#and then start posting it before the end of the month

[vingtetunmars]

A New Heartbeat

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Summary: Joel Miller never thought he'd get another chance at building a family—especially not at his age, especially not after everything.

Tags: Fluff, pregnancy fic, domestic fluff, birthday surprise, emotional feels, warm, age gap (reader is early 30s, Joel is 58-59), set between season 1 and 2, jackson!Joel Miller, soft joel miller. No physical description of reader. No use of Y/N.

A/N: Thank you @dedicatedfangirl2001 for inspiring me! So this is technically a continuation of this fic, but it can also be read as a stand alone. If you have any requests, suggestions, or thoughts, feel free to send me a message. Reblogs are appreciated. Please do not steal or cross-post it on another platform without asking. Thank you.

Word Count: 3.3k

masterlist

You didn’t think much of it at first.

Between the early mornings at the stables and the evenings spent passed out on the couch beside Joel, days had started to blur into each other. Your body always felt tired this time of year—mud season clinging to your boots, cold air snapping at your fingertips even under gloves. You’d chalked the nausea up to bad stew from the dining hall. But when your headache lingered past the usual, when the scent of hay and leather turned sour in your nose, it hit you.

You hadn’t had your period.

You stood in the feed room, half-empty bucket of oats dangling from your hand, the realization sitting heavy in your stomach. The math rolled around in your head, tumbling over itself. It had been… what? Over a month? Maybe more. You weren’t exactly counting days when every morning looked the same—Joel sipping black coffee, Ellie stealing bits of toast, and you rubbing sleep out of your eyes as you layered up for work.

But now, standing there, the silence of the stable around you, something clicked. You set the bucket down on the ground a little too quickly, pressing your palm to your stomach. No pain. No bloat. Just… a quiet sort of stillness.

The horses shuffled in their stalls. One of the younger colts let out a soft snort. You leaned your back against the wall, heart hammering in your chest.

You weren’t sure. But something deep in your bones told you—you already knew.

You didn’t tell anyone where you were going that morning.

Said you had errands to run—needed new gloves, maybe stop by the library. Joel didn’t press. He’d kissed your cheek, grumbled something about checking in with Tommy about a busted water heater, and told you he’d see you for dinner.

You walked to the clinic with your hands jammed deep into your jacket pockets. The cold bit at your cheeks, and every step felt heavier than the last. Not from dread exactly, but from the weight of maybe.

The clinic wasn’t much to look at. Two rooms, patched-together equipment, and a nurse named Carla who used to be a vet before the world ended. She was kind, though, and knew how to keep her mouth shut. You told her you wanted to rule something out. She just nodded, handed you a cup, and pointed toward the bathroom.

You stared at the strip of plastic on the counter like it held your whole future.

Five minutes. That’s all it took.

Carla didn’t say anything right away. She just looked down at the test in her hand, then back up at you, her expression soft.

“Well,” she said, “you’re pregnant.”

The room didn’t spin. It didn’t crash down on you, either. Instead, everything went still—like the moment before a horse takes off into a gallop. Heart pounding, lungs full of something sharp and sweet.

You were going to have a baby.

Joel’s baby.

Carla asked if you were okay. You nodded before you really even felt it, voice rough when you said, “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am.”

The walk back home was slower. Like you were afraid to jostle the news loose, or maybe afraid it still wasn’t real. But your hand drifted down to your stomach more than once, resting there in quiet awe.

Now, all that was left was telling him.

And with his birthday just a few days away, you couldn’t help but wonder how in the world you were going to tell him.

Joel didn’t like birthdays.

He never made a big deal out of them before the world ended, and now… well, now they just felt like reminders. Reminders of what he’d lost. Of how much older he was getting. Of how goddamn long he’d been carrying around all this weight.

He’d never forget waking up on that birthday—the one that split his life into a before and after. Many years later, the world had changed, but the ache hadn’t. Not really.

Still, this morning started like any other. The early light crept in through the crack in the curtains, soft and gray-blue. Beside him, you were curled under the blanket, one arm slung across his stomach, your face tucked against his shoulder. Warm. Familiar. Home.

He didn’t move at first. Just lay there, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the quiet. The muffled sound of someone in the street. A rooster off in the distance. You breathing slow and steady beside him.

You made it better—this day, this life. You had a way of pulling him back from the edge without even trying. He didn’t know what he’d done to deserve that, to deserve you, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to take it for granted.

Your fingers twitched slightly against his chest. You were starting to stir.

He turned his head just enough to watch you, that soft haze of sleep still in your features. He found himself smiling, just a little. The lines in his face stayed, though. The ones that came from time and sorrow and holding it all in for too long.

You blinked up at him.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

“Happy birthday,” you whispered back, eyes warm and knowing.

He groaned, turning his face away slightly. “Don’t remind me.”

You gave a quiet laugh, but didn’t tease him for it. You never did. You just leaned up to press a kiss to his jaw, fingers brushing along his ribs, gentle and grounding.

“I’m makin’ you pancakes,” you added softly. “Don’t fight me on it.”

He huffed, but it wasn’t real. “‘Course you are.”

He didn’t need gifts. Didn’t want anyone making a fuss. But if the day started like this—your warmth, your voice, your lips on his skin—then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Even if he still carried the ghosts, this morning... it felt different. Like maybe something was waiting on the horizon, and he wasn’t sure what—but he trusted you’d tell him when the time was right.

You flipped the last pancake onto the plate, steam rising as you added a handful of thawed berries—ones you’d carefully saved from the last supply run. They weren’t exactly fresh, but they were sweet enough, and they made the stack look a little more festive.

Birthday pancakes.

Joel would pretend to grumble about it, but you knew he appreciated it. The small gestures. The quiet kind of love. You’d learned early on not to make a big deal of his birthday. Not out loud, anyway. But that didn’t mean you’d let it pass by like any other morning.

“Damn, something smells good,” Ellie mumbled as she shuffled into the kitchen, hair sticking up in five different directions, sleeves too long for her arms. She plopped down at the table, blinking slowly. “Is it somebody’s birthday or somethin’?”

You smirked as you slid a plate in front of her. “Could be.”

Joel followed behind her a second later, moving slower, like his body hadn’t quite forgiven him for being nearly sixty.

He rubbed at the back of his neck as he sat down across from her, eyes drifting to the plate you set in front of him.

Pancakes. Berries. A little dab of honey. No candles, no singing—just the kind of breakfast you didn’t make unless the day meant something.

He glanced at you, brow raised.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he said.

“I wanted to,” you replied, brushing your hand over his shoulder as you passed. “Don’t argue with me on your birthday, Miller.”

Ellie shoveled a bite into her mouth. “Holy shit,” she mumbled. “Are these the blueberries?”

Joel chuckled under his breath, fork already in hand. His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer before he took his first bite. You saw the tension ease in his shoulders, just a little. Maybe the day still carried shadows for him, but right now? With a warm plate in front of him and people who loved him on either side?

He was okay.

You sat down beside him, resting your hand on your lap, feeling the thrum of nerves underneath your skin.

A knock on the door broke through the calm.

Joel looked up, chewing his last bite with a quiet grunt. You stood up to answer it, already guessing who it was. Sure enough, when you opened the door, Tommy stood there with a crooked grin and two hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets.

“Mornin’, birthday boy,” he called past you, stepping inside without waiting for an invite. “You look real good for a hundred.”

Joel let out a groan, dragging a hand over his face. “You had to come by, didn’t you?”

“You think I’m missin’ the one day a year I get to remind you I’m younger and prettier?” Tommy grinned, clapping his brother on the back as he passed by.

“Debatable,” Ellie chimed in, still chewing. “And you missed the berries.”

Tommy’s eyes lit up. “Berries?”

“Yup,” you said with an apologetic shrug, walking back to the stove. “Saved 'em for Joel. There’s still pancakes, though.”

Tommy sniffed the air like a bloodhound. “You spoil this man.”

“Someone has to,” you quipped, already grabbing another plate.

You served him a healthy stack—no berries this time, just a bit of honey and some leftover butter—and slid into your seat again. Joel was watching you, his eyes soft beneath the usual weight. He hadn’t said much, but you could feel it in the way his hand drifted to your knee under the table. Just a gentle touch. A quiet thanks.

Tommy shoveled in a bite and made a loud, satisfied sound. “Hot damn. You better marry her before someone else do.”

Joel raised an eyebrow. “You wanna lose a tooth today?”

You laughed, elbow resting on the table, chin in your hand. The teasing, the warmth, the way Ellie rolled her eyes and asked if she could have seconds—it all made the house feel full in a way you never took for granted.

Still, under it all, the secret sat in your chest like a fluttering heartbeat.

You’d give it a moment. Let them finish breakfast. Let Joel have this calm before you turned his world upside down.

In a good way, you hoped.

The house felt quieter once the door shut behind Ellie and Tommy. The laughter lingered in the walls for a moment, then faded, replaced by the gentle creak of wood and the soft clink of dishes as you rinsed them off.

Joel was still finishing the last of his coffee, sitting back in his chair, watching you. He looked more relaxed now—shoulders looser, lines around his mouth softened. Birthdays were hard for him, but this one… it hadn’t been bad.

You dried your hands on a dish towel, heart thudding steady but loud. You knew you couldn’t wait any longer.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping toward him. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

His brow knit slightly, but he nodded, setting the mug down. “Somethin’ wrong?”

“No,” you breathed, sitting down across from him, your hands resting in your lap. “Not wrong. Just… big.”

Joel leaned forward, elbows on the table. You reached for his hand without thinking, grounding yourself in the warmth of his calloused fingers.

“I didn’t know how to bring this up earlier. Didn’t wanna spring it on you in front of everyone,” you started, voice quiet. “But I’ve been feelin’… off. The past few weeks.”

His expression shifted—concern flickering behind his eyes, guarded like always. “You sick?”

You shook your head, a nervous smile tugging at your lips. “No. I went to the clinic yesterday. Ran a test.” You swallowed, heart climbing to your throat. “Joel… I’m pregnant.”

The words hung in the air like dust caught in sunlight.

Joel blinked. Once. Twice. He didn’t say anything—just stared at you, eyes wide, unreadable. Then slowly, without a word, he stood up from the table and took a step back, hand resting on the edge of the counter like he needed something to hold onto.

“You’re… you’re sure sure?” he asked, voice hoarse. “I mean—are they sure?”

You gave a soft laugh, heart aching with affection. “Yeah. They’re sure. I’m late, the test was positive, and… I feel it. I know it.”

Joel let out a breath like he’d been holding it for years. His shoulders dropped as he sat back down, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

“I just—I didn’t think—I mean, hell, at my age?” he muttered, almost to himself, eyes wide and almost dazed. “I didn’t think that was even possible anymore.”

You reached for his hand again, thumb brushing the top of his knuckles. “Well… apparently it is.”

He looked at you then—really looked at you. And something shifted in his face. Like the ground underneath him had tilted, but he was choosing to stay standing anyway.

“You’re… you’re okay with this?” he asked quietly.

You nodded. “I wouldn’t have told you today if I wasn’t. I know it’s gonna be a lot, but… yeah. I’m okay with it. More than okay.”

Joel’s eyes started to glisten, and he cleared his throat hard, blinking fast as he turned his face away for a second. When he looked back at you, his voice was thick.

“Thank you,” he said.

It broke something open in you.

“For what?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“For this. For you. For givin’ me a reason to think there’s still more life out there for me than just survivin’.”

He reached out, cupped your cheek with a rough hand, his thumb brushing just under your eye.

“I didn’t think I’d get a second chance,” he murmured. “Not with someone like you. Not like this.”

You leaned into his palm, smiling through the tears that started to slip down your cheeks.

“Well… surprise,” you whispered.

Joel gave a breath of a laugh, then leaned in and kissed you—slow, steady, reverent. The kind of kiss that said everything his words couldn’t. The kind of kiss that promised he would be here for all of it.

For you.

For the baby.

For the life you were building together, one quiet moment at a time.

Sunday dinner was loud in the best way.

Tommy and Joel had spent the afternoon repairing one of the water lines near the edge of town, and both were still rubbing their lower backs like old men. Maria was bouncing little Benji on her knee, spoon-feeding him mashed carrots between exaggerated airplane noises, while Ellie recounted an incident involving a runaway chicken and a pitchfork.

You’d always loved these nights—long tables, shared food, laughter that made the walls feel smaller in the best way. But tonight, your hands kept drifting to your lap, nerves curling in your stomach even though you’d done this a dozen times in your head.

Joel’s knee brushed yours beneath the table.

He glanced at you, gave a small nod.

It was time.

You reached for your glass and gently tapped your spoon against it. “Uh… can I say something real quick?”

The table quieted. Benji let out a soft squeak and tried to grab a carrot off Maria’s plate.

Joel cleared his throat. “We’ve got some news.”

Maria looked up first, brows raised. Ellie paused mid-chew.

You smiled nervously, heart thumping. “I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, no one said a word. Then—

“What?” Ellie blurted, voice cracking halfway through the word.

Joel chuckled low under his breath, his hand slipping onto your thigh, grounding. Ellie set her fork down slowly, blinking like she hadn’t quite heard you right.

“You mean like… an actual baby?” she asked, eyes wide. “Your baby?”

You nodded, leaning closer to Joel's side. “Yeah. Our baby.”

Ellie opened her mouth, closed it, then reached for her water like her brain needed a reboot. “Holy shit.”

“Language,” Joel murmured.

“I’m gonna be a big sister?” she asked softly, blinking hard. And then her face cracked into a smile—wide and kind of watery. “I’m gonna be a big sister.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair and let out a low whistle, grinning ear to ear. “Joel, buddy. You still got swimmers at your age?”

Joel groaned loudly. “Tommy, I swear—”

“I mean, damn! You’re nearly sixty and still makin’ babies? What’s in the water over at your place?”

You laughed, covering your mouth with your hand. Joel muttered something under his breath, but he was smiling, too, shaking his head as Tommy clapped him on the back.

Maria just laughed and leaned her cheek against Benji’s soft hair. “Honestly, I had a feeling.”

Joel looked at her sideways. “You did?”

“You turned down a glass of wine at dinner last week,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “You. You never turn down wine.”

You shrugged with a grin. “Was trying to be subtle.”

“Well, I’m glad you told us now,” she said, smiling warmly. “Benji’s gonna need a little buddy to boss around.”

Benji cooed like he somehow approved.

Then Maria stood and crossed the space to pull you into a hug, tight and full of warmth. Ellie joined a second later, throwing her arms around both of you, mumbling something like “I’m not crying” even though she very much was.

Tommy wrapped an arm around Joel with a playful shake and muttered, “Old man,” while Joel just rolled his eyes and let it happen.

In the middle of it all—arms tangled, laughter echoing, and that familiar scent of home-cooked food still hanging in the air—you felt it.

Family.

Not perfect. Not always easy. But real. Rooted. Growing.

And you were bringing another piece into it.

Dinner had long passed. The dishes were done, the laughter faded into memory, and Ellie had gone back to her room with a final hug that lingered just a little longer than usual.

Now, the two of you were tucked beneath the soft quilt, the chill of Jackson’s night air kept at bay by Joel’s familiar warmth beside you. The house creaked gently, like it was settling in for the night too.

You lay on your side, facing him, his arm already around you. The bedside lamp was off, but the moonlight spilling through the window was enough to catch the faint lines on his face—the quiet, thoughtful ones that only ever appeared when he let his guard down.

He hadn’t said much since the others left. Not out of hesitation, but the way he always got when something mattered so much it felt sacred.

His fingers brushed your stomach lightly under your shirt. Slow. Careful.

There wasn’t much of a bump yet—just the slightest swell, barely there—but his touch was reverent, like he was afraid to miss even a second of it.

“That’s really ours in there,” he said quietly, more to himself than to you. “Whole little person. Just... growin’.”

Your hand covered his. “Yeah. They’re in there.”

He shifted closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then just above your temple.

“I keep thinkin’ I’ll wake up,” he murmured. “That this is some dream I’m gonna lose. But then I touch you, and it’s real.”

You turned your face to kiss the underside of his jaw, voice soft. “It’s real, Joel. You’re here. I’m here. We’re here.”

He nodded, throat tight. His palm stayed resting on your belly, like it anchored him.

“I ever tell you how much I love you?�� he asked, voice thick with quiet emotion.

You smiled. “You show me every day.”

“Gonna say it anyway,” he whispered, kissing you again. “I love you, darlin’. More than I got words for.”

The two of you fell asleep like that—his hand over the life you were building together, your fingers laced with his, hearts beating steady in the dark.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Joel Miller didn’t feel haunted by his past.

He felt ready for the future.

[very-merry-birthday]

Gluttony

Lust Gluttony Envy Sloth Greed Pride Wrath

Summary: You help the brothers out of tricky situation, and Dean thanks you the best way he knows how.

Warnings: Smut (car sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms)

A/N: Yes, this has been a seven deadly sins series all along!

You picked at your fries lazily as you relaxed against the grimy booth of the diner, watching the place carefully. You'd been following the same man for two days after a string of murders had landed you in a town not far from home. You saw as he began to stand up, making his way to leave.

Your phone began to buzz in your pocket, a number you didn't recognize. Normally you wouldn't answer calls like that, but you were waiting for some information, and wanted to end this hunt as quickly as possible.

"This is a prepaid call from "Hey Sweetheart", at the Washington County correctional facility, all phone calls are subject to recording and monitoring, to accept this call press one now."

You could instantly tell it was Dean, his voice just as deep over the phone as in person. You pressed #1 as you wedged your phone between your ear and your shoulder, standing to follow the man as you gathered up your belongings.

"Hey darlin', you picked up!" He seemed almost surprised on the other end, but kept his cool.

"What's going on, I'm in a rush." You pushed the door open, following him from a distance.

"Awe- I just thought a booty call might be fun right now?" His voice was laced in sarcasm.

"I'm being serious, Dean, what do you need?"

He sucked his breath in through his teeth, "Ya see sweetheart, we might have found ourselves in a bit of trouble over here and... well we need someone to come bail us out."

"I'm busy..." You sighed, finally grabbing the phone again in your hand.

"We'll see you soon!"

The line clicked, going dead as he hung up. You wanted to leave him there, teach him a lesson, but you knew you just had to see him. You looked over at the man walking away, letting out a deep sigh before turning on your heel, returning the way you came.

-

You pulled up around the corner from the tiny jail- more just a police station- checking your face again in the mirror before climbing out of the car, your heels clicking against the sidewalk. It wasn't often that you dressed professionally, the tight button up and skirt feeling claustrophobic against your body, but you knew it would work far better than your usual jeans and flannels.

You made your way in, the afternoon just starting to break into evening as a chill hit the air, and walked to the front desk, a young cop on the other side barely making note of you.

"I'm here for the brothers."

"You posting bail or you their lawyer?" He didn't look up from the screen in front of him.

"Their lawyer."

He nodded, "Take a seat, someone will come get you in a minute."

You did as he said, sitting down as you took in the room. You swallowed hard, you lied for a living, that bit was easy, but having to see Dean after three months without him- that would be slightly harder.

After what felt like too long you saw a cop approaching you, reaching out his hand to shake it, "You here for those boys?"

He was an older guy, barely any hair left on his head, a small coffee stain on his shirt that looked fresh. You weighed up your approach in your mind. Seductive felt odd, this guy was old enough to be your father, possibly even grandfather, and he wasn't trying to hide it. Relentless seemed wrong too, he clearly had a knowledge of the job and you knew clamping down on him would only cause him to fight back. So instead you stood, shaking his hand with a warm smile spread across your face. The friendly approach.

"I am indeed, sir."

"Names Officer Branning, I'm gonna get you to follow me."

He led you down a series of florescent flooded hallways until you were stood outside and interrogation room. You'd seen your fair few before, but normally you were in the same position as the boys. The officer pushed open the door and Dean looked up, his eyes widening in surprise as he saw you walk in.

"You should've told us you called your lawyer, son." The officer moved to sit opposite him, taking a sip of his coffee.

You saw Sam shift in his seat, looking between you and his brother, clearly confused.

"And can I ask what exactly my clients have been arrested for?" You took your own seat next to Dean, you could tell he was still gawking at you out of the corner of your eye.

"Well your boys here have been convicted of section A1 of the Burglary Statute. A house downtown, we get a phone call about suspicious activity and who do we find when we turn up, these two, both in possession of guns, which I don't have to tell you is of course a felony."

You turned to look at them properly for the first time, both of them shifting awkwardly in their seats. You knew that Sam would have already tried every trick in the lawyer book- and at least he had the Harvard experience compared to your Breaking Bad and Law and Order qualifications. He turned back towards the officer, not wanting to seem suspicious. Dean, however, couldn't care less, his eyes raking your body.

He'd never seen you dressed like this: all office siren, your hair pulled back, heels on. He had to admit he liked it, almost as much as he enjoyed you in your hunting gear, covered in grime and blood and sweat... Almost.

You turned back away, his gaze sending heat to the back of your neck. The officer looked behind the three of you, another sip of coffee, he was clearly already checked out for the day, his eyes on the clock above your heads. Sam might have the knowledge, the actual lawyer skills, but you were starting to think your pop culture education might be more likely to get you all out of here.

"Look I'm not gonna sit here and say these two men haven't been foolish, of course they have." You glanced over at them, Sam's eyes going wider, Dean clearly not listening as he watched the way your lips moved, "Entering a dwelling that doesn't belong to them, sure, that looks bad, I'm not denying that. But I do think it's important to note that they didn't use their guns, no one here got hurt, right? And is that not the most important thing?"

The officer nodded slowly. Sam looked between you and him, unable to understand how this actually seemed to be working.

"No one killed, no one injured, gosh not even a paper cut! Secondly, burglary, sir-" you chuckled lightly, "Do you have any proof of that? That they were actually intending to steal anything? Do we even have proof that they broke into the property? As far as I can tell these idiots most likely walked into a house that didn't belong to them, merely out of confusion!"

"I'm not sure-"

"Officer Branning, was it?" You smiled at him warmly, trying to put forth your least threatening expression, "You and I both know the perils of this system. A day in court, those uncomfortable seats they'll make you sit in as you wait to speak, only for what, all of five minutes!?"

He chuckled lightly at your apparent exasperation, "Less than that!"

"Less! A whole day wasted just because these two idjits don't know their own address! And I'm sure the jury will see that- just look at them they couldn't organize a back yard grill let alone a burglary!"

Sam put on his best puppy dog pout and Dean grinned from ear to ear as the officer looked at them both.

"I really don't want to waste your time, and I don't think you want to waste mine either. These are good boys, good god-fearing folk, they've just made a mistake. Surely a slap on the wrist and we can both go home happy?"

"These boys committed a crime-" he looked above your head again, eyeing the clock.

"Who've you got at home, Officer Branning?" You leant back in your seat, smiling at him.

"I'm not sure how that's important?" He questioned, his face flushing with confusion.

"You keep looking at the clock, sir, you got someone worth rushing off for?"

He smiled back, looking down at his coffee, "My wife. It's our anniversary, I was supposed to be home three hours ago but got stuck sat with these two-"

"How many years?" You leant forward. Dean eyed you carefully. He liked seeing you confident like this. He thought back to the last time he'd seen you, the church, your mouth pressed against his ear speaking sin. You'd finished that hunt only a few days later, Sam finally relenting in the knowledge there was no way he'd be able to keep you apart. But that was three months ago, and he hadn't expected to see you this soon. And yet, looking a you now, he realized just how much he'd missed you. He watched as your mouth curled into another warm smile. It made his stomach flip as he tried to suppress the thought.

"Forty-four." He sighed, taking another sip of coffee, "Feels like yesterday we got married, not that I'd ever tell her that."

You reached out to his hand, holding it gently, "Officer, I know it's been a real long day, and I'd hate for it to become an even longer night. I'm sure she deserves you home by now?"

He swallowed hard, looking between the three of you. "What the hell, fine!"

Sam almost fell out of his seat in shock. Dean had to hold himself back from kissing you there and then.

--

Dean's arm was wrapped around your waist before you'd even left the station. You knew he didn't care about who saw, but you also knew you had to get out of there before anyone stopped you.

You all skipped out, keeping your heads down, a smile plastered on all of your faces. Once you were far enough away Dean finally broke, loud laughter coming from his lips.

Sam shook his head with a smirk, "How the hell did you manage that?"

Dean pulled you in closer, lazily kissing your shoulder as you and Sam spoke.

"What, Harvard boy can't understand what an expert lawyer looks like?" You laughed. You knew ignoring Dean's advances was only riling him up more.

"Thought you were only coming to bail us out?" Sam shook his head again.

"If you think I'm spending a dime on you two you're more stupid than I thought." You started to walk back to your car, "Come on, both of you, let me give you a lift."

Dean broke away from you, looking over to his brother, "Go for a walk, Sam."

"Dean it's-"

"Go for a walk." His face turned stern.

Sam rolled his eyes, giving you another baffled smirk before walking away again, his hands sliding into his pockets. Dean pulled you into him again, his mouth attacking your neck. You dragged him towards your car, your hand combing through his hair.

You lifted his face up to look at you as you pouted, "That was mean..."

"He knew the deal the second you walked in wearing that get up." His hand reached down to your ass, inelegantly squeezing it.

"You still shouldn't leave him out in the cold like this."

"Be quiet sweetheart," he kissed you jaw heavily, "just let me show you how thankful I am."

He pushed you against the side of your car, his hands wandering over your body as you scrambled for your keys. You broke your face away from him for a moment as you put your key in the lock, your eyes looking into your own car through the window.

You hadn't really thought about the fact he'd be here, climbing into your car. Even if his mouth wasn't fixed to your neck, you'd still offered him a lift, he'd have seen it one way or another, but it still felt weirdly intimate. Car sex- that was normal. More normal for you two than sex in a bed. But it was always the Impala, a car you had to admit oozed seduction. It had space to move around, to stretch out on the plush vinyl seats. Your car was small, beaten up, only just big enough for you to sleep in on cold nights when all the motels were full. And yet here you were, welcoming him into a space normally reserved only for you.

He didn't seem to care, though, as he guided you into the back seat, pressing himself against your body as he moved to lay above you. You shifted awkwardly, trying to fit your bodies into the small space, a blanket stuffed under your back, old takeout containers on the floor next to you.

He kisses your neck, grazing it with his teeth as you softened into the shape of his body. He tugged at your clothes, his hand sliding up your thigh, pushing your skirt up to your hips. You were suddenly very thankful for the dark descending outside.

You pushed your body up slightly as he continued his movements down, his fingers finally pressing against the middle of your underwear, "Tsk- thought I'd get another pleasant surprise."

He gently circled your clit through the fabric, sending gentle warmth through you, "I got you out of there, didn't I?"

He smiled, "Oh yeah, I was showing my gratitude wasn't I?" He kissed the inside of your thigh, "What's our record, sweetheart?"

"Three..."

He shook his head with a smile.

This had long been a point of contention between you. He insisted that since he'd been able to make you come five times in one day, your record should be five. You contended that since you'd split between a session first thing in the morning and another one in the evening, where he'd made you come three times, your record should be three. Of course, he'd also promised you if he had a full day, and an actual bed, he'd make you come so many times you would pass out.

But he wasn't in the mood to argue.

He hooked his fingers around the sides of your underwear, dragging it down your legs as he sucked in a sharp breath, eyes fixed on you.

He pressed his tongue against your clit without any warning, your hand reaching out to grab hold of his hair as you steadied your breathing.

"Fuck darlin, you always taste incredible."

He spit hard, using his saliva as lube as he dove back in, his tongue lapping you up. You rolled your hips into him, needy for his friction. No one knew you quite like him, knew just where to touch you to bring you to the brink.

He pressed his mouth against you, alternating between pushing his tongue inside you and circling your clit in a steady rhythm. You could barely breath as you felt his tongue glide through your folds, savouring your wetness, his mouth curling into an amused smile as he listened to your gasps.

Right when he felt you tensing up he focused all his attention onto your clit, sending you over the edge as you gripped onto his hair, rolling your head back in a pornographic moan. He kept his movements quick as you came, your body shaking as he kept up the stimulation.

Your body sunk back against the seat, your head pressed against the inside of your cardoor as you tried to shed the pounding in your ears. He pulled away, kissing along your leg.

"You got a pen anywhere in here sweetheart?" He looked around, you were suddenly aware once again of the state of your car.

You leant down, rustling your hand on the floor without looking until you landed on the marker you knew you'd left there, handing it to him.

He held the lid between his teeth, popping it open and drawing a short line on your inner thigh, "That's one."

You bit your lip as you looked down at him marking your skin, taking you as his own.

He began to kiss up your leg again, making his way back towards your core.

You let your hand comb through his sweat ridden hair, breathing hard, "Just give me a minute, yeah?"

"What, and ruin this gorgeous high you've got going on? No chance, darlin'." He pressed his tongue against you again, slower this time, gently stroking it through your wetness.

You groaned, rolling your head back as he sucked lightly at your swollen clit. He knew how sensitive you got after you came, and he fully intended to use it to his advantage.

He teased the tip of his finger at your entrance, feeling as your pussy pulsed around him. He moaned against you, sending the vibrations through your body. Pushing his finger into you, you bit your bottom lip again, swallowing down any other noises.

He began thrusting into you slowly, even one finger filling you as his tongue sped up its movements. You arched your back into him, a second orgasm rising quickly. He pushed another finger into you, stretching you out, your breath shaking as you shut your eyes again.

He sucked on your clit again, pushing another desperate wave of pleasure through you. You reached out, seeking stability on the seats around you as you felt your body clench again. And then release. He slowed his movements, only just, as you came again on his tongue, your legs tightening up around him.

"Dean- fuck-" you couldn't stop your sounds, your body quaking.

You guided his face away from you as you let your body relax again into the seat, his movements almost to much to bare as he gently pulled his fingers out of you, sticking them in his mouth to continue savouring your taste.

Without a word, he reached down for the marker he'd thrown to one side, wetting his lips as he drew another line next to the first, "That's two."

He went to press his mouth against you again but you stopped him, cupping his cheek to get him to look at you, "Really, baby, can't take much more."

Baby wasn't a nickname you used. Not for him, not ever. But as your mind stayed fogged from your pleasure you didn't even realize you'd said it. And he didn't mind- his face tingling with secret enjoyment.

He lifted himself off of you, pushing the marker behind his ear as he moved quickly, his hands wrapping around your waist as he moved to sit, pulling you on top of him in a straddle. You slumped against him, your body exhausted, your forehead pressed against his.

"We'll never break our record with that attitude, sweetheart."

"It's just your tongue, Dean, i's'too much-" you kissed him lightly, his lips plump against yours.

"Well why don't we go at your pace then, darlin'?" He held your hips, lowering you down onto his leg. You bit your lip as you felt you pussy come into contact with the jeans on his thigh, rough against your sensitive bundle of nerves.

He pushed your hips gently, getting you to rut against him. You held his shoulders to keep yourself steady as you began moving, harsh pleasure hitting you instantly.

"Dean- fuck- it's too-"

He kissed you, his thumbs rubbing small circles into your hips, "That's it, nice and slow, keep yourself steady for me."

You focused on his voice as he guided you through it, grinding against his thigh with your breath held.

"Good girl, that's it." He moved one hand to your stomach, commanding your movements, "You're doing so well for me, darlin', that feel good?"

You collapsed your body into him, your head leaning against his shoulder, "Oomf- fuck- yes-"

"Good girl, good girl, keep moving, keep your pussy on me. Fuck- I can feel how wet you are even through my jeans-" he chuckled lightly, kissing the top of your head, "You look so good grinding on me- gonna get you to do this every time if you're not careful."

You gripped your hand around his bicep, your fingers pressed into him as you felt another orgasm rising inside you.

"Keep yourself steady, sweetheart- focus on your body. You feel that? Feel that sweet spot- you're screaming out for more, I can tell- let it fill you up, that excess, darlin', let it consume you. Keep moving, there's a good girl, you want to come again, don't y'? You wanna come on my thigh?"

You nodded into his shoulder, a small whimper falling out of your lips in desperation.

"Be a good girl for me, sweetheart, be good." He spoke softer as he pressed his lips against your skin, "Come for me."

You did as he commanded, your body quaking as you rutted against him, your fingers digging into him, letting out a loud cry, another orgasm taking control as your body quaked. Your movements began to slow but he kept his hands tight on you, keeping your grinding steady as you rode it out.

He pressed his mouth into your neck, soft kisses as you lifted yourself off his thigh, straddling him properly again, your body still shaking slightly as you tried to come back to reality, blinking hard. He leant back, carefully checking your face for confirmation you were okay, before kissing you again.

He pushed you backwards slightly to give himself better access as he took the pen from behind his ear, once again pulling off it's cap with his teeth and placing it between your legs, drawing another small line, "That's three, darlin'."

"Jesus, Dean, you'll be the death of me!" You sighed, coming to your senses.

You looked down, watching as he carefully palmed the bulge growing in his pants, "You think you can take one more?"

You nodded slowly, however spent you felt, you still wanted his cock buried inside you.

You watched as he quickly undid his belt with one hand, pulling at the top of his pants as his other hand gripped your hip tight again. His cock sprung free, solid and throbbing, watching you come so many times already pushing him to the edge. He guided you above him, lining himself up with you, before gently lowering you down, his cock sinking into your already sensitive opening.

He held your hips still as he began to thrust into you from below, watching you carefully. He pressed his mouth into your neck, small kisses across your skin as you moaned into him, your body shaking with pleasure.

Once his pace was steady he began moving his hands over you, ghosting your curves with the pads of his fingers, gentle movements, his digits hot against you, sending soft tingles all over your body. He let one hand slide under your shirt, brushing over your breast, his thumb grazing your nipple only slightly.

"You feel so good, sweetheart." He sped up his thrusting, his own heartbeat stuck in his throat as he felt your pussy tight around him.

You began to roll your own hips in time with him, pushing him deeper until he was completely filling you, your sensitive clit colliding with him on every pound. You moved your hands to his chest, steadying yourself as you both moved, the small car filled with hot breath.

He groaned, desperate, his fingers dancing over your nipples, sending shivers through you. He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on yours, "You close?"

You bit your lip, nodding in response as you felt another orgasm rise in you, his cock stretching you out.

"That's it, keep going, wanna feel you coming on my cock, darlin'."

His words send another spike of pleasure through you as you continued to roll your hip, his thrusting from below only becoming harder. You screwed up your hands in the fabric of his shirt, the tension filling you once again. You couldn't focus on anything but your dam about to burst.

"Dean, I'm gonna-"

He pressed his lips against yours as you came, a moan escaping your lips flowing into his mouth as he pushed into you, hard, your pussy contracting around his cock. Stars danced behind your eyes as you continued to move your body, your climax skewering the coil in your stomach.

The moment he felt your movements falter, Dean pulled out, his own orgasm spilling out of him without warning, his cum plastering your thigh. He let out a groan as your hand reached down instinctively, stroking him through his completion, your thumb pressed against his tip.

You both sat panting, your bodies covered in sweat and each other, as your movements slowed, both of you twitching in relief. After a moment you rolled off of him, taking your seat next to him as you pulled your blanket up to wipe his cum off of your leg. He watched you carefully before reaching back out to you, pen in hand, and drawing the final tally mark on your leg.

"That's four, new record." He smiled at you, hooking his finger under your chin for a kiss.

You shook your head, smiling as your bliss started to slump again, "You shouldn't have called, Dean, I was busy..."

"Oh yeah, hot date?" He pushed his cock back into his pants, beginning to buckle them back up as he chuckled.

"Yeah, smoking hot, tall dark and handsome." You watched as his expression faltered slightly, doubt creeping in. "A murderous demon with an appetite for murder, what's not to love!"

He relaxed again, lowering his shoulders and swallowing hard.

You waited a beat before opening up your door again, climbing out as you pulled your skirt back down. He followed your lead, stepping out into the cold night air, trying to pull himself together as he watched you do the same. Both of you were messy, clearly sexed out, the pen tally, although now hidden, still burning into your thigh, a small patch on his jeans from where you'd ridden him.

You slid back into the driver's seat, letting him clamber into the passenger side, a position neither of you were used to when around each other.

"Come on," you sighed, "let's go find your brother."

"He'll've reached the motel by now, sweetheart, we weren't exactly quick." He eyed you carefully, "You hungry?"

"I could eat."

"Let's get burgers."

"What, just us?"

"C'mon sweetheart, my treat, give you a proper thank-you."

[firingstars]

locked in

— a sequel to match made

congressman!bucky x matchmaker!reader

summary: you and your boyfriend have been together for a strong nineteen months and counting. problem is, you’re starting to notice he’s hiding things from you.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, semi-public (?) stuffs, oral (f+m receiving), hair pulling, face grabbing, fingers in mouth, unprotected sex, backshots, fingering, window… sex…, soft dom bucky, slight sub reader, language, no use of y/n, alcohol consumption, bucky is the best boyfriend ever and loves you very much

word count: 15.2k

a/n: due to popular demand, here’s a second part! this is also my formal apology for whatever happened in love, persevering <3 please accept. // also if anyone saw this get prematurely posted with NOTHING attached you didn’t fucking see it. i wasn’t made aware until EIGHT HOURS LATER and the fic wasn’t even done yet!!! 😔 i always make my fic intro template things before my fics are done for motivation

masterlist

You almost lost your fucking job. 

You expected it, honestly. With the amount of lines you crossed, boundaries broken, and toes you stepped on… Yeah. There was only so much that your boss could take from you— star employee or not. 

Thankfully, your boss kept the whole thing quiet from the rest of your coworkers to spare you the embarrassment since you had the decency to come to her and tell her the truth. 

It still meant you had to refund Sam Wilson the entire Ador Luxury Matchmaking Package, which your boss was not happy about.

Sam, on the other hand, was over the moon. 

When he received the refund transaction, he called you almost immediately. You had to go into a private conference room to answer the call, away from your coworkers.

“Mr. Wilson,” you answered the phone, trying to keep your tone light.

“Hey, Ms. Matchmaker,” he said, suspicion in his voice. “Did Buck cancel his membership?”

“That is correct,” you said, clearing your throat. 

“I thought we had an agreement. I paid you guys extra to not allow him to bully you guys into ending the program,” Sam said. You can hear the frustration in his voice. You don’t blame him. “What happened?”

“I can assure you– the refund is not due to Congressman Barnes just cancelling the service,” you said. “In fact, he is no longer in need of my services.”

“What? Then he’s been on a date?” Sam asked. “If that’s the case, then why the refund? If the date was successful, then doesn’t Bucky get the benefits or whatever?”

There was no response from your end for a good handful of moments. You were stuck, unable to respond. You couldn’t figure out how to say the words in the most professional way possible. You needed to find the right concoction, just in case there was someone walking down the hall at that exact moment,  and overheard your conversation. 

In the end, all you could think was that Bucky was a dead man walking.

You were going to kill Bucky. You weren’t sure how you were going to do that, seeing as he was the one with the years of experience of fighting between the two of you, but you would do it. You were hoping that he would’ve told his one and only friend that he had a girlfriend. 

Then again, Bucky refused to answer any of Sam’s calls. You texted Sam back most of the time when you got ahold of Bucky’s phone, pretending to be Bucky. Bucky didn’t care that you were doing that– though you wondered if Sam would be heartbroken if he ever found out. 

“Hello?” Sam asked, calling out your name. “Are you there?”

“Congressman Barnes terminated his membership with Ador as he and I have mutually decided to pursue a more personal relationship with each other,” you quickly answered him, cringing at your own words. You took a quick breath in before continuing, “The refund is due to my own oversight, and is serving as an apology to you for wasting your time on our service. I truly hope that you will forgive me for being unable to maintain a more professional connection with the client.”

It was Sam’s turn to fall silent. You had to check your phone to make sure that the call was still active. There was a slight rustle on the other end, letting you know that he was still there– that he was on the other end, dissecting your words, gears processing through his mind.

“The matchmaker I hired is dating my friend?!” he cackled. 

“Mr. Wilson, I truly apologize for the inconvenience–” 

“There is no inconvenience!” he cut you off, still laughing. “Holy shit, let me tell you– after that first meeting with you? I asked Bucky what he thought about you as his matchmaker and his only words? He thought you were pretty. Would not say anything else. Fuck, listen, let me call you back– or let’s all go to dinner. You, me, Buck, and my girl. I gotta head down to the office and harass Bucky right now.”

You went on an unpaid suspension for eight weeks after the refund transaction went through. The HQ of Ador had to undergo a full on investigation to figure out if you were worth keeping around as an employee or not, seeing as you ended up breaking client-employee conduct. 

Your boss wasn’t awful, though. In fact, she was only pissed off about the refund because she knew that headquarters back in London would have been alerted. Either way, it was still the right thing to process the transaction. She promised you that she would be your biggest advocate during the investigation, and she would try to argue for you to get the time to be paid seeing as you were the best employee in the New York branch.

The second you told Bucky– who told Sam– you found money wired into your account the next business day. It was the same exact amount that you had refunded back to Sam. It was still more money than you would’ve made if you were working those eight weeks. 

Neither man told you how they got ahold of your bank information. Neither man would look you in the eye when you questioned them. 

So, you had eight weeks of basically overpaid, free vacation to do whatever the hell you wanted, and a new boyfriend. Which meant you spent damn near every single day in his office, cosplaying as some government worker– an intern or secretary. And you were helping him. You actually were. 

“You really don’t have to do any of this, baby,” Bucky told you. You had been coming for an entire week straight at this point.

“If I stay stationary for two months, I think I might die of brain failure,” you told him, stealing a stack of his files from him. “Besides. You look like you need some help. You should really hire a secretary. Or someone to help you out. A personal assistant, maybe?”

“I can handle it on my own,” he sighed, shaking his head. Despite his words, he looked grateful as you took the files to the lounge area of his office and spread them out on the coffee table.

“Tell that to me when you sleep more than two hours a night, handsome,” you said, tucking your legs under you.

With less sensitive information that he was allowed to hand over to you, you organized and kept tabs on. You summarized documents for him perfectly that made his life easier. You helped train other onboarding interns that didn’t know what the hell they were doing. You managed his calendar when he looked like he was about to combust into flames. You got to spend time with him during his breaks, have lunch with him, eat dinner with him, and he would drive you home, and spend the night with you most nights.

Not that anyone knew that, though. They thought you were an actual employee of this official government building in New York. With the way that you walked side by side with Bucky every single day, holding files and looking down at his work phone– they really thought that you were working for him.

“Where’s your secretary today?”

You don’t know who asked the question, and you don’t really care. There’s about three other officials in this room that barged in out of nowhere, when you were on Bucky’s lap. 

Both of you had panicked, and he had shoved you into the hiding space beneath his desk before any of them could see the scandalous position he had you in. 

Unluckily for him, he had chosen the wrong place to put you. 

“At a training session with other interns,” Bucky said, tone clipped and short. He was irritated at being interrupted out of nowhere, but also at the fact that you were ignoring his warnings. 

You grinned, pressing an innocent kiss to the hand that gripped over your wrist. Tight, but not enough to hurt you. You continued to palm over his hardening length with your free hand. 

You weren’t paying attention to any of the fancy words that were being thrown around over your head, but you were certain that Bucky wasn’t either. You rested the side of your head against his thigh, feeling the muscle tense and hardened at your touch as you continued to lazily play with him over the fabric of his dress pants. 

Bucky’s metal hand slipped from your wrist to your hair, carding through it and stopping at the base of your skull– another cautionary message being sent to you as Bucky tried to focus on the sudden meeting thrown his way. Thankfully, these men loved the sound of their own voices. They couldn’t hear you slowly unzip him, and free Bucky from the confines of his slacks. 

“Your thoughts, Congressman Barnes?”

Your boyfriend cleared his throat above you as your lips kissed the tip of his cock, wrapping your hand around the base of him to keep him in place as his dick twitched in response. You fought back the small hum that threatened to come forth as you licked up the small bead of precum that leaked out.

“It’s a very… worrying matter,” Bucky said slowly, clenching his jaw as he took in a slow breath. You licked a thin strip up from the base of his cock– focusing on the thick vein that you knew was sensitive. “That is very worrisome. And we’ll get to the bottom of this uh– worrying... issue.”

You paused at his words, unable to believe what you were hearing from him for a moment. You pulled away from him for a moment, hand still wrapped around his dick as you pressed your face to his thigh, trying to hide your laugh into his flesh. 

Bucky’s hand tugged back on your hair roughly, pulling your head back and away from his thigh. Immediately, his metal hand shifted from your hair to clasp around your face, covering your mouth. His fingertips dug into the soft skin of your cheeks, daring you to make another noise. Surprise and excitement shot through your body in response.  

You could test him. You could press it. 

You decided against it, and licked his palm instead, closing your eyes. You could feel his hand twitch against your face— he told you once that his arm was calibrated to feel sensations. That he felt nerves like his other arm did. You smiled just a little, then kissed right where your tongue had just been. 

All the while, your hand was still pumping at his dick in lazy strokes. Nothing too much, nothing that would alert anyone of your presence, nothing that would make him let out noises that were only yours to hear. 

“Right,” one of the officials said slowly. “Well– we have lunch with some of the other representatives in ten minutes. You are welcome to join us, Congressman. If your secretary comes back from her training, she is more than welcome to join us as well. Lord knows we need a little more eye candy around here.”

A chorus of laughter rang around the room, but not from Bucky. In fact, he just stared at them until their laughter became uncomfortable, and they awkwardly excused themselves. 

The second the door to his office shut, Bucky’s chair was rolled back instantly, and your hands weren’t touching him anymore. 

You were still on your knees, looking up at him as Bucky stared down at you, hand still on your face to shut you up before you had been caught laughing at his inability to form proper words with your mouth on his cock.

“You’re so pretty like this, baby,” he murmured, hand shifting to cradle your face.

A metal thumb brushed against your lip slowly, a shiver running down your spine involuntarily. His touch was gentle. Reverent. He touched you like you were made of glass. Unlike the blown out, hungry look in his eyes, the gruff, low tone of his voice as he whispered to you. 

From the corner of your eye, you saw his other hand tuck himself back into his pants. When your eyebrows furrowed in response, he let out a soft chuckle.

Bucky leaned down, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. Then, he stood up tall. He rolled his shoulders back, but you couldn’t focus. Your eyes were on him, and the aching bulge above his zipper. 

“I have to go to lunch, sweetheart. When I get back, you’re going to get exactly what you wanted from me, okay?” 

Your boyfriend left you there. Left you partially under his desk, still on your knees. What was supposed to be you teasing him, quickly shifted into you being extremely hot and bothered. You didn’t know how long lunch would take, either. 

You busied yourself with literally anything else. Not that it worked. Every footstep that came down the corridor, you were jumping in attention like some rabbit in heat.

Except, Bucky moved like a ghost. You wouldn’t hear his footsteps. 

When he finally returned, you didn’t even hear him until the sound of the office door locking caught your attention. You barely had the time to turn around before he was all over you. Lips were on yours as he hoisted you upwards, wrapping your legs around his waist to carry you to his choice of christening. 

An arm swiped his desk clear of any debris so no pens or other office supplies would be digging into your skin. He bunched your skirt up to your hips, and pulled your panties to the side. Bucky bent you over his desk with fingers shoved into your mouth to keep you quiet as he did what you wanted from the beginning. He curtained you, his chest pressed against your back as he whispered sweet nothings to contrast the punishing thrust of his hips— letting you know that he still very much adored you, but was also extremely annoyed by your little game earlier.

Afterwards, Bucky cleaned you up gently. Kissed you softly, held you tightly in his arms. Then presented you with food that he brought back for you– he ordered you lunch while he was out eating since he knew you wouldn’t have left the office while he was gone. 

You almost jumped his bones again right then and there for how considerate he was of you.

So yes, you almost lost your job, but you weren’t necessarily upset about it. Not when you got to spend an entire month with Bucky, helping him out at work, cuddling with him at night, and waking up at whatever time you wanted the next morning. On the rare days that you weren’t at the office with him, it was because you were somewhere else– still with him. 

Eventually, you were called back into work.

You convinced Bucky to hire an assistant to take care of his little things— stuff that you did for him to make his life easier so he could focus on more pressing things. It managed to ease his workload just a little bit, but not by a lot. Bucky still managed to bite more than he could chew, and you knew he was stressed from how slow the process was for passing bills and getting change to happen. 

Despite it all, the two of you were content. Happy. Overjoyed, really. He was perfect, and he swore to the heavens that you were, too.

A cacophony of voices, poppers, music, and sparkles were blasted into your face as you pushed open the door to the office. Streamers were shot directly into your face, colors cascading directly before your eyes, showering you with colors of the pastel rainbow. 

Your coworkers, all dressed to the nines, were cheering. A few of them held flutes of champagne. Two of them held balloons– together making the number twelve together. One of them held a cake that read congratulations.

There was a catering table set for the party that was clearly waiting for you. You saw the table set, ready for everyone to dig into. You knew your boss didn’t hold back when it came to celebrating any kind of achievements, especially not your own. You were the best at what you did here.

Your grin wasn’t smug, even though you had every single right to be. You shrugged your blazer off as you sauntered into the room, allowing the applause and cheers to wash over you. You dropped your purse and other materials off at your desk as your boss approached you with a grin, hands going to your shoulders.

“My star employee– our number one matchmaker!” she cooed at you, everyone shouting around you in response to our praise. “Tell me, with this wedding upcoming this weekend, how many will you be responsible for?”

You paused, only for dramatic effect. The ceiling looked suddenly oh so interesting as you smiled. Then, you guessed, “Twelve?”

“Twelve!” your boss roared, the girls around you jumping up and down with excitement and cheer. 

“Do a speech, a speech!” your deskmate urged, and you only let out a small, playful sigh as everyone died down around you.

You were handed your own glass of champagne, led to the front of the room, and turned to look at all the girls. Girls that you worked with for the past six, almost seven years. Your boss had been doing this job for well over a decade now. There were a few new faces that had just started a few months ago. 

With your glass lifted into the air, you smiled, “Love is all around. It’s easy to find the perfect match for someone.”

They squealed, toasting to you. The cake was brought to you, letting you blow out the candles as if it was your birthday or something– just a tradition your company had for good luck. Something to bring more successful matches and weddings to your clients.

Your two clients, Luke and Jessica, were tying the knot after twelve months of dating, and another four months engaged. One year and four months— which was a relatively short time, but who were you to judge? They both told you they knew the other party was the one after the first date. Who were you to stand in the way of them? 

Just because you were fucking bitter, and jealous that you couldn’t spend time with your own boyfriend despite the fact that Luke and Jessica got together three months after you two did didn’t mean a thing. Not a single thing. 

You masked your growing irritation well with your clients. After all, your performance margins had been going through the roof within the last six months. Your productivity has never been better, your clients have never been happier with your performance, and you have been churning out perfect match after match like you might as well have been Cupid himself. 

Yet, you couldn’t find a single time for your own boyfriend. 

When you had a free night, he didn’t. There was a dinner that he had to get to, one that required secrecy amongst government officials. You understood that. You didn’t hold that against him– especially not when he looked pained to tell you that you couldn’t join him when you offered to come with him the first time he said he had the work dinner. Because you didn’t mind joining him for work related activity. You just wanted to spend time with him, by his side.

But you were a fucking matchmaker. You didn’t have any business being in a government setting, and you knew that. He knew that. The entire government knew that. 

Sometimes it wasn’t even dinner. Sometimes, he wasn’t even in the city. Or the state. Or even the fucking country. Bucky always let you know in advance when he had to travel for work, but there was usually never any chance for the two of you to meet for even a brief look at each other across the road. Just to see each other in person before he had to hop on the plane and head hours away from you.

On the rare occasions Bucky had a free night, you most certainly did not. You had a proposal to plan for. Not a policy or business proposal like he worked on. A marriage proposal. One that had you sneaking around parks in bushes, setting up trails of rose petals, hiring and arguing with musicians– things that you didn’t need your boyfriend around to trail you like a lost puppy asking you if there was something that you needed help with. 

If it wasn’t a proposal, you had another work event. A client on the verge of a breakdown because their date cancelled on them, or some bullshit like that. You would be so close to finally being in your boyfriend’s arms, but you would have to cancel on your own lover to play therapist even though you were severely undereducated and underpaid for the position. 

Bucky was understanding. Too understanding. So understanding that it made you want to bash your head into the wall. 

The two of you had working hours that were strenuous, strange, and demanding. 

Bucky hated his phone, but he still texted you often. Texted you good morning and good night every single day. He reminded you to eat at least twice a day knowing you were only running on the fuel of your own brain to make it through your work hours.

Absence definitely did not make the heart grow fonder. If anything, your heart was growing irritated. Angry. These happy couples around you were pissing you off. 

Each and every single one of your clients that reported to you that they were falling in love with the person that you set them up with, was like another person setting you up for failure. You were a ticking time bomb just ready to explode, and the only one who would ever be able to defuse you is currently locked away in his office with his pretty fucking secretary that you know he doesn’t care about, but spends more time with than you do. 

You’re not jealous of her perse. 

You’ve seen them work together. It’s strictly professional. You don’t know if she has a boyfriend, and you don’t really care if she does or doesn’t– you trust Bucky, bottom line. He hasn’t given you a single reason to not trust him. You know he has eyes for you and you only. What you’re envious of is the time that she gets to have with him. She sees him every single day. She handles his schedule, hands him coffee, speaks to him face to face, sits with him during meetings, and discusses his fucking policies with him. 

You’re jealous of the time that you don’t get to have with your own boyfriend. You haven’t seen him in over a week and a half by this point. Last time you saw him, it was for a brief lunch that lasted forty-two minutes before you both had to run into meetings. Before that, two weeks. 

You scratch angrily into your notebook, then rip the page out. You crumple it up, throwing the wasted piece of paper into the bin with a frustrated groan before scrubbing a hand down your face. 

The time on the clock reads 1:44am.

Bucky should be getting home by this time, you think. Your phone hasn’t rang otherwise. There’s no good night text yet. 

This was easier before. Easier before you got so attached to him. Easier before your world got shifted on its axis, and started to rotate around him, just a little bit. Easier when you didn’t love the man so fucking much. 

You couldn’t dwell on this though. Not when you had to go to sleep. You had somewhere to be tomorrow, and you couldn’t look like death itself. You sent off your own text to him, then let your sorrows and loneliness cuddle you to bed. 

As much as you wanted to wait for him to text you back, you couldn’t. You had a battlefield to get to. A networking event. A bride to maybe convince that she wanted to marry her groom. 

By the end of the wedding, your purse was full of business cards, and your lips were full of promises to call women on Monday to get them on your books as clients. Your face muscles hurt, your feet ached, and your heart was breaking.

Your phone was full of notifications, and not a single one of them was from your loving boyfriend. Did he get JFK’d somewhere? He couldn’t have. It would have been all over the news already if he did. Sam would have called you, too. Besides that, the serum in his veins would have him feeling the murderous intent from a thousand miles away.

You were pretty certain that he wasn’t joking when he said that he assassinated JFK, too. Except, you were drunk when he confessed that to you during a drinking game that you two were doing when you first started dating. You don’t know if you dreamt it. Bucky refuses to comment, like a true politician.

You make it through the rest of the wedding, get invited to the afterparty, decline, and step out into the street to wait for your Uber to arrive. A car pulls up to the curb that you know is not a silver hatchback like the app indicates, so you ignore it–

“What’s a pretty girl like you doing all alone on a Friday night?”

Your head snaps up at the voice. Bucky’s stepping out of the driver’s side, holding a colorful arrangement of fresh summer flowers for you, wrapped in kraft paper, tied off with a bow. He’s dressed in a formal suit– bowtie and everything. You vaguely remember him telling you that there was a gala event that was happening tonight the last time that you two had a chance to speak on the phone. He must have had a chance to slip away from there. 

“Need a ride?” he asked, feet stopping just right before you.

You let out a laugh, looking up at him. You take a moment to admire him. Bucky’s smiling at you. There’s so much love in his eyes for you. There always is. In fact, it seemed as if there was more love there than there was than the last time he saw you. You were certain that there would be double the amount the next time you would meet.

“I have one,” you sighed, deciding to play coy with him. “Coming in about five more minutes.”

Bucky clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Five minutes? That’s too long. Shouldn’t make you wait out here for even a second.”

You couldn’t fight back the grin that makes its way onto your face. You close the remaining distance between the two of you, your hand resting on his chest as you lean upwards towards him to meet his lips. Bucky’s hand wraps around your back, holding you to him to stabilize you, a small sigh escaping through his nose. 

“Hi, handsome,” you hummed, parting from him. 

Your smile only widened a little more when Bucky chased after your lips instinctively, wanting more. Wanting another kiss. You gave him just a couple more pecks before you settled the heels of your shoes back onto the cement of the sidewalk. A laugh rumbled through you at the disappointed look on his face.

“How’d you know where my wedding was, Congressman?” you asked, looking back at your phone to cancel the ride. 

“Oh you know. A birdie told me,” Bucky said, shrugging as he moved to open the passenger door for you.

“You had Redwing spy on me?’ you raised an eyebrow at him, stepping into the car..

“More like I had Sam send a trail on you tonight. Don’t know if he used Redwing,” he corrected, holding the flowers out for you to take. 

You rolled your eyes at him as you took the bouquet. He was messing with you, and you knew it. You shared your location with him on your phone a long time ago, and he only just figured out how to use the function of it a few months back. He was even shocked to find out that there was such a feature so easily accessible on regular technology. Bucky even asked you if you had his location. You didn’t, and you told him that you didn’t want it. You figured he would be weirded out by that kind of stuff as a former spy, and you were right. He was more at ease after your reassurance. 

However, he did enjoy the fact that he didn’t have to go through several satellite feeds and camera playbacks to find where you were.

In the car, the music is soft. Low. Something from the forties that you don’t really listen to unless you’re with Bucky. He’s tapping his finger on the steering wheel to the beat of the song, and you find yourself relaxing into the comfortable leather of the seat. 

Neither of you are speaking, nor do you find the need to. 

Bucky knows you. You’re exhausted after an event like this. He used to ask you how the job went, like a mission debrief. To you, it is a mission. This was your battlefield, and you just fought against enemies and kept your cool against a thousand different obstacles that could’ve made the mission go sideways.

He learned over time that you just wanted silence, the same way that he did. Bucky used to think that you wanted to talk after these events, which wasn’t totally wrong. You talked if the event went horribly wrong and you needed to vent your frustration out to someone that wouldn’t get you fired. You talked his ear off because you couldn’t say what you wanted to in front of your own clients.

Bucky misunderstood and thought you wanted to talk after every single event. Eventually, he realized that most of the time, you enjoyed the peace and quiet of a job well done. That you wanted to sit without having to force a smile anymore, to close your eyes, and feel the weight of his hand on your thigh comfortingly as he drove. 

The sound of a text message coming through cut off the music momentarily. Your eyes cracked open, and on the center screen of Bucky’s dashboard, you saw there was a message from Bucky’s one and only friend.

Don’t Respond [12:08am]: Did she find out what you’re doing yet?

“What’s Sam talking about?” you asked, shifting to reach for Bucky’s phone that was in the cupholder. 

Bucky was faster. His hand left your thigh, grabbing the device before you could. He looked at the small screen momentarily, taking his eyes off the road for just a second. Then, you watched as he long pressed the side of his phone, turning it off completely before putting it back in the cupholder.

“Nothing, sweetheart. I’ll text him back later,” Bucky said, giving you a smile before looking back at the road. His hand returned back to its rightful place on your thigh. 

You stared at the side of his face, blinking at him. There was no more music in the car, since his phone was turned off. You were left in silence, just the low thrum of the engine and your thoughts being your only source of entertainment as Bucky turned into your apartment’s parking garage.

Bucky will text him back later? Bucky will text him back later?

No the fuck he won’t. 

As much as Bucky loves new technology like a nerd loves Star Wars, he hates it all at the same time. He thinks it’s disgusting for any sane person to spend the amount of time they do glued to their phones willingly outside of educational and work purposes. He’s a man that had zero choice in life, and he prefers to see the world. If he has free time, there is no way in hell that he will waste it typing away on a tiny screen to text back anyone. 

Except you, of course. He’ll only text and call you.

His reaction was even more strange. Bucky didn’t swat your hand away or anything like that. He didn’t scramble to get to his phone before you did– but he did react. He didn’t answer you. He deflected. He’s always answered your questions to the fullest.

Besides that, this wasn’t anything new between the two of you. You always texted Sam back through Bucky’s phone. When Sam texted, you would read it out loud, Bucky would answer, and you would type what Bucky said, but in a nicer… less aggressive way. In fact, 99% of the conversations Bucky had with Sam through text was done by you. Sam still did not know of that fact, and you were not going to be the one to tell him. 

You’re still reeling in your own thoughts by the time you get to your apartment. 

You shove your downward spiral for just a moment to accept Bucky’s extremely tempting offer to shower together– which is never anything sexual. 

Bucky enjoys the intimacy of being able to hold you, bare, and help you get cleaned from your day. It’s one of his favorite things to do. You revel in the way he takes his time, hands scrubbing at your scalp slowly to lather up the shampoo. He’ll ensure that not a single part of your body goes untouched.

You do the same for him. You take great care in every part of his body. You remember the first time you touched his scars– paid close attention to them. It looked self-inflicted. Nothing like a surgery or done by doctors or scientists, like how he said the arm was attached to him. When you saw his face, you knew you were right.

Every once in a while, you can still see the dark shadow casting over his eyes when your hands run over his shoulders. You simply move to kiss against the scars to quietly remind him that you aren’t afraid of him, and you watch as the shadows fall mercy to the light.

You finish your own skincare routine faster than he does, as per usual. 

“I don’t understand why the hell I have to do this, doll,” he grumbled as you left the bathroom. “I’m over a century old.”

“And I’m trying to make sure that you don’t look like it,” you replied over your shoulder. 

Bucky huffed, but continued with the routine that you strictly put him on. He complained, but he never went against your words. You knew that he was still following it even when he wasn’t spending the night at your place, too. He’s always been a handsome man, but you would say that he’s been leveled up even more since you came around.

While he’s distracted, you move towards his bag. 

You don’t distrust him, but you’re not stupid either. Turning off his phone, saying things out of character– yeah. Something is different. What’s even weirder is that he doesn’t have any of his usual things with him. There’s only his laptop. He doesn’t have any of his regular written notebooks or calendars that he usually carries around with him. The man loves his written, visual items. He likes to flip through pages and see things with his own eyes, to be able to edit with a pen instead of a tap of his fingers.

You hear the last cap of the bottle close, and shut his bag. You’re only left with more questions as you move his bag towards the hanger where your own purses hang.

“Ah– sorry,” Bucky apologized, seeing you move his stuff. 

“It’s alright,” you hummed, thankful you were able to play off your snooping.

The two of you move towards your bed, sliding under the sheets. You settled into his arms naturally, assuming the position that the two of you had found most comfortable in the almost two years of dating. Your head rested on his bicep like it was a pillow, his metal arm coming around you to wrap around your waist to keep you cool against his furnace of a body. 

“You ever respond to Sam?” you whispered into his chest, closing your eyes to snuggle closer into him.

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned, moving to grab his phone from the nightstand behind him. You immediately shifted, just slightly– to try and see the screen.

But so did he.

With one hand, he angled his phone so that it was distorted. The brightness was down low enough that you weren’t able to properly see the messages between both men. However, you saw him silence the chat. You saw the swipe of his thumb, and the icon that signified a silenced message.

Then, Bucky put his phone face down on the nightstand before returning to you.

“Good night, doll,” he murmured to you, hand moving to tilt your head up to him. He kissed you once, twice, a third time before settling back against the pillow. “I love you.”

“Night,” you whispered back, though your mind was everything but asleep. Suspicion was creeping up on you. You could feel it– the sign of something coming. You pushed your gut feeling down. “I love you, too.”

Bucky ❤︎ [2:48pm]: What days do you think are your most free days right now?

You paused, staring at the text on your screen. This is different. This isn’t a text that you normally received from Bucky. Especially not in the middle of the work day, either. Momentarily, you want to entertain the idea that someone stole his phone, but you were certain that someone would be injured or dying if they even got close to ever trying to rob Bucky.

Me [2:50pm]: Are you asking me on a date, Congressman?

Bucky ❤︎ [2:53pm]: I’m trying to plan one instead of our random spontaneous ones, yes. Can you let me know what days work best for you so I can look at my calendar?

Last time he ‘planned’ a date, the two of you went to Romania for your first year anniversary for a week. You didn’t even realize that’s what he meant by planning a date until you were at the fucking airport with no luggage. Except he packed for you, had your passport, and everything else you could possibly need. You were just completely oblivious to the entire thing. 

Me [2:54pm]: Is this a trip kinda date?

Bucky ❤︎ [2:55pm]: No, but I do need two days of your time.

Me [2:56pm]: You’re asking for a lot, handsome.

Bucky ❤︎ [3:01pm]: I promise I’ll be worth it.

You smile at your phone at his words. Of course he’ll be worth it. You take a moment to go through your calendar, flipping back and forth between all your different events. You cross check between client meetings, event plannings, meetings with your coworkers and boss, and then text him back with your response. 

Me [3:12pm]: Weekends are really bad right now. Mondays, too. Wednesdays are also surprisingly bad… Tuesdays and Thursdays are the best. Fridays are a hit and miss.

Bucky ❤︎ [3:25pm]: Tuesdays are bad for me. Rep. dinners on Tuesday nights and Wednesday morning debriefs. Can you block out Thursday and Friday for me two months from now? The 17th and 18th. I’ll give you more details about our date when it comes closer.

Two months? That’s more than enough time to block out. You’ll even take the weekend off for good measure, just in case. Still, two months is a long time to prepare for just a date. You can’t help but tease him a little bit.

Me [3:27pm]: You don’t plan on seeing me for two months? :( 

Bucky ❤︎ [3:30pm]: You’re funny. We’ll still have our random and spontaneous dates. Like tonight. I’m picking you up for dinner. Don’t call a ride after work.

Excitement flutters in your chest. You saw him four days ago, but you’re still happy. 

Time is thankfully on your side today, and he’s waiting for you outside your company’s building. You’re starved for food, for his affection, attention, and everything in between. 

Except all of that dies once his phone rings in the middle of dinner. Bucky silences it, and you see the screen. It has a name that you don’t recognize, then his phone goes faced down onto the table. A few moments later, it buzzes, indicating there was a voicemail left. Bucky swipes the device, pocketing it safely away. 

You’re really trying to not let this bother you. But change doesn’t just happen overnight, and this is Bucky’s personal phone. This isn’t even his work phone. He leaves his work phone in his bag, permanently silenced when he’s not working. This is his phone that he carries with him that he purposely ignores, that is only supposed to have two contacts in it– yours and Sams.

Bucky drove back to your apartment, even though his apartment is closer to the restaurant that he chose for the two of you to eat at tonight. 

You’re lying awake in his arms that night, listening to the sounds of Bucky’s soft snores as he sleeps beside you. It took him a long time to be able to sleep first between the two of you. You used to see how long you could stay up, to see if you could fall asleep after him. The first time he fell asleep on your lap, you almost cried.

Now, you’re staring at his sleeping face wondering if he thinks you’re a fucking idiot. 

The signs are right there. All the blaring signs are screaming in your face, loud and angry. The hidden phone screen, calls, and texts. Hiding his calendar, and all his written notes from you. The sudden trip planning, even though there was nothing special about two months from now. Two months was your twenty third month together. Not even the second year anniversary. 

Yeah, Bucky thought you were stupid.

The biggest sign? You’re currently sleeping in your own bed, and not in his. He’s hiding something in his apartment that he doesn’t want you to find—

An engagement ring. 

You go through Bucky’s drawers like those are your own clothes to wear because they are, and he loves to see you in his shirts. You once spent an entire weekend properly organizing his apartment in a way that made sense because his junk drawer consisted of bullets and lego pieces from when Sam’s nephews came over.

You once found guns and daggers in his apartment just by dropping pens and searching for them. There’s absolutely no way that Bucky can hide a velvet box anywhere in his apartment from you that you won’t accidentally stumble across. Hell– you found a loaded nine millimeter in your own apartment, and asked what the hell it was doing there. 

“Safety,” is all he answered with.

This was your job. This is what you did for a living. You helped other boyfriends hide proposals from girlfriends like this. This is exactly what you did– this is how you told them to do it, though you were a little more slick with it. You definitely made sure your clients weren’t hiding their phones from their potential fiance’s, that’s for sure. 

You made sure that your clients did not know that they were being proposed to. It was your mission, honestly. You saw enough of those TikTok’s where women truly had that gut feeling where they knew it was happening. You refused. It needed to be a surprise. You scouted out every single person in your client’s lives to ensure that every single moment would come to be a surprise. From ensuring that their nails would be done to the ring itself- everything would be perfect. 

Your boyfriend of almost two years was planning on proposing to you in two months, and he thought you wouldn’t find out? Jesus Christ– what were you going to do with him?

Marry him, you supposed.

If you were anyone else, if you were any less stable in your emotions, you would’ve thought he was cheating on you. Hiding his phone definitely made your eyebrow twitch for half a second, if you were being honest. Thankfully, you were able to maintain a rational and sane mind.

Sane was an overstatement. You were now planning an entire wedding in your head without the engagement ring on your finger. You were anything but sane. Insanity was taking over every single cell in your brain as you stared at Bucky, imagining your future. The thought made you extremely giddy. 

A smile crept up on the corner of your lips as you moved into the warmth of his embrace. His arms tightened around you instinctively, and he let out a soft, contented sigh.

You can’t keep it to yourself as the date starts coming closer and closer. 

Mel, who has graduated as your client and now has become your friend, is sitting in your apartment, telling you about her most recent date with her boyfriend of six months. Not in a way that she would when you were her matchmaker, but as friends would. You find yourself liking this arrangement much, much more.

“Enough about me though,” she grinned, swirling the wine in her glass. “Tell me about you and Bucky. How are things going?”

“You really wanna talk about the guy that your boss hates?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at her as you take a sip out of your own glass.

“I can separate work from girl talk,” Mel said, smiling at you. 

“Well,” you said, smiling at her, “If you’re free the rest of the evening, I was wondering if you wanted to get your nails done with me?”

“Nails?” Mel repeated, raising her eyebrows at you as she brought the glass to her lips.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I think Bucky’s gonna propose to me on Thursday.”

Her eyes widened as she choked on her wine, the alcohol spluttering back into the glass. You couldn’t hold back a laugh before you jumped to your feet. You turned, rushing to grab paper towels from your kitchen to wipe off her face before it dripped, and stained her clothes. 

“Shit– shit! I’m so sorry,” she coughed, patting her face. 

“It’s okay,” you said between laughter, desperately trying to compose yourself. “Do you– do you want more wine?”

“Do I want– No! What? We need to go to the salon now! One of us needs to drive! Why the hell don’t you have a car again?!”

“Uh… I just… order a ride everywhere, or Bucky drives me,” you answered her, sheepish. “I’ll just order us a ride, we’ve both had a glass already. We don’t need to drive there, Mel.”

“Must be nice–”

A knock on your door makes you both pause. You move, going to check the peephole and find your boyfriend standing there with a box in his hands. You rip the door open, shocked.

“Bucky?” you asked, surprised. “Don’t you have a dinner to get to soon? It’s Tuesday.” 

“Yes, but I wanted to drop this off to you,” he said, giving you a smile. He leaned over the box, pressing a chaste kiss to your lips. “Just a present. Saw it, thought it would look nice on you.”

“What is it?” you asked as he transferred over the gift box to you.

“A dress,” he shrugged. “What are you up to today?”

“Mel’s here,” you said, opening the door further so he could see her. He looked past you, giving her a small wave that you’re certain that she returned back. “We’re about to go get our nails done. I was about to order a ride.”

“Oh? Don’t do that. I’ll just drop you two off. You’ll go the place you always do, right? It’s on the way to the dining hall,” he said.

“What? I don’t want you to be late,” you said, frowning at him. 

“It’s fine,” Bucky insisted, shaking his head. “They can start without me. Talbot is late more than a few times anyways.”

“It’s true,” Mel said from behind you. You turned around to look at her, finding that she was gathering her jacket and purse. “Talbot is always late.”

“See? Thank you, Mel.” There’s a bit of a gloating tone to his voice that makes you smack his arm. Bucky chuckled in response, a smile settling over his face. “Come on now, grab your stuff so we can get down to the car so I’m not too late for the meeting.”

You sighed, knowing that you wouldn’t be able to change his mind and get him to leave you. You put the box on the counter to inspect once you return later, and snatch your purse from where it’s resting on the table. Both you and Mel follow Bucky down to the car. He holds open the back door for both of you to climb into the backseat like he’s your chauffeur, and not your boyfriend.

Bucky drives in silence, you and Mel scrolling through pinterest hurriedly during the car ride for inspiration pictures for your nails while trying to be subtle about the fact that you know that you’re getting proposed to. Your boyfriend doesn’t seem to notice that you know, though.

Once he pulls up to the salon, Mel thanks him for the ride and slides out. You lean over the console to give him a kiss, and he grabs your hand, stopping you.

His card is slid into your palm, and his lips are pressed against your knuckles.

“I’ll pay for you and Mel,” he said, giving you one more smile.

You want to race down the aisle right at that moment. 

Instead, you get your nails done with Mel, swallow down butterflies that are forcing their way up your throat, and get to the restaurant that Bucky told you to meet him at while he runs late at his last meeting before your date. 

It’s a beautiful skyline restaurant in the middle of New York that your own company can’t even secure a date at. You’ve tried multiple times. In fact, your own clients have wanted to get proposals done at this restaurant. It just couldn’t be done. Reservations were booked out at least a year in advance, and somehow Bucky was able to secure the two of you a spot with two months to spare. 

There’s live music playing here by world renowned musicians. The chefs are even more well known. The lighting was low so that it wouldn’t take away from the view outside the windows. The time of night that Bucky chose was perfect– New York was lit up like stars on the ground from the table that you were sitting at. 

You were dressed in the gift Bucky bought for you. A backless, square neckline gown. The straps came up and wrapped around your neck like a halter top would, and tied around the back in a thin bow, the long straps kissing down your bare spine. It was soft and airy against your skin. 

Bucky arrived earlier than you expected, but you were sure he was still later than he wanted to be. Either way, he still had another bouquet of fresh flowers in his hands for you that you two had placed under the table. Of course, he didn’t take a seat before giving you a kiss for a greeting, and murmuring his apology for not being able to pick you up.

“You look beautiful,” he said, smiling at you. “I didn’t think you would wear it tonight.”

“I thought you bought it for me to wear tonight?” you asked as he placed the flowers under the table. You watched as he sat down across from you. 

“Mm… Well, I bought it for you to wear,” he said, reaching his hand across the table. You easily slipped your hand into his, watching him bring your hand to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles. “When you wear it doesn’t matter to me. I just wanted to get you a present.”

“A present?” you echoed, unable to stop smiling. “Even though you already do so much for me?”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t want to do more for you, sweetheart,” he hummed. 

The waiter came by not a moment later, letting you know that the first course would be coming out momentarily. You both thanked him, and returned back to each other. 

“I feel like I don’t see you as much these days,” Bucky said, thumbs brushing over your knuckles. 

“It’s been really busy for the two of us,” you agreed, releasing a soft sigh. 

“I even contemplated hiring you as a matchmaker again, just so I could block out meetings and have you in my office again,” he joked, making you laugh. 

“That would be fraudulent, Congressman,” you teased, shaking your head. “For you and me.”

“What are they gonna do? Threaten to fire you again?” 

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face is firmly planted, and isn’t moving anytime soon. 

“You know our dates don’t always have to be somewhere big or fancy, right?” you tell him, your voice softer.

“So you keep telling me,” he hummed, squeezing your hand a little bit. “I know, sweetheart. You said this to me. Several times. I just want to do this for you. For me, too.”

You soften a little bit at his words. You’re gently reminded of a previous confession he told you from when you first started dating. 

You told him that you were more than happy to just get takeout with him on busier days. To get fast food or something quick, if it meant that you two would have more time to spend together. You didn’t always have to sit down and eat somewhere nice. He said that he knew that, and he liked doing that, too. But as a kid in the forties, he always wanted to be the kind of man that was able to spoil his girl rotten– to bring his woman to the best places and sign the check without batting an eye.

This kind of thing was healing for him, too.

“We can get burgers tomorrow,” Bucky said, giving you a smile. 

“Deal,” you grinned at him. 

The first course of your meal was brought out to the two of you. You two never spoke about work over food. It was your rule. You talked about everything else. Sam. Mel. Your parents and siblings. The conversation Bucky overheard while he was in line getting coffee the other day. 

There was always a lot to talk about when you two never saw each other. Then again, you were certain that you would ever run out of words even if you spent every waking moment with him. If there ever came to be a time when that was the case, you were more than happy to spend the rest of eternity in a peaceful silence with him, as long as you were able to hold him. 

Topics never ran dry between the two of you. More than once, you two needed to remind yourselves to shut the fuck up in this fancy establishment because there were sophisticated people around you having very nice meals. 

“I’ll book a private room next time,” Bucky said under his breath.

“I don’t think they’ll let us come back, babe,” you whispered between soft, gasping laughs. “The host is glaring at us.”

That only made Bucky snort, which made you have to cover your own mouth in return before another fit of giggles wrecked through your body. It took everything in the both of you to compose yourselves before dessert was brought out. 

Once your table was cleared off, and you were left with just your wine glasses and the centerpiece on the table, you and Bucky smiled at each other. You were strangely reminded of your first date with him. So you told him that.

“This reminds you of our first date?” he said, his nose crinkling just slightly. “How so?”

“Mm… The ambiance,” you said, shrugging just a bit. You rested your chin in your palm. “You. Me.”

“It’s always you and me on our dates, sweethearts. Who else would it be?” he sarcastically joked, rolling his eyes at you.

“You know what I mean,” you scoffed at him, watching him smile a bit. “I just… feel a bit nostalgic. Just a… who knew, kinda thing.”

“I knew,” Bucky said, making you pause for a second.

“You knew?” you repeated his words, raising an eyebrow at him. Your heart picked up speed just a little bit. This felt like the start of a speech– the start to the speech.

Bucky cleared his throat, and your chest grew tighter at the sound. He shifted in his seat, and you watched as his hand dipped into his pocket. Oh, shit. It’s coming. Your eyes shot back to his face, and your mouth went dry.

“I thought you were the matchmaker, sweetheart. You didn’t know that we would end up together?” he clicked his tongue at you. “I knew I couldn’t trust a matchmaker that didn’t have a boyfriend of her own.”

“I have a boyfriend now, don’t I?” you asked, but thought– Not for long.

He smiled, eyes meeting yours. Then, a velvet box is produced. Placed right on the table in front of you. You can’t bring yourself to look down at it, not when Bucky is still looking at you.

“I want to spend the rest of my days with you. And it’s getting really fucking hard when I can’t see you all the time because we both live on opposite sides of the city, and have awful work schedules that keep us apart. Even so, I love you so much and I can’t imagine being with anyone else,” he confessed to you. Bucky takes in a deep breath that slightly shakes before he whispers out your name, nervous, “Will you move in with me?”

You freeze.

What the fuck?

“Move in with you?” you echoed, blinking.

Bucky opens the box. It’s a key. A shiny, silver key.

“I bought a penthouse in Manhattan,” Bucky said, sliding the box over to you to inspect the key even closer. “I want to see you more often. Not just the random dates when we both have time– I want to sleep next to you every night, and wake up to you in the mornings.”

“A penthouse… In Manhattan,” you said slowly. 

Your brain was short circuiting. In fact, it was fried. Gone.  You were still staring at the key, lips parted. He… wasn’t proposing to you tonight?

“I’m sorry. Am I– Are we moving too fast?” Bucky suddenly asked you, and you could hear the panic in his voice. 

Your head snapped up to look at him. His eyebrows were furrowed in worry, eyes scanning all over your face. You slapped yourself mentally. You could only imagine how you looked just now– staring at him and the key with a blank look on your face, and giving him no answer.

“What? No! No, Bucky– we’re not moving too fast at all,” you reassured him, hands darting across the table to take his hands in yours. “Most couples our age move in together by the first year or so. Mel and her boyfriend are already planning on moving in together when Mel’s lease breaks in a couple months.”

Bucky lets out a breath of relief, and you watch as his shoulders drop. You feel guilt surge through you at the pure stress that is released from his body at that moment.

“God– I just… You know, the penthouse… It’s fully furnished. I’ve been– Sam has been helping me out, actually. He helped me meet with some realtors, get the place fully furnished and decorated,” Bucky said, dragging a hand down his face. “I’ve been living there for the past two and a half months while waiting for all the furniture to come in, and it’s finally all finished as of yesterday and it never occurred to me that you could possibly say no until just now.”

“You’ve been– Is that why you take me back to my apartment after our dates? Instead of yours?” you asked, surprised.

“I already got rid of my other place, sweetheart,” he said, giving you a small, anxious smile. You can see him bouncing his leg up and down just slightly. “Got the penthouse so that we could have enough space for your stuff and mine.”

“You took me out to a fancy dinner, and prepared a speech for me to ask me to move in with you?” you whispered, your heart feeling fuller by the minute.

“I grew up in a time where couples didn’t move in together until after they were married, doll,” Bucky reminded you, his voice small and soft. 

You’re speechless, for just a moment. You take your eyes off of him, to look down at the key in the box, a smile finding its way on your face. You look back up at him, watching as he mirrors your own smile.

“I think it’s time to head home, Congressman.”

Bucky trails behind you quietly as you step into the penthouse. The elevator directly leads to your home– something that you had only ever seen in movies before. You barely took a step into the rest of the home before you were running numbers into your head.

“What’s my share of the bills?” you asked, heart racing as you look up at the high ceilings. “And don’t you dare tell me not to worry about it, Bucky. If we’re living together, then we’re splitting bills. I don’t care that you make more money than me–”

“We’ll talk about finances later, baby,” he cut you off, hands rubbing your shoulders to soothe you. “We’ll split it equally based on our incomes. Just go explore for right now.”

“I don’t know if I can afford this, Bucky,” you said, turning around to look at him. You were freaking out.

“Your salary was put into play when I got this place,” he said, cradling your face. “Sam and I met with the banks. We met with financial advisors to ensure that this would be feasible for both you and me. Please don’t ask how we got your information.”

“Is there a loan–”

“There’s no loan,” he assured you. “Do you trust me?”

“I do,” you answered instantly. 

Bucky gave you a smile, then pressed a kiss to your lips. You melted into his embrace, feeling your worries wash away with just one touch. He wrapped his arms around you, rubbing your back comfortingly. When he pulled away, another kiss was pressed to your forehead. 

“I’ll give you all the documents later to look over. If you still hate it, then we’ll break the lease, and we’ll find somewhere else. I don’t care where we live. I just want to be somewhere that’s with you,” he promised. 

“Okay,” you breathed, nodding. 

Bucky’s hands leave your body, and he steps away from you. He’s quietly urging you to take a look around. 

You had two floors to explore. The elevator opened up the first floor, where there was an open concept condo. You were staring at a living room, kitchen, floor to ceiling windows, and there were built-in shelves on the wall that held Bucky’s books– and had empty spaces for your own books. Down here, there were two doors– one leading to a half bath and the other leading to a home office. 

You saw two desks, separated by a bookshelf. Bucky’s desk was already occupied with his things, while yours was empty and waiting to be used. On the shelf were pictures and other momentos collected by Bucky over the duration of your relationship so far. There was space for you to decorate with whatever you pleased. On the other end of the room was a daybed and some other furniture to cozy up the area. 

Upstairs, there was a platform for another lounge area. Also furnished to hang out in case the two of you ever had any guests come over. Here, your bedroom was behind a closed door. 

A king sized bed was in the middle of the room, along with two nightstands on either side of it. There was a full walk in closet, Bucky already having his stuff hanging on his side with yours waiting to be filled. The windows are touching the floor just like they are outside, and Bucky has the curtains pulled back so you can see the city lights from your bedroom window. 

“What if I get fired?” you whispered, Bucky’s arms wrapping around your waist from behind. “I won’t be able to pay my share of the bills.”

“I’ll pay then,” he said, pressing kisses to your bare shoulder and neck.

“What if you get fired? Or what if you quit? Join Sam and return back to action?” you asked, heart racing. 

Bucky chuckled against your neck, squeezing you against him. 

“Iron Man’s late wife donates a large portion every year to the heroes that do the work. If that’s me, then we’ll be fine,” he promised you. “It’s how Sam gets paid right now.”

“Oh,” you breathed, nodding a little dumbly. You tilted your head to the side, allowing him more access to more skin. You felt him smile against you. 

“You like the place then?”

“I can’t believe you hid this from me.”

“I hide you from the entire American government so you can continue to walk the streets of New York without being asked about politics that you don’t care about. I hid Romania from you. I think I can hide an apartment,” he listed off, scoffing softly at the end.

All of your hair is gathered in one of his hands to get it out of his way as he continues to press dizzying, nipping kisses against your body.

“A penthouse,” you managed to correct.

“Same thing,” he muttered, and you felt him tug on the string of your dress. A moment later, the soft fabric was sliding down your body, and pooling at your feet, “C’mon, sweetheart. We gotta christen the place.”

You’re being turned around to face him, and your arms move to slide up his chest and wrap around his neck. Bucky’s lips met yours in an opened mouthed kiss halfway, tongue gliding over yours easily. 

Your eyes fluttered shut, and you sighed into his mouth, feeling his hands glide up and down the sides of your body. Something about him being fully dressed, and you with nearly nothing at all did something to the both of you.

Your fingers grabbed onto the collar of his dress shirt, tugging him into a deeper, needier kiss. Bucky groaned into your mouth in response, hands finding purchase on the flesh of your ass. His fingers dug into the supple skin, making you moan softly as he groped you.

Your boyfriend gently pushed you until your back was pressed against the window. Once you were situated where he wanted you, Bucky parted from your lips, only to attach himself to your neck once again. He kept shifting, moving down to your collarbones, your chest, your sternum. Lower. 

You watched helplessly, every inch of you thrumming with desire and need as Bucky slowly shifted to his knees in front of you. His hands moved down your body, dragging your underwear down your legs as he positioned himself to sit back on his feet, thighs spread just a bit for comfort. You’re certain your breathing was erratic as you stared at him.

Usually, you were the one on your knees for Bucky. This was different– this was new. You were more than certain that you would still be the one at his mercy.

“Don’t your feet hurt in these heels?” Bucky asked, hand closing around one of your ankles to lift your foot off the ground slightly. “They look uncomfortable. Very tall.”

“It’s not too bad,” you whispered, unable to trust your voice to speak any louder. “I like these shoes.”

“I bought them for you,” he said, tilting his head as he examined the design a little closer.

“That’s why I like them,” you murmured.

Bucky chuckled just a little bit, shaking his head. He moved slowly on purpose, undoing the strap around your ankle and slowly pulling it off of your foot like you were some sort of princess. He gently led your foot back down to the floor, keeping an eye on your posture to make sure you didn’t suddenly fall from the shift in height. When he was certain that you were stable, he switched over to the next foot, repeating the same process.

Except, he didn’t put your foot back onto the ground. Bucky lifted your leg higher, pressing a kiss to the inside of your ankle, eyes closing as he did. When they opened, he met your gaze, never looking away as his kisses went higher and higher up your leg. He settled your knee to hook around his shoulder, moving to fully kneel before you as his hands went to grab your waist, keeping you pressed against the glass behind you. A firm, tight grip. 

You wouldn’t be able to run from whatever he was about to do to you. Not that you would ever want to.

If he wasn’t holding you up, you were certain you would’ve folded over and collapsed the second his tongue met your heat. The vibrations from the groan sent shockwaves through your entire body that made you tremble above him, hands darting to grab onto his shoulders for an extra form of stability as his tongue parted your folds and flattened against you.

“Shit, Bucky,” you moaned, your mind going blank. All you could feel was him. 

His tongue dipping just slightly in and out of your aching hole, only to drag up to your sensitive clit to swirl figure eights around the nub. Bucky’s hands on your torso, his thumbs  drawing circles into your skin to soothe you against the stimulation he was giving you. The heat of his body radiating against yours from where he was positioned beneath you. 

“Your pussy is squeezing around nothing, baby,” he murmured, pulling away from your core for just a moment, a whine ripping through your throat in response. Bucky clicked his tongue at you, and kissed the inside of your thigh to subdue you. “Have I been neglecting you? Not fucking you enough for you to be so needy?”

Definitely not. Maybe it was the fact that everything was crashing down on you. The fact Bucky went so far to secure the two of you an entire home without you knowing, furnishing the whole place, meeting with financial advisors– all of it made you incredibly desperate for him. 

It was like that one time when you watched him do the dishes for the first time at the beginning of your relationship. He was at your apartment, doing your dishes that you were too lazy to do before he came over. You don’t know what the hell happened to you at that moment, but you just watched him. The second the water turned off, you were unzipping his pants and giving him head. It confused him, but he also wasn’t complaining. 

“I’m always needy for you,” you barely managed to answer him.

Bucky’s lips parted, eyes scanning your figure above him for a few moments. Then, one of his hands left your waist, and two fingers were shoved into you without a single warning. 

A moan ripped through your throat, and you weren’t given a chance to even recover before his mouth was back on your clit, sucking and flicking at the sensitive nub. His fingers entered and exited you at a delicious speed, and he could feel you coming apart around him. Your body was beginning to tremble, walls beginning to shake– and he curled his fingers the way he knew you liked.

You came undone, Bucky’s hand moving to press against your stomach to keep you from collapsing forward. Your chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as you whimpered his name, tugging on his hair weakly to pull away from your overstimulated body. 

Reluctantly, he released you. Bucky’s hands never left you as he stood, keeping you upright. Your legs were still shaking when you had both feet on the ground, but fuck if you were going to let Bucky stay dressed. 

You had every intention of returning the favor once Bucky was just as bare as you were. Bucky saw it in your eyes, too. The way your gaze dropped down his torso to his cock that was stiff and high up against his stomach, waiting for you. You barely moved your hair to the side before you were being spun back around, chest pressed to the glass– eyes to the view of the New York city skyline. 

“Next time, doll,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your shoulder blade that made you shiver. You let out a small moan as you felt him drag the length of his dick through your folds, coating himself in your slick to get him ready to enter. “Gotta be inside you right now or I might go insane.”

“Hurry up, then,” you whined to him, pressing your ass back further into him. A mistake, and you knew it. Not that it really was a mistake on your end though.

His hand came around from your stomach, gripping your throat and jaw, pulling you back into him. Your back was arched, hands resting on the glass for some sort of security in the position he had you in. Bucky forced your head to turn, to look at him. 

Bucky wanted to watch your face contort with pleasure as he finally slid in, watch as you fell apart as he speared you full with his cock. There was a look of satisfaction and fucking arrogance in his eyes with the way your mouth fell open in a noiseless moan. Bucky took advantage of it, shoving his tongue into your mouth to swallow up any of the noises that he knew would start coming once his hips started moving.

You couldn’t keep up– not with his kiss, not with the pacing– not with anything that was happening right now. His hips were snapping into yours at such a brutal pace, his metal hand gripping your hip to keep you in place, and you barely managed to pull away from his lips to breathe. 

“So good– so good,” he groaned as you turned back to the glass, chin falling to your chest for a moment as you moaned in response. 

Bucky didn’t let your head hang for too much longer. He pulled your head back up to look out the window, and you could feel his breath against your ear as he continued to pound his hips from behind you.

“Isn’t the view so nice, baby?” he whispered to you.

“Wh… what?” you moaned, mind spiraling for just a moment.

“It’s so nice,” he continued, grunting behind you, “I know your pussy loves it– loves it when I fuck you in front of all of New York to see.”

Excitement shoots through you, and you unexpectedly clamped around him. Bucky’s hips stuttered as he cursed softly. You were close– again– and Bucky wasn’t making this any better for you. Then again, you almost just brought Bucky over the edge with you.

“Shit. I knew you were a fucking freak when you tried giving me head in front of my coworkers,” Bucky muttered, a small laugh falling from his lips.

“Bucky,” you whimpered. “I’m so close–”

“It’s too bad. New York can’t have you,” he cut you off, pulling out of you. 

The sense of loss is immediate, but not for long. Once more, he’s spinning you around. This time, he’s hoisting you up like you weigh nothing at all. Your legs are wrapping around his waist immediately, and he’s sinking you back down on his length within seconds. 

Your lips are collided with Bucky as he’s fucking you against the window now, holding you up in his arms as you hang onto him for dear life. Your fingernails are digging into the muscles of his shoulders, scratching down his chest in a way that he once admitted that he loves, and you’re moaning into each other’s mouths.

The thrusts are growing sloppier as the kiss grows messier– there’s no need for words between the two of you anymore. You both know your tells at this point.

Bucky angles his hips just slightly to hit that one spot in you, forcing you over the edge as his own orgasm threatens to take him. Your body seizes, and you can’t kiss him back anymore. Bucky busies himself with your neck, leaving marks on your skin as he fucks you through your high, chasing his own that comes just moments later, coating your walls and dripping down onto the new floors of your new room together.

You’re still panting and trying to catch your breath, head dropped onto his shoulder when Bucky moves, carrying you to the bathroom to clean up. His kisses are softer as he walks over, his words more gentle. His body separates from yours as he rests you on the edge of the bathtub so he can start the water to fill the tub.

“How’s the view?” Bucky asked you, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

A soft laugh rips through you, and you can feel him smile against your skin.

“The view is perfect, handsome.”

You didn’t find a single number out of place in the documents he presented you either. You took an entire weekend going over the numbers while Bucky watched you quietly. He didn’t bother you while you did so. In fact, he just stayed nearby and took the days off work, too. Bucky answered any questions that you possibly could’ve had for him, already knowing what you would’ve thrown his way.

Which only made your heart grow fonder for him, if you were being honest. He knew you like the back of his hand.

Once you were satisfied with everything, he helped you move all your stuff from your previous apartment over to your new home. Bucky timed the move in perfectly– your lease was about to break the following month, so you had just the right amount of time to tie up all your loose ends. 

All you really had to move over to the new place was your wardrobe, books, and sentimentals. You found out very quickly that during your random dates where Bucky would come home with you, he started taking stock of all your little things around the house. Anything that was running low, he just went ahead and bought so it was already at your new home, ready for you to use.

The last couple weeks were spent with you listing all your unneeded furniture up on the marketplace for an extra few bucks. Things like your dining table, sofa, coffee table– everything that Bucky had already bought and decorated for your home together. 

“You know this couch?” Sam asked you as he flopped down on it. “And the coffee table? The rug? Those barstools? The fucking light fixtures?”

You and Bucky invited him and his girlfriend over for dinner for a small celebration– a little get together to commemorate the fact that you and Bucky were officially fully moved in together now. 

“What about it?” you asked, handing him a bottle of beer.

“I picked it. Me. Bucky just swiped his card. You’re so fucking lucky, matchmaker. Your boyfriend sucks. If I wasn’t there– shit. You would’ve had clashing colors and patterns in this luxury penthouse,” Sam scoffed, taking a long swig. “I had a fucking headache just standing there. The sales associate thought we were married the way I was arguing with him in the store.”

“You two basically are,” you said, grinning against the rim of your own bottle.

“Don’t say that,” Bucky muttered, a shudder running through his body. “I’d rather die than spend the rest of my life with that idiot.”

“God, I’m glad we agree,” Sam groaned, shaking his head. 

“We picked more neutral stuff,” Bucky told you, sitting beside you on the couch. An arm draped over your shoulders, pulling you into his warmth. “We thought it would be easier for you to add whatever additions or colors you’d want in the future.”

“Oh, so you did think about me when you purchased an entire penthouse and furnished the whole damn thing without telling me,” you teased. 

Bucky rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t fight the smile on his face. “Yes, sweetheart. I thought of you.”

With the two of you living together now, it was easier for you both to see each other. You reveled in the fact you could fall asleep every night in his arms, even if you went to bed first. He didn’t want you waiting for him if he had an event that had him staying out late, but you would often wake up to him pulling you into his embrace.

In the mornings, Bucky would usually be the one to wake up and leave first. 

You no longer set an alarm on your phone. Bucky’s sweet kisses were your wake up call every morning. He wouldn’t leave until you kissed him back, no matter how long it took you to wake up. 

“Morning,” you would whisper to him.

“Morning,” he’d reply, kissing you one more time for good measure. “I made you breakfast. It’s on the table.”

“Wake me up earlier tomorrow so I can eat with you,” you whined to him, though you just rolled over on your side, closing your eyes again.

Bucky chuckled, leaning over your body to press a kiss to your temple. You sighed, letting the morning wash over you for just one more moment before you pushed up off the bed. You’d follow him downstairs, watch him grab his blazer off the seat of the dining table, and you’d tie his tie for him at the door.

“I’ll be home early tonight. I don’t have any events today,” you said, smoothing out the fabric on his chest.

“You’ve been coming home early every night,” he said, raising his eyebrow at you.

“So have you, Congressman. Almost like there’s something you’re running from. Something you’re avoiding at work?” you teased, smiling at him.

“No. Just trying to get home to you,” he hummed, smoothing out your bedhead with both hands before he held your face gently to kiss you one more time before he went off into the world.

This was your new daily morning routine. 

The trade off on coming home early meant that you still had to do work when you came home. Both of you. However, Bucky seemed to plan for that, which is why he had a room specifically made for a home office for the two of you. 

You two would spend your evenings there before dinner for a few hours, finishing up any work that you weren’t able to do at your respective offices. You two would be silently working on your own jobs.

You, researching your clients preferences and trying to match them up based on their profiles. You would also be looking up the best date spots, trying to keep up with the latest trends for dating, and making sure that you weren’t falling behind on anything else.

Bucky would be going through packets upon packets of different meetings that he would have attended. There were several different duties that he had acquired since you first started dating, and there were a lot of responsibilities that he had started shouldering. You were certain that he was also helping Sam on the side, though he couldn’t tell you full details as per usual. 

Usually, you would stop working when you heard Bucky stop working and open the door to the office. He normally ordered food for the two of you, and would go out to the lobby to pick it up, and bring it back for you two to eat.

It was your signal to put everything down, and relax with him for the rest of the night.

You heard him close his binder, heard the wheels of his chair roll backwards, but you didn’t hear the elevator open and close to signify his departure down. You shook it off– wondering if he just went off to the bathroom or something.

Then, you felt him behind you. 

Bucky’s chest was pressed against your back, enveloping you in his warmth. His hands were on your shoulders, and as always, the left side of your body was colder from the touch of his metal prosthetic. 

“Hi, handsome,” you said, a smile coming onto your face. “Is it time for dinner?”

“Almost. Delivery is on its way,” he answered you.

His hands slid down your shoulders, goosebumps rising on your bare skin as his hands moved all the way down to cover your own hands. He left his hands on top of yours, and you hummed, happy to feel him all over you for just a moment. Bucky’s head pressed against the side of yours, then he dropped his forehead into the crook of your neck.

“Are you okay?” you whispered, tilting your head to the side to give him more space to rest. He took it, burrowing deeper into you.

“Yeah. Just a little nervous,” he murmured into your skin, taking a breath. 

You were about to ask him what he was talking about, to turn around and look at him properly. Then, you felt his hands slide up just a little bit, resting now on your wrists instead of covering your hands completely. Except, there was a weight he left behind that wasn’t there before. Your eyes shifted downwards, and your breath caught in your throat at the ring he slipped onto your finger– the cool metal that he masked with the metal of his own arm.

Your breath is caught in your throat, your eyes widened at the sparkling star on your finger. Bucky plucked this thing out of the fucking sky– he had to. There was no way. 

“Marry me, sweetheart?” he asked softly. There was a slight tremor to his voice that you caught. A slight shaking in his right hand that you could feel. 

You couldn’t repeat what you did at the restaurant, make him freak out with worry over your quiet shock and silence.

Your sudden jolt into standing surprised him, but he didn’t seem to mind when you wrapped your arms around his neck, kissing his lips, then his cheeks, his eyes– everywhere you could as tears were beginning to well up and spill over. You couldn’t help it. You felt Bucky’s anxiety release with each kiss, his hands resting on your waist to hold you against him.

“Is that a yes?” he asked, smiling at you.

“Why would I ever say no to you?” you demanded, making him laugh. “Fuck– I thought you were going to propose to me at the restaurant when you asked me to move in with you!”

“The restaurant?” Bucky asked, blinking. “What– really?”

“Yes!” you nodded, wiping your tears away roughly. Bucky caught your hands, putting them down to your sides so he could wipe your tears away in a more gentle way with his thumbs.

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said, looking appalled. “Do you know how many times you have ranted to me about the fact you hate restaurant proposals? You hate planning them, and you hate watching them. Why would I ever propose to you in a restaurant?”

“If it was you, then I would have changed my mind about it right away!” you argued with him, stubborn. “If it was you, you could’ve proposed to me with a candy ring, and I still would have said yes! We can elope– I don’t need a fancy wedding or anything. I just– just you. I just want you, Bucky.”

You watched as his eyes softened for you as he looked all over your features. You were certain that you looked like a mess right now, but you were finding it harder to believe that with the way he was looking at you right now. He looked as if you were the one that created the universe, and solved all his problems. There was nothing but admiration, love, joy. These were eyes that only you had the privilege to see. 

A smile came onto his face, one that you adored. A smile that you were going to be able to have for the rest of your life.

“Well, I’m your fiancé now, but you’ve already had me from the beginning, doll,” he said, “I’ve had this ring for over a year now, actually.”

“A year?” you whispered, eyes wide.

“I’ve been trying to find the right time to ask,” he admitted, a bit sheepish. “And just… right now. It felt right.”

“Me working in the same room as you felt right?” 

Bucky rolled his eyes at your blatant sarcasm. Except, he’s still smiling. He never gives you a real attitude. He wouldn’t dare. He loves you too much to ever do that.

“The fact that we’re both able to do our own thing in silence, but still be together felt right. We don’t need to speak. We don’t need to be touching. Don’t get me wrong, I love all those things, but… When I looked over at you just now— I felt at peace. Peace that I never thought I was ever allowed to have. So yes, it felt right.”

You’re about to cry again. You’re about to start fucking ugly sobbing in your boyfriend– your fiancé’s arms. You have a thousand things to say, but you know none of them will make sense right now. So, you bury your face in his chest and hug him tight, his arms coming to hold you even closer to him. 

“I love you,” you settled with, your voice breaking slightly.

“I love you, too,” he chuckled in response.

You listened to his chest rumble with laughter under your ear, felt his head rest against the side of yours. He led your bodies in a gentle sway, rocking the two of you back and forth. He took in a breath, releasing it slowly in a contented way. 

Your mind is racing still, and you ask one single question– just one to get his opinion. 

“Where should we get married?” you whispered to him. 

Bucky’s quiet for a few moments. A few moments too long. You pull back from him to look at his face, finding a smile on his lips, and a small sparkle in his eyes.

“I have some friends that want to meet you. Do you think you’re up to traveling to Wakanda?”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn let me know if you would like to join my general bucky taglist for whenever i post a fic!

[cameronsbabydoll]

rafe cameron au ideas in my notes app! 🗒️ 🤍

let me know which you want to see!! ALSO PLS DO NOT STEAL ANY OF THESE!! THESE ARE MY IDEAS!

🛸 abduction survivor au

you were kidnapped for months and returned with no memory. everyone treats you like glass. rafe was your ex—the one you left before you vanished. now he’s back in your life, obsessed with protecting you.

only he knows where you were.

because he’s the one who took you.

🎸 ex-rockstar!rafe

he had it all: the fame, the girls, the coke. but he disappeared mid-tour, vanished into the carolinas. now he’s living alone in a lakehouse. you’re the girl who finds out who he really is—and instead of pushing you away, he lets you stay.

but you don’t know why he left.

or who he killed.

🛞 nascar driver!rafe
southern golden boy, all charm and danger. he wins, crashes, bleeds, repeats. you’re the PR girl assigned to fix his image.
he calls you “darlin’.” you hate it.
he calls you at midnight. you answer.
and when he crashes again, you’re the only name he says.

🧳 travel blogger!rafe (toxic edition)
he documents his life online—beautiful cities, women, hotels. you’re the only one who shows up in every photo.
but not by name.
not tagged.
you’re his secret. and he likes it that way.

🎢 amusement park!rafe

he runs the ride you’re terrified of. tattoos, sunglasses, always chewing gum. flirts shamelessly as he locks your safety bar in.

you come back again. and again.

he gives you free tickets.

you don’t know he got fired weeks ago—he’s just been showing up for you.

🛟 lifeguard!rafe

red swim trunks, lazy attitude, always wearing sunglasses inside. you’re the nerdy summer hire.

you get heatstroke your first week.

he carries you to the first aid room and acts like it’s no big deal.

but now he watches everything.

won’t even let you near the deep end unless he’s there.

🧳 bellboy!rafe (but secretly rich)

he works at a luxury hotel, carrying luggage and judging everyone. you’re a guest—soft, girly, rich.

he hates your perfume. your little skirts. your voice.

but he keeps getting assigned to your room.

and he does not take tips.

because he already owns the place

🎤 failed soundcloud rapper!rafe
he’s your older brother’s friend. he lives in your garage. he records songs about “loyalty” and “betrayal” and posts thirst traps.
you laugh at him once.
and now he writes every verse about you.

🎥 indie director!rafe
pretentious film bro who only shoots in black & white. he casts you as the lead in his “gritty” student film.
you’ve never acted before. he says that’s what makes you

🛥️ boat tour guide!rafe (washed up rich boy era)
he used to be someone. now he’s tan, barefoot, bitter—working tourist gigs on the island. you’re the girl who booked a solo ride.
he thinks you’re naive.
you think he’s broken.
and when the boat "accidentally" drifts into a private cove... he doesn’t take you back.

🎮 esports champion!rafe (spoiled toxic gamer)

he’s 23, rich, and still acts like a reddit mod. his fans love him. his teammates hate him.

you’re the shy girl who wins a charity meet & greet.

he thinks you’re boring.

until you beat him.

and then he can’t stop DMing you.

🪚 woodworker!rafe (grumpy small town recluse)

he lives in the woods. builds furniture. barely speaks. you inherit your grandma’s house and hire him for a repair.

he touches your wrist to measure something.

you blush.

he stares.

“i could build you something softer.”

👨‍👧 single dad!rafe

he’s rough around the edges, has custody of his daughter, and never dates.

you’re her new preschool teacher.

she draws you in every crayon picture.

and he starts showing up early. stays late.

asks if you like wine.

🛌 sleep specialist!rafe (medical-ish, creepy edition)

you go to a sleep clinic because you’re waking up with bruises and no memory.

rafe is your assigned doctor.

you fall asleep hooked to wires.

and he watches.

because it’s not your body that’s restless.

it’s what’s inside you.

💒 wedding planner!rafe (obsessive & unhinged)
you’re a blushing bride. he’s the planner your fiancé hired last-minute. detail-obsessed. unsettlingly calm.
he starts changing things—your dress, your colors, your venue.
then your fiancé disappears.
and rafe smiles.
“i’ll make it perfect, sweetheart. just like you.”

🕷️ pest control!rafe (genuinely horrifying)
you call someone to deal with the weird scratching in your walls.
he shows up. says it’s not bugs.
starts coming by every night.
asks if you’ve been having bad dreams.
asks if you’ve fed it.
starts staying over.
you’re not sure if he’s protecting you or keeping you still.

🪞 mirror salesman!rafe (supernatural possession au)
you buy an antique mirror. he delivers it.
and then you start seeing him in the reflection even when he’s not there.
he says he’s just checking in.
he says you’re his.
and you believe him.
even when your reflection starts moving without you.

🎯 carnival worker!rafe (gritty & obsessive)
he runs the ring toss. has scars. chews toothpicks. calls you “princess.”
you win a cheap stuffed animal.
he asks for your number.
you say no.
and now your face is in every funhouse mirror.

🏰 medieval knight!rafe (lowkey unhinged protector)
he’s your sworn guard. you’re promised to another man.
he kneels before you.
calls you “my lady.”
tells you he’d die before letting someone else touch you.
but when war breaks out… he doesn’t die.
he kills.
and steals you in the night.

🧼 laundromat owner!rafe (obsessed loner type)
he watches you through the security cams. always turns on your favorite machine.
leaves little notes. a folded sock. a chocolate bar.
you think it's cute.
until you find one of your shirts in his car.
folded.
and kissed.

🐍 snake handler!rafe (low growly animal man)
he works at the weird exotic pet shop. slow, southern drawl, hands always dirty.
you flinch around the snakes.
he laughs.
calls you “fragile thing.”
one day he lets you hold one.
says “they only bite if you’re scared.”
and puts his hand around your throat.

31. 🎞️ 1950s diner boy!rafe x soft sockhop reader
he flips burgers, smokes behind the building, says things like “what’s a pretty girl like you doin’ out this late?”
you wear cardigans and saddle shoes and always say thank you.
but you sit in his section every saturday.
and he starts spiking your milkshakes with secrets.

32. 🕶️ 1960s cult leader!rafe x flower child reader
you follow the caravan out west, looking for peace.
he finds you barefoot in the desert and calls you an angel.
feeds you berries, whispers about fate.
you believe he’s gentle until you try to leave.
and he smiles like god.

33. 📼 1980s mall goth!rafe x prep reader
you wear pearls and read cosmo.
he shoplifts eyeliner and writes his name on the bathroom stall.
you kiss at the roller rink and he tastes like metal.
he keeps your picture in his wallet and a knife in his boot.
and the first time you cry, he laughs and says,
"good. now you’re mine."

34. 📹 1990s video store clerk!rafe x shy reader
you come in every friday to rent romcoms.
he never speaks until one day he slides you a blank tape.
you take it home.
it’s footage of you.
through your bedroom window.

35. 📟 2000s warehouse rave dealer!rafe x academic honors girl reader
he sells molly in a strobe-lit room.
you get dragged there by your roommate.
he sees your cardigan, your ballet flats, your physics textbook peeking out of your purse.
asks if you’re lost.
you say no.
you are.

36. 🪖 1940s war nurse!reader x soldier!rafe (psychologically broken)
he’s injured, bleeding out, calls you beautiful even as he chokes on blood.
you stitch him up.
he won’t stop looking at you.
won’t let anyone else near.
says he’s gonna marry you.
says he’ll go back to the front if you say no.

37. 🎤 1970s rockstar!rafe x sweet christian reader
you meet backstage. you’re volunteering.
he’s high and calling you “baby.”
you say you don’t believe in casual sex.
he laughs.
then writes an entire album about corrupting you.
and dedicates it to “the one who ran.

38. 🕹️ 80s arcade owner!rafe x weird tomboy reader
you hang around all day, chewing gum and beating the high score.
he calls you trouble.
gives you quarters for free.
starts letting you into the back room where the real games are.
the ones that don’t belong in public.

39. 📻 1930s radio host!rafe x mail-order bride reader
you win a contest: marriage to the “most eligible voice in america.”
he sends a train ticket.
you arrive to a broken-down house and a man who doesn’t look like his photo.
he smiles, says you’ll adjust.
says your voice is even better when you cry.

40. 🧤 1920s bootlegger!rafe x flapper reader (rebellious but naive)
he finds you singing in a speakeasy.
calls you “baby doll.”
gives you pearls and gin and a gun.
you think it’s glamorous.
until you see the blood on his cuff.
and he asks you to help hide the body.

41. 📼 y2k party boy!rafe x good girl reader
he’s the rich kid who throws house parties.
you only came for extra credit.
he kisses you during seven minutes in heaven, says he likes the way you blush.
and now he won’t stop calling your house phone.
won’t stop showing up at your school.
“you kissed me first, remember?”

42. 📚 1930s librarian!reader x rich heir!rafe
he keeps coming in, ruining the silence, asking dumb questions.
but he watches you like a wolf.
drops crisp bills in the donation box.
asks why you never smile.
you say he doesn’t scare you.
you lie.

43. 🧿 psychic!rafe x cursed!reader
you were born under a bad moon. bad luck follows you everywhere.
he’s the psychic in a dusty roadside town who touches your hand and goes still.
says “i’ve been dreaming of you.”
says “you’re mine in every lifetime.”
says the only way to break your curse is to stay with him.
forever.

44. 🔪 detective!rafe x missing girl reader
you’re the face on the flyers. the girl who disappeared.
he finds you. brings you home.
but he never files the report.
never tells the department.
because he’s the one who found you.
so now you’re his.

45. 🔒 prison guard!rafe x inmate!reader
you got locked up for something you didn’t do.
he believes you.
believes in you.
tells you he’s gonna protect you.
he starts slipping you things—notes, snacks, keys.
but when your release date comes… the paperwork goes missing.

46. 🕳️ neighbor!rafe x homebody reader (creepcore)
you never leave your apartment. he likes that.
you keep your curtains closed. he likes that too.
but when your packages start going missing, you knock on his door.
he’s already dressed for you.
already knows your name.
already has a shrine.

47. 💻 hacker!rafe x influencer reader
you’re perfect on camera. filtered, loved, adored.
but he sees the metadata. the real you.
hacks your phone. watches you through the lens.
starts changing your passwords.
texting you from numbers you don’t recognize.
telling you what to wear.
what to say.
and then one day, he shows up at your door—uninvited but expected.

48. 🍓 farmhand!rafe x city girl reader (isolated, slow-burn psychosis)
you inherit a farmhouse. alone, city-born, clueless.
he helps. teaches you things. fixes your roof.
you call him sweet.
he calls you “his girl.”
and then your car won’t start.
the phone line’s cut.
but the fridge is full.
and he says “you’re safe here.”

49. 🕰️ antique clockmaker!rafe x reincarnated reader
he’s immortal. you’re the same girl in every lifetime.
he always finds you.
always loves you.
and every time, you die too soon.
this time, he says,
he’s not letting you go.
this time, he’s going to stop time.

50. 🐚 lighthouse keeper!rafe x washed-up girl reader (gothic horror vibes)
you wake up on the shore. bruised. dazed.
he finds you. says the sea brought you to him.
you ask for a way back.
he says “there’s nothing to go back to.”
the waves crash harder when you try to leave.

51. 💉 emergency medic!rafe x reckless reader (toxic obsession)
you keep showing up in the ER—bruised, sick, dizzy.
he patches you up. lectures you. gets colder every time.
until one night he leans down and whispers,
“i don’t like watching you break yourself for people who don’t deserve you.”
and the next time someone hurts you—
they disappear.

52. 🧼 obsessive cleaner!rafe x feral girl reader
you live like chaos. dirty dishes. wine-stained pillows.
he works for the cleaning service your landlord hired.
he starts staying late. scrubbing harder.
starts folding your underwear.
starts buying things “for you.”
until one night he says,
“you don’t have to live like this. let me take care of you.”
and moves in without asking.

53. 🩻 radiologist!rafe x sickly reader (medical kink, twisted caretaking)
he sees you on the screen first. your scans, your file.
starts requesting your case.
calls you “my little patient.”
tells you you’re special.
you don’t even realize you’re getting sicker.
but he does.
and he likes it.

54. 🔭 astronomer!rafe x insomniac reader
you can’t sleep. he works at the observatory.
lets you in late at night. says the stars are watching you.
calls you “celestial.”
writes your name on every constellation map.
starts sending you letters in morse code.
you think it’s romantic—
until he stops using a telescope
and starts using a camera.

55. 🧷 psychiatric orderly!rafe x inpatient reader
you’re admitted for a breakdown.
he’s the only one who treats you gently.
but he never lets you near the phones.
always adjusts your dosage himself.
tells you your family stopped calling.
tells you the world outside isn’t safe.
but he is.

56. 💼 1950s door-to-door salesman!rafe x housewife!reader
he knocks at your door every tuesday with a new vacuum, new grin, new excuse.
your husband’s always away.
you always say no.
until one day, he doesn’t leave.
just sets the box down and says,
“you don’t have to pretend anymore.”
and steps inside.

57. 🍸 1960s ad man!rafe x secretary!reader (mad men-coded)
he smokes menthols and drinks gin by noon.
calls you “doll,” “baby,” “sweetheart.”
you bring him coffee.
you see him watching you from the glass wall.
he tells you you’re the only girl in this building who’s not fake.
and when the lights go off,
he makes you prove it.

58. 🧺 1950s milkman!rafe x lonely housewife!reader
your husband is never home. your neighbors whisper.
rafe shows up every morning with fresh bottles and warm eyes.
leaves little notes.
asks how you slept.
asks if you’re cold at night.
then one day your husband doesn’t come home.
but the milk keeps arriving.

59. ☎️ 1960s switchboard operator!reader x cop!rafe
he keeps calling the station line after hours.
says he’s just checking in.
asks what you’re wearing.
you tell him to stop.
but the calls keep coming.
until you see him across the street.
smiling.
not holding a phone.

60. 🧽 1950s neighborhood watch!rafe x younger reader
you’re the sweet girl next door with curlers in your hair.
he’s older, clean-shaven, everyone’s favorite “community man.”
he says you shouldn’t walk home alone.
he says boys your age don’t respect girls like you.
he says he’ll drive you.
but he never takes you straight home.

61. 🕶️ 1960s undercover fed!rafe x secretary!reader (cold war paranoia)
you get assigned to a new boss.
he’s stiff. serious. strange.
but he’s always asking about your life.
your schedule.
your friends.
and then your friends start disappearing.

62. 🧑‍🔬 1950s scientist!rafe x subject!reader (atomic age horror)
you signed up for a government-funded health study.
he runs the tests.
he tells you your body’s changing.
he keeps you longer each visit.
starts calling you his.
says you’re not safe out there anymore.
not with what’s inside you now.

63. 🩰 1950s ballet instructor!rafe x obedient student!reader
you’re the softest, smallest girl in the class.
he calls you perfect.
but when you misstep, he grips your waist too tight.
breathes down your neck.
says “try again, darling. or I’ll break you in.”

64. 📚 nerd!rafe x mean!popular!reader (but you bully him first)
you were paired with him for a group project.
you make fun of his glasses. his pants. his pens.
he acts like he doesn’t care.
but he’s writing fanfic about you now.
violent fanfic.
and one night, you find it.
and instead of being disgusted—
you smirk and say “you want to try it?”

65. 🎮 gamer!loser!rafe x camgirl!reader (toxic simp energy)
you’re a camgirl who plays dress-up and blows kisses.
he’s been your top tipper for months.
you say his name once on stream and he loses it.
prints it out.
writes it on his walls.
starts showing up to your P.O. box.
and now he thinks you owe him something.

66. 🖋️ creative writing major!nerd!rafe x popular!reader (he writes dark drabbles abt you)
you’re loud, hot, always late to class.
he sits in the back and watches.
when it’s his turn to share his story,
it’s about a girl with your name.
about the things he’d do to her.
everyone laughs.
you don’t.
and when you ask him if it was really about you—
he just says “do you want it to be?”

67. 📸 photography club!rafe x cheerleader!reader (voyeur-coded)
you agreed to let him take pics of you for the school exhibit.
what you don’t know is he’s been taking them since before you said yes.
in your car window. through your blinds.
and when you ask to see the proofs,
he shows you the folder labeled “mine.”

68. 📚 tutor!nerd!rafe x flirty dumb!reader
you ask him to tutor you in econ.
you don’t know how to stop biting your pen.
he doesn’t know how to stop staring.
you get every answer wrong.
but you bat your lashes and go “oops.”
and suddenly he’s gripping the desk and telling you,
“say oops again and i’ll fucking ruin you.”

69. 💼 tech support!loser!rafe x bratty!rich!intern!reader
you keep forgetting your password.
he keeps resetting it for you.
you call him a dork. a lifesaver. a little genius.
he saves every voicemail.
and when he hacks your laptop and turns on your webcam,
he says it’s just so he can protect you.

70. 🎓 teacher’s assistant!rafe x spoiled dumb!reader
you keep showing up during office hours in mini skirts.
he says you’re wasting time.
you pout and say you’re trying.
he knows you’re lying.
knows you want attention.
and one day he snaps.
locks the door.
says “you want an A? earn it.”

71. 🧠 stem major!rafe x sweet but dumb!reader
he’s cold. brilliant. always correcting people.
you wear bows and pink headphones and never get the formula right.
he tells you you’re embarrassing.
tells you to focus.
but he starts walking you to class.
starts carrying your books.
and when someone calls you stupid,
he doesn’t correct them—he threatens them.

[urrockstar-xe]

i got you - j.m x fem!reader

posted june 24th, 10:47 pm

masterlist

post!poguelandia, mentions of and appearances by reader's family, mentions of vomiting and gagging, mentions of reader looking pale due to said vomiting, edibles.

not proofread!

wc: 1.2k

JJ was by no means a light sleeper, especially when he was in the safety of your home with your family. And especially after Poguelandia.

Something about sleeping in sand for a month brings a certain gratitude to the beds in your life.

JJ was only stirring because there were noises coming from down the hall, and when he reached for you, you weren’t there to reach back. 

JJ perked up at that, opening an eye and wincing upon checking the time on your phone, too bright. 

2:23 AM

The sounds became clearer, gagging. He sat up, the sudden possibility of what could be happening waking him up quick. 

You heard his footsteps, quickly flushing the toilet and wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand. Upon JJ opening the bathroom door you had slumped back against the bathtub, pale and breathing as if you couldn’t remember how. 

“Hey, hey, mama, what happened?” JJ’s voice was quiet as to not disturb others in the house as he knelt down beside you, gently cradling your head in his hands, prompting you to lean forward into him, a lot more comfortable of an option than the porcelain.

“Don’t feel good,” you mumbled into his shirt. JJ kissed your temple, murmuring a soft “I figured”

The sound of a second pair of footsteps caught JJ’s attention but you got it back when you let out a quiet groan at the thought of getting sick again. 

“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” Your brother asked from the doorway of the small bathroom, it was starting to feel too crowded, too loud, too bright, too much.

“She’s sick, I got her” JJ reassured, looking up at the man who was half ready for work. 

He looked between the two of you, clearly concerned, “Alright, you got her?” 

“I got her” 

“Alright, buddy,” He nodded at JJ with a sigh before leaving the doorway just as you pushed JJ away and gagged into the toilet bowl. 

“Nice reflexes, baby.” 

You swatted his shoulder in response. JJ rubbed your back.

Your brother came back after a moment, setting a glass of water on the sink counter, before disappearing again. 

“You’re burnin’ up, baby” JJ murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder as you laid your head on your forearm. He flushed the toilet this time, standing up to turn on the shower, “Got it all out or are we gonna go again?” JJ closed the door.

You nodded, closing your eyes. 

“Okay, c’mere, lemme take this off you, mama.”

You lifted your head to look up at the blond who held his hands out for you to take and once you did he gingerly helping you stand before reaching for the end of your shirt, JJ tilted his head at you as if asking permission waiting for your little nod before pulling it off of you in a swift movement.

“J,” you mumbled, getting a hum in response as he reached to check how warm the water was. “I’m sorry, this is gross.” 

JJ shook his head, “nah, you put up with my stink for a month baby, we’re locked in.” he joked, giving you a soft smile. You smiled back, “we all stank,” “pretty fuckin’ bad, yeah.” 

JJ’s smile grew when you giggled and tried to help him undress you. 

With shaky hands you sipped from your glass when JJ started taking off his own clothes, realization dawning on you that he really was going to take care of you, JJ Maybank was gonna take care of you.

You carefully stepped into the shower, one hand on the wall for support and the other holding JJ’s forearm, for support.

The water was just warm enough to where you wouldn’t freeze but wouldn’t overheat on top of your fever. The gross feeling that comes with waking up to puke your guts out rinsing away with the water.

You hadn’t even noticed JJ join you, until you felt your loofa being gently dragged over your shoulders and back. You wanted to lean into him but refrained so as to not distract him from his very intent task. 

“Feelin’ any better?” JJ’s tone was concentrated as he ran the loofa down your arms, linking his fingers through yours to turn you to face him. 

You hummed with a nod, before murmuring a soft thank you. You didn’t need him to have to smell your breath right now, couldn’t put him through the agony. With a sigh you tilted your head up toward the water and closed your eyes. 

The kiss JJ set on your chin was so soft you almost missed it, but given the little grin he saw form, he knew you hadn’t.

“Just gotta rinse off, mama, I’m gonna go get you some clothes, you gonna be alright?” JJ was already stepping out as you nodded again in response.

You took your time in the water, the pounding in your head never ending and the burning in your throat fighting with your achy ribs for your attention. You brushed your teeth once you got out, rinsing twice with mouth wash before wrapping yourself in a towel and carefully albeit slowly making your way to your bedroom, the door was ajar.

JJ was reading the label of a medicine bottle with squinted eyes when you entered, his attention immediately going to you once you had. A light sweater and a pair of underwear were set lazily at the end of your bed along with your moisturizer. 

There was a new glass of water on your nightstand and a gummy beside it, presumably an edible. 

“Hey, pretty lady, your brother said this stuff would help you sleep but it’s gonna be ass.” JJ said, his voice barely audible as he resumed his reading of the bottle before putting it down. 

You put on the sweater and carefully stepped into your underwear before sitting on your bed. “And the edible?” 

JJ frowned at the rasp in your voice, “said that would help too.” 

He handed you the gummy first, then filled the little cup with medicine and handed it to  you, glass in his free hand for you to take as soon as you needed it, which was immediately after throwing back the medicine shot.

He watched you carefully, noticing how you took a few deep breaths before looking at your moisturiser, “I don’t know if I have the energy to put it on” you mumbled, rubbing your eyes. 

“I got you, mama, seen you do it, can’t be that hard.” 

You smiled a sleepy smile at his whispered response, watching him put some in his hand and sit between your legs. 

JJ’s touch was tender as he attempted to work the lotion into your skin, a concentrated look on his face, furrowed brows and his tongue just barely sticking out.

“I love you,” you murmured as he swiped his thumbs across your cheeks one more time. 

JJ grinned, kissing your forehead, “I love you, pretty lady.”

“Don’ deserve you” You leaned forward, head falling in his neck. JJ shushed you, his hand resting on the back of your neck as he pressed soft kisses into the side of your head and face. 

“That’s that fever talkin’ mama.”

[camficdiner]

1.2

2.10

3.1

4.3

i think you’re gonna cook with this one 🙏🏼

☕️Cam’s Fic Diner – Order 025

Thank you for your sweetness and patience — this one’s been a journey, a fully on fluff journey, with regrets and tears,

Enjoy your meal love, its served with honey glaze

-your favorite server

⸻

💬“She Had Your Eyes”

✨ Description & Prompts

• Character: Quinn Hughes

• Prompt: Drunk marriage in Vegas, accidental pregnancy, emotional confrontation

• Word Count: ~2.1k

• Type: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family

🛼✨🧁🍒

Las Vegas was supposed to be a quick getaway. A fun escape from your routines, a wild weekend with friends, some bad decisions and blurry photos. You never expected to wake up in a luxury suite at The Cosmopolitan, your mouth dry, your head pounding, and Quinn Hughes sleeping next to you — shirtless, tangled in the hotel sheets.

And definitely wearing a wedding band.

You sat up too fast, blinking at the ring on your own finger. Your heart thudded, first with confusion, then with a growing pit in your stomach. The echo of last night’s chaos slowly filtered in — the shots, the dance floor, the neon lights, Quinn’s laughter, his arm around your waist. You remembered a chapel. Pink. Elvis impersonator. The words “I do.”

“No,” you whispered. “No, no, no.”

A low groan came from the other side of the bed. Quinn.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt: messy curls sticking up in every direction, red-rimmed eyes, shirtless. And when he sat up, he mirrored your horror as you both stared at your left hands.

“We didn’t—” he started.

“We did,” you said grimly.

You both lunged for your phones. Sure enough, your camera rolls confirmed it: a chapel, a very happy officiant, and you and Quinn grinning like idiots with glitter in your hair and rings on your fingers.

Quinn Hughes, your very complicated friend-with-benefits, your maybe-something-more-but-never-defined, had married you. In Vegas. While drunk.

You remembered the sex too. Vaguely. It had been good—scratch that, amazing. But also messy and unexpected and clearly not thought through.

Quinn freaked out.

He stood, muttering about mistakes and how this couldn’t be real, how he had to leave. You tried to talk to him, to get him to calm down, but he was already pulling on his jeans, grabbing his phone.

“I can’t do this,” he mumbled.

“Quinn—”

He was gone before you could stop him.

⸻

Three days later, you stared at the two pink lines on a pregnancy test.

The silence of your bathroom was deafening.

You weren’t sure how you got there. How from a half-joking night in Vegas, a half-relationship with Quinn Hughes, you ended up alone, with a baby on the way. You hadn’t heard a word from him. Not a text. Not a call.

And that’s when you saw it. A story. A post. A girl — tall, blonde, draped over him like she belonged there. And the caption: “My whole heart.”

Your throat closed. He hadn’t ghosted you because he panicked. He hadn’t vanished because he was scared. He was with someone else.

You were just the detour. The accident.

So you did what you had to: you called your brother.

He showed up twenty minutes later, no questions asked, and held you while you sobbed. Then, slowly, piece by piece, you began to rebuild.

The months passed. The bump grew. Your brother went to every appointment with you, holding your hand while you heard the heartbeat for the first time, while you picked names, while you decorated a nursery in your new apartment.

And you tried—really tried—not to look at Quinn’s Instagram.

But you saw it anyway.

The James Norris Trophy. A clean suit, his proud smile. “Couldn’t have done it without the team.”

Then, a month later, an Instagram story from Porsche Centre Vancouver: “Thrilled to welcome Quinn Hughes as our newest brand ambassador.”

Each announcement was a dagger. Because he was out there, living his best life, achieving everything he’d ever dreamed of—and you were in the quiet of your small apartment, folding newborn onesies and wondering if he ever thought about you. About that night. About what you were now carrying.

You didn’t want him back. Not after he ran. But part of you, some deep, aching part, wished he would at least ask.

Because even if your heart was fractured, your body swollen and tired and aching, you were growing something beautiful.

And he didn’t even know.

—

The hospital lights were harsh, too white, too real for the blur of pain and panic you were in. Your fingers clenched around the side of the bed as another contraction hit, tearing through your spine. You were alone, but not lonely — not anymore. Because you weren’t doing this just for yourself.

You were about to meet the only constant that had stayed with you since that night in Vegas. And she was coming fast.

You screamed, you pushed — and suddenly, everything fell away.

The nurse’s voice filtered in through the haze. “It’s a girl.”

Your chest heaved. Your hands trembled as they placed her on your chest, slick and warm and alive. The world narrowed to a heartbeat and the softest cry.

And then you saw them.

Her eyes.

Deep blue a touch lighter than yours, with some green in it. Familiar. Exactly the same shade as his.

Quinn.

You’d spent the past nine months trying not to think of him. Trying to erase the weight of the Instagram post that shattered your heart — his smile beside her, captioned “Heart”

But now, here she was. With his eyes. The proof that Vegas wasn’t just a mistake. It had left you with someone permanent.

You named her Olympia.

⸻

Three Years Later

Vancouver in early spring was always wet and green. You’d found peace in its stillness, a small rented flat near the sea, and a part-time job at a bookstore that let you be home by three.

Olympia ran ahead on chubby legs, clutching her red balloon and squealing as the ducks in the park scrambled. Her hair curled in soft brown waves. Her laugh was infectious. She was everything.

And yet —

You still looked him up sometimes.

You knew Jack had moved closer. That his family still spoke well of you.

But you never reached out.

And then you saw them.

Two figures coming down the paved path, side by side. Quinn and Jack. Laughing about something. You froze mid-step, your heart doing a strange, sharp twist.

You hadn’t seen him in person since that morning in Vegas.

Quinn stopped first.

His eyes scanned you, then softened in surprise. His lips parted slightly, like a question was sitting on his tongue but hadn’t formed yet.

Jack said something, but you didn’t hear it.

“Hey…” Quinn’s voice was quiet, unsure. “It’s been a while.”

You nodded, tensing your jaw. You were about to reply when you heard her.

“Mama!”

Olly’s voice rang out, bright and high, and she came toddling over, arms outstretched.

You bent to scoop her up, hugging her to your hip like muscle memory. You didn’t look at him yet. Not yet.

But when you did—

Quinn’s face had changed.

His eyes locked on Olympia.

Then flicked to you.

Then back.

His expression folded inward, shock overtaking confusion. Because there, in your arms, was a little girl with his exact same eyes. The same curl in her hair. The same shape to her mouth.

His voice cracked, barely above a whisper. “She’s yours?”

You didn’t say anything.

He didn’t say anything.

You saw it in his eyes before you heard it in his voice — the slow-burning panic blooming behind his irises, the sharp, silent question written in the twitch of his jaw: She looks like me. How is that possible?

Quinn stared at your daughter like she was the answer to a question he hadn’t dared to ask himself in three years. You adjusted her on your hip, her tiny hand curled around your necklace as she blinked up at the stranger. Stranger to her, anyway.

“She yours?” he asked, voice raw, cautious.

“She’s mine,” you answered carefully, but your voice cracked under the weight of truth, and you saw it land.

That hurt that bloomed over his face—it was real.

“But is she…”

He didn’t finish. He didn’t have to.

You nodded once. “Yes. She’s yours, Quinn.”

His breath caught. It wasn’t relief—it was devastation, thick and swallowing. He stepped back a little, like the truth physically hit him. Jack said something behind him, but it was muffled, distant. This was Quinn’s storm.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly.

You looked down at your daughter, then back up at him. “Because you left me. You ran out of that hotel room like I was a mistake, and a few days later, you were posting pictures with your girlfriend on Instagram. I found out I was pregnant the same week.”

Quinn was silent.

“You didn’t even check if I was okay,” you continued, words trembling now. “You never texted. Never called. I thought you didn’t care. And I wasn’t going to beg someone to be a father who didn’t want to be there.”

Quinn’s hands were shaking. “I didn’t know how to deal with it. I panicked. I was scared—”

“You were selfish, Quinn,” you snapped, more pain than anger. “I was terrified. I went through pregnancy alone. I gave birth alone. I’ve raised her—every scraped knee, every nightmare, every milestone. Alone.”

Tears brimmed in his eyes.

“I never wanted you to be alone,” he whispered. “I was a coward. I thought if I ignored it, it would disappear. But it didn’t. You didn’t. And now she’s here and she looks at me like she knows me and I—”

He stopped himself, choking on the weight of it all.

“I want to know her,” he said finally. “Please. Let me try.”

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no.

—

It started small. A text asking how she was doing. A message asking what kind of books she liked. A FaceTime where she shyly showed him her dinosaur pajamas. And slowly—like thawing ice—he melted into her life.

He came to the playground and pushed her on the swing. She reached for his hand without hesitation.

He showed up at your door with her favorite muffins and left with marker drawings all over his forearms.

The first time she called him “Dad,” he cried. Quietly. You saw it, though. And your heart cracked open.

Then came the big things.

Introducing her to Ellen and Jim. Watching Jack fall in love with her in five minutes flat. Quinn holding her on the bench of a Canucks pre-game warmup, helmet on her head three sizes too big.

And one day, he stood in front of you, nerves in his fingers, and said, “I left her. A while ago. The girlfriend. I should’ve told you sooner, but I didn’t want to show up like a white knight.”

“You’re not a white knight,” you replied. “But you’re trying. That means something.”

He took your hand. Carefully. “Can we try too?”

You blinked. “Try what?”

He smiled, small and real. “Us.”

Your daughter ran between you both just then, laughing with her pigtails bouncing, and without thinking, you reached out together—one hand each, steadying her between you.

You looked at her. Then at him.

And for the first time in three years, you let yourself believe that maybe… just maybe… things weren’t broken.

Just unfinished.

——

It started with a question, whispered one quiet evening in your daughter’s room.

Quinn had come to tuck her in like he did now every night he was in Vancouver. She’d taken to calling him “Q” at first, unsure of what else to call him. Now it was “Daddy.” Sometimes “Daddy Q,” when she was being silly.

That night, as he settled the stuffed unicorn into her arms and brushed her dark hair behind her ear, she blinked up at him with those same eyes. His eyes.

“Daddy?” she asked, voice small. “Are you and mommy married?”

Quinn blinked. He glanced over his shoulder at you. You smiled softly, already knowing this day would come.

“Kind of,” he said, trying to be gentle. “A long time ago. But not… not properly.”

She frowned. “I want it to be properly.”

It stayed in his head all night.

And three days later, as the two of you stood on your balcony, wine glasses in hand, watching the Vancouver skyline glow like it was holding your secret, he turned to you.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to be my almost-wife. I want you to be my real wife.”

You turned to him, stunned.

He didn’t go down on one knee. He just took your hand, kissed the ring that never left it — the one from Vegas you never dared to take off — and added softly, “Let’s do it right this time.”

⸻

The wedding was small. Intimate.

Held in Vancouver, at a garden you’d always loved as a child. Your daughter wore a white dress with tulle wings sewn onto the back. She walked down the aisle holding a little velvet box, cheeks flushed with excitement, while Jack — proudly grinning — waited at Quinn’s side as best man.

Your dress wasn’t flashy. It was soft, elegant. Your bouquet was wildflowers. And as you reached the end of the aisle, your daughter took your hand and placed it into Quinn’s, the whole garden holding its breath.

Quinn looked at you like it was the first time. Even after everything — the mistake, the heartbreak, the rediscovery — he still looked at you like you were the beginning and end of his world.

“I do,” he said, voice thick with emotion.

You couldn’t stop the tears as you said it back.

⸻

The reception was simple — a long table under strings of lights, family and friends all gathered. Jack toasted to “the only couple I’ve ever known who got married in reverse order.” Your daughter climbed into Quinn’s lap halfway through the cake. He fed her the icing off his finger, kissing her temple like he’d never lost a single day.

Later, you danced to no music under the stars, her asleep in her flower girl dress in your mother’s arms.

“I always meant it,” he whispered in your ear. “Even back then. Even when I was scared. I’ve loved you every damn second.”

You pressed your cheek to his.

“Then here’s to forever.”

And in the warm hush of the garden, his lips met yours.

What happened in Vegas didn’t stay in Vegas.

It just…

Came home in time.

⸻

[zazslemma]

“Pour your sadness into me and I will drink from the well like a man dying of thirst”

Bob Reynolds x Reader, soft!void x reader

summary : The Void comforts you after a nightmare

-On my personal quest to bring back yearning. I wrote this as fem!reader but it ended up pretty gender neutral

cw: mental health struggles & mentions of sleeping pills, some angst, hurt/comfort, yearning

~

The nights were the worst. During the day you could distract yourself from the incessant pain and memories with training and the team but at night the familiar loneliness would come creeping back in and there was no one to save you. Till you had met Bob, a kindred soul who understood the pain and fears you experienced. It was strictly platonic - that's what you told yourself at least, you wished and pined over him like a damn schoolgirl most of the time but you weren't willing to lose your one tether to sanity by admitting it. 

It had been going on for months now, whenever one of you had a nightmare you would go to the other's room seeking comfort (which happened every night). He had been the one to bring it up today during the two of your customary post-dinner reading session. 

“Maybe… we could try just sleeping in the same bed” Bob said in the most casual way he could force, he had been thinking about it for weeks and had been practicing all week to try and actually get the words out.

“Just to see if it helps, not having to walk down the hall” he quickly tacked on.

You looked up from the trashy sci-fi novel you were reading and met his eyes as the faintest blush started creeping up his face and gave him a soft smile, the one that you reserved for him “sure, might as well give it a shot” you said softly, as if you could take the words back if they came out too embarrassingly if you spoke soft enough. 

One of the first things Bob noticed about you when you joined the team was how you spoke, alternating between speaking so softly that it couldn't be heard if he wasn't listening for it and louder than average. It appeared to have no rhyme or reason to him for the volume change and you seemed oblivious to the difference, leading to Bob having to interject for you at team dinners quite often since only he heard the words you spoke at times. 

You were still smiling at him when he quickly averted his eyes back to the self help book he was reading and made a hum of confirmation.

You started the ritual of preparing for bed, everything had an order in which to be done for maximising your chance of sleep. That's what you told yourself, at least. The reality was that you had no control over your life, you had no control over when you went on missions (or didn’t go), felt like you had no control over your power, and no control of your sleep. So you would take your sleeping pills that didn't help, then shower and imagine the water was washing all the sins away, do your over the top skin care routine, then promptly have a crash out where you re-lived every horrible thing you had messed up ever. 

Thankfully Bob entered your room during the skincare step and not the crash out phase. You heard the three soft knocks that he always used to ask for permission to enter your room and abandoned your vanity with your face covered in a green clay mask to open the door for him.

The soft light of your room made him even more breathtaking with his shaggy brown hair and eyes so dark blue they looked brown most times, you felt your breath hitch as you stared before gesturing to your bed and heading back to the vanity to try and get a hold on your traitorous pounding heart. 

“Thanks for letting me stay” he said as he settled down on your bed, the side closest to the door. He knew you didn’t like sleeping on the side nearest to the door as it made you feel exposed. Sometimes it was nice to just be your protector, at night he was just Bob, your closest companion and he could pretend that you two were a normal couple. His once innocent crush had bloomed into an all consuming desire with the idea of the two of you together filling his thoughts. He would bring it up one day, maybe once you both were more stable but for now he was happy with the stolen glances, late night cuddles, and endless conversations you had only with him. It filled him with a sense of pride to know that you were so comfortable with him that you would speak about everything and nothing at all with him. 

You returned after rinsing the mask off and moisturizing, settling into the space beside him with the familiarity of a long married couple.

“Anytime, Bob” you spoke earnestly.

“You know there is a special screening of the original Blade Runner tomorrow night at that theater you like.” The words flowed from Bob before he could hold them back as he gazed at your soft face with you scooting closer to rest your head on his chest as a few stray strands of your hair tickled his neck.

“oooh really? we should go, i’ve been craving popcorn with way too much butter.” you whispered into his chest.

“Sounds like a date.” Bob spoke the words softly like you were a deer ready to bolt, but in actuality he was the nervous one as you hmm’d in confirmation into his chest which allowed him to let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.

He flicked the bedside lamp off and pulled you closer, intertwining your legs and smelling the faint scent of your conditioner as he drifted off to a rare peaceful sleep.

Your peaceful sleep was very rudely interrupted by the vivid feeling of drowning as you tried to claw your way out of your nightmare, the shapes all formless with no distinct memory tied to them but an intense feeling of dread and suffocation in their place. An unfortunate side effect of the medication was the intensified feelings in exchange for lack of specific nightmares to lament over. 

You gasped and clawed at your own throat relishing in the cool air of your room before immediately burying your face into Bob’s sweatshirt while blinking away the tears in the dark. The fabric cool and soft like silk against ice, grounding you. Typically Bob was your own personal furnace radiating the heat of a thousand suns as you had joked many times with him but tonight he felt distinctly cooler. You felt his hand come up and cradle the back of your head as you let out a single sob.

“my little star, you burn too bright and you may blink out of existence” he murmured into your hair. 

You pulled back, about to apologize for waking him up with your cry when you realized it wasn’t Bob speaking to you or holding you, it was the Void, the same body as Bob covered in an inky layer of the darkest night with flickering edges as if his body could barely contain the shadows within. 

You left out a little “oh” sound as the thought crossed your mind.

“Do not worry, he is sleeping but I could not leave you to suffer alone little star”

Your face grew warm at the term of endearment Void used, you had not met void fully before, oftentimes you could see him flickering and watching behind Bob’s eyes at night when you held him after a nightmare but that was as far as he would emerge, till now.

“I’m sorry for waking you, do you want me to stop touching you?” you asked as you started to back up not wanting to invade his space, you and Bob were quite cuddly but you didn’t know if that preference extended to his other half.

“You did not wake me, I was already watching you. And no I do not.” he spoke as he pulled you even closer, your eyes meeting the twinkles of light where his eyes were.

You nodded as you let out another ragged breath, the momentary shock at voids appearance dissipating as the feeling of your nightmare returned. One hand of his was cradling your head still while the other began rubbing small circles on your back.

“Shhh my little star. Pour your sadness into me and I will drink from the well like a man dying of thirst.” he whispered as the sobs began to wrack your chest.

All of the pent up feelings spilling out of you like water boiling over and out of a kettle. Your hands fisted in his sweater as the tears dripped down your face and onto him, each one making a tiny ripple in the shadows that formed him like raindrops into a puddle. You imagined each drop had your pain, anxiety, fears, self hatred, and shame inside and as they left you were purified like water falling from a cloud to be reborn as something new.

After a few minutes you began to feel the tension drain from your crying form,

“sorry about that” you murmured into his chest, too ashamed to look at him for fear of the judgement you thought you might encounter from the being that shared the face of the man you loved. 

“Do not be sorry, a stars nature is to burn bright” he spoke as he pulled your head back so he could see the red rims of your eyes, always so expressive. “I am here to damp down the flames so you do not burn out.”

Void heard all of Bob’s thoughts about you and always made it a point to pay attention from behind Bob’s eyes when you were present. He saw the way the others thought you were hard to understand but they didn’t pay attention the way he did, to him you were an open book that wore your heart on your sleeve. Your eyes always betrayed your true feelings on a matter and right now they were looking at him like he had hung the moon for you. And god knows he would do it for you if you asked him.

“Thank you” you spoke so softly it could have been the wind.

“Sleep, my star. I will be here the next time you need me”

You let the last bit of tension drain out of you as his hand continued stroking your back and you drifted off for the best sleep you have had in years with the darkness of the universe cradling you.

~

A/N: This is my first fic so hopefully it's not terrible lol. My psychiatrist just doubled my SSRI dose and I felt compelled to torture you all with my disjointed ramblings in return. Also my religious guilt knows no end so why not compare living water with a well of sadness.. Idk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ (if for some reason you like my writing pls send me a request :))

[destinysbounty]

On the topic of mergeswap AUs, most of the ninja could be shuffled around to different Merge scenarios with equally compelling results, but I maintain that by far the most *interesting* swap would be Lloyd-Zane. That is to say, Lloyd gets put in the coma pod while Zane is left alone in the monastery.

Out of all the post-Merge scenarios, I think Lloyd would most severely be fucked up by completely sleeping through it - he wakes up to find that not only is the world different, but his friends have spent *years* struggling to survive without his help. He's supposed to be their leader, their guide, the chosen savior of prophecy. It's his job to look out for them, isn't it? But he wasn't there. The world fell apart, his team is in shambles, and everyone has suffered innumerable traumas as a result...and he wasn't there for any of it. Knowing Lloyd, the self-imposed guilt would absolutely eat him alive. Also, once again he is chronologically displaced - before it was the age of his mind and body being mismatched, and now he is once again missing several years of his life.

(Also I think it's funny if we put Lloyd in Zane's pod specifically, especially if he's still the Conduit. Because that means he woke up, immediately jumped into the fight against Imperium, and then like 10 minutes later volunteered to take on life-changing god powers from some random talking dragon. All without any context for anything that is going on whatsoever.)

As for Zane...god, where do I even start.

So, putting Zane in the monastery is fascinating for a number of reasons.

Out of everyone on the team, the ones who consistently cope with isolation the worst are Cole and Zane. That's not to say the others enjoy it, per se, but they're all at least able to lock in and get shit done as needed, trauma be damned. But Cole is very community-oriented and comes a bit unglued in the absence of a community to rely on (DotD, s10), and Zane...oh boy.

Zane is usually the one to die, so he is rarely put in a position of grieving the others. His only instances of mourning the absenceof a loved one are:

His father, which happened off-screen so we don't know how he handled that initially (he seems to be okay in s3, but knowing Zane he probably just repressed the feeling and moved on)

Nya in Seabound, which he was so ill-equipped to deal with that he turned off his emotions entirely

Pixal in DR, where he was so unable to handle her absence that he straight up stapled a photo of her to a broom and started talking to it. Also with Kai getting lost in superhell, which we don't really see him grieving over but also we don't see much of that from anyone so uhhh I'm choosing to ignore that for now.

Picture it. Zane, alone in the monastery, with none of his friends around and no way of knowing what happened to them. All he can do is sit and hold vigil in the hopes that they will eventually come back (something something Echo Zane lighthouse parallels). I'm not saying Zane would start taping his friends' photos to random appliances by the end of week 1 and cry over his tenth ice sculpture of Pix by week 2, but uhhhh....actually no that's exactly what I'm saying. Provided he doesn't miraculously find a way to get himself killed while chilling in the monastery, I give him like 6 months before his sanity completely unravels.

Another reason for swapping Zane into Lloyd's spot is that whoever is in the monastery at the start of DR also gets to be the mentor to the new ninja. And that puts Zane in a *very* interesting position.

Zane is, on both a meta and narrative level, a support character. He's your medic, your backup, your HQ, and he can even be your damsel in distress. He's not really a leader by nature, and it is rare for him to take charge or assume a position of authority unless the situation demands it of him. He's generally content to sit back and let everyone else take charge - he let Cole take the lead during the prison break in s4, he's one of the only ones not to express pushback when Lloyd officially becomes the leader, etc.

It's actually a bit odd how rare it is for him to lead, bc it feels like everyone else has way more instances of flexing their leadership skills. Off the top of my head, i can think of exactly three occasions where Zane assumes a position of authority:

For about 10 mins in s5, which ends in him glitching out and talking backwards

In s14 when he became Captain Zane, but that was mostly for comedic effect, and authority goes back to Lloyd and Nya once the situation actually gets serious

In s11 when he became Ice Emperor, but he had to be magically corrupted, mind-wiped, AND gaslit in order for that to even happen.

(You could argue he took charge during the Snake Jaguar incident, but he didn’t take charge of the whole team and also it didn't end well.)

All this to say, Zane doesn't have a positive track record with being in charge. Probably even worse, now that he has all that Ice Emperor baggage to deal with.

So what do you do with a character like that? Naturally, you give him a gaggle of wide-eyed children to look after and tell him to teach them how to be ninja. Lloyd was already hesitant to be their master in canon, but Zane would be even worse.

Furthermore, Zane, uh...doesn't really have many friends outside of the ninja (aside from his falcon, who hasnt existed in the show for years). Cole has the Upply and the Finders, Nya is close to Ronin and became good friends with Bentho, Kai has Skylor and Wyldfyre, Lloyd had the resistance and Akita and now the next-gen kids, Jay started an entire cult in Prime Empire and also seems to be on good terms with Unagami, and even Wu is close to Faith...but who does Zane have outside of the team? Vex, maybe? Possibly Borg, even though that relationship isn't explored onscreen? Sally, who gets one whole episode spotlighting her and Zane before vanishing into obscurity?

This even continues in DR, too. Theres a new cast of characters to befriend and connect with, many of whom share a lot in common with Zane, but he doesn't really interact at length with anyone but his old friends and Frohickey.

True, a lot of that can be blamed on Zane's gradual narrative dehumanization depriving him of meaningful personal connections, but in-universe you could also attribute that to his self worth. Zane is so wrapped up in his belief that he exists to serve and protect, and he is so strongly devoted to the ninja that he can be a bit one-track-minded about it. He loves his family so much that he doesn't have time to care for anyone else in the same way. They are his world, his everything, his life's purpose...without them, he is nothing. Can you say "codependent"?

But now, he's alone in the monastery. He doesn't know if his friends are alive. All he can do is sit and pray and hope they come back to him. And after years of waiting, he crosses paths not with his family, but with two new kids. They want him to teach them to be ninja. But Zane is too afraid - afraid of leaving his post, afraid that being in charge will bring out his inner Ice Emperor...afraid of betraying his family by finding a new one.

He does agree to help them in the end, if only because he exists to protect and they need protection. But the whole time, he is afraid, and anxious, and painfully unsure of himself. But just as he teaches them how to be strong, how to fight, how to be brave and kind and selfless...they teach him how to believe in himself. How to reclaim his sense of identity. How to stand on his own without his friends, and how to make new ones. How to live for his loved ones, rather than dying for them.

(And yeah, okay, a small part of it this is definitely spite for the way he's been unilaterally snubbed by DR canon. I won't deny that)

Personally, if I were to write a mergeswap AU that's probably the direction I'd take. But then again, I might just be on some next-level copium and desperately trying to make Zane actually relevant to DR in some meager way

[diabolicalevil]

Which Primarchs would beg during a break up?

inspired by @ladyoflucky 's post thank youu for letting me do this

https://www.tumblr.com/ladyoflucky/787103199830081536?source=share

Lion El'johnson: highly unlikely. he would keep up an arrogant front to the bitter end of the break up. but in private he is a disaster, especially stuck on anger and depression of the stages of grief. in the 6 months he'll magically start appearing around you again

Fulgrim: oh my god, he's begging, he's crying. it's embarrassing. bar, I don't know, a war council infront of the emperor there is no place he wouldn't get on his knees and proclaim his love. he will stop at nothing to get his lover back

Perturabo: absolutely not. very stone faced the whole time but as soon as you leave he is flipping tables and destroying anything he made for you. very petulant man!

Jaghatai Khan: one of the more normal ones. by that I mean no, but he would ask why and ask you to stay. ultimately he is accepting of you moving on and he will too

Leman Russ: no, he's also too proud and quite rude during the break up. extremely torn up over it though, cause let's be honest he probably did something that warranted this. within time he'll calm down and maybe try to re-enter your life. if this is successful you'll get the full "baby baby please take me back baby baby please" (space wolves as back up singers included!)

Rogal Dorn: kind of paralysed the entire break up but obviously distraught. mere hours later after realising that by "over" you mean over he's knocking on your door and tripping over himself to make amends. he's expressive as a piece of paper but he folds like one too

Konrad Curze: You Will Not Be Breaking Up With Him. Sit Back Down.

Sanguinius: yeah,,, somehow more embarrassing than fulgrim. he looks like the world is crashing down on him. not many on this list would truly get on their knees and cry and grovel but he would and he'd mean every word of it

Ferrus Manus: no but he's hanging on by a thread internally. he immediately goes to self loathing and while he does understand and accept your answer every bone in his body is telling him to start begging for forgiveness

Angron: no :( he's sad about it too. he thinks this was inevitable and once the initial anger subsidies the misery is all consuming. but he probably couldn't bring himself to face you again

Roboute Guilliman: hes being very sensible about it in the moment., but perhaps a few days later he sees something that reminds me of you and it punches him in the dick SO hard. immediately launches a campaign to win you back so intense it might as well be begging

Mortarion: no, probably not. like angron hates himself and thinks this would have always happened but his anger manifests outwardly. days later he understands he blew it for good resigns himself to the lonely life he imagined before you

Magnus: yeah, I think so. not much begging in the moment but if that fails, he'll start doing a little bit of dream invasion privacy. pleading with you to take him back in your dream and if that too fails, he would consider altering your mind to a more favourable opinion of him

Horus Lupercal: yes but not in a screaming crying kinda way. he's on his knees but only to meet your eyes and speak to you on your level. waxing poetics about how you're the only respite from his never ending list of expectations and how every moment has brought him nothing but peace. asks for one final chance to make it right

Lorgar Aurelian: oh my god. oh my God. he's not just on his knees his head is on the floor, he would kiss your feet if not for the fact he wouldn't deign touch the divine without permission. his begging starts getting jumbled with scripture as he starts to believe this is divine punishment

Vulkan: if you're breaking up with him something out of both of your control has gone terribly wrong. from the bottom of his heart understands but he can't help but kneel infront of you and ask to embrace one last time if nothing else

Corvus Corax: no, but he understands and perhaps a part of him expected it. you're far too different to have stayed together long. he still vows to never let harm come to you

Alpharius/Omegon: another firm you are not breaking up with them. however if you did somehow get such a silly idea nothing is off the table to make you stay. if it's begging you want, then they beg. if all else fails diva ur going in the dungeonn

sorry if this is a bit dramatic but im truly of the opinion that astartes and primarchs experience emotion and sensations far more intensely than humans do. don't got shit to back it up but that's my opinion

[breezyovereazy]

Hanukkah, 1962

This took 50 hours!! This is officially the longest I have ever worked on a piece!!! Beating my record from last April.

I wanted this picture to feel like a warm hug

╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

It's the Pines bros sleeping in the big sweater Ford mentions in his journal after opening their presents and having latkes and sufganiyot, as well as Chinese takeout because it's Christmas too hehe.

I started this big illustration way back in December, was hoping to finish it before Hanukkah ended...and then I blinked and it was June. Definitely going to repost this in December because I did not work on this for 50 hours over the course of six months to only post it once lol.

I mostly kept putting it off because I didn't know how I was going to color + shade it, especially with all those details, so I slowly chipped away at the process. I'm glad I did- look how colorful it is! I'm really really happy with this.

I love the Pines family, they mean so much to me ❤️‍🩹

please enjoy :D

[botanigeist]

"we gotta kill this guy, kit" / "damn."

-

ohhhkay so uh. yeah. im gonna chat about the dynamic i made up in my head!!!! yayy!!

i dont think i actually went in depth about these two (aside from the au i posted, but whatever) but this is all for my fic, which you can find HERE . kit survives au!

so after mr cheng stabbed kit, kit wasnt actually dead. flora and zhongkui, who are more informed over painted skins, knew he wasnt, so zhongkui opted to take kit under the guise that he would give him a proper burial in bixi where his body would be safe. jentry was comfortable with this.

only, again, kit wasnt dead. hes asleep for about three months before he wakes and, even though hes desperate to return to the mortal world, is stuck in bixi for the unforseen future. in the meantime, him and zhongkui form a bond (i joke theyre like a boss and his unpaid intern, but they become very much like father and son).

zhongkui is probably the first adult who actually cares about his well being. despite knowing kits past, despite having his own history dealing with painted skins, he recognizes that kit is a kid, a traumatized manipulated teenager at that, and is a lot more gentle with him than anyone ever has. kit is unsure of how to deal with that.

but he also respects kit as a person, and goes at his pace of comfort. he wants to stay silent all day? thats fine. wants to speak and ask him questions? thats perfectly fine too. kit always has his full attention, his words matter, and the only topics that are off limits are jentry chau and co. zhongkui is a calm, more laid back presence that kit needs to open up. plus, zhongkui really has no want or need to lie to kit. if he feels that a topic shouldn't be discussed, he redirects the conversation.

zhongkui is also very playful with him! he'll tease kit and and tell him exaggerated tales of his past, and he even picks up on the slang kids say these days (which makes kit cringe....) but once kit starts lightly joking back, even bluntly, zhongkui finds him very amusing in his own way.

and since kit is stuck in his painted skin form, hes not very expressive. at least, to most, but zhongkui is used to any subtle changes in the spirits he holds, so kit is actually incredibly expressive to him. finds that kit pouts a lot, places it in his moody teen folder.

he also takes being responsible for kit very seriously and tries his best. kit is wondering what he ever did to deserve that kindness.

-

i am so attached to them yall have no idea omg. like. yeah.

i do have more things to say over their dynamic but i dont want this to be so so long so if you made it to the end, congrats!! if you have questions, please ask!! ok thats all for now byeee

[em1989ts]

𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐭. 3

five hargreeves x fem! reader smut

part one. part two. masterlist

word count: 3.5k

summary: it would be unsafe of you and five to have unprotected sex in the apocalypse, but luckily you find a condom while scavenging, giving you both just the excuse you need

contents: smut, characters are 18+, protected sex, grinding, enemies to ??

author's note: i've been adding like 20 words a day to this fic for months but now i finally sat down and finished it up so yippee hope you enjoy, also i know condoms expire, let's just pretend they don't, also i didn't proofread before posting cause i just want to get it out there but hopefully it matches it with the first two lol

That night was simply instinct. You weren’t thinking right. Because if you were, you wouldn’t have done anything remotely close to being intimate with the likes of Five. 

Maybe it was because you were desperate, that him being the only man left in the world ruined your standards, but you couldn’t get the thought of his touch out of your deprived mind. 

The two of you woke up that morning with limbs completely entangled, yet without a word you separated and proceeded your day as normal, like nothing out of the ordinary had occurred the night before. 

He immediately began his attempts at fixing the ripped tarp, to prepare for the windy night ahead, ruffling through the stashes of supplies to find whatever could mend it together efficiently. 

His face was concentrated, seemingly completely focussed on the task at hand. You didn’t happen to notice the moments his hands would pause due to being so lost in thought he couldn’t resume motion. 

Occasionally he would sneak a quick look over at you, currently fixing together whatever you could find in your rations to create a suitable breakfast for the two of you. Before, he would only look to make sure you weren’t mixing anything inedible into his portion (something he wished he’d done before he almost swallowed a rusted screw you had put in his oatmeal), but now, he was only looking at you. 

He’d never wanted to look at you in any way other than disgust, your behavior had always overshadowed your appearance, but his bias couldn’t overcome the fact that he was incredibly attracted to you. 

His father had given him and his siblings “the talk”, in an elaborate lesson on sexual education, so he was very aware of the consequences of unprotected sex. It was too dangerous to attempt it in the apocalypse, and he doubted any form of protection had survived the end of the world. He would have to live out the rest of his life here in this dreaded wasteland with his fist as his only form of satisfaction. 

~~

While you made breakfast, you too stole glances at Five, waiting for him to possibly say anything at all about last night. 

You thought after using each other t̶o̶ g̶e̶t̶ o̶f̶f̶  for warmth that maybe things would open up between the two of you, at least a bit. Once you had actually thought about it, that might’ve been the only time the two of you had actually touched each other without trying to cause harm. You blame your human instincts on your need to feel him again. You didn’t realize how badly you missed physical touch until you were wrapped in his arms, feeling him all over. 

Now, you craved him, you needed him. 

Maybe you couldn’t have him inside you, but you’d find a way. 

~~

Breakfast was quiet that morning. There was no back and forth bickering, snide remarks that the other couldn’t help but start an argument about, just utter silence. 

Five inspected his food, there were no nails or rocks mixed in with the old porridge packets you’ve rationed, and it didn’t smell metallic or chemical, so he ate it as slowly as a starving man could. 

Rations were running low, having not left the base much due to the freezing cold, but the weather had cleared up, and the sun was shining bright. The snow had already begun to melt from the burning rays, clearing up the streets slightly, so the two of you would just be able to drag your wagon through to scavenge nearby. 

Five meticulously set up this current base in a spot where there were several convenience stores and gas stations within a couple miles in every direction, you couldn’t help but give him credit for his well-thought planning. 

Today, the plan was to head south for at most five miles and bring whatever the two of you can fit in the wagon back to the base. The most important items you two had to search for were food, water, and anything you keep you both warm. 

You took your bowl along with Five’s and tossed it with your other dishes, while he got up to grab his coat and the wagon which the two of you had been using as storage in its dormancy. 

“This isn’t a beauty pageant,” Five commented rudely, waiting by the base’s opening for you to put on your coat when he noticed you fixing up your hair, “It’s not like you would win, anyway.” 

He expected you to glare at him, slap him, and tell him how you’d win against him any day of the week, but you didn’t. 

You tied off your hair, brushed a few fly-aways out of your face, and walked right past him and out the base. 

He didn’t expect that, and he definitely didn’t like it. 

Once he figured you weren’t going to wait for him, he quickly grabbed the handle to the wagon and followed your path. 

He watched as you walked in between the smashed up vehicles, eyeing the compass from time to time, paying zero attention to him.

What was your problem? You’re too good to fight with him now? Was that it? Too good to pay any mind to whatever he had to say? 

It wasn’t like you could ignore him forever, he was the only other living being on Earth after all. He would get you to talk eventually, he would get you to refer to him in a way that wasn’t just a matter of survival. 

~~ 

The sun was bearing down on you harshly, yet the wind was ten times worse. The bandana over your face protected you from the sharp bite of the cold, but your eyes burned from their exposure. A new, unventured gas station was just up ahead, yet with the conditions you were walking through it might as well have been a planet away. 

As you were walking up the driveway, Five following suit with the empty wagon, you gazed inside the dark store. “Shit,” you grumbled, noticing the rather significant burn marks along the walls, the peeling advertisements on the glass windows, “This place burned pretty bad.” 

Five couldn’t tell if you were talking to yourself or if you meant to direct your complaints at him. Either way it was progress. 

“Let’s just see if there’s anything salvageable,” he responded, motioning his arm to insist that you head inside first, only for you to let the door slam shut in his face. 

You started examining the state of the store, walking past the register to see the wooden countertop charred, yet intact. He entered, pulling the wagon behind him and immediately heading the opposite direction, towards the wall of drinks. The glass doors of the refrigerators were cracked and blackened, yet they seemed to have done a good job in protecting the drinks, which were in perfect condition. He immediately dropped the handle of the wagon and drank from one of the waters on the shelf, refreshing his dry, aching throat. 

Meanwhile, you had begun making your way through the aisles, noticing he was busy precisely placing as many bottles of water in perfect rows in the bed of the wagon. Unfortunately, many of the snack options had been burnt to crisps. You walked in between the first couple aisles, filled with nothing but ash and remnants of cardboard, picking out anything edible and carrying it in your arms, not wanting to make a trip to the wagon.

Once you got to the middle aisle, you noticed that it must have avoided the worst of the flames, because there were several items still perfectly intact hanging from the pegs. Luckily, there were several packages of ibuprofen and antacids, as well as a large supply of first aid materials like bandages and ointment. While you crouched to the ground and filled your pockets with the useful materials, you scanned the aisle for other items that could be deemed useful. There were lip balms of a variety of flavors, razors which Five could never have enough of, eye drops and cough drops, and one more thing that stopped you. Your hand paused right before it wrapped around the items in the box. As your brain had caught up with your motions, you registered what it was — condoms. 

You allowed your hand to move again to inspect the small, square package. It was pristine, with not a scratch on the box. It felt almost awkward to hold, embarrassing to inspect, as your face flushed a few shades brighter. You knew what it was, of course, but a part of you assumed that every last condom on Earth had been destroyed, crushing the possibility of you ever having safe sex in this unsafe world. Now that you held one in your hand, that small hope that Five could give you what you wanted, and so desperately needed, was reignited. However, you would rather be all alone in this apocalypse again than face Five, holding up the form of protection as if it were your savior, and ask him to fuck you. You would rather die than face that embarrassment. 

“Find anything?” 

His voice appeared out of the blue. Or maybe it didn’t. 

Maybe you were just too lost in your own head to notice how he’d peered his head into the aisle to see you so deeply in thought, holding something you had found in your hand. 

Maybe he had gently dropped the handle of the wagon to the floor, and made his walking quietly to stand behind you, as your peripheral vision seemed to be long gone as well. 

Maybe when he noticed what you had in your hand, it all clicked for him. Your problem wasn’t that you were too good for him, it was that you were too horny for him. You were so bummed out about the fact he couldn’t risk being inside you while you were dry humping each other into oblivion that you were ignoring him entirely. He looked down over you, barely believing the fact that you were so out of it at the possibility of being able to fuck him. 

He couldn’t blame you. He himself was ecstatic, with only a smirk and slightly larger bulge to show for it. 

When he finally spoke, it shattered your thoughts, abruptly pulling you from your inner turmoil. 

You jumped, dropping the condom and almost dispersing your collection of items across the tile floor. Instead, you quickly stood up, tossing your items into the wagon, and walking off without a word. 

~~~

The walk back to the base was agonizing. The sun had gradually set, cooling the Earth once more, leaving the two of you to freeze. The tips of your nose and ears were red and numb, even your hat and bandana couldn’t protect you from the harsh winds. 

You hadn’t spoken a word to Five, although he hadn’t tried to make conversation either. He found it hilarious that he could see your scowl, specifically through your furrowed brows above your bandana, yet you couldn’t see the grin under his. 

Once you finally made it back to the base, you immediately took the wagon from his grasp and pulled it over to your rations, where you began going through everything you’d scavenged. After a few minutes of concentrated sorting, you looked over your shoulder to see Five standing there watching you work. 

“Did you need an invitation to help or..?” you sarcastically said, his silence aggravating you. 

He lowered his bandana and began removing his gloves, “Oh, so now you want to talk.” 

You scoffed, resuming your work, “I’m sorry you missed my voice so much, I didn’t realize how much you crave my attention.” 

He walked over to the collection of clothing the two of you keep close to the rations and tossed his jacket, hat, and gloves on top of the pile. 

You were worried. Usually when the two of you fought he looked violent, angry, like he hated exchanging insults with you. Now, he looked far too amused, raising your suspicions. 

He laughed under his breath, ignoring your previous claim as he leaned against the concrete wall and stared at you. 

You had completely lost concentration on what you were doing, turning your focus to Five. “What’s funny?” you asked, clearly not getting what was so amusing to him.

“How much of a brat you are when you don’t get your way.” 

That one sentence lit a fire of pure anger in your eyes, a flame that he’d missed more that he’d like to admit. 

He stalked toward you as you stood up, already gearing up to smack the shit out of him. 

“I’m not-” 

“You are,” he interrupted, stepping closer while continuing to taunt you, adding fuel to the fire. 

“I am not-” 

“You are. You’re mad you don’t get fucked so you decide to shut down and-” 

Before he can finish his sentence, your hands are already on him, shoving him till he stumbles backward in an attempt to regain his balance. In an immediate response, he pushes you back in retaliation, only for you to shove him over with all your might. 

He falls backward and lands on the very edge of the makeshift bed. Your gaze is filled with rage, face flushing with anger, until you see what fell from his pocket as he hit the bed. 

A condom. 

The small box that you had dropped when he confronted you in the aisle, he had picked up and hid in his pocket, bringing it back to the base with him. 

Your shoulders dropped, breathing fast as you looked up at him. 

He was now leaning back on his elbows on the rough blankets, smiling up at you with that smug smile he always wore when he was right about something. In any other case, you would have wanted nothing more than to smack him black and blue, wiping that smirk off his face. However in this scenario, you found a more efficient way to occupy his lips. 

Immediately, you rushed forward and crashed your lips onto his. He pulled you between his legs, wrapping his arms tight around your torso, and leaned backward fully until you were both horizontal against the bed. 

This wasn’t like the last time you kissed. 

Last time, kissing was a last resort. It was that little bit of sensual connection you both needed to push you both over that very edge of pleasure. 

Now, it was only the beginning. It was messy, desperate, and greedy as the two of you swapped spit and swirled tongues. Your hands held the sides of his neck as you pulled his face against yours, while his gripped your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear if he ever let go. 

He moved one hand from your waist to push up off the bed, sitting up and pulling your legs around his waist. He dipped you slightly, holding you firmly against his chest with one arm to lean down and pick up the condom, all while keeping his mouth firmly against yours. He placed it down next to him, bringing his hand back to your body, unzipping your coat and tossing it aside. 

The long sleeve shirt came off next, as you unwillingly separated yourself from Five’s lips, lifting yourself up to sit on top of him, hands pressing down on his chest, pinning him down to the bed. 

In the heat of the moment, after stripping each other completely bare, feeling the chill of the breeze that crept through the cracks of the base brush your skin, you had completely forgotten you had ever been upset with this man. Any rage you’d previously felt when you looked at him, completely vanished. Your hatred towards him was gone. 

Now, you were straddling the waist of an angel. A beautiful, masculine angel laying underneath you like he was a gift from God, sent to save you from this hell on Earth. 

His hair was played out around his head like a halo, grown shaggy, yet there was barely any stubble decorating his face. His skin was flush and fair, eyes perfectly dilated as they looked up to you, bare above him.  

His hands moved from your waist to your breasts, toying with you as he listened for your soft gasps, hips jolting against his at every spark of pleasure. The only items of clothing separating the two of you now were your underwear and his boxers. You laid back slightly, leanly against his bent knees for support, and grinded your core against him, feeling your warm slick soaking through the fabrics between you. 

His groans were heavenly, his head leaned back, enjoying the pressure from your hips, mindlessly twisting and pulling at your nipples, eliciting whines from you. 

He began to lift his hips to meet yours, increasing the friction and stimulation to your core. His eyes met your face, eyes lost in a daze, your face blushed and concentrated on reaching your high. 

Just before you could reach that high, about to topple over the very edge, he pulled you back down against him and flipped you both over. 

That was when you remembered he’s still the same man you’ve been stuck here with. A man who is a completely selfish asshole that the only physical contact you want to initiate with him is a smack right across his smug face. 

“Are you fucking kiddin-” He cut you off with a strong kiss, which he didn’t break as he removed the condom from its boxed and peeled open the wrapper. He pulled away and sat on his knees, bringing his sexual education lessons back from his memory and placed the condom on correctly, before lining himself up with your entrance and leaning back over you, lining his face up with yours. 

“You don’t have to do this,” he assured you. 

This might have been the only time you witnessed him acting like an actual, decent human being. And while you appreciated the gesture of consent, you couldn’t wait any longer. 

“Five,” you breathed out, eyes pleading, “I need it.” 

And with that, he slid himself between your folds a few times before carefully pushing in. You thought his fingers were big last night, but now with his cock barely halfway inside you, the sensation was mind numbing. Your arms wrapped around his back as he filled you up entirely, barely audible gasps filling his ear. He stilled once he was all the way in, concentrating heavily on not immediately spilling into the condom, ruining this entire moment, but the way your cunt squeezed around him, not wanting to let him, made it very hard not to break. 

After a moment he slowly began to move, pulling out slowly, before pushing right back in, somehow feeling even deeper as he hit a spot deep within you that sent a wave of pleasure over your entire body. 

He buried his face into your neck, sucking and biting in the sensitive skin, as your hands moved up to thread through his hair, tugging gently. 

Once the both of you got used to the feeling, he began moving faster, getting rougher. With each thrust into you, he groaned out into your ear as you met his movements with the same force. It was animalistic, greedy, intimate, you felt so close to him that you were practically melting into each other. 

When the thrusts became erratic and the whines and groans grew higher in pitch, it was clear neither of you could last much longer. He met his lips with your, barely touching, just enough to let his moans mix with yours, just as they had last night. His hands reached to grip your hips, pinned them down, allowing him to piston into you, chasing you to the edge as you let go around him. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, head leaning back, giving him access to continue marking your neck. The sensation from you cumming around him undid him, as he finally groaned into your neck and spurted into the condom, his hips finally spurting to a slow stop. 

He collapsed on top of you, his weight grounding you back to reality as you realized what just happened. After a moment, he slowly pulled out, removing the condom before immediately laying on you once more. With his cheek pressed flat against your collarbone, his breathing steadied, quickly falling asleep with a strangely unfamiliar look of peace expressed on his unconscious face.

This time around, you weren’t sure what this changed between the two of you, but you decided it could wait. 

You two had all the time in the world after all. 

~~~

tags: @lveegsoi @aureliariddlehargreeves @groovydazephantom @lovingyeet @venture-venus @greek-girl-dreams

[girlietips]

Welcome to the End of Your Lazy Girl Era:July Productivity Challenge

Hey cutiesssss! Here are the rules I am going to outline in the challenge for you to complete everyday. While this challenge does not start until July I am posting this early in case you want to plan out your July more.

So here are the rules for the month.

Must have some sort of planner or calendar of your choosing. This can be as simple as a piece of paper that you right your to dos or a full planner( I am going to make a post about my planner and all my tricks)

You must complete 3 tasks every single day. If you don’t have a task that needs to get done that day you can work ahead, revise old work, or complete a random task that answers the question “how can I help out future me?”. You can do more but I recommend focusing on three main tasks every day.

Keep track of your screen time and have a goal to lessen it. Now you don’t have to completely track it but I plan on putting time limits on the apps I tend to doom scroll.

Every night do a “closing shift” and clean up your workspace and write out tomorrow’s tasks. (I am going to make a detailed post on my closing shift I do)

Get ready every single day. You don’t got to be dressed to the nines but brush your hair and put on clothes every day. (Trust it’s so much easier to be productive when you are prepared for the day ahead)

Keep track of all the tasks you got done this month so you can see how much you got done. (July has 31 days so if you have 3 tasks every day you will have completed 93 tasks🎉)

Simple rules. I also plan on adding weekly challenge tasks that are optional. These will include things like cleaning, self care, and decluttering. I plan on putting them out the weekend before and you have the whole week to work on them. I also am going to make a bunch of productivity and studying posts so if you have anything you have questions about or want me to go into depth let me know and I’ll make posts about it. Also if any of you want help directly feel free to ask. I plan on being more active this month!

Xoxo 💋

[f1gc]

formula 1 graphic challenge - july

hello again it's almost july???

how it works:

at the beginning of the month, you and another blog are given the same image of a driver you both like

you have until the end of the month to make a graphic featuring that image

you can sign up for up to 3 graphics!

entering:

fill out this google form by 9am est june 30

reblog this post (as always, we're not gonna like. check. but the more people the better, no?)

assignments will be sent out via dm (so if you have your dms set to people you follow only you'll need to follow @albon-no)

posting:

posting begins the first day of the month and ends the last day of the month (july 1 - 31)

post the graphic to your own blog, and be sure to tag your partner's blog and this blog

that's it! this is open to anyone and everyone who likes f1, so even if you've never made a graphic before, now's your chance to start! if you have any questions please don't hesitate to ask :)

[astrae4]

UNTOLD CONFESSIONS BENEATH THE STORM | Han Dongmin

pairings — boynextdoor’s taesan x reader (non idol au)

genre — exes to lovers, heavy angst, romance (wc. 998)

warnings — big angst, miscommunication, swearing, and suggestive bc they make out

note — this one’s requested from this anon! whoever u are tysm for this <3 also lowkey i’m on a writing rollll rn so expect a lot of posts from me these months HAHA

more works: navigation | bnd!masterlist

YOU DON’T KNOW WHY you’re here.

It’s embarrassing.

Still. You don’t turn back.

Your skin pricks from the cold, the uncomfortable feeling of clothes sticking to your flesh hugs your entire body like a burden, weighing you down. You’d rather take this burden than the burden swarming in your mind, however.

It consumes you—the pain swelling in your heart; the tears that rain down your face.

To be broken up with over text while you were on vacation?

Is your worth that low to not even deserve a person-to-person break up?

Your head feels heavy as you see his house’s porch, his jacket drenched and unable to provide you the comfort you felt when you were with him. Maybe it actually felt heavy because of the weight of the rain and not the overwhelming heartbreak you feel, but the tears in your peripheral vision blurs your thoughts, blending what’s rational and what’s unreal.

You step onto the familiar white plank, ringing the golden bell which echoed the songs of happy memories. Even covered by blue and misery, your mind connects the bell’s ring with the unanticipated emotion of joy.

The door opens.

Your ex-boyfriend stands in front of you; red rimmed eyes, puffed up with tears and looking like a mess as if he wasn’t the one who ended the relationship.

As if you aren’t about to get sick physically and mentally from the rain.

“[reader]—“

You cut him off, your voice raspy and ladened with anger and grief. “Why?”

Taesan freezes.

Maybe it’s the look on your face. Or the fact that your fists are clenched at your sides. Or that you’re standing there like a ghost of the girl who used to sit with him on that porch and laugh about stupid things—like whether strawberry milk or banana milk tasted more like love. But something in him cracks.

He whispers your name again, softer. Like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

“Tae, you broke up with me over text,” you continue, your throat raw and vulnerable and so, so hurt. “You didn’t even call. I was gone for two weeks and you—” your voice breaks, “you didn’t even give me the decency of telling it to my face.”

He says nothing. Just looks at you like he’s drowning too—as if it’s too late to save both of you.

You shake your head, water flicking from your hair. “If you didn’t want to be with me anymore, you could’ve just said that. But don’t pretend like you were doing it for my sake.”

That makes him look up sharply.

“I was,” he says, the words snapping out like thunder.

You stare.

He steps back, opens the door wider. “Come in. Please. Before you actually get hypothermia.”

You hesitate. The logical part of you screams to turn around. But your heart’s already halfway across the threshold.

So you walk in. Soaked socks and all.

The warmth hits you instantly, but it doesn’t sink into your skin. Not yet. He disappears down the hallway and returns with a towel, placing it gently over your shoulders without a word. You hate how you heart still flutters and how natural the gesture feels. How familiar.

You sit on the couch you’ve sat on a hundred times before, and he sits across from you like there’s an ocean between you instead of a coffee table.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Taesan says quietly, after a long pause. “Someone told me… things. About how I wasn’t good for you. That I was dragging you down. That you’d be better off without someone like me.”

You stiffen. “Who?”

He hesitates. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does.”

A beat.

“My cousin,” he says finally. “He said—he said I was making you soft. That you were starting to turn down things for me. That you were too bright for someone like me.”

You scoff. “So you just believed him?”

“No. I—” he exhales shakily. “I saw how hard you worked. And I thought maybe he was right. So I tried to let go before I ruined you more.”

“That wasn’t your choice to make,” you say quietly.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

Silence again. Except for the rain knocking against the windows like it’s impatient for something to happen.

“I cried the day I messaged you even when it was my fault,” he says suddenly. “And the day after. And last week. And… basically every day since.”

“Then why didn’t you text back? Why did you let your cousin get in your head?”

He looks at you, helpless. “Because I didn’t think I deserved you.”

You’re quiet. The words are bitter in your mouth, but you taste truth in them.

You look at him. Really look.

He’s still the boy you fell for. Still your favorite color in human form. Still the person who remembered how you liked your toast and tied your shoelaces when your fingers were too cold.

And you still love him. You never stopped.

You stand.

He watches you like you might walk out, his hands trembling with vulnerability that you know he usually hides away.

But instead, you take a step closer.

“Do you want to fix this?” you ask, voice barely a whisper.

His answer is instant, “Yes.”

Another step.

“Even if it’s messy?”

He nods, desperate.

“Even if I get mad sometimes?”

He stands now too, so close you could count the raindrops still clinging to his eyelashes.

“I’ll take messy,” he breathes, “Fuck—I’m so sorry. I’ll take anything, [reader]..”

You kiss him.

It’s desperate, speaking a thousand words unsaid. His hands clutch your arms, holding it so tight it slightly hurts. But he’s afraid you’d go; you feel his hands tremble. His mouth encases yours needily like he’s trying to make you forget everything but him. You kiss him back with much vigor, hand going to his face to reassure him in all the right ways.

The rain keeps pouring outside.

But here, beneath the storm, there’s something that’s finally calm.

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© astrae4 2025 — please don't copy, translate, or plagiarize my works on all platforms!

[aylacavebear]

An Arranged Marriage - Alternate Version

Your parents told you when you were twelve. You’d seen lots of Disney and kid movies up until this point, so you thought you had a good idea of what being married to someone meant and how it was supposed to go. On top of that, you were taught how to be a hunter and use your unique set of abilities. 

The way they had explained why you, it had to do with Bastet and her desire to bridge the world of hunters and monsters. Not all monsters were evil or killed people. Some hunters saw this and acted accordingly, letting those monsters live. However, it was less than a handful, and Bastet was hoping for a better way to bridge the gap.

But what happens when, on your 21st birthday, you meet a stranger in a bar who makes you feel things you know you shouldn't?

Paring: Dean x OCF Reader/You

Word Count: 8593

Warning: Angst, Fluff, Dean being an ass, Longing for strangers at a bar.

A/N: Here's the alternate version I had in my head that I mentioned in the first one I posted. It's not as long as the other one, but no less emotional. I hope you guys like it.

Original Version Here.

----------------------------------------- For a while, you daydreamed about some handsome prince and a fairy tale life. You’d write out things in your personal journal, dreams of a child. When you’d watch movies with a romantic couple, you daydreamed it was Dean, even though you had no idea what he looked like or what kind of personality he had. You were a kid and so very naive. 

After graduating high school, you began going on hunts alone, having honed your abilities over the years. There was a freedom in it, without the politics of niceties during interactions. With other people, it was like a dance of words, testing to see what was okay to talk about and what not to talk about so you didn’t set someone off. Monsters were easy to deal with. Monsters were either good or bad. They didn’t have that gray area like humans did.

It was six months after your eighteenth birthday that you were supposed to meet this Dean Winchester, your soon-to-be husband. You couldn’t help but be excited and had spent nearly an hour in your room attempting to figure out what to wear. Clothes were strewn everywhere, several pieces laid out over different surfaces. You finally went with a pair of jeans and a comfy shirt and pulled a red flannel over that, leaving it unbuttoned. As the time neared, you felt butterflies in your stomach and anticipation coursing through you. It was the phone call ten minutes before the time that made you frown. Then, your mother was apologizing to you, saying something had come up on their end. You brushed this one aside. They were hunters too. It was a viable reason, this time.

When it happened two more times, your fairy tale world shattered. This one, you heard him in the background of the call as you sat near your mother on the couch. “I’m not marrying a monster!” Those had been his yelled words laced with anger, venom, and disdain.

Even being eighteen and technically an adult, you still had that child-like wonder, hope, and optimism. You dreamed of the kind of love they wrote about in stories. You had run to your room before the call had even ended, the tears already falling, then slammed your door. Monster, he’d called you. Technically, you were. You weren’t human, so you fell into that category. As you sat on your bed, trying to wipe away the tears as they fell, you thought back to the movies you watched growing up. The monster was always killed. The monster didn’t get a happy ending. The monster wasn’t loved. 

With that realization, you began packing a bag, your hunting bag. It was at that moment that you started constructing walls around yourself. You knew you couldn’t get out of this marriage and that at twenty-five, it would happen by Bastet’s hand if it hadn’t been done before. 

Seven years. I have seven years to postpone this.

You kept yourself busy with hunts, being home less and less. The next meeting that had been set up, you sat on your bed, dressed in what you called your hunting clothes, far too lost in thought. So far, the Winchesters hadn’t canceled. Your bag sat packed behind you. The sound of an engine pulled your attention from your thoughts as your heart hammered. Then your expression hardened. Fuck this asshole. With the anger welling up again, you grabbed your bag, slinging the strap over your shoulder, and slipped out of your bedroom window. Cats really do always land on their feet.

Moving quickly, you went for the nearest tree, extended your claws, and climbed it till you were hidden by the foliage. With quick thinking, you pulled out your phone and put it on silent, then slipped it back into your pocket. 

Part of you wanted to see your future husband, the curious, hopeful part. So, you had lingered in that tree, but you never did get a clear view of him before the four Winchesters had reached the front door. Only a minute later, your phone started vibrating in your pocket. You knew your parents were pissed, but you didn’t care. You wanted to hurt Dean like he had hurt you.

Yelling had begun coming from your house as you slipped from the tree and walked away, head held high and feeling justified, at least a little. Why? You’d heard Dean yelling and could hear the anger in his tone, as a smirk had found the corners of your lips.

—------------------------ A/N: Here’s where the story changes…

On your twenty-first birthday, you headed to the local bar. You were supposed to be home, getting ready for another meeting, but you weren’t in the mood. What was the point in meeting a man who only thought of you as a monster? The bar wasn’t loud, but it thrummed—low music pulsing from an old jukebox in the corner, the speaker crackling just enough to irritate your sharp ears. Laughter rose now and then in bursts, mostly from a corner table near the pool table where someone had stacked a win streak. Ice clinked in lowball glasses. A ceiling fan ticked overhead with every sluggish spin, keeping time with the lazy rhythm of the room. Somewhere behind the bar, a dishwasher cycled through cloudy glasses that still smelled faintly of hops and lime.

You paused inside the door, instincts bristling beneath your skin. The air was dense—wood, old beer, smoke woven into fabric, the metallic tang of a fresh scrape, and too many people wearing too much cologne to cover nerves or loneliness. You tasted the mix in the back of your throat and blinked slowly, adjusting.

Still better than spending the night pretending to smile for a man who called you a monster.

You chose a stool near the far end of the bar, where the light was low and the press of bodies thin. The vinyl seat gave a soft squeak beneath you, and you crossed your ankles beneath the high stool, back to the wall, gaze sweeping the room behind half-lowered lashes. From here, you could see everyone. No one could see too much of you.

The bartender was already moving your way before you could lift a hand—mid-thirties, with a buzzcut, a crooked nose that had broken at least once, and a towel slung over his shoulder. “ID?” he asked, voice roughened by years of talking over crowds.

You didn’t answer right away. Just arched a brow, then slid your hand into the pocket of your flannel. The plastic caught against the edge of your nail as you pulled it free and held it out—not delicately, but not disrespectfully either. Just… flat. Like a challenge wrapped in casual disinterest.

The bartender took it with a glance, raised one eyebrow, then handed it back.

“Happy birthday, I guess,” he muttered, already reaching for a clean glass.

“I didn’t say it was,” you said, slipping the ID back into your pocket.

“But you didn’t deny it,” he said without looking at you, pouring with the kind of measured experience that told you he didn’t need the conversation, but he didn’t mind it either.

You shrugged a shoulder, watching the amber liquid slosh into the short glass. “Double whiskey.”

“Any particular kind?”

“Whatever bites back.”

That got a small smirk out of him. “You one of those tough types who drinks it just to prove you can?”

“No,” you said, fingers curling around the cool glass as he set it down. “I drink it because I’m tired.”

That shut him up in the right way. Not uncomfortable—just respectful. He gave a slow nod and moved on without asking more.

You raised the glass, let the scent hit your senses—oak, char, just a hint of smoke—and took your first sip like you’d done it a hundred times before.

The burn was real, but you didn’t flinch.

The whiskey burned less the second time around.

You didn’t ask for another. Just gave the bartender a glance and a subtle lift of your glass. He got the message and poured without a word, setting the bottle aside with a quiet thunk.

You cradled the drink in your hands, eyes fixed on the amber swirl, but your ears stayed tuned to everything. Clinks of glass. The scrape of boots. The low murmur of conversation. The couple in the booth to your left were fighting in whispers—about money, probably. Someone near the jukebox had just picked another Springsteen song.

Then—

The front door opened hard, too hard. A gust of outside air rushed in, pulling smoke and bar-stale heat with it. Heavy boots hit the floor with the kind of rhythm that announced a man was either on a mission or just pissed off enough to not care how loud he was.

You didn’t bother looking. You felt him long before he got close—confident stride, broad presence, heat rolling off him like a furnace. And something else. Anger. Not the reckless kind. This was deeper. Focused. Familiar.

He scanned the bar like he was expecting someone specific, and your instincts flickered to attention. Not danger, exactly. Just… tension. Static. He looked right at you. And then moved on.

Just a chick at the bar. Nothing more.

He slid onto the stool beside yours, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed, and ordered a beer with a voice that could command a room. Gravel, whiskey, and a little too much mood.

You didn’t look at him. Not right away. But you could feel his eyes on you. Like he was trying to read your story just from the way you held your glass.

Dean didn’t know who you were. Not yet. But you matched the description in his head in all the wrong ways—wrong because you were supposed to be something else. Some monster. Some responsibility he didn’t ask for. Not a woman sitting alone at a bar on her birthday, drinking like she had something to forget. But you couldn’t be her, not with the human emotions swimming in your eyes.

He saw the braid first. Tight. Precise. Like everything about you had been chosen with care. Jeans that fit. Tank top. Flannel unbuttoned and loose enough to say you didn’t care—but not quite loose enough to convince him you believed that.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched you sip your drink, the flicker of pain behind your eyes disappearing before it could settle. That sadness? Hidden well. But not well enough.

So of course he spoke.

“You don’t look like someone who drinks cheap whiskey on a Tuesday night.”

You didn’t glance over. Just kept your eyes on your glass, tongue flicking against your inner cheek before answering.

“I’m legal today,” you said, tone cool, casual. “Figured I’d try out a bar.”

Dean’s brow lifted slightly, intrigued. “Yeah? And is it all you thought it was cracked up to be?”

You chuckled without humor. It was a short sound—dry, sharp. “Nope.” You popped the “p” like punctuation, then took another sip before adding, quieter, “It’s just better than being home.”

The sadness wasn’t in your words exactly—it was in the pause between them, the breath you held too long, the way your shoulders dipped the tiniest bit before you caught yourself.

Dean watched you. Not in a leering way. Not even a flirtatious one—yet. Just… studying. Trying to read between the lines like they were salt rings on the table.

“Homelife that bad, huh?” he said after a beat, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Not mocking—just trying to pull the weight off the air between you. His voice softened a touch. “Can’t tell if that’s relatable or tragic.”

You finally turned to look at him.

And he was…

Too handsome. That was your first impression, and it pissed you off a little. Messy, short-cropped hair that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be light brown or gold under the bar’s flickering neon. Stubble along a sharp jawline. Freckles ghosted across his cheeks and nose—just enough to suggest he spent more time in the sun than most. That jaw alone could’ve carried its own arrogance, but his eyes didn’t match it.

Green. Clear. With a trace of something tired at the edges.

Your gaze flicked over him once, quick and cool, before you turned back to your drink.

“I’m supposed to marry someone who doesn’t exactly like me,” you said.

Just that. Flat. Matter-of-fact. No weight behind it. Like it didn’t matter, even though it did.

Dean blinked, lips parting slightly in surprise—but not at the arranged marriage part. That wasn’t uncommon in his world. He was thrown by the honesty. The lack of spin.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, lifting his beer to his lips. “That’s one hell of a birthday present.”

You chuckled again, but it was dry and brittle around the edges. “Tell me about it. I thought I was kinda likable…” You paused, frowning faintly. “…maybe.”

Dean tilted his head, watching you over the rim of his beer. Something in your voice tugged at a thread in him—not pity, not even sympathy exactly. Just… recognition. A familiar ache in an unfamiliar shape.

He leaned an elbow on the bar, turning slightly toward you, posture loose but attention sharp. “Did he say why he didn’t like you?” he asked, voice dipping into something less teasing. Genuine curiosity had crept in now.

You hesitated, brows pulling together. That was the tricky part, wasn’t it? You couldn’t exactly say, He thinks I’m a monster. That kind of honesty didn’t go over well in bars.

“Not really,” you said, voice quieter now, the words dragging a little. “Just that I wasn’t what he wanted.” It was close enough to the truth for you that you could say it and mean it.

Dean let that sit for a second. Took another sip of his beer and weighed his next words carefully. He didn’t know you, didn’t know the story—but something about the way you said it… it didn’t sound like rejection from a bad date. It sounded like rejection of something deeper.

So he tried a different tack.

“Well,” he said, tapping his fingers once against his bottle, “why don’t you tell me about some of the stuff you do like? Might help narrow it down. Maybe I can diagnose the problem.” He offered a half-smile then, all charm and mischief—the patented Dean Winchester smirk that had knocked more than a few hearts sideways.

You didn’t look at him. Just shrugged, gaze focused on the melting ice in your glass.

“You’ll probably just think I’m weird,” you muttered.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice low and amused, “I already think you’re weird. But in the good way.”

That earned a ghost of a smile. Just a flicker.

You downed the rest of your drink in one practiced motion and set the glass down with a soft clink, nodding toward the bartender without a word. He poured you another with a grunt, and you wrapped your hands around the new one before answering.

“I like classic rock,” you said, still watching the swirl of amber in your glass. “And… some other stuff, but not as much. I like baking sometimes—when I’ve got people around to share it with.” You paused. “I love horror movies, but I also love Scooby-Doo.”

Dean blinked. Then grinned.

“Okay, first of all,” he said, straightening a little, “Scooby-Doo is a goddamn classic.”

That made you look at him again, sideways, with a trace of surprise.

“I’m serious,” he went on, gesturing with his bottle. “Traps, monsters, a dog that talks, and a bunch of idiots solving mysteries in a van? That’s peak entertainment. I don’t care how old you are.”

You shook your head slightly, not quite laughing—but it was close.

“You’re weird,” you said.

Dean grinned wider. “Takes one to know one.”

You didn’t expect the conversation to last past that second drink.

But somehow, it did.

It slipped from music to movies, then food—his favorite was cheeseburgers, and when he said “with bacon… and also just bacon,” you laughed, a real laugh, the kind that caught you by surprise and made him grin like he’d won something. He liked pie. Of course he did. You said you’d die for a good slice of cherry, and he nodded solemnly like that was a universal truth.

He never asked your name, and you didn’t ask his. That felt… safer. Like keeping the moment in a snow globe—perfect, contained, untouchable.

You told him you liked thunderstorms. The scent of wet asphalt and pine. Baking when there were people to eat what you made. The feeling of worn-in cotton. The quiet between songs when you’re driving alone at night. You told him you liked to be outside, barefoot in the grass, stargazing when it was warm enough. He didn’t tease you. He just… listened. Like it mattered.

He shared things too. Bits and pieces. He hated paperwork. Loved classic cars. Said there was nothing better than the sound of a good engine. He talked about music like it was stitched into his soul—told you which tracks were best blasted loud, windows down, the wind trying to steal the sound away. And he asked things, too. Not in a prying way. Just curious. Easy.

The bartender eventually cut the jukebox and called out, “Closing time.”

You blinked, as if waking from a dream. The bar had emptied around you, the seats near you now cold and bare. The quiet hit like a tide pulling out, leaving you weightless.

“Shit,” Dean muttered, glancing around, surprised. “Guess time got away from us.”

You smiled, soft and small, still cradling your half-finished last drink.

He looked at you, and something in his expression changed. Not dramatic—just deeper, heavier around the edges. Like he was seeing more of you than he had at the start of the night.

“Well,” he said, voice lower now, sincere, “hopefully the guy you’re supposed to marry can open his eyes and really see you. ’Cause I think you’re pretty damn amazing.”

The words landed like heat against your skin. You weren’t used to hearing things like that. Not anymore. And especially not from someone who didn’t know what you were.

Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you smiled again—this one shy, a little crooked—and ducked your head.

“Thanks,” you murmured, brushing your fingers against the rim of your glass. “Really.”

You pulled out your wallet, paid your tab with quiet efficiency, and slid off the stool.

His eyes followed you as you walked to the door, but he didn’t call out. Didn’t ask your name. Just watched, like maybe he already knew he wouldn’t see you again.

The night air hit your face like a soft slap, cool and sharp. You tucked your hands into your pockets, the buzz of whiskey keeping your limbs loose as you stepped into the shadows.

You didn’t look back.

But your heart did.

Your mind wandered and argued like it often did when you were alone. Only now, it was worse and better simultaneously.

It wasn’t fair.

He had been kind. Warm. A little cocky, yeah—but in a way that felt earned, not weaponized. The green-eyed stranger at the bar had treated you like you were worth knowing. Like you weren’t strange, or wrong, or less.

Why couldn’t he be the one you were supposed to marry?

You didn’t go home. You didn’t want to hear the disappointment in your father’s sigh or see the frustration in your mother’s eyes. You didn’t want to hear more about duty. About the bond Bastet had set in motion. You didn’t want to hear how grateful you should be.

Instead, you drove until the gas gauge hit a line and the ache behind your eyes became a dull throb. The first motel you found had a flickering vacancy sign and a front desk clerk who didn’t ask questions. You slid your ID across the counter, got a plastic key, and walked into a room that reeked of bleach and regret.

The bedspread was too stiff. The wallpaper was peeling at the corners. And something about the carpet made your skin crawl—but it was still easier than going home.

You dropped your bag on the chair, kicked off your boots, and sat heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on your knees. For a moment, you just stared at the floor. The silence roared.

Eventually, you dug your phone out of your back pocket. You hadn’t looked at it since you left home when the Winchesters had shown up. There were texts, missed calls. One from Jess—concerned, but soft. One from your father, short and clipped: We need to talk.

And one from your mother.

That was the one that made your stomach twist.

“The wedding has been moved up. Bastet is stepping in to handle everything. You'll meet him soon. Be ready.”

Your thumb hovered over the screen for too long.

The room suddenly felt too small. Like the walls had leaned in while you weren’t looking.

You dropped the phone on the nightstand and leaned back, staring at the ceiling with wide, dry eyes. Your chest felt hollow and full all at once—grief, confusion, guilt, and something sharp beneath it all.

Because now you knew.

Now you knew what it felt like to sit next to someone who looked at you like you mattered. Who made you laugh. Who didn’t flinch at your weirdness. Who thought you were amazing, even when you didn’t say your name.

And you knew exactly who you weren’t allowed to want. The green-eyed man.

You didn’t sleep much that night in the motel. Dozing came in fits and starts, the hum of the air conditioning unit battling the noise in your head. You kept thinking about the bar. His smile. The way he listened. The ache that had bloomed somewhere deep when he told you you’re pretty damn amazing.

It wasn’t supposed to matter.

And yet, it did. More than it should have.

The next two days blurred past you, a mess of arrangements handled without your involvement. Bastet’s influence was subtle but absolute—vendors lined up, a venue secured, paperwork already signed and sealed in places you hadn’t touched. Your mother looked relieved. Your father tried to meet your gaze and couldn’t hold it long.

You didn’t fight it. You didn’t speak against it.

You just… moved.

Hair trials. Fittings. Table settings. Flowers you hadn’t picked but somehow liked.

The morning of, you woke with your stomach in knots and your head full of cotton. Everything felt distant. You floated through it—the makeup, the hair, the half-hearted small talk from your mother’s friend. You nodded when prompted, thanked people with a voice that wasn’t yours. You sat when told to sit, stood when told to stand.

It wasn’t until you were alone in that room at the church that it hit you.

The mirror didn’t lie.

You looked beautiful.

The dress was elegant—ivory silk with subtle beading along the bodice, a fitted waist that flowed into a gentle train. Traditional, but not stiff. It moved when you did. Bastet’s magic, you were sure. She always had taste. Your hair had been done so it was half-up, half-down—soft curls cascading over your shoulders, the rest pinned back with delicate, silver combs. Makeup light. Natural. Just enough to define.

And yet.

Staring at yourself, you didn’t see beauty.

You heard his voice instead. From that night your parents tried to introduce you.

“I’m not marrying a monster.”

The echo wrapped around your ribs and squeezed.

You sank down into the chair beside the vanity, fingers curling in your lap to keep them from shaking. You didn’t cry. You hadn’t cried since the first time he’d said it.

The door opened, and you didn’t move.

“It’s time, sweetie,” your father said gently from the doorway. His voice was soft. His tie was crooked.

You didn’t look at him at first. Just pulled the veil down over your face and stared into the mirror. Your face had settled into the one you wore on hunts—calm, unreadable, armor behind your eyes.

You stood slowly, shoulders squared, chin lifted. Your father offered his arm. You took it.

The music started.

You didn’t really hear it. Just felt the shift in the room—the silence that fell when the doors opened. The hush that rippled outward as people stood.

Murmurs followed your steps down the aisle. You didn’t register the words. Something about beauty. Elegance. Perfection.

None of that mattered.

Looks faded. What stayed… was how people made you feel.

And then—

Your gaze lifted, moving toward the altar.

He was standing there.

And your heart stopped.

Green eyes. The same messy hair. The jaw you remembered. The mouth that had told you he thought you were amazing. The man who had unknowingly told you everything you’d needed to hear two nights ago.

Dean.

Dean Winchester.

He couldn’t see your face through your veil, and you weren’t sure if you were thankful or annoyed by that. Questions swirled through your mind at a speed that was too quick to think any of them to completion. You wanted to turn around and run.

The steps forward kept happening anyway.

You couldn’t stop walking.

You didn’t breathe.

—----------------

Dean’s POV… Dean stood at the altar like it was a firing squad.

Hands clasped in front of him. Jaw tight. Shoulders stiff beneath the weight of a suit jacket he didn’t want to be wearing. The collar itched. Everything felt too formal, too stiff, too final.

He’d stopped arguing two days ago. Bastet herself had intervened, and you didn’t win fights with gods. Especially not ones that technically meant well.

Didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

He didn’t know her—this girl, this stranger he was supposed to build a life with. All he knew were the headlines. Touched of Bastet. Powerful lineage. Good intentions. Not human.

And that was the part that stuck in his throat.

He’d grown up knowing what monsters could do. What they took. What they cost. Even the good ones—the ones you spared—they still walked the world with something other than human in their bones. Something dangerous. Something other.

So no, he hadn’t been excited.

Not until two nights ago. Not until the bar.

That woman—god, that woman—had sat beside him with tired eyes and a mouth that gave as good as it got. She’d been funny. Smart. Sharp around the edges and soft just beneath. He’d made her laugh. And she’d made him forget.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since.

Didn’t get her name. Didn’t ask. It felt wrong somehow, like naming the moment would pop the bubble they’d found themselves in. A perfect, fleeting night.

He hadn’t expected her to stay with him like that. But she had.

And now here he was, standing in a church that smelled too clean, wearing a tie he hated, waiting to marry someone who—

The music shifted.

Dean’s breath caught.

The doors opened.

And for a moment, time did that weird thing where everything slowed and narrowed.

She stepped into the room like something out of a dream. Long dress, veil drawn, moving like she was weightless. Like she didn’t belong to the world around her. There was something magnetic in the way she carried herself—shoulders back, chin lifted, grace in every step even as her father guided her forward.

Dean stared.

He couldn’t see her face, not yet. But something about her presence scraped against the inside of his chest. A whisper. A pull.

Familiar.

His brows pinched slightly. He didn’t understand it. His pulse picked up. His palms were suddenly damp. What the hell?

He locked his jaw and forced himself to breathe evenly as they came closer.

Three steps.

Two.

One.

Dean didn’t breathe when they stopped in front of him.

She stood so still beside her father, veil pulled down, gown catching the light like moonlight on water. There was something about her posture—regal, composed—that made something in his chest clench.

He could feel Sam’s presence at his side. Could feel the eyes of the crowd. But none of that mattered. Not really.

His focus narrowed the moment her father reached up with trembling hands and gently lifted the veil.

And everything shifted.

Dean’s world dropped out from under him.

Her.

Her.

The girl from the bar.

The one who drank whiskey neat and smiled like it cost her something. The one who liked baking and classic rock and Scooby-freaking-Doo. The one who made him laugh—really laugh—for the first time in longer than he could remember.

She was standing in front of him, eyes wide, lips parted just slightly.

And she was his bride.

He didn’t know what to say. Couldn’t say anything. His body moved on autopilot—reaching out, hands brushing hers as her father gave her away. There was a look on the old man’s face—grief, pride, fear—that made Dean’s throat tighten.

You looked up at him, and your eyes met—really met—and something clicked.

He saw the way your expression shifted. The softness that overtook the armor. The surprise. The hurt.

Dean’s breath caught as your hands slid into his.

He hadn’t known.

If he had known…

The pastor began speaking, voice a soft drone above the roar of blood in Dean’s ears. He couldn’t stop looking at you. Couldn’t stop remembering the way your eyes sparkled when you teased him. Couldn’t forget the way you’d said you weren’t what he wanted.

Jesus Christ.

He’d said that. He’d meant it. Back then.

But now?

Now, standing this close, fingers brushing yours, seeing the fear and strength layered behind your gaze—he wasn’t so sure anymore. Not about any of it.

Your lips moved, repeating the words the pastor spoke. Your voice was strong. Steady. You slipped the ring onto his finger like a vow wrapped in silence. His jaw twitched. He tried not to react, but the emotion burned through his mask.

Then the pastor said something that didn’t track.

“As you hold the ability of his life in your hands…”

Dean blinked.

Sam moved. And from his belt, pulled a gun.

Dean’s body tensed even before he saw it.

The Colt.

The Colt.

Sam offered it handle-first, and Dean took it slowly, weighing it in his palm before sliding it into the holster on his hip.

A single flicker of movement drew his gaze back to you.

Your eyes.

They’d dropped to the weapon. Just for a second. But it was enough.

Your mask cracked—just barely.

Fear. Pain. Resignation.

He’d seen that look before.

It gutted him.

Dean’s fingers twitched at his side, aching to reach out, to offer something—anything—but the pastor’s voice came again, final and full of weight.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

And Dean, who just two nights ago had laughed with a woman he didn’t know, now stepped closer to her—you—with something aching behind his ribs, whispering that maybe fate had a wicked sense of humor…

…but maybe it wasn’t wrong.

The kiss was barely more than a brush of lips—over in a heartbeat, polite and practiced, just enough to seal the vows and nothing more. The church erupted in applause and cheers like they’d all been holding their breath.

Dean stepped back the moment it ended, his expression unreadable. You didn’t even try to match it. You just stood there, staring into a sea of strangers clapping for a love story that didn’t exist.

You didn’t recognize most of them.

It hit you all at once, how many of his people were here. Friends. Family. Hunters. People who had watched this unfold, had participated in it—planning and coordinating and probably even laughing together at rehearsal dinners and meet-and-greets you never attended.

You had your parents. A few distant cousins. Bastet hadn’t come in person—only ensured the details had been perfect, like a divine wedding planner working behind the veil.

It was a reminder.

You’d always been the outlier.

Dean reached for your hand, still wearing that careful mask, and led you down the aisle together like it meant something. Like it wasn’t just survival instinct and obligation. You gave a faint smile to the crowd when they looked your way, something close to gratitude, though it was more muscle memory than feeling.

The door of the limo was opened for you with a practiced gentleman’s gesture. Dean helped you inside with the same detached grace he’d used for everything since the veil lifted. You gave him another soft smile, not quite real, not quite fake.

The moment the door shut and the limo began to move, silence settled like fog.

You didn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not yet.

He didn’t say anything. Just sat there, perfectly still, one arm braced on the door, the other resting on his thigh. The space between you might as well have been a canyon.

You focused on the glass, on the shifting blur of city lights and evening shadows. Your thoughts spiraled in all directions—none of them leading anywhere good.

How? How could someone say they wouldn’t marry a monster… and then tell you, not knowing who you were, that you were amazing?

You thought about the bar. About the way he’d looked at you. The warmth in his voice. The way he made you laugh and listened to every damn word like you mattered.

You clung to that night like a life raft—and hated yourself for it.

The reception was worse.

Too many voices. Too many eyes. Too much pretending.

You smiled, nodded, let them hug you. Told people how beautiful the ceremony was and how grateful you were. You laughed in all the right places, clinked your champagne glass when prompted, said thank you and of course like it meant something.

Dean stayed close when necessary, but always with that strained, polite distance.

The only real moment between you came during the dance.

His hand found yours like it had been scripted. His other rested at your waist—barely there, as if touching you too long would burn him. His jaw was locked, his smile hollow. You matched it with one of your own.

Neither of you said a word.

You caught him drinking more than once. Fast shots. No savoring. Just getting through it. You weren’t much better. You found the bar when you could, took your own drinks when no one was looking.

You stopped keeping count.

Eventually, the night ended.

The limo came again, like a hearse for whatever remained of your hope.

He didn’t touch you on the ride. Sat just as stiff and quiet as before. There was space between you—visible space, enough for a stranger to sit between.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

When the car pulled up to the house—your new home, a wedding gift from a goddess—you forced yourself to move. He was already out and around before you reached for the door handle. He opened it. Held out his hand.

You took it.

You smiled.

The moment the limo pulled away, his hand dropped.

He walked ahead without waiting.

Of course he did.

Your heart twisted again, sharp and bitter.

You followed, slower, quieter. The porch light glowed soft yellow, catching the edges of his silhouette as he unlocked the front door. You stepped in behind him and closed it—locking it out of habit.

The house smelled new. Clean wood and sage, maybe a hint of lavender. Bastet had filled it with warmth. She’d tried. There were signs of her everywhere—carved symbols tucked into corners, handpicked furnishings with comfort in mind, a stocked kitchen, thick curtains for privacy.

None of it mattered.

Dean had already shrugged off his jacket and was halfway to the bedroom, tugging at his tie.

Still not a word.

And you didn’t chase him.

You just stood in the middle of the living room in that stupid, beautiful dress with your heart in your throat and that sentence still playing on loop in your head—

I’m not marrying a monster.

Followed by the one that had come after, spoken in another life:

’Cause I think you’re pretty damn amazing.

And for the first time since the veil had lifted, you weren’t sure which version of Dean was real.

You followed, but only because you wanted out of the dress.

Dean was already by the bed, unfastening his cufflinks, his tux jacket tossed onto a nearby chair. His movements were mechanical—precise, practiced. Not rushed, not angry. Just… numb.

You didn’t speak.

Instead, you slipped into the walk-in closet, unable to care if he saw you or not.

You found one of your oversized shirts—a faded Led Zeppelin tee soft from age and wear—and a pair of cotton sleep shorts. They didn’t match. You didn’t care. They were you, and you needed that more than you could explain.

The dress came off piece by piece, fingers careful with the clasps even though part of you wanted to rip it free. The thing had felt like a costume since the moment Bastet summoned it into being. Beautiful, yes. But weighty. Unforgiving.

You hung it in the back corner of the closet, out of sight.

You weren’t sure when—if—you’d ever want to see it again.

Once dressed, you moved into the master bathroom. The makeup came off in slow, methodical swipes. You didn’t look yourself in the eye until the last of it was gone. Even then, you didn’t hold your gaze.

Your hair came down next. The gentle wave stayed in the strands, even as you brushed through it. You took your time. It gave your hands something to do. Something else to do.

When you stepped back into the bedroom, Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed. The tie was gone. Shirt unbuttoned halfway. His tux pants wrinkled from where he’d sat.

But it was the Colt in his hands that stopped you cold.

He wasn’t aiming it. Wasn’t even holding it with intent.

Just… studying it.

Turning it in his palm, fingers ghosting along the barrel.

Like he was trying to understand the weight of it.

The tension in the room changed—dense and still, like a thunderstorm waiting to break.

You didn’t say a word.

You just quietly turned and left the room.

Downstairs, the air felt different. Less suffocating. The kitchen was warm, inviting in its simplicity. A farmhouse layout with deep counters, a cast-iron skillet already seasoned and hanging from a rack, butcher block countertops, and a fridge stocked better than you expected.

You were hungry.

But you weren’t the kind of person who cooked for one.

So you pulled out the things for burgers.

Beef. Bacon. Cheese. Buns. Condiments. Onion.

The motions grounded you. The rhythm of cooking was familiar, comforting. Seasoning the meat, forming the patties, laying strips of bacon in the skillet. The sizzle was immediate, the smell intoxicating. You moved with precision and muscle memory, letting your senses guide you.

You didn’t expect him to follow.

But you heard him anyway.

The soft creak of the stairs. The shift of weight as he reached the threshold. He didn’t announce himself.

Didn’t need to.

His presence rolled in like smoke—quiet, lingering, uncertain.

You didn’t turn to look.

You flipped the bacon.

And waited.

—------------------- Dean’s POV…

The limo ride was quiet. Too quiet.

Dean sat stiff in the corner of the seat, one arm braced against the door, eyes locked on the blurred landscape outside. Her wedding dress kept its distance, even in stillness. That should’ve made things easier.

It didn’t.

He’d always been a man of action—shoot the thing, fix the car, patch the wound. Do something. But this?

This was different.

He kept stealing glances out of the corner of his eye. Not to make it awkward. Just… to look. And every time he did, he saw her—not the woman people had warned him about, not the Touched he’d been told he was marrying whether he liked it or not, not the monster he let his mind make her out to be.

No.

He saw her. The woman from the bar. The one who laughed like she hadn’t in years. The one who sipped whiskey like it was armor. The one he’d stayed with until closing just to make her smile one more time.

And I told her she was amazing.God, he thought, dragging a hand down his face. What the hell is wrong with me?

It was easier when he didn’t know.

But now? Now he was stuck in a memory loop, trying to reconcile the person he'd imagined—the threat he thought she'd be—with the woman who'd made him forget his own name two nights ago.

And he was failing.

By the time they reached the house, he was drowning in it.

He didn’t even think—just got out, walked to her side, opened the door, offered his hand. It felt automatic. Mechanical. But when her fingers touched his, something shifted. Just for a second.

And then he let go.

He walked inside first, every step echoing with something between dread and exhaustion. The house was warm—too warm, like it was trying to be welcoming. He hated how it made him feel. Like it was mocking him for not deserving it.

He headed straight for the bedroom.

Untucking his shirt as he went, loosening the tie. His hands moved like they’d done it a thousand times before—except nothing about tonight felt routine.

She followed, quiet as ever. Didn't say a word. Just disappeared into the closet to change.

And maybe he shouldn’t have looked.

But he did.

Just out of the corner of his eye, as he sat on the edge of the bed, fingers fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. She didn’t know. Didn’t even glance his way. She was focused—removing layer after layer of lace and satin, slipping into that old t-shirt like she was stepping into her real skin again.

He swallowed hard.

The curve of her spine. The long, lean lines of her legs. The quiet strength in the way she moved.

It hit him low, sudden, visceral.

He had to look away.

Had to sit.

He braced his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor, willing his body to not respond to her. He’d screwed this up enough already. The last thing she needed was him making it worse with… whatever the hell this was.

She passed by him then—clothed now, but barely. Loose shirt. Those shorts. Hair down. No more veil, no more armor. Just her. Real and raw and completely out of reach.

Dean didn’t even breathe as she crossed to the bathroom. But when she came out, not more than minutes later, she looked like herself. Like that woman from two nights ago, sad and alone.

The door shut softly behind her.

He exhaled like he’d been holding it for years.

Then, like a reflex, his hand went to the holster at his hip.

The Colt felt heavy. Wrong.

He turned it over in his hands, thumb brushing the grooves in the grip.

As you hold the ability of his life in your hands… He shall hold the ability of yours.

The pastor’s words echoed loud in his skull.

He looked at the weapon. At his own reflection in the polished barrel.

And suddenly, the weight wasn’t just metal.

It was her.

Her trust. Her pain. Her goddamn bravery, standing beside him anyway.

He didn’t deserve to carry this.

Not if it meant what it used to.

He got up slowly, walked to the dresser, and opened the top drawer. The gun slid beneath a layer of boxers with a soft thud, and he closed the drawer like he was sealing away a piece of the past.

He couldn’t hurt her.

Not anymore.

Not like that.

He didn’t bother finishing changing. Just padded barefoot down the stairs in his unbuttoned shirt and tux pants, stopping only when the smell hit him.

Bacon.

Grease. Beef. Toasting buns.

He rounded the corner and leaned against the kitchen doorway, and the sight stopped him cold.

She was cooking.

Two plates already out.

She’d made enough for both of them.

He watched her move, focused and steady, turning a burger in the skillet, stacking bacon on a plate lined with paper towels. Her hair swayed gently with each shift of her shoulders. She didn’t glance his way.

She was still trying.

Even after all of it.

And it gutted him.

He stayed there in the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, the other clenching and unclenching at his side.

How the hell do I fix this?

He didn’t have the answer.

But maybe… maybe this was where it started.

He didn’t mean to move.

Not really.

But somehow, his feet were carrying him forward—slow, measured steps across the tile. Like his body knew what his mouth still couldn’t find the words for. His heart thudded against his ribs, hard enough he was sure she’d hear it the second he got close.

He stopped just a foot behind her.

Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin.

Close enough to smell the mix of shampoo and burger grease and something unmistakably hers.

His voice came quiet. Rough with everything he still didn’t know how to say.

“I’m sorry.”

—----------------

You startled, even though you’d heard him move—sensed it. His scent had grown stronger, heavier in the space between you. But when he whispered those words, it sent a tremor down your spine. Your body jolted, lips parting as you turned, only to find him right there. So close. Too close. Not close enough.

Your breath caught.

And then your eyes met.

It hit like a thunderclap—recognition, not just of face, but feeling. All that time in the bar, the easy laughter, the weight of shared silence, the honesty of two strangers who didn’t know they were supposed to be enemies, or worse—married.

In his eyes, you saw the fear you’d buried in your own chest.

The anxiety you’d worn like armor all day.

The guilt that had gnawed at you for years.

And something else, something that made your stomach twist with painful hope—softness. A flicker of care. Something real, fragile, alive.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, barely above a breath.

His hand lifted slowly, cautiously, like he was afraid you'd flinch. But he gave you time, a silent plea for permission. And when he cupped your cheek, warm and calloused and grounding, you didn’t pull away.

His thumb brushed gently under your eye, and his voice cracked on the next words.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

Your heart stuttered, thudding hard enough to make your ribs ache. But you stayed rooted in place, his touch steady, his presence overwhelming.

You should’ve pulled away.

You should’ve walked off and let the silence swallow everything he’d broken.

But instead… you held on.

You held onto the stranger in the bar who made you laugh.

You held onto the way he’d looked at you—like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve, not a threat to neutralize.

You held onto those five words he didn’t even know had stitched themselves into your bones:

“I think you’re pretty amazing.”

You didn’t let go of that.

Not even when your mind screamed monster, not even when you remembered how much it had hurt to hear him say those other words all those years ago. Because tonight, he wasn’t looking at you like you were a monster. He was looking at you like you were a person. Someone special. 

Just you. Just him. Just this moment.

He leaned in, slow and reverent, giving you every second to pull back. You didn’t.

His lips brushed yours—light as breath, soft as regret.

And you let him.

Because this wasn’t a kiss made of passion or desperation.

This was an apology.

This was a confession.

This was a man trying to show you what his words still couldn’t say.

And in that suspended second, with dinner quietly waiting behind you and the weight of years between your mouths, something fragile cracked open.

Maybe it wasn’t love.

But it was something.

Something real.

Dean didn’t deepen the kiss.

Didn’t push for more.

He just let it linger, let it say everything he hadn’t figured out how to say. When he finally pulled back, it was slow… like he wasn’t quite ready to let go of the moment. His forehead nearly touched yours, breath mingling with yours in the space of a sigh.

Only a hairsbreadth of air separated you.

You blinked, just once, and your lips curved into the smallest smile. Not wide. Not forgiving. But real. And that made his heart ache more than any sharp word or angry glare ever could.

Then he saw it—the tear, slipping silently down your cheek.

Without hesitation, his thumb moved to brush it away. Tender. Careful.

He opened his mouth, breath catching. “I—”

But your fingertip rose, gentle and sure, and pressed lightly to his lips.

Stopping the apology before it could leave his throat.

Your voice came quiet. Steady. A little raw around the edges.

“I’m not ready to forgive you,” you whispered. “But… I’m willing to give you another chance.”

His eyes searched yours, full of questions, full of guilt.

You held his gaze, unwavering.

“But I need you to be real with me, Dean. I need honesty. No masks. No walls. No doing things just because someone told you to.”

Your hand fell slowly from his lips, resting gently against his chest, where his heartbeat was thrumming under your palm.

“If this is going to work at all,” you continued, voice softer now, “I need it to be choice, not obligation. I can’t be someone you just… put up with. I won’t be.”

Dean didn’t say anything right away. He just nodded, a small motion. But it was full of meaning. Full of weight.

You weren’t asking for everything.

You were asking for truth.

And for a man like Dean Winchester—raised in duty, defined by responsibility—that was the most intimate thing you could’ve asked of him.

The two of you had a long road ahead of you, but in this moment, his breath mixing with yours, hope bloomed inside both of you. It wasn’t like a fire. Or even a storm. It was gentle. Like how a flower slowly parts it’s petals as dawn approaches.

And Bastet smiled gently. She’d done what she could to guide the two of you together that night. Both of you just as stubborn as the other. Then, like mist on a breezy day, she was gone from outside the kitchen window, knowing this was just the beginning for the two of you. 

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