyway. “Is this even legal?”

“Is heartbreak legal?” Wanda asks dramatically, putting on oven mitts and holding a fire extinguisher as though it’s a designer clutch. “Is betrayal legal? Is gaslighting-”

“We get it,” you cut in quickly. “He sucked.”

“Oh he did more than suck,” Natasha exclaims, crouching beside the metal trash bin. “He emotionally vaporized you.”

“And that’s why we’re liberating his soul,” Wanda nods solemnly, her Sokovian accent making everything sound like a funeral dirge or a hex. “With fire.”

“Alright, you freaks,” you chuckle a little weakly, something tugging at your chest. “I just- I feel like we should say something,” you continue, voice low. As though you’re standing over a grave.

Wanda lifts an eyebrow. “An eulogy?”

Natasha, already about to strike the match, snorts. “A spell, more like.”

You ignore them. Or try to.

You reach down, pick up the hoodie. Hold it in your hands as though it still is something important to you. You hate that. And it’s ridiculous because he once wore this while spilling bean dip all over your white couch and didn’t even apologize.

Still, you hesitate.

“I mean,” you go on, voice small, “is this crazy? Like, should I be processing this more healthily?”

Natasha tosses the match into the bowl with all the ceremony of a seasoned arsonist. “This is healthy,” she says lowly. “You’re purging. This is emotional detox.”

Wanda nods. “Also, we brought marshmallows.”

You stare.

She lifts a grocery bag. “In case the fire gets big enough.”

You want to protest. To say something sensible. Something like, this surely is illegal, or this is definitely going to attract attention, or rooftop gardens are not structurally designed for bonfires. But instead, you sigh. Pick up one of the letters. Hold it above the flames that are just beginning to flicker.

“I hope he can feel this from wherever he’s ghosting people now.”

The paper catches as though it was waiting for this moment. As though it has always wanted to be free of the nonsense inked into it.

Wanda claps softly. “To ashes.”

“To cleansing,” Natasha adds, sipping her wine while watching you in satisfaction.

You pick up the mug next. Look at it one last time, the painted letters mocking you with their ceramic certainty. Then you chuck it into the trash can. The sound it makes - crack, splinter, dead - is gratifying in a way therapy can’t afford to be.

Your therapist would say this is unhealthy.

Your landlord would say this is grounds for eviction.

Your heart says burn all of it to ashes.

You sit back. Watch as the fire grows bolder, licking up the fabric of his old hoodie. The smoke rises in ribbons, curling around the string lights above and the half-dead succulents in your rooftop sanctuary.

The flames kill fabric, memories, and lies. For a few seconds, it’s cathartic.

You feel free, weirdly, relaxing in your seat. Powerful. Slightly unhinged.

Wanda lets out a feral scream and throws in a pair of his socks.

Natasha sips wine straight from the bottle, smirking.

You’re laughing. Or crying. Or both.

Then there is a crackle.

A pop.

“Is it supposed to make that sound?” Wanda asks, a little too casually.

Natasha shades her eyes with her hand. “Oh.”

“Oh?” you repeat. There’s dread in your voice. A sweet, rising note of oh no I didn’t sign up for actual consequences.

“The candle wax spilled,” Natasha states, calm.

“Why was there wax?” you ask, less calm.

“I thought it would smell nice. Vanilla coconut. Seasonal.”

Wanda leans forward. “Um.”

The fire gets bigger.

It gets way bigger.

The flames lap - ever so enthusiastically - at the rim of the metal bin and start talking to the wind and now the wind is flirting back and suddenly this has escalated into something biblical.

“Uh,” you let out.

“Don’t panic,” Wanda says, panicking.

“I am panicking,” you shout, slapping at a spark that just landed on your blanket as though it’s a bug from hell.

Natasha grabs the fire extinguisher from Wanda after she only fumbles around with the handle.

Wanda holds out her wine as though it might help.

You just stare at the roaring column of flame that used to be your dignity and think you should have just blocked Nolan like a normal person.

“Should I call someone?”

“I mean,” Natasha says, still somewhat calm, brushing ash from her robe, “probably-”

Wanda does it for you.

You hear her muttering into her phone, giving your apartment number like it’s a confession while fanning the smoke with a pizza box.

And you sit there with that sinking, desperate feeling that comes only from realizing you made a terrible life choice, and you’re about to pay for it in paperwork and possibly a visit from the landlord.

The air is full of smoke and regret and singed hoodie.

At least his cologne no longer stings in your nose.

You fan the flames uselessly with a throw pillow and silently pray the neighbors of you three are too busy binge-watching reality TV to notice that the building might be on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

All you wanted was to burn some memories. Some manipulative words. A tiny, hoodie-shaped piece that saw you cry on two separate birthdays. The hoodie that watched you fall asleep restlessly on couches that weren’t yours. The hoodie he left behind as though it meant nothing, as though you meant nothing.

So now you are holding a pillow with shaking hands and a mouthful of second guesses, standing over a metal bin on your rooftop, trying not to make eye contact with the fire as it gets uglier.

And Natasha doesn’t seem to know how to use a fire extinguisher either, bits of foam leaving it, like tiny sprinkles.

You try to help with your blanket. The one with the flowers on it.

They start faintly.

The sirens.

Growing louder.

Like judgment. Or fate. Or the consequences of impulsively burning your romantic history without a permit.

That sound, loud and authoritative and promising rescue, bounces off the buildings and down alleyways like a soundtrack written just for your mental breakdown.

Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm starts wailing as though even it can’t handle the drama.

You hear the brakes of the fire truck before you see it. Hear the way they hiss and groan against the street as though the truck is just as tired of cleaning up after emotionally unstable civilians as you are of being one.

You lean over the ledge of the roof, peering down like Rapunzel mid-crisis, and there it is.

Big. Red. Serious.

Three firemen step out. Their silhouettes are backlit by flashing lights. You feel, absurdly, as though you’re in a heist film. Or a rom-com. Or a public service announcement.

One of them is talking into a radio.

One of them is already unloading equipment.

And one of them is looking up.

At you.

He squints. Cocks his head slightly. Takes you in.

A moment later, they’re clomping up the stairs, boots loud against the old steel.

The door to the rooftop bursts open.

You are trying very hard to look like someone who has not created a situation requiring professional intervention. But you know it’s not working.

You expect seriousness. Gruffness and unamused men, middle-aged with a mustache and a strong opinion on smoke detectors.

But the men walking onto your rooftop are none of that.

There is a blond one. Tall. Built like the world’s most polite oak tree.

Another one is smiling. Smirking. Radiating fun uncle energy despite the full turnout gear.

And the last one. He’s tall and broad and also wears the full gear - helmet tucked under one arm, soot-smudged gloves on the other - and still, he manages to look as though he walked off the set of a calendar shoot titled America’s Hottest Emergency. He’s the one who looked up at you from below.

“Evening, ladies,” he says, voice low and a little raspy, as though he chews gravel for breakfast but politely wipes his mouth after.

His eyes are blue. Clear. Kind.

His gear fits him as though it was pressed in heaven.

He’s calm. Collected. He glances once at the smoking bin, then at Natasha holding a fire extinguisher as though it might double as a weapon, then back at you.

“This the source?”

His voice is deep and even and somehow gentle. He gestures toward the bin, that’s now doing its best impersonation of a forge. The fire’s down to a few stubborn flames now, black smoke rising into the sky.

“Yes,” you answer, after what is definitely too long a pause.

His name tag says Barnes.

His uniform is clean and neat and slightly smudged at the knees. His hands are gloved. His expression is unreadable.

“We take it from here,” says the blond with the tag Rogers, already moving toward the bin.

“We’ve got a call about open flame, potential spread. You ladies okay?” Barnes speaks up again.

You open your mouth.

Wanda opens her mouth.

Natasha gets there first.

“It was controlled.”

He raises an eyebrow. Glances at the still-smoldering hoodie, the wine, the melted candle that now looks as though it’s auditioning for a horror movie.

“It was semi-controlled,” she clarifies.

Barnes exchanges a glance with his colleague, the one dousing the final embers. The patch on his jacket says Wilson.

“Uh-huh,” he simply lets out, though there is a hint of amusement in his tone. He doesn’t laugh. But his eyes sparkle as though he wants to.

You want the ground to open up and swallow you. You want to disappear, evaporate into smoke like the hoodie, the letters, the relationship, your pride.

You clear your throat.

Barnes already turns back to you. And oh. Oh.

His intense gaze is doing things to you.

And it doesn’t help that your face probably is covered in soot and existential shame.

“Just out of curiosity,” Bucky says slowly, a small tug at the corner of his mouth. “What exactly were you trying to do?”

Natasha folds her arms.

“Therapy,” she responds, as though it’s obvious. “We were doing therapy.”

“With fire?” Wilson chimes in, skeptical and mildly delighted.

“Had a rough night,” Wanda offers suddenly. “Her ex. Real piece of work.”

You inhale sharply. “Wanda,” you warn, wobbling with the effort to appear dignified while wearing fuzzy socks and an aggressively red bathrobe that’s slowly coming untied.

“No, he was,” she insists. “He lied. Manipulated her. Ghosted her after a year of dating. Said he wasn’t ready for a relationship, for commitment, and whatnot, and then got engaged. Two weeks later. To someone who doesn’t even like dogs.”

You see Barnes wince.

“Damn,” Wilson lets out.

You close your eyes for a moment.

The rooftop is very still, save for the hiss of water on ashes.

Barnes doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at you. Measures you.

“That’s rough.” His voice comes low. Even. However, there is more to it.

You nod once. You’re not sure what else to say.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. He looks as though he wants to say something else. Something a little softer. But the blond speaks up.

“Next time you feel like getting rid of things,” he says, voice sympathetic, but firm, “might want to try a donation bin.”

Natasha smirks. “Not as satisfying.”

Roger’s lips twitch. Just barley. “Well, if you’re going to keep burning stuff, maybe give us a heads-up next time.”

You just want to be swallowed by something. The earth maybe while we’re at it.

Bucky’s eyes are soft. Subtle. Like watching an iron door swing open just a crack.

“Did it help, though?” he asks, seeming sincere.

You blink.

You certainly didn’t expect a question like that. You might have expected teasing. Or mockery. Not gentleness. Understanding. As though he stood where you are. As though maybe he tried to burn his past too.

You nod, a little shyly. “A little.”

The fire has now been extinguished. Wilson and Rogers share a few words, poking the ashes with a metal rod.

And Bucky still looks at you as though you are not ridiculous. As though you are not ash-streaked and emotionally unstable.

Then he clears his throat. Smiles a slow, crooked, criminally charming smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes you want to confess things. Dreams. Secrets. Your social security number.

“Well,” he starts smoothly. “Fire’s out. No citation this time, but maybe go easy on the candle sacrifices.”

You feel something in your chest flutter. Or combust. Honestly, hard to tell at this point.

You want to thank him. You want to say something easy. But you are still a hot, melted candle of a person yourself.

So instead, you nod. “Okay,” you promise, voice rather small.

He tips an imaginary hat. Then turns back to his team. Taps his helmet once against his leg and gives the others a low command you can’t hear.

The moment is over. Clean-up begins. The fire is out. The chaos is settling.

But for some reason, your heart is still making noise.

****

Time doesn’t tiptoe.

It lumbers, loud and unbalanced, dragging itself across your days with all the grace of a wounded elephant.

But still, it moves. And you start to feel like yourself again. Piece by piece.

You sweep the ash out of your ribcage. You remember what it feels like to listen to music without flinching. To laugh and mean it. To make pasta at two in the morning just because you want to. To exist without waiting for the next disappointment.

It’s enough for you to walk barefoot again without stepping on invisible landmines disguised as memory - his coffee mug, his toothbrush, his phone charger, his smell stuck to your pillowcase like grief with a cologne subscription.

But all of that is gone now. Burned.

Literally.

Charcoal in a rooftop bin. Ashes scattered to the wind like bad omens. The hoodie’s gone. Melted into memory. Along with the notes, the tickets, the Polaroid of the two of you at that Halloween party where he said he loved you for the first time with sugar on his lips and a lie in his mouth.

You’re better now.

And on a Thursday, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells of Wanda’s lemon detergent and safety, your head in Wanda’s lap, legs draped over Natasha’s thighs, all of you filled with late breakfast and post-shower hair and the warm, sleepy glow of late morning.

Wanda is ranting about her dream journal. She always tries to analyze her dreams for some reason.

“But I was a tree, Y/n,” she’s saying, balancing a mug on your shoulder. “An emotional tree. I cried leaves.”

Natasha doesn’t blink. “That’s tracks.”

You hum amused. “You’ve always been sympathizing with nature, Wan.”

Wanda points her spoon at you as though it’s a wand. “You get it. Nature is screaming and I hear her.”

A worn novel lay on your shins on Natasha’s lap, cracked open. But she’s been on the same page for twenty minutes. You think she’s listening more than she lets on.

The apartment smells of roasted bread. The sun is slanting in through the windows just right - those lazy golden stripes that make even your chipped coffee table look cinematic.

“Do you think he knows?” you voice after a silent moment.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Knows what?”

“That I burned his stuff?”

Wanda hums, carding her fingers through your hair. “Don’t think about that. It doesn’t matter if he knows. The universe knows. That’s enough.”

You glance at the windows. You wonder if the hoodie screamed when it caught fire. You hope it did.

“Honestly,” you say around a handful of cereal, voice lighter, “burning that stuff was the healthiest decision I’ve ever made.”

Natasha smirks. “Aside from therapy.”

“Obviously.”

“And cutting your bangs.”

“That was a journey.”

Wanda lifts her mug. “To combustion and personal growth.”

You clink your cereal box against her cup. “Amen.”

There were, of course, consequences. A polite but stern letter from the landlord. An eye-roll of a fine from the city. For future ceremonial burnings, please contact the fire department in advance, it read.

But it was worth it.

Every last spark.

There’s a comfort here, in the clutter, in the way time is moving again. Not fast, not smooth, but forward. You’ve started reading books again. You’ve stopped stalking his Instagram. Well, mostly.

“You seem about a few steps away from writing a memoir called How to Set Men on Fire (and Still Make It to Brunch)” Natasha muses.

“I’d buy that,” Wanda immediately chimes in.

You snort.

Outside, someone yells at their dog. A siren shrieks in the far-off distance like an unfinished thought. Your apartment smells of burnt toast and coffee grounds, and it’s home.

You’re okay.

Almost.

And then the fire alarm goes off.

It screams. A wailing, shrieking, banshee of a sound, as though the building is having a panic attack and wants you to join in. Lights flash. The walls vibrate. Your soul tries to exit your body.

Wanda’s spoon hovers in the air.

Natasha glances at the ceiling with an unimpressed look.

You feel your pulse do a little skip. Not in a full panic. But a creeping suspicion unfurls behind your ribs.

Natasha is already standing, moving, with the efficiency of a woman who’s never been surprised in her life.

“Is this us?” Wanda asks, voice high and uncertain. She looks around your shared apartment. “Did we- was it the oven?”

You bolt upright. “Nothing’s in the oven.”

“Well then who-”

“I swear I didn’t light anything.” You raise your hands.

“Well, I didn’t either,” Wanda insists.

“Doesn’t smell like us,” Natasha says, sniffing the air like a human smoke detector.

But none of that matters because the building has made a decision and that decision is everyone out now.

You’re still sitting. You’re in pajamas. You all are. And not the cute kind either. The kind that suggests you’ve been crying into a tub of ice cream while watching documentaries about whales. The kind with ducks on the pants and a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big and maybe has a mustard stain from Tuesday.

You hear doors opening. Feet on stairs. Someone is yelling about their cat.

Natasha grabs her phone and keys. “Let’s go before it turns into the Hunger Games.”

You move. Slowly.

You’ve made your peace with fire, sure - but only the kind you start on purpose. Symbolic. Controlled. Supervised by emotionally repressed firefighters with sharp jaws and suspicious amounts of upper body strength.

But this is unexpected.

This is the kind of thing that sends a hot flood of unease down your spine, because what if the universe is laughing at you again? What if you are, yet again, being punished for trying to let go?

You follow Wanda and Natasha out the door.

The hallway is bright with flashing lights - red, urgent. The sound is louder out here. So loud it makes your teeth vibrate. You can’t tell if it’s coming from your floor or somewhere above, but there’s a smell this time. Faint, sharp, ugly. Plastic and heat and something bitter curling in the air.

There’s a river of bathrobes and sweatpants and panicked neighbors. The stairwell smells like old takeout and anxiety. A toddler is crying. Someone’s dog is barking. A woman herds two cats into a carrier with shaking hands.

Mr. Feldman from 3B is arguing with someone on speakerphone about whether he unplugged the coffee maker, and you think the fire alarm might actually be the least chaotic sound happening right now.

“Was this us?” you repeat Wanda’s question, a little unsure, as you file down the stairs like middle-class refugees.

“No,” Natasha mutters coolly. “But I’m still blaming you.”

You clutch the railing and follow, ducking your head, trying not to make eye contact with any of your neighbors as your duck-printed pajama pants flap dramatically behind you.

You shouldn’t care. No one looks good during evacuation. And Wanda and Natasha look the same.

And yet. Your heart is doing something strange again.

It isn’t panic. It is expectation.

Your chest knows something your brain refuses to name.

At the bottom of the stairwell, someone holds the door open and you all spill into the daylight. The whole building is out now, buzzing like bees, people muttering and shielding their eyes.

You breathe in. Sharp. Cool. You try to ignore the knot forming in your stomach.

Smoke - real and thick - drifts from one of the kitchen windows on the fourth floor.

The crowd shifts around you - barefoot neighbors, a couple wrapped in matching bathrobes, one guy in boxers and cowboy boots holding a microwave. Someone brought their goldfish out in a bowl.

You stand near the hedges with Natasha on one side, arms crossed, and Wanda on the other, biting a fingernail and muttering something about how she definitely turned off the stove.

And then - like something out of a fever dream or a scene you didn’t realize you were still starring in - you hear it.

The sirens.

Louder this time. Close.

You freeze.

Wanda gives you a side-eye.

Natasha is already smirking. Already watching the street like a woman with a secret.

There’s a rumble. A hiss. The low growl of something inevitable.

And there it is.

The truck.

Big. Glossy red. Familiar. Like a mouth ready to swallow your dignity whole. Lights flash, the crew leaps down, gear gleams in the late morning light.

Fife firefighters fan out with mechanical movements. Their boots hit the pavement.

And one of them is Barnes.

He swings out of the cab with the ease of someone who does this for a living, the kind of grace that comes from muscle memory and a thousand repetitions.

Helmet under one arm. Radio clipped to his shoulder. That same uniform hugging his frame beautifully, as though even his clothes know how lucky they are.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s too busy scanning the building, hollering orders. Wilson and Rogers follow behind, already moving. You watch them as though this is a movie.

Barnes is all lines and velocity. His body moves as though he doesn’t need to think, as though instinct lives in his spine. The heavy jacket makes his shoulders look even broader, the suspenders visible where the coat parts, and everything about him suggests competence with a capital C. He’s not just handsome, he’s horrifyingly capable.

Your mouth is dry.

His eyes sweep the crowd.

And then he sees you.

He stops. Only for a second. His face changes.

You wish you had the words to explain it, to bottle it, to pin it down like a butterfly under glass. It’s not surprise exactly.

It’s something softer. Smaller. Recognition.

His eyes travel down your frame like a soft inventory. Not lewd, not invasive. Just checking to make sure you’re still whole.

Your whole body wants to shrink into itself like an accordion. You are in duck pajama pants. You have mascara from yesterday smeared beneath one eye and your socks don’t match and you have nothing to use as a shield against judgment.

Barnes doesn’t say anything as he walks past your cluster, but his gaze brushes yours again. A flicker. Like a note passed under the table. You feel it in your spine.

And then he’s gone, slipping into the building.

The door swings closed behind him.

And your whole body forgets what it was doing.

The tall blond and another man whose name tag you’re not able to make out follow him, shouting something into the radio as they rush through the front doors. Wilson stays near the truck, communicating with a woman in a blazer. Another circles the building’s exterior, already unraveling the hose in a way that feels choreographed.

Wanda exhales beside you. “Okay but why do I feel like I need to sit down.”

Natasha keeps smirking. “Girl’s not even on fire and he still looked like he wanted to carry her out bridal style.”

You don’t answer. You pretend not to hear them. You’re too busy trying to teach your lungs how to work.

A woman nearby is having a loud conversation with her parrot in a travel cage. An older man keeps pointing at the sky and saying something about chemtrails.

Across the street, a woman with curlers in her hair cradles a barking Pomeranian. A man in flannel pajama bottoms is life-streaming on Instagram, offering uninformed commentary like, “Yeah, looks like they’re going in hot. You seen that one dude? That’s the captain. I think. Or maybe the lieutenant? I don’t know, he’s got the vibe.”

But you are watching the front door.

Five minutes pass. Maybe ten. It feels like too long. You chew the inside of your cheek until it tastes of metal.

Then the door opens again.

Barnes steps out first.

He’s holding a cat.

A full-grown orange tabby against his chest. It meows furiously but stays nestled against his jacket, one paw resting just under his collarbone.

The crowd parts for him as though he is Moses with a fireproof jacket.

“Oh would you look at that,” Wanda whispers delighted. “A true hero.”

You inhale through your nose. It doesn’t help.

You continue watching how he walks across the street and hands the cat to a sobbing teenage girl who is engulfed in a comforter and clutching the fabric with trembling hands. He squats in front of her. Saying something. Something soft, gentle, reassuring. And she laughs through her tears. You watch her nod. You watch her wipe her face with her sleeve.

You want to ask what he said.

You want to ask a thousand things.

But mostly, you want to stand still in this feeling a little longer.

It’s something shaped like interest, tilted toward longing, balanced on the lip of something you never expected to feel just yet.

“Just smoke from a toaster,” one of the other firefighters calls out. His name tag says Torres. “No damage. False alarm.”

The neighbors sigh. Groan. Someone claps.

You still can’t look away from him.

He stands again. And then there’s another glance.

His posture is relaxed now. The light hits the silver of his belt buckle and makes your eyes squint. A breeze picks up and he runs a hand through his hair.

God, he looks human in a way that makes you forget you’re made of skin and not glass.

People are filing back into the building, muttering about smoke detectors and building codes, their faces pulled into various expressions of relief, annoyance, and boredom.

You’re still on the curb.

The sirens have stopped. The smoke has thinned.

And then suddenly, Barnes turns. Starts walking. Straight toward you.

Your pulse is pounding as though the building is about to fall.

You pull your sleeves over your hands because it’s all you can do with them.

You’re staring at a crack in the pavement. One that branches like lightning across the sidewalk. One you’ve never noticed before, though you must have stepped over it a hundred times. It looks like something trying to split open, as though even the concrete is tired of pretending.

You look up and he’s already halfway to you.

He is walking as though he means to. Not rushing, but not wandering, either.

He’s got his jacket slung over one shoulder this time, sloppily, as though he forgot it mattered. The suspenders are still visible, stretched over a plain navy shirt that shouldn’t be as flattering as it is. His gloves are tucked in the crook of his elbow. The radio clipped to his belt is crackling with static and shorthand codes, but he doesn’t reach for it. A smudge of soot streaks his jaw like a shadow of what he just walked through.

His boots are heavy, but his steps aren’t. His eyes are on you.

He walks like someone who isn’t thinking too hard about where he’s going but definitely knows where he wants to stop.

You blink twice. Your heartbeat forgets what tempo it’s supposed to be playing.

Natasha says nothing, but you feel her lean imperceptibly to the side, just out of the line. Wanda pretends to scroll on her phone, though the screen is black and upside down.

There is still the faint scent of smoke in the air. But his scent cuts through it - soap, metal, something warm and masculine that probably shouldn’t make your knees wobble, but does.

You consider digging a hole in the sidewalk and folding yourself into it like a collapsible chair.

But you don’t. You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

And then he’s there. Right there.

Boots planted on pavement. A hair’s breadth too close for casual, a hair’s breadth too far for intentional.

You look up at him.

He looks down at you.

“Well,” he starts, rough voice, but you see a twitch of amusement in his mouth that seeps warmly into his tone, “this isn’t gonna turn into a habit, is it?”

Your pulse makes poor decisions. You forget every single word you’ve ever learned in any language, including your native one.

A corner of his mouth quirks up further. “Because if it is, I’m gonna start thinking you just like havin’ us over.”

You find scratches of your voice somewhere in your throat. “Wasn’t us this time, gladly,” you say, a bashful and breathless laugh fleeing your lips. You turn to Natasha and Wanda for a moment but it seems they expect you to lead this conversation.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, tilting his head. “Had me worried for a second. Fire call, same building. Whole lotta commotion. Coulda been you tryin’ to burn something again.” His tone holds a teasing edge. His eyes are glinting.

You cringe. “Right. Sorry about that, again.”

A smile breaks fully across his face - slowly, as if it’s deciding whether it’s allowed to exist. It changes his whole face. Brightens him, somehow. As though there is a light inside his chest and someone just flipped the switch.

“Ah, no worries. S’ what we’re here for,” he rumbles, amused but soft.

He’s still smiling. Still watching you with that calm, unreadable focus that makes you feel as if you’re standing under a magnifying glass, but not in a cruel way.

“Name’s Bucky, by the way,” he says, like a gift.

You stare. “Sorry, what?”

He smiles wider. “My name. Bucky. Captain Barnes, technically, but Bucky’s fine. You know, in case you decide to burn anything again and want a direct line.”

Your mouth parts.

“Oh,” is all that comes out. Brilliantly. Eloquently. Like a poet in the throes of emotional ruin.

Bucky chuckles softly, a little small. Then scratches the back of his neck.

“I, uh-” he starts, then stops. Then shifts his weight a little. “I didn’t get your name last time.”

You study the smudge on his ridiculously handsome face. The square of his jaw. The lashes too long for fairness. The scar, faint and silvery, placed just under his left eye like a comma he forgot to erase.

You tell him your name.

His smile deepens when he hears it. Grows softer. He repeats it once, quietly, as though he is trying it out. You wish he wouldn’t do that. You wish he’d do it again.

“Well,” he notes, glancing down at the pavement, then back at you. “Nice to meet you officially. Under slightly less dramatic circumstances.”

You smile. “Slightly.”

There is a beat. A quiet one. His eyes flicker down your frame and back up - quick, respectful, but curious. You swear he clocks the fact that your hands are shaking a little.

He rebalances, a ripple passing down his spine to his heels. “You okay, though? Really?”

You nod, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. “Yeah, we’re okay. It’s a relief that it was only a false alarm. And it wasn’t us.”

You gesture lamely at the girls. Wanda waves with exactly one finger. Natasha stands there with the corner of her mouth tugged up smugly. She barely nods.

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off you.

It’s not overt. Not predatory or invasive. But it’s not nothing, either. Just direct.

He nods slowly. As though your answer passed inspection.

“You girls all live together?”

You nod again, teeth catching the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. All three of us. Since last spring.”

He hums. Doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t look at Natasha. Doesn’t look at Wanda.

Just you.

“Good,” he says finally. “That’s good. You’ve got backup.”

You smile, tentatively. “They’re alright.”

“Sure are,” Natasha deadpans.

Wanda throws a heart at you with her hands.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle a little at the edges. You want to bottle that look. Hide it in your drawer. Peek at it when the day is quiet and you forget what warmth feels like.

A pause.

You think maybe that’s it. Maybe he’ll tip his head, excuse himself, go back to his team. That would make sense. That would be the responsible, professional thing to do.

Instead, he points to your pants. “Nice ducks, by the way.”

You stare at him. You absolutely, completely stare.

Natasha makes a pretty unattractive snorting sound behind you.

Wanda is suddenly very interested in retying her shoelaces.

“Thanks,” you manage. “They’re vintage.” You hope you sound less embarrassed than you feel.

He lets out a rumbling laugh.

Then the tall blond calls his name. Rogers. Sharp. Quick. Business.

Bucky turns, lifts a hand in acknowledgment. “Duty calls.”

He takes a step backward, but his eyes stay on yours a second too long.

And then he winks. It’s absurd. It’s illegal. It’s completely unnecessary.

“It was nice seeing you again.”

Then he walks back to the truck. Climbs in.

The engine roars. The lights flash once more for good measure. The truck eases into the street, and he is gone.

But you don’t move.

You just stand there, blinking into the smoke-tinged sunlight, your names still hanging between you.

You roll his name around in your head like a stone you’re not ready to skip.

Wanda steps up beside you, peering after the truck. She sighs like a Victorian ghost. “I love that you didn’t blink that entire time.”

“I blinked,” you grumble.

“You didn’t,” Natasha confirms flatly.

You inhale deeply.

Wanda grins. “So, what are we going to burn next.”

You exhale. Laugh, light and shocked and a little bit lost.

And you don’t answer.

But you’ve never wanted to set something on fire so badly, just to see if he’d come back.

****

You don’t want to go.

Not even a little. Not even at all.

You say it with your whole chest, with your arms crossed and your face stuffed into the corner of the couch cushion.

Wanda is painting her toenails on the coffee table. “Come one. It’ll be fun.”

Natasha doesn’t look up from her phone. “It’s good for team bonding.”

“Team bonding?” you squeak. “What are we, a softball league?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’m just saying. If there’s ever another toaster incident, I’d rather not die because you were emotionally incapacitated by a bread product.”

You groan into the pillow.

Wanda and Natasha signed you up for a fire safety class.

And you’re terrified.

Because it’s been weeks since you saw him last. Weeks since the smoke, and the heat, and the stupid lingering eye contact. Since he said your name as though he meant to keep it in his mouth for a while.

And you know - because your spine told you before your brain caught up - you know Bucky Barnes is going to be there.

You know this because Wanda knows things, and Natasha forces things into being.

And yes, okay, you miss him. You do. You hate that you do. You met the guy two times and still, your heart folds a little at the sound of diesel engines, you started keeping your hair brushed and your lips soft just in case the universe decides to toss him back into your orbit.

But seeing him again would surely feel like touching a sunburn.

You don’t want to burn.

You don’t want to heal, either.

You want to stay in this in-between where you get to miss him quietly without having to do anything about it.

So naturally, you end up in a folding chair in the local fire station’s multi-purpose room at 6:59 pm on a Wednesday.

There is a faint scent of metal and ash in the air. The kind that stays on walls no matter how many layers of institutional paint try to hide it. The overhead fluorescents are buzzing as though they are irritated by your presence. A series of old community flyers hang crookedly by the entrance. One says Stop, Drop, and Roll Your Way Into Preparedness! with a cartoon Dalmatian smiling as if it has secrets.

And although you would rather perish than admit it to your best friends, you came prepared.

You’ve been preparing for this moment the way some people prepare for court trials or emotionally complex family dinners.

You know the difference between a Class A and Class B fire.

You know the ideal temperature range from smoke detectors to function.

You know that a grease fire should never be doused with water and that lots of people don’t find this fact to be obvious.

You even practiced saying pull, aim, squeeze, sweep in a tone of detached casual interest while brushing your teeth last night.

Because you thought maybe if he sees you as competent, as calm, as someone who doesn’t panic around fire or men with broad shoulders, then maybe he’d-

You don’t finish the thought.

Because it’s dangerous.

Because although you didn’t agree to go here, you technically didn’t say no, which Natasha argued was basically a signed contract in this household and Wanda only hummed from the kitchen while printing out the registration forms.

Because your stomach flipped when Wanda said his name earlier. Because it flips every time. It still flips now.

Because you think about him too much. And you know you shouldn’t.

You’ve been doing well. Truly, objectively, almost scientifically well. You burned the things of your ex. You deleted his number. You ignored the last two texts, even when they got mean. You ignored phone calls from anonymous numbers because you knew he had his ways of reaching you. You told yourself it was done.

But it was Wanda who said it last night, curled into your couch with her knees tucked under your blanket and sympathy as well as concern in her eyes.

“He’s going to keep trying, you know. That kind of man always does. The trick is to stop listening before he gets loud enough to convince you you’re still his.”

You didn’t say anything then.

But now, sitting here, hands tucked under your thighs, ankles crossed awkwardly, the words feel like something still echoing inside your chest.

You’re trying not to sweat through your light sweater, trying not to pull at your sleeves as though you are twelve again and back in gym class, trying very hard not to imagine what it’s going to feel like when he walks in.

Bucky.

God, even his name feels like a bruise you keep poking on purpose.

“Just relax,” Wanda eases from beside you, all calm and legs crossed and sipping her chamomile tea in a travel mug she smuggled in as though it’s not against the rules. “It’s just a class.”

“And not just any,” Natasha adds sultry, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder with the kind of confidence you’re not able to possess at the moment. “It’s fire safety. You’ll learn to stop, drop, and roll, and make eye contact with your future husband.”

You turn to look at her. “I hate you.”

She nods. “But in a sexy, grateful way.”

You sigh. Cross your arms. Chew on the edge of your thumbnail and silently negotiate with god.

And then he walks in.

You feel him before you see him. Like gravity shifting. Like a magnetic field drawing your molecules to the surface of your skin.

Bucky Barnes steps through the doorway in a dark navy station polo, sleeves hugging his biceps with zero regard for your emotional stability. His uniform is not the big, intimidating, soot-stained kind with suspenders and the heavy boots and the sense that something is burning. This is the community outreach uniform. His dark hair is swept back but a little tousled, as though maybe he was in a rush. There is a clipboard under one arm, a radio attached to his belt, and he looks like competence in human form.

You exhale as though you’ve been underwater.

The entire class - about twelve people in total - turn to look at him as though they’ve never seen a firefighter before in their lives. There are a few women in yoga pants, a very enthusiastic grandpa, one teenager who looks as though he was dragged here as punishment, and a few genuinely interested looking men.

He doesn’t see you right away. He’s scanning the front row, muttering something to one of the other firefighters - Danvers, her name tag reads, a straight-standing, no-nonsense woman with a kind smile. She looks as though she could carry a refrigerator up a mountain, and you sink further into your chair.

Wanda leans into your space. “I can basically hear your ovaries-”

“Shut up,” you grit out, feeling as though you might melt into the fabric of the chair beneath you.

Bucky scans the room, nods a polite greeting.

And then he sees you.

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

It’s not dramatic. Not some cinematic double-take.

It’s worse. It’s soft.

His eyes catch yours and he smiles. Just a small curve of the lips. But it’s tender. Not performative. Not polite.

Your heart cartwheels straight out of the window.

You try to smile back but you’re pretty sure what happens on your face is chaotic.

Wanda makes a sound into your ear that can only be described as a squeal disguised as a cough. Natasha looks far too smug.

Bucky turns back to the room as though nothing happened. As though he hasn’t just detonated something in your bloodstream.

But he does stand a little straighter. Taller. Composed.

Then he claps his hands once, enough to bring the room to attention. As though he didn’t already have all eyes on him.

“Alright, folks,” he begins, voice even and low and warm enough to steep tea in. “Thanks for showing up. I’m Bucky, this is Carol. We’re going to run through some fire safety basics tonight. Shouldn’t take too long. Might even be fun.”

He grins now, looking around, landing just short of you this time.

You are a molecule. You are made of panic and possibility.

“But,” he speaks up, adjusting the clipboard. His voice is still doing that low rumble thing, like warm honey poured over rock. “Before I start throwing a bunch of information at you, I wanna know where everyone’s at. What you know, what you don’t, if anyone’s set anything on fire recently - accident or otherwise.”

His gaze snaps to you for just a second.

Your face bursts into flames.

Natasha and Wanda both lean in sideways and you shut them both up with a glare.

Bucky paces slowly across the room as he talks, like someone stretching his legs, taking his time. He gestures toward the group with a nod.

“Let’s start simple,” he continues. “Say your smoke alarm goes off in the middle of the night. What’s the first thing you do?”

Silence.

A few people shift in their seats. One woman raises her hand. “Grab my purse?”

“Put on pants?” remarks one of the guys.

Bucky smiles. “Valid. But not ideal.”

You raise your hand, heart thudding. Bucky raises an eyebrow, facing you fully and nodding at you.

“Check the door for heat before opening it,” you say, voice clearer than expected. “Use the back of your hand. If it’s hot, find an alternate escape route. It not, open it slowly and stay low.”

Bucky grins. It’s real and blinding. Pulling up slowly, tugging at the corners of his mouth as though he forgot how good it feels to smile that way. A glint sparks in his eyes.

“Exactly,” he confirms, nodding. “Textbook.”

You smile back shyly before you can stop yourself.

Natasha exhales beside you as though she is watching a soap opera. “She’s showing off.”

“I’m so proud,” Wanda whispers, misty-eyed.

You ignore them both.

Bucky keeps going, asking questions you mostly end up answering.

And he keeps watching you. Keeps studying you. And every time he does, something tightens behind your ribs.

A woman behind you mutters something about you being a teacher’s pet, but you don’t care. You’re not trying to be perfect. You’re trying to show him you learned from your mistakes.

And his eyes - blue and gentle and a little too amused - sparkle when you catch him glancing again. He ducks his chin once, as if to say you got me, and moves on to demonstrate how to deploy a fire extinguisher.

When he picks one up with two fingers as though it’s a soda can, several women gasp delighted.

Your skin prickles.

Natasha takes a slow sip of her coffee and watches you as though she is analyzing battlefield tactics.

When Bucky explains PASS - Pull, Aim, Squeeze, Sweep - you mouth the words along with him without meaning to.

He notices. You know he does.

There’s this almost smirk on his face.

And you can see the softness in his expression.

He talks through the basics - smoke alarms, evacuation plans, kitchen hazards. There are visuals. Charts. A slideshow. Wanda takes notes. Natasha twirls her pen like a knife.

You try to pay attention.

But your eyes keep drifting.

To him.

To the way he gestures with his hands. The way his fingers touch the edge of the table when he leans forward. The way he makes everyone laugh when he admits he once set off a fire alarm in the station trying to microwave a burrito on one of his first days.

He glances up when you laugh.

Your hands are fiddling with the fabric of your trousers. Your nerves are a concert hall. Every thought sounds loud inside your skull.

And when you think your heart might climb fully out of your throat, he turns back to the class. “Alright,” he announces, “now that we’ve scared you enough with PowerPoint, we’re gonna break into small groups and run a few practice drills. Let’s get into the fun part.”

A few people chuckle. One woman near the front giggles, flipping her hair over her shoulder as though she’s about to audition for a shampoo commercial.

You look down at your shoes.

Wanda leans in. “Can you believe how hard she’s trying? That’s actually pathetic.”

“Shh.”

“She’s wearing heels. To a fire safety class. Who does she think she is?”

“Wanda-”

“I bet she-”

“Ladies,” Natasha interrupts, lazily observant. “We’re moving.”

You watch the people file out of the room to move to the next one.

And you want to die. Or melt. Or somehow escape through the vents like a cartoon ghost.

But you have no other choice than to get up.

Prepared. Composed. A little bit on fire.

And the first thing you notice is how warm the training hall is. Not uncomfortable, but undeniably warm, as though the air has been steeped in sunshine and engine oil and the memory of things burning. The industrial lights make a low sound above, a metallic echo rolling across the tall ceiling. The whole place smells faintly of rubber, extinguishing foam, and steel that’s been handled too many times.

The practice area is marked by orange cones and taped grids on the floor.

Bucky steps into the middle of it with a kind of slow-motion certainty that makes the floor feel as though it’s tilting gently toward him.

You watch the veins on his exposed forearms, mapping them like routes to forgotten cities.

He and Carol Danvers start with group demos. Together, they run through the basics again. People are listening, nodding, pretending they aren’t mostly watching him.

You are watching him too.

But you’re also pretending not to. A lifelong skill, fine-tuned by heartbreak.

“Now let’s try hands-on,” Bucky decides, setting down the extinguisher and glancing around. “We’ll split into smaller groups. Carol and I will come around and help out. Just don’t point the thing at your friends.”

Laughter, light and scattered.

People start pairing off. A trio of women - dressed as though they expected a photoshop - flutter toward Bucky with hopeful eyes and strategically slouched shoulders.

“Oh my god, I don’t get this at all,” one of them breathes.

The others are leaning slightly forward. “Me neither.”

Bucky doesn’t even pause. Doesn’t glance over at them. “Danvers, you good taking that group?”

Carol nods. “My pleasure.”

And Bucky walks away without another word.

Straight toward you.

Your hands are clammy.

He stops in front of your group.

“So,” he starts, eyes moving around you three before landing back on you and then on the prop extinguisher in Natasha’s hand. “Who wants to go first?”

Wanda elbows you so hard your soul might have been knocked out.

You step forward.

He hands you a fresh extinguisher, this one heavier than expected, and you try not to look as though it surprises you. He steps closer, one arm already reaching out to steady it when your grip fumbles. His hand brushes over yours. Warm. Firm. He doesn’t move away immediately.

He’s watching you. Smiling, slow, a little crooked.

“Just like that,” he mutters gently.

You are a marshmallow in a microwave.

“Okay,” he says gently, letting go slowly - painfully slowly. “Now I’m gonna walk you through it, all right?”

You nod. Words are impossible. Language is a memory. You’re not sure your legs exist anymore.

“P.A.S.S,” he says. “Pull. Aim. Squeeze. Sweep. Easy.”

You repeat the words in your head another time.

Behind you, someone clears their throat - loudly. It’s the shampoo commercial woman. You glance back and see her smiling up at Bucky as though she’s already sewn his name into a couple of throw pillows.

“Could you maybe show me next?” she asks, eyelashes fluttering like a wind turbine.

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change.

“Carol?” he calls over his shoulder.

Carol looks up from her own demo station across the room. “Yeah?”

“Got one more for you.”

The woman visibly wilts.

Carol grins and waves her over.

Bucky turns back to you without missing a beat.

And maybe it’s your imagination but he’s standing just a little closer now.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod. Your grip tightens around the handle.

“Okay. First, pull the pin - here.” His hand finds yours again, fingers brushing over yours as he guides them toward the small metal piece near the top. It’s gentle. Confident. His breath is warm near your cheek, and you wonder if he always smells this good or if you’re hallucinating.

“Good. Now aim,” he instructs, voice lower now, not for any reason you can define. “Low, at the base of the fire. Like this.”

His arm brushes against yours as he shifts the nozzle, touching the outside of your elbow, guiding your arm as though you are made of delicate machinery.

“Then squeeze. Controlled, firm pressure.” His voice is deep. Soothing. Lulling.

He glances at you.

You do your best not to break out into a sweat.

Foam spurts out in a satisfying arc toward the mock flame target. He grins.

“Perfect,” he praises, and your breath stalls. “Last one, is sweep. Just like that.”

And he guides your hands - both of them - side to side, mimicking the motion.

You finish the drill. Exhale. Your hands tremble slightly, not from nerves. From the startling thrill of his proximity.

He steps back. You miss the warmth immediately.

“Nicely done,” he comments, and his voice is soft. Almost proud. “You did great. Handled it like a pro.”

You look away, flustered. Your fingers are tingling.

Wanda is making a face behind him as though she’s at a wedding. Natasha just raises one eyebrow.

“Thanks,” you say, and it comes out rather quiet.

Something churns in his face. A kind of satisfaction takes place.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but Carol calls from the front. “Barnes, we’re starting the fire blanket demo.”

He sighs.

And steps back.

“Alright, well,” he says, winking. Winking. “Don’t run off.”

As if you could.

As if your legs weren’t still made of goo and your brain wasn’t currently rebooting.

He walks away, and you feel every step like a loss.

You hadn’t thought you could feel like this again.

Not after him. Not after everything.

But here you are.

And Bucky Barnes just taught you how to put out a fire.

Still, your heart goes all up in flames.

“I am made for fire, for breaking and bending and healing in all the places that used to ache.”

- Nikita Gill

Part Two

i hope the entire tkachuk family rots in hell. fucking disgraceful family.

i didn’t see that there was more after the texts and was like “damn i’ll ask for a pt. 2” AND LOW AND BEHOLD there was more i started kicking my feet

THE HARDEST THING TO SIGN - LN4

summary : The hardest thing Lando Norris has signed…? You already know. Hint : a distraction cupped in lace.

listen up : explicit!! smut. p in v. oral (f receiving) dirty talk. 18+

words : 1933 + a couple texts!

⋆｡‧˚⋆

It was supposed to be a joke! No- It was a joke!

Not to Lando Norris, apparently.

You’d been dragged to some hotel by your friend, her ranting about how some F1 drivers are staying there and she might be able to get an autograph. You didn’t really believe this but, low and behold, there they were.

Carlos Sainz signed your friend's hat and she cried when Lewis Hamilton waved. You watched Lando Norris pass by the two of you, his signature quick on your friend's phone case.

You had joked before that he was the hottest out of the drivers. Curly hair, dreamy eyes, tanned skin.

But then again, it wasn’t really a joke. Your friend knew it too- knew how whenever she had F1 on, you’d ask about him.

It became such a running bit that when you were smushed between so many fans, you yelled out to him, “Sign my tits!”

You had expected to get a few laughs, sure! You didn’t expect him to actually turn around.

Lando Norris, apparently, has great hearing. He's in a white Mclaren hat and a shirt that matches, sharpie in hand and fully frozen while staring directly at you.

And then: he’s smiling and walking directly towards you.

Your brow raises, your friend slapping your arm and screaming in your ear. You can’t hear her because holy fuck Lando Norris is ridiculously attractive.

He’s in front of you way too quick, uncapping the sharpie before meeting your eyes. You want to laugh, want to do anything so he doesn’t see how pink your cheeks have gotten.

Instead, you tug the top of your tank top down, the lace of your bra sticking out. You don’t miss the way his Adam's apple bobs in his throat, in fact, it makes you smile.

His hand slips onto your side, steadying you with one large hand while the other moves in closer with the sharpie. “What’s your name, love?” His voice is quiet, waiting for you to answer even with the people around.

“Y/n.”

He smiles at this, “I’m impressed, Y/n.” Then his gaze dips back to your chest, the marker finally meeting your skin and dragging across in an unusually careful signature.

You watch his face while his hand moves up your side, partially cupping your boob and something he’ll definitely blame on grip. Your chest rises with your words, “Impressed at my tits or my nerve?”

He laughs, finishing his signature, “Both? You’re pretty brave, I'll give you that.” His eyes are piercing, even in the night.

Lando steps back, removing his hand from your top and capping the sharpie. Your skin is cold now without his touch and as he’s about to leave, you do something incredibly reckless and possibly embarrassing. “Can I give you my number too or is that too brave of me to ask?”

He stops again, a small smirk on his lips that makes them all the much more kissable. Someone’s yelling at him from the front of the hotel, telling him to hurry up.

He turns back, biting the cap off the sharpie just before he hands it to you. Without thinking it through, you grab his arm and scribble your number down. He’s looking at you when you finish, handing back the marker as the voice yells again. Without any other words, He gives you one last look before returning to his fans and hurrying up the steps.

Your friend shakes you, “Holy shit! Lando Norris just signed your cleavage!” You don’t say anything, just blink down at the mark on your chest before pulling your arms closer to you, “Oh my god…” your friends voice gets quieter, “You’re going to fuck Lando Norris.”

You stand outside room 629, just staring. You haven’t texted him, haven’t even knocked. You’re about to give in to your anxiety and turn around but the door swings open and there he is.

Grey sweatpants. No shirt. Hair wet.

Suddenly, you can’t breathe. “Hey.” He says a little breathless, like he was running around trying to clean up or some shit. “Come in!”

The room is huge, bigger than anything you’ve ever stayed in, that’s for sure. “Cool room…”

Lando scratches the back of his neck, shutting the door as your eyes wander, “Yeah uh… they like me here, I guess.”

You sit on his bed, crossing your legs and leaning back. He’s still standing across the room when you smile. “You nervous?”

“I don’t do this-”

You raise a brow, not believing him in the slightest. “Hook up with girls who you just met?”

“Fans.” he clarifies, walking closer, “I don’t hook up with fans.”

You blink, “I’m not a fan.”

“You’re not?” He’s genuinely confused now and for a second you’re worried you might have ruined some sort of fantasy for him.

You shrug. “Of your face, maybe. But I honestly know nothing about you except that you’re really fast and extremely hot.”

“Don’t forget willing to sign a girls chest.”

You grin as he stands in front of you, looking up at him, his body. “Oh I don’t think I'll ever forget that.” You pull your hoodie off, the signature untouched, your shirt gone.

He’s staring again.

“You’re really fucking hot.” he breathes out, his fingers brushing over his signature.

You tug at the waistband of his sweats, looking up at him, “Show me how hot you think I am.”

He starts to kneel, capturing your lips with his before he goes any further. He’s a great kisser, so experienced that you start to think you’re special.

But then again, how many girls get to have Lando Norris kneel in front of them?

His hands find your bra, the lace flimsy and easy for him to slip his fingers under. You groan at the contact, his knees hitting the floor as he pulls you in, kissing down your stomach.

His hands are huge, a fact that you definitely remember from earlier, how he touched you in front of all those people.

He slips your sweats off, groaning at your matching panties. “Fucking perfect.”

“Picked well huh?” You let out an unexpected moan when he kisses up your thigh.

“Just glad you yelled at me.” You want to squeeze your legs together, the feeling so intense already but then you’d crush him. He takes your panties off next, slipping his tongue between your legs and making your back arch on the bed.

“Shit.” You bite your lip, your hand going to his hair. He groans when you tug at his curls, a sound you could never get tired of.

He finds your clit faster than expected, now making you really squeeze your thighs together. He grabs your knee, pushing it back so you don’t suffocate him, though you don’t think he’d mind.

You moan, your head back on the bed and hand pushing him into you more. “Fuck, Lando!” his name slips out and you swear you can feel him smile against you.

He stops suddenly, making you instantly upset. “Those eyes…” He shakes his head at you, standing up to come over you a bit, “Ness to see your face when I make you come.”

His fingers plunge into you, choking out a moan as he just grins stupidly at you. “Take my fingers baby…”

His words make it more intense, makes the rush ten times hotter. He pins your wrists over your head after you try to touch him, “Wanna see you whine for me first.”

And whine you do, bucking your hips into his hand while he laughs. He kisses you while you’re squirming, trying to kiss back but when your legs start to shake, you know it’s no use.

You come in a flash of white heat throughout your body. Moaning as his lips meet your tit.

You make a mess on his hand, on the sheets. Something he brushes off with more kisses. You try to sit up, try to tug at his waistband, but he stops you, “Let me-”

“Fucking need you… your pussy. Your mouth later.” You bite your lip, palming the growing bulge behind the fabric. “F’king hell.”

“Whatever you want, lan.” He kisses you harder at the nickname, keeping your legs spread with his knee.

“God…” He kisses your chest, licking around your nipple as you groan. “When you first asked- I thought about doing this to you immediately. Such perfect tits-”

You slip your hand in his pants, his dick hard as he moans around your boob. He shoves his sweats off, climbing over you while trying to kiss you at the same time.

“Just fuck me-” You say between kisses, making his smile grow as well as his hard on.

“So bossy…” But he gets ready anyway, lining himself up with you and slowly pushing in.

You bite your lip at the stretch, thinking back to how fast he came back to you earlier, “So obedient.”

He scoffs, fully in you now. Everything melts away, the feeling of him in you makes your vision go blurry and your voice go hoarse.

He whines, loudly, pushing in and out to start. “I feel like you were fucking made for me.” He’s so hot it almost hurts, his body tight and so eager for you.

“You’re telling me-” he’s slow but intentional. Every thrust comes another swear word or moan. The hotel room is soon filled with the sound of skin slapping and sounds, smelling like sex.

He flipped you over for a second, your face pushed into a pillow and your back arched farther than it’s ever gone. You cry out into the pillow, your moans muffled while he throws his head back freely.

It doesn’t last long because the next thing you know, you’re on top of him. “Fucking… shit- ride me.” He stutters out as you grind on top of him.

He adds a finger, making your back arch that much more. When he takes it out, he’s grinning like a mad man. Bringing his hand to your face, he slips his thumb between your lips, making you whine at the sudden taste.

“Suck.” And you do. Taking his tongue into your mouth, you lick and suck it all while keeping eye contact.

You grip his bicep, throwing your head back like a fucking porn star. He watches you, watches your tits bounce with his name across them. He’s scared he might cum right then because of how fucking erotic the whole scene is.

Your pace slows, holding onto his thigh now while he holds onto your waist, making sure you don’t fall over. You’re sweaty, your hair falling behind you in a moment of pure bliss.

You cum on him seconds before he rushes you off, cumming on your thigh with a groan.

His arm is across you, your feet tangled and you just breathe. It’s hot, his skin on yours doesn’t make it any better but you wouldn’t want anything different.

He cleans you up and by the time he’s back in bed, you’re half asleep. “I should go-” but you make no effort to move.

“Stay.” He kisses your shoulder, “Wanna care for you…” He drops his head between your shoulder and a pillow, making you smile. “Was that okay?”

“Okay? Much better than okay.” You breathe, finding your fingers in his hair in a much more innocent way now.

“Good. You’re really fucking good.”

You smile, “So, first time fucking a fan. How was it?”

He looks up, “Thought you said you weren’t one?”

“After that? I definitely fucking am.”

what if the reason we’re collectively so fond of isack is because we sense he’s a weed smoking lesbian in another life

i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers i hate the panthers

I think I speak for a lot of people when I say this:

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