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maddamoiselle · 15 hours ago

Text

The Weight of Wanting You

Pairing: Caleb x NonMC!Reader

Synopsis: You fell for each other in pixels and whispers—never realizing you had already crashed into each other every day in real life.

Tags: Ennemies to lovers, friends to lovers, university AU, slow burn( I hope)

Author's nonsense : Here is the next chapter ! I hope you'll enjoy it because I surely did !

Words; ar.6k

<- Previous Chapter |

Chapter II: The pull of unseen things

The pill tasted like metal and chalk.

You tipped your head back, tossed it in, and swallowed before it even touched your tongue.

Water followed. Cold, clean, clinical. It burned a little going down— maybe from habit.

Your dad called them “stabilisers pills”. You’ve been taking them since your Evol manifested.

Your father, as a doctor, didn’t want you to feel pain because of your power. He did a lot of research for those pills, creating them so you wouldn’t … You didn’t even know.

He used to say you had a bad episode when you were a child, and your evol almost destroyed everything… You had no memory of this…Sometimes you felt like your father was a tiny bit overprotective.

The bottle is plain. No branding. Just your name, your dosage, his signature.

You pressed the bottle back into your bag, zipped it up like you were hiding away a part of yourself. Your suitcase was ready, your phone was charged…

There was practice today. Game soon. You needed to be sharp. Ready. Controlled.

Especially around him.

Your phone buzzed just as you were tying your shoe laces.

Ding.

You checked your phone and couldn’t suppress a smile when you saw the notification on your phone.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed sent a media (5:21)

Since you first sent the picture of your finger forming half a heart, your discord friend started to send you pictures every day.

Sometimes, it would be the sky, sometimes a dog he was petting, something he was cooking…

But there always would be his finger making half a heart.

And you would answer with a picture of your own, never showing your face, of course, but always making the other side of the heart with your fingers.

Today, the picture was of a park.

He told you he had a very strict routine for his body. Waking up early to go for a run and then get ready for his school. One time, he said that his sister tried to keep up with him but ended up sleeping on a bench, waiting for him to finish.

Your face warmed. Your stomach did that annoying soft-flip thing when you noticed his finger making a half-heart. The picture was a little blurry. He must have taken it while running.

You snapped a picture in return— nothing big. Just the morning sky that looked pink… or even purple like. The colors were beautiful, it would be a waste not to share it. You do the other half of the heart with your finger before sending it with a caption.

WindQueen.exe (5:22): heading to battle

WindQueen.exe (5:22): if i don’t survive, avenge me with memes

WindQueen.exe (5:23): and maybe emotionally scar the enemy

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (5:24): already have the soundtrack queued

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (5:24): no one will be spared

You didn’t respond immediately. You just stared at the screen for a second longer than you should, smiling like a fool.

Then you stuffed your phone in your pocket, your headphones blasting soft music in your ears, and headed out to the train station.

You sent a message to Zayne, wishing him a good morning and asking him to keep you updated on all the hospital’s drama. He sent you a picture of you— that truly wasn’t your best angle— where you were giving the lens a side eye with a smug expression.

You chuckled before putting your phone away and tried to find a place inside the train.

After succeeding in your noble quest. You opened your bag and started to write today’s training.

You were in the university’s basketball girl’s team. You were the captain, and you wished to bring this team to the championship. That’s why you needed to make sure the gymnase was reserved for your team today.

The girls in the team were good, nice, and even cute sometimes. You weren’t close enough to them to call them friends. A few of them were really interested in playing basketball, they others were mostly there because sometimes, the boy’s team would train with you.

And, of course, Caleb would be there.

A yawn escaped your lips, forcing you to hold your hand on your mouth. You were more exhausted than you believed. The ride to SkyHeavan was mostly two hours… Maybe you could sleep for forty-five minutes, and then prepare for today's training…

Yeah…

‘Next stop: SkyHeavan.’

Your eyes snapped open. The voice repeated the sentence you thought was in your dream, but no.

The train was coming to your stop. Your notes were empty. And you were still sleepy.

Fuck.

You quickly grabbed your things before dashing out of the train. You must have looked like a lunatic. Your eyes were still burning from the lack of sleep, your hair must look like a bird's nest, and you could feel some drool on your chin.

You quickly took the bus that brought you to your apartment. You quickly left your suitcase iin your bedroom and took a quick shower to wake you up before dashing to the university.

Now that most of the exams were over, not a lot of students were on campus. The ones staying were the ones who had obligations or were studying for the next semester’s exams. You knew you had just one week of break before going back to your lessons… just one week…still better than nothing.

A sigh of relief passed your lips when you noticed the girls waiting for you in front of the gymnase. They waved at you while you smiled at them, opening the gym with the key which had been given to you when you started this year.

You gave orders, talking about the championship. It was your last year together. You wanted to win this trophée.

After an encouraging speech, the gym’s echoed with sneakers squeaks and half-hearted laughter as your team started their warmup up. You adjusted your hair, focused, already planning plays in your head. Even if you didn’t have the time to organise anything during your ride to SkyHeavan, at least you slept enough for you to have ideas for your girl’s training.

Then: the door creaked open. Heavy foot steps. Familiar voices.

”No way..”

”It’s the boy’s team…”

”Caleb’s here—“

You didn’t even look. You heard the shuffle, the whispers, the giggles… then Caleb’s voice, casual as always.

"Didn't know we were double- booked.”

Translation: We want the court, move.

“That’s because you weren’t booked at all. We reserved the gym.”

You crossed your arms as your teammates were already starting to drift toward the sidelines, blushing and brushing their hair behind their ears like they were in a teen drama instead of training for the championship.

“Unless you hacked the system,” he said, voice low and smooth.” I’m pretty sure that’s mine.”

”Captain…” one of them murmured, “ it’s fine we can cut a little short—“

”No, we can not.” Your voice was sharp, not yelling, just.. undeniable.

Caleb walked toward you with his phone in his hand. You frowned as he showed you his screen. In front of your eyes were the schedules for the gym’s reservation. Today’s session… was reserved for the boy’s team.

You took his phone out of his hand, making sure it wasn’t a joke. Why? Why? you booked the reservation this morning on the train—

Fuck, you fell asleep before you could do it.

You turned to face him. Caleb started down at you, knowing no one could see his face as his back was facing everyone.

He smirked at you like this was a joke he was already winning. He leaned toward you until his lips brushed your ear.

”Now, you can shut up and fuck off.”

Murder is illegal, murder is illegal, murder is illegal, murder is illegal, murder is illegal, murder is illegal…

“ Caleb, why don’t you all play against each other?”

Caleb looked behind him, and then you saw her. His pipsqueak… She was looking at him with hopeful eyes while Guideon was laughing behind his hand. You could hear your teammates gushing and giggling, excited about the idea of playing against Caleb’s team.

” Pipsqueak… It’s not reall—“

” Come on, Caleb! And I would like to join the girl’s team too!”

You tried not to laugh at that. Your team, as distracted they could be, was on a level that made you reach nationals. You knew Caleb’s girlfriend wanted to be a hunter but… being a basketball player and a hunter was two different things.

Caleb scratched his neck before smiling at your team with a sorry expression.

”I’m sorry.. If it’s okay with you… could someone sub out for my—“

You groaned when you heard your teammates squealing in joy. Thank god, some of your girls were walking toward you, serious about playing against Caleb’s team. You weren’t ready to admit it out loud, but that would be a better training than what you had planned.

The court was split.

Lines drawn. Teams chosen. And somehow, because the universe had a shitty sense of humor, you ended up guarding him.

Caleb.

Again.

You didn’t know why his girlfriend didn’t want to guard him. Wouldn't that be a cute moment ? So why was she guarding Guideon?

Caleb played hard. Like he was trying to make a point. Every pass was sharp. Every drive was fast. He didn’t go easy on your team— even less on you.

He scored twice in a row, grinning like he already knew you were mad. And you were. But you wouldn’t show it.

Not yet.

His girlfriend called for the ball, and you passed it— a bit too quickly— and she fumbled it. Guideon scooped the ball before she could react. He passed it to Caleb, who pivoted midair, landed a pass with a snap, and his teammate scored.

”Nice assist, pipsqueak!” He laughed, facing his girlfriend and messing her hair. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault.’

So it was yours, maybe? You sighed, trying to keep your head cool.

Your team was getting frustrated. Even Caleb’s girl wasn’t smiling anymore. Your chest tightened.

Fuck it.

You let a gust of air slide under your shoes— just enough to give you a lift as you broke past Caleb and landed a clean shot.

He eyed you across the court.

Grinned.

Then, he messed with gravity.

The next time you go up for a shot, your legs are dragged, heavier than they should be.

You landed hard.

You knew it was him.

”Real subtle.” You hissed as you passed him.

”Don't start what you can’t finish.” He muttered back.

Oooh, it’s on.

Next time he drove toward the basket, you twisted the air — just a breeze, subtle, under his feet. He stumbled for half a second. Not enough to fall. But enough for you to steal the ball.

Your teammates on the bench cheered for you. His eyes found you again— a little surprise. A little impressed?

A lot annoyed.

”Cheating again?” He muttered as he passed you.

”Playing smart.” You shot back.

His girlfriend wasn’t that bad. She truly was trying and had good ideas. She was trying harder than some of your teammates. She called for a pass, and you didn’t know why you hesitated. You gave a shitty pass that made it out of the court.

”Sorry”!” She sighed. You could see she was truly annoyed by her mistake, even though it wasn’t her fault this time.

”All good, it was my fault.” You waved it off, tight-lipped. What was wrong with you?

Caleb noticed it. His jaw tensed. You could feel it— like gravity had eyes now. He got the ball again. Drove harder. Shoved past you, barely legal contact. The kind of shove that made you stumble and caught yourself before running after him.

”Relax,” he muttered under his breath,his whole body tensed.” Or is this about your new teammate?”

You glared at him, breathing hard. You didn’t have the time for his bullshit.

”This isn’t about anyone.”

”Right.” He smirked. “ Totally not acting like you’re one bad pass away from setting the court on fire.”

The match kept going, and in the end, other students started to come inside the gym to watch the game.

The ball landed in your hands. Caleb was guarding you. Just you and him.

The court noises faded— your teammates shouting, shoes squeaking, his girlfriend calling your name from somewhere far behind. None of it mattered. Not right now.

Caleb stepped up to guard you, and for a second, he wasn’t laughing anymore. No smirk. No taunt. Just eyes locked on yours, heavy with something you couldn’t name— something between challenge and accusation.

”Come at me.”

You didn’t answer.

He was fast. You were faster. The wind curled under your soles, a quick assist, but he felt it. The gravity shifted— your feet suddenly a fraction heavier. It was like you were running through syrups.

You shoved harder. Air lashed around you in a ripple. Your evol brushed against his like a current slamming into a wall.

Push. Pull. Lift. Drag.

Neither of you said a word; but every move screamed.

He blocked your path. You twisted. He shifted the floor beneath you. You pushed back with wind so sharp it raised the edges of his jersey.

”Are we still playing basketball?” He growled low.

”Afraid to lose?”

You pivoted. He mirrored.

You jumped.

He raised the ball’s gravity midair.

You countered with a sudden gust— trying to push the ball against his gravity.

It was raw, deseperate, and precise.

The second your fingers brushed the ball, your evol surged. So did his.

Air and weight collided. The gym’s lights flickered. The ball, pushed by both of your evol, is sent in the air with too much force. Too much speed. It escaped your control, and you could only gasp as it flew right into…

Guideon’s face.

”Fuck!”

Fuck.

Everyone ran toward Guideon, who was holding his bloody nose. You quickly grabbed your bag and gave him tissues while apologizing a hundred times.

”What the fuck is wrong with you two? Since when are we using evols for a friendly match?” Guideon winced as you tried to wipe the blood from his chin. Caleb is already using the phone in the gym to call for the infirmary.

After a few minutes, Guideon was taken away to make sure he was okay.

You sighed, grabbing a bottle and drinking the water you so needed. You could hear Caleb and his girlfriend talking about Guideon, hoping he was okay. You glanced at them and couldn’t help but feel envy as you watched Caleb hug his girlfriend.

Their touches weren’t romantic, but you could definitely feel a deep bound between them.

You wondered how it felt to be loved and cherished…

Your phone was still on the bench, and after hesitating for a second, you couldn’t help but send a message to your friend in Discord.

WindQueen.exe (11:34): i manage to take down my enemy's minion.

WindQueen.exe (11:35): might need help to defeat his boss

“It was a good match! I’m sorry I was so slow, but what can we do about it, Caleb was the one who trained me.”

You turned around and faced Miss Futur Hunter. She was beaming at you, blushing a bit. You could see she was nervous, you wondered why. A glance to your left, and you could see Caleb, his phone in his hand, staring at you.

Was he afraid you were going to hurt his girlfriend? Why was he always looking at you like you were a loaded weapon he forgot to disarm?

“You have good reflexes.” You nodded at her. She seemed disappointed you didn’t want to engage in a deeper conversation with her.

You took your stuff before walking toward the showers. You were sweating so much… Ugh..

The sound of Caleb’s chuckle made you pause. You glanced at him, surprised to see his face coloured by a light blush, his hand hiding his smile while he was staring at his phone.

You raised your eyebrow.

If you were his girlfriend, you would be jealous to see him react like this to someone’s message… Or maybe he was watching cute videos of puppies?

You went into the locker room and quickly went under the shower. You sighed in delight as the warm water fell upon your skin. You took your phone with your dry hand and quickly played music randomly.

You quietly hummed the lyrics, moving under the water.

That song was very catchy…

After drying yourself, you shared that song with your friend in Discord and realized he had answered you while you were showering.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (11:40): that’s my girl :)

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (11:40): now, give me a date so we can get rid of your final boss

You bit your thumb, trying to keep your smile in check. You almost felt confident enough to send a picture of you but decided not to. That was maybe… a bit too much. You walked back to the locker room to get change.

Your teammates were laughing, doing their hair, and taking selfies. Talking about the boy’s team like they were celebrities instead of classmates. You tied your laces tighter than necessary.

”Did you see how Caleb looked in his jersey today?”

”I’d give up a whole practice slot for that smile.”

You almost threw your water bottle at the wall. No matter what you’ve done— how hard you’ve trained, how hard you’ve fought for the team— they always melted when Caleb showed up. Did they forget that you managed to bring them to the nationals; that you fought against the teacher so you could train in they gym.

” Girls, you know we have a match in two weeks. Caleb has a girlfriend, please be respectful about it.”

You said in a cold voice before leaving the locker rooms while your teammates winced at your tone, feeling ashamed.

You walked toward the university, trying to find an empty room to… to be alone for a little while. You stopped when you heard a familiar song… The one you sent to your friend in discord… it couldn’t be…?

”That’s a good song, Caleb!”

You peeked into a room and stared at the scene. Caleb is sitting on a desk, music coming from his phone while his girlfriend is doing a TikTok with the song playing. You sighed in disappointment and also relieved…

Maybe you really were not ready to meet him..?

You stared at Caleb. His face had a fond expression as he tapped on his phone with one hand, his head moving to the beat of the song. His other hand was busy tapping on the desk he was sitting at, humming the lyrics.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (11:56): oh i love it :)

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (11:56): in our playlist it goes

You left the two lovebirds, smiling down at your phone while walking to find another empty room. After walking for ten minutes, you decided to sit on the stairs. You kept talking in Discord with your friends, adding more and more songs to your playlist.

Your phone buzzed, and your expression fell a bit as you saw your dad’s contact appearing on your screen. You sighed before taking the call, a small smile on your lips.

”Yep, dad?”

”How are you feeling, sweetheart? Did you arrive at SkyHeavan? everything went well? Did you take your pills?”

“I’m good. I took them this morning. You sound exhausted.”

”Yeah, well, work… I’m happy you’re feeling well. I’m worried about you.”

You looked up to the ceiling. You wondered if your father saw your mother in you. She died a long time ago, and he never talked about her… Never. You had asked Zayne to sneak into the hospital’s archive, but nothing.

Wasn’t it suspicious enough?

Your mother used to work in the fleet, and then she died. That was the only thing you and Zayne managed to find out. That’s why you were aiming to work there. To have your answers.

Someone asked for your father, and you could hear their calm voice.

”Dr.Noah (…) we need…”

Your father quickly said bye to you with a quick “I love you don’t forget your pills” before hanging up. You sighed before standing up. It was time for some library study.

After five hours of study and a bit of daydreaming, you made sure you knew everything. You stood up and decided to go to the outside basketball court. It wasn’t big, a little bit far from the campus…

The moon was already in the sky, the lights were buzzing faintly overhead, half the court cloaked in the shadows. The court’s surface was slick with the day’s leftover heat, the air quiet except for the soft thud of the ball against the pavement.

You’ve been shooting for… who knew how long. Long enough that your hands were now aching.

The silence was comfortable.

Until it wasn’t.

You heard footsteps behind you, measured, deliberated. You didn’t even need to turn around to know who it is.

”What, stalking me now?”

”Was about to say the same thing.” Caleb replied, stepping into view. He was in a hoodie, sleeves pushed up, hair damped from quick rinse. His eyes found the ball in your hands, then the sweat on your face.

”Didn’t get enough earlier?”

You shrugged and bounced the ball once.

”Didn’t feel like a win.”

He stepped onto the court slowly, like he wasn’t sure if you were going to shout at you for coming close to you. But you were tired… You didn’t know about what. You didn’t want to fight tonight.

He was closer now. You could feel the subtle pull of gravity shifted— not because of his evol. Just him.

You passed him the ball. Hard.

”One-on-open. No teams. No distractions."

He caught it easily and smiled— not cocky like usual. Just… tired… like you.

”Which side are you on?”

You paused. The wind stirred around you like it was trying to whisper an answer. This question seemed way deeper than you expected. He was surely asking which side of the court you wanted to play on… and yet it seemed much more meaningful… But you couldn’t grasp it.

“ First to five?”

Caleb spun the ball in his hands. It was slower now, like he was not here to win…

” No evol this time, just skills.”

”Afraid of a little breeze?” You quirked a brow. You didn’t want to admit it, but you just wanted to play without feeling like you needed to think about everything, your team, your lectures, your pills…

”Terrified.” He deadpanned. “ You might blow me away…Or I might catch a cold.”

You smirked despite yourself, already stepping into position.He dribbled forward— light on his feet, smoother than he was during the game this morning.

Less aggressive.

You matched him step for step, mirroring every motion. Your evol stirred automatically, but you kept it in check.

Still, you felt him - the subtle drag of the air shifting around him, gravity bending every so slightly when he pivoted.

And you wondered if he was holding back too?

The points came and went,quietly.

You drove left. He let you.

He faked a shoot. You called his bluff.

No score keeping. No trash talk.

Just breathe. Movement. Silence thick with meaning that you couldn’t understand.

You took your shoot, and Caleb let you. He stared at the ball, which didn’t even touch the net as it went inside. You both were breathing hard, staring at the basket without saying anything.

Caleb turned his eyes toward you. Those eyes that weren’t warm for you, weren’t soft. They were calm, still cold… but curious. You wondered, did Caleb hate this much because of one mistake you made during your first years? Because you injured his precious girlfriend by mistake?

”You seem different … more different than I expected.”

”What did you think I was?”

” Dangerous.”

You laughed once— soft, bitter. You walked to grab your basket, taking your bag before looking at him.

” Do I seem dangerous to you?”

You should leave.

You should turn your back,storm off the court, and let him think he had won— because staying there meant he would see he had hurt you. It meant staying in a moment where your pulse didn’t calm down and your lungs felt too full.

You .. dangerous…?

You could almost hear your father’s voice asking you if you took your pills. Every day. For your security.

Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills? Did you take your pills?

For whose security?

The ball was rolling somewhere near the edge of the court. Forgotten.

The wind had stilled around you, like it was holding its breath.

“ I don’t get why you hate me so much, Caleb. You don’t even know me.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, jaw clenched tight. He seemed tired, torned by his own emotions… What was he hiding?

“That’s the problem,” he muttered, “ I do know people like you. You end up hurting the one I’m trying to protect.”

You blinked.

Was it about his girlfriend again?

The implication was sharper than any blow.

“If you’re talking about your girlfriend, I never wanted to hurt her.” Your voice started to shake. Why did you care so much about his words?

Your heart beat against your ribs like it was trying to escape. You wrapped your arms around yourself, but it did nothing to quiet the ache under your skin.

Then, without meaning to, you said it:

“If I’m so dangerous... why didn’t you just walk away?”

The words hanged in the air.

You didn't expect an answer.

And for a moment, he didn't give one.

Then—his voice low, like he hated himself for saying it:

“Because something in me keeps wondering if I’m wrong.”

He was still watching you — all fire and edges, arms crossed like he was holding himself together with stubbornness.

You were about to walk away.

You needed to walk away.

But then he said it.

Low. Sharp.

“Whatever those pills are, they’re not for relaxation.”

You froze.

The word hit like a punch to the gut.

“What did you just say?”

He didn't back down. Didn’t blink.

“I saw them. Your bag was open during practice this morning. I looked.”

The world tilted for a second. Did that bastard look through your stuff… And for what?

Your chest tightened.

“You... went through my stuff?”

“Yes.” He shrugged, but his voice was cold, controlled. “And the bottle had no label. No pharmacy. There is no record in the school med system. Just your name. And your father’s signature.”

You felt like you were going to kill him.

“Those are just focus pills,” you snapped. “I take them to control my evol. My dad, he’s a doctor. He knows what I need.”

“Yeah, he knows exactly what you need,” Caleb muttered bitterly with a smirk.

You shoved the words down — the confusion, the hurt, the humiliation.

“You think I’m dangerous. You think I’m lying. So you spy on me, search my bag like I’m some kind of threat?”

He stepped forward, eyes sharp with something that looked too much like desperation.

“I'm wondering now. Do you know that doctors need to write the name of the medication they give..”

That stopped you.

He walked toward you, hands in his pocket while his eyes never left yours. You felt like you couldn’t breathe anymore. He was staring down at you like he had all the answers, and you were just a naive sheep waiting to be sacrificed.

“Ah, but I guess a doctor from Ever wouldn’t care about it.”

Ever..?

The words hit something deep — something you didn’t have a name for yet. Your father was a doctor, a respectable one. He would never work with Ever.

Never.

Yet, you couldn't open your mouth.

Your father had created those pills to help you with your evol.

You never left like you didn't control it.

He didn’t want you to suffer from your evol.

You never suffered from it.

He loved you.

He didn’t care about you. He only cares that you take these pills.

You wanted to scream.

You wanted to vanish.

You wanted to believe he’s wrong.

But a seed of doubt has already taken root.

You left the court without another word. No goodbye. No second match. Just the quiet shift of your steps on the path back through campus.

Your legs ached. You didn’t want to go back to your apartment yet.

Your eyes were burning from the tears you refused to share with the world.

You were just tired, and Caleb was messing with your head. That was it.

So you find the tree. Your tree— a huge, knotted thing near the edge of campus that hides you from everything. The roots curved just enough to become a seat. The branches above you rustled faintly as you sat back against the trunk, staring at the stars through the leaves. you closed your eyes, letting the world around you lull you to sleep.

You didn’t know how many minutes— hours?— passed before you pulled out your phone and opened discord.

There he was. Your safe place.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed— online.

You snapped a photo of the grass, the edge of the tree trunk visible, and of course, you made half a heart with your fingers.

WindQueen.exe sent a media (22:09)

WindQueen.exe (22:09): world’s quietest therapy session

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:09) : wait wait wait

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:09): you mean this tree?

Grav1ty.D3n1ed sent a media (22:10)

You blinked and looked at his phone, and your mouth went dry.

Because it was the same tree. Same roots, same cracked bark pattern.Same tiny carved initials near the base but… from the other side.

Your fingers froze above your keyboards. Then, three blinking dots. He was typing again.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed ( 22:12): you’re kidding me

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:12): are we literally sitting on opposite sides of the same tree??

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:13): dont panic, do you want me to leave

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:13): even if i want to meet you, i can leave with my eyes close i promise

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t think.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed ( 22:15): do you want me to leave, tell me please

WindQueen.exe (22:16): stay

Your eyes traveled to the grass, and you saw it.

A hand.

His hand— slowly pressing into the grass, palm open, fingertips brushing the clover between the rots. Not reaching toward you… but just being there. Close enough that if you wanted, you could…

No one said a word.

The discord window glowed faintly in your lap. The blinking cursors mocking you about your inability to react to this moment.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:20): we cant hug right now so… can i hold your hand?

He wasn’t peeking around the three. You weren’t either.

Your fingers shifted from your phone to the earth. You reached around the thick curve of the trunk blindly until your hand brushed his.

You felt him tense, but he didn’t move.

You tapped his palm with your fingers. You chuckled when you saw his message of discord.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:23): Are you trying to kill me, woman?

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (22:24): my hand must be so sweaty, sorry

His finger closed around yours.

Warm. Smooth.Real.

The night deepened. The air is cooler now, brushing against your skin like a whisper. You were still holding his hand.

You didn't know if he could hear your sniffled, but he didn't text anything. He just kept holding on to your hand, squeezing harder and harder.

And you were squeezing back.

You were so grateful for his presence after this horrible evening. You didn't know if he was a student here or just passing by... but you were grateful..

His hand was still in yours.

Neither of you had spoken in minutes. The Discord chat sat open between you — a final few messages just waiting to be answered. But the words stopped being enough the moment your fingers touched.

And now, the silence said everything you were too scared to type.

The wind shifts through the branches above you. The leaves shivered. Your heartbeat felt too loud.

Then he moved.

Just a slight shift — a squeeze of your hand. And then… his fingers started to pull away.

Not fast. Not cold.

Just… gentle. Careful. Like letting go might hurt if he did it wrong.

But you both knew it’s time.

Neither of you said it out loud.

Your thumb gave his a soft, slow squeeze — the kind you didn't do with strangers.

Then your phone lighted up.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:10); i should probably head back

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:10): before the grass permanently imprints on my spine

You laughed softly — just under your breath.

WindQueen.exe (23:11):tragic

WindQueen.exe (23:11): you’d become part of campus folklore

WindQueen.exe (23:12): the ghost of the tree boy

A pause. And then:

Grav1ty.D3n1ed ( 23:13):…you’d visit, right?

Your heart fluttered — light and aching.

WindQueen.exe (23:13): every night, I would bring snacks. and sarcasm.

Another beat of silence. Your fingers didn't let go yet.

Then his last message appeared:

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:15): same time, same tree, next time?

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:15): no pressure

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:15) only if you want to

WindQueen.exe (23:15): as if you could put pressure on me

WindQueen.exe (23:17): Goodnight, my little ghost

And finally, slowly, his hand pulled away.

You didn't look.

You didn't move.

You just sat there —heart full of something you couldn't name,phone screen dimming, hand tingling like it remembered his.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:19): i can't stop smiling...

Grav1ty.D3n1ed (23:20): im such a loser

You giggled, tilting your head back against the tree.

Grav1ty.D3n1ed sent a media (23:20)

You stared at the picture. It was the tree where you were sitting. You were behind it, so you weren't on the picture, but your heart melted at the sight.

And as always, half a heart with his fingers.

You took a picture of the tree and made the other side of the heart with your fingers. You sent it with a caption.

WindQueen.exe sent a media (23:22)

"For my loser."

---

Taglist: @xyzbeloved @deepspace-fishie @floofycookie @silmeria-lafleur @pagesfalling @noxus123 @sylusgirlie7

#lads #lads x reader #lads x you #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace scenarios #love and deepspace x you #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #caleb xia #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x you #lads caleb #lnds caleb #love and deepspace xia yizhou #non mc x caleb #non mc reader #love and deepspace caleb x reader #caleb x y/n

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vunblr · 5 hours ago

Text

A Star Without a Sky (#7)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Word Count: 11.2k.

note: And the story reached its end. Thank you to all of you who read and interacted in this journey. It took me a little more than expected to write it due to known circumstances, but here it is. Love you all🧡

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

She woke up with her cheek resting on his shoulder, and one arm still draped across his middle. The bandage beneath her hand rose and fell with his breathing, slow and stable.

He was still asleep.

For a long moment, she just lay there, watching his face, so rarely at peace. The bruise on his jaw had bloomed darker overnight, and the cut on his brow was an angry slash of red, but even with all that, he looked younger somehow. His lips were parted just slightly, the faintest crease between his brows, like he was frowning in a dream.

Her gaze remained on his mouth, and she remembered the kiss.

Gentle at first, then hungrier. The way he’d held her, the press of his hands on her waist. How he’d whispered her name like a secret.

She almost reached out to touch his cheek, to brush her thumb beneath the bruise, to tuck that stray piece of hair behind his ear. But stopped herself. Let him rest. He needed it.

So, she slipped quietly from under the quilt, careful not to jostle him. Her bare feet barely made a sound against the floorboards as she padded into the kitchen. The fire in the hearth had gone to embers, so she fed it kindling and coaxed it back to life, warming her hands while it crackled awake.

Outside, the world was still frosted in white, but the light was changing. Sam would arrive before long, and when he did, they’d need to haul Rumlow back to town. Sort it out. Make it official.

She turned toward the stove, set the kettle on, and pulled down the tin of coffee. Bacon would follow, and bread. They’d need the strength. Her hands worked quietly, while her mind was still tangled in the warmth of the bed, in the rasp of his voice when he’d asked her to stay.

---

Behind her, in the silence of the bedroom, Bucky stirred once and sighed.

It took him a few seconds to recognize where he was.

Comfortable mattress. Warm bedding. The faint smell of pine salve and faint traces of her, lavender, and something sweet. His body sank deeper into the mattress for one blissfully blank second-

And then the night came back like a hammer.

The barn. Rumlow. Blood. Her voice. Her hands. Her kiss.

He blinked at the ceiling, groaned low, and tried to shift.

Pain lanced through his side, sharp enough to draw a curse through clenched teeth. Rolling in the frozen mud while trading punches did that to you. Not to mention-

He tilted his head and looked down at his bandaged flank. The stab wound was still there. Of course it was. A dull throb pulsed just under the clean wrappings. Not deep enough to threaten his guts, but nasty all the same.

“Goddamn snake,” he muttered to himself, eyes narrowing.

He caught the faintest sounds of movement from the other room. He threw back the covers with a grunt, already regretting it as cold air hit his bare skin and the dull ache in his side sharpened like a hot poker.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, swinging his legs over the edge.

The room spun once. Then stilled. He blinked hard, braced a hand on the nightstand, and cursed again when he caught sight of the frayed seam in his old drawers.

Great.

Just great.

She’d seen that last night. Probably seen worse, sure, but still, he was a grown man with a badge, not some drifter with holes in his underthings. He scowled as he reached for his trousers, dragging them up with effort, each movement tugging at the stitched flesh of his side. Shirt next -buttons half-done, collar crooked- took him a full minute longer than it should have. But he managed.

Mostly.

He limped down the hall, slow and quietly, keeping one palm flat against the wall when the floor creaked or tilted under his feet. The smell of coffee and wood smoke was stronger here. Comforting. Familiar.

She was at the stove, back to him, humming something low and tuneless. Her hair was still down, loose over her shoulders, and she was barefoot. He watched her for a second longer than he should’ve.

Then she turned, and jumped.

“James Barnes! What the hell are you doing up?”

He flinched theatrically, one hand going straight to his side. “Ah! shit, ow-”

She gasped and was at his side in two steps, wide eyes full of concern, fluttering her hands near his arm, his waist, trying to see where it hurt.

“Let me see -sit down- what the hell were you thinkin’, getting out of bed like that, you damn mule-”

He caught her.

One arm wrapped around her waist, the other around her shoulders. Pulled her in tight, burying his face in her neck, ignoring the flare of real, deep pain that came with it.

She stilled in his arms. Her breath caught.

“I needed this,” he mumbled into her hair.

“I thought you were-”

“Hurts like hell,” he admitted. “Still worth it.”

She didn’t push away. Just let herself press against him, soft and warm and real.

His nose brushed the crown of her head, his grip on her eased just enough so she could breathe, but not enough to let her go.

She shifted slightly in his arms, still tucked against his chest, one hand absently resting over the fabric of his shirt, like she hadn’t quite decided if she was going to scold him again or not.

He tilted his head, murmuring roughly against her temple. “Ain’t I gettin’ a good mornin’ kiss?”

She leaned back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were wide, unreadable. A little wary. “That’s different,” she murmured.

He let his hand smooth over her back once. Slow. Gentle. “Different how?”

“You were hurt last night,” she said softly. “And it felt like… I don’t know. It was a moment-.” She swallowed, her cheeks warming. “This… this is just morning.”

“That right?” he asked, voice low and coaxing. “Seems to me morning’s the perfect time for one.”

She hesitated. He saw it, the flicker of doubt, the shy downturn of her mouth. But she didn’t pull away.

“Come here,” he said, barely above a whisper. His hand lifted, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “Ain’t askin’ for more than you want to give.”

That was the thing with him. He didn’t push. Didn’t press.

He just… waited.

So she rose a little on her toes and closed the distance, pressed her lips to his slowly, softly, and uncertainly. It wasn’t like the night before, all pain and heat and feelings. This was gentler. A little clumsy.

When she pulled back, her voice was almost breathless. “Alright, that was your kiss.”

He gave her a look. One that made her stomach flip, even with the bruises on his face. “Only one?”

"Well, if you are not satisfied, I think maybe you should take it yourself."

His eyes darkened just a touch at that, something slow and deliberate swimming behind them.

He leaned in, bracing one palm on the table beside her hip, careful not to crowd her, but close enough she could feel the heat of his body, the way his breath ghosted over her cheek.

“Oh?” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and something else. “You givin’ permission, then?”

She arched a brow. “I said maybe.”

“That’s all I need.”

He closed the last inch, brushing her nose with his before his lips found her mouth again, slower this time, a little deeper. Not demanding, but sure. Her fingers grabbed the fabric of his shirt before she could stop herself.

When he finally pulled back, there was a ghost of a smirk on his face. “That was me takin’ the offer.”

She was still catching her breath. “Alright then,” she managed, eyes darting away before settling back on him. “Now sit down before I melt the damn coffee kettle.”

He did, lips still twitching, fixing his gaze on her like he couldn’t quite believe any of this was real.

----

As they settled into breakfast -steam curling from her enamel mug and the stove cracking low behind them- Bucky cleared his throat, lowering his eyes to the edge of his plate.

“I’ll go with Sam,” he said calmly, like he was mentioning the weather.

She blinked. “Go with Sam where?”

“To town. With Rumlow. When he comes to haul him in.”

Her fork paused mid-air. “You what?”

He looked up then, slowly and evenly. “We’ll need your cart.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Dead serious.” He took a bite of biscuit, chewed, and swallowed. “Can’t send Sam on his own. Man like Rumlow? He won’t go quiet.”

“And you-” she set her fork down sharply, brows drawn. “You were stabbed. Bucky, you’re stitched together. You should be resting.”

He shrugged one shoulder, slowly from the ache. “Ain’t made of porcelain.”

“You’re not made of porcelain,” she echoed, folding her arms. “But you’re still held together with some thread I had to stitch.”

He looked up at her from beneath his lashes, one hand already reaching for the fork. “You did a fine job.”

“Don’t butter me up,” she huffed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You shouldn’t be going anywhere.”

He chewed, then swallowed. “When we met, I was half-dead. Shot, fevered, couldn’t stand on my own. This,” he said, nodding toward his side, “this ain’t that. I’m sore. Not broken.”

She looked at him long and hard, and the line between her brows deepened.

He went on, gentler now. “I can’t hide under a skirt in a warm kitchen every time I catch a scratch. I wear the badge. Can’t mean nothin’ when it’s easy and get dropped the minute it’s not. Folks count on me.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stood, took his empty plate, but before turning, narrowed her eyes. “But if you tear those stitches-”

“I’ll get the blunt needle,” he finished with a faint smirk.

Her mouth twitched despite herself. “Exactly.”

As she moved to the counter with his empty plate, he shifted in his chair, wincing slightly but keeping his voice even.

“Hey,” he said, stopping her mid-step.

She turned, and raised he brows in quiet question.

“When Sam gets here,” he went on, tone lower now, firmer than before, “and we get that son of a bitch out the barn... I don’t want you outside.”

Her head tilted, but he didn’t let her interrupt.

“Don’t want him layin’ eyes on you again. Not even once more.” His jaw worked. “He doesn’t get that. He doesn’t get a look at you, or a word, or a damn thing.”

She looked at his face, with something flickering in her gaze, surprise, maybe. Maybe something else.

“You understand?” he asked, voice softer now, but still stern.

She nodded slowly. “Alright.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

He nodded once, like her promise had quieted something ugly in his chest, then reached for the mug she’d just refilled.

“I’ll telegraph once I arrive in Town,” he muttered, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. “The jail’ll have a cell ready for Rumlow. One with a good lock and no window view.”

She leaned against the counter, drying her hands. “Not the cell at the office?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t want him sittin’ there like he’s some regular drunk soberin’ up. And I’m sure as hell don’t want anyone payin’ him visits. Not Pierce. Not some courier with a coin purse and a smile. Not takin’ any chances.”

She crossed her arms loosely, watching him. “You’re not takin’ him yourself, are you?”

He snorted once, and winced at the motion. “What do you take me for, a fool? I ain’t that eager to be back in a saddle today.” Then, more seriously: “Sam and Walker’ll handle it. I trust them enough to see it through.”

“You trust Walker?”

He shrugged. “Enough to escort a tied-up bastard to a locked box.” His eyes flicked up, and something like a shadow of amusement crossed his face.

----

Sam showed up right on time, just as the shadows had begun to shorten and the frost gave way to a thin sheen of melt on the rooftop. The echo of hooves announced his arrival before the knock did. She met him at the door with her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders.

Sam tipped his hat, giving her a once-over with narrowed eyes.

“Mornin’. You alright?”

“I am,” she replied. “Come in. Coffee’s hot.”

He stepped inside, shedding the cold with his coat, and his gaze landed on Bucky, still sitting at the table.

“You look like hell,” he muttered plainly.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” Sam shot back, then looked between the two of them. “Mind explainin’ what happened last night?”

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. “Rumlow came ridin’ up like he owned the place,” he started. “Knocked on her door, asked to be let in. Told her he saw men near the property, figured she needed lookin’ after.”

Sam’s brows crept up. “And?”

“I was in the barn,” Bucky continued. “Saw him. Came out before he could start pressin’ her more. And he didn’t like bein’ turned away.”

“That before or after you brawled in the mud like a couple’a feral dogs?”

Bucky ignored the comment. “Had a blade up his coat. Got me on the side.”

Sam swore and took a sharp step forward.

“I’m alright,” he cut in before the deputy could fuss. “It’s deep but clean. She took care of it.”

Sam glanced at her. “Of course she did.” Then back at Bucky. “So where is he?”

“Tied up in the barn. Secured. I want him taken straight to jail,” Bucky said. “Can’t risk him in our cell where any of his friends could sneak by or try somethin’ stupid. I’ll ride in the cart with you, send a wire from the office, and arrange it with the jailkeeper. Then you and Walker take him the rest of the way.”

Sam gave a short nod, already checking the edge of his coat for his gloves. “You sure you’re up for the ride?”

“Was stabbed, not shot. I’ll survive the damn cart.” He sounded more like himself now. Grim. Determined.

“Alright, then,” Sam muttered. “Let’s load him up before the sun climbs higher. You wanna stay inside?” he added, glancing her way.

But it was Bucky who spoke, eyes locked on her, jaw clenched again.

“She’s not comin’ out.”

Sam raised a brow.

“I don’t want that snake layin’ eyes on her,” he said, low. “Not even once more.”

She turned around. “I’ll get you something warm for the road,” then added, already fixing something in the pan.

Neither of them thanked her. But they didn’t need to.

----

It had been a couple of weeks since Rumlow was hauled off to jail, tied up with enough charges to keep him from circling her doorstep ever again. The town had already moved on. Talk faded fast when nothing scandalous came of it, and folks just settled into the idea that the sheriff and the widow were sweet on each other.

Which -by then- wasn’t exactly wrong.

Now he sat behind the sheriff’s desk again, shirt tucked neatly but sleeves rolled, squinting at a stack of forms that never got any shorter. His fingers toyed absently with the edge of the herbal sachet she’d left, lavender and cedar, neatly sewn, with tight and fine stitches. It smelled like her. Or maybe he was just starting to think of that scent as hers, because she always carried it in the folds of her skirts.

Sam leaned against the desk, arms crossed, watching him with that infuriatingly knowing look.

“You know,” he said, “I thought the fake courtin’ was bad enough, but now that it’s real, she’s settin’ up camp.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “She ain’t settin’ up camp.”

“Man, she brought you a thicker blanket, a rug for your cold-ass floor, a new mug ‘cause your old one had a crack the size of Kansas, and now she’s leavin’ sweet-smellin’ bags in your drawers. What’s next? Mending your shirts? Darning your socks? You think she’s doin’ charity?”

Bucky shot him a look sharp enough to skin a deer. “She’s just… makin’ things comfortable.”

“She’s featherin’ your nest,” Sam drawled.

“She’s not-” Bucky cut himself off. The denial died on his tongue because even he knew how foolish it’d sound, especially since the office smelled more like her each day. Since he’d found a spare hairpin tucked behind the basin in his bunk room. Since she’d started folding his damn shirts without a word.

His gaze dropped to the sachet. He ran a thumb across the seam, ears burning faint pink. “…Ain’t complainin’.”

Sam grinned. “Didn’t think you were.” Then, he cleared his throat. “So… she knows that with your sheriff’s pay you could be livin’ like a decent man, not a friar in a broom closet ‘cause you’re broke, right?” he asked, leaning back on his chair, one boot scuffing the floor. “That it’s a choice, not a circumstance.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Suppose.”

Sam raised a brow. “’Cause from where I stand, it’s lookin’ like she’s dotin’ on some orphan boy who can’t tie his own boots.”

Bucky stopped writing.

Lifted his eyes just enough to meet Sam’s, cold and clear. The comment stuck somewhere it wasn’t meant to dig in. It wasn’t that he minded her small kindnesses. Hell, they undid him. But the way Sam framed it, like she saw him as someone in need of care instead of someone who could give it in return…

He dropped his eyes back to the paper. The ink bled slightly in the margin under his grip. “I can take care of her,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Sam didn’t grin this time. Just nodded once, easy. “Didn’t say you couldn’t.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the scratch of the pen again as Bucky went back to the paperwork like the chat hadn’t touched a nerve.

----

She was in the middle of scrubbing the pot she’d used for stew the night before when it hit her, she was humming. Just some silly thing her mother used to sing while doing chores, something light and forgettable, an old tune she hadn’t heard in years. She rinsed the pot slowly, smiling.

It had been weeks now.

Weeks since the night Bucky bled on her porch and they kissed.

Since Rumlow had been taken off her land in irons, his voice silenced by bruises and the weight of charges no backdoor deal could wash away.

Bucky hadn’t been back to the house since then. First, because the wound needed tending and no saddle was kind to healing flesh. Then, because the new judge was a paperwork fiend and seemed to think Bucky’s badge was sewn from parchment.

So she went to him. To the office with its bare cot and cold walls. She’ll drop by with pie, claiming she was already headed to the general store. Taking the opportunity to leave little things… A thicker blanket. A rag rug for the edge of the bed. Bundles of dried herbs to keep the drawer linens from the clothing moths.

It wasn’t anything extravagant, just the kind of small comforts she figured no one else had ever thought to give him. There was something about that cold little back room that unsettled her. It looked like a place a man passed through, not one he was meant to stay in.

And he didn’t comment on any of it, not directly, but he used them. The blanket stayed on his cot. The sachets didn’t move. His coffee cup, the new one she brought in to replace the one with a crack, was always on the desk.

Still, their time together was scarce. Sam gave them moments when he could, but he had a job too. They made do. Bucky found excuses to get close, his touch was never crude or bold. An arm around her waist under the guise of needing to reach past her. Grazing her fingers when he passed a cup. Adjust her shawl, like it needed adjusting, and let his knuckles brush her jaw. He liked to stand behind her when she read something at the desk, close enough that his chest hovered near her back but never quite touched.

And one afternoon, when the sun was pouring through the slats just right, when Sam was off running errands, he kissed her properly. No awkward lead-up. No pretense. Just reached for her, pulled her in, and kissed her like he’d been thinking about it for days.

He wasn’t a talker. He showed things with his hands, with actions. And she didn’t mind. In fact, she liked that about him. Liked the way his touch had grown more comfortable -more confident- in the little moments they had. Like he’d decided it was allowed now.

She dried her hands, wiped them on the apron tied to her waist. Maybe she’d head to town after lunch. Said she needed to check on flour, but really, she just missed him.

----

She was half-wrestling the clean sheet over the mattress in the spare room when the knock at the door startled her. Firm enough to be polite. Not urgent.

Her breath caught.

It couldn’t be Rumlow. He was gone, locked up where he belonged. Still, her heart picked up as she wiped her hands on the side of her skirt and padded toward the front window. She pulled the curtain just enough to peek.

There he was.

Bucky stood on her porch, shifting slightly like he wasn’t sure whether to knock again or turn around. He had his hat in one hand, the other inside his coat. The clothing he wore was clean but road-dusted, like he’d come straight from the edge of town without stopping to brush off.

She didn’t bother hiding her smile as she opened the door. “Well,” she said, “this is a surprise.”

His mouth twitched. At first, he just nodded his head a little stiff, like it was the polite thing to do. But when she arched a brow at him, he stepped forward and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to her lips.

“Was thinkin’ about that window in the spare room,” he said after a beat, clearing his throat as she stepped aside to let him in. “The one that won’t shut right.”

She gave him a look. “Mmhm.”

“And… figured I oughta take a look at the back roof too. The bathroom one. You said it leaked when it rained last.”

He didn’t meet her eyes when he said it. Just scratched the back of his neck, glanced briefly at the floorboards like maybe they’d give him something better to say.

“So,” she said slowly, trying not to smile too much as she shut the door behind him, “you rode all the way out here because of a drafty window and a leaky roof.”

He shrugged, fidgeting a little with the brim of his hat before setting it down on the side table. “Had time,” he muttered. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”

She leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “I think you just missed me.”

His ears went pink.

She didn’t push. Just nodded toward the kitchen. “Coffee’s hot. Or I can warm up lunch if you’re hungry. Your call.”

He almost said yes to lunch. She saw the flicker of temptation in the way his eyes lingered on the stove, the shift of his shoulders like he was weighing manners against appetite. But then he looked to the window, at the slant of light across the floorboards, and shook his head.

“Best look at the roof while there’s still sun,” he said. “Don’t want to be up there squintin’.”

She nodded. “At least take some water, then.”

He hesitated a moment longer before nodding. “I’ll take that.”

She poured it into one of the heavier glasses, and he took it with a soft murmur of thanks, tipped it back, drained it in three long swallows, and handed it back. His fingers brushed hers, rough and warm.

“Sure you don’t want help?” she offered, though she already knew the answer.

He shook his head, half a smile in his stubble. “I’ll manage.

She didn’t press. Just stood at the door for a second as he slung his coat across the railing, and started baking.

It was what you did when someone came over and worked under your roof, someone who’d bled in your kitchen and slept in your bed and whispered things to you in the dark that made your breath catch. Someone who kissed you like it cost him something.

By the time the pie was in the oven, the kitchen already smelled like sugar and butter and cinnamon. She wiped her hands on her apron and glanced at the ticking clock. He’d been up there a good while.

Grabbing another glass of water, she stepped outside.

And there he was.

Perched on the slanted edge like it was nothing, straddling the peak above the bathroom. A handful of nails held between his teeth, sleeves rolled, arms flexed just enough with each slow, methodical movement.

The shirt clung to his back, damp from sweat, dusty where it brushed against the shingles. His suspenders hung looser now, one strap fallen halfway down an arm.

She didn’t say a word at first. Just stood there and watched him work.

He moved, adjusting his stance, and spotted her below.

“You need somethin’?” he asked around the nails, pulling them free one by one and setting them between his fingers.

She held up the water. “Thought you might want more.”

He reached for it with a murmur of thanks, then handed it over. As she started to turn back, he caught her eye again. Her gaze remained too long on the curve of his back. On his sleeves rolled to the elbow, dirt streaked across his scarred forearm.

When her eyes found his, he arched a questioning brow. She took a breath and let it go slowly. “Just enjoying the view,” she murmured, like it didn’t matter. Like her cheeks weren’t warming already.

His hammer paused for a beat.

And then he chuckled, low and dry.

“You bakein’ somethin’ in there?” he asked without looking down.

“Maybe.”

“Figured. Smells like trouble.”

She smiled and turned back toward the house, his low laugh still drifting down behind her.

Damn man made a roof look like a postcard.

----

He stepped onto the porch and dusted off his shirt with a few hard swipes, then bent to slap the dried grit from his trousers. He shook out his sleeves, ran a hand through his hair, and finally exhaled through his nose like a man ready to face a firing squad instead of a kitchen.

The door creaked as he opened it.

She glanced up from the stove just as he hovered in the threshold, half-shadowed, boot heels planted like they might root to the floorboards.

“All done,” he said. “Shouldn’t be any more leakins’. Found the spot where the water slipped through, patched it with what you had, and sealed it tight. Needs a new shingle or two come spring, but for now, it’ll hold.”

She nodded, pleased, but when she turned fully toward him, he still hadn’t moved past the doorframe.

“What are you doin’ standin’ there like a statue?” she asked, arching a brow.

His eyes flicked up, then back down. One hand rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m all dusty,” he muttered. “Sweaty too. Didn’t wanna get your kitchen dirty.”

The way he said it -quiet, almost sheepish- made her chest clench. Like he was waiting for someone to tell him he didn’t belong in the nice parts of a home. The way a boy might be scolded for tracking mud through a front parlor that wasn’t his.

She stepped around the table and crossed to him without a word. Took his hand, his big, warm hand, and tugged gently.

“You just finished an honest day’s work, one you weren’t asked to do, and did anyway. Who gives a damn about dust and sweat in a kitchen,” she said, firm but warmly.

He just blinked at her, but let himself be led.

She walked him right over to the basin and pointed.

“Wash your hands.”

He obeyed, silently.

“And sit down after,” she added, already cutting into the pie. “You’re gettin’ a slice before you so much as look at the spare room window.”

He tried to argue. “You don’t have to fuss-”

“I ain’t fussin’. I’m feedin’. Sit.”

He did, with the faintest twitch of a smile. When she set the plate in front of him and turned to grab a fork, his gaze followed her. She wasn’t looking at him then, but if she had, she would’ve seen it:

That soft look, like a man seeing something he hadn’t let himself hope for.

----

She watched him polish off the last bite of pie, scraping the fork gently against the plate. He leaned back slightly, not quite slouched, and set the fork down with a soft clink.

“Want another slice?” she asked, already reaching for the knife.

He gave a slow nod. “If you’re offerin’, I’d be a fool to say no. That’s the best thing I’ve had in months.”

Her mouth twitched at that, trying to hide how that praise made her feel nice in her chest. She turned to cut him a second helping, and when she was about to take his plate, he had already started to stand.

“‘Scuse me a minute,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll be right back.”

She nodded absently, already sliding the pie knife back into the tin.

----

Bucky stood over the basin, with his hands braced on either side of the chipped porcelain, breathing tightly. The shirt clung to his back with sweat and dust, a reminder of how he must look -and smell- after hours straddling a damn roof like a fool. This wasn’t the bunkroom behind the office. Wasn’t a saloon with flickering lamplight and no one who gave a damn if you were clean. This was her home.

The thought alone made his gut twist.

He’d barely tasted the first slice of pie before the awareness of it set an itch he couldn’t reach. The way her eyes flicked to him when he stood in the doorway, hesitant to cross into her kitchen. The softness in her voice when she told him to wash his hands. The warmth of her palm guiding his calloused fingers. It was all too much and not enough at once.

He pulled the shirt over his head, and the cool air hit his skin and made him hiss. He didn’t want her to see the sweat-soaked cotton, the trail of grime down his neck and arms from lying in hay and crawling across a wooden roof. Not when she’d taken the time to bake him a pie.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for the bar of laundry soap.

He wet a rag and rubbed until it lathered, dragging it across his chest, under his arms, down the sides of his neck. He scrubbed perhaps harder than intended to feel clean again. Respectable. Like the kind of man who could sit at her table without leaving a mark behind. The smell of the laundry soap, faint and piney, clung to his skin.

Then he splashed water onto his hair, putting some soap foam on it and rinsing the best he could, combing it with his fingers through the mess he had made. He didn’t have a proper comb -never thought to carry one- but he flattened it the best he could and slicked it back behind his ears. It’d have to do.

Looking into the mirror above the basin, he saw a man he didn’t quite recognize. Still tired. But... presentable. For her.

He muttered a curse, ran the rag once more across his face, and pulled the shirt back on with a grimace. Still damp, but at least it didn’t stink so much now. He rolled the sleeves to the elbows again, adjusted the fall of the hem, and gave himself one last glance before stepping out.

The scent of pear pie greeted him first. She didn’t look up right away. But when she did, he caught the flicker in her gaze, the way it dipped to his collar, lingered, then softened.

She didn’t say a word about it. Just passed him the plate, and busied herself with pouring coffee so he wouldn’t see the way something in her melted a little at the thought of this rough, solitary man splashing himself clean with her laundry soap in her little washroom just to sit at her table and feel right in it.

----

They’d been sitting across from each other for maybe fifteen minutes, forks scraping gently against ceramic, the scent of pear and butter still clinging to the warm kitchen air. She said something about the orchard, but he didn’t quite catch it. Not really. Not with the way her mouth curved when she spoke, not with the way she’d just licked a smear of pie filling from the tip of her finger like she hadn’t done a damn thing.

And he was starving, sure. But not for pie.

She’d caught him staring once or twice already, and each time he’d dropped his gaze like a kid caught with his hand in the sugar jar, fixing his attention sharply on whatever was closest. A stain on the table. The little flowers painted on the plate. His coffee.

She’d been watching him right back, he could feel it. And when her eyes caught his again, she didn’t let him look away easily this time.

She tilted her head a little. “Alright,” she said quietly, but pointed. “What is it?”

He blinked, dragging his eyes to the mug in his hand, buying a beat of time. “Hm?”

“You’ve been starin’ at me like you’ve got somethin’ on your tongue and don’t know if it’s worth sayin’.”

He scraped his thumb along the edge of his cup. “Ain’t somethin’ to say polite.”

That made her brows lift. She leaned slightly forward, bracing her elbow on the table, cheek in her hand. Calm. Curious.

“Oh? What is it then?”

Shit. His ears heated. She wasn’t even trying to tease him, not really, which somehow made it worse. He thought about lying. Thought about brushing it off, saying he was sick in his gut or something like that. But something in her gaze was expectant and open, so he set the mug down and looked her in the eyes.

“I’ve been starin’,” he finally said, voice a little roughened, “because it’s been a long damn time since we’ve been alone in a room without someone hoverin’ nearby. Because that dress makes me think about things I probably shouldn’t at your kitchen table. Because you’re here, and I’m here, and we’re courtin’ but I still don’t know when’s the polite time to stop bein’ gentlemanly and just… put my hands on you the way I want to.”

Her lips parted slightly, but her gaze didn’t drop.

“And now you’ve got me sittin’ here, wonderin’ how much longer I gotta pretend to enjoy this damn pie when all I want is to come around this table and see if you taste sweeter than you bake.”

He exhaled, like he’d held that inside him for too long.

“Sorry,” he added after a beat, rubbing a hand across his face. “Didn’t mean to make things-”

“You didn’t,” she cut him, then reached out and set her hand over his where it rested on the table. “And what way,” she went on, soft but with intent, “is it that you want to touch me?”

Bucky looked down at his plate. Then back up. Then down again, because her voice had dipped, and there was a lilt to it now, something careful, but not shy. His heart thudded in his chest like it had been caught doing something wrong.

He licked his bottom lip, flicking his eyes to where her thumb brushed the back of his hand. Slowly, his own thumb moved to meet it. A slow stroke. Testing.

“Not like a man tryin’ to get his hand under a skirt in a shadowed alley,” he said finally, voice rough with restraint. “But not like we’re sharin’ coffee in a parlor neither.”

That earned him the smallest tilt of her mouth. Not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile. Something warmer.

“I see,” she murmured.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly, gaze dropping again. “You don’t.”

She quirked a brow at that. Sat back slightly, still touching him, but eyeing him now, like she was searching for the line between teasing and truth.

“I know I’m not the most experienced woman you’ve encountered in your life, Bucky,” she said after a breath. “But I’m not precisely a debutant either,” she reminded him, slightly lifting her chin. “I’m not as dense or naive as you think me to be.”

“I- I know you’re not,” he stammered, his eyes darting up to her face, then down again. He didn’t say virgin. Couldn’t. “It’s not that.” He sighed. “It’s just… you’re a proper woman,” he went on, voice rough and uncertain now. “And there are times for everything, for what’s right. What’s�� decent. I don’t always know the steps to that. Ain’t familiar with the dances of it. And I don’t want to -hell- don’t want to disrespect you.”

He sounded torn in two, one part the man who’d stared her down in the middle of the kitchen like he meant to devour her, and the other, the quiet, weatherworn boy who still hesitated to meet a gaze in case someone saw too much.

That version of him -that orphaned ache- was always there under the surface, and it pained her every time it showed.

She stood up, slow and sure. Circled the table with measured steps.

He didn’t look up at first. Not until her hand came to rest lightly on his jaw, and her thumb brushed the scruff on his cheek like she was handling something fragile and precious.

“Well,” she said gently, “given that it’s been stated I’m not precisely a debutant… that we are, in fact, courting… and that I’m willing for you to touch me…”

Her fingers moved, slowly and certain, tangling into the damp strands of his hair behind his ear, drawing his gaze to hers.

“I can assure you, dear,” she whispered, voice low and warm, “I won’t feel disrespected if you touch me.”

His breath hitched faintly.

Her thumb stroked across the edge of his cheekbone, and his hands came up slowly, still uncertain, resting lightly on her waist like he was still asking permission even now. She didn’t step back. Didn’t speak. Just kept that soft look on her face like she was waiting for him to do what they’d both been wanting for weeks.

“C’mere,” he rasped.

He eased her closer, then sat back slightly, guiding her gently to his lap with a slow pull. Her skirts settled around them, her knees bracketing his thigh.

His hand came up slowly to her neck, tracing the thick braid that lay against her chest.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he murmured, tugging just enough at the end of it to tilt her face toward his. “Too damn long.”

Then he kissed her.

Not soft, not careful. But Deep and slow. Her hands grabbed his shoulders, and he groaned low in his throat, sliding one hand up to rest just below the swell of her breast. He didn’t push. Didn’t grab. Just touched, with his wide and warm palm over the fabric of her dress.

She pressed in closer, and he kept tasting her, the tug on her braid keeping her tilted just so, mouths brushing and catching again until both their chests rose in uneven rhythm.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, lips flushed, braid loosened near her throat, eyes flickering between his mouth and his eyes. Her breath ghosted over his cheek when she spoke.

“What if I tell you, I do want you to touch me like a man tryin’ to get his hand under a skirt in a shadowed alley?” she asked.

For half a second, he froze.

His brain went blank, stunned, like he wasn’t sure he heard her right. Like every part of him stalled just to replay her voice in his head.

But then, she shifted. Just subtly, her thighs adjusted against his, her weight rolling against his leg, her fingers pressing tighter into the fabric at his shoulders.

And all pretense of decorum flew clean out the window.

He swore under his breath.

His hand slipped from her side to her back, dragging her into him with a need he didn’t bother hiding now. The one cupping the side of her face slid lower, down the line of her neck to her collarbone, brushing the edge of the braid like it burned him. His lips were on her jaw, her throat, her pulse, hungry now, claiming the taste of her skin.

His voice was ragged against her. “Then you better hold on, sweetheart. ‘Cause I’ve got a whole damn alley’s worth of want backed up in me.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, because she’d already given it, in the way she shifted closer, in the way her breath hitched when his mouth trailed along the hollow of her neck. In the way her hands slipped from his shoulders to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling a little, like her fingers couldn’t keep up with the want.

He tugged the braid again, just enough to angle her mouth to his, to kiss her with a groan buried in his throat, and her soft gasp only spurred him on.

When she tugged his shirt from his waistband, he let her, let her hands roam up his chest, then the sides of his torso.

And then her hands slid lower.

His head dropped forward, resting his forehead against hers. She reached for the hem of her dress, and he stilled her hands, not to stop her, but to help. Pulled the fabric up her thighs, bunched it at her hips so he could finally feel the warmth of her skin against his trousers. His hand cupped the back of her thigh, dragging up his fingers slowly until she shivered against him.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely holding together.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” she murmured.

He stood with her still on his lap, her legs instinctively wrapping around him, and his hands gripped under her thighs, broad palms against the shape of her rear as he carried her toward the bedroom.

She blinked. “Bucky?”

His jaw ticked. “I’m not doin’ this rushed. Not with you.”

The bedroom was dim, the afternoon sun cutting soft lines across the sheets she’d changed earlier. He nudged the door shut with his foot and laid her on the bed like she was something to be unwrapped. Then stood at the edge, looking down at her, breath uneven.

Her hair was loose now, lips already kiss-swollen, skirt bunched at her thighs. She watched him with eyes wide and hungry. Her hand reached for the buttons of her dress, but he caught it gently, shaking his head.

“Let me.”

And so he did. Unbuttoned her slowly, brushing the fabric away inch by inch. He peeled the dress down her shoulders with reverence, baring her gradually, and by the time she was left in nothing but her stockings and the thin cotton chemise, his own shirt had joined the pile on the floor. She reached out to him, caressing his chest, the flat of his stomach, the long lines of muscle traced with old scars she hadn’t seen up close until now. He stilled under her touch, eyes fluttering shut.

When his hands reached the hem of her chemise, he paused, pressing his fingers at the edge. He didn’t look at her, not at first. Just stared at the fabric between his knuckles, the delicate cotton.

Then his eyes lifted.

“Can I?” he rasped, voice scraped raw with restraint.

She nodded, slow and sure.

His hands slid up her sides, lifting the chemise inch by inch. Her arms lifted instinctively, letting him tug it over her head, and then it was gone, left somewhere on the floor. She lay there in nothing but her stockings, the soft hem of them hugging her thighs.

Bucky froze.

His gaze dragged over her, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he had words but forgot them all.

When he climbed over her, she thought this was it. That this was what came next. It was all she’d known: some kisses, bodies together in the dark, fumbling hands and quiet sounds. Familiar. Sweet.

But Bucky leaned down, kissed her again -slow, deep- then his lips began to move lower. Over her jaw. Down the slope of her neck. Across the curve of her shoulder. Lower still.

His mouth pressed to the edge of one breast, then the other. Nuzzled warmly into her skin before brushing his lips, carefully, over one nipple.

Her breath caught.

His tongue flicked gently. Just once. Her back arched, and a soft sound escaped her throat, half surprise, half something deeper. He closed his mouth over her then, suckling with care, patient and deliberate until her toes curled against the mattress.

Another gasp. Her hands rose instinctively, clinging to his shoulders, digging her nails into solid muscle as he moved to the other side. Warm tongue, reverent lips. One hand trailed lower, slowly over her belly, as if to say stay with me, while he took his time learning every inch of her.

“That... that felt good,” she whispered, breathless.

He looked up at her then, hair falling across one cheek, lips damp. “You ain’t felt nothin’ yet,” he said, voice rough with heat.

And then he started to move down.

He kissed his way along her belly, her hip, stopping to linger at every patch of skin. One hand slid under her thigh, tracing his fingertips over the top edge of her stocking, and then he kissed the inside of her leg, close -too close- to where she throbbed for him.

She bolted upright on her elbows, all wide eyes, heat flooding her cheeks.

“What- what are you doing?”

His voice was low, and warm. “What you deserve.” He gently parted her thighs, brushing his mouth over her skin like he had all the time in the world. “Gonna make you feel good. Just lie back, honey.”

“But I- I’ve never-” She didn’t know how to finish. Her cheeks burned hot.

He met her eyes “Then I reckon you’ve been shorted. ‘Cause this?” He kissed just higher, lips barely grazing her skin. “This is how a man loves a woman proper.”

Her breath stuttered.

And then she did exactly what he asked, lay back and let him show her.

He saw the way her fingers clenched at the sheets, how her thighs tensed slightly under his hands, torn between modesty and anticipation. She wasn’t stopping him. She was just flustered, overwhelmed.

So he slowed.

His mouth pressed another kiss to the tender skin of her inner thigh, then another, until she exhaled slowly, and her body eased into the mattress inch by inch.

“Good,” he murmured against her. “Just like that.”

When he finally let his mouth brush over her folds, she shivered, a soft gasp leaving her lips as her hips twitched up involuntarily. His hands steadied her, one large palm splayed against her belly, the other smoothing over her thigh. And then he did it again, circling, teasing, suckling. His tongue moved with purpose. Slowly. Rhythmic. Reverently.

Her head tipped back.

One of her hands gripping the sheet found its way to his hair, tangling her fingers on his locks as her breath became quicker. She wasn’t quiet, not anymore. Soft sounds escaped her lips, startled at first, then shameless, open.

Bucky groaned low when he felt her start to tremble, the sound vibrating against her in a way that made her cry out softly.

“Bucky-” she gasped, hips rolling against his mouth, helpless.

“That’s it,” he rasped between strokes, “Let go for me.”

And she did.

With a stuttering gasp and her legs trembling around his shoulders, she came against his mouth. She wasn’t shy about the way her body jerked under him, or the way she whimpered his name like a prayer when it ended.

He stayed there, kissing the soft inside of her thigh again, his stubble rough and tender all at once. His hand stroked her hip as her breathing slowed.

When she finally looked down at him again, his mouth was slick, eyes dark, lips swollen from use.

“You…” she tried, dazed. “That was…”

“Been wantin’ to,” he said, voice like dusk. “Since I saw you in that kitchen apron the week I stayed here. Didn’t even know what hit me, just… knew I’d give up anything to put my mouth on you like that.”

She reached for him then and pulled him up, dragging him by the shoulder and the back of his neck until he was back over her, his chest brushing hers.

He hissed softly as his new scar tugged his skin, but didn’t stop. Not when she kissed him, slow and deep, tasting herself on his tongue. Not when her fingers started to fumble with the buttons of his trousers.

Her cheeks were flushed, sure. But her voice wasn’t shy when she murmured, “Come on, Sheriff. Now take your time gettin’ inside me.”

His breath caught, more startled by the words than anything else. Heat rushed up his neck. Hell, he’d heard things said in saloons that’d make most men blush, but coming from her? His proper woman with proper manners? He cursed under his breath, low and ragged.

“Well,” he muttered, “I’d be a damn fool not to listen to an order like that.”

He helped her ease down the fabric of his trousers. This time, the underthings were newer. Still plain, but not frayed and shameful like last time.

The moment they came off and her eyes flicked down, her gaze widened just a little, not precisely with fear, but something like stunned curiosity. She had seen it before when tending him, but resting.

He saw her expression and chuckled dryly. “Hope you’re not disappointed.”

She didn’t laugh.

Instead, her lips parted, and she said quietly, “Not precisely disappointed. Just... uncertain.”

He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth tugging into something like a smile. “Didn’t hear complaints before, sugar.”

Her eyes met his, lips still parted from her soft confession. He leaned over her then, kissing her gently, slowly, as his hand trailed down her waist.

“You’ll be good,” he murmured against her mouth.

He shifted between her thighs, parting them with reverence, and guided himself along her slick heat with slow, deliberate strokes meant to coat, not press, not force. His breath was already ragged from restraint, from the warmth of her body against him, from the knowledge that this moment was no longer imagined. It was real. And when he finally eased his hips to line himself up, the resistance surprised him.

She tensed slightly beneath him, gripping the quilt with her fingers. “It’s been a long time,” she murmured, voice barely more than breath, holding his gaze.

“‘S alright,” he rasped, dropping his head to kiss her temple, then lower, the bridge of her nose. “Ain’t in no rush.”

One of his hands trailed down between them, and he slid a finger inside her, gently, slowly, then added another, curling just enough to make her back arch. She gasped, hips twitching, and he whispered again, “I said we’d go slow. Let me take care of you, honey.” His voice was velvet. There was no hunger in it, not yet. Just patience. Just care. He watched her body respond, her thighs loosening, her breathing hitching, her hips moving faintly in search of more.

“There,” he murmured, brushing his lips over her cheek. “There you go. That’s it.” His thumb circled her clit tenderly as his fingers worked her open, coaxing softness from tension, wetness from hesitation.

Only when she sighed and shifted did he pull his hand back, guiding himself again with careful pressure, watching her face the whole time. “If it’s too much, you tell me. You say stop.”

She nodded and braced herself with both hands on his shoulders.

He pushed in slowly, and his breath caught as her body welcomed him, tight and hot and trembling around him.

“Jesus,” he hissed, shutting his eyes for half a second. “You feel- God, darlin’…”

She felt impossibly full. Stretched around him, her nails sinking into his shoulders as he sank in inch by inch, with gritted teeth, like each second tested his restraint to its limit. He was breathing through his nose, harsh and shallow, a vein throbbing at the side of his neck.

“You alright?” he murmured, voice barely held together.

She nodded, “Yeah, jus’... a lot.”

“I know,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her brow, then her cheek, then lower, nuzzling the corner of her mouth. “You’re takin’ me so goddamn good.”

And then she exhaled, a full-body release of tension, her back softening beneath him, her hips rising just a little, inviting to move.

He felt it.

And let go.

Slowly at first, testing the motion. She gasped, one hand flying to grip the bedsheet, and he groaned deeply.

“You’re squeezin’ me like you never been fucked.” he muttered, grazing her neck with his teeth.

She whimpered -raw, helpless- and he began to move in earnest now. Smooth strokes that rocked her against the mattress, bracing his weight on his forearms, pressing her body down with his in the best kind of way. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, thighs trembling, and when he angled just right-

“Oh-” she choked out, eyes flying open.

“There?” he rasped, pulling back and driving in again, watching her shudder. “That's what you like?”

She nodded frantically, lips parted, soundless moans catching in her throat.

He fucked her harder then, rhythmic, relentless, still careful but with weight behind each stroke, hands planted beside her shoulders, hair falling loose and wild around his face.

“Look at me,” he muttered.

Her lashes fluttered.

“C’mon, sweetheart, eyes on me while I fuck you.”

The words shocked her, raw and filthy.

Her gaze met his.

And God, he looked ruined, cheeks flushed, lips bitten red, blue eyes dark and blown wide. He rocked into her harder and saw her mouth fall open on a silent cry.

“You feel this?” he whispered, leaning in until their foreheads touched, his hips grinding deeply. “Every inch of me inside you, sugar. Wrapped around me like you were made for it.”

She whimpered, rising her hips to meet his now, chasing the friction.

“Been thinkin’ about this since the day you let me touch you,” he went on. “Thinkin’ about stretchin’ you open on my cock, makin’ you mine for real.”

Her fingers clawed at his back.

That voice. Those words.

He didn’t speak like that. Not around her. Not ever.

He was always so careful with her, measured, quiet. Even when angry, Bucky Barnes spoke like a man with his fists tied behind his back, every syllable tempered, every word weighed before it left his mouth.

But this, this wasn’t the sheriff.

This was the man beneath it.

The one who lived too long in rooms with no doors, the one whose wants were so repressed they came out raw when he let go. And hearing that voice, coarse and low, saying filthy things… things no one had ever dared say to her-

It made her wetter.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he hissed. “You’re my woman. Tell me.”

She swallowed a sob. “Y-yes- yes, Bucky-”

And the way he groaned then, she’d never forget that sound. Never.

Then, without a word, he shifted his weight and spread one of her thighs wider with his hand, planting it firmly against the mattress. The other slid between their bodies, pressing his fingers hot and sure against the bud of nerves he hadn’t yet touched.

She gasped -half breath, half cry- startled all over again, like she hadn’t known she could feel that much, that sharply, all at once.

He noticed.

Oh, he noticed.

The way her body tensed under him, her mouth parted in stunned pleasure. And it clicked, something carnal and furious dawning in his brain: no one had ever done this for her. No one had ever taken the time to show her what her body could do while fucking, what it deserved to feel.

The thought made his rhythm falter, almost spilling inside her.

He gritted his teeth, sweat dripping from his brow as he worked her in time with his thrusts, the soft, wet sounds between them growing louder. Her hands scrambled up his back again, nails sinking in, her hips twitching against his hand.

“God,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “You never- have you never been touched like this?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Her whimpers were enough answer.

“Christ,” he growled, dropping his forehead to her shoulder.

Her walls clenched around him, and he felt the tremble in her thighs.

“You’re gonna come on my cock,” he said, voice like gravel, “like a good little wife-”

The word slipped out of his lips raw and unfiltered.

She moaned, louder this time, startled again, her eyes fluttered shut in ecstasy.

He caught her chin in one hand, fingers still working her, hips grinding deeper.

“Look at me,” he ordered, low and rough. “Eyes on me when you come. Let me see it, darling.”

She shattered with a cry she didn’t recognize, trying to look at him but failing when her eyes rolled back with pleasure, clenching around him so hard he lost rhythm, cursed, and buried himself as deep as he could go.

His release hit a moment later -violent and staggering- his whole body bending over hers as he grunted and spilled inside her, gripping the sheets tight enough to almost tear them.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, uneven, gasping, tangled in each other like the whole world had narrowed to this bed, this room, this moment.

“…Jesus,” he breathed against her neck.

She didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Not with the way her heart was still trying to find its rhythm again, not with the way her thighs still trembled faintly where they wrapped around his hips. Her hand lay limp on his shoulder, her fingers twitching like she’d forgotten they didn’t need to hold on anymore.

He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them still catching up to themselves. The only sounds were their breaths and the fire cracking softly in the next room.

Then, slowly, he drew back with a hiss through his teeth. She winced too, not from pain, but from the strange aching feel of being left suddenly empty. His softening cock slipped free with a wet sound, a trail of his spend slipping after it, hot and messy between her thighs.

She let her eyes close.

And then he was moving again. He lay down on his side, and without asking, without hesitating, he dragged her against him.

One arm hooked low under her hips, the other winding firm around her shoulders, sinking her to his chest like afraid she'd vanish if he loosened his grip.

She let him. Felt good being tucked against his sweat-damp skin, her legs tangled with his, her cheek rested against the spot where his heart pounded slow and steady again.

He didn’t speak. Just exhaled long and quietly into her hair, moving his hand over her back like he was still testing that she was real.

Like letting go wasn’t even a consideration.

----

They didn’t move for a while. The sheets were tangled, their skin sticky with sweat.

It was late afternoon.

Bucky’d have to go soon. He sighed, deep and reluctantly, and she felt the rise and fall of his chest against her cheek before he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow.

He looked down at her, her hair mussed, lips still kiss-swollen, lashes casting shadows on her cheek.

“I should head back before it gets too dark,” he murmured. But he didn’t move.

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded a little.

His fingers found her arm, then slid down to her wrist, and curled gently around it. “…Wanted to say thanks,” he added. “For the things you left at the office. The blanket. That sachet. The new mug.”

She blinked, turned her head slightly to look up at him. He wasn’t looking at her, just somewhere past her shoulder.

“I’m not really good at… keepin’ myself. Always figured if I had a roof and a bed, that was plenty.” He exhaled through his nose. “Never really thought about comfort. Not the way you do.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just leaned up a little and pressed her lips to his jaw, slow and softly.

The quiet after that stretched.

He wasn’t making a move to leave yet, and she… well, her mind kept circling back. Back to the way he’d spoken to her not long ago, his voice rough and unraveled with need. You’re gonna come on my cock like a good little wife.

She knew he cared. That much was clear. The whole damn town knew about them now, this time for real. But there was still a difference between being sweethearts and… something else.

She hated herself a little for bringing it up. But she didn’t like guessing games. Didn’t like not knowing where she stood.

“Can I ask you something?” she murmured at last, watching his profile in the soft light.

His gaze shifted to hers. “Anything.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she didn’t back down. “Earlier, when we- you said somethin’.”

He frowned slightly, scratching the back of his neck. Dammit. He already knew. Knew exactly what she meant. He had run his mouth talking to her like a common whore and probably she was rethinking her life choices right now.

“I said a lot of things,” he drawled, trying to play it down, even as dread pressed down in his gut. “If I said somethin’ crude, I-”

“You called me your little wife.”

He went still. Heart stuttering, throat dry. Yeah, he did. He’d gone and said it, a damn boyish dream spit out in the middle of heat and skin and her sweet voice in his ear.

“I… I didn’t-” He started, stumbled. “I didn’t mean- I mean, I did, but not like-“

Her shoulders tensed slightly. She gave a tiny nod, dipping her gaze to the quilt between them.

“It’s alright,” she murmured quickly, too quickly. “I was just curious, that’s all. You don’t have to explain, I know it was just-”

“No,” he said, sharper than he meant to. Her head jerked up.

He dragged a hand down his face. “No,” he said again, lower this time, more like himself. “That ain’t what I meant. I just- I wasn’t expectin’ to get called out on it. Thought it’d stayed in my damn head where it belongs.”

She blinked, unsure.

Bucky exhaled hard through his nose, then met her eyes and made himself speak.

“I said it,” he muttered. “Because I think about it more than I oughta. ‘Bout you. ‘Bout what it’d be like. If you were mine, for real. If I had a house to walk back to, and you were there. I-” he looked away for a second, then back again. “I didn’t say it like a filthy thing.”

He swallowed hard. “Truth is, there’s things I’ve been meanin’ to take care of before askin’ you proper. Wanted it to be right. Wanted to give you more than just, this.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles. “More than just a man who means well but sleeps in a damn cot behind a desk.”

He let out a low chuckle, dry, self-mocking. “And yet here I am, talkin’ about it with my ass naked, instead of askin’ like I should, when I should. Seems I couldn’t even manage that part right.”.” His voice turned hoarse, and his mouth became a thin line. Embarrassed. Ashamed, maybe, like some part of him still thought he didn’t deserve to want things like that.

But she shifted closer without hesitation, her bare legs brushing his beneath the sheets. One hand slid up his chest, over the solid beat of his heart, and her thumb made slow, soft circles there like she could soothe the old ache.

“You want to marry me?” she asked softly.

“I do,” he said. Plain and quiet.

She smiled warmly then, and leaned forward, brushing his cheek with her nose, then kissed the corner of his mouth tenderly. “Well,” she murmured, “I guess I’ll wait to hear you ask proper, then.”

Bucky didn’t smile, not exactly. But something in his eyes warmed. Like maybe that part of him that had always braced for rejection had finally found a place to rest. Just drew her in a little closer, resting his chin on her head.

“I will,” he said finally, quiet against her hair. “Not today. But soon.”

She hummed and nodded slowly. Like it was enough.

Her fingers trailed over his chest, then stilled to lazily trace the edge of an old scar just beneath his ribs. The pad of her thumb circled there, slow and aimlessly, and his breath caught a little from how good it felt.

Outside, the wind shifted the trees. Inside, the only sound was the slow, matched rhythm of their breaths.

She pressed a soft kiss to the hollow of his throat, then let her cheek rest there, right over the thrum of his pulse. “Bet this wasn’t what you pictured when you came to fix the roof,” she murmured.

He huffed, mouth quirking against her temple. “Didn’t even get to fix the damn window.”

“Well,” she said, eyes already drifting closed, “guess you’ll just have to come back.”

He smiled into her hair, his arm pressing just a little harder around her, like he didn’t want to let even an inch of her go.

He pressed a kiss to her hair and let his lips remain there.

“Didn’t think I’d ever get somethin’ like this,” he murmured.

She tilted her face toward him, brushing her nose along his jaw, her fingers resting over his heart. “You did.”

His free hand found hers beneath the covers, intertwining their fingers tightly.

“Then I’ll try real hard not to lose it.”

FIN

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esmedelacroix · 1 day ago

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09 - People Who Need People

synopsis ! he’s an american football player by day and a passionate mathematician by night . she’s a well-rounded historian and writer who couldn’t evaluate a derivative to save her life . they lived in two different worlds but shared the same study room .

previous chapter | series masterlist

cw ! no use of y/n, y/n is _____, fluff, slow burn, college au, ooc sukuna, f!reader, child abuse/neglect, alcohol, angst, brief mention of self-harm, depressive tendencies

fic radio ! lacy by Olivia Rodrigo

You swore you would text him and try to talk about his apology and how much it meant to you. But things just kept getting in the way. You're eyelids were beginning to feel dry and heavy from your study session. Just as your eyes fell on your bed, you realized you could hear the birds chirping and the morning light peeking through your window. You pulled an accidental all-nighter and needed to get ready to go to office hours.

After that, you had two classes and got roped into helping out the club you allowed yourself to forget you were the leader of. It was only at the end of the day, when your friends somehow tracked you down at Sal's, you'd interacted with people that actually cared about the "How are you," beyond the faulty "I'm good," that always followed.

"Woah, _____, didn't expect to see you here so late," Satoru said, plopping down into the booth seat across from you alongside Shoko.

Suguru took the seat next to you and peeked at the book you were reading. "People still use physical textbooks?" he asked, flipping through some pages and then closing it, earning a glare from you.

"We haven't seen or heard from you all day, _____. We kind of assumed you were going to self-destruct and stop speaking to us for the next week and keep doing unnecessary work again, so we figured we would hunt you down," Shoko explained.

"I wasn't-" you started, only then realizing you hadn't spoken to anyone since the day prior, even though you had received a bunch of texts from people asking if you were okay after the party.

"Oh," you sighed, rubbing your hand down the side of your face.

"Yeah, oh."

"I'm so sorry. I keep worrying you guys," you guiltily apologized.

"It's totally not your fault, but just remember you need us as much as we need you. We're your friends, and we're here for you, and people need people to lean on. You need to let us be those friends for you," Suguru lectured.

"Now that we have that out of the way. What the heck happened at the party??" Gojo asked, jumping right into the drama. Shoko rolled her eyes, cutting him off, asking, "Wait, but everything's okay, _____?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," you half lied.

You could feel Suguru's prying eyes on you, like he was trying to deconstruct what you were actually thinking. He did that often. Picked up on things that others couldn't. He always watched. Always noticed. Always nudged your knee under the table and gave you that 'Are you okay?' look. He always fucked around in your room just to exist in the same space as you. He knew when you needed to be around someone or you'd drive yourself up a wall. And now he was staring at you, picking apart your expressions and seeing you for what you were actually feeling. Just like the way Sukuna has learned to.

To say that you never had a crush on Suguru was a lie. You had a tiny thing for him freshman year because of how overwhelmed you were with how good of a friend he was off the bat. You had never had anything like that in prep school. Suguru knew things about you that your own parents didn't. They didn't know when you were pretending to be happy, but he did. They didn't know you bounced your leg when you were nervous or giddy, and even if they did, they wouldn't be able to tell the difference between the different bounces

Then you saw him look at his best friend. But he wasn't only looking and analyzing the way he did his friends. With Gojo, he wasn't simply trying to make sure he was okay; he was also looking to memorize him. For the split second he blinked, his eyes would miss him, so he retained the picture of his visage so that even when he closed his eyes, he would still see his face.

The way you once wanted Suguru to look at you because you had mistaken friendship for love was how Sukuna looked at you now. The moment Sukuna reentered your thoughts, you realized, as your eyes fell to the illuminated screen of your phone telling you it was 11:57, that you had forgotten to text Sukuna.

. . .

Sukuna returned to his escape. You would think that a guy with so many interests would maybe: throw himself at some games, or comics, or math problems, or sports. But when Sukuna was down, he simply did nothing. He clung to his bed sheets like adhesive from a discarded bandage left on skin for far too long. Not ripped off, but fallen because it was simply too tired.

He didn't speak to anyone. Who was there to speak to? He didn't have two parents who were present in his life like yours were. He had Toji but he had screwed things up with him and yelled at him about his relationship woes. That was laughable, seeing that Sukuan couldn't even get the girl he liked to speak to him. He was an ass and he pushed people away for a living.

So he drew his curtains, which were usually open, kept all lights off, door closed, and stayed melted into his bed. He stayed in his room. His safe place would keep him depressed forever. A singular wet sphere of salty liquid dribbled down his cheek, and he told himself that it was because he had yawned.

He figured sleep would be better. There was a place inside his mind where he could go and create a better life for himself, and he would much rather be there right now than in this room, thinking about all the reasons why he was alone that pointed back to him and his pitiful existence.

To make said magical dreams, he needed to think of something. Something he wanted badly. So naturally, the first thing he thought of was you. The house you probably lived in, the many pampering products you probably owned, the maid who cleaned up after you, and the kitchen cabinets you could open without the fear of seeing cockroaches crawl about in your tableware. Scatch that. You probably never stepped foot in your kitchen. You had people for that.

He thought about the parents you went home to. The ones that smiled and didn't hit. The ones that loved and kissed each other and didn't cheat and leave. The nice school you went to. All the other rich friends who liked you. Your perfect grades and your perfect reputation—I don't have a crush on _____, he suddenly realized.

I'm completely consumed with jealousy for her. I am obsessed. I saw her at office hours this morning, looking beautiful as ever, and I wished that I had the guts to go to office hours and ask for help. I saw her helping the club she runs while juggling the two classes we have together, and I was mad at myself for not being able to do the same.

Do I really like her? Or do I want to walk in her skin and be her?

His door then swung open. It was Toji. Of course it was. He looked around took in Sukuna's position, and even picked up on the wet patch on his pillow. Sukuna hadn't even realized he had been crying.

"Dude, what the fuck?" Toji calmly grunted.

Sukuna stayed silent, hidden under his comforter up to his neck, his eyes followed Toji, who simply sat at the edge of his bed. Toji's hand traveled under the sheets to find Sukuna's arms pulling them out and inspecting his forearms.

"Stop, I'm not doin' that anymore. You don’t need to check me like I’m a high schooler anymore,” he assured, still letting Toji calm his nerves by being able to see it for himself.

"Are you sure you're not going to, though? Do I need to check your drawers? Did she call from the center?" he pressed.

"No, God, I just—thought you hated me for the party thing," he admitted.

"Why would I hate you? You were right."

"What?"

"You were right. About all of it. I broke up with Delilah for real this time. I shouldv'e walked her home, and I was an ass for trying to piss you and Delilah off with _____. I’m sorry man. I’m an idiot,” he apologized.

“You were just pissing me off?!”

“ … Yeah? Did _____ not talk to you?” Toji questioned.

“I think she made it very clear she doesn’t want to speak to me at Sal’s. Even had Gojo stop me from entering the room. And she completely ignored the apology in the notebook. I thought that meant something,” Sukuna rambled.

“You must really like her huh?” Toji smiled softly.

Do I? “I don’t know,” he truthfully answered. Toji gave him a confused look.

“I just kind of realized that I’m kind of jealous of her,” he confessed. It felt so good to say it out loud.

“Two things can be true at once. I had no idea you were jealous but, I’ve heard the way you talk about her. We all see the way you look at her like a fuckin’ lost puppy. You like her, Ryo. So maybe you’re jealous of her wealth and her status, but I know you. I know your heart. And I know you like her,” Toji shrugged.

“I thought she liked me too.”

“After our conversation last night, me too. Apparently, she hadn’t even opened the notebook until last night. She didn’t even see your apology,” Toji explained.

“So, why hasn’t she talk spoken to me?” Sukuna though out loud.

With perfect fucking timing because the universe hates Sukuna, he revived a text. He intensely scrambled for his phone fishing in his sheets for it with the fervor of a teenager who had just gotten their sugar plum pussy flavored vape hidden at a sleepover.

You: Hey, can we talk?

Sukuna was now sitting up on his bed. Toji peering over his shoulder. “What are you gonna say?” he questioned.

Ryomen: I’m kind of a mess right now can I meet you somewhere?

“Wow, very venerable of you,” Toji half teased, proud that his friend was being a little more honest with his feelings.

You: I’m in your living-room right now…

Both Sukuna and Toji went straight into pick mode. “Why the fuck?” Toji mumbled.

I was at Sal’s with Gojo and wanted to return Toji’s jacket. I meant to text you today but I got distracted.

They looked at each other and communicated with their eyes.

Ryomen: I can chat but not my room’s a mess.

You: I dont care, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.

“I sensed some flirtatiousness in that didn’t you?” Toji asked hyping up Sukuna and patting his chest. He nodded getting a little excited and doing a little shimmy with Toji. They both cleared their throats after a while and zeroed in on the screen.

Ryomen: Come up when you’re ready then :)

“Why the fuck did you add a smiley face? She’s gonna think I’m a creep. That’s how that bitch ass, Gojo, texts in the group chat too,” Sukuna berated.

Toji left the room laughing. Before Sukuna could bolt out after him and punch his ass, you were standing at the door, looking up at the man slightly leaning against the door frame. “Was I interrupting something?” you asked hearing Toji’s laughs from down the hallway.

“Nah, just Toji being an idiot. Typical,” Sukuna rolled his eyes before stepping aside for you to enter the room.

“Alright, Ryomen, just because you have some clothes on the floor and Mountain Dews on your night stand doesn't mean your room is messy," you pointed out, sitting on his bed.

He sat beside you you and chuckled, "You're saying that but your dorm is probably perfect. Nice and clean and organized, pink shit everywhere ..."

"Nah its worse. I have half-finished drinks and unwrapped snacks on my nightsand, way too many Red Bulls on my work desk, and my bed is never made. You could also probably swim through the clothes on my floor right now," you shrugged.

"What."

"What? I can't be good at everything. I just happen to keep my spaces messy when I'm stressed out," you explained.

"Me too," he mumbled looking around his room.

Some silence invaded the space between you before you spoke up, "I'm sorry I didn't look at the note. I'm even more sorry I didn't text you today. I've been busy," you started.

"I should be the one apologizing, _____. I called you a name one should never call a woman. I'm sorry for calling you a bitch. No reasoning can dismiss the fact that I disrespected you.”

“Wow, thank you, Ryomen,” said quietly.

He let a soft sigh. Hearing his name roll off your tongue so beautifully brought Sukuna great comfort. The name he once hated now made him feel most at peace in this moment because you were the one saying it.

“If you still don’t want to forgive me-“ he started before you immediately cut him off, “No, I do. I did last night. Your note was so thoughtful and perfect. I genuinely just got caught up in my day. I wish you would have just told me you were trying to defend me day of. I’m sorry about the matcha by the way and not giving you a chance.”

“Well, this is awkward. I thought I was going to have to give you my first born child for you to tutor me and hang out again,” he joked, rubbing the back of his neck.

You laughed with him, and the two of you talked for a little longer. You absentmindedly began to pick up some clothes and place them in the hamper. Together, without even realizing it, you had cleaned his room, and it was no longer looking as cluttered as it was earlier.

“It’s still 8:00. Do you wanna hit up the library?” Sukuna randomly suggested.

“Possibly. I have my bag,” you shrugged, trying to hide the smile gracing your lips by turning away and facing the door.

Your efforts were lost on Ryomen because he could see your raised cheekbones from behind.

. . .

-> next part

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sunlightmurdock · 20 hours ago

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Ashes, Ashes | 0.3 | Bradley Bradshaw

previous chapter | next chapter | masterlist

Synopsis: In which Maverick didn’t make it home after the Uranium mission. He’s missing, presumed dead. There are things that have to be done — someone has to take care of the house, the bills.

So, Maverick’s daughter is back in Fightertown for the first time since she was in elementary school. There’s a gaping hole in both of their lives now, and somehow, the world’s supposed to just keep on turning without him.

warnings: bradley bradshaw x minimally descriptive oc avery mitchell. age gap (23/33), smut, angst, hurt / comfort, mentions of character death, mourning, military inaccuracies. This entire fic and my blog is an 18+ space, minors do not interact. Do not repost.

…

“Look, it’s the handling, the engine and the exhaust — it’ll cost more to fix this pile of crap than it’s worth. Impound it and get yourself something worth running, sweetheart.”

That was the conversation that had kick-started Avery’s extended stay at Bradley Bradshaw’s house.

Bradley had rolled his eyes, and stepped in, but he had walked away from the shop agreeing with the mechanic. It wasn’t about the money, or the condescending tone the mechanic had used; he just knew that the second these particular problems were fixed, another one would pop up.

“It’s not that big of a deal,” He had explained, nodding his head as he breezed along the coastal route. It’s like the 70s follow him where he goes, thrumming through the speakers and apparent in the grainy Polaroid tucked into his sun visor, observable also in his vintage Ray-Bans. “I’ll drive you around for a couple more days, and we’ll find you something to drive.”

Her style isn’t so historic. Wind swept through her blow-dried hair, her lips glossed and her t-shirt bearing sight of a band older than herself. She picked at the soft, spring shade of varnish on her nails. Practically squirming in her seat as he laid out the plan, helpless to do anything but nod.

Of course, she was grateful for the notion of this guy being so willing to put himself at an inconvenience just so that she would be able to get around. Taking a handout from a practical stranger just isn’t something that comes so easily.

She was really only expecting the car issue to take a few days. So, two and a half weeks later, she’s a little disgruntled to be still waking up in Bradley’s spare bedroom.

Formerly his home gym, there’s still a weight rack in the corner, a closet full of clutter, rubber flooring mats and a big workout bench that’s now squashed against the far wall — but there’s a futon in there too that makes a halfway decent bed.

It’s better than being at Maverick’s.

She has learned by now that he gets up early and works out in the backyard, sometimes going for a run down by the bay, makes himself — and often her — breakfast, and then claims the bathroom for an hour.

It’s his bathroom, so she can’t exactly complain, but she has started to wonder exactly what it is that he gets up to in there for so long.

Her routine looks a little different to his. Her shifts at the Hard Deck are tiring, and she often finishes late. For any finishes after 2am, Penny has been nice enough to send her home in a cab. Anything earlier than that, Bradley’s waiting in the parking lot or over by the pool table with his friends.

This particular morning, she wakes up later than usual, and the shower is already running.

The distractions help. The late nights help. The person sleeping across the hall helps. But, Bradley can’t shake his bad dreams. The same sea-sick feeling that sweeps him every single morning, the suffocating feeling of waking up sticky with sweat and tangled between sheets. Avery hasn’t noticed yet that he has washed his sheets five times in two weeks, like that’ll help.

Cold numbs his toes and stings at his sore, tense shoulders. The pouring water spills over his skin, prickling like pins with each droplet. The bathroom light has been off the whole time; that helps with the headaches.

Sitting on the floor of his shower has become a tortuous part of his morning routine lately. Sitting until his fingertips wrinkle and his skin starts to lose its flush. Until the cold shocks his system into operating normally again, maybe.

He likes having her around. It makes it easier to pick himself up and get out of the shower, knowing that she’ll worry. He doesn’t doubt that she cares for him — she’s a sweet girl, and he knows that in other circumstances, they would have been great friends. He’d like to be friends now, but he understands her reservations.

The second that this is all over, she’ll run home and she’ll never want to think about Mav again.

Bradley isn’t so sure what’ll give him reason to get out of the shower once she’s gone.

He wishes that he knew what happened between them. He wishes Mav had talked about her more — though, Bradley had been thrown head first into his pre-teens back then, and probably wouldn’t have listened. He doesn’t know anything about why she calls her dad by his first name, or why he let her drive that piece of shit car, or why she stopped visiting all those years ago.

Thinking about Avery, and the things left to settle, is what drags him out of his morning fog. Keeping her going stops him from thinking of his memories of that day.

She has to be at work today at noon. She’s fitting in well over there, and the other staff are great with her. Bradley spends most of her shifts around the bar, either watching sports on the TV or talking to his friends. Occasionally, when it’s quiet, he’ll walk over to the bar and sit with her.

She talks the most then. Tells him about the elementary school she attended, and its big willow tree, and the neighbourhood pool where she broke her elbow, and the guitar lessons she took as a kid. He likes those chats.

Neither one of them talk about the fact that he still hasn’t been given the all clear to return to work himself. There’s a voicemail on his phone from two days ago that hasn’t been listened to yet, from a Commander that didn’t even jnow Bradley’s name one month ago, now saying that he cares and would like to discuss a referral to a service. A shrink.

Bradley has been before, after he first pushed a kid to the floor in the playground, a couple of weeks after his dad had passed. He remembers the drive to the office, and the worry on his mother’s placating smile. He remembers his legs dangling off of the worn-out, felted armchair. The lollipops and the pages of colouring. He figures the service he’d get now might look a little different.

This morning Avery lays in her bed; she watches raindrops spill along the window pane to her right. Pretty glum weather for California, but the West Coast has always looked pretty in shades of blue. Rain splatters the sidewalk at the front of the house, almost matching the steady pattering of the shower running on the other side of her wall.

When the shower cuts out, the noise stops on one side.

She turns her head and looks to the closed bedroom door, wondering what time he had gotten up today. She had gone to bed at around two, and he had stayed up a little later. Last night they had watched Jaws together, and Bradley had revealed that he once hyperventilated in a swimming lesson as a kid because Mav had let him watch that movie way too young.

Mav didn’t ever let her watch scary movies. Well, he didn’t exactly have any rules at his place — but he heavily discouraged those kinds of movies. She can’t name a single thing she remembers watching with him.

She pushes back the sheets as the bathroom door clicks open, padding across the wooden floor to meet Bradley in the hallway. He has a fluffy gray towel secured around his waist and the meat of his palms are busy rubbing hard at his eyes.

He is very comfortable with his own body, and exceedingly comfortable with parading that body around his house. But, it’s his place, and she’s a guest and so forth — not that she finds much to complain about with the subject.

“Morning.” She sounds chirpy today, and he lifts one palm away to peek at her as he heads for his room. Leaning against the door frame with her knees together and hands crossed in front of her, offering him a small smile.

His voice is gruff and a little dry, tired sounding. “Morning. Didn’t wake you, did I?”

“Not at all.” It almost sounds like she’s about to follow him, just to keep the conversation going. He doesn’t hear her move though. “Have you been up long?”

And now that the conversation is still going, he can’t exactly slam the door in her face. He pushes it behind him, and leaves it open a crack as he replies. “Yeah. A couple of hours. There’s breakfast in the kitchen if you’re hungry.”

Today, Bradley sounds beat. Usually he is chirpy enough in the mornings, excited to see her because that means his brain might finally stop reeling. It just all feels too foggy to smile today.

“I was thinking,” Avery hums, thinking on the spot now, really — he does so much to keep her functioning, and what might make a man like him smile on a gray day? “Maybe we could go do something today. Like head out to the beach.”

“In the rain?” He doesn’t mean to sound as blunt as he does, but he just can’t pick up his tone. He pulls on clean socks and buttons his jeans, wondering if there’s a frown on her face out in that hallway.

Instead, her lips are pursed in consideration. The Washington state native in her almost laughs at the idea that a little shower makes the outdoors off limits.

If she knew him better, she’d make a witty comment about him being a chicken for being afraid of a little water — but, she doesn’t know him that well at all.

“Right,” She mumbles, looking towards the ceiling. She doesn’t know this city very well at all yet, either. “Well, what do you usually do when it rains around here?”

He makes a soft scoffing sound from inside the room. She listens to him shuffling around in there as he dresses himself for the day.

Brown eyes flicker to the reflective surface hung above his dresser while his hands fasten at the button on his jeans. He rolls his shoulders almost instinctively, straightening out and eyeing his chest.

He makes an effort to clear his throat as he opens the drawer with his t-shirts.

“Hole up in the Hard Deck ‘til it passes.”

Her nose wrinkles at that. Now leaning her head back against the hallway wall, where a framed photo of Bradley and some friends from flight school sits just past her shoulder, she can’t think of much she has seen in San Diego beyond the dingy ocean bar.

“Lame.” The word passes her lips before she can really think about whether the joke will be well received, and the wince starts to creep across her features. She settles at the sound of him huffing out a sound of amusement from his bedroom.

And then, the door is tugged open and he appears. Leaning his forearm against the doorframe and raising his brows in something that isn’t either surprise or annoyance, something more pleased looking.

“Fine,” He gives a short nod, not giving much away. “Let’s do it — let’s head down to the beach. You got a coat?”

She wrinkles her nose like the idea is ridiculous. “I don’t need a coat, it’s just a little rain.”

And then, he’s standing there with his coat zipped all the way up, watching her watch the waves while wind whips at her hair and fat, heavy raindrops spill across the thin sweater she had chosen to wear.

He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, because she has already declined to take his coat twice by now, but this just doesn’t feel right.

His hands are pushed deep into his pockets, and the cap tucked under his hood keeps the rain off of his face.

“I guess you’re used to this all, anyway,” He thinks out loud, lips pursed as he turns his head to look at the waves for himself. She turns her head to look at him, waiting for the second part of his thought. “All the, uh — grey skies and rain, huh?”

Avery thinks of Washington, and her lips twitch. It doesn’t look like any of it would come naturally to him at all, with a wardrobe made up of almost all shorts and short sleeves, curls that have been dyed by the sun and sunglasses on even now.

No, he’s California through and through.

”Little rain never killed anybody.” She answers him, resuming their walk, trailing boot prints through the wet sand. It takes her a second to go on. “I was thinking of taking a trip back home this weekend. You think you could find me a ride before then?”

Bradley’s footprints come to a standstill, enervated waves lapping at his boots. He doesn’t think before he speaks. “Well, I could drive you.”

She smiles, halfway wondering where this guy’s nice gestures will stop and kind of wondering if he was just raised to be this polite. “I’m sure you have better things to do this weekend than make a sixteen hour drive up the coast.”

No, he doesn’t — and after a week of nothing but constant company, he likes the thought of being alone even less than the thought of a drive like that. But, he knows he can’t tell her that.

A month ago, he would have had plenty to do on a weekend. Friends, and sports, and live music and sunsets — he hasn’t felt much like leaving the house recently. A lot of his friends were developed through service, and all of them seem to know what happened, and none of them look at him quite the same.

That’s why he prefers to wait by his car when he picks Avery up.

“I could drive you to the airport.” He acts like he’s correcting her incorrect assumption, playing it cool by digging his hands deeper into his pockets and strolling forward until they’re side by side.

“I don’t like to fly.”

“You’re scared of flying?” He doesn’t mean it as a challenge, or to be condescending — but he finds a little humour in the idea.

“I didn’t say I was scared — it’s just a lot of work,” She shrugs it off. “Buying a ticket, packing a bag, going through TSA, having an assigned seat, blah, blah, blah.”

“Did Mav ever take you up in the Mustang?”

“No,” Her answer carries less humour than his question had, and she turns to peer at him over her shoulder with that same look in her eyes. It’s a wounded kind of look, tainted with maybe something like jealousy. “Did he take you?”

“No,” Bradley’s lie comes as easily as it had when he had told it to his mother — who was worried sick about her baby boy, the day that he had made his mind up on how his life was going to go. “Nah, me either.”

Bradley’s first time flying was with Maverick, shotgun in that plane. It was the day he had decided to become a pilot for real, beyond the childhood wish to be just like his daddy — that was the day he had made up his mind.

He still remembered the look on Maverick’s face when he had uttered those words on the drive back home. It’s that same kind of wounded, air-out-of-your-lungs look.

Avery figures that Bradley is lying to her. She guesses that she appreciates what he is trying to do, and knows that he is doing it to spare her feelings rather than preserve some sort of image of her father. There’s no changing his absence, his disinterest. Not anymore, anyway.

“I’d come with you, though,” Bradley veers the conversation back in the direction it had come from. “This weekend. If you wanted the company.”

She stops walking as the tide creeps towards her soles. Watching him head up the surf, piecing him together like a puzzle, wondering what about Maverick makes him feel the need to be so kind to her. “Well, I’d just be catching up with my mom and… friends and stuff…”

“Right,” Bradley’s throat goes dry at the thought of his place being empty for an entire three days. He’ll have to find something to occupy himself. “By Friday. I’ll find you something.”

Work rolls around as quickly as that afternoon’s thunderstorm.

They ate together, she got ready for work while he trawled through used car ads, and then they took the scenic route out to Coronado. It’s a short drive, but it’s easy to make longer when you have as many questions and as great of a knowledge of the city as Bradley does.

Avery’s still five minutes early, and there’s a big smile on her face as he pulls into the parking lot.

Heavy, booming rumbles call across the sky. Thick, dense droplets of rain splatter the windshield almost faster than the wipers can work. Billy Joel plays softly through the speakers.

Bradley’s almost wincing but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips as she swings the car door shut behind her, his coat finally accepted and hoisted over her head like a canopy as she makes the dash for the side door of The Hard Deck.

He hadn’t been joking earlier; folks here really do pile into that place on a dreary day like this one. It’s bustling, voices and music carrying across the parking lot when the door opens and closes behind her.

He sits back in his seat, one arm propped against the door of the car, tilting his head to catch a glimpse at the far right corner. As expected, he finds his friends there. Perched around the pool table, but not playing today. Out of uniform, but with regulated hair cuts and posture that gives them all away.

They aren’t his closest friends, besides Natasha - but there’s a closeness that comes with the job. Camaraderie or something like that; they’re people that Bradley would say he trusts. People he enjoys hanging out with, for the most part. People that would be at his wedding one day, probably.

And yet, he has been avoiding them every chance he has gotten for four weeks.

He knows that Natasha asks Avery about him when she can, and he knows that Natasha still respects him enough to not make it obvious that she’s scared for him. He’ll thank her for that at some point.

The others, though, he isn’t sure. They might ask him how he’s doing, and he wouldn’t like to take the chance. They’re just more names to add to the growing lists of texts ignored. Tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, he doesn’t give a second thought to leaving.

Avery, in a similar way, likes to keep busy.

As much as she wishes Bradley would stop bending over backwards to make her life easier, she appreciates that it means she never has to do something alone. The Hard Deck is the kind of place where alone time does not, and will never exist. Even when it’s quiet there are regulars sitting on those worn leather stools with a story and a smile.

“Newbie, I’ve got a burst keg, a line that looks like LA traffic and a bachelorette party asking for twenty Lemon Drops - pick one.” Jimmy doesn’t even have to look up to start huffing orders, handing change back to a customer and grabbing a glass to start a new order all at once.

His voice is almost lost over the Hall & Oats classic blaring from the Jukebox, but it still carries every bit of the begrudging tone that he means it to.

He’s nice enough, and he seems to have been here for as long as the place has been open — longer than the time Penny has had it for, at least. Long enough, anyway, to have decided that he knows who’s name is worth learning and who’s is not. She hasn’t taken offence to it, figuring that she’ll be out of his wispy, gray hair before he knows it.

“I’ve got the keg.” She decides, killing him with kindness and a sweet smile. He huffs in acknowledgement, or amusement, and resigns to the grinning bachelorette on the other side of the bar.

It’s surprising really, how quickly a shift passes when there isn’t a moment to stop.

In fact, she barely notices that she’s done, until Jake Seresin takes a break from bothering her while she polishes glasses. He jerks his head towards the parking lot.

“Your Uber’s outside, by the way.” Jake has made sure that Avery knows who he is already. She’s unsurprised to find him leaning over the bar with a look on his face like he’s just waiting for the penny to drop.

To aid the process, he looks over his shoulder and hikes a thumb in the same direction.

Sure enough, standing outside with his chin tipped towards the shore, leaning back against the hood of his car — there’s Bradley. Watching the night sky, totally in a world of his own.

Jake gives her a minute to stare at him while he, in turn, stares back at her. He’s not exactly counting down the seconds, but he knows the look of a woman who is taking her sweet time eyeing someone up. Fingers drumming nimbly against the bar, a smile has already stretched across his lips by the time she remembers to look back to him.

There’s a suggestion in the way his brows raise. A look in the flash of his green eyes. An absolute smugness in the smile on his face. “So, big guy taking care of you alright?”

And, in a play that Jake himself couldn’t have even hoped for, she falls right for the bait.

It’s just the cocky way his eyes glint and the subtle suggestiveness to his tone, the way his eyebrow quirks just the smallest degree.

Flush crossing her cheeks and an immediate alarm flashing across her eyes, she straightens up and puts some space between them. “No, no - it’s not like that.”

Dimples press into the corners of his lips, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he cocks his head to a twenty degree angle. His voice is pure wouldn’t-know-better, country boy innocence as he quips, “Like what?”

Realisation hits with a beat. A grin crosses her face, her body slumping in relief as her eyes roll on instinct. He’s messing.

“Ha. Ha.” She scoffs, leaning forward again to prop her hands against the bar. Just as quickly as that shock and embarrassment had crossed her face, it becomes “Don’t you have anyone worrying about you? — This late on a Friday night and it’s just you and your best buddy.”

Jake huffs out a soft laugh, checking back over his other shoulder at Coyote, tossing a round of darts by himself in Jake’s absence.

“Honey, I’m a free agent.” Jake smiles, and she gets it. She has heard the girls at the bar whispering about him every time he’s here, and she has always found him a little… underwhelming. But, the drawl in his voice when he calls her honey finally makes it click — she gets it, he’s hot.

But, it doesn’t quite work.

Her eyes flicker downward, lingering on the glossed bar top. As her mouth stretches into a smile on her own, Jake follows her gaze downward until he finds what’s got her looking so smug. His phone resting there against the surface, released absentmindedly from his palm while he had been busy getting under her skin.

She looks between him, and the bell that hangs behind her.

Now, the rule’s pretty clear about what happens to those who dare to drop their phones on the bar.

She smiles, suddenly sweet as pie, and reaches under the bar to grab her little shoulder bag. Settling it against her body, she reaches across and pats him on the swell of his shoulder.

“I’ll keep this one between us,” She hums, taking a quick glance outside at where Bradley is waiting for her, and then looking back to Jake with mischief in her eyes. “Honey.”

She leaves him with the taunt, grinning to herself about it, and just starting to think that maybe she might be able to like this place.

Brisk air catches at her hair, nipping at the thin sleeves covering her arms.

Bradley is perched against the hood of his car, his arms folded over his chest and his eyes on the ground. He hears her coming from the moment the door to the Hard Deck opens, but he doesn’t look up until she is just a couple of feet away.

He has been crying.

Instinctively, he lifts his palm and scrubs it across his face, like that will do anything to solve his red, blotchy cheeks, or still glossy eyes. He swallows thickly and clears his throat, his brows drawing together.

”Hey…” Avery slows to almost a stop, confusion settling across her face, hanging back like keeping her distance from him will protect her from what’s coming.

”Come on, we should go.” He says, his voice gruff.

Now, she does stop moving, and shakes her head.

”Tell me what happened.” She’s still soft with him, which makes it worse. It sparks an anger in him that isn’t her fault, and wasn’t her father’s — the fault is his. It’s always been his.

His breathing hitches and his fists ball at his sides. He hasn’t cried in front of anyone but Natasha in years, and now isn’t the time to start. With everything he has taken from you already, he won’t take the opportunity to grieve just because he can’t be strong.

”They left you a voicemail. You should listen to it.” His whisper is almost swept away by the coastal breeze, but she hears him just about.

Neither one of them says a word as they settle into the vehicle, seatbelts unbuckled and engine off. Avery rests her phone against her knee and lets the message play out loud, the voice of Admiral Simpson ringing out loud and clear.

As of eleven-fifty that evening, the search had been called off. The decision had been made, the paperwork was being drawn up. Maverick was gone, and there wasn’t a person in the world who could do anything about it.

…

#bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #miles teller #jake seresin #bradley bradshaw smut #jake hangman seresin #ashes ashes #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #Bradley Bradshaw x reader #Bradley Bradshaw x oc

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chvoswxtch · 15 hours ago

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back up plan

pairing: matt murdock x fem!reader

summary: when the interrogation doesn't go as planned, matt has to compromise.

warnings: swearing, mentions of blood & violence

word count: 2.6k

a/n: just so you know, part of what takes so long for me to post these chapters is I get stuck staring at gifs of matt murdock, and then I think about all the situations I wanna put him in. as always, feedback is welcomed/appreciated!

[previous chapter] | [next chapter coming soon] | [series masterlist]

“So, is there something that makes this rooftop more special than the last one we were on? Or do you just have favorites you like to brood on like a Gargoyle?”

Matt ignored her as he fastened Dimitri’s wrists together with rope, looped through one of the bars of the water tower above. It kept his unconscious body upright, and it would prevent him from being able to go anywhere when he woke up.

“This neighborhood is mostly abandoned buildings and trap houses.”

“And?”

“No one will care if they hear screaming.”

Her brows lifted in surprise, looking him up and down curiously as she watched him expertly weave the rope in a binding labyrinth not even a goddamn boy scout could escape.

“Wow, you really are a whole other person in that suit.”

“No I’m not-”

“Oh come on, you even change your voice.”

Matt pressed his lips together as he let out a frustrated exhale, tightening the last knot.

“I disguise my voice so I won’t be recognized.”

“And yet you leave the very recognizable lower half of your face uncovered.”

Matt dipped his head back and muttered an annoyed ‘Oh my God’ under his breath, making her amused grin difficult to hide.

“I’m just saying. Your Daredevil voice isn’t that different, and you have a distinct face, even if half of it is covered. Besides, anyone who’s seen you from behind would recognize you in a heartbeat.”

Underneath the cowl, Matt rolled his eyes for the hundredth time in the last fifteen minutes and tossed the remaining rope onto the ground.

“Are you done?”

“For now.”

Leaning against the ledge of the rooftop, she crossed her arms over her chest.

“So what exactly is the plan here?”

“Get him to talk.”

“I know that, devil boy. I mean how do plan to do that?”

Matt cocked his head to the side slightly while listening to Dimitri’s breathing and heart rate. He was still out cold. Pulling off his gloves, Matt removed his cowl next, and the breeze that blew past felt even colder when it hit the sweat that had dampened his hair. It was a welcome chill that helped cool down his body temperature.

“You do realize I interrogate people every night, right?”

“I’m aware. But you’re delusional if you think beating the shit out of him is going to get him to give up Tarasov.”

Matt sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand while his other rested on his hip.

“I’m not delusional-”

“You’re over three hundred thousand dollars in debt from law school, and yet instead of committing to your profession, you commit felonies every single night that could get you sent to prison. That’s a pretty goddamn good case for being delusional.”

Matt pressed his lips together in a disapproving frown as he fixed his hazel eyes over in her general direction. He didn’t have a retort for that. Once again, she was right. God he was really getting sick of feeling so off balance around her. It pissed him off every single time.

“Well it’s certainly a better fucking plan than the one you had.”

There was a serrated bite to his words, and it straightened her spine in an instant. The sharpness of his judgment snapped like a whip, and the verbal lash landed like a physical one. Her fleeting reaction caused a familiar feeling of guilt to rise within him. In his anger, he always took it too far. It was like his brain searched through an arsenal to find the sharpest words he could weaponize, and he’d aim directly where he knew they would cut the deepest.

He’d spent his whole life trying to tame his temper, and he usually had better self discipline, but something about her drove him fucking insane. It was like he completely lost control around her. Letting out a deep sigh, Matt rubbed his hand down the lower half of his face and then placed his hands on his hips.

“Why was that your plan, anyway? I mean, surely you were taught how to interrogate at S.H.I.E.L.D., or wherever you were before.”

She turned to face the ledge of the rooftop, absentmindedly staring out at the expanse of the city. Another breeze blew past, and when it carried that blend of spiced vanilla and jasmine he’d grown to associate with her scent, he involuntarily inhaled deeply as it hit his nose. He hated how much he liked it. He hated how his body reacted to it.

“That wouldn’t work on him.”

Matt’s brows knit towards the center of his forehead that creased in confusion.

“Why not?”

“Because he spent two years in a prison in Siberia, although, calling it a prison is generous. When he wasn’t being tortured, he was left to starve and freeze to death in his cell. He intentionally got frostbite on his foot so he could break it, pull out one of the bones, and use it to stab some of the guards to escape. He doesn’t respond to pain like a normal human being.”

Matt grimaced at the mental image that painted, and he felt a phantom pain in his own foot that had him clenching and flexing his toes in his boots.

“Christ.”

Letting out a deep exhale through her nose, she glanced up at the sky above. The city lights made it nearly impossible to see a single star.

“But, he is a man, and he does respond as such. Like the rest of you simple creatures, he can’t deny the intrinsic desires of the flesh.”

Matt opened his mouth to protest at being lumped into the same category as someone like Dimitri Sokolov, but she cut him off.

“And he spends as much money on sex workers as he does on drugs. He hires women for these meet ups like clockwork, so I paid off the woman he originally booked to take her place.”

His defense dried up on his tongue at this revelation. She’d shown up as the entertainment because she knew Dimitri was expecting it. She’d studied his habits, and she’d found a foolproof way to infiltrate the poker game without arousing suspicion.

And now he felt like even more of an asshole.

“Oh.”

It was all he could think of to say. In hindsight, it was a genius plan, and he’d completely ruined it by jumping to conclusions and being a sententious dick. He seemed to keep forgetting that this was her job. This was what she had done for years. She was trained to account for things he wouldn’t even think about. He was a vigilante, but she was a spy. As much as he hated to admit it, he was out of his element.

But his stubborn pride prevented him from acknowledging that or apologizing for his behavior. Instead, he did what he did best in uncomfortable situations.

Distraction.

“Look, I’m sure he endured a hell I couldn’t even fathom in my wildest imagination, but that doesn’t mean he’s immune to pain.”

“No, but he has a high tolerance. We could be up here all night.”

Matt knew violence, and he knew how to wield it. He was certain he could get Dimitri to talk.

“Just let me try.”

Throwing her hands up in exasperation, she let out an exhale of annoyance and shook her head while looking out across the rooftops.

“Fine. Do it your way.”

»»———　　———««

As soon as Matt could hear Dimitri’s breathing getting lighter, signaling his return to consciousness, he slapped him harshly across the face, and Dimitri immediately began to thrash against his restraints, yelling out curses in Russian.

“Sorry, I don’t speak asshole. Can you repeat that?”

Dimitri’s eyes were wild with rage, and his top lip curled in a snarl. When his sights landed on her, casually leaning against the water tower with her arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowed and he spit on the ground in her direction before thrashing against the rope again.

“Cyka!”

“Hello to you too, Dimi.”

Matt tilted his head slightly in her general direction over his shoulder.

“You just gonna stand there?”

She casually shrugged her shoulders and gestured towards Dimitri with her chin.

“You wanted to take the lead. Take the lead.”

“I don’t speak Russian.”

“Oh, he speaks English. He’s just being shy.”

Dimitri shouted more curses in Russian, and the old metal of the water tower creaked and groaned under the weight of his hopeless endeavor to free himself. Matt took a step closer and swiftly struck his fist across his face, and the metallic tang of blood permeated the air.

“Where’s Tarasov?”

Dimitri narrowed his eyes as he sneered at Matt.

“Never heard of him.”

“Now Dimi, you know lying is a sin.”

She taunted him with a slight smirk as she took a few steps closer. Dimitri let out a dry chuckle that rumbled deep from within his chest.

“I am not afraid of Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. What is he going to do, call me names?”

Dimitri let out another dry chuckle and gestured his chin towards Matt, his top lip curled in another snarl.

“You hit like girl. You are no real threat. You are no Punisher.”

Matt tilted his head to the side for a moment, a devilish smirk slowly tugging at the edge of his mouth as he spoke in a condescending tone.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Did you want it harder?”

Without warning, he struck his fist across Dimitri’s face again, and this time there was a satisfying crack that indicated a tooth being knocked loose. Dimitri groaned, and he coughed as he spat out blood along with a cracked tooth. Matt gripped Dimitir’s hair and yanked his head back as he took a step closer, his voice dropping an octave lower with a dangerous edge of warning.

“Now, I’m gonna ask you again, and if you cooperate, I might let you walk away from this roof instead of tossing you off of it.”

Dimitri let out another deep chuckle that rumbled in his chest, causing him to cough, and he looked right into the dark lenses of Matt’s cowl with a bloodstained grin.

“I have counter proposal. Go fuck yourself.”

Matt clenched his jaw and let out a growl of frustration as he gripped Dimitri’s hair even harder and smashed his face against one of the metal bars of the water tower, and the crunch of his nose breaking was audible even to her.

“You might as well kill me. I will not tell you shit.”

Slipping her hand under the hem of her dress, she pulled out the small knife she kept strapped to her thigh, and she rounded Dimitri before she raised the sharp blade to the rope, speaking calmly in his ear.

“You and I both know death isn’t a threat. It’s mercy. And the devil doesn’t grant mercy to the wicked.”

Dimitri lifted his chin defiantly and spoke through gritted teeth.

“I will die before I talk.”

As she looked over at Matt, he gave her a subtle nod.

“Have it your way.”

Cutting through the rope, Dimitri’s arms dropped from above his head, but before he could even make a move, Matt shoved his boot against his chest in a swift forceful kick that cracked three of Dimitri’s ribs and sent him stumbling backwards. The second he hit the ledge, he fell backwards over the rooftop, and a startled yell pierced through the bustling noise of the city on his way down until it was abruptly cut off with a thud.

Taking a few steps towards the ledge, she peered over it down below, and then she turned to look at Matt over her shoulder, arching one of her brows.

“You know, leaving someone paralyzed in a dumpster isn’t exactly morally superior to a bullet to the head.”

“It is if you’re Catholic.”

She couldn’t help but let out a snort of amusement at that, shaking her head in disbelief.

“So it was those religious loopholes that prepared you for becoming a lawyer, not Columbia.”

“Bit of both.”

Matt focused his senses on Dimitri down below. That telltale metallic tang of blood was stronger in the air, and he could tell a few bones had been broken by the fall, but he was still conscious. He let out a deep exhale of frustration. He could practically hear the words running through her head that she wasn’t saying.

I told you so.

God he really hated that she was constantly right.

“We need to change tactics.”

“But you were doing so well.”

Matt grunted in annoyance as he placed his hands on his hips and let his head drop between his shoulders, turning it from side to side to crack his weary bones.

“Can we skip the petty gloating, alright? I get it. You were right and I was wrong. That what you wanna hear?”

“Can I get that in writing?”

Matt grit his teeth so hard it made his jaw ache, and he dipped his head back towards the heavens while clenching his fists at his sides, the worn leather creaking under the force of his frustration.

“For fucks sake-”

“Relax, Matthew. You’re gonna give yourself an aneurysm. I have a backup plan.”

As she started to saunter towards the rooftop door that led to the staircase, Matt turned his head in her direction, completely perplexed by that admission.

“Backup plan? What backup plan?”

“One of many. If it doesn’t work, I have backup plans for my backup plans.”

Matt let out a dry scoff and started to follow after her.

“Sounds like anxiety.”

“It’s called preparation. You should try it instead of just parkouring around Hell’s Kitchen and beating the shit out of everyone.”

Matt pursed his lips in a firm line as he let out an irritated grunt, smacking his gloved hand against the rooftop door right when she started to open it, keeping it shut.

“And were you gonna tell me about this backup plan?”

“No.”

Matt pulled a face at her blunt reply that she could read even with half of his face covered. She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Everytime I tell you the plan, you change it and do whatever you want instead.”

Matt couldn’t argue with that. Letting out a deep sigh, he gestured between the two of them with his gloved hand.

“What if…what if we came up with one together.”

“Are you going to actually listen to me?”

Matt grumbled under his breath like a petulant child and rolled his eyes under his cowl.

“Within reason.”

Shifting her weight to her other foot, she kept her arms crossed over her chest and arched one of her brows while staring him down, faintly cocking her head to the side. Letting out another frustrated exhale through his nose, he threw his hands up in defiant surrender.

“Alright, fine. Let’s hear it.”

“There’s one thing that Dimitri Sokolov values above everything. More than money, more than his reputation, even more than respect.”

Matt’s annoyance was quickly replaced by curiosity, and he perked up as he began to wonder where she was going with this.

“What?”

“Loyalty.”

Matt wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by that, but he had a feeling her plan required more brain than brawn. She looked him up and down in his Daredevil suit before turning on her heel.

“Leave the horns at home. I need Matt Murdock for this one.”

tags: @the-swift-escape @lambmurdock @lunakkey @Lfdybadgirlsdiw @devilmurdock64 @moonyinthestars @suits-and-smirks @day-dreaming-goddess @natashasotherhalf @rebel13lion39 @pixelfaery @ebsmind @mattmurdocksscars @ahhhhhhhydbhdg @ayupcap @thepassionatereader @awenthealchemist @zomtart @superrbffun @buckypops @snicksbabe @redroomproperty @angel113431 @18raven @a-sunflower-in-bloom @shadypaperwitch @lizziela @givemylovetoall @dreadfulxives18 @jjprxntiss @bigratbitchsworld @s1xthirty @daisy-the-quake @raven18 @hipwell @scorpiovelaryon @yiiiikesmish @mel-thefrog @ponyosmom35 @daisydark @xoxabs88xox @punkshyteee @abbyhaslongshorts @wolvierinee @snowflames-world @yomnajir @fries11 @groovycass

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thepinkpanther83 · 2 days ago

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Grease And Honey (Pt.3 Check Engine Light)

Chapter Three: “Check Engine Light”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

Masterlist

Find me on AO3.

Read this story on AO3.

Previous Chapter: Chapter Two: “Morning Regular” Next Chapter: Chapter Four: “Ignition”

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Three: “Check Engine Light”

You didn’t even hear it click the first time.

You were running late, hair still damp from the world’s fastest shower, one boot laced, one flapping, travel mug sloshing tea down your sleeve as you wrestled your keys out of your bag. You jammed the key into the ignition, turned, and-

Click.

Nothing.

You froze.

Tried again.

Click-click.

Still nothing.

A single, painful moment of silence. Then you swore so loudly it scared off the mourning doves on the power line.

You slapped the steering wheel. “Oh, come on, you were fine yesterday, you little bastard!”

The car didn’t respond. Which honestly, felt like the most on-brand reaction it could give.

You sat there for a minute, seething.

This wasn’t just any Friday morning, it was inventory day. Meaning you had to meet Callie at the shop by ten, log every last bag of beans and sleeve of cups, and then prep for the upcoming “Grindhouse Summer Bash” your aunt from Missouri insisted would “get the locals involved” even though she hadn’t set foot in Indiana since Bush was president. The first one.

You cursed again, dragged your phone out of your pocket, and tried not to scream.

The little hunk of metal and pride that passed for your car, a scratched-up ‘99 Toyota Corolla with one duct-taped mirror and a mysterious rattle in the dash, was officially dead in the water.

You had no tools, no knowledge, and no time to play mechanic.

So, fine. You’d admit defeat.

And call for backup.

The guy on the other end of the tow line was polite enough. Asked where you wanted it hauled to.

You paused, phone pinched between your cheek and shoulder as you stared down at your useless vehicle like it might rise from the ashes and apologize.

“…Munson Auto,” you muttered finally.

Because of course it had to be his shop.

There were two garages in Hawkins. One of them was run by a pair of brothers who once got caught stealing parts off customer vehicles to resell online. The other was Eddie Munson.

And whether he was a flirt or a walking heart attack in denim, he didn’t have a criminal record… that you knew of anyway.

So.

There went your last excuse.

The tow truck driver was nice enough.

Didn’t ask too many questions. Just made a few sympathetic noises as he hoisted your poor, lifeless car onto the bed with all the grace of a dying horse and told you you could ride up front while he dropped it off.

You tried not to feel embarrassed.

It wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before, your Corolla had always been more suggestion than vehicle, but it was the timing that made your stomach twist. This felt… personal. Like the car knew exactly where it was headed and decided, “Yup. That one. Let’s go ruin her composure.”

You watched the scenery roll past out the window as the truck rumbled through town, eyes narrowed, jaw tight.

You even caught a glimpse of Grindhouse out the corner of your eye, and for a split second, you missed the familiar rhythm of your own coffee machines. Of Callie snarking about the menu. Of not heading straight into the arms of your biggest crush like some tragic sitcom protagonist with car trouble and a heart condition.

Munson Auto came into view with its hand-painted signage and the chaotic sprawl of muscle cars, pickup trucks, and half-assembled projects dotting the lot like a museum of Midwest masculinity.

And there he was.

Oh no.

He was standing just outside the garage bay, back to you, arms braced against the open hood of some dusty old Charger. He wore jeans that clung like a damn love letter to his thighs and a ribbed white tank that looked like it had seen better days, but God, did it work. Grease smudged both hands, one bicep, and the edge of his neck. His hair, longer than you remembered, dark and curling, was tied half-up but still fell in his face every time he leaned forward.

You blinked.

Hard.

Don’t look at the hair. Don’t look at the forearms. Don’t you dare look at the forearms… dammit.

The tow truck parked with a soft hiss and a low beep. You climbed out, trying to act casual, like this was just a perfectly normal Friday and you weren’t currently watching the man who’d hijacked your caffeine-fueled daydreams for the past three weeks actively make eye contact with a carburetor in a way that made you feel violated.

He looked downright edible. We’re talkin’ black grease, white tank top, forearms flexing like a trap, hair glinting like something off the cover of a dirty romance novel titled Wrenches & Wreckage.

And then… like he sensed you.

Eddie looked up.

Right at you.

And God help you, his face lit up like he’d just been told guitar solos were now tax-deductible.

“Hey!” he called out, wiping his hands on a rag as he straightened up, that lazy grin already spreading across his face. “You lost or just stalking me for fun?”

You opened your mouth.

Nothing came out.

You were too busy reminding your knees on how to function.

You blinked. “I… what? No. God. No. I’m here for the car.”

“Sure you are,” he said, walking toward you with a confident gait and a smug little bounce in his step. “Totally unrelated to the fact that I’ve been looking extremely hot lately.”

You made a noise in your throat that was supposed to be a scoff, but came out sounding more like a stifled wheeze.

Eddie stopped a few feet away, tilted his head, and gave you the once-over, but it wasn’t gross or leering. It was curious. Amused. Like he knew he was flustering you and was trying to decide just how far he could push it.

“So,” he drawled, pointing lazily to the pathetic heap the tow truck was now lowering into the lot. “Is this your noble steed?”

“Noble’s a strong word,” you muttered, arms crossed tightly over your chest. “Right now it’s more like a spiteful lemon with abandonment issues.”

“Rough morning?”

You looked at him.

He was still grinning, but it was a little softer now. Less performative. You saw it in his eyes, some tiny shift from “I’m being a menace for fun” to “I actually care if you’re okay.”

And dammit, that made it worse.

Because the answer was yes, it had been a rough morning. Your car broke down, your schedule got wrecked, you were already behind on everything, and then on top of it all, you were now standing three feet from the literal embodiment of your current sexual crisis, who somehow looked even better in real life than he did in your sleep-deprived, late-night brain spirals.

You didn’t want to admit any of that.

So instead, you sighed. “I’m just annoyed.”

“At me?”

“No, but I can rearrange things if you really want to take the blame.”

Eddie snorted and tucked his rag into his back pocket. “Nah, I think I’ve been punished enough just knowing you call me hot in your head and then lie about it to my face.”

You blinked. “I what?”

“Oh, c’mon,” he grinned. “You were looking at my arms like they said something mean about your mom.”

“I wasn’t-!” You paused. “Okay, maybe, but that’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“That this is extremely unprofessional,” you said, not quite meeting his eyes.

Eddie leaned in just a little, close enough to smell the grease and motor oil on his skin, faintly undercut by something like cedar and cigarette smoke.

“You’re not at work,” he murmured, voice low, teasing. “You’re in my place now.”

You stared at him, mouth dry, brain fizzling like a shaken soda can. Then, because it was the only thing you could think to do, you said: “Do you always flirt with people whose cars are dying in front of you?”

“Only when they’re cute,” he said instantly, with no shame, and definitely no hesitation.

You sighed again, this time more dramatically, and finally, finally, let your arms fall to your sides.

“Fine. You win.”

“Win what?”

“The award for ‘Hottest Local Mechanic Who Also Might Be The Literal Devil.’ Congratulations.”

Eddie grinned so wide you thought his face might break.

“Well now I have to fix your car.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yup,” he said. “Can’t have my reputation ruined by a pretty girl going around town saying Munson Auto left her stranded.”

You tried to scoff again.

But this time, you were smiling too.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the garage. “Let’s take a look.”

You followed without comment, trailing behind as he led you into the cavernous bay. The scent hit you instantly, warm oil, old rubber, faint gasoline, and something else that was just… him. You weren’t sure what it was. Probably a mix of aftershave and sweat and bad decisions.

It should’ve been gross.

It definitely wasn't.

Eddie tossed the rag onto a rolling cart and propped the hood open, resting one hand on the engine like it was a buddy he was about to interrogate. The sunlight coming through the windows slashed across his shoulders in all the worst and best ways. The white tank top clung to the curve of his back as he leaned in, muscles shifting under pale, smudged skin.

You told yourself you were looking at the car.

You were not.

“Battery’s not totally dead,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “Starter sounds like it’s on its last legs, though. Probably original factory junk.”

You tried to focus on his words. You really did. But your brain was busy short-circuiting because his hair slipped loose again, dark and soft and barely brushing his jaw, and then he wiped his brow with the back of his hand like some kind of actual movie scene.

You swallowed.

Hard.

“You okay over there, sweetheart?”

You looked up, startled. He was watching you from under the hood, eyebrows raised just slightly, grease on his cheek like it belonged there.

“I- yeah,” you said quickly. “Just, uh. Taking mental notes. In case I need to fake being a mechanic someday.”

He smirked. “You’d be cute in coveralls.”

You cleared your throat. “Anyway. The car. Can it be saved?”

He gave the engine a fond little pat, then straightened up.

“Oh, I’ll save it,” he said. “But I’m gonna need a few days. She’s gonna need parts. And probably a pep talk.”

You nodded, a little too quickly. “Right. Of course. I can walk to the shop until then.”

Eddie grinned again, soft this time. Not flirty. Just warm. Like you’d said something he liked hearing.

“Well,” he said, brushing his hands off. “Good news is, you came to the right place. Bad news is…”

You raised a brow. “There’s bad news?”

He leaned on the frame of the car and winked. “You’ll be seeing a lot more of me this week.”

You weren’t sure what you were expecting next, maybe a polite “good luck” or a quick wave before he vanished back into the grease and grit of his garage.

What you didn’t expect was for him to toss his keys in the air, catch them with a single hand, and ask casually:

“You want a ride to work?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I said, do you want a ride to work?” he repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I assume that’s where you were headed before your car decided to betray you?”

“…Yeah, but I can walk. It’s not far.”

He gave you a look.

The kind that said I know bullshit when I hear it.

“Don’t be stubborn. You already brought your car to my shop. Might as well let me play chauffeur for a few days while we wait for her resurrection.”

You hesitated.

“Seriously,” he added. “It’s part of the whole small-town charm package. I fix your car, I drive you to work for a few days, I pretend I’m not using it as an excuse to spend time with you. You know, classic Americana.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips were already betraying you with the beginnings of a smile. “Fine. But only if you promise not to narrate the entire drive like a true crime podcast.”

He grinned. “No promises.”

His Camaro, sleek, black, and humming low with restrained power, smelled like motor oil, faded pine air freshener, and whatever cologne he wore that made your brain a little foggy. You climbed in, trying not to look impressed.

You failed.

The drive was short. Too short, really. The streets of Hawkins flew by in a blur of cracked pavement and stop signs, and the whole time you tried to keep the conversation light, but he made it impossible.

“So,” he said at a red light, fingers drumming on the wheel. “Can I get your number?”

You looked at him, arching a brow. “So you can ‘update me about the car,’ right?”

“Exactly,” he said innocently. “Strictly business.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re full of shit.”

“Oh, totally,” he agreed without missing a beat, pulling into the lot behind Grindhouse. “I’m 100% gonna use it to ask you out again. But I figured I’d at least pretend to be professional this time.”

Your mouth opened.

Closed.

Then opened again.

“Here,” you said, grabbing a pen from your bag and scribbling your number on the back of a crumpled grocery receipt. “You break the car worse, I’m suing.”

“You won’t,” he said, taking it with a wink. “You’d miss me.”

You snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re gonna be late,” he said, nodding toward the shop as he shifted the car into park.

You didn’t move right away.

And neither did he.

For one second too long, you just sat there, the tension stretching between you like heat rising off asphalt. You finally climbed out, closing the door behind you.

Then, with one last smirk and a two-fingered salute, he said, “I’ll call you.” He drove off with the windows down, hair loose, stereo blasting Dio like he was leaving the set of a rock and roll romcom, and you were just left standing there, cheeks warm, heart skipping, wondering what the hell you’d just gotten yourself into.

Next Chapter: Chapter Four: “Ignition”

Who loves Eddie Munson, show of hands! 😂 Let me know if you want to be added to my tag list! @justalotoffanfiction, @yorshie, @jackalope-in-a-storm, @v1per1ne, @daveythorntonslocker, @cokepowder55, @kelsiegrin, @ash-stardust, @meankenna, @kellsck, @chronicles-of-koystee, @micheledawn1975, @fckyeahlames, @cantstandya2000, @totallysocially

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lpmurphy · 1 day ago

Text

Begin Again

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Summary: It had been thirty years since his truck tires rolled out of her drive for the last time. Even longer since the day his locker door slammed shut beside hers and marked the beginning of Jack Abbot. Beth had never expected it to end. Never expected to live a lifetime with only the ghost of the boy who promised her one together. She never expected to see him again. Until that curtain flung open, and there he was. And just like that, Jack Abbot began again.

Notes: jack abbot/single mom!ofc, reunited high school sweethearts, second chance romance, slow (emphasis on the SLOW) burn, seriously it's slow, ofc’s daughter is a teenage gen z menace and we love her for it, angst/longing/yearning to the max, hurt/comfort, author is just an english teacher with no medical background, eventual smut, jack and ofc are emotionally constipated idiots

Word Count: 8,670

Read on AO3 (Up to Chapter 15!)

Chapter Seven: Time Cast a Spell On You

“Can we go to Dunkin’?”

“No.”

“Okay, rude, but why?”

“Because we went this morning and I just spent an alarming amount of money at Lululemon. My wallet’s closed, babe. Try again next fiscal quarter.”

“Ugh, whatever.”

Beth's eyes never left the road ahead of her, just rolled behind her sunglasses. Good lord, her mother hadn’t been kidding when she told Beth that daughters were sent to punish mothers for all the shit they put their own moms through. She tapped her nails against the metal insignia on the steering wheel and flicked on her blinker. “How about ‘thank you, Mom’ ?”

The late afternoon sun poured through the windshield, low and golden, catching on the dust at the edges of the dash and glinting off the chrome of the cars inching along in front of them. North Side traffic had jammed itself into a sluggish crawl, stalled by construction cones and weekend errands. Beth’s fingers were curled loosely around the wheel, her elbow hooked on the console, fingers drumming quietly against the leather. She usually didn’t mind the crawl. After the day they’d had, she wasn’t in a hurry. But they had forty minutes to get across town to PTMC for an ortho appointment that started in thirty, so she found herself hoping everyone would get a fuckin’ move on.

The back seat was littered with the spoils of back-to-school preparation: branded bags crumpled like battle flags, tissue paper poking out at awkward angles, a water bottle rolling with each gentle stop and start of the car. Somewhere near the bottom of one of those bags was a hoodie and new pair of jeans Beth had slipped in for herself, figuring that if she was already spending this much, what were a few more things? It was her money, anyway. There'd only been one meltdown in a fitting room, maybe two, and just the one pep talk about how any kid who gave Abby shit for the boot could answer to Beth personally. Abby had sniffled, laughed, and asked if they could stop and look at homecoming dresses before they left the mall, so Beth had felt pretty damn accomplished.

Now Abby was slouched in the passenger seat, good leg stretched out across the dash, black walking boot jutting stiffly from the other. Her hair was half up in a claw clip, tangled and a little frizzy from trying on clothes all day and the wind whipping through her cracked window, the bright blue tee she wore hanging oversized and soft on her frame. She’d lost the battle over the bike shorts that morning. Beth had only sighed when she came down the stairs, but ultimately let it go. Wasn’t a hill worth dying on, she’d decided, and she’d learned to become quite choosy about those hills. They’d ridden high again, predictably, and Beth reached over to yank them down with practiced annoyance before Abby could swat her hand away.

The stereo played a mix from Abby’s phone low under the hum of the air conditioning; mostly Swift, a little Sabrina Carpenter, the odd Noah Kahan track sneaking through when she decided to give Beth a break from the private pop concert. Beth caught a glimpse of Abby in her periphery; sunglasses slipping down her nose, a stiff new paperback open in her lap. She made a soft noise of amusement at something and flipped the page. Beth glanced over, then back at the light, which still blinked yellow. Still waiting. Still inching forward.

“I’m just saying. We forgot to stop at Sephora, by the way. I didn’t get my concealer,” Abby mumbled. “Or the toner. Or that Laneige stuff. We’ll need to go back before school starts.”

Beth shifted her weight as they came to a stop behind a pickup with rusted fenders and a “Jesus is my co-pilot” sticker. She glanced at the dashboard clock; they were going to cut it close. She knew letting Abby talk her into that last jaunt through Barnes and Noble was a bad idea, and entirely intentional. She knew Beth would never say no to new books, the tricky little brat.

“You got a pile of clothes and a sixty-dollar water bottle,” Beth replied flatly. “I think you made out just fine. You know, when I was your age, I was lucky if I got–.”

Abby let out a dramatic groan and flopped back into her seat heavily. “Oh my god, fine. I’ll stop.”

The last notes of Because I Liked a Boy faded, and then there it was; Fleetwood Mac, sliding in with that familiar, aching shimmer. The opening of Silver Springs hung in the air for barely two seconds before Beth tapped the steering wheel button and a new song took its place.

Abby’s head turned so fast it was practically a whipcrack. “Did you just skip our Lord and Savior Stevie Nicks?”

Beth didn’t look over. “Did I?”

“Don’t do that.” Abby shoved her sunglasses up with one finger. “Why’d you skip it?”

Beth shrugged one shoulder, adjusting her grip on the wheel. “Just wasn’t in the mood.”

Abby blinked at her, scandalized. “That’s literally never been true. You’re always in the mood for Silver Springs. We scream it in the car. It’s our longest-standing family tradition, besides watching Die Hard on Christmas Eve.”

“I just wasn’t feeling it.”

Abby narrowed her eyes and slowly leaned back in her seat. A long pause stretched between them, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning and the distant warble of some midtempo pop song that neither of them was really listening to. Abby watched her mother closely now, something sharp and amused lurking at the corners of her mouth.

“Does this have anything to do with why you were an hour late coming home last night?”

Beth let out a soft snort. “No, Leanne, it has nothing to do with why I broke curfew,” she teased. “I already told you. I got caught up talking is all.”

“With Doctor Mullet?”

Beth didn’t answer immediately, eyes scanning for a break in the clogged left-turn lane. Her fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the console. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you just skipped one of the three best ‘men are trash’ anthems ever written. And you’re not denying it”

Beth chuckled. “What are the other two?”

“Still not denying it.” Abby didn’t miss a beat. “The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived and All Too Well —the ten-minute version, obviously.”

Beth glanced over, skeptical. “Two of those are Taylor Swift.”

“Because Taylor Swift is the entire female experience, Mother.” Abby said flatly. “Now spill.”

Beth exhaled, long and slow. She adjusted the rearview mirror; not because it needed it, but because she needed something to do with her hands. “There’s not really anything to spill, Abs.”

“God, why are you being so secretive and weird about it?” Abby groaned, letting her head fall back heavily against the seat.

“I’m not!”

Abby squinted at her from behind her sunglasses. “Then what did you guys even talk about?”

Beth’s grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

Oh, nothing. Just listened to him quietly describe the exact thing that used to keep her seventeen-year-old self up at night after he told her he was enlisting. How she couldn’t stop thinking about him out there, terrified and alone. Stood there as the boy she used to love, now quieter, older, thinner in the face, talked about a loss so big he could barely form the words. How he couldn’t look at her when he said it and she’d just stood there, listening, aching for him.

How it had scooped her hollow to watch him fiddle with a ring he wore for a woman he once loved, and still did, and recognized how the years had carved more into him than she ever thought they would. They hadn’t exactly been kind to her either.

And no, it definitely hadn’t ended with her sobbing in her car afterward like she was still the girl who used to worry about him, still the girl who thought she could protect him if she just loved him enough. She’d never cry in front of him, though. He’d hate that. He never wanted anyone’s tears. But she’d hoped time would soften the edges. Instead, it had carved new scars.

So, she sat in a dark parking garage grieving the sweet, brave boy she once knew and the man he’d been forced to become. For that little girl she left on the roof under their stars. For the woman who’d come after her. The one who’d held him through the things Beth never got to see. The one who’d loved him the way Beth always wanted someone to. And had been loved back. That part broke her and healed her in the same breath.

But mostly, she cried for what they’d both survived. Separately.

She looked straight ahead, her voice soft. “We just caught up.”

Abby didn’t believe her, not for a second. But she didn’t press. She stared out the window at passing traffic with a contemplative look on her face, finally quiet again. Beth chewed at the inside of her cheek and kept her focus on the road. Maybe if she looked serious enough about traffic, Abby would stop trying to beat a very long-dead horse. The car fell quiet again, folky guitar chords drifted from the speakers as a Lumineers song started to play. But before Beth could settle into her seat long enough to listen to the first verse, Abby gasped.

“Wait!”

Beth jumped, heart in her throat, and slammed down hard on the brake. The car behind them blared its horn, angry and immediate. “Jesus Christ! What?”

“Oh my god. Is he my real dad? Is that why you're being so weird?”

Beth’s foot sat heavy on the brake. The car behind her honked again. She turned her head slowly, and pulled her sunglasses down her nose to give her daughter a rather unimpressed look.

“What year were you born?”

Abby blinked. “…2008?”

“Which makes you how old?”

“Seventeen.”

“And I haven’t seen him in how many years?”

Abby squinted, then her mouth opened in realization. “Oh. Wait.”

“Oh,” Beth repeated, like it physically pained her, and flicked Abby on the forehead. “Nice math, smarty pants. Maybe we’re aiming too high with a few of those college applications.”

Abby swatted her hand away, laughing, then let the quiet settle for a beat. The car hummed forward another few feet. Beth adjusted her grip on the wheel. Traffic inched forward. The light up ahead turned green, then yellow, then red again before they even made it halfway through the intersection.

“So what did happen between you two?” Abby asked, slouching a little deeper in her seat. “You’re dodging like it’s some kind of soap opera twist.”

Beth kept her gaze on the line of brake lights ahead. She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she exhaled, slow and shallow, and stared ahead through the windshield, letting the golden light smear across the dashboard. Her fingers started drumming against the leather of the wheel.

“We were in love,” she said finally. “We met freshman year, and dated all through high school. He enlisted, I went to college. That’s it.”

“That’s it?” Abby asked.

Beth nodded. “End of story.”

“That’s not it.”

“That’s it.”

Abby rolled her eyes. “Mom. Come on. People do long distance all the time. People write love letters and propose over FaceTime. That's not a good enough reason.”

Beth didn’t respond. Her fingers drummed once against the steering wheel. Abby nudged her foot against the dashboard, fidgeting like the silence was too loud.

“So what happened?” Abby pressed, softer now. “Why did you actually break up?”

Beth glanced over and shrugged, like her shoulders knew better than to carry the answer. “We just broke up, Abs. It happens.”

“Nope. Wrong answer.”

Beth huffed. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I saw the way you looked at him in that hospital room,” Abby said, voice softer now. “You didn’t ‘just break up.’”

Beth went quiet again. The AC hummed softly beneath the music still playing from Abby’s phone.

“So,” Abby said after a beat, “are you gonna tell me the real version? Or should I call Grandpa and see how he remembers it?”

“Jesus, Abs.” Beth laughed, though the sound was tight. “You’d make a terrific lawyer.”

“Too bad I’m going to med school,” Abby said, grinning. “Now start talking.”

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

Abby grinned, smug. “It’s hereditary. Stop stalling.”

Beth sighed. Why did she have to raise such a precocious child? Her fingers traced the stitching on the steering wheel. Traffic ahead of them pulsed and halted in uneven waves, brake lights glowing red against the honeyed stretch of late afternoon sun. The silence hung long enough that Abby looked over, ready to prod again, but Beth spoke before she could.

“We were going to stay together,” she said finally. “We had this whole plan. He was going to get through basic and AIT, and I was going to transfer from Penn to whatever school was closest to his base. We were really going to try. We had it all mapped out. He was supposed to come over for dinner the night before he left; Grandma wanted to cook for him. She and Grandpa were… they were proud. Really proud.”

Abby was quiet for once, not pushing. Just listening.

“They liked him?” she asked after a beat.

“Oh, they practically adopted him. Grandma made him a Christmas stocking and everything. I think she liked him more than me most days.”

Abby snorted. “That tracks. And Grandpa?”

Beth smirked faintly. Then her voice dipped softer, more measured. “Grandpa too. Jack would sit in the den with him and they’d watch those corny westerns Grandpa likes and just talk. He used to take Jack and your Uncle Chris fishing every Saturday morning, too," her throat twisted and she swallowed hard, not expecting the memory of Jack and Chris following Dad through the house, bleary eyed with bedhead hidden under ball caps at five in the morning like it was routine, to tug at something in her chest so hard. “He loved him.”

“So what happened?” Abby asked gently. “He came over and broke up with you and then Grandpa beat his ass?”

Beth shook her head. “No,” she said. “He didn’t come over at all.”

Abby blinked. “Wait, what?”

She paused, jaw tight. “I waited for him. Even went out to try to find him when it got late. But he’d already left. Two days early. Just gone. And I never heard from him again. Not a call. Not a letter. Nothing. Last Tuesday was the first time I’ve seen him since.”

There was a long silence, just the low whir of the air conditioning and the muted sounds of the world outside the car. The car rolled to a stop again. Beth’s hands stilled on the wheel, knuckles bleached white.

Abby’s eyes widened, her voice stunned. “He ghosted you? For thirty years? ”

Beth let out a short laugh, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. I guess he did.”

“God,” Abby murmured, lips parted like this was the single most befuddling thing she’d ever heard. “Men are trash. And you just… moved on?”

Beth’s hands eased on the wheel, fingers falling slack against the leather as the car hummed beneath them. Outside, the light had shifted; late afternoon slipping into that strange, golden hour that made everything look softer than it was. A breeze floated through the cracked window, warm and dry, and caught the edge of a faded receipt peeking from her purse. It lifted, flapped once, and settled again like it had nowhere else to be.

Moved on.

Beth turned the phrase over in her mind like a pebble, so smooth and worn down from years of handling that the edges no longer cut. That was the polite way to say it, wasn’t it? You move on. You heal. You survive.

But what she remembered wasn’t some graceful arc of healing. It was messier than that. It was crying until her eyes swelled shut. It was losing ten pounds because she couldn’t eat. Waking up in a cold sweat at three in the morning, sure she’d missed a call that never came. Not being able to sleep unless her mother was beside her rubbing her back in the dark, saying nothing, because there was nothing to say. It was pushing food around a plate while the world carried on without her, as if she hadn’t just watched the future she’d planned dissolve overnight.

She didn’t tell anyone how long she kept writing him letters after he was gone. How she kept sending them, even though she knew they weren’t being read. She wrote them because she needed to, because every line kept her tied to a version of her life that no longer existed.

She still said “my boyfriend” for months. Let herself believe it wasn’t over, not really. That there’d be an explanation. A knock on the door. A voice on the phone saying I love you, I’m sorry. I miss you. I had to go, but I’m coming home.

Of course, none of that came. And eventually, she stopped waiting for it.

There were pieces of that first year she couldn’t quite remember anymore. Not because it was so long ago; but because she had been surviving, not living. Her body moved on autopilot, propelled only by the need to just get by. Because grief had this strange way of folding time in on itself. There were whole weeks where everything was quiet and numb, like she was watching her life from just behind the glass.

She hadn’t told anyone, not really, how much it broke her. Her parents already knew; they had been on the front lines of that destruction. But not her friends. Not her teammates. Not her sorority sisters or coworkers. She didn’t know how to say, he left and I’m still here. But the pieces never fit back right.

And yet, she did the things people do, and became the person who did them. That devastated, heartbroken little girl had to go through the motions. She went to class. Made new friends. Put on makeup. Laughed at parties. Smiled when she ran into people from school who asked about him and said, “it didn’t work out,” like that covered it. Let her friends talk her into stupid movies and late-night pizza. She stitched herself together with new routines, new plans. She pretended it didn’t hurt anymore, until eventually it didn’t. Or at least, not in a way she couldn’t carry. She became someone who smiled again, even if it felt unnatural at first, until the motions just felt like living.

She didn’t forget him. Not really. But the missing stopped screaming and started whispering. She moved forward. She built a life. She fell in love again and survived when her heart broke again. She got tougher. Stronger. She raised a daughter who was better than her in every way. Life went on, and she found new aches. And it seemed that he had as well.

But you don’t tell your daughter that; about how much breaking it had taken to look this whole. You don’t hand her the pieces of your broken heart like a story she’s supposed to learn from. Some things a mother keeps to herself.

So Beth swallowed all of it, every ragged edge and old ache, and gave the kind of answer that sounded like strength.

Instead, she nodded.

“I did.”

“So now what?” Abby asked, voice quiet but insistent.

Beth kept her eyes on the road. “What do you mean?”

Abby leaned her head against the window, watching the world pass by. “He’s back. So now what?”

Beth had been trying to answer that question since the moment she saw him. Since he stepped into Abby’s room like no time had passed, like a ghost wearing scrubs and a badge. Her mind had been caught in a loop ever since; rerunning what she’d say, what she felt, what she wanted to feel. She’d asked herself a hundred different versions of it in the last week and a half, none with a satisfying answer.

Beth exhaled slowly through her nose. “Now we work together. That’s what.”

“You don’t look like that’s what,” Abby said, not unkindly. “You look like you’re trying really hard to pretend that’s what.”

Beth sighed. “We’re not kids anymore, Abby,” she said softly, turning to give her a tight smile. “Some people just… live in your bones, baby. No matter how much time passes. Doesn’t mean you want them to.”

Abby picked at a loose thread on the hem of her tee shirt; a habit she picked up from Beth. She reached across and took her daughter’s fidgeting hand with a gentle squeeze. Abby took her hand, letting Beth weave her fingers into hers the way she did when she was little.

“Like my dad?” Abby asked quietly.

Beth’s knuckles flexed slightly on the wheel. She didn’t look over. The windshield caught the sun at an angle, lighting the dust and fingerprints like stars against glass. “Yeah,” she croaked out, taking a steadying breath. The words tasted bitter on her tongue when she bit out, “Kind of like your dad.”

But it wasn’t the same. Not even close.

He’d split her open in a different way. A deeper way. Left a fracture in something foundational. She’d spent years stitching herself back together, and then he’d come along and cracked it wide again, just when she thought it was safe and she was worth the repairs. At least that time, she’d gotten something lasting out of the wreckage. Her reason to go on came swaddled in a hospital blanket, red-faced and wailing and perfect. That little girl had carved something beautiful into her brokenness; delicate, permanent, like calligraphy written deep into the marrow.

That was the truth she didn’t know how to explain: that love could feel like art, or it could feel like destruction. Sometimes it was both.

Abby hesitated. “Did you love him?”

“Your dad?”

“You know who I mean.”

Beth’s voice came out softer this time. “I did.”

“Do you still?”

Beth didn’t answer, not because she wouldn’t, but because she couldn’t.

The truth sat somewhere deep, in a place she hadn’t dared look in years. A question tangled up in thoughts that she hadn’t untied in years. She’d knotted it up years ago and tucked it away once she accepted that some things just never fully left you. Some people remained a part of the architecture, even after everything else got torn down.

She just gave Abby’s hand a small squeeze, and drove on in silence.

Abby seemed to understand. She didn’t push.

Instead, she leaned over and tapped the screen, scrolling back through the playlist until the first familiar notes of Silver Springs filled the car again.

Neither of them sang.

Beth kept her eyes forward, but something in her shifted just barely. Like the song was a door she’d nailed shut long ago and could now hear creaking open behind her. She didn’t turn around. She just kept driving. The road opened up ahead of them; still slow, but not at a standstill. Wind slipped through the cracked window and rustled the shopping bags in the backseat. The chorus swelled, Stevie’s voice filling the car like a truth she couldn’t bring herself to say out loud.

Beth’s eyes didn’t leave the road. Abby glanced sideways, then looked away. She sang softly, almost to herself, as the bridge hit.

“I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me…”

Beth hummed along.

- - -

“C’mon, Abs. Let’s move.”

“I’m literally going as fast as I can,” Abby grumbled, her crutches thudding against the tile. “Not my fault we’re late. I wasn’t the one driving.”

Beth didn’t say anything at first, just cast a sharp look over her shoulder, one brow raised. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep the words in. Technically, it was Abby’s fault. Or at least partially. She was the one who insisted on stopping for coffee, and the mostly-empty Dunkin’ cup still sweating in the car’s cupholder was damning enough. But Beth had been the one driving, so she kept her mouth shut and picked up the pace.

Chairs was packed by the time they made it through security. The metal detector had taken one look at Abby’s leg and gone off like it was a bomb threat, and Abby, true to form, had turned it into a performance . “Three pins,” she told the weary-looking guard. “Wanna see the stitches? They’re super gross. Like, horror movie gross.” By the time they were cleared, Beth had to nudge her through the crowd like a tugboat steering a very chatty freighter. Beth kept Abby close as they weaved through the tangle of people. When a man in a too-tight polo barked about them cutting the line, Beth flashed her badge without slowing, her other hand reaching out to push open the doors.

The doors to the ED swung open and the chaos inside hit them immediately; beeping monitors, shouting nurses, the sharp antiseptic tang that clung to everything. Beth led the way through the controlled madness in a beeline for the elevator, until a warm voice called out from the front desk.

“Well, well. Is that Abby Morgan I see in my ED?”

Beth caught the flicker of discomfort pass across Abby’s face like a shadow. She hated that name; wore it like a scar stitched too tight and only used it when she had to, but she still managed a sunny grin. “Hi, Miss Dana.”

Dana leaned over the counter with open arms. “Hi yourself, kiddo. Heard you took a spill.”

“I’m good,” Abby said, shrugging with one shoulder while she stepped into the nurse’s hug. “Got dropped out of a stunt. Nothing exciting.”

“Who dropped you?” Dana said, pulling back, eyes narrowed. “I want names. I’ll kick their ass myself.”

Abby laughed, softer this time, her body relaxing just a little in Dana’s arms. “Yeah, you’ll have to get in line behind Mom.”

“Good,” Dana said brightly, giving Abby one more quick squeeze before letting her go. “We’ll go together and get drinks after. Make it a girls’ night.”

Beth smirked. “Only if you’re buying.”

Dana laughed. “You know I will. Seriously though, look at you.” Her eyes swept over Abby with a mix of fondness and disbelief. “You’re beautiful, baby. Just like your mama. I still can’t believe you’re a senior. When the hell did you grow up on me?”

Abby laughed again, her face warming under the attention. Beth smiled, reaching up to comb her fingers through her daughter’s hair, absently smoothing it down in a gesture she’d never quite grown out of. She listened as Abby launched into a monologue about the AP classes she was taking this year and upcoming football games. But Beth’s attention had already drifted.

Jack stepped out of one of the exam rooms, reading a chart as he wandered toward the hub, brow furrowed. He didn’t see her at first, but then his eyes lifted and caught hers, and that furrow in his brow eased. The gentle, crooked smile that followed knocked something loose in her chest while he started towards her. That girl, the one who used to blush too easily at the sight of that smile, rose to the surface, gasping. And Beth, just for a moment, let her tread water.

She forced herself to return it, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear just as he came to a stop at the counter across from her and leaned against it casually. Just close enough for her to see the faint stubble on his jaw, still the sharp, stubborn angle she would trace with her fingers. Her fingers twitched before she wrapped them around a stray pen.

“Thought you were off today,” she said, then quickly added, “Not that I know your schedule. I just saw that… we work the same days. Not that I was looking. Because I wasn’t. I just… noticed.”

Jesus Christ, Baker. What the actual fuck was that?

Heat crawled up her neck and she ducked her head. She fiddled with the cuff of her jacket. Jack gave a quiet, knowing kind of laugh and crossed his arms on the counter. “Picked up a shift. Didn’t feel like sitting around.”

Beth nodded, her fingers still fiddling with the edge of her jacket cuff. She knew he never liked sitting still too long. Jack was the type who thrived in motion; always needed something to do, something to keep his hands busy. It was one of the things she used to admire about him, before admiration turned into something stickier and harder to scrub out.

Jack turned his attention to Abby and offered her a grin. “How ya doin’, House?”

Abby smiled. “What’s up, Doctor Mullet?”

He rolled his eyes, but his smile didn’t waver. “How’s the leg?”

“Practically a Home Depot with how much hardware I’ve got in there. I got flagged at security. I didn’t even know a metal detector could do that.”

“Ah, lean into it. You’re just a percentage closer to being a Terminator than the rest of us,” Jack smirked when Abby huffed out a laugh. “What are you two doing here anyway? I have to be here. Shouldn’t you be off enjoying your last few days of freedom?”

“Four more days, but who’s counting?” Abby said, shifting her weight to one crutch.

“You guys start on a Wednesday? Whose dumbass idea was that?”

“Do I look like I’m in the teachers’ union? I don’t know,” Abby leaned her hip against the counter and rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve got my post-op today.”

Jack chuckled and glanced at Beth, then back at Abby. “Yeah, your mom mentioned that. Said you’ve been dying to get back on the court.”

“We’re hoping I’ll get a timeline today. Mom says I should be able to play this season. I’m just hoping to get cleared to do something other than lay around like roadkill.”

“Well,” Jack shrugged, “your mom’s a smart lady. If she says so, then I’d believe it.”

“Ugh. Gross,” Abby muttered. “You’re enabling her.”

“Guilty,” Jack said, straightening. “Don’t let ‘em scare you too much up there. I want the verdict when you come back down.”

“Deal,” Abby said, then bumped her fist against his when he held it out, that small smile widening.

He straightened and gave Beth a quick, warm smile before he opened the next patient file and set off to the next room. Beth’s eyes tracked him without meaning to. She told herself it was instinct. Familiarity. Nothing else. But something flipped just a little at the easy way he talked to Abby; she was normally prickly with new people, especially adults, but she lit up like he’d flipped a switch. Beth had seen it before, but watching Abby’s face light up in response hit different. That rare, unguarded smile, the one Abby saved for very few people, spread slowly and honestly. Beth felt a flicker of something in her gut that she wasn’t ready to name.

Just before disappearing around the corner, Jack caught Beth’s eye again. He held up his hand and crossed his fingers with a crooked, conspiratorial smirk, then winked.

She let out a soft, amused breath, barely enough to be called a laugh, and crossed her own fingers back. It was a tiny gesture. Barely anything at all. But it warmed something old and traitorous inside her. Something she'd locked up. And then he was gone, the door sliding shut behind him like it hadn’t rattled the lock on the part of her that still missed that boyish grin.

Beth straightened and gave Abby a light tap between the shoulder blades. “Alright, kid. Let’s get a move on.”

They barely made it two steps before the sharp clatter of gurney wheels came up fast behind them. Beth reached out without looking, catching the back of Abby’s shirt and tugging her to the side.

“Try not to get run over before your appointment.”

“Wow. Great bedside manner,” Abby muttered, swinging her crutches back into motion as they made their way to the elevators.

Beth smirked but kept walking. She hit the button for the seventh floor. The elevator opened, they stepped inside, and the doors glided shut. Blessed silence.

For three whole seconds.

“So,” Abby said after a beat, voice too casual to be trusted, “did we really park in the garage because it was faster? Or because you were hoping to see someone?”

Beth didn’t even look at her. “Because it’s faster. And we were late.”

Which was true. Mostly. The garage was more direct. The fact that it funneled them right past the emergency department was… incidental. Just a byproduct of efficiency. If she happened to scan the crowd while they passed through to see who of her new coworkers were on the clock, then that was no one’s business but hers. Just mere curiosity.

Abby made a skeptical noise low in her throat. “Uh-huh. And you just happened to unzip your jacket before we walked in?”

Beth gave her a flat look, then reached up and zipped the jacket halfway. “I unzipped my jacket because it’s warm in here.”

“Sure. Total coincidence. Just like the leggings and the clingy tank top.”

Beth sighed. “They’re clothes, Abby. I put on clothes.”

“Yeah, strategically. Is that why you curled your hair this morning too?”

“The curling iron was already on the counter because someone never puts it away and I had time,” Beth snapped, and regretted it instantly. Defensive. Way too defensive.

“Mmhm,” Abby murmured, leaning on one crutch, all smug amusement. “Just saying. You looked like someone who walked through the ED hoping to be noticed.”

Beth clenched her jaw. She didn’t answer right away. Didn’t admit how her stomach had done that stupid flip at the thought. Didn’t admit how she’d slowed just slightly near the charge desk. Didn’t admit anything.

“We went through the ED,” she said, “because we were running late.”

Abby’s grin widened like a Cheshire cat.

“Sure. Keep telling yourself that, Mom.”

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot x oc #jack abbot/oc #dr abbot #dr abbot x oc

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orlaunderrated · 5 hours ago

Text

The Edges of Us: Chapter 14

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 4.5k+

Note: woohoo!!! reminder to comment if you want to be on the taglist!! i really love seeing everyones comments :) makes my heart happy.

xxx

I shove the door open with my shoulder, juggling a tube of rolled-up rental forms, a lukewarm oat flat white, and a growing sense of existential dread — the kind that only comes from viewing a one-bedroom with a “charming city view” that turned out to be a brick wall and someone’s discarded mattress.

It’s been a few days since Will’s friends put two-and-two together that we were… seeing each other. And by “put together,” I mean he left my bedroom with post-sex hair and they all saw.

I’ve barely been home since. Between work, flat hunting, volunteering, and staying at Will’s, I’ve managed to dodge the awkwardness with an impressive level of scheduling. No time to debrief. No group chat drama. No late-night “so, what is going on exactly?” conversations. Just… avoidance. Thinly disguised as productivity.

But I can feel the tension humming under the floorboards now, waiting to trip me. Like the flat itself knows something’s changed.

The lounge is loud. Predictably so.

FIFA’s blasting from the telly, Chris and Arthur are locked in a rematch death grip on the controllers, and George’s laugh cuts through the noise — low, easy, familiar.

Until he sees me.

He flicks his eyes toward the door, catches mine, and then very pointedly looks back at the screen. Nothing in his body changes, but everything about the air does.

George is wedged between them, controller in hand, his lazy grin still lingering like it's been glued there. He looks relaxed, normal — like the kind of guy you'd expect to find in a sitcom, effortlessly fitting in. But something about it feels off, like a mannequin frozen mid-laugh, too perfect to be real.

Then Arthur moves to pause the game, heading straight for the menu. I mumble something half-hearted, “All good, keep playing.”

Arthur’s grin spreads wider, the kind of grin people get when they’ve just won the lottery. Or at least think they have.

I drop my bag by the armchair. “Flat inspection was bleak. The sink had mushrooms.”

Arthur makes a noise that’s half sympathy, half delight. “Gourmet.”

Chris cranes his neck toward me, but still flicking is eyes to the screen. “You gonna be picky or are we lowering your standards to include indoor fungi now?”

“Honestly? Tempting.” I sigh dramatically, collapsing into the armchair like a Victorian ghost.

George twitches when I sit down. Barely there, but I’ve known him too long not to notice. His shoulder tenses for half a second. Then relaxes.

Arthur leans in, stage-whispering into George’s ear: “Mate, can you chill? You’ve been acting like she’s dating your ex or something.”

I pretend I didn’t hear that. I can’t be bothered. Honestly.

“Oh god,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead with two fingers like I’m trying to physically wipe the whole afternoon out of my brain. “Please tell me you’ve eaten something today that wasn’t Monster Munch.”

Arthur grins, still focused on the screen. “I had a banana. Chris bullied me into it.”

Chris smirks. “Health is wealth, mate.”

“I’d get a tattoo that of that if I thought it would help.”

I stretch out, one leg slung over the arm of the chair. “The flat also had no windows. At least, not legal ones.”

“No windows?” Arthur echoes, pausing the game again. “You tryna live in a bunker or a prison cell?”

“I’m weighing my options,” I mumble, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Honestly, the prison cell might have better water pressure.”

George still says nothing. His smile hasn’t moved, like it’s been pinned in place. It’s not real. It’s his company face. I’ve seen him wear it through breakups, bad meetings, and his last sinus infection.

Arthur and Chris both pick up on the strange tension immediately. Arthur turns, his eyes flicking between George and me, like he’s suddenly piecing together a puzzle. The game’s finished now, the "End Game?" screen flashing on the TV, but they don’t bother looking at it. Instead, their attention swings to me, the clack of controller buttons still ringing out in the background.

“So…” he starts slowly, stretching the word like it might break. “You and Will, huh?”

Chris leans back dramatically, arms crossed like he’s watching a soap opera. “Yeah, I mean... I thought you two hated each other.”

Arthur snorts. “Honestly, same. But now that I’ve seen it — I’m starting to see the vision.”

I groan, dragging a cushion over my face. “Please don’t say ‘the vision.’ I already feel like I’m living in a TikTok comment section.”

Chris nudges Arthur. “What even changed? One minute you’re threatening to glue his AirPods shut, next minute we’re hearing... things.”

“I didn’t threaten him,” I say, voice muffled by the cushion. “I just strongly suggested he deserves a minor inconvenience.”

Arthur shrugs. “Romance starts somewhere, I guess.”

George lets out a laugh — sharp, too loud — and then falls silent like he immediately regrets it.

I peek out from under the cushion. “Nothing changed. We just... stopped pretending to hate each other. Turns out the bickering was... not that deep.”

Chris raises an eyebrow. “Oh it was deep, just not in the way we thought.”

Arthur cackles, nearly dropping the controller. George shifts again, barely noticeable. His knee’s bouncing now — quick, erratic.

I glance over. He avoids my gaze again, like it might cut him.

“It’s not like, serious. It’s very casual. I’m sure Will told you,” I say to no one in particular, trying to sound light.

Chris looks at me for a second, processing. “If you think it’s weird because Will’s our mate it’s not,” he says, voice low and sincere, like he means it more than he usually means anything.

Arthur immediately chimes in, deadpan: “Yeah, and if you think it’s weird because he’s my mate’s mate’s mate, it’s also not. I mean, it’s weirder — but not in a moral way.”

I snort. “Thank you for the legal clarification.”

Arthur nods solemnly. “Anytime. I moonlight as a solicitor for niche social entanglements.”

Chris shoots him a look. “She’s not dating a hedge fund, mate.”

“Could be worse,” Arthur says, grinning. “She could be dating someone who thinks football is a personality.”

Chris clutches his chest, fake-offended. “Oi.”

And just like that, the tension’s broken for a moment. Not gone — not with George sitting stiff and silent, trying too hard to seem unaffected — but softened. Defused.

“Thanks?” I say, unsure if that whole spiel was supportive or vaguely threatening. The conversation had long moved on, clearly, but I felt I needed to tell them I understood.

George clears his throat. “Yeah. It’s not a big deal.”

But his voice is too bright, too even — like it’s been ironed flat. And I know George. I know when he’s performing calmness. It’s the same voice he used when he told me he didn’t feel that way. When I kissed him. When he let me down gently.

He’s doing it again. And the worst part is, I think he believes I can’t tell.

Why are you being so weird about this? I want to say. You've never had a problem with me like this before.

But I don’t. That would be insane, especially in company. So I sit in it, feeling the space between us stretch and thin like old elastic.

“You guys have been weird about it,” I say finally. “Not mad, just... dancing around it.”

Arthur shrugs. “We thought you were hiding it because you were weird about it.”

“I wasn’t hiding it,” I mumble, “I just didn’t want it to be a thing.”

Chris lifts his eyebrows. “You live in a flat with three YouTubers and you’re surprised something became a thing?”

Fair point.

George finally speaks again — this time softer. “It’s fine. Really. I’m happy for you, we're happy for you.”

And I want to believe him. I really do. But there’s something about the way he says it — too quick, too polished — that makes it sound like a line rehearsed in the mirror. I wonder how many times he practiced before saying it out loud.

I want to shake him Homor Simpson style and say WHAT IS WRONG!!!

Arthur fiddles witth his controller, and starts a new game. He then tosses me a controller. “You’re on my team. We’re playing losers. First to rage quit does the dishes.”

I catch it (not to flex), grateful for the distraction. They all settle back into the usual chaos, but George stays just a little too quiet. His hands on the controller move like muscle memory, but his head is somewhere else entirely.

And for the first time, I stop wondering what's up with him.

I start wondering if it’s always been this way. If I’ve just been too distracted to see it.

My phone buzzes on the coffee table. A welcome distraction. I glance down.

[Email Notification: Application Approved - 12A Lilac Lane]

I blink. Then again. The subject line burns into my brain.

Wait. What?

I open the email. Arthur is cursing me out for stopping play mid game.

Hi Y/N,

Following an unexpected change in tenancy, your application has now been approved. The previous tenant moved out due to personal reasons. You can move in as early as next week.

A flat. My flat.

No more boxes labelled 'wires??' or half-unpacked suitcases. No more pretending this weird in-between phase is temporary.

No more George. No more living rent-free in his flat, crashing in a room full of shoved-in filming gear and clutter.

I glance up at the boys — Chris yelling at Arthur for screen-watching, Arthur pretending he’s not spamming the same move over and over, George still smiling like it’s nothing. And maybe it is nothing.

Or maybe this is the part where everything quietly changes.

I pick my controller back up, and shout an apology to Arthur. I don’t mention it to them. Not yet.

It’s the flat in Bethnal Green I looked at almost three months ago — the one with the quirky tiled kitchen and that gorgeous living-room window I thought was a little too good to be true. Its hideous from the outside, like most of the buildings in the area, but really close to the gardens.

I never expected to hear back about it now. Honestly, I’m still a bit confused how it all came together so quickly.

But that flat? It’s proper space. Proper light. Proper room to actually own more than just a bed and a bedside table.

Furniture that’s mine. A desk where I don’t have to balance my laptop on a pile of boxes. A kitchen where I can cook without sidestepping cables and camera tripods.

Maybe this is the fresh start I didn’t know I was waiting for.

Xxx

The doorbell rings just as I’m halfway through folding a mountain of clothes — clothes that barely fit in my suitcases when I moved here eight months ago, but somehow I’ve ended up with even more. I fold up a dress I bought online — online shopping is so much better in the UK — and step out of my room. By the time I do, George is already halfway down the hall.

Uh oh.

He pulls the door open before I can get there.

Will’s standing there, holding a large takeaway pizza box, all smug grin and wind-swept hair like he’s just rolled in from some nonchalant rom-com scene

The doorbell rings just as I’m halfway through folding a mountain of clothes that definitely didn’t fit in my suitcase three months ago. I wipe my hands on my leggings and step out of my room, but George’s already halfway down the hall.

He opens the door before I reach him, and immediately asks, “Did I miss plans?” he asks, voice light but a touch too sharp around the edges.

Will stands there, two takeaway pizza boxes in hand, eyebrow quirking just slightly. “Nah. Just dropping something off.”

George doesn’t move for a beat. Just kind of… blinks. Like his brain’s caught in a buffering wheel. He finally steps aside, slow and stiff, eyes flicking between Will and me.

Will clocks the tension but doesn’t flinch. “Evening,” he says, breezy as ever. “Brought dinner.”

I give him a half-smile. “Perfect timing.”

George hesitates, then steps back, just enough to let him through. “Right. Cool.”

Will strides in like he owns the place — or maybe like he’s trying to prove he doesn’t have to. George stays frozen for half a second longer, then shuts the door with a soft click like it might shatter if he’s not careful.

There’s no comment. No joke. No eye roll.

Just silence.

"How's it all going?" Will asks as he toes off his shoes.

I let out a soft groan and grab his wrist, tugging him gently down the hall. “Come see the chaos for yourself.”

He laughs and follows willingly as I drag him into my room, where piles of clothes, books, and mismatched chargers are spilling across the floor like I’ve opened a portal to a parallel universe made entirely of stuff I forgot I owned.

“Welcome to the war zone,” I say, stepping over a half-zipped suitcase.

My floor covered is in clothes, half my life spilling out of drawers and open suitcases. Will drops the pizza boxes on the bed like they're a shared secret and kicks the door closed behind him.

“I figured you probably hadn’t eaten anything today that wasn’t toast or a biscuit.”

“Bold of you to assume I had toast,” I say, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

Will plops down beside me on the floor, one leg folded under himself, his back resting against the side of my bed. He turns to get the pizzas off the bed, and hands me mine. My suitcase is half-zipped, overflowing, and the rest of my room looks like it lost a fight with a charity shop donation bin.

“Moving is actual chaos.” I say, mouth full of pizza.

He takes a bite, glances around. “Yeah, it’s shite, hey.”

I hum in agreement through a mouthful of crust.

He nudges an empty tote bag with his foot. “I swear all you owned when you moved in was like… one suitcase and a toothbrush.”

“Me too,” I say, tossing a tangled charger into a pile. “But it turns out I’ve amassed a frankly alarming collection of tote bags, laptop cords, and skincare products in the last eight months.”

He snorts. “Eight months, hey? Was it really eight months ago I enlightened you on the proper term for double fisting at that party?”

I shoot him a dry look over my slice. “Seven and a half. But yeah — also known as the night you latched your claws into me and never let go.” I think to myself a bit. We probably haven't gone three days without at least a text in that time. Damn.

Will grins, scrolling aimlessly through something on his phone with greasy fingers. “You love it.”

“Mm,” I say, reaching for another slice. “Unfortunately.”

He bumps his knee against mine, not looking up. “Fortunately.”

We eat in a comfortable quiet, the kind that’s only possible when someone’s seen you at your absolute messiest — literally and otherwise.

Will scrolls absently on his phone, one hand still picking at a crust. I’m on my second slice, surrounded by clothes I haven’t even attempted to fold, and for once, I don’t feel the need to fill the silence.

This was becoming a habit. Him showing up. Us hanging out. Eating, talking, doing absolutely nothing useful.

And it not becoming physical.

It’s... nice.

Safe, even. Which is weird, considering how this whole thing started — all tension and impulse and emotional shrapnel. I think we both expected it to burn out. Something fast and stupid and forgettable.

But now he’s here, cross-legged on my bedroom floor, legs brushing mine, debating whether he should help me move a lamp I probably stole from the lounge.

And he hasn’t even tried to kiss me.

It’s not nothing.

Will finishes the crust and wipes his hands on his jeans. He doesn’t look at me when he speaks, just stares out at the chaos of my room.

“So when’s move-in?”

I glance up from where I’m wrestling a coat hanger out of a hoodie sleeve. “Monday. In four days.”

He nods, still scrolling. “You off work?”

“Yeah, took the week. Gonna try to buy furniture, build it, cry about it, maybe cry again when I realise I forgot a bin.”

He smirks, finally looking over. “Sounds productive.”

“Could be worse. At least this time I’ll own more than a bed and a bedside table.”

Will stretches out his legs, bumping my foot lightly. I hear the click of him turning his phone off. “Want help?”

“With what?”

“Moving. And Ikea. Car’s yours if you want it. I can drive, carry stuff, assemble things with minimal swearing.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Minimal?”

He shrugs. “Moderate.”

I study him for a second — sprawled out on my floor, offering to lift flat-packs and play Tetris with my future living room like it’s nothing.

It’s very... boyfriendy

But it’s also very him.

And I’m not sure what to do with that yet.

I glance at him, wanting to poke fun at the whole thing — at him, for being so unexpectedly domestic. But I can’t. Instead, I say, “You’d actually do that? Hang out with me in broad daylight?”

He grins like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah, of course," he then adds, “Plus, you’ve seen my apartment. Clearly I have excellent taste.”

I snort. “You have a vintage Chupa Chups display stand and a massive F1 print. Your ‘taste’ is just branded chaos.”

But the thing is... he’s not entirely wrong. His flat is quite lovely — for a single man. Somehow lived-in without being gross, stylish without trying too hard. Like he just happened to inherit good lighting and a talent for throwing some throw pillows around.

“And yet,” he says, with a lazy grin, “you keep ending up in my bed.”

I try not to smile. “Only because your flat has central heating.”

Will bumps my foot with his, smug. “Exactly. Taste."

He nudges me with his knee again, casual. Like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just offer to help me build my new life, one Allen key at a time.

Xxx

Later, in bed, we’re naked. Turns out he did try to kiss me — and I let him.

Again.

What was I going to do? Not? Not a chance.

It’s dark now — the kind of deep, quiet dark that makes conversation easier. Softer. Like the rules outside the room don’t quite apply here.

George is in the living room, FIFA sounds drifting faintly through the wall. I’m pretending not to hear him. Will’s pretending not to notice that I notice.

His legs are hooked loosely with mine, his fingers trace lazily along my spine. Then, after a while:

“I’m excited for you to have your own space.”

“Oh yeah?”

He shifts slightly, chin resting near my shoulder. “Yeah. I think it’ll be good for you.”

Something in his tone tugs at me — gentle, but not casual.

“I don’t get it,” he says after a beat. “Why he has this hold on you. It’s like he’s in the room, even when he’s not.”

George.

Always George.

A name we tiptoe around even in private.

I stiffen, just slightly. “He doesn’t.”

Will doesn’t argue, just waits.

I sigh, turning onto my back, staring at the ceiling. His hand stays resting lightly on my stomach. “He’s been my friend for years. He let me live here — rent free — for nine months. When I came back from Brisbane, when I didn’t know what the hell I was doing... he was just there.”

“I get that,” Will says, and he sounds like he actually does. “But you still don’t owe him your whole life.”

“I know,” I say. Then, quieter, “It’s not about owing him.”

Will turns onto his side, looking at me. “So what is it?”

I chew on my lip for a second. “He was safe. Familiar. I think I got used to making myself small enough to fit around whatever he needed me to be.”

That hangs in the air.

Will shifts closer, his knee pressing gently between mine, his thumb brushing my hip. “You don’t do that with me.”

“Because you don’t ask me to.”

His fingers brush mine. “I wouldn’t.”

I squeeze his hand. “I know.”

And we just lie there for a bit, his chest rising and falling against my cheek, no more words needed. Outside, I can still hear George — the low hum of a video still playing, the occasional flick of the controller — but he sounds further away now. Like the wall between us has thickened somehow, like I’ve already started moving out.

Will’s skin is warm where it touches mine, his arm draped lazily across my waist, thumb tracing idle patterns on my hipbone. There’s something almost hypnotic about it — the slow drag of his fingers, the faint stick of summer sweat between us, the gentle rise and fall of his chest against my back.

We don’t speak. We don’t need to.

We just breathe in sync, like we’ve been doing this for years.

I close my eyes and try to map the shapes he’s drawing against my skin — little circles, a line, a loop that might be a figure eight or just a lazy spiral. It’s nothing, and it’s everything. A language that doesn’t need sound.

His nose brushes the back of my neck as he shifts. I feel his lips graze just under my jaw — not a kiss, exactly, more like a thought made physical.

I turn slightly, just enough to see his face in the dark. My thigh slips over his as I move. His eyes are open.

“You’re not sleeping,” I murmur.

“Neither are you,” he replies, voice low.

We’re whispering even though we don’t have to. There’s no one listening. No one in this room but us.

Then Will speaks again, voice low against the hush.

“He’s been weird with me too, you know. George.”

I turn my head, chin brushing his shoulder. “Yeah?”

Will nods, eyes on the ceiling. “Not, like, dramatic. Just… off. Short. Like I stole his PlayStation or kicked his dog.”

I exhale slowly. “I thought it was just me. I mean, I expected it to be a little awkward — obviously — but this is... not what I expected.”

He doesn’t say anything, just listens.

“He’s never been like this before,” I go on. “Like, yeah, he gets weird when things change. But he’s always come around. He’s always been happy for me when I was seeing someone.”

Will finally looks over at me. “And now?”

I frown at the ceiling. “Now I feel like I’ve done something wrong, and I don’t even know what.”

He brushes a knuckle along my arm, slow and thoughtful. “Maybe it’s not about what you did. Maybe it’s just about him.”

I nod, but it’s a half-hearted one. “I just… I hope it sorts itself out. I miss him.”

Will doesn’t say me too, but I see something flicker across his face.

He’s still holding my hand. Our legs still tangled.

And I don’t know if it’s empathy or something heavier.

We lay like this for a bit, until I roll my head against the pillow to look at him properly. “Wait. I didn’t know you drive. Since when did you even have a car?”

He huffs a soft laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Seriously?”

“I’ve only ever seen you in Ubers or on a bicycle,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s by design. The mystery’s part of the allure.”

“Oh, right. Nothing sexier than a man who hides his license like state secrets.”

He grins, his grip on my thigh tightening slightly. “You doubting my driving abilities?”

“I’m not doubting,” I say, sitting up slightly, “I’m just saying… I feel like I should be warned before I get into a vehicle you’re controlling.”

He props himself up on one elbow. “You wound me.”

I laugh, and he kisses me again — slow and easy, like we’ve got all the time in the world.

And for a second, it feels like we actually might.

xxx

I think I’m finally letting him go.

At least, that’s what I tell myself, even as Will’s warm hands drift lazily across my back, as we kiss slowly, too tired to do anything else but exist in the moment.

I tell myself that whatever part of me still clings to George is fading away.

The part that still lights up when George looks at me too long. The part that replays that night—the kiss—and wonders what would’ve happened if he’d said yes instead of “this is madness.”

Because it’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic. Especially now.

Now that Will is here. Now that he’s choosing me, every time, without hesitation. No guessing. No half-smiles. No emotional landmines.

Just… him. Present. Steady. Here.

And tonight? Tonight was good.

Will made me laugh like he always does. He remembered my pizza order without asking. He told me I looked “dangerously fit” in my tracksuit pants and tank top, in that soft, stupid way that made my chest warm instead of making me cringe.

And yet, I can’t quite shake the thought of George.

Not constantly. Just… in the quiet moments.

When Will’s hands find their place on my skin. When his lips pres s to mine in that lazy, after-sex kiss that feels like both everything and nothing all at once. When I feel the warmth of his body against mine, and I wonder if George is still awake. If he’s listening.

It makes me feel sick.

I hate it with all of my being.

Because Will could be something.

He’s not a rebound. He’s not a placeholder. He’s not some twisted revenge plot.

But I’m treating him like one, aren’t I?

Because some rusted-out part of me still wants George to say something.

To stop being weird.

To admit he hesitated.

To admit he regrets it.

That he’s always sort of wanted me, and he was just too afraid, too proud, too stupid to do anything about it.

Or at least tell me what on earth has him so weird right now.

And the cruellest part?

Even if he did say something… I don’t know if I’d leave Will.

I think I’d just break a little more. Because this—Will—is what I always said I wanted. Someone who likes me back. Who doesn’t make me beg, or shrink, or guess.

Someone who looks at me like he’s already decided.

No, I definitely wouldn’t leave Will.

And still, I can’t shake the echo of George. Of him in the hallway. Pretending he didn’t care.

And the way that still makes my chest ache.

God, I hate this. But I’m starting to let him go. I think.

Letting him fade from my thoughts…

But I don’t know if I’ve really done it yet. Not completely.

And I hate that it’s hurting someone who actually likes me.

Because if George did finally say something—if he admitted that he did want me, that maybe he did regret it—I’d still choose Will.

And that would probably mean losing George. And that would be the worst part.

Not just the what-ifs between us. Not just the unanswered questions or the rejection.

But the end of my friendship with him.

And that? That would hurt more than anything else.

xxx

Taglsit: @meglouise00@migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl @mrswillne @ravenaz

#george clarke #george clarkey #george clarke x reader #george clarkey x reader #george clarke fics #george clarke fluff #george clarke imagine #will lenney #WillNE #willne x reader #willne fic #willne fluff #willne imagine #ukyt #george clarkey angst #willne angst

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veilord · 10 months ago

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I’m writing this because I can’t stop thinking about sbg and I’m really excited for the next chapters but I’m really impatient and I can’t buy coins :(

I love “School Bus Graveyard” so much and I recently reread the entire comic because I stoped reading for a while. I had fun but it really reinforced the major criticisms I have with it, and that is the pacing and telling instead of showing.

The best way I can think to explain it is that the story goes to fast, especially in the first season.

Like it starts with the cold open to the kids almost getting got by the phantom before going back to give us the context of what’s happening. And this works great to hook readers when the start of the story is a bit slow. Then we have the kids bonding on the trip before they are pulled into the phantom dimension for the first time, and it’s great!! I love the first night and was getting so invested in what would happen next! Then it skips back to the time during the opening.

Skipping boring or irrelevant stuff in a story is expected, we don’t want to watch the kids go to all their classes during school if we don’t need to. This skip isn’t like that, it skips over a lot of interesting story that we need to know about to understand how the kids got into the situation they’re in during the opening. So the story has to full us in on the stuff skipped and dose so by just having Ashlyn monologue about it.

I didn’t notice when I was reading but thinking back this happens a lot, the story skips ahead to the more plot relevant and exciting stuff and has Ashlyn fill in what we missed. This results in the story having almost no downtime which, isn’t good. It makes the story very fast and can be confusing, like when preparing for getting the jeep Ashlyn says it takes a lot of preparation and practice, but we don’t see any of it. So when the plan goes wrong because the keys were moved we aren’t as panicked and confused as the kids. Well it may have been weeks or months in story for us it seems like a few days at most. I have no clue how long they have actually been dealing with the phantoms but the way the story is paced makes it seem like they have only been dealing with it for a short time, making how stressed and tired they are seem like to much.

But I find the biggest problem with the pacing and lack of downtime is how it screws over the characters. When the time skips happen we lose so much character building. We don’t see how they interacted right after the first night in the phantom dimension, how they handled the second night, how they all got to the graveyard, all the arguments about going back to savanna, what they text in the group chat, visiting each others houses, Tyler teaching Ben guitar, just hanging out. When we are told backstory’s they don’t hit very hard because we don’t know much about the characters, we never got to know them. When Tyler falls on the tree and we get his backstory it’s informative and sad and stuff, but then it tells us that Tyler sees the gang as a second family and… what. When I first read that I was genuinely confused, it felt like it came out of nowhere, like they just met, he barely knows any of them. But they didn’t just meet, they’ve known each other for months and have been surviving together every night and hanging out often during the day, but we didn’t see any of it. We only see them in stressful situations so we never really see Tyler warm up to the group, we don’t get the sense that any of these kids are really friends most of the time. The few hangout scenes we get are so good, they let us relax and get to know the characters as they get to know each other. And we know that they hang out more than the two times shown so it super sucks we don’t see more.

The characters need more room to breathe and establish themselves as individuals and as part of the group. As it is whenever one character get more focus it feels like the others are pushed to the side, like there isn’t enough room for all of them when I think there could be more then enough room.

I hope this makes sense I’m not proofreading it lmao. I do really like this story and a lot of my complaints feel less relevant to season two, but because a lot of these problems happen in season one when set up and character building is most important for establishing a steady base for the story to build on it’s very noticeable even as the writing improves. Maybe one day Red can go back and improve the story somehow, but that seems unlikely so I hope these issues continue to be improved as the comic goes on.

#school bus graveyard #sbg spoilers #criticism #talking #I really wrote an essay lmao #hope it doesn’t suck to much #dose anyone else feel this way?#tell me if you do #or if you don’t #my first time reading I got so pissed that the early chapter keep repeating themselves #like half of the previous chapter would be in the next #and they were short so it was bad #luckily on my reread that Issue was fixed #didn’t do the pacing any favours tho

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neondiamond · 2 years ago

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#i’ve written 6 christmas ficlets already ☺️#and surprisingly only half of them are larry! would you believe that lol #i did a ziam one a ziall friendship one and an OT5 fic #and also surprisingly they all have titles already lol #i did this thing where i didn’t alliw myself to start writing the next one until the previous one had a title #so i wouldn’t get stuck having to come up with 6 titles all at the end #surprised it worked but it did #yay lol #i have ideas for 1 or 2 more i’d like to write #one narry and one more larry #excited to post them throughout december #a bit like the advent-ish fic i did last year which was so much fun #except with seperate ficlets instead of chapters #also on an unrelated note i’ve decide i’m putting up my tree tomorrow and i am excited! 🎄

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pearlessance · 1 month ago

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Cupid's Chokehold — part two!

PEARL NECKLACE

[previous chapter] [next chapter]

summary: Uncle Tommy gives you everything you want for your twenty first birthday.

pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI, stepcest, age gap (reader is 21, Tommy in his mid thirties), size difference, praise kink, oral sex (f!receiving), dirty talk, unprotected piv, begging, dom/sub undertones, tommy yearns bad in this one, a bit of angst mixed in, alcohol overconsumption, reader is made uncomfortable by someone at a bar, references to being drugged (but doesn't actually happen), allusions to addiction, reader gets a facial

note: if you haven't heard yet, i'm turning this into a little mini series!! you can let me know here if you'd like to be added to the taglist. thank you to everyone for the support on this one, I'm so glad you all love uncle tommy as much as i do. let me know what you think of this chapter, i love love love talking to you guys and i promise there's more to come!

wc: 10.8k

[series masterlist] [main masterlist] [AO3]

Tommy Miller is a high functioning addict.

Self aware enough to admit it, hedonistic enough to only manage it. Has been that way for as long as he can remember.

He likes the head buzz of nicotine and the dizziness of liquor and the adrenaline rush of a real bad decision. His favorite high, though, is you. His favorite sound, his favorite taste, his favorite sight.

His favorite girl.

After that fateful night in his apartment, the two of you get good at the balancing act. The push and pull. You ride the line of too much and not enough religiously. Have gotten it down to a goddamn science.

But the problem is that an addict never knows when to quit.

He does well for a while. Truly. Learns that it’s a whole lot easier to manage his longing with witnesses around, and goes out of his way to avoid being in an empty house with you. He interlocks his fingers together and squeezes when the urge rises in him to touch you. To cradle your pretty face, to run his thumb over your mouth when you make some filthy joke and smile up at him. He bites the inside of his cheek when you’re sitting beside one another and turn to whisper something in sync, bringing you face to face, so overwhelmed with a craving for the taste of your tongue that his heart hammers against his sternum.

For what it’s worth, Tommy tries. Loses sleep over it, even. Stares up at his ceiling for hours, warring with what he wants and what he knows is right.

The right thing would be to wean himself off of you. Cut back a little at a time. Day by day, until eventually the thought of you becomes less persistent. Until he stops smelling the faintest trace of your shampoo in his sheets, until he stops transferring that half-smoked cigarette with cherry lip gloss on the filter from pack to pack.

But then, sometimes, he catches this look in your eye when you’re listening to him speak. He could be talking about something shitty that happened at work or telling you about a song he heard on the radio that he thinks you’d like, and you just stare at him like he hung the moon in the sky.

He’s important to you, and you make him feel it. And it’s this, this that he can’t give up. The way you trust him so completely, the way you love him without a trace of doubt.

You say it once, in passing. Everyone’s sitting in lawn chairs in the backyard, enjoying the nice weather before the rainstorm moving in from the west hits. You’re sitting next to Sarah, but your feet are resting in Tommy’s lap.

Sarah’s talking animatedly, telling everyone about her college English professor and how they’ve been playing matchmaker all semester. On three separate occasions, they’ve paired groups together, and couples have emerged from them. Sarah thinks it’s intentional, but your mom and Joel aren’t so sure.

Tommy stays quiet for most of the conversation. But then he says, “Definitely a little weird. But, uh…anyway, I wanted to let everyone know I’m a changed man. Dropping the whole blue collar act and going back to school to study English.”

Everyone laughs, and you kick the side of his thigh lightly with a shake of your head. Through your giggles you say, “I fucking love you,” and it fills him with so much warmth he’s overflowing with it.

He rides that high for days. Gives you shit for it, even.

When he steals your half finished slice of pizza right out of your hands and you call him a dickhead with a smile on your face he says, “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

You don’t deny it, and even that makes him feel special. Tommy takes every crumb of affection you throw at him and eats it up with a fork and knife like it’s the most delectable meal he’s ever had. Consumes your sweet words and your closeness so thoroughly, it’s almost comical. Like he’s a dog with a bone, desperate for it, because he is.

He stays balanced, though. Never lets it go too far. Can feel right when his desire begins to cloud his judgment and knows when to call it.

But things change one night at the dining room table.

You and Joel sit beside each other. He‘s in front of that shitty laptop he bought decades ago, trying to write an email that sounds both professional and assertive without using the words asshole or fucking idiot.

He’s grumbling and typing with his two pointer fingers and a single thumb on the keyboard, shaking his head as you explain, “You have to capitalize her name, Joel. You’re not sending an email to your friend, she’s a CEO.”

“Yeah, well, capital letters are meant for people. Not for corporate lizards trying to fuck with my company.”

You catch Tommy’s gaze from across the table, making you both snort and fall into rambunctious laughter, earning you a glare.

“It’s not funny,” Joel says sharply. “Stupid I even have to do this. I don’t know why people don’t just leave well enough alone.”

“Everyone wants a piece of the pie,” you explain. “You’re making good money doing good things, and she wants to be a part of it. You guys keep taking on more projects this year, and inquiries like this are just the beginning.”

“It’s a good thing, ain’t it?” Tommy shrugs. “Means you’re doing somethin’ right.”

“Exactly,” you agree. You lean across the table and swipe the glass bottle from his hands to take a sip.

Tommy knows you don’t like beer and isn’t surprised when you cringe at the hoppy flavor, wrinkling your nose at him. He thinks maybe you drink it anyway not for the alcohol, but to put your lips to the same place his were seconds ago. He tries not to let the warmth that idea elicits in his chest spread too far.

“Well, I don’t need some uppity lady who works in an office telling me how to do my damn job,” Joel adds.

��So say that,” you tell him. He starts typing on the keyboard again, so you lean in close, peering over his shoulder. “Oh my God. Not word for word. You have to paraphrase.”

Joel throws his hands up in the air and groans in frustration. “How do I say fuck off in a nice way?”

You and Tommy both laugh again, which only serves to piss Joel off even further. It’s not funny, not really; it’s just the dramatics of it all. And, truthfully, Tommy finds everything funny when he's with you.

“You write it,” Joel says, pushing the laptop towards you.

“That’s not gonna solve anything,” you say, shaking your head.

“What if I pay you?”

“Then you’ll be in the same situation next time. You’re gonna have to learn how to be a business owner, Joel. Not just a contractor.”

“Okay, so make it permanent, then,” Joel says, shrugging. “Like a…a receptionist. Come work for me and quit that coffee place. They don’t even offer health insurance.” He says it with such disdain, and Tommy knows exactly why.

They’d discussed it on the way home from work one afternoon. Too god damn smart for a place like that, Joel had said, and Tommy could do nothing but agree.

“I can’t quit my job to write your emails for you,” you argue.

“Not just that,” he says. “Can be in charge of payroll and schedules and the licensing bullshit. All the things I’m bad at. Weekends off, whatever hours you wanna work. I’ll pay you double what you’re makin’ now, and you get health insurance.”

Hesitation shows on your face. Tommy knows his brother means what he says, and he thinks you know it, too. But it’s a lot to consider. A big change.

“You’re good at talkin’ to people,” Joel continues, closing the laptop. “An’ it would mean a lot to me.”

That’s what does you in, Tommy knows. The nail in the coffin. He sees it in the way your shoulders drop and your eyes soften. Selfless girl, he thinks. Always taking care of the people you love. “What if I don’t like it?”

“You will,” Tommy answers. Because he knows Joel will take care of you, too. Make sure you have everything you might need. But more importantly, Tommy knows you. And even though he can sense the way it threatens his balance on that already thin line between safe and depraved, he knows you’ll enjoy it.

And he’s proven correct on that very first day.

Joel sets you up in the air-conditioned trailer they haul from job site to job site. Mostly, they use it to cool off during lunch, everyone piling into the small space for half an hour before going back out into the Texas heat.

The two of you spend most of the day going over all the contacts Joel’s acquired over the years, and how to schedule a consultation, and where to order materials. He gives you all of his passwords and clears off the cluttered desk that never gets used.

Everyone on the team is awfully eager to meet you, and Tommy’s no fucking idiot. He knows exactly what goes through their heads as they shake your hand and introduce themselves and stare a little too hard at the shadow of red lace beneath your thin white top.

They conveniently wait until Joel’s out of earshot before the comments start pouring out of their foul mouths.

Pretty little thing, ain’t she?

Joel’s got that livin’ under his roof? Christ. Poor old man.

You see the way those jeans fit her?

Is it too early to start callin’ Joel ‘pops’?

Tommy wonders briefly why they feel so comfortable saying shit like this in front of him, knowing who he is to you, but then realizes he’s said far worse in the past about girls half as pretty. They feel comfortable because in any other situation, he would be joining right in.

Noah’s the worst of it. Takes things a little too far when he says, “Stepdaughter videos ain’t number one on the hub for nothin’.”

Tommy clenches his teeth. Keeps his head down. Tries and fails to fight his smug ass smirk when you come grab his truck keys a little after four and return to the trailer wearing his Carhartt hoodie, the one he’d left in the back seat a couple days ago.

Later that night, Tommy follows you up to your room. Door wide open, with Sarah just across the hall and Joel and your mom downstairs. Not that he has any intentions other than checking in after your first day. It’s just…precautionary—an added layer of security to prevent a backslide.

He flops back in your unmade bed, hands folded behind his head, and watches a little too closely as you bend over to unlace your sneakers. “Well?”

You unclasp your necklace and drop it into a ceramic bowl on your dresser. “I loved it,” you admit. “It was a little stressful, but…I don’t know. I liked feeling like I could make a difference. Like I’m not just going in there to do my job and go home, I felt like I was being productive. It was nice.”

Tommy’s pleased to hear it. Loves the way your voice sounds in his ears. Happy, satisfied. He knows right then and there that he needs to set a firm boundary with Noah because you’re never going back to that coffee place, and Noah’s not going anywhere near you. “Said you’d like it, didn’t I?”

With a roll of your eyes, you sit beside him and pull your legs close to your chest, resting your chin on top of your knees. “Joel’s kind of a hard ass.”

It makes him laugh because it’s true. Can’t count on both his hands just how many times his brother has nitpicked the way things are done. He can only imagine the pressure you'd felt in that trailer, likely being told how to talk to this person or that one. “Only the beginning, darlin’,” Tommy says.

The sunlight leaks in through your bedroom window, sheer lace curtains casting rays of gold over your skin. You’re beautiful, Tommy thinks. Painfully so. Sometimes he’ll catch you at a certain angle, just like this one, and it makes his heart rate stutter.

In another world, Tommy wouldn’t let you out of sight fucking ever. Would accompany you whether you were going to a nightclub or if you were just going to the corner store. Because he knows from experience that all it would take for a man to fall to his knees before you is a single look from those pretty eyes. In another world, one where he wasn’t your Uncle Tommy, one where he could just be yours, he’d make damn sure you’d never need anything from another man.

Never need a door opened for you, never need to pay for a meal, never need to confide in anyone else. He’d take care of you. Do it all. Satisfy you in every way of the word because it’s what you deserve. He wants to take care of you, wants to be a provider.

Tommy supposes it’s what he’s always wanted, despite his actions reflecting the opposite. He wonders if maybe he’s just been waiting for you this whole time.

You ask, “What are you thinking about?”

And he doesn’t lie. “You.”

With a scoff, you playfully pinch his side. A sliver of his abdomen is exposed where his t-shirt has ridden up, and feeling you there is a shock to his nervous system.

And when your touch lingers, his body tingles, and his brain becomes foggy. Tommy Miller has never wanted anyone the way he wants you. Is reduced to the simplest, most carnally driven man just at the feel of your delicate fingertips on his skin.

Your attention is centered on your hand as you slowly move it across his soft belly, eyes hooded and filled with desire.

Tommy knows that look now. Knows the filthy thoughts invading your brain, knows exactly what you’re reminiscing about. He knows, too, that the balance is skewed. The longer he lies here with you, the closer he comes to caving. “Your turn,” he says. “Spill your guts.”

When you speak, your voice is quiet. A barely-there whisper. “It would be so easy, you know.”

He does. Has rolled the idea over in his head a million fucking times. “S’the problem,” Tommy explains. “Can’t stop myself twice.”

“Then don’t,” you say simply, continuing to run your fingers over his skin. He sees his favorite troublesome smirk begin to form on your sweet mouth and has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep himself from finding too much joy in it. “Could do it right here. Bet they’d never know.”

The edge of your pinky finger dips just below the waistband of his jeans. Barely there, but Tommy notices everything you do, and this is no exception, hyper aware of your every movement. He lets out a slow, shaking breath and swallows hard. He can’t bring himself to move or push you away like he knows he should. All he manages are two, hesitant words. “Ain’t right.”

Your response is quick. Honest and true. “I don’t care.”

It only makes his will to abstain that much harder. Knowing he isn’t alone in his longing, knowing you’re suffering in such a similar way…it hurts him just to think of it. But it’s different for you. Easier. Because you’re just at the beginning of your life, while he’s nearly halfway through his.

You have time to bounce back from this. To choose someone your age who’s a lot less twisted. Someone you don’t have to hide from the people closest to you, who you can kiss out in the open without shame.

And Tommy’s…well, Tommy knows there will never be anyone else for him. Has sat with that fact for quite some time. Accepted it by now, and considers himself lucky just to have had that one, stolen night.

Slowly, you move further down the mattress. The same one he once slept on that now belongs solely to you. You slot yourself between his strong thighs and his cock swells as you look up at him through your lashes.

There’s an experiment here, Tommy knows. The two of you are just alike. So similar that sometimes it frightens him. He can see the challenge in your eyes, testing the waters, seeing how far you can go before he pulls you back.

You lean forward, bracing yourself with your hands on his hips. And when you press your lips to the bulge in his jeans, Tommy bites back a moan.

This is too far, he knows. Way too fucking far.

His heart hammers in his chest. The door is still wide open, and everyone is home. All it would take is one person to walk down the hallway, and it would all be over.

But it would be easy. Quick, too—Tommy’s never had much control when it comes to you.

With a quick flick of your thumb, you pop open the silver button. Saliva gathers between your parted lips, mouth watering for a taste of him.

Tommy Miller is weak. Corrupted. Sick and twisted and perverted and— “Beautiful, baby,” he whispers. “You’re so fucking…Christ. You got any idea how fuckin’ pretty you are?”

He gently strokes your hair, and when you smile up at him, he grins right back. His cock is already hard but then you pull his zipper down with your teeth and Tommy thinks he might die without relief.

Sarah calls your name from across the hall.

You scramble away from each other, sitting at opposite ends of the bed seconds before she rounds the corner.

“Do you remember Summer? That girl from my biology class?” Sarah pays Tommy no mind as she sits beside you.

It’s not out of the ordinary for him to be in your room, after all. He’s the first to lend a helping hand when you get the urge to move your furniture around and has carried up your laundry from the basement countless times.

“Yeah, of course,” you say. “The one you…”

Sarah flushes a deep crimson. Her eyes flicker between your face and Tommy’s, and he’s smart enough to read the room.

“Guess that’s my cue,” he says, standing from the bed, tugging at the hem of his t-shirt.

You grab his hand as he walks past. Just briefly, but it turns his insides molten. One more lingering touch before he leaves. A way of saying, I don’t want you to go, but I know you have to.

Once out in the hallway, Tommy zips up his jeans and takes a few long, deep breaths before he goes downstairs to say goodbye to your mom and Joel. The two of them talk briefly, and Joel asks how you felt after your first day.

He says, “An’ I know you know that girl like the back of your hand, so don’t lie. She like it or not?”

Tommy isn’t quite sure why the words leave him feeling dizzy, but they do. He likes that he knows you so well and likes even more that the closeness you share is so visible. If he can’t outwardly call you his, if he can’t outwardly be yours, then he’ll take whatever this is. “She likes it.”

Joel’s shoulders sag in relief. “Good, cause she’ll make my life a hell of a lot easier.”

The next morning, Tommy stops by at seven to pick you and Joel up before heading to the job site. You carry a steaming travel mug in each hand, and before you climb into the back seat, you poke your head through the open driver's side window. “Just milk and sugar,” you say. “Right?”

He doesn’t know why you ask when you know the answer. “You didn’t have to do that, darlin’,” he says. But he happily takes the coffee anyway and takes a careful sip. It’s the perfect ratio. Tommy’s not surprised.

There’s a playful lilt to your voice as you say, “I usually take mine with cream, but we were all out. Thought maybe you could supply me with some.”

He laughs hard and shakes his head. “Un-fuckin’-believable,” he says through his mirth. He glances over the top of your head to see Joel locking the front door behind him.

You uncap the lid. “Well?”

His face burns, but Tommy thinks he’s never had such a perfect start to his day. “Get in the truck before you start somethin’ you can’t finish.”

“But that’s my favorite thing to do,” you whine, pushing your bottom lip out into a dramatic pout. You listen, though. Replace the lid and climb into the back seat behind him.

Tommy scoffs and says with a grin, “Don’t I know it.”

It doesn’t take long for you to get awfully good at your job. That first week alone, you manage to slice their payment for materials in half just by haggling with the lumber mill Joel’s bought wood from since the nineties. You accompany him to a handful of consultations, learning what to look for in a client and how to pick and choose which jobs are worth taking.

You convince Joel to buy a mini fridge for the trailer that you keep fully stocked with bottles of water. And when you bring in those electrolyte drink mixes, it’s all anyone talks about for days.

Noah says, “The peach one is my favorite. Wanna taste hers next.”

Everyone finds humor in it but Tommy.

The words come out sharper than intended. “Quit sayin’ shit like that, man.”

Noah laughs. Like it’s funny. “You’re telling me you don’t want a piece of that ass?”

“What I’m telling you is to shut your goddamn mouth,” Tommy answers. He stops digging through the sand they’ve been moving for the last hour, left hand squeezed tightly around the red handle of his shovel.

“It was a joke, Tommy. Lighten up.”

“Don’t care what it was,” he says, staring Noah in the eye. “I hear some shit like that again and I’ll fuck you up. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

Noah sizes him up, and for a split second Tommy thinks he just might be brave enough to step. But Noah just sneers and returns to the task at hand, an awkward silence lingering between the group of them.

But Tommy doesn’t care. Sits in that silence happily knowing he won’t have to listen to anyone speak about you like that anymore.

Joel cares, though. And on the way home, he says, “Mike told me about you giving Noah a hard time today. You two gonna have a problem?”

“Wait, what happened with Noah?” You slide to the center of the leather seat in the back of the cab.

“Nothing,” Tommy lies. “Ain’t gonna have a problem.”

Joel narrows his eyes in warning. “Good. 'Cause that’s the last thing we need right now. Behind enough as it is.”

He thinks that’s the end of it.

But then you say softly, “He asked me out the other day.”

“He what?” Tommy and Joel say it in perfect unison. Equally floored and equally irate.

Joel turns almost completely around in the passenger seat.

You raise your hands in surrender and look at Tommy through the rearview mirror. “Said he wanted to take me to dinner, and I told him I’d rather starve.”

“Listen to me,” Joel says with that stern, no bullshit dad voice he sometimes still uses on Sarah. “I don’t want you anywhere near those boys. Ain’t a single one worth a damn. Liars and cheaters and fucking criminals. All of ‘em.”

A crease forms between your brows. “So why the fuck did you hire them?”

“Cause they’re good at what they do,” Joel explains. “But that don’t make them good. Deserve better than that. You hear me, kid?”

“Yeah, I hear you. Keep it professional with everyone,” you say. “Except for Uncle Tommy.”

He chokes. Tries to cover it up with a cough, but it doesn’t work in the slightest. His hands pale around the steering wheel.

“Exactly,” Joel says.

Later that night, Tommy is smoking on the back porch when you step outside to join him. It’s the first moment he’s had alone with you all day. “You tryin’ to get me killed or somethin’?”

“Or something.” You lean back against the siding and shrug. “Kinda sounded like Joel’s blessing to me.”

“You’re fuckin’ trouble, girl.” Tommy chuckles and passes you his lit cigarette when you reach for it. “Joel wasted all that breath warnin’ you about those boys when he should be warnin’ them about you.”

“Yeah, probably. But you love it.”

Tommy can do nothing but agree because it’s the truest thing he’s ever heard. “Your birthday’s comin’ up soon,” he says, watching as you take the nicotine deep into your lungs. “Twenty-one. Anything you want?”

That too familiar smirk forms on your face, and Tommy knows what you’re going to say before you even open your mouth. Can see all those filthy thoughts behind your eyes, can almost hear whatever dirty joke you’ve got locked and loaded on the tip of your tongue.

“Don’t even fuckin’ start with me,” he warns, a playfulness to his voice. But there’s no weight to it. Your inability to take anything seriously is one of his favorite things about you.

Your lips part in a mockery of surprise. “I didn’t even say anything!”

“Didn’t have to,” he says, plucking the cigarette from between your fingers. “Give me something realistic.”

“Okay…” You tap your index finger against your chin, contemplating. “What about…a pearl necklace,” you say with the sweetest, most innocent smile.

Tommy laughs. Can’t help himself. “Alright, you know what? I take it back. You only get gifts if you’re good.”

He thinks the sound of your giggling might be the only thing that’s ever truly brought him peace. Finds comfort in your joy, in knowing you’re happy. But when your laughter dies down, there’s a sad sort of look in your eye. A melancholic longing.

Then you quietly say, “I just want you.” And Tommy’s ears ring.

This is what hurts him the most. The heavy truth of it.

He’d known that taking your closeness to new heights would change him in irreparable ways. Known that nothing would ever compare, and he was ready and willing to live the rest of his life with that dull ache in his chest. Welcomed the haunting of emptiness with open arms because it was you and it was him and that one fucking night was yours.

But Tommy wasn’t the only one who’d been changed by it. Wasn’t the only one to suffer in the aftermath.

He wants to comfort you. Wants to take your hands in his and kiss each of your knuckles until his lips turn blue. He doesn’t move, though. Not even an inch. Because he’s never felt nearer to a relapse than he does when you look at him like that. Like you see him. Like he’s all you see.

“I’m right here,” he says. “Always will be.”

Tommy means it. He thinks he would follow you anywhere just to feel the faintest warmth of your affection.

It seems to satisfy you. For now, at least. You give him the tiniest smile, a half effort, but it soothes the sting for him, too. Just a little.

Your birthday falls on a Friday. Tommy gets up early and stops at a bakery before heading to Joel’s, and is pleased when he uses the key under the mat to find that the house is quiet. Still.

He creeps up the stairs and slips soundlessly into your room. The day is just beginning, and the light of dawn spills through your cracked window. Tommy sits on the edge of your bed and tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

When he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, you stir and stretch out your limbs. Your voice is tired and filled with sleep as you ask, “Uncle Tommy?”

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he whispers. He cradles your face in his hands and strokes your cheek with his thumb as clarity slowly finds you.

You smile up at him with starry eyes, and Tommy’s stomach flips. You’re so good, so perfect that sometimes he wonders how the fuck you’re even real.

“C’mon,” he says. “Sit up for me. Got you somethin’.”

Tommy holds your hands when you reach for him and pulls you forward. You push yourself up the rest of the way and fold your legs over one another beneath the blankets.

It’s only at that precise moment that Tommy realizes you’re wearing one of his t-shirts and the sight of it steals the air right from him. He likes it—loves it. Loves that a piece of him lives here with you. In your closet, in your room, in your sheets.

He’s not quite sure how you ended up with it, though. Thinks he might’ve left it on a lawn chair after spending an afternoon in Joel’s pool, or missed it in the dryer when the ones at his apartment were out of order.

But then you say, reading his every thought, “I stole it.”

Tommy laughs. “Think you’re supposed to ask before you take things that aren’t yours.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” You lean forward, lips an inch away from his ear. “And I know I’m not the only one with sticky fingers, Uncle Tommy.”

His face burns. He thinks of your cherry lip gloss on his bathroom sink and your tank top on the right side of his bed and your lace panties in his nightstand. Tommy thinks he should know better than to hide things from you anymore. You’re too close, too similar. “Caught me,” Tommy mutters.

And then he digs his lighter out of the front pocket of his jeans and lights the ten cent candle he’d found at the back of Joel’s junk drawer. He sticks it into the center of the cupcake he’d picked out just for you—lemon flavored, with vanilla frosting and lime colored sprinkles.

He holds it between you and says, “Make a wish, birthday girl.”

The flame flickers as your gaze darts between Tommy’s eyes and his mouth. You smile widely, and he can’t resist mirroring your joy. Feels it as thoroughly as if it were his own. Tommy’s never cared much for his birthday, but he feels overwhelmed with gratitude for yours. Thankful.

You close your eyes, make your silent wish, and then blow out the candle. He unwraps the wax paper for you, crumbs sticking to his fingers, and laughs when you take a bite and let out a blissful moan. “Holy shit,” you say.

Tommy feels pride bloom in his chest. Thinks pleasing you might be his favorite thing on the planet. “S’good?”

“It’s fucking amazing,” you answer. And then you turn the cupcake towards him. “I’m not kidding. Try it.”

He does. Leans forward and takes a careful bite right from your hands. You’re not wrong, either. The lemon is refreshing, and the vanilla buttercream is the perfect sweetness. Tommy nods as you take another bite. “Christ,” he says. “Worth every damn penny.”

You touch your thumb to the corner of your mouth. “You’ve got frosting on your face,” you say with a teasing grin.

Tommy wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I get it?”

“More to the left,” you instruct. But when he tries again, Tommy knows it’s still there when you hold in your laughter. And then you say, “Can I…?”

Tommy doesn’t understand right away why you even ask. You’re always laying your head on his shoulder or draping your legs over his or running your hands through his hair. This is no different, nothing out of the ordinary.

But when he nods, you lean forward and lick the frosting off his bottom lip.

It freezes him in time. Seconds feel like minutes as they tick by. He can feel the wetness of your tongue on his mouth, and you linger. Close enough that he can taste the sugar on your breath.

His morals hang in the balance. Sobriety threatened. Tommy Miller wants you so badly that he starts to wonder if you’re some fucked up form of punishment. Karmic justice for all those hearts he’s broken in his youth, just to be denied the one woman he’s ever truly wanted.

When you speak, it’s breathless. Nearly inaudible. “Kiss me.”

It is your birthday, after all.

He fights the intensity that batters against his every impulse and instead presses his mouth to yours gently. Unhurried. So much different than the first kiss you’d shared. Your lips move against his in sync, one soul split into two bodies, whole again for the first time in months.

Tommy thinks it’s just instinct when his tongue meets yours. You taste just as he remembers. A little warm and a little honeyed and a little like opium.

When you pull away, he feels the loss like a knife.

But then you cover your mouth with your hand and laugh, elation spilling through your fingers, and it’s like a balm to his heart.

Around another mouthful of confectionery, you insist, “Here. Have some more.”

Tommy sits there with you, waiting for the sun to rise, and the two of you share your birthday cupcake before the rest of the world wakes. You close your eyes and drop your shoulders as if it’s the most delicious thing you’ve ever eaten, giggling between each bite.

It’s such a soft, quiet moment. Only the two of you. For just a little while, you have nowhere to be, no one to perform for. It’s just you, and it’s just him, and when you take the last bite, Tommy licks the frosting from your fingertips.

Joel’s alarm echoes down the hallway, and Tommy taps the tip of your nose, delighting in the pretty way it scrunches in response. “I’ll see you outside,” he says. “Happy birthday, darlin’.”

On the way to work, Joel asks about your plans for the weekend, and you tell him about how your friends are taking you to that new bar that just opened up downtown. He warns you to be careful, tells you it’s been packed full of people every time he’s driven by it, and says to call if you need anything.

You promise you will.

For dinner, your mom makes all your favorite foods, and Sarah gifts you a handmade pony bead bracelet. She wears a matching one on her wrist with the colors inverted, and they both say 4EVER in little black letters.

When Tommy returns to his empty apartment that night, it’s with a deep sadness. He tries to drown it out. Showers off the sweat of the day and watches something mind-numbing on television. But the main character in the sitcom rerun makes a dirty joke, and he can almost hear you laughing at it beside him.

Everything reminds him of you.

He thinks about calling one of the women he’s hooked up with on and off throughout the years, but the problem is that Tommy knows how that ends. Knows he’ll ask them to leave halfway through, and he’ll lie there, unsatisfied and painfully in love with a girl he can never have.

His longing chokes him until he’s devoid of breath, of life. Just a shell of a man without you.

This is the wretched low he pays for those highs, Tommy knows. And he pays it without complaint because the highs are heavenly. Fucking spiritual.

He goes to sleep every night without regret. This emptiness is oppressive, but his love for you is transcendent.

His phone rings a little after one in the morning.

Your voice is slurred when you speak. “Uncle Tommy?”

Something’s wrong. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does. Can hear it in your voice. “Where are you?”

There’s faint music in the background. “That new bar on Sixth Street. Can you…I’m sorry. Can you come get me?”

He’s out of bed and pulling on his jeans before you finish asking. “I’m on my way, baby. What happened?”

You say, “I’m not…I’m not sure,” and Tommy’s heart sinks.

Because whatever it is is bad. Can feel it in his fucking bones. “Are you alone? Who’s with you, sweetheart? Where are your friends?”

“No, I…I’m just really—I had too much to drink, I think. There’s just so many people and I don’t wanna be here anymore.”

The new bar is halfway across town, but Tommy makes it in six minutes. It’s at capacity, just as he’d anticipated, all the townsfolk trying to see for themselves what all the hype is about. Tommy might recognize a few faces if he gave anyone but you half a second of thought, but he doesn’t.

He makes a beeline for the women's restroom at the back of the bar and ignores the scowls he receives from the two girls touching up their makeup in the mirror. He calls your name and finds you in the very last stall, sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around your legs.

Tommy breathes a little easier when he sees you. Knows that with him, you’ll be safe. He kneels at your side and tucks your hair behind your ear. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You let out the softest whimper. “Uncle Tommy,” you say, voice filled with affection. “You came.”

“Course I did. S’alright. C’mon.” He tucks his arms beneath you and pulls you to your feet. Supports your weight almost entirely as he leads you out of the crowded bar and back to his truck.

When he leans over your slumped frame to try and buckle your seatbelt, you start peppering the side of his face with sloppy kisses.

He says, “Okay, alright一would you just一sit still一”

But he doesn’t mean it. Not really. You’re a giggly mess of a girl, reaching for the hem of his t-shirt and sliding your cold hands over his too-warm skin. “You’re just.” Kiss. “So.” Kiss. “Fucking cute.” Kiss.

Tommy’s smiling hard, but pushes you away as much as he hates to. “Cute, huh? Don’t know about all that, sweet girl.” He finally latches your seatbelt and quickly rounds the truck to the driver's side.

You're reaching for him the moment you can, arms outstretched and fingers grabbing for him. “Hold my hand,” you say, and of course he does. Kisses your knuckles as the engine roars to life.

Tommy says, “Let’s get you home.”

And you respond sleepily, “You’re my home.”

He tries not to read too much into it. Knows you’re just sappy and drunk. You don’t mean it. Not really. Tommy’s seen you trashed before. Has covered for you countless times and has all those drunken texts you’ve sent him memorized. You’re always like this. Loving and overly affectionate, a happy drunk to your core.

But you’ve never said anything that moved him quite this much.

Home.

What a perfect way to describe it.

But he just shakes his head. “How much have you had, kid?”

You toss your head back and laugh like it’s the silliest question he ever could’ve asked. “Too much! That’s why I called!”

Still holding tight to his hand, you roll down your window all the way. The air is cold but fresh, filling the cab of his truck with the scent of the early morning dew. You lean your head against the leather frame and close your eyes.

Tommy’s not quite sure when you fall asleep because your hand remains in his, squeezing tight even in your unconsciousness. He checks on you every couple of seconds, monitoring your breathing and the soft, slumbering noises you make.

He hates to wake you, but does it anyway when he returns to his apartment. You groan in defiance when he makes you stand, and it takes everything in him not to give in and carry you.

“I know, baby, I know. But I need you awake for a little while longer,” he says. “Gotta get some food and water in you first, okay?”

You fight him each step of the way. Defy Tommy’s every instruction, once bubbly demeanor now replaced with agitation. But once he’s got you inside, he lets out a sigh of relief. He lays you on the couch and disappears into the kitchen for only long enough to make some toast and fill a tall glass with icy water.

He holds your head up with one hand and tilts the cup against your mouth with the other, doing everything for you apart from the actual hydrating. You eat the toast slowly and argue between each bite, but he persists.

While you sleep, Tommy sits on the floor beside you. Half monitoring, half admiring.

He doesn’t take his eyes off you for a single second. Even though exhaustion weighs down his limbs, Tommy is more concerned about you than he is about himself. He spends the night stroking your hair and making you drink a little more water each time you stir in your sleep.

A few times, you wake up completely, turning over to try and find comfort. You whine and sniffle, and Tommy repeats the same tender words until you fall back asleep. “You’re alright. I’m still right here. Uncle Tommy’s got you.”

It’s late by the time you sober up, almost noon. Tommy’s back aches from sitting on the hardwood for so long, and he needs a coffee or a nap or both—but the important thing is you. Always you.

You smile when you see him, and it’s so warm. A kindness that he’s only ever received from you.

It’s a visceral reaction, his mouth pulling up at the corners. Like he just can’t help it. He sees your happiness and feels it, too. “Hey,” he whispers.

“Hi,” you say. And then you grab his big hand and press it against the side of your face. Tommy can feel your joy, can feel the way the muscles strain as you fight off your sleepy giggles.

He runs the pad of his thumb gently over your cheekbone. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like my head’s going to explode,” you say, voice filled with so much faux cheer that it’s comical.

Tommy chuckles and stands to his feet, knees cracking. “Let me get you some aspirin.”

He’s not at all surprised when you follow him to the bathroom, never far for very long. While he sifts through his medicine cabinet, you sit on the edge of the tub. “Can I tell you something?”

“Always,” Tommy promises. He dumps two aspirin into his palm and hands them to you.

It takes a second before you speak. You turn the little pink tablets over and over in your hand, eyes downcast. And then you say, “I was too drunk and overwhelmed last night, but that isn’t what scared me. Noah was there.”

Tommy’s heart sinks to his feet. His jaw clenches, his knuckles turn white.

“He kept…I don’t know. He wanted to take me home, and I was dodging him all night, but he just wouldn’t take no for an answer. Followed me for an hour, trying to change my mind. He didn’t…didn’t do anything, but it freaked me out.”

Tommy thinks he’s never wanted to hurt another man so badly in his life. He takes a deep breath, makes sure his rage isn’t fueled by any rash decision. And then he leaves the bathroom and finds his shoes. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

“Wait—Tommy, please don’t.” You follow, clawing at the back of his t-shirt. “Please.”

The fear in your voice stops him. He thinks maybe you don’t quite understand the gravity of the situation, so he tries to explain. “Can’t let this one go,” he says, shaking his head. “Not—Christ. Not this. He doesn’t get to make you that uncomfortable and get away with it. Fuck no.”

“I love that job,” you reason. “And I promised Joel—!”

“He’ll be just as pissed when he finds out—”

“I don’t want him to find out. Please, don’t.”

Tommy takes your hands between his. “Do you understand how much worse it could have been?” Tommy feels sick, thinking back on all those times Noah had made jokes about roofies and Tommy had just discounted it as dark humor. “Ruined your fuckin’ birthday,” he grumbles.

You say, “He didn't ruin it. I got to spend it with you, didn’t I? That’s all I wanted.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. Tommy can’t hear such sweet words when he’s like this—hot and angry and murderous. “No.” He shakes his head. “He doesn’t get to—”

“If Joel fires me for this, I will never forgive you,” you suddenly say, voice holding a cutting edge.

Tommy doesn’t understand. “What? Sweetheart, he’s not going to be mad at you, okay? You’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing. Joel will understand why I have to do this. He’s going to be mad at Noah, baby, not you.”

“Who I swore not to cause issues with!” Tears well in your wide eyes, and Tommy feels something inside his chest crack wide open. He’s never seen you cry before, not like this.

He pulls you into an embrace. Holds you tight against his chest, arms wrapped around your shoulders. His hands shake, unable to get a handle on either his anger or his despair.

Against his shoulder blade, you murmur, “Promise me you won’t tell Joel.”

And Tommy does. Swears to keep this as far away from you as possible. He refuses to make matters worse for you and, Christ, the sight of you crying makes him fucking miserable. He’s never hated anything more.

Once you sniffles subside, you lift your head and say, “I smell fucking awful.”

Tommy laughs, tension bleeding from his shoulders. “Go shower. I’ll find you some clothes.”

He picks out an old t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring, sets them on the bathroom sink and decides to make you breakfast. But Tommy notices quickly that his eggs are expired, and the box of cereal on top of the fridge has gone stale. He has nothing to offer you, and he’s not sure why, but the realization leaves him feeling hollow.

Eternal bachelor with nothing to his name. You can never be his, and Tommy knows this, but he thinks maybe if he were…better, somehow, that maybe you could be. But you’re too good for him. Too sweet, too lovely, too you.

And Tommy’s…well. He’s Tommy. And just because you look at him like he puts the stars in the sky doesn’t mean he actually does. He’s not like Joel, never has been. Has always gotten into trouble, doing things he knows he shouldn’t. Fighting or drinking or just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tommy’s never had his shit together a day in his life, and you deserve someone who can take care of you. Someone less disappointing.

Someone who can make you breakfast, for fucks sake.

He feels you before he sees you一your warmth at his back. Tommy’s eyes flutter closed when you slip your arms around his waist and lay your head in the space between his broad shoulders.

You say, “Thank you for always keeping me safe,” and Tommy wonders how the fuck you always know exactly what to say. Like you’re in his brain, somehow—a sixth sense finely tuned precisely to him.

Emotion bubbles up in his throat. Thick and smothering. He loves you, Tommy knows. Has never and will never love anyone like this again.

“You make me so happy.” There’s a tenderness in your words, soothing his every ache. “I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

Tommy turns in your embrace. Cradles your face in both hands and promises, “You’ll never have to find out. M’always gonna be here for you.”

You kiss him, and Tommy lets you, even knowing he shouldn’t. It’s a little different than the one you’d shared at dawn in your bedroom. A little more heated, filled with clear intent.

He can sense it. Feel it in your every movement. Knows just what you want, what you need, and slips his tongue into your mouth when your lips part anyway. Let's you tilt your hips against his, feeling the growing hardness there, and swallows up your moan as he slots his knee between your legs.

His breath comes fast, and he’s aware of just how wrong it is, but you make him feel so important. Like you really, truly want him. Not for the things he does but just for him—flaws and disappointments and all.

An addict who always craves your fix.

You rock your hips against his knee and breathe a sigh of relief into his mouth. Tommy helps you, grabbing at your soft thighs and pulling you back and forth to increase the friction.

It’s too much. Too far.

This isn’t a drunken night. It’s the morning after. Stone cold sober, inexcusable.

“We should stop.”

“I know,” you say. But neither of you takes your own advice. He only kisses you harder, soaking up all of your benevolence for as long as he can. You slide your hand between your bodies and palm his cock through his jeans.

The surety of your touch is dizzying. You want him. It’s clear as day, but he wants to hear you. “Say it.”

You don’t hesitate, reading him like an open book. Tommy suppose, for you, he is. With sugary sweet words, you admit, “I need you, Uncle Tommy.”

He’s never been good at denying you anything. “I know, baby.” In one swift movement, he lifts you off your feet, and your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. He kneels down and lays you back, right there on the kitchen floor, and tugs your borrowed sweatpants down your thighs.

You kick them out of the way, and he pushes your t-shirt up over your breasts. “Touch me,” you sigh.

Tommy presses his mouth to the center of your chest. Inhales deeply, taking the familiar scent of you into his lungs. He cups your breasts in his big hands, the rough pads of his thumbs grazing over the peaks of your nipples.

He kisses and licks and bites down the center of your belly, leaving shallow indentations in the shape of his teeth on each of your hips. When he presses his mouth to your pubic bone, Tommy leans back just enough to get a full look at you. “You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

A soft flush crawls up your cheeks. “I’ve missed you so much,” you say.

Tommy understands. Even though he’s been right here, right by your side, he hasn’t been completely honest until this very moment. Not with you, and not with himself, and not since that night in his bed.

It’s like being unclothed. Bare boned. You both know the truth of it, know that he’s your Uncle Tommy and that it’s corrupt and perverted for him to be here, kneeling between your legs. But he’s here anyway, and his mouth is watering, and he fucking loves the sounds you make when his slides his tongue through your slit.

He licks up the wetness that has gathered, groaning at the heady taste of you. Your hands tangle in his hair when he circles your clit with a pointed tongue, drooling down his chin.

With one arm wrapped tightly around your thigh, keeping you in place, Tommy uses the other to gently press his two middle fingers into you. The sight of your arched back is extraordinary; the kind of goddess-like beauty the poets write about. Your pussy clenches around his fingers when he twists them inside of you and pushes firmly against that spot that has you writhing.

“That’s so一” You inhale sharply. “Fuck, it’s so good.”

It pleases him to hear it. Loves knowing that in this, he can never fail you. Tommy sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking over the sensitive nerves, and thrusts his fingers a little faster. He thinks he’ll never grow tired of this. Of the way you taste, the way you sound, the way you call his name.

“Oh, God. Please don’t stop, please.” He wouldn’t dream of it. Your body shakes beneath him, thighs trembling in the grip of his rough palm. He can feel your walls pulse around his fingers, and Tommy knows you’re close.

When he pulls his mouth away, he slides his thumb easily through your folds to swipe it over your clit. “You’re so fuckin’ wet, baby,” he murmurs, kissing your soft belly. “Your pretty pussy always get this messy?”

You shake your head and say brokenly, “No, it’s just…just for—hmm—just—oh my God—”

“Shh,” he coos, chuckling lowly. “S’okay. I know it’s just for me. I know how much she likes it when Uncle Tommy kisses her like this.” He angles his hand and pushes it deeper inside of you, cock throbbing at the way you soak his fingers. “Give it to me.”

With a stuttering breath, you let out a salacious moan and your orgasm hits you hard. Your hands tug at the curling strands of his hair, your every muscle tenses, and your spine bends off the linoleum. His name falls so fucking beautifully from your sweet mouth, and Tommy wants to taste it.

So he does. Slides up your body and presses a kiss to your lips. You whimper into his mouth and he swallows down the sounds of your bliss like fine wine. “There you go,” he whispers tenderly. His thumb on your clit doesn’t slow until he’s sure he’s pulled every last drop out of you. “S’that feel better, sweetheart?”

You nod and giggle softly, a wide grin stretched across your face. The moment is filled with such happiness that it warms him from the inside out.

And even though his cock aches, Tommy thinks this alone is enough to satiate him. Enough to curb that craving, just seeing your pupils blown wide and the pretty flush on your face. Knowing you’re fulfilled and content and that he’s the one who’d brought you to that high does wonders for his confidence.

“You’re so good at that,” you say, and it makes him laugh.

“Can’t get enough of you,” he explains, kissing you hard. “Could eat you all fuckin’ day and still feel hungry.”

Tommy laughs when you turn your head to press your face into your shoulder, hiding the way your nervous smile grows.

“Don’t go gettin’ all shy on me now, darlin’,” he says, pressing his stubbled cheek to the side of your throat. He presses his lips to the curve of your jaw and grins when goosebumps form on the back of your neck. “Uncle Tommy just had your pretty pussy in his mouth. Least you can do is look him in the eye when he tells you how fuckin’ good it tastes.”

He can feel the way your spine bends, pressing your body firmly against his. But you’re a giggling mess beneath him, squealing at his filthy words as if worse hasn’t come out of your mouth.

“S’alright if you ain’t got nothin’ more to say,” Tommy tells you. “Gonna have to start from the beginning ‘til you learn to use your words again.” His mouth moves down the column of your throat, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses down to your collarbone.

He’s slow in his pursuit, listening to the way your breaths become shallower and shallower as he lowers his head to the valley between your breasts. When he makes it to that sweet spot just below your navel, he stops.

“Wait,” you say, and he does. “I want…more.”

Tommy knows. He knows, and yet still, he urges, “Tell me, baby.”

“I want you.”

He thinks suddenly about the conversation you’d had on Joel’s back porch. The last time you’d admitted that you wanted him, that he’s all you wanted. Tommy doesn’t understand it, in truth. Will never understand what the fuck you see in him or why you not only give him the time of day but why you seek him out.

But what he does understand is this.

Tommy sees your need and matches it. Exceeds it.

You slide your hand down your body, fingers slipping through the wetness between your thighs. “Want you here,” you say. “I need it, Uncle Tommy.”

He knows he shouldn’t.

But you want him. And that’s the best high of all.

“M’comin, sweet girl,” he promises. He leans back on his knees and grabs his shirt by the back of the collar, pulling it over his head. You watch him with half-lidded eyes as he undoes the button of his jeans and pulls down his zipper, and Tommy watches you. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he murmurs, shoving the denim down around his hips just enough to take his heavy cock out.

You take him in your delicate hand and press his tip to your clit, sliding it slowly through your slick folds. Such a gentle movement, but it has his breath stuttering already, and Tommy has no fucking idea how he’s going to make this last. “Go slow,” you say. “Wanna feel every inch.”

Tommy notches himself at your entrance and does just as you ask. Pushes into you so carefully it’s almost painful. His every instinct urges him to surge forward, to split you open and bury himself inside of you. But the whimpers you make as you adjust to the stretch he creates keep his head on straight.

It’s the most pornographic image he’s ever seen, watching your sweet pussy greedily swallow up his cock. You’re so wet, dripping for him, and it makes these obscene sounds with each pressing inch that has Tommy’s heart beating hard against his sternum.

“Shit,” he hisses. “You feel so good, baby.” Once he’s fully seated inside you, his waist pressed against yours, Tommy rolls his hips, and the movement has you gasping. He can feel your walls clamp down around him, and it only spurs him on more. He does it again, a gentle pressure at the deepest part of you he can reach.

“It’s so—so big,” you whine, fingernails clawing at the back of his shoulders.

Tommy only smiles. Kisses your mouth tenderly and says, “You can take it. Hm? My perfect girl. Made just for me.”

One of his hands slide up the back of your thigh, hooking your leg around his waist, while the other comes to circle your clit. He can feel your body’s reaction, can feel the way you squeeze tight around his cock.

You nod frantically, the beginnings of tears welling in the corners of your eyes. You breathe out the word, “Yours,” and he feels his orgasm threatening already, building at the base of his spine. “I’m all yours.”

Tommy circles your clit and sets a steady pace. Fucks you slow, fucks you deep. Just how you need it, delighting in your moans. He presses his mouth softly to your temple, your cheek, and spends a little extra time with his teeth at that spot just behind your ear. “Look at me, baby,” he says, nudging his nose against yours.

When you do, your eyes are all starry in that way he loves, filled with awe. You’re the only person to ever look at him like that, with not an ounce of disappointment. It’s like you’re just happy he exists, and Tommy feels emotion build in his throat.

“Don’t stop,” you say, and so he quickens his pace, circling your clit faster. “Don’t stop, God, I’ve—I’ve missed you so bad, Uncle Tommy.”

It’s the most dizzying thing he’s ever heard. It nearly tips him over that edge. But he needs to feel you first, needs to make sure you get everything you need. “Yeah, I know it,” he says tenderly, thrusting in deep. “Missed my baby, too.”

He thinks it’s an understatement. Feels wrong, saying he’s only missed you when he’s thought of nothing else.

Tommy knows you’re close, can feel the way you pulse around him, breathe stuttering. “That’s it,” he mutters. “You gonna cum for your Uncle Tommy? Hm?”

“Fuck, fuck, I’m—”

“S’good, baby,” he whispers against your mouth, keeping his rhythm. “So fucking good for me.”

Your moans echo off the walls as you reach that peak, thighs trembling around his hips. He can feel a rush of moisture against his cock and he tears a low sound from somehwere deep in his chest.

He doesn’t stop, chasing his own high, even when you start to squirm beneath him. His fingers stay circling your pretty clit, ratcheting the pleasure higher and higher until—

“My face,” you suddenly say. “Want you to cum on my face.”

Tommy thinks you’re going to be the death of him.

Perfect, filthy girl.

He pulls out of you quickly, orgasm dangerously near. You prop yourself up, palms against the kitchen floor behind you, while Tommy takes his cock in his hand and squeezes. “Goddamn,” he groans. “Ask me nice.”

With the prettiest, most innocent smile, you say, “Cum on my face, Uncle Tommy. Please, please, please.” You stick out your tongue and look up at him, and that’s what does him in. The fucking love in your eyes.

Tommy cums hard, stroking his cock over top of you. Sticky, white ropes of his release coat your face, leaving splotches on your cheeks, your chin, down your chest. It’s disgusting. Easily the worst thing he’s ever done in all his life.

But when he’s finished and his cock begins to soften, you swipe the mess off your chin and push it onto your tongue and moan. Like it’s everything you’ve ever wanted. And any remorse he once had vanishes into thin air because how can he be sorry when you look so happy?

You giggle and say, “Guess I got that pearl necklace after all,” and Tommy has to look away to keep from laughing too hard.

He cleans you up with a hand towel and water from the kitchen sink, shoulders a little lighter. And once you’ve got his borrowed clothes back on, Tommy watches with reverence as you move around his kitchen as if you belong in it.

You open the freezer and go right for the half empty carton of mint chip ice cream. It’s your first choice. Not expired eggs or stale cereal.

Seeing it gives him a flicker of false hope.

Because he knows he can’t be what you need forever. Knows he won’t keep you in the end, knows that whatever this is isn’t sustainable. But maybe he can just…keep you happy to the best of his ability. Just for now.

You only grab one spoon but offer him the first bite. “Mint chip is the best flavor by a fucking mile,” you say. “And anyone who says otherwise is delusional.”

“Keep that up when Sarah finds out it’s your favorite,” Tommy insists. “Cause she’ll fuckin’ tear you apart. Believe me, I know from experience.”

Laughter falls from your lips when he hands you the spoon. “Oh, I know. Was a victim of her chocolate chip cookie dough defense monologue, too.”

Tommy’s phone rings on the kitchen counter, and he swallows hard when he sees Joel’s name flash across the screen. When he answers, there’s a trace of alarm in Joel’s voice as he asks if he’s seen you. “Just a little concerned is all. Figured her phone’s dead or somethin’ but…haven’t heard back since last night. Just wanted to make sure she got somewhere safe.”

He’s never lied to Joel in all his life, and Tommy knows he would sense it the minute he tried. So he tells as much of the truth as he can. “Yeah, she uh…called me early this morning. Picked her up from that bar an’ let her crash on the couch. I’ll be bringin’ her home in a minute.”

You gather your things, and Tommy tries not to let that sliver of emptiness trickle in too fast. You’re still here, still with him, and this moment still belongs to you even at its close.

Like always, you sense his gloom before it’s even fully hit. And when he pulls into Joel’s driveway, you thread your fingers through his and say, “Stay for dinner. I miss you already.”

Tommy knows he shouldn’t. Knows that feeling lightheaded just from your words alone is a real problem for him.

But he’s never been good at telling you no.

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eureka-its-zico · 3 months ago

Text

Residuals Pt. 4

Ongoing Series

Synopsis: You and Robby spent seven long years together until the day it ended. You’ve done your best to create space; to become invisible. You can’t miss what you don’t see. Unfortunately, the universe (Gloria and the Board of Directors) seemed to have missed the memo.

Pairing: Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch x Reader

Genre: Established previous relationship, slight age gap (by about 15 years give or take), a little bit of tension mixed in with a little bit of hate yearning, cause she’s a saucy angsty fic ok

A/N: First, I read an article on burns to try and make this as accurate as possible, (article here by the NIH) but it’s still not terribly accurate. So, please, I tried lol. Secondly, I’m still screaming at the amount of love you guys have shown this series. Truly, I appreciate it more than y’all know. Thirdly, enter in a little extra dash of drama by Gloria (who redeemed herself in ep.12 but we ain’t there yet) and ya girl is just having a rough-ass day. Fourthly, yeah…she’s a thick chapter. Hopefully, it's still good because I’ve edited it as much as I can. As always, I hope you all enjoy. Thank you for the support and for being here. Much Love, Jenn

Warnings: Mentions of death, language

Words: 10k +

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Whitaker proved to be an adept student. He followed directions well and answered whatever questions you threw his way about proper wound care at home and possible infection risks around the burned areas. When you’d finished with the first patient, you ensured he knew to return to the emergency room immediately if they experienced any new or persistent discomfort, like pain or tenderness in the area, increased warmth, discoloration, or advanced swelling.

“If the infection is invasive and takes hold of the wound, what is the main course of treatment, Dr. Whitaker?”

“We would contact surgery.”

“Correct. Why?”

“The need for surgery would be based on the high concentration of the bacteria levels found present in the wound.”

“We’d check for signs of possible sepsis and a full check-up to narrow down if it's gram-negative or positive bacteria, which tells us further about our treatment plan. What is the chief cause of burn wound infections?”

“Staphylococcus Aureus - MRSA.”

“How would we verify the patient had MRSA or any other type of possible bacterial infection?”

“By taking a sample from the area for testing -“

“You guys aren’t about to cut me up or anything, are you?”

The sudden input from the patient caused a nervous tick from Whitaker. It halted his hands from finishing the last few loops around with the gauze. The patients' eyes darted nervously from you to Whitaker and back again. You gave your best reassuring smile while making sure the dressing was secured on his chest and shoulder.

“Well, Kyle, the faster we get you out of here, you take the antibiotics I prescribe you, and make sure you keep your burns dressed and away from exposure to possible germs, then no. We won’t be ‘cutting you up’ today.”

“Okay. Cool. Because that sounds really uncool.”

Dilaudid truly did wonders for conversations. You’d have to make sure the discharge papers were clear on his care and warning signs to look out for. Plus, add extra emphasis on trying to make sure not to share any items in the frat house bathroom.

In truth, it wasn’t him, but his fellow frat boy neighbor in four that had you worried. So far, he showed no obvious signs of infection, but once the adrenaline of the moment wore off he noticeably seemed to slip into shock at having half his face, eyelashes, and eyebrow singed off. Not enough shock, however, to keep from asking if he’d make a handsome Harvey Dent for Halloween.

The burns to his neck and chest indicate to you he was closer to the fire pit than his buddy Whitaker currently patched up. You’d ordered blood work, x-rays, and a culture swab on two-face and his friend just to rule out any surprises.

You did your full assessment, asked questions, and directed Whitaker the best you could. You wanted to be the good mentor like Adamson and Singh had been for you. A good mentor like Robby was too. You would never admit it out loud but a small piece of you wanted Robby to see how capable you were. A silent bid to prove he could trust you with his interns and medical students. Between Robby, Abbot, and the previous attendings you knew you could teach.

It wasn’t a hidden thing that you’d both meet here during your residency. Yes, it was Adamson’s circus, but Robby thrived under Adamson’s direction and the insanity the Pitt offered. He was funny, charismatic, incredibly smart, and showed a level of empathy that bordered on worrisome at times. A tidal wave of grief encapsulated him and carried him under if he wasn’t careful. Robby was exactly the physician any patient should want taking care of them when they arrived in the ED.

And hell, you weren’t blind. Anyone with eyes could see that Robby was handsome. Painstakingly, stupidly, egregiously, fucking handsome. It was fucking criminal.

Robby taught you so much in the time you’d spent here and you knew he probably still could but that would mean being around him. The two of you standing closer than you’d been in years was proving to be a dangerous thing. He’d fallen back into the habit of stealing touches and you’d fallen back into the habit of shamelessly teasing him with things he’d usually make you pay for later trapped between his body and whatever surface in your house.

It was a dangerous game neither of you realized you were playing, and both of you were losing fast. Instead of having your focus one hundred percent on the patients and being back in the ED for the first time in years, your focus repeatedly returned where it shouldn’t. At first, you could lie to yourself and say you were simply scanning the hallways and nursing stations to make sure you didn’t see him. Of course, that’s what you wanted to believe; to coast through this shift without any additional emotional trauma following you home.

It was fucking impossible.

You could continue to lie to yourself all you wanted, but the truth was blatantly clear. Your eyes didn’t comb over the hallways and desks in hopes of not finding him. You didn’t quickly peer into rooms in anticipation that he wouldn’t be in one. You wanted to see him just as much as you denied that you didn’t.

The day you left, you made sure to do it while Robby was working because you knew, that if he’d been home and asked you to stay, you would’ve. And if he didn’t fight for you - never uttered a singular word of pleading to keep you from leaving, you weren’t sure you could survive it.

So now you found yourself hopelessly looking for him in all the places you swore you’d never go again. You may have chosen to leave, but it never meant you stopped loving him. The fact you were still in love with him made seeing the lost look in his eyes sting harder. You watched as he spoke to the parents of the kid who overdosed with no possible hope of waking up again, and you wanted to go to him. It was the shattering look of grief that made you forget how to move. Robby knew what was coming better than anyone else did.

How many times was Robby the one in charge of giving the heartbreaking news that loved ones weren’t coming home? Shouldering the burden of listening to the breakdown of their world and being the pillar of strength and comfort while families struggled to rearrange?

You hadn’t realized the black hole of anxiety was leading you down a rabbit hole until the sound of Whitaker calling out, “Dr. Fullerton,” at your side left you practically jumping out of your skin.

Shit. How long had you been zoned out? Hopefully, you hadn’t said anything weird. Or incriminating.

“Sorry,” he swiftly followed up. “I was trying to ask where we were off to next, but, uh, you seemed a little…preoccupied.”

“Oh, yeah, no sorry. You can go back to the red zone. I’m just going to help McKay up in triage.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“What? No, not at all. You’ll have more of a chance to learn with Langdon and Collins.” What you actually meant was to see more if that was what he was into. “Also, maybe check on your last patient I pulled you away from earlier.”

“Oh, yeah, of course.” You watched him take your advice and, in real time, get ready to dispute it. “Why am I checking back in with Mr. Milton?”

What should you tell him? In the Pitt, it was easy to be thrown from one patient to the next - forgetting their faces and names as the minutes blurred into hours. Easy to forget they were waiting on test results that needed to be read by you and needed a treatment plan discussed and planned by you. Major issues could present as something small, something easily missable until further testing exposed the truth of the situation. If you went just the smallest amount of time without checking the results, without popping your head in for a visual, well, it wasn’t hard to imagine how sometimes those major issues finally presented themselves and everything got much, much worse.

“Look, Whitaker. As much as the powers constantly stress about getting people in and out quickly like this is a drive-thru, we have an obligation to each patient to give them the best care we can. It means staying on top of orders and checking in regularly. Trust me, Whitaker, things can change quickly down here.”

“Okay, yeah. That makes perfect sense. Thanks, Dr. Fullerton.”

“You bet. See you around, Whitaker.”

He gave you an awkward wave and didn’t move right away. It wasn’t until you turned away from him that you heard him shuffle on his feet. A part of you was curious if you glanced behind you he’d still be standing there, deciding where to go.

All that mattered to you was that you currently needed a new patient. It didn’t matter what the chief complaint was. Ideally, for the all-seeing eye of admin, quick and easy ones would look better. At this rate, you were positive your Press Ganey score was dipping. You were seeing patients at the speed of an R3; two patients per hour and they were after fast and loose results. But you wanted something with the capability to keep you occupied for hours. Preferably something that would require so much of your attention it would force you out of your head.

Yeah, that would be good. It was too damn early still to be spiraling into a midlife crisis just because you had to work with your ex. An ex, you realized, who was wearing the damn navy blue hoodie you’d bought him on his last fishing trip to Canonsburg.

No. No. Nope. You weren’t supposed to be thinking about him or stupid hoodies or the gold chain of his necklace that used to drag over your collarbone. How your fingers curled around the thin chain, using it like a lead, to bring him down on top of you on the couch. Absolutely not - you were at work and he was your ex. He was your ex and you shouldn’t fucking care how you could still tell after all these months he was sleeping like shit.

You were almost back to Dana’s station, the monitor looming overhead like a beacon to salvation when you noticed Whitaker walking in tandem beside you. You cocked a brow in question that Whitaker rushed to answer.

“The board is this way, so…”

Right. You knew that.

“I was trying to talk to you but I think you were in deep thought or something. Again.”

Or something. God. That was twice. Twice your head was everywhere else but where it needed to be, which was at work. You should’ve fought harder when Gloria came to reassign you, but none of this should’ve mattered.

You were a damn good doctor. You’d trained under the best, learned from the best, and kept progressively learning and didn’t stop. You spent years of your life on this because helping people was your passion. It shouldn’t matter where you were placed if you were down here to help for days, months, or years.

Yet, in the matter of an hour, your mind waded into memories that were better off left for dead with your eyes searching for someone you shouldn’t.

You didn’t know how to answer him. “Sorry, I should remember where everything is but find myself stuck daydreaming about the past and looking for signs where I shouldn’t and sexually fantasizing about your attending”, didn’t seem appropriate to tell a med student. So, you ended with a weak, “Sorry about that,” which passed for understanding. It made you feel like an ass, but you didn’t trust yourself to speak.

You came to a stop just a few feet from Dana’s desk. Her back turned to you as she went through folders preparing patient's charts for transfer upstairs. Her eyes shifted up at the board and over to a newer resident you hadn’t met yet.

Her gaze was fixed on the monitor; eyes scanning rapidly down the chart as if there was a code that needed cracking. You knew that look. It was a shared one you’d no doubt mirrored only an hour ago.

“What do you need, Fullerton?”

Your head swiveled back to Dana and found her now facing you, her glasses removed, and waiting for your answer.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Are you kidding?” The question fell out of her in a chuckle. “You’re the only one I know who goes around taping on every damn surface when they’re thinking. You act like my five-year-old grandson, just less noisy. Barely.”

“That’s offensive,” you pointed out.

“For who? You or my grandson.”

You felt the first crack in your defenses tug at the corners of your mouth. If you weren’t careful, Dana’s whip-smart comments were going to make you fold back into a routine you hadn’t been a part of in a while. It wasn’t just you who was slipping at this point, and you clocked the moment Dana began to realize it too.

She was supposed to be upset with you - grumpy, mean remarks only. You were supposed to take them and dish them back so you could comfortably stay in your bubbles of denial and anger. The denial of what, exactly, was achingly easy to see.

You both missed each other. More than either of you were willing to admit.

Your reply sat cocked and loaded on your tongue when you remembered what transpired half an hour before. As much as you missed one another, you had to be careful with what you shared around her. It was obvious, whatever the ‘It’ may be, Robby would magically seem to find out.

“Any quick ones up here? It’s only 8:30, and Robby’s already on my case for being too slow. I can usually at least make it to lunch before he starts hounding me.”

Your attention swiveled back towards the resident. Her gaze fixed on the board before glancing between Dana and you. Hopefully, her question wasn’t meant for you to answer. You weren’t very good at picking off the board either.

“Cut him a little slack today, ok? It’s the anniversary of Dr. Adamson’s death.”

Of course, Dana would cover for him. Intercept all incoming rapports of Robby being prickly and sometimes downright mean to bury them under the rug of understanding.

Yes, it was the anniversary of Adamson’s death. It always would be. Grief wasn’t easy. It was messy and unrelenting in the moments it chose for sights, smells, and touch to materialize memories that recalled moments you wouldn’t get the chance to share with them again. A constant reminder of all that we lost. Time didn’t seal up that cavern their loss created; it just became more manageable over time.

Robby never coped. Never allowed himself to grieve, heal, and thrive in the good memories he did have. The doubts and guilt haunted him every day in every step, every decision, he made. He housed it inside him like a ghoul in a cemetery feasting on the remains of who he was before Adamson’s death - before the pandemic.

“That’s sad. But it’s still no reason to take it out on me. I’m just saying.”

You liked her. She got it. You wanted to properly introduce yourself. By the look on Dana’s face, you need to do it quickly before she breaks out into a lecture. Luck wasn’t on your side because Whitaker beat you to the punch.

You didn’t want to eavesdrop on their conversation but you also didn’t want to go back to having a conversation with Dana, either. It left you the only option of staring back up at the beloved board. You’d just decided on 7 North when Dr. Collins walked by, her hands digging in the glovebox on the wall to retrieve a pair. Her eyes were on Whitaker and yours were on her.

It wasn’t a secret that Robby and Heather had dated. Well, maybe to those in the Pitt, and not including Perlah or Princess because they suspiciously seemed to be psychic. Or just really loved to gossip. No, you’d learned about them when a friend spotted Robby and Heather out on a date. You’d only assumed it was a date because she repeatedly kept using the word cozy.

And why should you have cared? It’d been almost a year since you’d left. You chose to leave and that meant making him free to date and find new love or whatever. You didn’t have a right to lay claim to him just because he’d been yours. And Heather? She was gorgeous. She was fucking brilliant, with a beautiful smile, and it suddenly made you feel uncharacteristically subconscious.

Whether it’d been a date or they just seemed cozy (it was a damn date) you shouldn’t have felt jealous. You were fine. It was perfectly fine and healthy for people to seek out relationships and companionship. It was normal and you were fine. You weren’t any saint either. You’d dated someone briefly and, if you were honest with yourself, you could’ve stayed in that relationship. It was nice and easy. Simple. But you didn’t love him and you weren’t sure if you ever could.

The problem of loving Robby - still being in love with Robby - was that he stood witness to your most intimate memories of love. There were stories woven into your bones that bore witness to the man he was and how he loved you. They were told in joy and tragedy, laughter and sadness. When Nathan kissed you, the earth kept spinning. He didn’t taste of bourbon or smell of leather and sandalwood. He didn’t spend time in the backyard sanding down tables or staining decks. He didn’t wear glasses that somehow slid minute by minute inch down his nose until he subconsciously tilted his head back to see.

In the end, you left because of one glaring fact: Nathan would never be - could never be - Robby.

Dr. Collins told Whitaker to come with her for a teaching experience - an unconscious unhoused man was being brought in. Whitaker quickly moved to follow her lead in grabbing a pair of gloves just in time for the paramedics to wheel in the gurney. Said man was very much unconscious and appeared very much unhoused.

Your time playing the gawking bystander had come to an end and you needed to get to 7 North. You pushed away from the counter when you were stopped by the resident from earlier barreling into your line of sight.

“Dr. Fullerton? I’m Dr. Samira Mohan - R3. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Dr. Mohan stuck out her hand and you accepted it warmly. Besides the obvious annoyance from Robby hounding her existence, it seemed Dr. Mohan was friendly. She held a kind air about her that reminded you of Robby - only now that kindness held an edge of grumpiness because his empathy was playing an overwhelming game. By the sleepless bags under his eyes, you could tell he was losing.

You wanted to point the probability of this out to her, maybe offer her a consultation for Robby’s apparent hard-ass demeanor, but quickly shoved it off.

“It’s nice to meet you, as well, Dr. Mohan.”

“Would it be okay if I could confer with you later?” Dr. Mohan’s eyes shifted to where Dana stood only inches away. “In private?”

You weren’t sure if you should be flattered or wanting to run for the hills. Dana’s eyes practically bore into the back of your head, waiting to hear your answer. You knew no matter what you chose to say this was getting back to Robby.

Fuck it.

“Of course, Dr. Mohan. I’ll come and find you after my next patient.”

“Thank you. I look forward to speaking with you.”

She cut a cautious glance over her shoulder and turned on her heel towards the south hallway. It must have been nice to make an easy exit. It was definitely something you were down to try but Dana stood closer to the counter, her glasses down the bridge of her nose, and accused you with a look of being a troublemaker. Your only defense was a shrug.

“What?”

“What the hell was that about?”

Your brows converged together as you shrugged again.

“How am I supposed to know, Dana? I haven’t even talked to her yet.”

“Talked to who about what?”

Fucking kill me.

What was with today? Were you unknowingly walking around with a ‘Kick Me,’ sign written by life? You’d gone over two years without ever running into Robby and within an hour in a half, you couldn’t seem to avoid him.

And why was he standing so fucking close again?

You didn’t need to glance over to your left to know he was close. The heat of his body, the nudge of his elbow against your arm informed you at breakneck speed you were close. Too fucking close, Michael.

“Mohan seems to want to speak with Fullerton. In private.”

“You couldn’t just wait for me to answer, Dana?”

The words rose up your throat like bile, acidic with its irritation. You couldn’t help it. You didn’t need this shit. You didn’t know what Dr. Mohan wanted but the cryptic way she asked wasn’t doing you any favors. It was at this moment you finally chose to look in Robby’s direction. He was leaning into his elbow that rested on the counter. Even with his body slightly slouched the height difference was substantial causing you to crane to look up at him.

The problem with this? He was close enough that your temporal lobe was overloaded with thousands of memories of his thumb gliding across your lips. Large hands taking hold of your neck and tilting you back at just the right angle for his lips to claim yours.

When you were no longer held hostage to the sensory manipulation your brain concocted, you prayed to whoever was listening that you didn’t look as lovestruck as you felt. By the dark glint in Robby’s eyes, you were doing a piss poor job at being Switzerland.

“What? So you can conveniently disappear by the end of the shift without any context or explanation? No, thanks. Been there. Done that. Not a fan of the outcome.”

“This bipolar verbal assault is getting real tiring, Dana,” you huffed.

“Alright. Alright, enough!” Robby cut in. “I expect this behavior from patients, not my staff. Now, Dr. Fullerton, what did Dr. Mohan want to discuss with you?”

“Jesus Christ,” you sighed, “I have no fucking clue, okay? She just asked if she could speak in private and seeing as how she did ask for it to be private, I don’t see why you need to know.”

“Ugh,” a dry huff of what might have passed for a laugh - a cough maybe? - exited his lips. His brow was drawn tight while he looked at you. No doubt wondering where you’d gained the audacity. “Because this is my emergency department. I’m in charge of the entire thing and I think I need to be aware of what is going on with my staff.”

“Well, maybe if you stopped acting like an ass to said staff they wouldn’t be seeking outside counsel.”

A mirthless laugh exploded from between his lips. The sound carried part of the disbelief his eyes showed while he took you in. He was no longer leaning against the counter but had his arms crossed against his chest. You weren’t sure if he was looking at you like he wanted to throttle you or found you unbelievable. Neither option would make you a winner if you guessed right.

“You gotta be fucking kidding me,” he grumbled under his breath. “Are you a fucking counselor all of a sudden?”

“And what if I was? I would ask if you’d require my services, but we both know you’re allergic to seeking help.”

You should’ve stopped while you were ahead. You were bringing up personal shit - inviting a possible fucking mess to happen - and yet you couldn’t help yourself. You kept poking the proverbial bear and damn it, you weren’t exactly sure you felt bad about doing it. Were you so desperate for a reaction from him - after all this time? What the hell was it going to prove?

You watched the storm of emotions roll in. The deep set of his forehead and the dark clouds that zapped all residual warmth from his eyes. You weren’t sure if Robby was even aware he’d taken a step towards you, jaw flexing, and body slowly seeping into whatever free space you had left.

Whatever words he would’ve said died in the aftermath of hearing shouts a few rooms down. It jarred you both out of your staring contest and sent him into action. One minute he was standing in front of you, the next, he was running to see what the commotion was.

The second Robby was removed from your space, you took a deep breath in. Why did it feel like you were in a constant state of fight or flight? Your answer came in a set of blue eyes who homed in on you the moment Robby was gone.

“When’s your next smoke break?”

“Who says I still smoke?”

“Dana, be serious. The day you quit smoking is the day hell freezes over. So - when?”

She regarded you for a moment. The scale in her mind no doubt weighed if this was going to be worth her time or possibly ruining her nicotine break.

“I usually take it around 9:30. Why? You suddenly have the urge to open up?”

“Do you want to talk or not?.”

She could bitch, make jokes, and moan and groan all she wanted. You knew offering up a chance to talk would be all Dana would need to agree. Was it something you honestly wanted to do? Not really. Were you willing to do it so that at least you had one less person hounding you the rest of your shift?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

“Ah, what the hell. I’ll see you on break kid.”

A sigh of relief eased through you and you prayed Dana hadn’t noticed. You didn’t think she’d agree but, now that she had, you had a tiny ounce of hope this day wasn’t going to be so much of a shit show.

“What was all that screaming about?”

You knew the question wasn’t directed at you. Robby must have made his return and the soft laughter wasn’t what you expected to hear.

“We seem to have involuntarily just admitted rats,” he replied.

“You’re kidding?” Dana scoffed.

“If only I was. Whitaker was saying it was about three or four of them.”

“And on that note,” you drummed your hands on the counter, “I am going to 7 North.”

It wasn’t until you went to take a step forward you noticed the weight on your left foot. A weight that felt like something was sitting directly on it. You looked down just in time to watch a rat - a damn rat - scurry off your foot to run around the edge of the nursing station.

What you did next wasn’t your proudest moment. You even used to pride yourself on being rational when it came to rodents. The shout that clawed its way from the depths of your stomach proved you wrong at lightning speed.

You felt your body jump backward and collide with Robby. His hands were on your hips to steady you. You were bouncing back and forth on your heels, eyes scanning the area to make sure no further surprises snuck up on you. Your arms were bunched up at your sides and you were trying to talk yourself down from sweeping the remaining area with your leg. Just for good measure.

It was the feeling of his hands on your waist, the soft sound of his chuckle touching your hair that brought you careening back down to earth. Robby was close. Not like last time when your arms touched - closer than when he followed behind you into Allan's room. Even through your scrubs, you could feel the scorching heat of his palms spreading like wildfire through the fabric that sent your heart racing.

He should’ve let go by now. The threat of you possibly knocking him over or you both tripping and falling was over. He could let go. He could just let go, but Robby’s hands were holding you firmly in place with neither of you willing to move. You refused to look behind you - afraid of what he might see if you did.

You were afraid of what you might see if you dared to look too.

Slowly, you took a step forward, disengaging his hands from you. The sensation of loss was instant and you almost stepped back into him. Your body and mind were at war between desire and being rational. Fuck being rational. There was nothing rational about the way your heart brutalized your ribs. The need to ask stupid fucking questions that no longer mattered. The consuming way your body craved for him to wrap his large hand around your throat, whispering words of filth into your ear.

You had to get away before you made a mistake.

“Sorry about that. I’m going to just, ugh, go do my rounds now.”

You didn’t turn around while you softly spoke. You may have been delusional at times, but you weren’t crazy. If you looked back and Robby’s eyes gave away any hint of emotion - anything that sparked that dying ember of hope inside you - you would crumble.

You should’ve fought harder to stay upstairs in family medicine or threatened Gloria with firing you. You were safer there. Now, you were rushing off to remember what patient room you were going to with Robby’s cologne clinging to your skin.

You were a pain in the ass. But you were his pain in the ass.

Used to be, his mind reminded him.

Could still be, came his stupid heart's reply.

Robby used to love it when you challenged him; called him out on his bullshit. You weren’t afraid to stand in the current of his disapproval or to openly have a debate, especially when you could see he was missing something. You challenged each other to be open-minded to change, because it happened so fast, and to accept that being wrong wasn’t failure but a moment to grow and learn.

When you both stopped being open with one another, and being honest with yourselves, was when the challenging energy took a turn. Everything felt like a confrontation. Even in moments when the constructive criticism came from colleagues - from you - it felt like an attack he had to defend against.

Robby saw it in you too. The small hints of walls slowly being built to keep the inquiries at bay. When your responses become short and brief or not at all.

Now, before nine o’clock, you were in the Pitt not only wreaking havoc on his already fragile mental state but accusing him of…what? When you’d thrown the counselor's comment at him, Robby wanted to rage. How many times was it the main part of your arguments near the end of your relationship that he needed to talk to somebody? Anybody. How many times did he deny it?

You’d thrown it in from the sidelines and it jarred him so much, Robby felt disoriented. For the briefest moment, Robby forgot that you were no longer together. His mind reflexively thought you were arguing about the same old tired thing. He’d taken a step toward you and wanted to ask, “And what about you?”

You who wasn’t as honest and open with yourself just like him. There were things left unsaid between the two of you - the things that eventually buried the hatchet too far in to safely remove.

What about all the times he’d found you in the bathroom sitting against the tub crying in the middle of the night? Your panic attacks and OCD tendencies that started after…

Every time Robby reached out to be there for you, your response was always the same.

“It’s nothing, Michael.” “I’m fine.” “I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

Sure, Robby wasn’t open and was guarded in his own right but neither were you. Where he used to read the transcript of your emotions so delicately on your face, you’d closed yourself off to him and he no longer knew how to get in.

An angry shout from down the South hallway thankfully tore his attention back to reality. His feet were already moving him robotically forward where he could see Olson entering Central 15.

“Whoa, whoa what is going on?”

Robby directed the question specifically to one of his many team members in the room. Thankfully, Kiara started to explain or, more appropriately attempted to explain but he couldn’t fucking think through all the damn shouting.

“Ok, ok, okay ENOUGH!” Robby couldn’t believe he was already raising his voice. Yelling at grown-ass adults like they were children. “This is a hospital. This isn’t ‘ The Jerry Springer Show’.” Although it was really, really starting to fucking feel like it with the morning he was having. “Ma’am, nobody’s trying to take your child. So why don’t you stay here with him while your husband talks to our social worker outside and straightens all this out?”

“Well, I don’t want him speaking for me and my son.”

It was clear by the wavering of her voice, that this was a tough spot for the mom to be in. Robby could sympathize but what he couldn’t sympathize with was starting a miniature war zone in one of his rooms.

“Well, it is either you or him. Your son is not leaving, but you can be escorted out and even arrested if you refuse to cooperate. Nobody wants that. So you tell us. What do you want to do?”

Robby knew the answer before she replied. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that this mother didn’t fiercely love her son. Whatever situation the husband did to get them in this position was unfortunate, but the only option they had now was to press forward.

“I’m staying with my son.”

“Ok, great. You do that. Are we all on the same page here?”

The last question he sent out was rhetorical. A feeler to see if anyone else was confused about what was about to happen and if further clarification was needed. God, Robby sincerely hoped it’d all been made crystal clear what the only two real options were; the only choice being to cooperate.

“You okay?”

Robby could see Langdon was shaken up. It could be a lot dealing with a combative patient - harder when it was a parent just trying to make the right choices for their child. You were always the best at coming in and soothing cases like this one. Somehow able to give relief and comfort while giving the most gut-wrenching news of a parent's life while calmly explaining the next steps. You were able to keep people from feeling lost in the bad news and prepare them for the onslaught of change.

Robby waited until Langdon confirmed he and Dr. King were good before he walked out of the room. Regarding parents with kids, Robby almost forgot Teresa asked to speak with him about David.

Central 12 was just a few steps away from Langdon’s patient. It was close to being comfortable but too close to give Robby time to think. He felt out of his element here because he was running out of options. He wanted to help Teresa, because, while she did this to help her son, she knowingly put her own life at risk to get him the help he needed.

But isn’t that what parents did?

At times, they blindly waded into the fire if it meant that their child would be safe.

All Robby could do was watch and listen while he told her about how he left. While he followed up her questions with his own and did his best to try and ward off the sick feeling burying itself inside his gut.

“Do you think David would hurt anyone?”

Even allowing the question to come out of his mouth made a rush of nausea swell back behind his tongue. He didn’t want to ask it. Nobody wants to ask any parent if they think their child - a fucking child - could be capable of harming another human being.

Robby carried his thoughts on the reasons why young men are more prone to violence these days. With idiotic podcast hosts spewing their hatred for women who were goal-oriented and not focused on babying them like their mothers. Boys who were told to bottle up their emotions: “Don’t share your feelings. Don’t get caught crying,” unless you want to be told that you were weak. There was so much bullshit in the world for kids to have to contend with these days that Robby didn’t find it surprising a lot of them were overloaded - overwhelmed by a constant flurry from the world to be someone different than who they are.

Robby had plenty of talks with Jake about these things. He found it easy to lean into him with the both of them connecting during shared trips and quiet nights at the house. Robby made sure his stepson knew that Robby would always be a safe place for him to land. When the world got too crazy and if he couldn’t tell his mom Janey, Robby would be there.

Because that’s what parents do - willingly walk through fire if it meant their kid would be okay.

“The nasal swab came back negative for COVID, RSV, and Flu - which is a good thing.”

“Then what’s wrong? What about her eyes?”

The her in question was a three-year-old named Jasmine who was vocally letting you both know that she was not in a good mood, which was very fair. Nobody liked being sick. The only issue with her actively voicing her bad mood was that any high octave screams were soon followed up by a violent cough.

The moment you stepped inside the room you’d been worried about RSV, especially because of her age. Lungs sounded clear with slight wheezing indicated in the upper left lobe. Thankfully, all major possible viruses came back negative. The unfortunate thing was that this specific viral infection just meant mom was going to have to ride it out.

“It’s still a viral infection. The conjunctivitis, since it started coming from both eyes this morning, it’s from the infection and sinus blockage. The whites of her eyes aren’t red in any way. The best thing to do is apply a compress every few hours on the eyes to help with drainage, saline drops, or spray on the nose to help clear up the congestion and suction as often as you can. Over-the-counter cough medicine is fine unless you need a prescription?”

“No, no, it’s okay. We have some at home. So, she’s okay?”

“Yes, perfectly fine. I just recommend having her sleep elevated to help with drainage and if you have a humidifier, use it. Follow up with her pediatrician in two to three days or come back to the ER if any new or persistent symptoms occur.”

“Thank you so much, doctor.”

“You’re so welcome. Make sure to wait for a nurse before leaving. I hope you feel better, Jasmine.”

You gave them both a wave before exiting out of the quiet of the room and back into the noise. The nurse assigned to the room came over and held out a tablet and pen for you to take. Quickly, you scribbled a signature down, because doctors were notoriously known for sketchy penmanship, and began to walk towards a nursing station.

Technically, you did have a second option you could take before throwing yourself into the next patient room. Dr. Mohan asked to speak with you. She didn’t necessarily give a time or a preference. It was more focused on secrecy, which you found a little odd. This was Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center - it was a rare thing to have a private conversation here. You were curious to find out what it was Mohan wanted, a bigger part of you wasn’t ready for the headache of Robby undoubtedly finding out later. The worst option: is if you were the one who had to tell him to be the advocate for his resident.

The scent of his cologne still held tight to the fabric of your scrubs. Slowly, it was beginning to fade but if you leaned in close enough to your right shoulder you could almost get a hint of -

“Dr. Fullerton.”

You were a millisecond away from calling out, “I wasn’t doing anything!”. Was it too early in the shift to consider a name change?

Glancing over your shoulder, you find Gloria making her way towards you. Each step in your direction sent your fight or flight raging back into gear because fuck no. Between Gloria and Robby, the two of them were about to have you so damn stressed out there was a high chance for premature balding to occur.

“Oh no. I’ve had enough surprises from you today.”

“I just wanted to have a chat - “

“And definitely enough of those,” you shot back.

You weren’t exactly sure why you kept moving. If previous experiences told you anything, it was that she would follow you until you stopped on your own or she got you into a corner. At least stopping to face her was a choice compared to being cornered with no way out.

Resigning to your fate, you took in a big meditative breath through your nose and turned around.

“What can I help you with, Gloria?”

Your voice was so monotone you sounded like a robot.

“I’m glad you’ve decided to stop running and actually talk to me like an adult.”

“I’m sorry, Gloria. You brought me down here to assist in decreasing triage wait times and that is what I am doing. Stopping to have a chat with you will reflect poorly on my scores.”

“Cute,” She bit back. The smile on her face was too harsh to be genuine. “Well, it’s funny you mention scores. I’ve been keeping an eye on the numbers and the system is showing barely any signs of process or improvement. Can you explain why that is?”

The simplest answer you could’ve given her came with one name, one word, and one human being. Robby. Robby was your fucking problem; the bane of your existence.

Gloria shoved you down here not knowing all the variables that could hinder productivity. There were moments of clarity where your brilliance shined through and in a matter of seconds it evaporated again. Realistically, it was your fault. Your inability to control your stupid fucking emotions - you didn’t need to react every time you saw him.

How could you not react when Robby did exactly the same?

You weren’t stupid. You’d spent years, months, days, and hours with him. Every minute is accounted for in conversations and touch. It wasn’t insanity (although the jury was still out on that one) that made you believe - to fucking notice - Robby was affected too.

But no way in hell were you divulging any of your innermost thought demons to Gloria.

“Look around, Gloria,” you said, arms opening up to motion around the Central rooms. “There are no beds available. You ask for solid care, for good patient satisfaction scores and that requires multiple factors. To be a good doctor you have to listen to the patient's chief complaint that they’ve been waiting almost eight hours to tell you.”

“I am well aware of the current wait times in triage, Dr. Fullerton.”

“Oh, that’s awesome. Problem solved then because once we assess them and decide they need monitoring and tests to ascertain the issue, it’s only another three to six-hour wait. Maybe longer if it’s life-threatening. Not to mention if any trauma patients come rolling through the red zone adding another twenty-five to fifty minutes on their time.”

“I don’t see what any of this has to do with not having any beds. Not every situation in triage necessarily requires a bed to be seen.”

“Gloria, your precious Press Ganey scores are going to stay low if a patient doesn’t get back to a room. You can make beds available by sending people upstairs or how about removing the deceased guy in nineteen who’s been posted here since before I arrived?”

“Robby is in charge of contacting the coroner's office about picking up the deceased.”

“And yet, the body is still here,” you pondered. “I know Robby, Gloria. He wouldn’t knowingly leave someone’s loved one here if it didn’t mean the coroner is backed up, which means our morgue must house him until then. And why are you complaining to me like I'm attending here? Robby is the attending - “

“I’m well aware of that - “

“You keep saying you’re well aware, Gloria but the fact is it feels like you’re not. It’s easy to come down here making demands but the reality is without the proper staffing and moving boarders out of the emergency department to free up space the numbers will never fucking change. Sending one doctor down here isn’t going to change shit.”

“Are you just about done, Dr. Fullerton?” She did a dramatic pause to allow you time to cut in. “The board and its administration are well aware of the pressures that staff face down here in the emergency department - that all hospitals are currently facing shortages. The fact of the matter is studies show close to seventy-five percent of ER visits are non-life threatening, which means more than half of those patients could be fairly seen in triage without needing a room.”

You could feel your mouth opening; primed for a response that Gloria was not going to let you detonate. Her hand waved to warn you not to cut her off.

“I don't want to hear any more about boarding or staffing. I want to see the results, Dr. Fullerton. It’s already bad enough that there are rats inside.”

“To be fair, they piggybacked on an unconscious unhoused man, so,” you shrugged. If looks could kill, you’d have dropped dead right then and there. “Not helpful?”

“No. Not helpful,” she confirmed. “I do, however, have a proposition for you.”

You sucked in a sharp breath through your teeth. The earlier annoyance at seeing Gloria twice in less than two hours of your shift changed course. Dread ice cold and paralyzing coiled in the pit of your stomach. You didn’t like where this was going.

“Is there a pass option?”

“This is an offer from myself and the administration. So, no, there isn’t a ‘pass option.’ How would you like to be considered for an attending position?”

“No.”

The word barreled out of you without thinking. You didn’t need to think about this proposition Gloria, the administration, or whoever was trying to dangle in front of you. It was any doctor's dream to become an attending at a facility - it made you the doctor.

You didn’t want it like this.

“You didn’t even hear the terms.”

“I don’t need to hear them to know that you’re trying to be sneaky.”

“Robby is failing to meet standards -“

“Robby is a fucking good physician.” You fumed. “He’s one of the best physicians in trauma medicine you have here outside of Abbot.”

“No one is disputing that, Dr. Fullerton. The board is open to having you both down here during the morning shift, maybe even making a swing shift for you to help between shifts.”

You raked your hands over your face scrubbing hard to try and cut off a mirthless laugh that came out in patches between your fingers.

“No - you want me to be a Judas. It’ll be a swing shift until you can get whatever data you need to confirm whatever fucked up plan you’re making.”

“Dr. Fullerton -“

“No!” You didn’t mean to shout the word at her. Or maybe you had. Whatever it was, it surprised you both. You should be quieter - don’t draw attention but your heart was thrashing wildly. Your hand swiped through the air to cut her off before she could attempt to continue. You didn’t want to fucking hear it. “Robby is a damn fine physician and to try and - I don’t fucking know, get rid of him because he doesn’t kiss the boards or your ass is fucking stupid. I don’t know half of what Robby or Abbot knows. I’m not them and it would be beyond idiotic to lose him.”

“Your opinion will be taken into consideration and I’ll dismiss your…outburst, for now, because of the current situation. But make no mistake, Dr. Fullerton this will move forward with, or without, you.”

You wondered if any natural disasters were named Gloria. It seemed possible since she came and created an instant upheaval of your day, completely devastating it in a matter of minutes and once she was done simply went about her day like nothing happened.

She left you to deal with the aftermath. The rushing thoughts with a million questions - thousands of things you should’ve said to defend Robby. There were dozens of ways you could prove her wrong about him - that he fucking cared about his patients and was such a damn good doctor, phenomenal at times, that to equate all that he was and all that he did down to a simple metric of numbers was fucking ridiculous.

All the sound in the room began to drown out around you. Somewhere in the background of the hum you heard a shout for help. It could be Code Blue. It could be anything. You tried to get your body to react, but the hurricane of anxiety was sweeping in fast and you were running out of air.

You needed to sit. You had to act normal because the last thing you needed was Princess or Dana or fucking anybody else coming over to speak with you. Your hands used the counter like a rope to pull you along to the nearest computer. You quickly sat down and swiped your credentials to enter the computer, quickly clicking on anything just to appear busy.

“How are you holding up today?”

The last person you expected to see at that very moment was Heather Collins. What did you expect? This was an emergency room and doctors worked inside of it. She offered up a close-lipped smile that matched the kindness in her eyes. She was genuinely wanting to know how you were doing and for the first time, you hated the question because you couldn’t answer it.

Not truthfully, anyway. Who was ever truthful in answering that specific question?

So, you painted on a grin that more than likely resembled a grimace and prayed you didn’t look as tired as you felt.

“It’s been…an adjustment.”

“What’s taking adjusting?”

Good god, this man was fucking everywhere.

Robby came into view as he moved across the station to get to the opposite computer. The question was thrown out carelessly; he didn’t expect a response. He was pulling out his glasses and sliding them over his nose, his full focus on the screen. Test results thankfully took priority over your response.

You were quickly forgotten by Collin’s who walked over to where Robby read the test results. She waited until he removed his glasses and stood to his full height.

“Please don’t tell me you are going to intubate that poor old man?”

“It’s what the family wants.”

“So what? They want to torture him?”

“I explained all that.”

It was painfully obvious this was a case you knew nothing about. By the sound of it, you were willing to bet five dollars that it was one of the elderly patients from a home who came in a little after 7:30 that morning. It meant it wasn’t your case. You didn’t need to know the information and you could continue counting down backward from ten while you reminded yourself that no, you weren’t Judas and -

“Dr. Fullerton, if a family came in -“

Fucking hell, you needed to stop zoning out. You brought your attention back to the two of them, wondering what you missed.

“You don’t need to ask her,” Robby interjected.

Collins continued like he’d never spoken.

“And they had durable power over an elderly family member who had a pre-existing DNR. His family wants to intubate. It’s not what he wants. Whose choice do you honor?”

“What are you doing?”

A singular brow of hers arched in defiance.

“Asking for a second opinion.”

“I didn’t ask for one.”

They continued to bicker about the decision Robby made to not fight for a dying man’s wishes. You would’ve told Collins to let it go because once Robby’s mind was made up, it was like talking to a wall. Maybe she already knew that.

God, what fucking twilight zone episode were you stuck in? You actively wanted the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Your eyes darted to the time on the bottom of the screen and you had to fight to keep your forehead from landing with a thud on the keyboard. It was only 9 o’clock. There were ten more hours of this day and you needed it to be over.

Robby released a sigh that reflected how exhausted you felt. It wasn’t a physical exhaustion but one of the soul; a weariness that vines grew thorns and were beginning to tear you slowly open. You could feel your legs wanting to shift out of the chair and go to him. The urge was so strong your hands scrunched into fists to keep from moving - to quell the urge because he wasn’t yours anymore and you weren’t his.

“Shit.”

“What?”

Robby’s best magic trick? Deflecting. Whenever he wanted the current conversation to end, and didn't like where it was heading, he diverted it completely into something else. Anything else that kept him from having to continue down a conversation he wanted no part of. You knew that trick all too well.

“I got to go tell those parents their 18-year-old son is brain-dead.”

“You want me to go with you?”

It should’ve been you offering to go with him. A comfort to the harbinger of bad news because it was never easy to give it. Never easy to stand in the storm of grief and simply be a bystander while their world ends in a matter of words.

What did it matter who went with him? Who offered? At the end of the day, a family was forever going to be encapsulated by a loss too many people unfortunately knew.

Vaguely, you caught the end of their argument. Robby wanted to perform an apnea test and a cerebral perfusion study. Dr. Collins didn’t agree. It offered the family false hope but Robby was right - maybe it did offer a false sense of hope, but with each test completed and results read off it was a graceful way to ease a family into acceptance. It gave them the time to process and grieve and come to the very heavy realization their son wouldn’t be going home with them.

“They need time to process before they can accept what’s happening.”

“You ever consider taking that advice? Physician, heal thyself.”

Dear floor, please fucking open up wide so you can just swan dive right on in. Thanks a bunch.

Heather knew. She fucking knew about the wall of grief - of acceptance - Robby himself was unable to accept. The King of dishing out advice left and right but unyielding in taking it. Suddenly, all the cool reserve of not caring about them dating evaporated in a crushing wave of heartbreak you shouldn’t have felt in the first place.

Did he tell her about you? Did he share with her about…about what happened? Was he able to open up to her in ways he stopped doing with you? Their relationship was gone, but the respect and care were still there.

The irritation came off him in waves. You should’ve told her Robby’s least favorite thing is being told to take his own advice. Or to heal for that matter. Oh, and to also maybe seek therapy. All three of those would turn his mood sour and aggravate him to peak levels at hyper speed.

He shoved his hands down into his hoodie. His head swiveling between Collins and probably anywhere else in the ED.

“Don’t you have patients?”

There it was. The dismissal. The, in not so many words, “I’m done talking to you about this and everything else,” so he could make a quick exit. The magician's last trick before his temper was lost.

Don’t look up. Do not look up. Don’t fucking do it.

You didn’t need to look up. There wasn’t any reason to do so. You weren’t on their radar the last half of their conversation. You were just a bystander to a miniature car crash. The issue with crashes? Everyone who drove by couldn’t stop themselves from looking.

The itch between your shoulder blades was your first warning sign. The weight of his gaze was bearing down on you. You didn’t have to react to it but it was a reflex to look up for him. To search for him in every crowded room and find yourself wishing he was there when he wasn’t.

Your eyes found he was still looking at you. An in-house debate flashed across his features. If it was whether or not to come to you, you hope he chose not to. You just need a few moments of space. It was too much. You’d run from him and now he was just here all the time and -

“Why are you looking at puppies? You getting a dog?”

“What?”

For the first time since you’d opened the computer, you realized whoever was on it last left it open to an ad for a puppy.

“Oh, no. This wasn’t me. Hey, earlier did someone shout a Code Blue?”

You could also perform your own magical change of subjects. Robby took a moment to answer before giving a curt nod.

“Whittaker’s patient that’d been placed in the hall. If you heard it, why didn’t you go assist? All hands on deck for a code, you know that.”

God, was he chastising you right now? A flood of irritation rippled over your skin. You wanted to snap at him. You weren’t a med student. But he was frustratingly right - you’d heard it and instead of running you’d kept yourself here.

And Whitaker. It was his first patient of the day. He’d been so excited that he’d done good. He’d gotten praise from Dr. Robby about his work up and Whitaker wouldn’t shut up about it. It meant something to him.

“I’ll go see if they need someone to switch.”

You went to get up but Robby was too close. If you got up from the chair you would bump straight into his chest.

“You okay?”

The sudden care behind the question jarred you. How did he expect you to answer? There was no way you could be honest with him - not at that second. He was supposed to go break the worst news a parent could ever receive and he was worried about you. He should be worried for himself. You could warn him about Gloria but what good would it do if he thought you might possibly be in on it with her? Your sudden reappearance, while inconvenient, hadn’t raised suspicion like an ulterior motive waited in the wings just yet.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. You?”

“Never better.”

His smile held every worn line of fatigue that signaled his lack of sleep. His attempt at strength in a moment he refused to seek outside help. You found the same words Dr. Collins asked moments before crawling their way up your throat before you swallowed them back down. He wouldn’t change his mind and agree just because it was you.

You wanted to be there because whether he voiced it or not, this kid whose family was seconds away from being told was gone wasn’t that much older than Jake. A single accident of taking non-prescribed Xanax ended his life. Jake was a good kid. You wanted to reach out and take his hand and tell him Jake would never - Jake was different.

Jake was still a kid.

Robby didn’t wait for you to reply before he headed towards the room. You kept telling yourself to get up and move. Go find Whitaker and the team performing cpr on his patient and do your part. Between everything that’s happened this morning: being forced down with Robby, seeing Robby, Dr. Mohan requesting to speak with you, Gloria’s ultimatum and now the news this young kid didn’t make it you were officially mentally exhausted.

You needed to move but by the time your legs finally lifted out of the seat, Robby told them. The mother’s wail of agony resounded through the room and rose in octaves. The soul-wrenching loss of her child, her baby, turned the Pitt into a mausoleum of mourning. Her cries followed you down the hallway until you reached the curtain where Whitaker and others were on their third round of Epi, and you could see the continued despair evident in the room.

It was barely 9 AM and you already wanted to fucking go home.

As always, thank you so much for reading! Reblogs and comments are always appreciated <3

Tag list: @whatdoesntkillyoumakesyoustrange @travelingmypassion @jupiter-sky @catsgoogander @rosiepoise88 @It-jakeseresin @blackpopcorn @celmentine111002 @dcgoddess

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starmapz · 3 months ago

Text

what you know - ch13: tribulations || r. sukuna

❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]

❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. minor injury. family trauma. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic attacks. mentions of difficulty eating. legal drama (likely with inaccuracies). tags will be updated as series continues.

❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.

❦ words ; 16.2k.

❦ a/n ; it's heeeere!! so before everyone reads i just wanna give a small update. chapter 13 and 14 were written all at once and ch14 should be ready in about a week. they were originally intended to be one chapter, but 36k words felt unreasonable for a single chapter LOL, so i've split them in two. they do read somewhat as a part 1 and part 2, so the second part of the legal battle will be out next week. as well, please note that the legal details are heavily based off of a mix of canadian and australian laws and processes, so it may not match up with your local laws. with that out of the way, enjoy!

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

The sound of your text chime has you cracking your eyes open before dawn even breaks. You hardly even recognize the sound, so accustomed to having your phone on vibrate. With a weak groan, you flip onto your side, peering at your phone.

It’s not even six in the morning yet, and you barely got home by midnight.

Your eyes slip down to the message previews, and you frown. Taking a moment to let your body adjust to being awake, you plop down on your mattress, draping your arm over your eyes. In hindsight, probably not the greatest idea as you jolt back awake when another text arrives.

Pulling your phone off the charger, you squint at the bright screen.

5:39 AM Kuna || yujis awake

5:39 AM Kuna || he keeps banging on their door but cho wont answer

5:52 AM Kuna || sorry

Dragging your hand over your face in an effort to wake up, you stare at the messages once more before typing your response.

5:54 AM You || Why are you sorry?

5:55 AM You || I’ll be there soon

His response comes fairly quickly in spite of the chaos you’re sure is taking place in his apartment.

5:59 AM Kuna || its early and shit

Pushing yourself out of bed to get ready, you find a small smile pulling at the corner of your lips.

6:01 AM You || I told you to text me, didn’t I?

6:02 AM Kuna || yeah

6:02 AM Kuna || thanks

That’s the last message you receive from him as you shower, put on a hardly noticeable amount of makeup, and throw on a comfy pink hoodie and leggings. If you could drive in a cocoon of blankets, you’d probably do that too, but you digress.

You’re standing in front of his door barely a half hour later, having gotten ready faster than ever in an effort to help. You’d definitely figured Yuji would sleep in longer, but Sukuna isn’t a particularly lucky man, so here you are before the sun has risen.

The look on his face as you open the door speaks to his luck as well. Defeat is emboldened across his features, etched into the dark circles under his eyes. A white V-neck that’s so thin you can make out his chest and shoulder tattoos beneath it hangs over his shoulders, while a pair of black sweatpants adorns his lower half. They hang so low on his hips that you can make out the band of his boxers, and lord knows you don’t need your mind going any further than that.

He may be attractive, but at the end of the day, you can’t let yourself get hurt again. Not like that.

“Hey,” he grunts tiredly, swinging the door open as the sound of Yuji sobbing fills your ears.

Shooting him a sympathetic look, you follow him inside without a word, where he leads you to Yuji. The boy is slumped against the door to his and Choso’s room, tears and snot trailing down his face as he sobs and hiccups, calling out his brother’s name between wails. Sukuna clearly tried to calm him down, based on the blanket tucked around the little boy and the plush clutched in his hands, as well as a pile of tissues that surrounds him.

Your heart drops at the sight of the little boy who holds such a dear place in your heart so devastated as he cries out for Choso. You want nothing more than to hold both kids close and let them know everything will be alright.

With his eyes shut tight, the little boy hasn’t spotted you yet.

“How long has he been crying?” You whisper to Sukuna, trying to figure out the best way to work through the situation.

Sukuna casts a glance at his phone in his pocket. “Since five.” Tucking his phone back into his pocket, he sighs. “Don’t wanna pick the lock n’ force Cho out if I don’t gotta,” he shrugs.

In all honesty, you’re a bit shocked at how strangely calm he is handling the situation, as well as how reasonable he’s being. You can’t be sure what exactly it is that’s dulling his sharper edges, between the dejection in his tone, how long this has been going on, or the weariness plaguing every movement he makes. On the other hand, it’s those same reasons that have you worried for him as signs of life seem to drain from his eyes more and more each time you see him as of late.

You spend one more moment examining Sukuna before turning your attention to Yuji.

Leaning down in front of him, you finally gain his attention. His sobs turn to sniffles for a moment as he peers at you with a lidded expression, having completely exhausted himself already. He whispers your name questioningly between gasps as though he doesn’t quite believe it’s you, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

“Hey sweetheart,” you greet him with a soft smile. Before you can even begin comforting him, in a flurry of blankets and arms, he’s clinging to your leg, gripping you with as much force as he can manage. With a sad smile, you hug him as best as you can with him stuck to your leg like glue.

“I- m-missed-” he sobs, gasping to catch his breath, “you.”

“I missed you too, Yu.” Your voice is tight as you rub his back gently, blinking in your best effort to keep yourself from crying at the sight of the sweet boy hugging you with all his might.

“Do you wanna tell me what’s going on, honey?”

He backs up an inch, wiping his face again with his hands. With a hiccup, he barely manages to get out a very broken explanation of what’s going on. “Cho-” a sniffle, “won’t-” a broken sob, “let me innnnnnn,” he bawls, his words devolving into full sobs once more.

Settling on the floor in front of him cross-legged, you extend your arms, offering him a hug that you’re sure he needs. He clambers into your lap in a flurry of tears, burying his face into your shoulder.

Maybe a pale pink hoodie wasn’t your brightest choice of clothes all things considered, but that’s the least of your concerns.

Quietly hushing the little boy, you hug him tightly and rub his back. His entire body shakes violently in your arms as he’s wracked with sobs, gasping for air between each one.

“Shh, it’s okay, honey.” Your voice is quiet and gentle, gradually soothing his sobs into quiet cries and gasps. Even as he begins to calm down in your arms, he doesn’t move, clinging to you like a lifeline.

Sukuna hasn’t moved either, frozen in place as he watches the way you effortlessly calm his brother down. He can only blink as he watches you, his mind moving too groggily, too slowly, to properly process just how well you understand Yuji. But really, it’s not just Yuji, is it? It’s Choso too, and even Sukuna himself.

Deep in thought, the tattooed man scowls to himself, as yet again he finds himself considering Uraume’s words. At least before the fight, you liked him, right? Do you still, now? Does this prove that? Does last night prove that?

His heart beats in his throat at the thought and he has to swallow to choke down the feeling, because it reminds him of a much bigger question he’s been avoiding.

Why is he chasing the answer like a damn bloodhound? Does he want you to like him?

His eyes trail the length of your back as he watches the way Yuji clings to you, his fingers buried in the fabric of your pink hoodie. Your shoulder is already stained in snot and tears, but he knows you don’t mind. You’re so painfully accommodating of his family that self-reproach constricts Sukuna’s chest and he finds himself unable to move. Unable to do anything but watch.

Time and time again, you’ve told him to reach out, that he should ask for help, even as recently as a few hours ago, and yet seeing you sitting on the floor before him doing something that he should be able to do himself sends guilt straight through his heart. With the full force of a fist, it hits his chest and knocks the breath straight from his lungs.

He knows he’s only one person, that they aren’t his kids and this whole situation has just been a case of winging it from the beginning, but this is the one thing he should be able to do as a brother.

Basking in his shame and frustration, he fixes you with a scowl that isn’t made for you.

Why are you so selfless?

Why is he so selfish?

Why is he taking up all of your time when he has no right to ask for it?

Gritting his teeth, he scratches at his stubble-dotted jaw, finding the wherewithal to sit at your side on the floor.

You cast him a glance, surprise flickering in your eyes as he takes a seat beside you. His expression is more familiar, sitting somewhere on the spectrum of grumpiness, though you’re not sure where his sudden attitude came from. In this particular moment, that’s the least of your concerns.

Yuji shuffles back slowly to look at you with glossy eyes and puffy cheeks. “I- I-” He stammers between sniffles, wiping his tears on his sleeve. “I wanna see-” he hiccups, “- my brother,” though between all the tears and his sniffles, it comes out more like ‘bwother’. “Is he-” he sniffles, “is he mad at me?”

“No, sweetie,” you soothe, “I don’t think he’s mad.” You rub his back, leaning back to get a better look at him. His chest is heaving as he struggles to catch his breath, his eyes flickering every which way across your face as he tries to make sense of everything. Unfortunately he’s far too young and naive to figure out the bigger picture, which only makes everything more difficult. “I think your brother’s sad, Yu, just like you.”

He wipes his face again, a string of… saliva (?) sticking to his sleeve as he pulls back. “Sad? Why?”

You take a deep breath as you search for an answer that a five-year-old could understand. “Do you remember the person who came by to talk with Kuna yesterday?”

Yuji nods, hiccupping.

“Well, Choso didn’t like something they said.”

“Why not?”

You suppose you should have seen that coming. Children are always looking for answers where there are none.

“I don’t know yet, sweetheart. I’m gonna see if we can talk to him, okay?”

“Okayyy,” Yuji whines, rubbing his eyes.

“Why don’t you go sit with Kuna?”

Yuji stares at you for a moment as he contemplates your words before nodding, crawling off your lap in a bundle of the blanket he’s wrapped in. He grabs his plush tiger before slowly approaching his older brother.

Sukuna may not be able to provide the words his brother needs to hear, but he does still open his arms and let his brother cuddle into his chest. You shoot Sukuna a reassuring smile before pushing to your feet to knock on the door to the kids’ room. There’s no way Choso isn’t awake given Yuji’s wailing, and you’d wager a bet that he even heard everything you said just now.

Still, there’s no reply to your knock.

Turning back to Sukuna, you can see that Yuji is on the verge of tears once more and shoot him a reassuring smile before tilting your head to Sukuna. “Did Choso eat last night?”

Sukuna shrugs. “Dunno. I shoved some shit under the door but I didn’t hear him move.”

“Why don’t we make some breakfast and see if we can get him to come out for food and a talk? He’s gotta be hungry.”

Sukuna mulls over the option before nodding. “Y’want pancakes, Yu?”

“Yeah,” the boy sniffles, wiping his tears. “With lots ‘nd lots of syrup.”

Sukuna lets out something between a hum and a scoff, effortlessly setting his little brother on his feet and pushing up to his full height. “C’mon,” he urges, leading the way into the kitchen. You cast one last glance at Choso’s locked door before following Sukuna.

The brutish man begins gathering ingredients, setting them on the counter beside a large mixing bowl while Yuji grips the counter, just barely tall enough to see what Sukuna’s doing.

“Let’s get your hands washed,” you encourage Yuji, turning on the tap and lifting the little boy up so that he can reach the kitchen sink. Making sure he uses soap, you place him back down on the floor. He wipes his hands on his very messy hoodie, effectively negating anything the handwashing had done in the first place, but it’s not like you can get into his room to get him changed into something clean.

Sighing, you lead him to the table and lift him onto a chair. A bead lizard sits on the table in front of him, and he entertains himself with it for the time being.

Returning to Sukuna as he washes his hands, you follow suit, turning towards him to take the hand cloth from him.

“You’ve got a little-” you point at his shoulder, covered in stains from Yuji’s sobs.

Glancing down at his shirt, Sukuna grunts with a frown before evaluating your outfit. “We match,” he comments dryly, rolling his shoulder to emphasize the drying patches on your shoulders. “You need a new shirt?”

“Um-” you glance over at Yuji, before shaking your head. “No, I have a feeling these aren’t the last tears that’ll be on my hoodie,” you surmise with a tight-lipped smile, trying to keep light of a situation that clearly has the whole family worn to the bone, with nothing left to give.

Sukuna hums again, about to ask you to cut some bananas for the pancakes when Yuji turns towards you, weakly calling your name.

Turning your gaze to the little boy, you scoot a chair up next to him and give him your full attention. “What’s up, Yu?”

He sniffles, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Um- I made-” he pauses, holding the lizard he’d been playing with earlier up to you. “Made this for-” he stammers again, hiccupping, “-for you.”

Holding your hand out, you delicately take the bead lizard from him. One of its legs has four toes rather than three, and its tail is slightly lopsided, but it’s positively too cute.

“Um-” Yuji continues, his eyes dropping to his lap. “-but then you were-” as if the memory alone shakes him to his very core, his lower lip wobbles, parting with a sob. “-you were goooone,” he cries again, clinging to your side. It takes all of five seconds before he crawls off of his chair into your lap.

“Shhhh,” you soothe, smoothing his hair back off his forehead and rubbing his back. “I know honey, I’m sorry,” your throat is tight as he wails in your arms. “I’ve been busy with work and school, but I never stopped thinking about you, Cho, and Sukuna, you know that?” You tell him, leaning back in an effort to see his face. With puffy cheeks, he swallows a sob as he looks up at you. Holding your wrist out, you show him your bracelets, letting him fiddle with them. “See? I always had you with me.”

Sukuna’s spoon comes to a halt in the mixing bowl as he watches your interactions with Yuji. He damn-near drops the utensil too, fumbling with it until he can set it down. His heart doesn’t just flip or flutter as usual, no, it hammers in his chest when you utter something so sweet that it’s sure to cause him a cavity.

He lifts a hand up to his chest, the feeling of his heart beating erratically resounding through the tips of his fingers. His lips part as he stares down at the bowl in front of him, blinking at the half-mixed batter.

“‘M always with you,” Yuji repeats the sentiment in agreement with you between broken gasps and sobs, reaching up to fiddle with your friendship bracelets.

Sukuna can only watch the interaction from the corner of his eye as he struggles to run from something that he fears has been creeping up on him for a long time. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind sits a realization that he’s never once bothered with because it simply couldn’t be true. Now, though… His crimson eyes flicker towards you. Your features are soft as you smile for his little brother, giggling as the child gently tugs at the twine around your wrist.

A month. A full goddamn month you kept those on. You were resigned to never seeing Sukuna again and still, you kept them on. You never deleted his number. You kept him in your thoughts when your company had an open position. He knows you needed the help for your own gain, but he’s not foolish enough to think there’s no coincidence in the fact that you called him, let alone even thought about him.

He’d spent so long running that he’d never stopped to consider how he felt about all that.

His brow furrows as he turns his attention back to the batter, glowering as if it’s personally offended his whole bloodline. He doesn’t have the fucking time for this.

In an attempt to keep up his pace and continue running from his thoughts, he unsteadily grabs the spoon again and mixes the batter with a fervor that catches your attention as you cast him a questioning glance. He’s too busy scowling at the batter to notice, but you figure he’s simply stressed.

“Your big brother knows how to reach me if you kids ever need me, okay?”

You jolt at the sound of metal clattering behind you. Twisting in your seat, you catch a glance of Sukuna muttering curses to himself as he picks the spoon back up, his brow bunching up more intensely by the moment.

You make a mental note to ask him what’s up later, turning your attention back to the little boy on your lap as he slowly turns the twine tied around your wrist. His breathing begins to settle again, satisfied with your explanation as he explains the reasoning behind his color choices with the bead lizard. You listen intently, because if you don’t, his words sound more like hoarse mumbles, difficult to make out.

Yuji explains in great detail that he designed the lizard for you out of pink and purple beads, because those are the prettiest colors, just like you. You’re grateful in that moment that Yuji is too busy looking down at his creation and Sukuna is behind you, because tears finally do prick at the corners of your eyes. Yuji is positively precious and you can’t deny the fact that you adore him as though he’s your own family.

Maybe that makes things messy given your shaky connection to Sukuna, but you can be there if the kids need you, at the very least.

“Ready in two,” Sukuna mumbles behind you, barely audible.

“I’m gonna go talk to Choso, okay sweetie?” You gently let Yuji know as you set him back in his own chair. He nods, sniffling as he watches you head back towards his room.

Knocking on the door again, you wait to see if you get an answer, but there’s nothing. As far as you can tell, Choso isn’t even in the room.

“Cho?” You call gently, letting him know it’s you. “Please come have some breakfast. Kuna made you some pancakes.”

It’s deathly silent behind the door and you’re beginning to wonder if he’s somehow managed to run away, but that doesn’t seem feasible in an apartment. Not to mention that given what Choso’s upset about, you can’t imagine him leaving.

Trying again, you keep your tone gentle, but loud enough that you’re sure he can hear. “I’ve missed you, Choso. I’d love to see you,” you offer, but there’s not a sound to be heard. Frowning, you begin to wonder if picking the lock might be the only option. “Cho sweetheart, I’m worried about you. Remember when we talked about using words when you’re upset?”

From beneath the door, you just barely catch a hint of a shadow. Relief floods through you as you realize he’s there and listening to you.

Knowing that he can, in fact, hear you, you lower your voice to try to have a conversation more with him than the whole apartment. “It’s okay to need space, Cho, but it’s important to ask for it,” you explain. It’s moments like this that you can tell he’s learned a couple of bad habits from Sukuna. “Pushing everyone away when you’re upset isn’t good for you.”

The shadow beneath the door moves again.

“Do you want a hug, sweetheart?”

Click.

The door creaks open just enough to make out Choso’s face peeking through the gap. The room behind him is dark, the curtains drawn. He must have been laying in bed all night and morning.

You smile softly, pushing gently on the door to see if he’ll let you in. He hesitates for a moment before relenting, but the moment the gap is wide enough for Choso to slip through, he gingerly pads across the floor and hugs you.

Behind you, Sukuna and Yuji exchange a few words in the kitchen, followed by the sound of Sukuna’s footsteps behind you, but they stop a short distance away.

“I’m sorry,” Choso murmurs, silent tears trailing down his face as he hides his face in your hoodie.

“It’s okay sweetheart,” you soothe, holding him tightly. “I’ve got you.”

You don’t dare pull back first as he quietly shakes in your arms. He clearly needed this, but didn’t know how to seek comfort from Sukuna, and Yuji simply doesn’t understand.

Satisfied that Choso’s at least okay, Sukuna backs away to serve pancakes to Yuji, giving Choso whatever space he needs. Even if he’s guilty for entrusting this to you, he doesn’t have the luxury of being picky when it comes to his brothers’ well-being.

You can hear the clinking of forks and knives and occasional muttered conversation in the kitchen as the other two brothers eat breakfast. It takes a couple of minutes, but Choso’s breathing gradually evens out. With a final deep breath, he takes a small step back, his vision trained on the ground.

Smiling gently, you move his long hair from his face to see him better. He coughs into his elbow quietly, his voice hoarse as he speaks for the first time since last night, or perhaps even longer knowing the withdrawn child. “I thought you and Kuna weren’t friends anymore,” he murmurs, his voice cracking midway through his sentence as he wipes his tears.

“Why not?” You query, curious what Sukuna told him. Choso is far too smart for his own good if Sukuna didn’t say anything. Lying to the little boy about what happened isn’t your first choice, but you will if it helps his mental health.

He shrugs, though there’s clearly something on his mind.

“Everything’s okay,” you assure him, smiling. “What would make you feel better? Do you want breakfast, or do you wanna talk?”

“Can we-” he pauses, clearing his throat, “- can we talk?”

“Of course,” you assure him, turning to lead the way to the kitchen to talk with his brothers, but he stops you with a tug on your sleeve.

“Just you?”

Tilting your head sympathetically to his situation with his little brother and his horribly emotionally constipated older brother, you nod. He leads you back into his room, leaving the door open just a crack. You can hardly make out the floor with how dark the room is, hissing as you step on a toy dinosaur. It would be a triceratops you stepped on, wouldn’t it?

Shaking the horned dinosaur from your poor foot, you make your way to the window and crack it open. It’s still fairly early but dawn offers enough light that at least you aren’t stepping on the stegosaurus next, or the squished fruit snacks that Sukuna must have slid under the door.

Choso squints slightly as he sits on the edge of his bed. Taking a seat beside him, you’re able to finally get a good look at him. He’s still in a hoodie and a pair of sweatpants, so you can only assume he laid in bed all night and couldn’t be bothered to change into pajamas. His hair is unkempt and oily, and his face speaks nothing more than utter defeat.

Though it doesn’t show much in Yuji’s personality (yet), it’s clear that Choso’s picked up a lot of Sukuna’s traits over the years. Unfortunately it seems that includes his tendency to shut others out and attempt to deal with everything on his own, which is just about the worst lesson he could have picked up from the eldest brother.

Choso kicks his foot out, his brow furrowed as he organizes his thoughts before speaking.

“Do you think Kuna can win?” He whispers hoarsely.

You can’t afford to hesitate as you reply. “Of course. He’s putting a lot of work into getting a good lawyer and putting together evidence.”

Choso nods, blinking down at his mismatched socks as he wiggles his toes in front of him. “I don’t get it,” he murmurs.

“Don’t get what?”

“Why she wants us.”

That’s a question you’re vastly unprepared for, and horribly devastated by. A child should never need to question their parent’s love. Is the right answer to comfort him and offer a reason she might want him, or to vilify her further when that’s clearly what Choso’s already thinking? Is there a right answer at all?

“I don’t have an answer for that, Choso,” you reply with painful honesty.

Choso’s brow furrows, scowling at the triceratops that nearly took you out. No wonder the poor kid locked himself away if his thoughts are plagued with wondering whether his mother even loves him.

And if she does love him, you’re sure he hopes she’ll let him go. No child deserves to handle this sort of pressure, or these sorts of thoughts. In the short time you’ve known Sukuna and subsequently his brothers, they’ve all been through a lifetime of hardship, and you can only imagine the things that would do to a twelve-year-old. He’s been forced to mature too quickly, and it’s apparent in the way that he struggles with the weight of that maturity that he doesn’t really know how to handle it.

Sukuna’s a good parental figure, at least where it matters, but he can’t teach either of his brothers how to handle something of this caliber when he can’t even handle it himself. He may have had a few extra years to grow accustomed to life, but he was still just a kid when he lost his dad. How was he meant to learn this lesson himself when no one was there to teach him either?

Choso’s eyes flit around the room in thought, but he doesn’t seem to know where to go with his thoughts or how to organize them.

“Do you want to talk about her?” You set the cards on the table, offering him the opportunity. You don’t want to push him into anything, but you hope he’ll heed your words about talking through his issues regardless. It seems to comfort him more than a hug, from what you’ve gathered.

The little boy is silent for a moment, rubbing one of his eyes with his knuckles. “Um- I don’t know what to talk about.”

“Anything,” you offer him a smile. “This is about you, Cho. I just want to help get your mind off of things.”

In the bleak darkness of the room as light very slowly begins to peek through the blinds, it becomes glaringly obvious just how much of a weight this little boy carries. It’s as though he thinks he has his own duty to uphold, one that he silently and without protest holds tight to his chest.

“I don’t remember her very much,” he croaks, clearing his throat. He kicks his feet a couple of times as he contemplates his words. “I remember playing board games with her and Dad.”

“What board games?” You query, keeping the conversation going.

Choso hums in thought. “Monopoly and Life,” he murmurs.

“Life is fun.” No comment on Monopoly.

Shrugging absently, Choso falls back into a steady silence. It’s hard to tell if he wants to stay on this subject at all given his curt replies, but between the raspy timbre of his voice and the fact that he seems to have repressed the memory of her, you can’t blame him.

“I- I really don’t remember her,” he whispers, shaking his head. He wasn’t that young when she left as far as you’d gathered that he shouldn’t be able to remember her at all, but the thought of him locking the memory away tightly feels painfully realistic. Maybe he’d even thrown away the key, given how distraught he is over the lawsuit. “She went on a business trip before Dad got sick, and- um- she never came back. Dad said she was making lots of money so we could be happy.”

Sukuna had never told you exactly what happened, just that she was gone the moment things got tough. She may have never been fond of Sukuna, but from what you can piece together, you can’t see why she wouldn’t like her own children. Still, you find yourself asking the same question as Choso previously had.

It can’t possibly be money that she wants the kids for. Sukuna’s made it pretty clear that the government aid doesn’t help enough to offset the cost of caring for kids, so it has to be out of love, right? Pettiness towards Sukuna maybe, but real love to be willing to take the kids back.

She sure has a funny way of showing her love, but you can’t possibly begin to imagine what else could bring this on.

Maybe she only ran overseas out of fear of losing her husband? It’s cowardly, but it’s the only explanation you can find in a situation where there’s no sense to be found.

Yet… didn’t Choso say she left before Jin got sick?

It doesn’t alleviate any of your doubts surrounding her motives.

“Did you talk to her on the phone?”

“Um- usually every week. When Dad did.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Really, what more can you say? There’s nothing easy about this situation, especially in the eyes of a child that’s been able to do nothing but sit back and watch as his life is decided for him.

When was the last time Choso really got to be a kid? Christmas?

Your heart drops at the mere thought.

“I miss Dad,” Choso mousily whispers, his shoulders dropping as a silent tear falls from his cheek, down the tip of his nose. He wipes another tear on his sleeve and yawns. You wonder if he slept at all last night in spite of being locked in his room. “Dad always knew what to do.”

That’s twice now that you’ve heard that same phrase from the trio of brothers. Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach at the hole his departure left in their family.

“Dads are like that. They’re good with advice,” you agree, doing your best to keep yourself neutral, letting Choso come to you with the details he wants to share. The more he can get his thoughts in order on his own, the better off you think he’ll be.

“He always made soup whenever we felt bad.”

With a lopsided smile, you tilt your head to look at the little boy. “Is that where you got your cooking skills from?”

To your surprise, something glimmers in Choso’s eyes. A hint of life. A hint of more than the dull fog he’s been cocooned in. He shakes his head with a hummed ‘mh mh’. “It was just in a can.”

“There’s nothing better than a plain can of soup when you’re sick.”

Choso nods. “Yeah. Or when you just feel sad.”

“Huh, I guess soup is a cure-all,” you hum in an attempt at keeping the air lighthearted. Choso’s opening up bit by bit and the last thing you want is to bog down the flow of conversation.

Choso begins kicking his feet consistently, bracing his hands on the edge of the bed. “Kuna makes good soup, too.”

“From a can?” You query.

Choso shakes his head.

“From scratch?” Your brows raise. It’s not that Sukuna’s a bad chef by any means, he’s actually got the craft down. In fact, your reaction doesn’t come from surprise at all. Sukuna’s a great chef, and if he had the money for the ingredients and the time to cook, you don’t doubt that he would go the extra mile to take care of his brothers. He already does if he can.

Your reaction is purely from the realization that Choso’s love of cooking likely doesn’t come from Jin. It comes from Sukuna.

“Um- I think so. I mostly just put things in the pot.”

You find yourself smiling at the thought. Choso loves cooking because it’s how he bonds with his older brother. Just like he loves Pokemon because it’s how he bonds with his younger brother.

“Kuna’s a good chef, isn’t he?” You encourage him, willing a reaction. To your delight, he blinks a few times and nods.

“The best,” he whispers.

Your eyes flicker up at the sight of a shadow under the door. Wood creaks beneath heavy footsteps that slowly retreat, the shadow dissipating.

“Well you know, your chef brother made you some pancakes,” you tell him softly, moving a hand to rub his back encouragingly. “They’ll be cold if you don’t eat soon.”

Choso looks up at you now, a series of emotions flooding his worn out eyes. Sadness, uncertainty, confusion, and fear all swirl within deep brown irises. It’s clear he’s still braving the mess that is his mind, but he’s wading within the emotions rather than pushing them down until there’s nothing left to feel but emptiness. You’d much prefer this to the blank stares you’ve been getting so often.

He finally nods, finding it in himself to hop off of his bed to his feet as he heads for the kitchen.

“Can you hit the light?” You ask before daring to move a muscle. There may be more light than before, but that stray stegosaurus that you know is in here somewhere is too daunting to ignore. With the light on, you avoid stepping on any horned beasts or stray lego and follow after him to the kitchen.

Yuji and Sukuna still look like the better part of a disaster, obvious tear trails covering Yuji’s face, while Sukuna leans against the kitchen counter cutting a banana so slowly you’d almost think he forgot what he was doing. Because he has, in fact, forgotten.

The sound of footsteps pulls the man from his trance as he turns to see Choso. Relief flickers through his eyes as he shoots you a look that says thank you.

As Sukuna finishes up what he’s doing, Yuji cries out for Choso, hopping down from his chair to barrel into Choso at full force. Nearly toppling over, the middle brother embraces Yuji with a hint of a smile. It’s heartwarming, despite the tense air that continues to hang over the family.

Yuji’s words tumble out of his mouth in a flurry as he hugs the brunette, tears trailing down his face again. Choso may be the one who hasn’t used his voice for the better part of two months, but Yuji’s words are somehow more hoarse. “I missed- y-you, Cho, please-” he sobs, catching his breath in a flurry of gasps. “- Don’t leave me,” he gasps.

Your own expression falters as you feel uncertainty tug at your own heart strings. There’s a lot to unpack within Yuji’s words as well, and while you know most of the situation they’re in goes over his head, he’s a smart kid, too. You can’t help but wonder if he’s handling everything worse than he lets on.

“‘M sorry, Yu,” Choso mumbles between Yuji’s pleads, toppling down onto the floor as his little brother squeezes him tighter.

Sukuna remains silent as he sets down three more plates at the small dining table, cutting through the quiet only to inform the three of you, though mostly you and Choso, of breakfast. “Come eat,” he mumbles just loud enough to be heard over Yuji’s cries.

Neither of the boys are paying Sukuna any mind as Yuji hugs his older brother.

You take a step towards Sukuna as he opens his mouth, likely to tell them again that breakfast is ready. “Give them a moment,” you whisper softly. You lean in close enough to keep those words between the adults, but your close presence is gone before he has the chance to appreciate it.

And Sukuna, he’s just not sure what he’s even meant to make of that thought. When has he ever needed to stop to appreciate you being close to him?

He supposes since he tore into you over something that seems so trivial now.

He swallows hard as he turns his attention to his little brothers. You kneel beside them, gently rubbing Yuji’s back as you talk to him with so much care that Sukuna’s chest tightens.

“Your brother just needed some time to be alone, right Choso?”

The little boy nods.

“In the future if you need space, you’ll talk to your brothers, right?”

“Right,” Choso hoarsely agrees.

Sukuna scratches at the back of his neck. His brother’s voice sounds foreign to him in a way that he can’t quite identify. The twelve-year-old’s never been all that chatty, and he’s been quieter than normal since Sukuna had explained the lawsuit to them, but this is likely the longest single period of time he’s gone without so much as moving. He almost sounds sick. He almost looks sick.

Is Sukuna that bad of a guardian?

He averts his gaze to the large window by the table, pushing his worries down into the plague of other doubts he harbors. He doesn’t have the luxury of worrying about that, not when his opposition is a mother who didn’t even answer a call coming from her deceased husband’s phone.

The kids deserved better, but Sukuna has to remind himself that you’re right. You’ve told him time and time again and he has to start listening to you. His brothers want to stay with him. They love him.

And he loves them, too.

His gaze flickers to you as you smile at the boys. Sympathy, care, and something akin to sadness all swirl within your eyes as you take a seat at the table. Sukuna takes a seat beside you, leaning on his elbow.

As the boys both make their way to their respective seats and begin cutting into their pancakes (or in Yuji’s case, picking up a whole pancake on his fork and taking a bite), Sukuna can only watch in relief. He can’t remember the last time Choso and Yuji both seemed okay, despite the lines of dried tears running down their faces. Letting out a breath, he shuts his eyes as the air around him seems to lighten and he feels like he can breathe again.

You watch from your peripherals as Sukuna relaxes and finds it in himself to eat. His pancakes are more dense than yours and likely filled with protein, probably to make up for the fact that you rarely see him eating lunch.

Breakfast is silent, but words don’t need to fill the space for the meal to surround you all with an unspoken warmth.

Yuji finishes first between the boys, kicking his feet (im)patiently as he waits for Choso to finish.

“Will you play with me, Cho?” He asks, the moment the middle brother’s fork hits the plate.

Gingerly nodding, the two boys begin to hop down from their seats.

“Go change your shirt first, Yu.”

He turns to face Sukuna. “Why? This one’s clean.”

Sukuna’s lip curls in disgust. “No, it’s not. Go change.” He casts a glance at Choso, who’s still in yesterday’s clothes as well. “You too, Cho.”

Choso glances down at his clothes and nods, following slowly after Yuji to their room.

With an exasperated huff, Sukuna runs a hand over his face, shoving his plate forward on the table. There’s too many things on his mind and you’re at the center of them all. Hell, even the familial shit that you shouldn’t be a part of, he somehow ties back to you.

About to offer you a shirt again, he opens his mouth, but you voice your thoughts first.

“I should head out. Shoko and I are studying today and I need to get a couple of things together and printed,” you explain, picking up your plate and getting to your feet. “And change my hoodie,” you mumble as an afterthought, one step ahead of Sukuna.

As you set the plate in the sink with a gentle clank, Sukuna taps his fingers on the table with a grimace. A part of him wonders if you’re lying, though he has no right to think you might be. The only reason he even finds himself doubting your words is because he wants you to stay, which he realizes isn’t fair given your tense relationship.

Casting aside his doubts, he slides his chair out and gets to his feet. He trails after you, standing a short distance away as you throw your coat on and stand at the door.

If ever there was a time that the scar in your friendship was visible, this is it. There’s an ugly rift that stands between you, and for all the clawing and biting that Sukuna’s tried to tear through it, you patch it back up each and every time.

It’s not fair.

He wants to believe that, anyway. Every fiber of his being wants to believe that sentiment.

But it is. And he needs to live with that. If this is all you ever are to him, a distant kindness that exists in a vacuum of space that lives between you, then he supposes he can deal with that. He sucks in a sharp breath, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Silence stretches between you after pulling on your boots. Sukuna’s scowl is aimed at the floor, unable to meet your gaze.

“The court date is next week, right?” You finally break the silence.

“Yeah. Thursday.”

“Do you have any more meetings before that? Will the kids be okay?”

Sukuna inhales. Long, and drawn out. “Yeah. Uh- the lawyers exchanged documents n’ shit last week n’ ordered a house study. It’s Tuesday.” He pauses, mulling over the process. “Then the court date.” Pulling a hand from his pocket, he scratches the back of his head, unable to meet your gaze. Choso won’t be fine, he knows that much, but he can’t bear the thought of taking up your time anymore. “Yeah, they’ll be fine,” he lies.

His response seems off given his lacking confidence and frustrated scowl, but he’s always been tough to read, so you give him the benefit of the doubt, but there’s still one thing you made a mental note of earlier. “What about you?”

Something unrecognizable flickers within those cherry irises before he nods. “Yeah. I’m alright.”

You smile, and for a moment he swears the world falls away under his feet, leaving just you and him. “Good. I’ll catch you later, then. Text me if that changes, okay?” With a pointed look, you wait for his nod before you turn to head out.

Before you can shut the door fully, Sukuna grabs it, barely stopping you in time. “Hey, uh-” he second-guesses himself before finding his resolve. “Will you come to the court? I can have someone there… for support.”

Your expression softens from surprise to sympathy as you nod. The idea of Sukuna being alone, without even the support of his brothers, doesn’t sit well with you. “Of course.”

Relief clouds his senses. “I’ll send you the details,” he gruffs out. You nod, attempting to shut the door again, but his hold on it is steady. “Thanks.”

You can’t help but smile. You’d have to be a fool not to see the effort he’s putting into fixing his mistakes. There’s obvious changes in the way he’s thinking through his words and reactions before he says or does anything, and he’s making an effort to let you in.

It warms your heart, and it makes it every bit more difficult to pull away each time as you feel your resolve beginning to wear away. Though you do need to study.

“You’re welcome, Kuna.”

His lip quirks into the barest hint of a smile the moment the nickname slips effortlessly past your lips. He nods, relenting and finally letting you shut the door. The sound of the lock flipping behind you is the last noise you hear from the apartment as you make your way to the library to get some printing done for your study session.

–

“Wait up!” Shoko calls out as she falls into step with you on campus the following Tuesday, catching you off-guard. “You headed to work?”

“Yep! Don’t you have class right now?” You query as she follows you to your car.

“Prof’s sick,” she shrugs. “My next lecture’s in, like, four hours.”

“That’s brutal,” you grimace. “Are you gonna study more?”

She nods. “Toji asked for help in his Physical Sciences class, so I’m meeting up with him in a few.” Glancing at her phone, she shoves it back in her pocket after noting the time. “Anyway, did you hear from Sukuna after all that shit over the weekend?”

You nod. “Yeah, a little bit. He’s been updating me on his brothers.”

Shoko hums along, waiting for you to continue as she senses you’re withholding something.

“He asks a lot about my day and how I’m doing.”

Her brow raises. “You know, when you mentioned he seemed like he was actually trying to fix things a couple of weeks ago, I didn’t think it’d last.”

“Me either,” you admit, kicking at gravel as you approach your car. “I honestly thought I was just being stupid by letting him back in even a little bit,” you chuckle in embarrassment, mostly to yourself. “But now I’m not so sure.”

“I just can’t believe he’s proving me wrong,” she shrugs. “Didn’t I tell you people like him don’t change?”

You nod. “You and Kento both did at girls’ night.”

“Okay, you gotta admit it was good advice at the time.”

Reaching your car, you open the door and toss your bag in before turning back to her. “At the time, it made me feel a lot better,” you agree with a chuckle.

“Not so much anymore, huh?” She laughs along with you.

“Not so much,” you click your tongue, fiddling with your keys.

“Some fucking guy, that Sukuna.”

Your brows raise and tilt your head in some form of agreement, your thoughts preoccupied with the pending lawsuit. After a brief silence, Shoko pipes up again.

“You still like him?”

You find her gaze, your brow furrowing in thought. “I do, it’s just…” You trail off, searching for words to describe the strange limbo you’ve found yourself in. “I guess it just feels like I’m kinda getting to know him again?” You try to explain with a small tilt of your head. “Does that make sense?”

“Like, because you didn’t see him for a month, or because he’s acting differently?” She queries.

Poking your tongue into the side of your mouth, you narrow your eyes in thought. “Both? I guess I’m still getting used to him making the effort to be a good friend.” Your keys jingle between your fingers. “Okay, wait. Do you remember when I told you that Sukuna’s kind of a different person when he’s actually being himself?”

“Mhm.”

“Sometimes I see that side of him for a moment here and there, but… sometimes I’m not quite sure who I’m talking to.” You pause, contemplating exactly what you mean by that. “He’s definitely putting in effort and being nice, but sometimes I don’t recognize him at all.”

“Isn’t that mostly a good thing?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, dragging your boot through the gravel and kicking up dust as a small remainder of the last snowfall flicks onto Shoko’s shin. She shoots you an unimpressed look as you lean down to brush her pants off while you continue. “It’s just weird. I guess it’s just that, like-” you pause as you stand back up and brush your hands off. “- Sometimes things are back to normal and everything is great, but sometimes…” you shake your head, shrugging. “I’m not even sure if he knows who he is.”

“Do you think the stress is getting to him?” Shoko clarifies.

“That could be it,” you agree as she makes sense of your rambles.

“Is he that much different?”

“I mean, the Sukuna I know is still there,” you chuckle. “He’s still quiet and kind of a dick sometimes,” you explain, recalling how quiet and standoffish he’s been in the lunchroom to your co-workers since starting at the publishing house. “I think he’s actually thinking about what he’s saying more, though. Like he’s trying to be better.”

The thought brings you back to Saturday night when he’d snapped at you, only to reel himself back in. He’s still the same man, he’s still sharp and hardened, and he’s definitely still got walls up that he’s not letting down anytime soon, but it’s like he’s more aware of that fact now.

You chew on your bottom lip briefly, recalling the way he’d been unusually calm upon your arrival on Sunday morning when you went to help the kids. “But sometimes it seems like he’s just a different person. He’s not angry or anything either. He’s just not there at all.”

“Well, shit.” It’s the best Shoko can offer. It does sound like stress. Like he’s being beaten down and flattened into something he’s not.

You nod, casting a glance at your phone. “I gotta go, but text me? I’ve got some time at work today.”

“Sounds good. I’ll text you when I meet up with Toji.”

“Catch you later,” you grin cheerily as you turn towards your car.

After your conversation with Shoko, you barely have enough time to rush home, change, and make the bus in time to get to the office.

You’re at your desk seconds before your shift starts, panting after rushing up the stairs.

Amused, Yuki’s brow raises from where she sits at her desk opposite you. “Running a bit late?”

“Yeah, I lost track of time.” Taking a moment to catch your breath, you lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling.

“You know no one cares if you’re a bit late, right?” She chuckles.

“I know,” you sigh, “but I want to make a good impression, maybe keep my position.”

Yuki’s eyes shine as she smiles at the thought, but she’s quickly distracted by movement behind you. Smirking, she motions past you with her pen when you finally lift your head.

Staring at the back of your head is a familiar pair of crimson irises, his expression unreadable and aloof. The muscular man’s hair is disheveled, hardly pushed back with strands falling over his forehead and into his line of sight as though he hadn’t had time to use hair gel. His shirt is also particularly wrinkled today, overall looking like he’s had a morning.

He extends his arm towards you, a familiar cup held within his hand. His hand lingers for a moment as your fingers brush when you pull the cup from him, holding its warmth between your hands.

“You’re a lifesaver,” you grin.

He hums, a hint of a smile playing on the corners of his lips although it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Thank you, Sukuna.” You take a sip, smiling as warmth floods you, seeping into your very bones. “It’s perfect.”

“Good. You got a moment?” He asks, eyes flickering to Yuki in a silent question of whether he can borrow you. Yuki just shrugs, careless as ever.

“Yeah, let me just log in.” You move quickly to get settled before grabbing your drink and following after Sukuna. He leads the way to his office, shutting the door behind him and leaning against his desk.

Somehow the fact that he’s not as put-together as usual with hair askew and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, you find your thoughts spiraling more than they usually do.

Or maybe it’s the fact that you’ve come to the realization that Sukuna’s not just trying to be better for you, or for his brothers, but he’s trying to be a better version of himself in general, and that only endears you to him more.

He takes a sip of his own drink, grabbing it from his desk, only to hold it out and stare at the label with a wrinkled nose.

“Did they get your order wrong?” You tilt your head questioningly.

Sukuna squints at the label, holding it a bit further back. “It has a caramel shot in it,” he mutters in reply, clearly bothered.

“Do you… need to get your eyes checked?” You raise a brow questioningly.

“Probably,” he grumbles.

“You should do that. Our benefits cover it.”

“We have benefits?”

You purse your lips. “Yeah…? Sukuna, did you read the contract at all? Even I get them and I’m an intern.”

Shrugging, he smirks. “I skimmed it.”

That’s the Sukuna you recognize. Stubborn, a little sly, but full of life in spite of his quiet demeanor.

Rolling your eyes, you giggle to yourself. “Go get your eyes checked.”

His smirk remains in place as he hums, quietly watching you laugh as though he’s trying to commit the scene to memory.

You quiet down, leaning back against the door to his office. “Anyways, what did you wanna talk about?”

“Mm,” he hums in acknowledgement, his smirk dissipating as he grows more serious. “Can you be at the courthouse on twelfth street at ten on Thursday?”

“Oh,” a lump forms in your throat at the realization that the court date is growing painfully real now. “Yeah, of course.”

Sukuna lets out a breath, nodding. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, the material of his shirt pulled taut.

And this is the shirt that actually fits him correctly.

Not fair.

“Thanks, princess.” His voice is uncharacteristically soft, the sharp edges of his features seeming somewhat dulled and almost sweet as he gazes down at you.

You can’t help the smile that graces your lips as you nod.

The silence that follows allows you to get a good look at Sukuna. Although he seems to be more at ease at the publishing house and the hours he’s working between this and the occasional shift at the auto shop aren’t nearly as grueling as they used to be, life continues to take its toll on him. His eyes lack their sharp and cunning glimmer, and every movement he makes borders on languid.

“How are you holding up?”

He knows what you’re really asking. You may as well say ‘what’s wrong?’. It’s a fair question, but it’s one he hates to answer because even now his shoulders are tense and his chest aches. He’s had a headache since dawn rolled around on Monday morning.

“I’m fine,” he lies, brushing the question off as he turns back to his desk.

Sukuna’s not easy to read by any means, and anyone else probably would have believed him, but you see right through him. He doesn’t give you the chance to question him as he leans over his desk. “My lawyer doesn’t think we’ll be there long on Thursday.”

“Why not?” Your brow furrows. “Shouldn’t it be long?”

He grinds his teeth in frustration as he replies. “I don’t really get it, shit’s fucked. I guess this isn’t even the real trial, this is some sort of conference bullshit,” he explains. “It's supposed be for us to come to an agreement, but Kaori’s lawyer laid out the shit they’re asking for and it’s not fucking happening.”

“What does she want?”

“Sole custody with no visitation.”

Your eyes widen, taken aback. “You wouldn’t even be able to see them?”

Sukuna chuckles darkly, his knuckles going white as he drags his fingers across his desk until they’re directly under him, crinkling a blank piece of paper beneath him. “She’s never liked me and she made sure I knew, even as a kid.”

“I’m so sorry,” you offer sympathetically. Much like your talk with Choso the other day, you’re not sure what more to offer.

He flashes you a glance of acknowledgement, grunting. “It’s whatever. Point is, it’ll be the first time I’ve seen her in years and her lawyer’s gonna push for a full trial.” He can only shake his head in exasperation. “Her evidence is just bullshit from my school records n’ whatever.”

She’s clearly using whatever force is necessary to take the kids out from under Sukuna’s nose, leaving a slimy feeling in the pit of your stomach. What could she possibly have against her own step-son to pull this kind of move against him? She’s purposefully backing him into a corner, and you see now why his lawyer had their work cut out for them despite the case seeming like an obvious decision to anyone who’s met Sukuna and his brothers.

Picking up his iPad and shoving the papers on his desk aside, he turns on the screen and taps around the device. “You won’t believe how much this bullshit costs, too,” he grumbles. “I swear she’s doing it on purpose.” He taps on the screen a couple of times, his mounting frustration becoming obvious as he taps harder each time. “She’s fuckin’ dragging everything out, too. This all just leads to another fucking court date and more fucking money for my fucking lawyer, and she’s putting Choso n’ Yuji through so much shit, and-”

As Sukuna’s rambling grows in intensity, you push off from where you were leaning against the door, running your hand over his rigid back as he faces away from you. He stiffens, his speech cutting off the moment your fingers run along the muscles. “It’ll be okay. You’ll win,” you smile reassuringly, dropping your hand and stepping off to the side to see his face as he fiddles uselessly with his iPad.

“And if I don’t?”

“You will.”

His temple twitches as he grits his teeth, his gaze fixed on the device in his hands. “And if I don’t?” He growls. His brow is pulled together in a tight furrow, and although his eyes blaze with frustration, it’s not directed at you.

“If you don’t…” you chew on your lip, gingerly reaching out to soothe your thumb over his hand that’s fidgeting with the volume buttons on the side of the iPad, clicking them with enough force to damn-near break them. His fingers steady as you run your thumb over his knuckles like second nature. “Then you’ll figure things out.”

His eyes flicker wildly around your face, as though he’s searching for something. He swallows hard, his gaze returning to his desk.

“Don’t worry about that, okay? You can face that if it comes to it.”

He inhales sharply and nods, twitching his fingers into yours, only for you to pull away. He knows you mean well and he still appreciates your support, but it serves as another reminder of what he’s lost.

“Right,” he agrees, turning his attention to the iPad as he opens his latest project.

Peeking over the screen, you catch a glimpse of a character that you recognize instantly despite having never seen it before. “Is that Baby Whale?”

“You can just ask to see it, brat,” he grumbles, pulling the device out from under your nose as though you’re Yuji obnoxiously trying to get a peek at whatever Sukuna’s working on.

“Sorry,” you grin innocently.

Rolling his eyes, Sukuna tilts the screen towards you. A sweet little purple whale beams at you with pink rosy cheeks. You’re forced to bite your lip in an effort to stop yourself from giggling at the sight of the brute before you who’s drawn the most cutesy character you can possibly imagine. There’s nothing wrong with it by any means, but it’s definitely not his first choice of character, you’re sure of that.

“Yeah, it’s Baby Whale. Do you guys ever get original shit or should I be worried about gettin’ a fast porcupine or some shit next?”

“Mm, I’d worry. We get them here and there, but…” you shrug.

“Great,” he sighs, reaching down to his desk to hold up a few of the pages he’d just printed to get Maya to sign off on. “Here.”

Your eyes light up as you sift through the pages. They’re for a horror-type series of some sort, as far as you can tell, of two children on an adventure, though you aren’t quite sure what it’s a knock-off of, if it is one. Each cover has a vastly different environment, from a jungle beneath a volcano to an abandoned cityscape. Though it’s not in Sukuna’s traditional sketchy charcoal style that you’ve grown to love, they’re still gorgeous. The painterly effect he’s given them is stunning, reminiscent of a watercolor painting.

“These look amazing,” you breathe, sifting through the pages. You come to land on one cover of the two kids in a crystalline cavern with a lizard crawling towards the reader of the novel.

He hums. “I don’t mind the job when I’m not drawin’ knock-off shit.”

So it is original. “I mean, even when you are, it’s gotta be better than stocking shelves, right?” You ask, gaze trained on his artwork.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Still owe you for this.”

“I thought we talked about this,” you smirk, raising a brow as you come to meet his gaze.

He lets out a breath through his nose in somewhat of a laugh. “Thanks, princess.” He pokes gently at your arm as you smile at him and for a moment a familiar air of comfort settles over you. It’s gone before Sukuna can really relish in it, though, as you pull away with a sigh.

“I should get to work. Let me know if you need anything?”

Sukuna frowns as you retreat. “Yeah. See ya at lunch.”

–

You’ve passed the courthouse a number of times on your way to get-togethers with friends across the city, but it’s never seemed to loom over you quite like this. From what Sukuna mentioned, this conference thing seems to be little more than a formality and a requirement and you’re pretty sure no decisions will be made today, unless his step-mother has some sort of miracle change of heart.

From the way Sukuna’s described her, you don’t get the feeling that’s likely.

Having never been to the courthouse yourself, you arrive decently early in case you need to fill out forms, or something of the sort.

It never really occurred to you just how little you know about the world of legal proceedings until you’d found yourself online researching proper attire. You’d landed on something you would usually wear to work anyway, a pale white blouse and a pair of fitted slacks that hug your hips in all the right areas.

A pair of simple black heels adorn your feet as they click across the ground. A stark flash of pink catches your eye, the man himself leaning against the smooth faux brick of the courthouse, smoke spiraling into the air. His head leans back against the outer building wall as he watches the smoke billow and rise.

A suit jacket hangs over his shoulders, a tie done up to his neck, though he seems to have tugged it a bit loose. His hair is pushed back out of his face with gel, though it’s so long it’s somewhat unruly anyway as a few strands still tickle his forehead.

You can’t deny that your heart palpitated once, maybe even twice at the thought of how handsome he looks with his broad shoulders pulling the suit jacket taut. It gets harder to deny your own feelings when every time you see him, he continues to prove that he has changed, and you find yourself forced to listen to the blood roaring in your ears as your heart rate skyrockets.

“Hey,” you greet him, catching him off-guard. His head whips down, his eyes trailing your outfit and lingering a moment too long on your hips. Any other day, he’d mentally scold himself for staring, but his mind is such a mess that he hardly realizes he’s doing it until you jut your hips out expectantly with a hand on one side when he doesn’t reply.

His eyes shoot up to meet your gaze, flitting down to the shy smile you wear, having blatantly noticed the way he checked you out. Clearing his throat, he grunts in reply.

Your cheeks are warm, even as you consider the emotions drawn across his face. You can’t say for sure what’s going through his mind, although you can make an educated guess when the muscles in his forehead twitch. He isn’t quite scowling, nor does he wear the familiar pride on his sleeve that you’ve grown accustomed to.

It’s exactly what you mentioned to Shoko.

This isn’t Sukuna. It’s not the frustrated man who masks his unease and fear with anger, lashing out needlessly. But it’s also not the sly and cocky asshole who’s surprisingly thoughtful and conscious of others.

It’s like he’s someone else, someone you can’t identify and don’t know how to help. His fear isn’t getting the best of him, his anger isn’t overflowing and misdirected with nowhere to go. Those, you know how to handle. But now, he’s simply lost.

“How are you feeling?”

Grateful for the nicotine calming him enough to give you a competent answer, he tilts his head in a semblance of a shrug. “Fine, I guess. Not like there’s any point in this bullshit.”

With a grimace, you take a step towards him. “Do you really think this is for nothing?”

Sukuna inhales deeply as he takes a drag of his cigarette, holding the smoke within his lungs as he considers your question. “She’s tryin’ to bleed me dry of cash. That’s all this is. If she really cared, we’d settle shit here.”

“Shit,” you breathe. Sukuna casts a glance at you, but ultimately chooses not to comment on your choice of word. “I really thought this was meant to be the actual trial,” you admit.

Blowing smoke over his head to keep it out of your face, he nods. “I did too. My lawyer explained it last week and I meant to tell ya, but then shit happened and Choso,” he motions his hand lazily through the air before dropping it at his side. “I dunno. I don’t get the point of all this shit.”

“Your lawyer just told you last week that this isn’t the full trial?” You gape. Had Hiromi steered Sukuna in the wrong direction? Shouldn’t he know this?

He shrugs again. “Nah, I just didn’t get it.”

“Oh.” Fiddling with your thumbs, you nod. “So what’s after this?”

Dropping his cigarette on the pavement at his feet, he stomps it out, grinding his foot on it. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he shakes his head, frustrated with the system. “We wait a couple of months until the actual trial.”

“A couple of months?” You’re not sure if their family can make it through waiting a couple more months with Sukuna and Choso acting so distant that even Yuji’s been affected. It’s strange to think that a system meant to take every precaution and is bleeding them dry. Of money, of time, and of life.

Sukuna seems to share your dismay as he adds, “at least we get more time to prepare, I guess.”

Whispering an ‘I guess’ in agreement, you let Sukuna usher you inside with a hand on your lower back. Though he drops his hand as you head through security and check-in with a clerk at a grand wooden desk in the center of the large lobby.

It’s not long before you’re sitting in a couple of uncomfortable wooden chairs in a room full of strangers. Sukuna deliberately sits near a woman with a short brown bob, leafing through paperwork as she reviews the case she’s working on, although he doesn’t say a word to her.

“Is that your lawyer?” You ask, tilting your chin towards the woman beside Sukuna in a pristine-looking suit. She’s the definition of confidence as she flips through what you assume are notes, which helps settle your nerves a bit.

Sukuna nods, clearing his throat. “Yeah, uh, Ms. Harte,” he addresses her before introducing you both.

She smiles warmly at you, extending a professional hand. “Mr. Sukuna mentioned you would be here to support him. I’m glad you could make it,” she shakes your hand firmly.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you greet her in return. Though you have no part in the proceedings, it’s at least nice to know that Sukuna and the boys are in good hands. Sukuna definitely owes Hiromi a favor, though he doesn’t need that reminder now.

“Case number 2493, Sukuna versus Itadori.” A clerk with a clipboard in his hands waits for both parties to join him, and it’s then that you see a face so painfully familiar, yet completely foreign. You’ve never met her, but you recognize her instantly. Choso is a spitting image of Kaori Itadori, with deep umber eyes and dark brown hair. Yuji, on the other hand, clearly got Jin’s genes.

Beside her is a tall man in a full beige suit, sporting a well-kept graying beard. He walks with the same confident gait as Ms. Harte on Sukuna’s opposite side, but he carries himself with an air of superiority that you assume only money can buy. Money that Kaori clearly has, if the massive diamonds adorning her collar are anything to go off of.

Sukuna’s step-mother eyes him with disgust before her gaze trails the length of your form. A chill runs up your spine, sending ice straight through your veins that matches the look in her eyes. She regards you with so much disdain, yet it’s the mild interest that gleams in her eyes that makes your skin crawl.

The clerk leads the way down a hall to a small room labelled ‘Private Meeting Room 2’. Within the room is one long table with a number of chairs on either side. Both parties take their seats on the same side of the table, keeping a small distance between one another. Sukuna’s lawyer advises you to take a seat and keep to the back of the room, as you can’t participate in the discussion.

From your seat, you can see the way Kaori folds her hands in her lap, grinning at her lawyer as she laughs at something he says. The stark contrast to Sukuna’s silence as he leans over the table is immense, but in contrast to the nerves you expected him to have, he keeps a straight face.

In the informal meeting room setting, there’s no need to rise as an older gentleman in judges’ attire enters the room. His pale blond hair thins at the sides of his face, gentle wrinkles accentuating his features. He takes a seat on the opposite end of the table, the soft edges of his eyes crinkling as he evaluates both parties and yourself.

You’re grateful for the intimate setting of the meeting, as it eases your own nerves. While the courthouse itself does no favors to settle the growing discomfort in your stomach, the small room has an almost cozy feel to it. There’s an air to the man before you that he wants to help and understand the case that sits well with you, as well.

“Judge Marcos will be overseeing this case conference this morning in the matter of Sukuna versus Itadori,” the clerk begins the session.

The judge settles back in his chair, clasping his hands over the documents laying in front of him. “The purpose of this conference is to come to a resolution before the matter goes to a trial.” He proceeds to explain that a case conference aims to narrow down issues prior to a trial and that this will be a more open conversation with more wiggle room than a traditional trial. He then confirms that disclosure of all evidence has taken place. With all expectations set on the table, the judge sits back as Kaori’s lawyer begins.

“Your Honor, my name is Richard Cahn and I represent the applicant, Kaori Itadori.”

Ms. Harte follows suit at Sukuna’s side, sitting upright to introduce herself as the counsel for Sukuna, the respondent.

“Counsel for the applicant, please begin.”

With the court, if you can even call the small meeting room that, now in session, mounting tension fills the air. It’s overbearing, the way the gravity in the room seems to drag down on every person in the room, yourself included.

“Your Honor, my client is seeking sole guardianship with no visitation rights of her children Choso Itadori and Yuji Itadori. We have reason to believe that Mr. Sukuna is a negative influence on the children for a number of reasons and it is Ms. Itadori’s maternal right as their mother to raise her children,” Mr. Cahn begins without faltering, introducing their points succinctly.

Clearing her throat, Ms. Harte responds with equal clarity. “Your Honor, my client is more than fit to be their guardian, as he has demonstrated over the past three years. The children’s needs are met, they are in school, and Mr. Sukuna has a clear record with no need to raise any concern regarding his abilities. My client would like to remain in sole custody of the children, however he is open to Ms. Itadori having visitation rights as their mother.”

Of course, she left out the part where that portion is much to his dismay and he’d only grant that right at the request of the kids. That’s not for the opening statements, though.

Much like Sukuna anticipated, Kaori is unwilling to cooperate. Every single option is shut down before the conversation can begin. Although he remains as an unbiased third party, even the judge seems somewhat perturbed at the obvious disdain shared between Sukuna and Kaori. Their dislike of one another runs far deeper than even that of most ex spouses that end up in this room.

What starts as a polite and orderly conversation primarily between the lawyers quickly devolves into some sort of familial tension that clearly extends beyond the courtroom. You can’t see either of their faces from your position at the back of the room, but you can feel the heat radiating from Sukuna as he seethes through each deceitfully polite performance from Kaori, but even she begins to crack when Sukuna pushes back.

“Your Honor, with all due respect, I won’t tolerate any settlements. I don’t feel comfortable leaving my children in the hands of my step-son,” Kaori repeats herself for what feels like the fifth time as the judge attempts to find a middle-ground, but she’s completely unwilling to budge. Even visitation rights for Sukuna seem to be so far off the table they may as well be six feet in the ground, along with any love she may have had for her step-son.

“You didn’t have a problem with it when I couldn’t reach you three years ago,” Sukuna quips, his anger clear through his tone although he remains even. He may be anxious as hell and equally furious, but knowing that this is all for naught and his lawyer may as well be a bill whose total increases by the second, his frustrations grow fiery.

“Ryomen, we’ve provided all the medical documents that were requested as proof of my illness and I would appreciate if you didn’t dismiss them.”

“Oh, bullshit!” Sukuna finally bursts, slamming his hand flat on the table.

“Mr. Sukuna,” the judge warns sternly, leaning over the table. “I expect proper courtroom etiquette, even here. We’re here to discuss the matters at hand, not your opinions of the applicant.”

Sukuna’s chest rises and falls as he physically bites his tongue to keep from saying something he’ll regret. Leaning back in his chair, he casts a glance at the door, desperate to escape from this room. Unlike the rest of the legal proceedings, this whole conference just serves to piss him off.

“Apologies, Your Honor, my client is simply stressed as he cares very deeply for his brothers,” Ms. Harte steps in, clearing her throat to put Sukuna’s thoughts into a court-approved statement. “While my client was unaware that Ms. Itadori was ill, he did use multiple methods of contact to reach out, and Ms. Itadori didn’t respond.” Turning to address Kaori, she clasps her hands together. “Should it not be your responsibility to inform your step-son and husband of your new contact?”

Kaori’s lawyer pipes in. “As we stated earlier, she was required to change all contact information and moved closer to her office upon starting with her new company. She shared her contact information with her husband, however it seems he didn’t share this information with Mr. Sukuna, or save her updated number before passing.”

The tattooed brute has to physically mask his scoff. He coughs into his elbow, shaking his head. He’d called from both his cell and his dad’s cell, he’d sent letters both from him and Choso, he’d emailed, and even searched social media. How convenient that she somehow had everything accounted for. That’s not even mentioning the additional money Sukuna spent to have land titles for her name pulled just to see if she had purchased new property, only to come up blank.

She had completely and utterly dropped off the face of the earth. As far as Sukuna was concerned back then, she made her position on her family clear.

As far as Sukuna is concerned now, he’ll do everything in his power to show her not to fuck with him. He doesn’t care how much his chest tightens, he doesn’t care if it feels as though he’s watching everything around him as nothing more than an observer outside of his own body. He doesn’t care if his mental health suffers for all the shit she’s putting him through.

He’ll move heaven and earth to save his brothers from her.

The judge frowns, having heard this argument already. The meeting room is running in circles like a dog chasing its own tail, they were never going to get anywhere at this rate.

“Mr. Sukuna did his due diligence and has taken care of the children for three years, they are healthy and cared for and there is no evidence against-”

“I’ll believe that when I see the house study,” Kaori interrupts, the first phrase to come from her that feels genuine as she diverts her attention to a small window at the edge of the room. Sukuna’s hand balls into a fist on the table.

“Ms. Itadori. Let the respondent finish.”

“Thank you, Your Honor. There is no evidence to disprove my client’s ability to care for the children. No one has ever expressed any concern to him. The children attend school with good attendance and have remained healthy over the years. Mr. Sukuna earns more than enough to keep a roof over their heads and put food on the table,” Ms. Harte continues.

“Your Honor,” Mr. Cahn addresses the judge. “I would like to see the house study before coming to any conclusions.”

Sukuna sighs, leaning back further in his chair. Kaori’s lawyer had pushed for a rush assessment, but even with the rush, it isn’t meant to be ready anytime soon.

“My son Choso has always been easily influenced, and I worry while he’s under Sukuna’s care.”

Sukuna’s fist hits the table. “Please-” he gripes.

“Mr. Sukun-” The judge tries to interject, but it’s no use.

“You never cared, you’re just feeding them the bullshit they want to hear!” He snarls, flipping in his chair to face her. “You care about them about as much as you care about me!”

“Mr. Sukuna. I understand being emotional in this situation, but I will not allow this behavior to continue. We will proceed without you if you feel the need to act without respect.”

Sukuna shoots Kaori one last glare before sitting back in his chair. He’s not doing himself any favors by lashing out, but he can’t help but feel as though this entire system is playing a game against him and he isn’t even aware of it. It’s as though everyone is a puppet in Kaori’s little game and the kids are prizes to be won.

Rubbing his eyes, the tattooed man sighs. “Sorry… Your Honor.”

“Ryomen, I’ve always cared about you,” Kaori sends him a disingenuous look of sympathy. Her lips curl into a false smile, but to any outsider, Sukuna knows it would appear genuine.

Even to you, it’s hard to tell.

Gritting his teeth, Sukuna keeps his gaze set dead ahead. If he doesn’t keep his cool, he knows he’ll be thrown out of the room. “Do you know when I realized you didn’t give a shit about me?”

“Watch your language,” Ms. Harte warns quietly at his side in an attempt to keep the judge at bay.

The conversation doesn’t exactly pertain to the case, but the judge remains silent. Sukuna’s question is met with no opposition.

Kaori swallows, watching with a furrowed brow as Sukuna’s adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “Dad told me to go find you at my grandfather’s funeral. He was cryin’, needed some time alone. Do you remember where you were?”

Kaori’s eyes flicker down to the table. Her tongue swipes across her lower lip before she bites it momentarily.

“Do you remember where you were?” Sukuna pushes in a growl now, leaning over the table.

“Objection, Your Honor, this is not pertinent to the case,” Kaori’s lawyer speaks up, setting his foot down as he realizes that this doesn’t bode well in their favor.

“Where were you, Kaori?” He snarls, his voice gravelly as he grips the arm of his chair with white knuckles.

“Objection sustained. Mr. Sukuna, stay focused please.”

Sitting back harshly in his chair, Sukuna’s practically shaking. You may not be able to speak, but certainly as his support person, you can support him, right? Gingerly, you slide your chair forward quietly, wincing as it scrapes lightly against the floor. It catches Kaori’s attention as she shoots you a glare. You have half a mind to shoot that same glare back but that’s not important right now.

Close enough to reach Sukuna, you slip your hand over his much larger one that still grips the arm of his chair. Your fingers slide between his, slotting so easily into place as though they belong there. Your heart does a flip at the thought, but you keep your attention fixed on Sukuna and his needs.

From the corner of his eye, he glances down at your hands. His chest continues to heave in frustration, but as the conversation rolls back around to the subject of the kids and points begin getting reiterated and repeated until Sukuna’s hardly even paying attention anymore, he finds himself beginning to calm down. His shoulders gradually slouch, his fingers folding over yours as he gives your hand a grateful squeeze.

Kaori should be grateful to you, because Sukuna’s sure he would have torn into her if you weren’t here. He would have been thrown out, sure, but at least for once he might get answers to his own mistreatment by his step-mother.

How can the judge not see that the information is relevant? He huffs to himself, earning a couple of looks, but no one mentions it.

After hearing about Sukuna’s supposed inability to care for the kids for the fourth time, the judge finally raises a white flag.

“Coming up on the end of our time, I see we aren’t getting anywhere. A trial date will be scheduled for after the house study is received. Any further evidence must be submitted via the official disclosure process both to the court and each party.”

Your friend sighs at your side. Another two hours of his lawyer’s time. Another bill. More money down the drain. He knew how this would play out from the beginning.

“I would suggest you continue mediation between now and then to see if you can come to an agreement. I encourage you to attempt to understand one another outside of the court,” the judge adds, but Sukuna can’t even bear to look at Kaori. It’s of no use, and everyone within the room is well aware.

“I will issue my endorsement for a trial in writing. This matter is now adjourned.”

Breathing out a disdainful sigh, Sukuna squeezes your hand once, before untangling his fingers from yours as he pushes up out of the chair. It’s hard to get a read on him as you follow him out of the meeting room into the lobby. Standing off to the side, you allow him a few minutes to speak with his lawyer, watching the way he seems painfully frustrated as he lazily shrugs his shoulders. Even from this angle you can tell every time he rolls his eyes.

As Kaori and her lawyer approach Sukuna, his shoulders tense.

“I’m sorry the circumstances couldn’t be better, but it’s good to see you aga-”

“Don’t pretend like you give a fuck!” Sukuna barks, turning heads. Your eyes widen as all attention is suddenly on your group. Even standing off to the side, you find yourself shrinking away from the prying eyes.

“Ryomen, you know this isn’t what I wanted,” Kaori replies evenly, easily keeping her cool under Sukuna’s searing gaze.

He scoffs, waving his hand through the air in exasperation. Always the picture of a calm and perfect wife, of course she had Sukuna’s father wrapped around her finger while she went off and did her own thing. Jin could never be that upset with her so long as she batted her lashes and doubled down on her innocence.

“I don’t fuckin’ know what you want,” he mutters, laughing dryly as he casts his gaze to the side of the courthouse. His voice returns to a reasonable level, though it drips with venom. “So, what the fuck is it, then? You want money, you want to tear me down because I know what you fuckin’ did?”

His step-mother’s eyes darken in such a subtle way that an outsider might not even realize her smile is a facade. Nothing more than painted lines on a meaningless canvas. You can’t help the way a shiver runs up your spine as you slowly make your way back to Sukuna’s side when you notice security is keeping a watchful eye on him for any more disruptions. He should consider himself lucky he’s even still in the building at this rate.

Settling beside your friend, you can feel just how red hot his fury is. Kaori casts a curious once-over of your form as you stand alongside her step-son with a curious smile that doesn’t go unnoticed by Sukuna as he steps between you. He knows he asked you to be here, but he’s not about to let Kaori say a single damn word to you. You may be his support, but you won’t be involved in whatever lies she’s brewing.

You can only blink in surprise as Sukuna’s hand finds your forearm without glancing back, keeping you safely behind him where she can’t even so much as glimpse at you. Blinking up at him, you can only make out the edges of his tattoos and a glint of the uneasiness that sidles his anger.

“That was a long time ago, Ryomen. I want us to be able to move past that.”

“Yeah? Is that why we’re here? To move past everything?” He hisses in a mocking tone, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

“You wouldn’t have cooperated if I tried to work with you on this, sweetheart.”

Even from your spot behind him, you don’t miss the way your friend visibly recoils at the term of endearment. “Don’t fucking call me that,” he hisses.

“Mr. Sukuna, I think it’s in our best interest-” Ms. Harte makes an attempt to de-escalate the situation, to no avail.

“You don’t give a shit, do you?” Sukuna blows past his lawyer’s warning, his voice rising in decibels. “Cho and Yu don’t want this!”

Kaori remains eerily calm as she shoots Sukuna the most fake sympathetic stare you’ve possibly ever witnessed. “They’re kids. They’re too young to know what they want.”

“They’re smart!” Sukuna barks.

Stern voices sound behind you and you cast a glance at the quickly incoming security guards, where Sukuna will surely be ushered out.

Not that he cares at this particular moment. “They don’t care about you! They don’t even know you!” He continues, his jaw tightening. “You never even fucking visited! Don’t you know how many Christmases Cho spent asking if you called or mailed something?” Sukuna waves his hand through the air, his eyes wild with rage. If Kaori’s affected by his words at all, it’s carefully masked. “You fucked your own family!”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” a large man in a black security vest is followed closely by two other equally large men as they approach the brutish man in front of you.

In such a blind rage, their words don’t even register to Sukuna.

“If you gave a single shit about Jin, about any of us, you would have been there for the funeral,” he snarls, his chest heaving.

The security guards slowly advance towards Sukuna as Kaori replies. “I wanted to be there. I wish I could have been.”

The lawyers continue to try to defuse the situation, all the while the security guards’ intensity increases as they get infinitely closer to grabbing him and physically throwing him out. The guards may be big, but you can only imagine a man like Sukuna is still daunting.

Setting your hand on his back, Sukuna straightens, casting a glance at the guards that he’s now overly aware of, only to realize it’s not their hand. His head whips towards you as he gains clarity on the situation, his crimson eyes blazing with rage. Subtly leaning into your touch, he raises his hands in surrender, addressing the guards.

“I’m leavin’,” he mutters, his hands falling down to his side with a plop as they collide with his slacks on either side. “Thanks, Ms. Harte,” he mutters as he turns to make his way out.

The security guards follow him closely, tensing as he turns back to Kaori for one moment, his tongue poking into the side of his cheek as he contemplates something. “I didn’t tell him, by the way.” He examines her face, some sick form of satisfaction pooling in his chest as her mask breaks for a moment. Her eyes widen slightly, her lips parting, but Sukuna doesn’t want to hear whatever she has to say.

You cast a glance between the two, not daring to ask any questions with Sukuna ready to blow a fuse.

Stalking through the security checkpoint at the front of the building, he pushes the large wooden doors with enough force to cause them to slam on their hinges as you follow him out into the cool outdoor air.

“Fuck!” He barks straight up at the clouds above, dragging his hands through his hair as he stares up at the overcast sky. His fingers tangle in the pink locks, tousling the strands as more hair falls out of place. “She’s such a fucking-” He cuts himself off, only because you’re still at his side. Huffing loudly, he leans over the masonry fence at the edge of the stairs out front of the courthouse, his hands covering his face.

You’re silent as he remains there for a moment, coming up slowly beside him. Leaning on your hip against the smooth brick beside him, you peer over at him.

Sensing your presence, Sukuna’s hands drop, crossing over one another out in front of him. Letting out a breath, he absently cracks his knuckles, staring at the bare winter trees that extend in front of you. His chest heaves with every breath he lets out, his muscles tensing with each time he barely holds back the choice words he wants to say about his step-mother.

You stay silent at his side, offering quiet comfort in your presence, but it’s your hand on his bicep that truly calms him. His entire demeanor shifts as your hand gently rubs up and down his arm in a soothing motion. With one long inhalation, he tilts his head to look up at you.

He’s not sure why he expects to see a look of disappointment. Deep down, some part of him expects you to retreat back into your shell after he caused a scene, but you only peer down at him with understanding and what might even be grief. He’s not sure why he would even suspect you to regard him with disappointment when that’s not who you are. You get him.

His brow furrows further the longer he stares at you, growing frustrated with himself for projecting his own negative thoughts onto you.

“What’s on your mind?” You query at the sight of his glower.

Averting his gaze, he shakes his head. “Nothing.” He shifts slightly into your touch, reaching up to rub your hand with his opposite one. With one last pat on your skin, he stands upright, rolling his shoulders back as he turns away from you to face the courthouse with a huff. “I should let you head back,” he mutters, barely audible.

“Actually, um-” you pause, shamelessly watching the way he raises a large, veiny hand to his shoulder to attempt to rub at a knot in his muscles. Tearing your gaze away, you push down the uneasy flip that your stomach does at the realization that the grumpy man standing in front of you has changed and even if things are never the same as they once were, you’re happy to stand by and support him and his family. After all, you don’t need to let him carve the same place in your heart that he once had, right? He can be important to you without holding such a big piece of your love.

If anything, maybe the distance between you will help you overcome your feelings and be what he clearly needs.

A friend.

It may hurt to know your feelings aren’t reciprocated, but you’re happy to hold him dear as a friend if it’s all you ever are to one another. Once you overcome your infatuation, you’re sure you can find a comfortable place within his life that makes sense for you both, rather than hoping for something that will never work.

As you hesitate with the mess in your mind, Sukuna turns to face you, raising a brow expectantly.

“Sorry, um- did you want to grab lunch? I’m hungry.”

His eyes widen briefly at your offer. Not an offer for help, or support for his siblings or what he’s going through. Just an offer to hang out. To be friendly.

He’d have to be an idiot to say no.

“I, uh- I can’t really afford lunch. I’ll just-”

“I’ll pay,” you offer without thinking twice.

His brow furrows as frustration crosses his features.

But he’d have to be an idiot to say no.

“Sure. What’d you have in mind?” He gruffs in spite of his standoffish expression.

“A new ramen place opened up near me that I’ve been wanting to try but their hours are awful so I can never go after class or work, but I bet they’re actually open right now.”

“Whatever you want,” he agrees. “Lead the way, princess.”

As you shyly avert your eyes at the nickname with a sweet smile crossing your lips, two things occur to Sukuna as he follows behind you to your car.

The first; he’s never considered himself a particularly lucky man, but when it comes to your place in his life, he may have won the lottery. He can still see your walls, he knows he hasn’t patched the bridge that stands between you, but at least if he treads carefully you’re still there and for that he’s beyond grateful.

And the second; no matter how tense his muscles are, no matter how empty his bank account is, no matter how badly he wants to tear into Kaori in a courtroom and have the judge take his word for how shitty she is, you still manage to make him smile.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

❦ a/n ; i put together some husband!wyk!sukuna headcanons if you wanted to check those out here and i put together a playlist here <33

helloooo!! thanks for all the patience with the delay between chapters, i appreciate it <33 it gave me the time to not only write out both ch13 and 14, but also ensure they fit well with one another and all the details make sense.

a lot of research went into this and i want to thank my two absolutely lovely followers @/aagathokakologicall and @/notcharliw for all their help with the legal details as well! information on proceedings isn't super readily available and they were a huge help! i also took a few liberties to try to make sure the processes are easy to follow and interesting for the audience, so hopefully i've pulled that off here! i was hoping to land somewhere between tv drama and realism.

if you notice any errors in the legal processes... no you didn't :) LMAO

i say it every time and will continue to say it: thank you so much as always for all the love for wyk <33 it makes my day and it's a big driving factor in my motivation to write, so thank you. i appreciate you all and i hope you enjoyed 🫶

❦ taglist ; OPEN. please comment here or on the masterlist if you would like to be tagged. age MUST be easily visible on your blog.

@yenayaps @kunascutie @aiicpansion @fushitoru @gojoscumslut

@hellish4ever @cuntyji @theonlyhonoredone @catobsessedlady @timetoletmyimaginationfly

@clp-84 @coffee-and-geto @candyluvsboba @favvkiki @gojodickbig

@spindyl @ohmykwonsoonyoung @kyo-kyo1 @officialholyagua @jeonwiixard

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redwing4life · 1 year ago

Text

Home Cooked Meal

CHAPTER 4 | ASHES TO EMBERS

can be read as a stand alone :)

PAIRING: Firefighter!Neighbour!Bucky x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: Smut (finally) - dirty talk, pet names, oral f and m receiving, fingering, tit play, praise kink, hand kink?, ball play, hair pulling, unprotected PinV sex, aftercare, reader and bucky have dinner, swearing, fluff, let me know if i missed anything!

SUMMARY: You surprise Bucky with a home cooked meal after his shift, and it’s the best damn thing he’s had in years. The pasta was pretty good too.

WORD COUNT: 10550 (ngl i rechecked this three times cuz i didn’t think i wrote this much but turns out i did in fact write over 10k words im sorry lmao)

PREVIOUS CHAPTER // NEXT CHAPTER

Call me when you get home x

Your text still sits on Bucky’s lock screen, read but not opened, as he gets changed out of his work clothes.

It’s fair to say that the message intrigued him when he first read it half an hour ago, just before he left the firehouse. His legs sped up your building stairwell faster than normal, desperate to find out why you’re awaiting his call.

Knowing you would have said so if you were in immediate danger, Bucky sifts through the multitude of possibilities that await him on the other side of the ring tone; none of which ease the butterflies in his stomach.

He walks to his kitchen, phone in hand, to get a glass of orange juice. Pulling up your contact page, he presses ‘call’ and grabs the carton of juice from the fridge door.

You answer after just one ring, eager to hear his voice.

“Hey, Barnes!” God, Bucky loves your voice.

“Doll.” His voice is soft, tone rising at the end with curiosity. “You asked me to call, what’s up?”

The firefighter swoons at the adorable giggle you let out, the sound distant from the mic as though you’ve tried to hide it. “I was worried you didn’t see my text.” You admit.

Bucky pictures you biting your lip anxiously, an accurate prediction for your current state.

“What are you doing right now?”

Glancing down at the yet-to-be-filled glass in front of him, Bucky leans a hand against the kitchen island. “Just about to get a drink, what are-“

“Don’t!” You cut in. “Don’t get a drink, I need you to come over.”

“What, now? What’s wrong?”

“Nothings wrong, James. Just come knock, okay? I’ll see you in a minute!”

And with that, the call cuts off with a dull beep; Bucky brings the phone down from his ear and stares at it in confusion. You’re being weird, never having hung up on him like that before.

Alpine meows from above the fridge, drawing her owner’s attention away from the phone, only to tilt her head at him.

Even Alps is confused.

Deciding to just do what you told, Bucky slips his phone into the pocket of his dark jeans, returns the orange juice to the fridge and sets off for the front door. He finds himself checking over his appearance in the entry way mirror, eyes scanning over his outfit before he smooths out his hair.

Although he won’t admit it, Bucky’s spent a lot more time in front of that mirror lately; checking his collar isn’t twisted, his hair isn’t too messy and there’s nothing stuck in his teeth. The need to look good, to look good for you, hasn’t gone unnoticed by his colleagues.

He considers using the spare key you gave him and letting himself into your apartment but shakes the thought away.

She asked you to knock, Bucky. Not break in.

With one final nod in the mirror, Bucky leaves his apartment, stepping into the hallway he’s spent so many mornings and nights in with you.

Old jazz music greets his ears when he approaches your door, the soft melody sneaking through the cracks of the door frame. Bucky smiles to himself at the thought of you dancing in your kitchen, heart warming when he notices your humming.

Knocking thrice, the firefighter steps back and nervously stuffs his hands into his pockets. You always make him nervous, those darn butterflies stirring in his stomach whenever he’s about to see you. And when he does see you. Actually, they’re there even when he imagines seeing you.

He takes a breath when he hears you shuffling up to the door, but nothing could prepare him for the sight when it swings open.

Rusty red fabric flows from your neckline to the middle of your thighs, small flowers dotted over the slightly orange colour. Two thin straps perched on your shoulders leave plenty of skin on show as your usual sun-pendant necklace sits between the v-neck of your dress. Which, by the way, perfectly presents the soft swell of your breasts.

It takes everything Bucky has to not drool at his breathtaking neighbour, but it takes even more to not dive on you and finally taste those pink lips.

Your skin is ablaze beneath his eyes and you revel in his reaction, the exact response you wanted when you pulled on the dress two hours ago.

“We’re matching.” You grin, taking a moment to enjoy Bucky’s red henley.

“It’s almost like we planned it.” A chuckle escapes him, eyes trailing up from your thighs to meet yours.

“Speaking of plans,” You reach out to pull Bucky closer, tugging his forearms until he pulls his hands out of his pockets, “I have a surprise for you.”

Is it letting me look at you in that dress all evening? Your neighbour thinks - hopes - as you lead him into your apartment.

Closing the door behind him, you take his hand in yours once more to guide him to your little kitchen/diner area. If you weren’t looking ahead, you’d see Bucky’s cheeks flushed pink at your touch. Seeing your hand encompassed with his own will never fail to drive him crazy.

When he eventually looks up from your joined hands, he’s stunned to a halt. You turn back to him when you feel him plant his feet and your features twist into a nervous expression.

“I- Doll, what is all this?” The firefighters eyes are wide at your ‘surprise’.

Your small dining table is set up for two; cream place mats lay beneath charcoal gray pasta dishes with wine glasses sitting at their corners. There’s even a little vase with pink and yellow tulips in between the two spaces.

“Well, remember that time when you told me you haven’t had a proper home cooked meal in years?” You watch Bucky closely as you speak, waiting for some sign of approval.

“You mean this morning?” He turns to you in wonder, thinking back to your conversation as he gave you a lift to the cafe. “I don’t know what to say, doll.”

You roll back on your heels, hands scrunching your dress at your sides. “Is it okay? I know it’s a little cheesy and it’s last minute but I thought it would be a nice surprise for you after working all day. I mean, it’s not exactly at your home but it’s pretty cl-“

Bucky takes two long strides towards you and brings his hands to cup your cheeks; your words die on your tongue when he looks down at you with tender eyes.

“It’s perfect, Y/n.” He smiles, stroking his thumb over your cheek bone. “You could feed me Alpine’s food and i’d still bow at your feet, sweets.”

Now you’re the one blushing. You heart skips when Bucky’s eyes drop to your lips with hunger in his gaze.

“Always so good to me, aren’t ya?” His words tempt a whimper from deep within you, a submissive whine held back by the last of your restraint.

“Well-“

The oven beeps, its sharp tone darting between your bodies and making you step back from Bucky’s hold.

“Uhh” Your mind is all over the place as the firefighter watches you with amusement, “I- I should, I mean- the pasta must be-“

“Go, doll.” Bucky shakes his head laughing quietly.

Your dress sways as you spin away to the stove, stirring various pots and tidying up the counters. Your neighbour watches you in awe, unashamedly enjoying the view; you just look so goddamn sexy in that cute little dress while you cook for him. He wishes he could come home to this every night.

“You need a hand with anything, doll?” Bucky’s voice sounds from behind you.

“Actually, yeah!” You glance over your shoulder. “Come here.”

If you keep bossing him about, Bucky’s gonna struggle not to tear that sweet little sundress right off you.

Settling in at your side, Bucky cocks his head. “What d’ya need?”

You scoop some of the creamy tomato sauce onto a spoon and bring it to Bucky’s lips. “Try this for me.”

With bated breath, you watch his full lips wrap around the end of the spoon, his eyes bearing into yours as he drags the sauce into his mouth.

Bucky has no business looking as dirty as he does in this moment; you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows before his tongue juts out to catch a few missed drops. And just when you thought your panties would survive the sight, a moan ripples from his throat and you clench around nothing at the sound.

“Good?” You murmur, hoping he doesn’t notice when you cross your legs.

He notices.

“Delicious,” Bucky takes the spoon from your hand and stretches across you to place it back in the pan, his right hand brushing against the small of your back, “you did great, sweets.”

Fuck. Me.

You regather your composure and ask Bucky to get the wine from the fridge. He pours you both a glass, setting them back on the dining table gently before returning the bottle to its home.

“Hey, could you bring the bowls over, please?” You call over your shoulder.

You plate up the sauce coated pasta while Bucky places the dirty pans in the sink, both working around each other like a fine tuned machine.

Before you can do it yourself, Bucky is picking up the bowls and laying them on the place mats, winking at you as he does so. He pulls your chair out for you, nodding for you to join him.

“For you, Madame.” He jokes, allowing you to sit down while tucking you in.

You watch him round the table and take his own seat. “And they say chivalry is dead.”

Bucky grins at you. The orange glow of sunset shines through your windows, catching your features with grace. Your eyes shine beneath the light and Bucky can’t help but find you angelic.

“You’re beautiful, doll. I don’t know if I said that earlier but, god, you look stunning tonight.”

Dropping your head, you play with the hem of your dress shyly. Your hair falls into your face, forcing you to push it behind your ears, though Bucky wishes he was close enough to do it himself.

With rose tinted cheeks, you look up at Bucky through your lashes. “You say that to all your neighbours, Barnes?” You raise a brow with your teasing voice.

Bucky throws his head back and laughs heartily, a sound you’ve come to adore.

“Only the ones who cook for me.” He winks.

“Doesn’t Ms Scott bring you pies every couple weeks?”

“And I tell her she looks ravishing every time.”

You giggle and tell Bucky to dig in, though you could happily sit and talk all night. While you both stop every now and then for a forkful of food, conversation bounces between you as it always does.

Tonight isn’t much different to a typical evening with the firefighter next door; usually you share some snacks and beers, cozying up on the couch as you watch tv. It’s become ritual for you to send Bucky a video of you playing the piano each evening, his phone playing the video on loop as he sleeps. It’s strange, but the music creeps into his dreams and keeps them peaceful, keeps him away from that burning building.

It’s been a few weeks since the night he was sent home early. Both you and Bucky felt a shift that night; waking up in his arms left you craving more, though you’ve yet to tell him as much. You left him sleeping peacefully that morning when you left for work with only a couple hours of sleep under your belt.

Bucky hated waking up to find the other side of his bed empty, no longer feeling your heat. The note you left him eased the disappointment slightly, your neat handwriting promising to come back in your breaks. Neither of you have addressed how right it felt to sleep beside each other that night, despite spending all of your free time together with unspoken words hanging over you.

Instead, you dance around each other like two ghosts doomed to never touch. The bond between you is stronger than any you’ve ever had, the magnetic lure undeniable for you both.

Your glasses have been emptied and refilled twice now - dinner long since been finished - and you’re starting to feel the buzz; those butterflies in your stomach have turned into a swarm of confidence, your brain taking a backseat from its usual overthinking.

“You expect me to believe that you broke down the door before Sam could? The same guy who beat you at your physical a few weeks back?” You tease the brunette, a challenging brow raised at his rather unimpressed face.

“What are you trying to say there, doll?”

Bucky’s jaw clenches when you tilt your head slightly, eyes shining with amusement beneath the exposed hanging light bulbs.

“Nothing to worry your cute little head about.” You watch Bucky relax into his chair slightly as you reach for your glass with a smirk. “Just that I doubt Sam has any difficulty kicking a door down, not with the way he’s built.”

The scoff to end all scoffs ripples from your neighbours throat; his bright blue orbs glare into you and his features twist into a scowl. Oh if looks could kill…

Bucky’s tone is flat, “Didn’t know you were such an admirer of Wilson’s build, Y/n.”

The lack of a pet name sends your confidence wavering, but not enough to keep you from having a little fun.

“Well, you know,” You bring the glass to your lips, “he’s hardly difficult to miss.”

Watching the deep ruby liquid pass over your lips, Bucky fights to hide the fury that’s flooding his veins, forced to look away from your smug grin.

He knows, he knows, that you’re lying through your teeth, trying to get a rise out of his usually impenetrable facade, and yet he can’t help but feel jealous.

Bucky’s painfully aware that he has no right to feel so possessive, not when he lays no claim to you. But the twist of his stomach is proof that he doesn’t much care.

“Maybe I should just give you his number and you can cook him a meal next time.” Bucky grumbles.

“Oh, that’s alright, I already have his number.”

You’ve never seen Bucky’s head snap up as quickly as it just did, his gaze pinning you to your spot.

“You what?”

Gently, you place your glass back on the table. “Yeah, Steve gave him my number last week so he could get in touch.”

The fire in those blue eyes burns brighter with each word, his body so still that his chest is barely moving when he breathes. In fact, you’re not even sure if he is breathing. Hell, he’s not even sure if he’s breathing.

“Is that right?” Bucky’s gruff voice is laced with possessiveness, the low tone travelling straight to your panties till you swear you feel yourself throb. You wonder briefly if you have a jealousy kink and the sweet arousal dripping from your cunt only confirms your suspicions.

“Mhm.” You hum in response, “In fact, i’m going out for coffee with him next week.”

“Huh.”

Bucky’s chair screeches against the hardwood floor as he pushes himself back. You follow his movements with amused eyes when he stands up and grabs your plates before storming to the kitchen. You twist in your chair, watching him place the dishes in the sink and flick on the tap.

“James, what are you doing?” You ask.

“What does it look like i’m doing?” Oh he’s grumpy, grumpy.

Bucky’s shoulders are tense beneath his tight henley, his sleeves now rolled up as he starts scrubbing at the plates. It’s quiet while he concentrates on his work, only accompanied by the music still flowing from your speaker.

From the corner of his eye, the firefighter sees you rise from your chair, ears honed in on the sound of your feet pattering towards him.

It’s now hard for Bucky to focus on anything but your breath on his neck, goosebumps littered across his skin like a rash. You stand right behind him, tracing your fingers up from the small of his back; Bucky’s muscles tense momentarily before melting at your touch, just like always.

“Ask me why i’m seeing Sam next week.” You order, hands still roaming the taut fabric on Bucky’s back. The command makes him pause and clench his eyes shut. Why are you making him talk about this when it’s tearing him apart?

The brunette turns in your hold but you don’t release him, instead settling your hands on his waist.

“Why are you seeing him, doll?” Bucky sounds despondent, brows furrowed in confusion as he looks down at you.

“He asked me to teach his nephews to play the piano, Buck. I’m meeting him and the boys on Wednesday, Sarah too.”

A shocked ‘What’ tumbles from his lips as the information sinks in, his frown slowly falling away as he processes your words.

“Yeah…” You grin, though it’s more like a smirk, content with yourself proving he was jealous.

In a desperate attempt to save his ego, Bucky rolls his eyes playfully. “I knew you weren’t really attracted to that dumbass.”

You scoff and pat his chest lightly. “Sure you did, Barnes. Now scoot, you wash ‘em, i’ll dry ‘em.”

With his hands on his hips, he stays still as you nudge your way to his side, stretching to the window sill where your dish towels lay. Bucky’s never been in this position before, it’s always him who’s teasing you; this is new territory for him and it irks him that you riled him up so easily.

Once he shakes his head clear, the firefighter returns to face the sink and starts washing the dishes again. You wait patiently while he works, humming along to whichever song is playing.

“You like the old stuff, huh doll?” Bucky grins warmly at the slight sway of your hips, your radiance beaming like a lantern.

You giggle sheepishly and bite your lip, unknowingly sending Bucky spiralling. “I thought it was fitting for tonight, really leaning into the whole ‘housewife’ role.”

He raises a brow, “Does that make me your doting husband then, sweets?”

Realising what you said, your cheeks heat up instantly and your eyes widen. You attempt to backtrack but your words stumble over one another as though you’re a little school girl.

Bucky, however, is basking in the familiarity of control; your rosy cheeks never fail to bring a smile to his face, and boy is he beaming right now.

“I meant- It’s- You know what I meant, James.” You shoot daggers at him, though the idea of being married to your neighbour sends your heart into overdrive.

That swoon-worthy laugh greets your ears with haste, Bucky’s eyes crinkled at the corners as his chest reverberates with its force. It’s impossible to bite back the grin that’s fighting its way onto your lips.

Small tendrils of chestnut hair tumble from behind his ears, begging to be pushed back, but the buzz from the wine has dulled and you can’t find the confidence to do it, no matter how much Bucky’s eyes are pleading you to.

“You know, it’s sweet of you to teach the boys how to play.” He looks at you in adoration, the image of you spending time with Sam’s nephews triggering a warmth to spread in his chest.

A breathy laugh escapes you as your gaze falls to the kitchen counter. You blush at the compliment and slowly start drying the dishes again.

“Do you spend much time with them?” You ask with a brief glance his way.

Bucky shrugs, “Yeah, Sarah is always throwing barbecues for the squad. They’re good kids, and I bet they’ll love you!”

“Oh God, I hope so. I’ve never taught before and i’m scared they’ll hate me and i’ll destroy their dreams and-” You ramble away without noticing the frown tugging at your neighbours brows.

“Teach me.”

Huh?

“What?” You freeze.

“You said you’ve never taught before,” Bucky steps closer to you, his cologne swarming around you like a warm hug, “so practise on me. Teach me something.”

You almost laugh at his words, mind immediately jumping to the conclusion that he’s joking. But Bucky doesn’t move, his blue eyes study your own, body so still that you fail to conjure a laugh. He’s not joking.

Hesitation is written across your features, drawing a single shake of Bucky’s head. “Come on, sweets. Please? For me?” He pleads.

“Okay.”

It’s scary how quickly you succumb to Bucky’s wishes; you fear you’d do awful things if only he asked and you’d even do it with a smile. You’re so doomed.

With a triumphant grin, Bucky plucks the dish cloth and plate from your grasp and carefully places them on the sink’s edge, before taking your hand in his and guiding you to your piano.

Nerves prickling beneath your skin, you trail behind him and silently revel in his touch. It’s hard to not stare at his perfect body as you stumble around furniture, the sharp muscles of his shoulders rippling as he tugs you with him. Flicking off the speaker on the way, you fall onto the small piano stool beside Bucky, and with such little room, your left thigh is pressed up against his. The solid curve of his muscles prod into your flesh and yet despite the fluttering it causes in your stomach, you’re far more focused on his hands.

From the bulge of his toned biceps to the trail of prominent veins in his forearms, your eyes drag down Bucky’s arms till you pause at the sight of his large hands. They lay spread across the span of his thighs, his right pinky finger mere atoms away from your exposed skin where your dress has ridden up. You find yourself craving the sparks that alight with his touch, so you adjust your position to make sure your leg brushes against his hand.

It certainly hasn’t gone amiss to the firefighter that you’ve taken a liking to his hands. Sure, he’s caught you staring at them before, but the hunger in your gaze right now is greater than ever.

The corner of Bucky’s lip turns up into a smirk as he reaches for your hands once more, lifting them to rest on the ivory keys of your piano.

“Wanna hear you play me something before you give me a lesson.” He admits, his words more of a demand than a question.

When you fail to respond, still caught up in scanning the crevices of his calloused hands, Bucky nudges your shoulder.

You shake your head with a dazed frown, “Huh?”

A playful chuckle falls from his pink lips, “I said play me something, sweets, before you start teachin’ me.”

You giggle sheepishly, sighing an ‘Oh’ before you gather your thoughts. Bucky returns his hands to his lap - a movement you struggle to ignore - giving you free rein of the instrument.

Running through some songs you could teach him, you settle for one of your favourites, or more accurately, one of Bucky’s favourites. The cool surface of the keys is harsh beneath your fingertips, a stark contrast to the Bucky-induced-heat flushing through your veins, hands stretching into place as you prepare the opening chords.

Rhythmic tones swarm around the two of you as you begin playing, masterfully dancing across the keys like it’s a second language. Your graceful motions always bring Bucky to a halt as you entrap him in your art.

He recognises the song straight away, lips turning up at the sweet melody. You didn’t even have to ask to know what he wanted to hear, you just knew. Bucky’s head feels light at the sight before him. A knowing grin has settled on your soft lips, your body ever so lightly swaying to the music, clearly getting lost the sounds.

It’s impossible not to feel the adoring stare of your neighbour, no matter how hard you try to ignore it. Warmth is pooling in the depths of your heart where it feels like you’re bleeding out, your love for Bucky forcing out the blood till the only thing circulating through your veins is him. No longer able to cope with the feelings swarming within you, your fingers abruptly stop mid song before you turn to look up at the firefighter.

“Okay, your go.” You state, but when Bucky raises a bemused brow your way, you continue to instruct him. “Come on. You’re gonna do the left hand, I’ll do the right.”

“Yes Ma’am!” Bucky chimes with a mock salute, earning him a glare.

It takes a few tries to move his fingers into the correct positions, both because he’s apparently wholeheartedly incapable of doing what you say but also because you may or may not zone out every time the veins of his hands stick out as he moves. But it’s still entirely his fault though. Entirely. ‘Maybe like 98% his fault. That’s seems fair.’ You think.

“There you go!” You cheer when the firefighter successfully plays the right notes in tandem.

“Would you look at that, not so useless after all.” Bucky winks at you and you blush lightly.

Glancing at him hopefully, you ask him to play the first chord you taught him.

“Oh, umm-“ He stutters, fingers flailing about and pressing random keys in search of the right pattern.

“Here, let me…” You chuckle sweetly at how utterly lost he looks and move to help him.

Leaning forward, you drag Bucky’s fingers over the ridges of ivorite, slowly placing them on the correct keys. You feel his lust-filled eyes trained on your face while you work, though it’s getting harder and harder to focus under his stare.

A frown tugs at your brows when your mind goes blank as to where Bucky needs to put his left hand, his still-wandering gaze burning into you and spreading to your cunt faster than you care to admit.

Of course, Bucky notices your breath quickening, chest stumbling up and down with shaky pants. His proximity is intoxicating and the will to fight it is slowly slipping past you, fingers itching to trace up Bucky’s thick arms to his neck so you can finally pull his lips to yours.

Bucky reads every inch of your skin like he’s studying for an exam. From the clench of your jaw to your eyes fluttering shut, he knows that he’s winning this tussle for control.

“Bucky…” You breathe, the wavering sigh rolling from your tongue like a stray secret.

“Yes, doll?” Bucky smirks with glinting eyes and you bite back a whimper.

Opening your eyes, you keep them trained on where yours rest on his. “I can’t focus with you looking at me like that.”

Bucky knows exactly what you mean but he can’t help but toy with you. “Like what?” He cocks his head with faux innocence that fools no one.

You turn to look up at the firefighter, eyes meeting his half lidded ones, the blue of his eyes barely visible behind his lust-blown pupils but the blue you can see is so impossible dark that you wonder if they were ever light in the first place.

Taking a breath, you wet your lips so briefly that Bucky nearly misses it. Nearly. “Like you want to kiss me.” You say, barely above a whisper.

“Oh,” Bucky sighs, leaning in closer, “I want to do much more than that.”

Your body is alight with need. Craving his touch, a breach of the barrier between you, you practically whine your reply. “Then why are you just staring?”

“Well, I wanna remember you like this; sweet, angelic, so perfect in your little sundress.“

With the back of his hand, Bucky nudges the hem of your dress higher till his whole hand is spread against your thigh. You quash the aching desire to glance at where your bodies meet and lock your eyes on Bucky’s, whose lips are turned into a knowing smirk.

“Gotta savour it while I can.” He says as he pushes his palm further to your inner thigh, his pinky finger mere inches from your heat.

“Why?” You ask, heart racing.

It dawns on you that you may actually pass out when the firefighter leans in close to you, nose pushing your hair aside to expose the soft skin of your neck which now sits defenceless to his advances. The heat of his breath is electrifying, lips nearing your pulse point eagerly.

Bucky’s lips ghost over your skin as he explains, “Cause once I’ve had my way with you, you’re gonna be a hot fucking mess, sweets.”

A breathy moan tumbles from the depths of you chest at the crude insinuations of his words; your eyes flutter shut, an unintentional reaction that you’re grateful for as it hides the way your pupils roll to the back of your head.

Through the dark span of your eyelids, you picture exactly how Bucky will make you a hot fucking mess. Spread legs with his tongue delving through your folds, back arched as he pounds into your pussy with vigour, his hands guiding your hips back to meet his as he fucks you from behind. The images bear too much for you yet you can’t stop picturing the salacious scenes, not when your neighbour is pressing open-mouthed kisses to the side of your neck.

“James…” You sigh, voice carrying the weight of a thousand pleas.

“Yeah? Is that what you want?”

Nodding your head desperately, you whine, unable to form any words beneath his sinful tongue.

“Words, doll.” Bucky says, lips hovering over your ear. He’s struggling to hold back but can’t let himself touch you the way he wants to until he hears you spell it out for him.

Turning your head slowly, you peer at Bucky with half-lidded eyes and a slack-jaw. “I want you, James. Please.”

That’s all it takes to disintegrate the final remnants of the firefighter’s self-control before his full lips meet your own with a hunger that’s been brewing for months.

Bucky’s lips glide across yours, slotting between your own so easily it’s got you believing this is not your first kiss. It’s soft and sweet but so goddamn sensual that you can’t help but moan into his mouth, the now open gap giving him the perfect chance to slide his tongue inside.

You bring your hands up Bucky’s body and rest them on his neck, fingers tentatively feeding through the hair at the nape of his neck while you jostle for control of the kiss.

Forced to pull back for breath, you take a peek only to find those strikingly blue eyes already on yours.

“Fuck, doll,” Bucky whispers, “you don’t know how long I’ve been waitin’ for this.”

“Probably not as long as I have.” You scoff.

“Then let me make up for lost time.”

“Wait, what do y-“

Within moments, Bucky is lifting your legs over the bench and is knelt between them, his large hands teasing the hem of your dress as he keeps your thighs spread apart.

Your mouth is agape with surprise while you grab onto the piano behind you for stability, a mixture of nerves and anticipation coursing through your veins. And as if he can read your anxious thoughts, Bucky looks up at you with the most sincere expression across his soft features.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks, despite the deep desire shining in his eyes. He wants you more than anything, but he needs to know you want him too.

It’s an easy answer and you’re shaking your head faster than you care to admit, but the memory of Bucky’s prior words flash through your mind and you still just as quick.

“No.”

Watching intently as he runs a hand from your ankle up to your knee, the firefighter rolls his bottom lip between his teeth when your breath hitches.

“Then promise me you’ll tell me if that changes?” Bucky asks.

You reach down and run your fingers through his chestnut locks, tucking the few loose strands behind his ear.

“I promise.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me, sweets.”

A hearty laugh reverberates through you, but you’re quickly silenced by Bucky’s lips on your inner thigh, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling. He kisses his way up to your heat, slowly pushing your dress higher and higher till the only thing between you and his mouth is the crimson lace panties covering your mound.

A sound you can only describe as a growl ripples through the room and you glance down at your neighbour to find him practically drooling at the sight of you. But then his eyes are on yours, his hungry, half-lidded eyes, and he’s tracing a finger over your clothed slit. Your breathing becomes laboured at his touch, your body, your mind, all of you at his mercy.

“Bucky, please…”

“Ah ah ah-“ The firefighter tuts, “-since when do you call me Bucky?”

You frown, back arching slightly in search of some friction on your core, too aroused to process his words properly.

“Look at me, Y/n.”

The stern nature of his tone lures your eyes to his once more. “What?” You ask, confused.

“I haven’t spent months goin’ crazy listening to you use my name only to have you call me Bucky when I’m finally between your legs.”

The throb of your pussy spurs you on and you tilt your head teasingly. “Touch me, James.” You say, and he obeys.

Bucky glides his hands up to your hips and drags your panties lower and lower, his lips chasing the lace till there’s no where left to kiss but your slick folds.

He hovers over your heat with bated breath before forcing himself to close his eyes and ask if you’re still okay with this.

“More than okay, James.” You answer truthfully.

“Good, cause I’m fucking starvin’.”

You feel his mouth on your pussy before you’ve even processed his words, tongue delving between your folds like he really is starving and you didn’t just feed him the best dinner he’s had in years. Though something tells him that title is about to be beaten the second you cum all over his face.

Your mouth curves into an ‘o’, the most pornographic of moans escaping you at the sinful sounds of Bucky’s mouth on your cunt. Drowning in increasingly intense waves of pleasure, your senses are dialled up to the max; with every flick of his tongue and suck on your clit, you find yourself falling deeper in your arousal. It becomes impossible to listen to anything Bucky’s telling you.

“Y’taste so sweet, doll.”

“Doing so good for me, aren’t ya? My good girl.”

“Let me hear you, doll, need to hear how good you feel.”

Whether it’s praises or orders, there’s no chance in hell of you understanding a word that falls from his lips, though Bucky doesn’t mind. The clench of your soft thighs around his head tells him all he needs to know - that even if your heads not fulling comprehending him, your body is. And the sheer amount of slick glistening across your cunt is enough for him to know that you’re ready for more.

The sensation of Bucky’s finger tracing along your pussy lips sends your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your hips lifting off the stool.

“James- oh fuck-“

Words die on your tongue when Bucky eases a finger inside you. White hot pleasure builds at your core, burning the last remnants of your self control, its embers coaxing a near-scream out of you.

“Fuck, that’s it, sweets. That’s- shit you’re so tight, pussy’s squeezing me and it’s just one finger.”

You mewl and squirm beneath him.

“How you gonna handle two of ‘em, doll?”

Bucky’s mesmerised at the sight of his finger gliding in and out of you, drenched in your sweet juices, too beautiful of a sight for him to give up by eating you out. But when you groan at the suggestion of two fingers, he drags his gaze upwards and is greeted with a view that’s evening better.

You, draped against the piano, head tilted back and brows drawn together while uneven sighs tumble from your swollen lips. God, you look heavenly, Bucky thinks. He doesn’t realise he’s said it out loud, but it makes little difference seeing as you’re rather preoccupied with the thought of Bucky fucking another finger inside you.

“James?” You call, reaching down to cover your left hand around the one at your sex, the other tugging on his hair.

“Yeah? Are you alright? Do you want me to stop?” He panics, thinking you’ve grabbed his hand to stop him.

Instead, you look him in the eye and say “Are you gunna fuck another finger inside of me or what?”

An awe-inspired grin spreads across Bucky’s face at your question. He keeps his blue orbs on yours while he presses a kiss to your clit and pushes himself higher till he’s inches from your face.

He rests a hand against the piano, caging you in and says, “Anything for my girl.” before a second digit joins his first.

The stretch knocks the wind out of your chest but Bucky hardly gives you any time to adjust, his fingers pumping in and out of you even faster than before. His palm slaps against your bundle of nerves with every thrust, the force riding to your chest where your tits bounce in rhythm.

“So damn beautiful…” The firefighter says.

You look up at him through your lashes and pull his lips to yours, tasting yourself on his tongue. With clashing teeth, the wet slapping sounds only feeds into the moment and Bucky’s suddenly very aware of the tightness in his jeans.

With each passing second, the cord in your stomach is getting so close to snapping that your mouth isn’t even moving against Bucky’s anymore.

“Fuck, James, I’m- I-“

“Shh, I know.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “You gonna cum all over my fingers, doll? Gonna let me see you fall apart?”

You nod feverishly.

“Good girl, now let go for me.”

That’s all it takes for the damn to break loose and the fiercest orgasm of your life to rack through your body. It reaches every part of you, all the cracks and crevices you never thought could be touched, yet here you are, feeling every inch of yourself set on fire.

“That’s it, doll, that’s it.” Bucky comforts you while you lay victim to the aftershocks of his work, slowing the thrust of his fingers till your breathing evens and he moves to gently circling your sensitive clit.

“Holy shit…” You sigh, a satisfied and totally fucked-out grin playing across your lips.

Noticing how your hazy your eyes still are, Bucky smiles to himself while pressing loving kisses on your forehead.

“You did real good for me, sweetheart.” He listens to you hum beneath him as he moves to kiss your temple. “Y’look so pretty when you cum, you know that? Even prettier than I imagined.”

You twist in your seat to face your neighbour. “You’ve imagined this too?”

“Every night, doll.”

“Huh…”

Though Bucky’s eyes remain fixed on yours, it’s obvious that his mind has slipped away; he’s now clouded by memories of his x-rated dreams, ones that have ended with him pumping his embarrassingly hard length into his fist one too many times, and his cock twitches in his ever-tightening pants. You notice the movement at his crotch and, emboldened by his confession and the best orgasm you’ve ever had, you decide to take back some control.

“What have you pictured doing to me, James?” Your tone is so sweet, so innocent, that it takes a moment for your words to register in his brain. But when it does, boy, does a fresh wave of blood rush to his cock.

“You sure you wanna know? Cuz it ain’t all sweet and innocent.” He warns.

You say nothing and let your actions do all the talking; you slide a hand down to meet his left, the one still nestled between your sticky thighs, and tug it away from your cunt. With your eyes locked on his, you raise Bucky’s cum coated fingers to your mouth, slowly wrapping your lips around them and sucking your sweetness away. Making sure to give the firefighter a show, you swirl your tongue around his fingers before taking them as deep as you can, a knowing look in your eyes when you notice Bucky clenching his jaw.

After releasing his fingers from your swollen red lips, you press a kiss to the palm of his hand. “Tell me.”

What you can only describe as a growl rises from the back of Bucky’s throat and before you know it, you’re being carried to your bedroom, legs bound tightly around his waist while your arms wrap loosely around his neck.

He sits down on the edge of the bed; hands resting on your hips and edging lower to your ass, his fingers grip the supple flesh to keep you in place.

His force on your hips is pushing you down on his ample bulge, sparking a flash of pleasure straight up your spine that escapes you with a moan. Bucky chuckles softly with a sinful grin as you tilt your head back at the feeling.

“You wanna know what I’ve imagined us doing, doll?” The firefighter grabs your chin to bring your attention back to him. He runs the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, tugging on it and letting it bounce back into place.

“I’ve pictured us just like this.” He drops his hand to your neck, tracing the curve of your collar bone till it meets the strap of your sundress. “You, naked and beautiful as ever, riding my cock like I know you can.”

You gasp lightly when he tugs your strap till it’s tumbling off your shoulder.

“And you’re telling me just how full you are, how stretched your little pussy is around me, choking my cock like a damn vice.”

Bucky’s filthy words send your hips into motion without warning; you grind your bare cunt over his crotch, the tent in his pants settling between your slick folds till his shaft is enveloped with your warmth.

“Does that sound good, doll? To have my cock buried inside you when you bounce on it? Fuck, I bet your cunt is dripping for me again,”

“It never stopped, James.” You whimper, your sensitive clit sending jolts up your frame as Bucky guides your hips over his.

“That’s right, you’re never gonna use anything else to cum ever again. You got me now, doll. I’m all you need. Me, my cock, I’m gonna ruin everyone else for you.”

You don’t even notice that Bucky’s hands are on the zip at your back, slowly pulling it down till the fabric are your chest goes slack, and with the straps already draped over your shoulders, the flowing material cascades around you, tumbling to your hips and leaving you defenseless to Bucky’s insatiable blue eyes.

“Fuck me, sweets, you’re- god- you’re perfect.” He leans in and kisses your collarbone. “So,” kiss, “So,” kiss, “perfect.”

Your eyes flutter shut, lost in the feeling of his touch, and Bucky smirks when he sees you. He teases a hand up your soft skin till it sits just beneath your tit, daring to reach up and play with you in the ways he’s always dreamt of.

“Is this okay?” He asks, earning an even more passionate grind of your hips as you push your chest closer to his open mouth.

He chuckles, “Needy, aren’t ya, sweets?”

You whine.

“Hmm, lucky for you, this is exactly what I imagined doing to you, what I’ve dreamt of for months…”

His lips wrap around your hardened nipple with haste, the warmth of his mouth a welcome sensation. He sucks at the sensitive nub, this tongue reaching out to soothe you afterwards. You throw your head back and moan loudly.

The sound of bucky loudly licking and sucking on your tits is driving you crazy, to the point where your hips are stuttering over his, practically drowning in the feeling till you have no control over your movements.

“God, I love your tits. Wanna act out every dream I’ve ever had of you. Fucking your tits, your throat, your cunt, anywhere you’ll let me, doll, please. I’ve needed you for so long.”

You blush at the word love, surpressing the hope that is stirring at the possibility that your tits aren’t the only thing he loves. Has he really wanted this as long as me? You wonder, picturing everything he just revealed he’s been wanting.

“M’So fuckin’ hard for you sweetheart, I know you can feel me. Dick’s throbbing, doll, it’s s’hard it hurts.”

You pull at his hair so he’s looking up at you again and capture his lips in yours.

“I wanna see you, Bucky…”

He groans and reaches for the hem of his shirt which he waists no time in tearing off. Your chest rises and falls heavier than before, eyes raking his physique just like you had that night he was leaving the shower at his place.

You trail a finger down his abs till it brushes the button of his jeans teasingly.

“All of you, James.” You look pointedly at his crotch. “May I?” You ask and when he nods, you climb off his lap and sink between his legs on the floor, you dress tumbling to the ground immediately.

Bucky’s abs tense as you work to undo the button, your hands tiny in comparison to his body. Next, you work the zipper up and over the bulge of his cock, the teeth desperate to come apart after being so constricted for so long. The two sides of denim snap away from the tent of his boxers, perfectly presenting where the firefighter so badly needs your touch.

He helps you kick off his jeans till the only thing between you is his boxers. You trace a finger up and down his shaft through the cotton, enjoying the sticky patch of pre cum leaking through the top.

“Have you ever imagined me sucking your cock, James?” You ask with half lidded eyes before kissing his covered shaft. “Cause I have.”

Bucky whimpers - whimpers - at your words, his hips snapping up to your face uncontrollably.

You begin to drag down his boxers, trailing kisses down down down, your lips greeting his tip when his cock flicks up against them before your eyes even get chance to glance at him.

Your eyes flutter shut at the salty taste on your lips, revelling in the breathy moans from your neighbour.

“Fuck- pl-please honey, I need your- argh- mouth around me!”

You make eye contact with him from your place on the floor and ask if he’s sure.

“More than anything.”

And with that, you take his thick length into your mouth, lips sealing around his angry pink cock head briefly when your trace your tongue over his slit, before gliding lower down his cock.

You take as much of him as you can, but you need time to warm up having never taken a cock as large as his before.

“You’re so big, baby.” You say as you pull off his shaft with a pop, “Biggest I’ve ever had in my mouth.”

A frustrated groan arises from the firefighter and you feel his hand on the back of your head, gently pushing you to his dick once more.

“Suck my cock, doll, just like we’ve both imagined, nice and deep, please.”

You take the base of his cock in your hands and guide his tip back to your lips.

“Atta girl,” Bucky encourages as you take him deeper and deeper.

He feels you relaxing your throat to take more of him and his balls clench at the feeling.

“Argh fuck, fuck, fuck. Good girl, oh my god, yes!”

His praises and curses cheer you on and you manage as much of him as you can, only an inch or so remaining that’s simply too thick to fit in your mouth. Lord knows how he’ll fit in your pussy, but you’re sure he’ll figure it out.

You bob your head on his length over and over till you’re in desperate need of air. You let your hands work your spit and his precum up and down his hard cock while you catch your breath and watch his beautiful face contort into one of extreme pleasure.

Your chest fills with pride at Bucky’s facial expressions; making him feel good is somehow more rewarding than anything you’ve done in your life and you find yourself content at the thought of spending the rest of your days pleasing him.

Bucky is oblivious to the gratified smile toying your lips and wholly unprepared for your next movement.

“Oh god- oh fuck, doll-” He groans, his breathing staggered and eyes clenched shut when you take his balls in your mouth, the skin sloppily wet from your work on his cock, and now enjoying the warmth of your mouth.

“Oh honey, do that again, felt so go- argh!” He’s interrupted by you tending to his sack once more, your tongue swirling around them and lightly sucking.

You moan around his pretty, swollen balls, the vibrations drawing a sigh of pleasure from your neighbour. The trimmed hair at the base of Bucky’s member is tickling your nose while you fight to taste every part of him.

With a final sharp suck, you release his balls with a small plop, plant a wet kiss on each and flatten you tongue to lick a bold stripe up his length. The tip of your muscle presses into the vein on the underside of his dick and Bucky thrusts upward, his hips bucking as he desperately searches for more.

As you ready yourself to glide his cock down your throat once more, you feel Bucky’s hand on your cheek, pulling you off him.

“What’s wrong? Did I do something?” You ask with a concerned frown, nervous that you’ve done something wrong to have Bucky stopping you. You wrap your hand around his forearm, the one outstretched to hold your hair, while the other remains enclosed around his cock.

“Nothin’ bad, sweets, it’s just that- fuck-“

You absentmindedly stroke your thumb over his girth, a motion you intend to be comforting but in reality, it just makes him throb even harder in your hands.

“-I’m not gonna last much longer if you keep using your pretty mouth like that.”

“And that’s a problem because…?”

He laughs lightly and tucks your hair behind your ear. “Cause as hot as you’d look swallowing my load, I’d much rather cum inside that sweet pussy for our first time.”

You roll your bottom lip between your teeth before pecking a doting kiss to his forearm and letting Bucky pull you to your feet. His eyes follow yours till he’s looking up at you from his seated position, his hands falling to your hips with an awestruck face.

“What the hell did I do to deserve you?” His voice is barely above a whisper. You blush crimson.

“Get on the bed, doll.” He orders. “Lay on your back.”

You do as he says and once you’ve settled, he crawls on top of you. It’s quiet for a moment as Bucky stares lovingly down at you, burning the image into his memory to remind him he has everything he needs.

“I should have found the guts to do this months ago…” You murmur, pushing the fallen tendrils of chestnut hair behind his ear. He looks so goddamn perfect; the golden glow filtering through your window catching every feature you’ve spent so long dreaming about, and now he’s here, really here, and you can’t help but stroke his cheek with revere.

“We have now, doll. That’s enough for me.” Bucky whispers. “Are you comfortable?”

You nod, truthfully, both in terms of your position but also for what’s coming. But then his elbows bend out and he’s lowering himself onto you.

“How about now?”

There’s a gleam in his eye and a playful smirk on his lips as he watches your chest heave, your body taking more of his weight now.

“No!” You giggle.

“No? Is this better?” Bucky teases, briefly laying his whole weight over you until you paw at his shoulders to push him off.

“James! You’re squishing me!”

The melody of your carefree laughter has Bucky melting and he pushes himself up onto his hands once more. His lip is tucked between his teeth, enjoying the view as he becomes increasingly aware of his cock now just one slip away from your pussy lips.

Quickly coming to your own awareness of Bucky’s rock hard length pressing into you, you sober up.

“Darling?” You tug on his bottom lip with the pad of your thumb.

Bucky’s brows pinch closer slightly.

“I need you inside me.”

His soft lips are crashing against yours within moments, his hand fighting between the nonexistent space between your bare bodies to grasp his cock and guide his tip to your bundle of nerves.

The sudden taste of how good Bucky can make you feel forces a sharp breath from you. It’s so much yet not enough, all at the same time.

“Tell me if you need me to stop, okay? Let me take care of you how you deserve.”

After a meek nod with your hands finding refuge in Bucky’s soft locks, he trails his cock head down your pink folds till it catches on the dip of your entrance.

Bucky tempts a whimper from you as he slides inside of you, your walls stretching to accommodate his larger than average member.

“Fuck, doll, you’re so tight for me.” The firefighter moans, resisting the urge to snap his hips and bottom out completely.

You’ve yet to make a sound, the sting in your pussy not yet dissipating, and when you glance down at where your bodies meet, you realise you’re barely taking half of him.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Bucky’s reassuring voice is ghosting over your ear, “you’re taking me so well, sweets. You need me to go slower?”

You clench your eyes shut briefly, “No, keep going, you’re just so…”

“So what?”

Bucky watches a deep red creep up your neck before returning his gaze to your eyes, that now dance across the room avoiding him.

A gentle grasp on your chin draws you to face the breathtaking man above you and you clench around his dick.

“What happened to the little minx who was practically beggin’ me to fuck her, huh? Don’t get all shy on me now, dollface. I’m so what?”

His words have you spilling yours without second thought. “You’re so fucking thick, James, cock’s splittin’ me in half.”

He groans and snaps his hips fully into yours, making you scream out, “Jamie!!!”

His scalp burns when you pull on his hair harder than before, your moans filling the room like a broken record. Bucky should be focused on the furrow of your brow, your laboured breaths, the way your cunt is choking him, anything about how perfect this feels, but all he can focus on is how with one thrust, you called him ‘Jamie’. And you didn’t just say it, you screamed it.

“Shit, honey, say it again.”

“Ja-Jamie…” You whine and feel Bucky draw his hips back before pounding into you once more.

“Again.” Your neighbour growls.

“Oh my god, fuck- I”

“Again.”

It takes everything you have to open your eyes and look at him. “Fuck me, Jamie.”

“That’s my girl.”

Bucky drives his length into you till his tip is hitting your cervix, the pleasure wrapping around your throat and squeezing the air out of you. You fight to breathe as Bucky drills into you, over and over, softly grunting with every thrust.

“Never felt anything as good as your cunt before, doll. Wanna spend the rest of my life buried inside you.”

You pull his lips to yours and, back arching from the mattress, dive your tongue into his mouth with vigour. He lets you explore his mouth while fucking you deep and fast, the headboard of your bed slamming against the wall and probably driving your neighbour crazy. Oh wait, he is your neighbour, and it is driving him crazy, but in the best way imaginable.

“So goddamn tight, sweets, y’pussy was made for me,” He swallows your whimpers happily, “don’t you think? You feel how good i’m filling you up, honey? Sliding in an’ out so easy, you’re so fucking wet for my dick.”

“Harder, Jamie.”

Goddamn.

“Keep calling me that and I’ll do whatever you want.”

You lose yourself in his thrusts; the sting has long turned into the most pleasure you’ve ever felt, and that’s saying something after the orgasm he lulled from you only a few minutes ago.

“Fuckin’ me s-so good, Jamie.”

“Ah- just like that, baby.”

“I’m getting close, James, need you to go faster.”

Your pleas send Bucky’s cock pulsing and he does exactly as you wish. He fucks you faster, fighting off the desperate urge to cum inside your sweet cunt.

“Jamie…” You sigh.

He grins up at you from his place at your tits, his tongue reaching out to tease your nipples. You push his head down till he takes your sensitive bud in his mouth, sucking and swirling his tongue over it while he gropes its twin.

The tight coil in your stomach is twisting to its limit and you find yourself dangerously close to cumming around Bucky’s hard, thick length.

“I’m so- oh fuck- i’m so close, James.”

He lifts his head and eyes you with lust blown pupils.

“Are you gonna cum for me, doll? God, I can feel you clenching around me, you wanna cream all over my cock? Huh?” He smirks at your pornographic moans. “Bet I’ll look so good covered in your cum, sweets, maybe I’ll let you clean me up, put that mouth to good use.”

“I’m gonna cum, i’m gonna cum,” You chant several times breathlessly.

“Let go for me, sweet girl, make a mess o’my cock. Cum, doll.”

Your body shudders as your hips grind up into Bucky’s, your walls tightening before he feels you gush around him. Practically screaming in pleasure, you bite down on Bucky’s shoulder to quiet yourself, though the pain travels straight to his member, still fucking into you with force.

“Fuck, James, you’re so perfect, never came so hard in my life- shit-“

He’s groaning into your ear, his balls slamming against you and filling the room with salacious wet slaps.

“You’re so wet and- fuck- I can’t- I can’t hold back much longer.”

You tug on the hair at the nape of his neck and lick up the side of his throat, tongue catching the salty beads of sweat in its path. Reaching his earlobe, you suck on it lightly and whisper into his ear.

“Want you to cum inside me, Jamie. Fill me up, please, I need your cum.”

“Argh, fuck!!” Your words send Bucky over the edge and his hips stutter while he finally lets go.

“Oh god, yes!” Bucky grunts. “Take my cum, doll, fuckin’ take it.”

Your tongue seeks his neck once more, pressing open mouthed kisses as his cock shoots streams of white seed into you, the spurts seemingly never ending.

“Fillin’ my cunt so much, Jamie- fuck- you feel so good!”

As his cock softens, his thrusts slow to a more bearable pace, both of you so sensitive from your orgasms. Catching your breath takes a minute or two, but in the meantime, you coax satisfied sighs from your firefighter by running your hands up and down his back; the light sheen of sweat greets your fingertips as you touch him tenderly.

With no words being shared, you focus solely on Bucky’s breathing, the rise and fall of his back beneath your hands and the weight of his body on yours. It should be uncomfortable, but you’ve never felt so at home in a place, let alone with a person, in your life.

“That was…” Bucky murmurs into your neck.

You finish his sentence, “Pretty damn good.” Laughter ripples through the muscles of his back.

“Yeah,” He agrees and pulls back slightly to look at you, “you feeling okay?”

“If by okay you mean ‘completely and utterly fucked out’ then yeah, I’m great.”

You grin cheekily before pushing his hair behind his ear yet again, an act you find yourself praying that you’ll get to do for the rest of your life.

“How are you feeling?” You ask sincerely.

Those blue orbs flick between your own, laced with an emotion you hope to be love. “Like I want to be with you like this forever.” Bucky admits. “That and completely and utterly fucked out.”

You laugh heartily, bringing a beaming smile to Bucky’s swollen red lips.

“Let me clean you up, doll.” He offers before pushing himself off you, much to your dismay. He disappears to your bathroom for a minute before returning with a damp cloth in hand.

“Can you spread your legs for me, sweets?”

He bites a chuckle at how quickly you obey him and gets to work, wiping away your shared cum from your pussy and goosebump-ridden thighs. The towel is warm and soft on your skin, lulling you to sleep, though you fight to keep your eyes on your neighbour.

“You’re so beautiful, James.” You say, reaching to place your hand on his that sits beside you hip, where he’s leaning his weight.

He smiles sheepishly and focuses on the job at hand. Once you’re clean, Bucky carries you to the bathroom so you can do your business, waiting patiently outside after putting his boxers back on and grabbing his henley for you to wear.

When you step out of the bathroom, Bucky’s holding his he let out in front of you. “You looked a bit cold so I thought you might want a shirt?”

You smile, “Your shirt?”

“Yeah…” He rubs the back of his neck, muscles flexing at the movement, “You don’t have to, I just thou-“

He stops talking when you pull the henley from his grasp and tug it over your head. It swallows you whole and the sleeves tumble past your hands, but Bucky thinks it’s perfect. You’re perfect.

Grabbing his hand, you pull him back to your room and back into bed, tugging the sheets over you both where you nestle into his chest.

“You’re staying, right?” You ask with the most puppy-dog eyes you can muster.

“Of course, doll.”

Smiling to yourself, you curl up against the firefighter. “Woulda cooked you a meal months ago if I knew that’s all it took for you to finally fuck me.”

NEXT CHAPTER

a/n: filth. pure filth. so sorry that it took me a lifetime to post this - life got lifey and it took me ages to get this right. it’s my second time writing any sort of smut so i hope it was good for y’all. thanks for all the support, it means the world to me. love you guys, red ❤️

comment if you’d like to be added to the ashes to embers taglist 🧡

taglist: @armystay89 @rabbitrabbit12321 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess @harrystylesandthegoobs @zannemes @noonespecial90 @m3ntally-unstable @blackbirdwitch22 @wintrsoldrluvr @pingpongfingfong @belleofthebooks @larienjenova @chaosbarelycontained @mostlymarvelgirl @trustworthy-jellyfish @ozwriterchick @nervousnerdwitch @suz7days @bethexo07 @ace-27749 @bellabarnes1378 @angelbabyyy99 @selella @itvy5601 @noonespecial90 @differenttyphoonwerewolf @ordelixx @krispybearbouquet @matchat3a @cl7ire @sunglasses-in-the-bentley @julvrs @anghstybean @eah-marvel-trolls @pono-pura-vida @touchstarvedforbuckybarnes

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thepinkpanther83 · 2 days ago

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Grease And Honey (Pt.6 Under the Hood)

Chapter Six: “Under the Hood”

Eddie Munson x Female Reader

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Previous Chapter: Chapter Five: “Misfires” Next Chapter: Chapter Seven: “Routine Maintenance”

Click "Keep Reading" below the cut to read. 😘

Chapter Six: “Under the Hood”

His apartment was exactly what you expected, and yet, not at all.

A little messy, but not dirty. Stacks of old records by the door. A couple guitars leaning against the wall. Grease-stained boots by the entryway. The scent of smoke, leather, and something warm, like cedar and dust and faint cologne, hung in the air.

There was a couch that had seen better days, a coffee table covered in ring stains and scratched poker chips, and a lava lamp flickering gently in the corner like it was still 1987.

But there were books, too.

Real ones.

Tattered fantasy paperbacks shoved into a shelf too small to hold them. A mug full of guitar picks. A half-finished crossword on the counter.

And under all of it? A strange, unexpected sense of care.

Like even if he didn’t think he deserved comfort, he still tried to carve it out anyway.

You stood in the entryway while he locked the door behind you, then slipped past with a glance and a low: “Make yourself at home.”

You weren’t sure where home was tonight, but your pulse was already pounding like it was trying to find out.

Eddie made good on his promise.

He drifted into the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of whiskey that looked like it cost more than you expected and two mismatched tumblers.

“This alright?” he asked, already pouring.

You nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Didn’t want to crack open the good scotch. That’s reserved for existential crises and album release anniversaries.”

You huffed a laugh, still standing awkwardly near the couch.

He turned toward the record player in the corner, crouched down, flipped through a few sleeves, and picked something with a low, rolling guitar line and a slow, steady pulse. The needle hit vinyl with a warm scratch-pop, and the room filled with old blues and shadow.

Eddie straightened, handed you a glass, and met your gaze over the rim of his own.

He didn’t say anything for a moment.

Just watched you.

Something softer now. Less smug.

You took a sip. It burned a little. Not in a bad way.

“Real smooth operation you’ve got here,” you said, voice light, trying not to let your brain spiral. “Record player. Dim lights. Decent liquor. Almost like you’ve done this before.”

His brow ticked up.

“Would it freak you out if I said yeah?”

You smiled, though it felt more like a challenge than a joke.

“Little bit.”

He stepped closer.

“But not enough to leave.”

Your mouth went dry.

“…No.”

Eddie nodded slowly, setting his own glass down. He was close now. Not touching, but close enough that you could see the individual curls framing his face, the faint smudge of oil still on his forearm, the flicker of something nervous behind his eyes.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “Back at the shop. This isn’t just a routine for me anymore.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t need to.

Because your body was already leaning in, the rest of your drink forgotten in your hand, blood roaring in your ears like a drum.

You didn’t remember setting your drink down.

Didn’t remember closing the space between you, either.

But suddenly, your fingers were in his hair.

Loose and warm, thick curls sliding between your knuckles like they’d been waiting for your touch. You slid your hand around the back of his neck, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw, and the look he gave you nearly undid you on the spot.

His lashes dipped. His lips parted.

And then, he didn’t lean in.

Instead, Eddie brought your wrist to his mouth.

Softly. Slowly. Like he had to ease himself into you, like he was trying not to ruin the moment by giving in too fast.

His lips pressed to your skin, just above your pulse point, once, then again, with reverence that felt more like worship.

When he spoke, it was against your wrist. Voice low. Rough.

“I’m not good at this… taking things slow thing.”

You could barely breathe.

Your pulse was slamming.

“I didn’t ask you to be good,” you whispered. “Just real.”

That did it.

That broke him.

His eyes met yours again, stormy, wild, something fraying at the edges.

And then he surged forward and kissed you.

God.

It was nothing like you expected.

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t shy. It wasn’t even remotely careful.

It was a crash.

A snarl of heat and hands, teeth and tongue, like he’d been starving for you since the second he walked into your shop and just couldn’t hold back anymore.

His mouth was hot and firm, demanding. He kissed you like he wanted to memorize the taste of your name. Like he needed to convince you, and maybe himself, that this was really happening.

The back of your thighs hit the edge of the couch and his hand was at your waist, pulling you in, anchoring you to him like he couldn’t stand the thought of even a breath of space between you.

You gasped against his mouth and he took it like a gift, groaning low in his throat, tongue licking into you with a hunger that made your knees tremble.

His other hand came up to cradle your jaw, fingertips trembling just slightly as they cupped your face like he couldn’t believe you were real. That you were here. That you were kissing him back.

Your fingers were still tangled in his hair, dragging him closer, your body flush against his. You felt everything, every shift of muscle, every soft grind of denim against your hip, every heated pulse of blood that told you this wasn’t just a kiss.

This was a promise.

He pulled back once, just barely, eyes blown wide and dark and breathless.

“Holy shit,” he rasped.

You didn’t give him time to say anything else.

You pulled him in, kissed him again, harder.

Hungrier.

And then neither of you were pretending anymore.

You kissed like you’d been waiting years to do it, like it had been building inside both of you with every smirk, every sideways glance, every brush of fingers over coffee cups and sarcasm-laced banter.

And now…

Now it was finally breaking.

Eddie's hands roamed without shame. Not rushed, but needy. They gripped your hips like they were something precious, like he’d never held anything soft that didn’t disappear on him. His fingers flexed there, tugging you closer as he sat back on the couch and pulled you with him, dragging you half into his lap, both of you still fully dressed and far too hot to care.

You straddled him without hesitation, knees on either side of his thighs, and his mouth fell open when your hips rolled down against his.

“Jesus Christ,” he groaned, like the contact short-circuited him.

“Still worried about taking it slow?” you whispered, breath hot against his cheek as you rocked again, just enough to make him twitch beneath you.

“Fuck,” he choked out, jaw clenched, eyes fluttering shut for half a second. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You grinned and kissed his neck, right below the jaw, where his pulse was hammering hard against your lips.

“I’ll be gentle,” you murmured.

He whimpered. A real one.

You didn’t know Eddie Munson could whimper, but there it was, raw and honest, like you’d pulled it from somewhere he’d buried years ago.

His hands slid up your back, one splayed between your shoulder blades while the other found the hem of your shirt, fingers slipping just beneath to touch bare skin. His breath hitched when he felt it, just the smallest area above your waistband, but it was like it reset his need.

He surged back up to meet your mouth again, more desperate now, more messy, like he couldn’t get close enough. He kissed you like he’d been starving. Like you were the only goddamn thing on Earth that could fill him up.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he breathed, somewhere between your collarbone and jaw.

You didn’t.

Didn’t even think about it.

Instead, you dragged your nails through his hair and pulled him back in like you’d die if he went anywhere else.

His hands were shaking now. One traced the curve of your side, reverent and possessive, while the other slid around to your lower back, anchoring you as your hips moved in time with his, just enough friction to make you both ache.

“Feels so fucking good,” he muttered into your throat, voice low and ragged. “You’re driving me insane, you know that?”

You hummed against his ear. “Yeah, I know.”

He laughed, breathless, broken, but it caught on a groan when you rolled again, harder this time.

You could feel him through his jeans, thick and straining beneath you, pressed against where you were quickly starting to throb.

And you were still clothed.

You braced your hands against his chest, his strong, lean, unfairly sculpted chest under that stupid bowling shirt, and looked at him, flushed and wrecked and completely undone beneath you.

“You sure you’re okay with not taking it slow?” you teased, though your voice wasn’t exactly steady either.

Eddie’s lips curled, but his eyes were feral.

“I wanna be patient,” he rasped. “I swear I do. But I’m one second away from begging you to let me taste you through your jeans.”

Your breath stuttered.

Your pulse spiked.

And for the first time tonight, your thighs trembled.

Eddie’s mouth was back on yours before either of you could second-guess the heat you were swimming in. His hands were everywhere, sliding beneath your shirt, fingers calloused and warm, tracing the curve of your spine like he was mapping it for the first and last time.

You arched into him when his thumbs swept upward, finding your bra through the fabric and cupping you like he couldn’t believe you were letting him. Like maybe if he blinked, you’d vanish.

You grabbed the hem of your shirt and yanked it off in one swift motion.

He stared.

Mouth slightly open, eyes dark and blown.

“…Jesus.”

You reached behind yourself, unhooked your bra and let it slide down your arms, slow, deliberate, teasing. His gaze dropped to your breasts, and he didn’t even try to be subtle about it.

“Fuck,” he said, almost reverently.

Then his hands were back, hot and shaking just a little, as he touched you with a kind of hushed awe, thumbs brushing across your nipples, palms warm and needy.

You gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders.

He looked up, mouth already moving down.

“Can I?”

You nodded, barely had the breath to say yes.

And then he ducked his head and took one nipple into his mouth, tongue flicking, lips dragging, groaning low when your back arched and your thighs squeezed tighter around his hips.

The sound of him sucking at your skin, slow and open-mouthed, was filthy in the best way, wet and hot and intentional, like he was trying to imprint the taste of you into his tongue.

You ground down harder against the bulge in his jeans and he shuddered.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he rasped, pulling off your breast with a soft pop, lips red and wet. “You keep doing that and I’m not gonna last long.”

You smiled, all teeth and heat. “Guess you better get your clothes off then.”

He blinked at you.

Then grinned.

And… Big Ed bowling shirt? Gone in one motion.

Tossed somewhere behind the couch without a care in the world.

He stood, unlatching his belt, and unbuttoning his jeans with that cocky, slow kind of confidence that only came from knowing exactly what kind of effect he was having on you.

And goddamn, he was showing off.

Undoing his belt with one hand while the other ran through his messy curls. Smirking down at you like the sinner he was.

“Not bad for a washed-up townie, huh?”

You leaned back on your elbows, eyes dragging over the cut of his hips, the ink that dipped below the waistband of his briefs, the sharp line of his stomach twitching when you stared.

“If this is washed-up,” you said, breathless, “I might need to start slumming it more often.”

His laugh was low and wicked.

And then the belt was gone, the jeans were gone, and he was standing there, tall and flushed and thick and already leaking through the fabric of his briefs like he’d been aching for you for hours.

He had.

He crawled back over you, guiding you down into the couch cushions like he was afraid you might float away. His hands found the button of your jeans, and his mouth found your throat, kissing a line of heat downward, tongue, teeth, lips, breath.

Every inch of skin he uncovered, he worshipped.

“You’re not real,” he muttered against your stomach, dragging your pants down your thighs. “You can’t be real.”

“You say that like you didn’t spend three days pretending I didn’t exist,” you gasped, half-laughing, half-moan as his tongue dipped into your hipbone.

“Yeah, well.” He kissed the crease of your thigh. “I was being a fucking idiot.”

Then he peeled off your panties.

And looked up at you like you were a goddamn miracle.

Eddie kissed his way down your thighs like he had all the time in the world.

And you… you couldn’t look away.

Not when he hooked your legs over his shoulders like a man on a mission.

Not when he dragged his nose along your inner thigh and groaned like you were the best thing he’d ever smelled.

And definitely not when he glanced up with that crooked grin and said:

“Just tap out if you need to. I’ve been told I get a little obsessive.”

You didn’t even have time to laugh, because the moment his mouth touched you, everything went fuzzy.

He started soft.

Just a single, open-mouthed kiss to your clit, like he was greeting it.

Then he dragged his tongue through you slow and filthy, like he was tasting you, like he wanted to memorize every damn inch.

And when he found your rhythm? When your hips rolled up into his mouth, and your fingers knotted in his curls?

He moaned.

Loud.

Sloppy.

Like you were his favorite song and he’d finally found the right note.

He flattened his tongue and licked you through every rise and fall of your breath, every twitch of your thighs, every little gasp and stutter and curse. He devoured you, hands wrapped under your ass to keep you steady while his mouth worked you like an instrument.

When he wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked?

You arched.

When he groaned with it?

You whimpered.

“Shit, Eddie-” you panted, pulling at his hair. “You’re… god, you’re so-”

“Say it,” he muttered, lips slick, voice ragged. “Wanna hear it. Need to fuckin’ hear it.”

“You’re perfect,” you gasped. “You’re so good… fuck, don’t stop-”

He didn’t.

He kept going, tongue and lips and slow pressure, even one finger sliding inside you when your thighs started to tremble, pushing you higher, higher, until-

You shattered.

Right there on his tongue.

With a cry you couldn’t hold back and a full-body tremor that left you boneless.

Eddie didn’t stop until you were squirming, too sensitive, laughing breathlessly as you tugged him up by the hair.

“You’re a menace,” you whispered, still panting.

He grinned against your skin. “Guilty.”

He kissed your jaw, then your shoulder, body warm and firm and hard between your thighs now.

“I could die happy right here,” he murmured.

You hummed.

Then smirked.

And before he could blink, you pushed him back.

He blinked up at you, surprised, but not resisting. Hands resting on your hips like he wanted to see what you'd do.

“Your turn,” you said simply.

He blinked again. “Wait, what-”

You sank to your knees between his legs before he could finish the sentence.

“Oh fuck,” he breathed.

You reached for the waistband of his briefs, dragging them down slowly, teasing, watching the way he swallowed hard when his cock sprung free, flushed and thick and aching.

He was beautiful.

You glanced up once as you wrapped your hand around him.

His head tipped back. His mouth opened on a silent curse.

You ran your tongue along the underside first, slowly, like you were savoring him.

Then took him into your mouth.

Eddie whined.

Actually whined.

“Holy shit, sweetheart… fuck, are you trying to ruin me?”

You didn’t answer.

Just kept your eyes on him as you hollowed your cheeks and started to move, slow and steady, taking as much as you could, hand twisting at the base, tongue working in tandem until he was gasping above you.

His fingers tangled in your hair.

Pulling slightly, holding you in place.

Like if he let go, he’d fall apart.

“You don’t… fuck- you don’t have to-”

You pulled off with a pop, eyes gleaming.

“I want to.”

His head hit the couch with a thud.

“Marry me.”

You laughed and licked a stripe up the side of him before taking him in again.

And this time…

He didn’t say a word.

He just groaned, deep and ragged, hips twitching beneath you while his hand clenched in your hair like he was praying.

He was unraveling.

You could feel it in every twitch of his thigh, every sharp gasp that stuttered out of him when your tongue swirled just right, when your hand twisted in perfect rhythm. His head tipped back against the couch, throat bare and heaving, one hand fisted in your hair, the other clawing at the cushion like he needed something to hold on to or else he'd fall apart.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck… sweetheart, you gotta stop, I’m… gonna… shit- please-”

His voice cracked.

You just hummed, and the vibration pulled a choked whine from his throat that almost broke you.

His hips bucked once, completely involuntary.

His grip tightened-

“Baby… baby, if you don’t stop I’m gonna… fuuuck-”

And then, right when he was shaking, when he was about to tip over that edge-

You pulled back.

Clean. Smooth. Like it was all part of the plan.

His eyes flew open.

He looked wrecked.

Hair wild. Chest flushed. Lips parted in betrayal.

“You… what-?”

You sat back on your heels, wiping the corner of your mouth with one slow swipe of your thumb.

“I’m not done with you yet,” you said, smiling like the devil in lip gloss.

He stared.

Still breathless.

Still aching.

Then something in him snapped.

“Okay,” he rasped. “Alright.”

He surged off the couch in a blur of motion, hands gripping your hips and hauling you back up with him, mouth crashing into yours in a kiss so hard your knees buckled. He caught you easily, walking you backward toward the bedroom, teeth scraping, hands everywhere, his cock rock solid and pinned between you both.

“You wanna tease?” he growled against your lips. “That’s fine. But I warned you-”

You laughed against his mouth, breathless and cocky. “What, that you’re not good at taking it slow?”

He didn’t answer.

He just tore your panties the rest of the way down, caught the back of your thighs, and lifted you, your back hitting the nearest wall with a solid thump.

You barely had time to gasp before he lined himself up and drove in with one hard, perfect, deep stroke that knocked every thought clean out of your head.

“Fuck-!” you cried, clinging to him as he buried himself to the hilt, panting against your neck.

He was thick, he was stretching you, and he didn’t stop, just pulled out slow, then slammed back in like he’d been holding this in for years.

He growled against your skin, one hand under your ass, the other gripping your jaw so he could see your face.

“Been dreaming about this since the minute I met you,” he hissed. “Thought about it every time you bent over the goddamn counter. Every time you handed me my coffee. Thought I’d die if I didn’t fuck you.”

You moaned, loudly.

You couldn’t help it. Couldn’t think.

He was hitting something deep, something perfect, and the way he was looking at you like you were the answer to every prayer he’d ever made?

It undid you.

You clenched around him and he felt it, groaning brokenly against your throat.

“Ohh, baby… you keep doing that and I’m not gonna last long.”

“Good,” you gasped, dragging your nails down his back.

“Then maybe you’ll have to do it again.”

That pulled a grin from him.

Wicked. Wild.

“You better fucking believe I will.”

He didn’t stop after you came the second time, shuddering around him, nails raking down his back as you gasped into his neck, your whole body twitching from the force of it.

He didn’t even slow down.

He carried you… still inside you, through the hallway, mouth dragging across your shoulder as you whimpered in his ear, still trembling from the aftershocks.

The door to his bedroom swung open with a bump of his foot.

You barely registered the space around you, dim lighting, old records stacked on mismatched furniture, the hum of a fan somewhere overhead, before your back hit the mattress and he followed you down with a low, feral growl.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmured, thumb brushing your cheek, voice soothing even while his cock was still pulsing inside you.

You blinked up at him, dazed and flushed.

“Barely,” you whispered.

He grinned. “Let’s fix that.”

Then he pulled out, slow, deliberate, and you whined at the loss.

“Don’t worry,” he said, voice like smoke. “I’m not done with you either.”

And he wasn’t.

Not even close.

He hooked your legs up over his shoulders, spreading you wide as he knelt between your thighs, cock glistening and proud, and looked down at you like you were something sacred.

Then he slammed back in.

Harder this time.

Deeper.

The stretch made you cry out, eyes rolling back as your fingers scrabbled for the sheets.

“Shit… Eddie-!”

“That’s right,” he grunted, gripping your thighs. “Say my name. Louder.”

You did.

You screamed it when he shifted his angle and hit something that made your toes curl.

Your hands reached for him, needed something to hold onto as your body writhed under the force of his thrusts. He leaned forward, bracing himself on either side of your head, mouth at your ear.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growled, kissing your temple. “So wet. So fucking tight. Been thinking about this since day one.”

He picked up the pace, fast, brutal, relentless, and your vision blurred.

He was fucking you like it was his last night on Earth.

Like he was trying to make sure you never forgot it.

Your nails dragged down his back again and he hissed, thrusting harder, chasing the edge with wild, shaking control.

Then he slowed, dragged out just a little, just enough to make you feel every veiny inch of him.

“Look at me,” he rasped.

You did.

And that look, the sweat in his curls, the slack jaw, the pink flush down his chest, the way his eyes locked on yours like he wanted to live inside you-

That was what finished you.

You fell apart under him, mouth open on a broken sob, body arching off the bed.

Eddie snapped.

He drove into you once, twice, and then his rhythm fell apart entirely as he buried himself to the hilt, groaning your name into your throat as he came.

Hot. Hard. Endless.

He collapsed on top of you, gasping, shaking, pressing kiss after kiss to your cheek, your jaw, your mouth.

You were both trembling.

Completely spent.

Totally wrecked.

He didn’t move, just laid there with you tangled under him, still inside you, both of you soaked in sweat and heat and the kind of silence that feels earned.

“…Jesus Christ,” he finally muttered. “You okay?”

You laughed, dizzy and wrecked and glowing.

“Ask me again in the morning.”

He chuckled into your neck, but didn’t answer.

Didn’t even shift.

And after a few more seconds of shared breath and skin, you realized… he wasn’t getting up.

Not to clean himself off.

Not to make some self-deprecating joke.

Not even to pull away.

He was still holding you… tight.

His arm tucked around your waist, his face buried against your shoulder, his thigh hooked over yours like he meant to keep you there.

And then…

So soft you almost missed it:

“Stay.”

You blinked, heart lurching.

His fingers pressed into your hip like he was afraid you’d vanish if he loosened his grip.

“At least for tonight,” he added quickly, voice barely above a whisper.

You didn’t answer right away.

You just kissed his temple.

He sighed. Deep. Content. Scared, maybe… but not enough to let go.

And when you finally drifted off, his arm was still around you.

Like he was holding on to a dream he didn’t want to wake up from.

Next Chapter: Chapter Seven: “Routine Maintenance”

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