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steviebbboi · 5 days ago

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⟡ In His Silence ⟡ ║ JJK

݁𐙚 synopsis; they were just classmates, just friends, or so Y/n thought, but when Jungkook is gone and his letters surface, everything she believed begins to crumble under the weight of his silent love.

݁𐙚 genre; angst, unspoken love, tragic romance, nostalgia, lost love

݁𐙚 pairing; jungkook x female reader

݁𐙚 warnings; themes of death & grief, quiet heartbreak, unrequited love

݁𐙚 word count; 3.6+

⚝ masterlist

The attic smelled like time.

That quiet, musty kind of air only dust and old memories could make.

Y/N coughed as she opened the creaky door, brushing away a cobweb. The late March sunlight, warm but dim, came through a narrow window, creating shadows on boxes that seemed untouched for years.

She hadn’t expected to feel anything here. Not after everything. Not after so much time.

But stepping back into this space, where the past still lived in the corners and settled deep in the cracks of the floorboards, stirred something inside her — something she thought she had buried long ago. This weekend was only supposed to be practical — just pack up what was left, close the door for good, and move on without letting it get too personal. That’s what she had promised herself.

But then she found the box.

It didn’t have a label or any markings — just a plain, slightly dented cardboard box wedged between a broken floor lamp and an old, dust-covered typewriter. Curiosity tugged at her as she lowered herself to the ground, the movement slow, her knees aching slightly as she reached forward and pulled the flaps open. Inside was a black leather journal, worn at the edges like it had been held a thousand times, its cover soft and frayed. In the top corner, barely hanging on, was a small sticker — a bunny, faded and peeling, but still there.

Her heart stilled.

No. It can't be.

She pulled it out slowly, fingertips trembling. The cover creaked as she opened the first page, the scent of paper and ink blooming into the air like something sacred. And there it was. In his handwriting.

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March 3, 2015

To Y/N,

You sat next to me today in Literature class. You smelled like peaches and paper. You kept chewing the end of your pen like you were thinking about disappearing. I wanted to ask if you were okay. But I didn't. You looked like you didn't want to be seen today. So I saw you quietly.

– Jungkook

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Her vision blurred. She hadn’t seen his handwriting in years.

Not since he...

Not since the funeral.

She curled the journal close to her chest, like it might disappear if she didn't anchor it to her. The wood beneath her knees felt harder now. Her lungs tighter. She knew this journal was meant to stay hidden. But he wasn't here to stop her anymore. So she turned the page.

The first time she really noticed Jungkook, he was sketching something into the corner of his notebook. She had been sitting two desks away in Mr. Do's Literature class, trying not to nod off as they dissected The Great Gatsby for the third week in a row. He always sat alone. Second row, far right. Near the window. Hair always falling into his eyes. Always quiet. Polite. Untouchable.

Not the kind of boy girls fawned over loudly. But the kind who made you look twice and then forget how to look away. They hadn't spoken, not properly. Just those little things—passing pens, accidental brushes of fingertips when handing papers forward. He always nodded but never said anything. She thought he was shy. She didn't know he was writing her letters in a journal he'd never give her.

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March 10, 2015

To Y/N,

You laughed today. Not just smiled, but really laughed. You tilted your head back and clutched your side like the joy was too big for your body. I think that's the moment I knew.

— Jungkook

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She turned the page with shaking hands. Her heart was racing, like her young self had just stumbled into the boy with the quiet eyes all over again.

They officially spoke for the first time during a class project. Group of two. Random assignment. She remembered the way he had blinked at her, almost startled. His voice was softer than she expected, lower too. A little shy around the edges.

"I... I'm not great at talking," he said, scratching the back of his neck.

She smiled. "That's okay. I'm not great at listening."

He chuckled then. A sound she didn't know she'd remember all these years later.

They met at the library to work on the project every Thursday. She always brought snacks. He always brought silence. But it was a comfortable one, filled with scribbled notes, light banter, and the soft scent of his cologne—something like pine and rain and secrets. Sometimes she talked about things without realizing. About her parents. About her favorite books. About how quiet the world felt when she didn't want to be alone but didn't want to be with anyone either.

And he listened.

God, he always listened.

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April 2, 2015

To Y/N,

You told me today that you think people only love loudly. That love is supposed to be shouting from rooftops, chasing through airports, grand gestures and fireworks. But I love like a whisper. I love in the way I remember your coffee order. In the way I notice when you wear new earrings. In the way I write you letters you'll never read.

Does that still count?

— Jungkook

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Y/N pressed her palm against the page. It felt warm. Like maybe his love was still lingering there, beneath her touch. They had never dated — not back then.

She thought maybe he didn't like her that way.

He thought maybe she could never love someone who hid behind silence.

So they stayed like that.

They hovered in that strange space between almost and never, where glances felt like confessions and brushing hands felt like sin.

Two parallel lines.

Too scared to cross.

One day, a boy asked her out. Someone else. Loud. Confident. Not Jungkook. She said yes. Jungkook nodded when she told him, face unreadable. He never asked her to stay.

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May 22, 2015

To Y/N,

You wore yellow today. Like sunlight. Like summer. I wanted to tell you that it looked like poetry on you. But instead, I watched you hold someone else's hand.

And wrote this instead.

— Jungkook

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She remembered that day. She remembered how Jungkook smiled when he passed her in the hallway—but it never reached his eyes. Back then, she didn't understand. Now, the truth sat heavy in her lungs.

She read for hours. The sun shifted. Dust danced through the beams of light. And the journal kept unfolding like a slow, unraveling heart. She was older now. Wiser. Lonelier in some quiet way she hadn't noticed until now. And as she sat there, curled into the bones of her past, she realized something devastating: She had never truly known the boy who once sat beside her in silence. But he had known her.

Deeply.

Completely.

Quietly.

Some people fall in love like fireworks.

Jeon Jungkook fell in love like dusk.

Slow. Faint. Lingering.

And then, suddenly, everywhere.

He used to time his mornings so that he'd arrive just a few steps behind her at the school gates. Not too close to seem intentional—but never far enough to miss the way she tugged at the straps of her backpack, or the way her fingers curled into her sweater sleeves when the air was still cool. He memorized the sound of her laugh before he ever earned it. And every time she smiled at him—those soft, polite smiles that didn't yet know the weight they carried—he felt something loosen in his chest and pull tighter all at once.

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June 2, 2015

To Y/N,

You asked me once why I don't talk much. I wanted to say, "Because I'm scared that if I start, everything will come out. All at once." Scared that you'll hear how my voice shakes when I look at you. How every word I'd say would taste like your name. But instead, I just smiled.

And you didn't ask again.

— Jungkook

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He kept the journal in the back pocket of his backpack. Always near. Never out in the open.He wrote between classes. At night. On the bus. In the quiet hour between dinner and sleep when his chest felt full with things he couldn't say out loud. And slowly, his days began to orbit around her.

When her eyes looked tired, he noticed.

When her shoes looked worn, he noticed.

When she sat in the library for an hour after school, chewing the end of her pen and staring at her notebook like it had betrayed her—he noticed. He never interrupted, but he never missed a thing.

She never saw the way his eyes lingered a beat longer on the strands of hair that slipped across her cheek.

She never saw the way he smiled to himself when she ranted about her favorite books, gesturing wildly with her hands.

She never saw him pause when she looked sad—as if he was calculating the perfect words that might make her feel less alone.

Words he never spoke.

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June 14, 2015

To Y/N,

You cried today. Not the loud kind. The quiet kind that hides in the corners of your eyes. The kind that thinks no one notices. I did. I wanted to ask, "What's wrong?" But I was scared you'd say, "Nothing."

So I wrote this instead.

— Jungkook

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They were young . And love, to them, still meant grand gestures.

Loud confessions. Fireworks and chaos.

But Jungkook didn't fall like that. He fell like shadows stretching longer at sunset.

A gradual ache. A hush in the room.

The boy she dated that summer had a motorcycle and a cocky grin. He wore cologne too strong and had a habit of speaking like every word was a punchline. Jungkook hated him. Not because he was wrong for her. But because she smiled like sunlight around him. And Jungkook—he only ever made her laugh in the quiet.

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July 5, 2015

To Y/N,

He makes you laugh louder. I know that's supposed to be a good thing. But tonight, I can't sleep. Not because I'm jealous of him. But because I'm terrified you'll never see the way I love you in silence. You deserve a voice louder than my own. And still... I hope you hear me.

— Jungkook

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He started avoiding her. Not out of anger. But because the ache became too much. Every time she smiled at him, it felt like swallowing glass. Because she didn't know. Because she couldn't know. Because to tell her would ruin everything he still had of her—however little it was.

So he stayed quiet and wrote more.

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August 3, 2015

To Y/N,

I saw you at the corner store today. You were humming something under your breath. Something soft. I think it was that song you always play in the library. You were barefoot in slippers. Holding strawberry milk. You didn't see me.

But I saw you. And for a moment, I let myself pretend you were mine.

— Jungkook

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Then came the library moment. She had just broken up with the boy. He didn't know the details. But that afternoon, she sat on the floor between rows of books, hugging her knees to her chest, her hair half-tied and falling out in loose strands. She wasn't crying loudly. It was that quiet grief again. The one he'd memorized. He walked past her aisle. Paused. Walked back. He crouched beside her, wordless. And gently—so gently—offered her his sleeve. She blinked up at him. He smiled. She tried to return it. Failed. Then broke all over again. And he sat there beside her for an hour, saying nothing.

Just breathing with her. Matching her silence.

Because sometimes, silence is all someone needs to feel understood.

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September 10, 2015

To Y/N,

You leaned on my shoulder today. You probably didn't mean anything by it. But I stayed completely still. Because I didn't want to break the moment. You felt like gravity. Soft and heavy. Like the world made sense if I just stayed right there. You said thank you when you left. But you didn't know what you were thanking me for. I hope you never do.

Because this ache is mine. And it's the only part of you I get to keep.

— Jungkook

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The school year blurred. They studied. They graduated. They drifted. Life swept in like tide pulling sand from under their feet. She went to university in a city two hours away. He stayed in Seoul. Took up art school. Learned how to paint things that didn't speak. But she never really left his thoughts. Some people leave fingerprints on your ribs without ever touching you.

She was that. She was everywhere.

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January 2, 2016

To Y/N,

It snowed today. I passed our old coffee shop. The one near the bus stop where we used to wait in winter. I saw a girl in a yellow scarf, and for a second, my breath caught. It wasn't you. But my body remembered you before my mind could catch up. Sometimes I think the body grieves more honestly than we do.

— Jungkook

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She texted him once that year.

"Happy birthday, JK 🎂 Hope you're doing good."

He read it ten times before replying.

"Thanks. Hope you're doing well too."

He stared at the typing bubble for a full minute. It disappeared.He never heard from her again. He told himself he was fine.

He dated. Smiled. Painted. Even fell for someone else. Almost.

But he always measured everyone's silence against hers. And no one ever felt quite as loud.

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April 6, 2017

To Y/N,

This will be my last letter. I promised myself I'd stop. You're not mine to write about anymore. But before I let go, I want you to know: Loving you never hurt. It only ached.

Like music that ends before your favorite part.

— Jungkook

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He folded that final page. Pressed it between two dried petals from the flower she once tucked behind her ear during class. Closed the journal. Put it in a box. And never opened it again.

Until now.

Until her.

Until she sat in that attic, the weight of his words trembling in her palms. And finally saw the boy who had loved her from a distance so deeply, it made silence feel holy.

I didn't know what I expected when I pulled open that box. Maybe childhood trinkets. Old art from school. Some half-faded photos, a mixtape, a broken phone. But I didn't expect this.

A journal.

Worn. Frayed around the edges. Black leather. Heavy with time. It smelled like old paper and something faintly floral. Like years. Like memories I didn't know I had permission to hold. And inside—

Me.

Every page. Every entry. Every word—

Was me.

My name written in strokes that trembled with care. Moments I hadn't even realized were noticed. Days I had long since forgotten. The softest versions of myself—curled up in between math classes and library hours—preserved in ink that bled too close to the edges.

And him. Jungkook.

His thoughts. His longing. His love.

Unsaid. Unshared.

Until now.

I sat there for what felt like hours.

Reading. Weeping. Reading again.

His handwriting changed over time. From sharp and stiff to loose, desperate, almost frantic near the end. Like he was trying to outrun the ache in his own chest. The boy I once thought was so quiet—so unknowable—had loved me with a voice so loud it filled every page of that journal. And I'd never heard it. I felt sick. Grateful. Heartbroken. His voice — the sound I had never heard enough — now haunted every corner of my mind. The words he never said aloud filled the silence like a storm: "I love you." He had loved me in silence, fiercely and quietly. But silence had become the space where he slipped away.

I sat down at the table, the scattered letters in front of me trembling in the faint light. His handwriting, so precise and delicate, traced the contours of my heart in ink.

"If you're reading this, it means I'm no longer there to say it to you myself. But love like this... it doesn't fade. It doesn't die."

Tears spilled over, hot and unrelenting.

How could love that once felt like a lifeline now feel like a weight dragging me into darkness?

"I held the letter close, as if my fingers could pull him back from the quiet place where even love could no longer reach — the boy who had loved me silently, the man who now belonged to the stars."

The days that followed were a blur.

Friends and family moved around me like shadows, their words distant and hollow. I felt numb, as if part of me had been ripped away, leaving an echoing emptiness. I returned to the apartment once, needing to feel close to him one last time. I sat on the floor, surrounded by his belongings — sketches of places we’d never go, worn-out notebooks filled with unfinished dreams. I whispered his name into the silence, aching for an answer that would never come.

In the quiet of the night, when the world was asleep and my tears had finally run dry, I found his last letter — the one he never sent but left tucked away in a drawer.

"Y/N, my love — if you are reading this, it means I have lost the fight inside me. But please know, my heart was always yours. I loved you in silence because I was scared to lose you with words I couldn't promise. Forgive me for leaving you this way."

I cried until there were no tears left, until my body ached with the weight of what was lost. But even in the despair, I felt a strange comfort — that his love had never been silent in truth, only in sound. That it had lived inside him, and now inside me.

Time passed, but the ache never softened. I learned to live with the silence, carrying him in the quiet moments — a heartbeat in the stillness. I would sometimes sit beneath the stars, searching the sky for the boy who had loved me without words.

And I would whisper back to the darkness,

"I love you too."

Because love like that — silent, unspoken, impossible to hold — still shapes the edges of a broken heart.

Not all love stories have happy endings.

Some are meant to echo in silence,

To live in the spaces between words,

And to remind us, even in loss, of the power of a love that never dies.

To Jungkook, the boy who loved me in silence — I will carry you forever, in every quiet breath, in every fragile moment, in every broken piece of my heart.

✿₊˚ Thank you so much for reading lovelies! If you’d like to share your thoughts you can click here!

⚝ masterlist

.✦ divider credits: @steviebbboi— post ⚝ @enchanthings-a — post ⚝ @cursed-carmine — post

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steviebbboi · 5 days ago

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CallalillyWrites Turns 1 Celebration Event

I can't believe it's been a year since I started this blog. It's still very much a work-in-progress, but it's my work-in-progress.

To celebrate this milestone, I want to do something special.

Rather than a writing event or a sleepover, I decided I wanted to help others share their achievements, too.

I still might try and put out a few writerly surprises if I can get the time to work on something during the event's runtime.

This past year has seen a lot of ups and downs, and I want to spread some positivity and focus on the very things that make us happy and/or things that we've worked hard to achieve.

They can be as big or small as you need/want them to be. All that matters is that it's something that made you happy or made you proud of yourself.

You can also send shoutouts for others you've seen struggling and working hard as well. It's amazing how much that can help someone keep going even when they feel like giving up.

This is open to all who'd like to participate (fandom and non-fandom). You don't need to follow me, either, in order to participate. I want this to be an open and safe event for everyone who wants to join in.

How To Participate

You can do this a couple of ways.

You can send in asks to this blog with what you'd like celebrated for yourself or another. This can be anonymous or not, your choice.

You can create your own post on your blog and tag this blog (@callalillywrites) so I'll see and reblog it. Event tag is #callalillywrites anniversary if you'd like to use it.

I also have submissions open if you need a bit more space as well. Also a great way to be sure I see your post if you go with option 2.

Feel free to send in multiple asks or make multiple posts for this event.

I'll do my best to ensure I don't miss any. This is my first official event, so I'm bound to make mistakes or miss something. If I do happen to miss yours, please message me, and I'll make sure to check it out and reblog it.

Timeline for This Event

This event will start July 23, 2025 and run until August 31, 2025. I'm not putting official times due to differing time zones, and I'll accept late submissions up to the morning of September 3.

You're welcome to send in asks or make posts sooner, but I won't be posting/reblogging until the event begins.

If You're Interested, Please...

Help spread the word about this event with others by reblogging this post. Let's see if we can make this event the beginning of something.

Sometimes, all someone needs is a little light to dim the dark. Let's be that light for ourselves and others.

Tagging mutuals (no pressure at all to participate if you don't want to): @navybrat817 @tuiccim @ellethespaceunicorn @krirebr @bigtreefest @ronearoundblindly @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @mercurial-chuckles @kayhi808 @theinheriteddutchess @thezombieprostitute @yenzys-lucky-charm @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @stellar-solar-flare @steviebbboi @gremlin-girly @tldrthor @darsynia @writing-for-marvel @themaradwrites @claudette13 @sosa2imagines

#signal boooooost

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steviebbboi · 6 days ago

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not just a jacket – michael "robby" robinavitch x fem!reader old wounds reopen when a shared jacket stirs your insecurities about Robby's past with Collins.

warnings: established relationship, insecurity, overthinking, angst, hurt/comfort, self-indulgent, i'm a sucker for hurt/comfort ok, insecurity trope i guess a/n: this is me, being delusional, thinking this is why Robby changed his jacket into the green one for s2. so yay! wc: 2.2k

masterlist

You and Robby have been dating for a year now.

It’s not easy, you’ll admit. Between the long shifts, the emotional exhaustion, and the fact that Robby’s technically your attending, there are plenty of complications. You’re both professionals—you know how to keep your personal lives off the floor—but when things get heated? They get hot.

Still, that’s not the only thing that makes it hard.

You hear a snap Robby’s shoulder, his voice follows soon after.

“Seriously?”

You glance up from the chart you’re reviewing. Collins is standing a few feet away, arms crossed and smirking after flicking a rubber band Robby’s way.

“That’s what you get for stealing my case.”

“It wasn’t labeled,” Robby replies, not even looking up. “Can’t steal what’s not claimed.”

“I was already standing there with gloves on.”

The corners of his mouth twitch. It’s not flirtatious, just familiar. Like they’ve done this a thousand times before. Because they probably have. “Too bad, then.”

Collins rolls her eyes and walks off, but not before tossing a parting shot over her shoulder. “This is not over, Robby.”

Robby just shakes his head, eyes on the monitor. He doesn’t see the way your expression shifts.

You look back down at the chart in your hands, eyes scanning the page but not really reading. That little twist in your stomach—jealousy? insecurity?—you shove it down, like you always do. Like you’ve taught yourself to.

Because Collins isn’t the problem. You trust Robby.

But sometimes you can’t help noticing how effortless it all seems with her.

You only notice even more things from there, and it doesn’t help your thoughts.

The inside jokes. The stories that start with “Remember that time when…” The unspoken rhythm between them—quick-fire, chemistry, just enough to make you feel like an outsider in your own relationship.

You try not to care. You really do.

You tell yourself that people have exes. That it’s been over for a while. And Collins has been the nicest to you since you joined. She’s kind. Smart. Easy to like. You’re just newer to the Pitt compared to them, you won’t know all the stories.

Yeah. That’s all it is.

You exhale and let your eyes close for a few seconds. Just long enough to settle the ache behind them. Then you someone standing behind you. A familiar presence. You look up and find Robby towering above your chair, a soft smile tugging at his mouth.

“You okay?” He hands you coffee in a paper cup. “Feeling lightheaded?”

You smile back. “Hi.”

He brushes his hand through your hair briefly. “Take a break if you need one, sweetheart.”

“I’m okay,” You say, “Just a little tired.”

He hums a low note of agreement. Then he leans in fast, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before anyone can see.

And just like that, the air changes.

The tension in your chest—tight and coiled since morning—loosens just enough so you can breathe. Maybe it’s all in your head after all. Maybe you’re just tired and overthinking.

Robby walks off toward the trauma bay, sipping his own coffee, and you watch him go with something tender flickering behind your ribs.

You’re at the nurses’ station, tapping in vitals and scanning for labs. A trauma just cleared and your hands are still shaking from compressions. Robby drops into the rolling chair beside you without a word. He hands you a protein bar and cracks open a water bottle.

“…Thank you?” You blink at him.

“You looked like you were going to pass out in trauma two,” he mutters, taking a long swig. “Figured I’d preempt the whole catching-you-before-you-hit-the-ground thing.”

You peel the wrapper. “Romantic.”

“I do my best.”

You smile appreciatively and watch him in silence as he analyzes the board. He hasn’t changed out of his long-sleeve jacket since this morning, the same one you’ve seen on him for… years. Faded navy, broken zipper tab, sleeves always pushed to his elbows.

The air conditioning in the ER is always too much or not enough. Today, it’s freezing. You’re pulling the long sleeves under your scrubs, regretting not wearing something thicker. You can’t hide the way you shiver for a second.

Without saying anything, Robby starts peeling the jacket off and hands it to you. “Here.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’re cold.”

“I’m fine.”

Robby doesn’t argue. Just reaches over and drapes the jacket around your shoulders before you can protest again. The warmth of it hits immediately—trapped body heat, the smell of hospital soap and something that you can only describe as Robby.

He sits back in the chair like nothing happened, eyes on the vitals screen.

“Thanks,” you say, quiet.

“Yeah.” He winks. “Looks better on you anyway.”

And you try to hide your smile.

You don’t think about it again until hours later, nearing the end of your shift, when a nurse joins you in the break room, glancing at you with a small grin.

“Well, well,” He says lightly. “The jacket lives on.”

You blink. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward you. “Oh, just… the jacket. Robby used to give that one to Collins all the time when they were—”

He cuts himself off too late. Realizes what he’s said. “—I mean, it’s just… an old jacket. Nothing special.”

He tries to take it back, but you already heard him the first time.

Your smile wavers—just for a second—before you catch it and force a lighter tone. “Well, it’s just a jacket, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course.” He gives an apologetic half-laugh and mutters something to himself as he slips out of the room.

You sit there for a long second, suddenly sweating despite how cold you were moments ago. You stare down at the sleeves, suddenly aware of how they fall over your hands. Did Robby also say it looks better on her? Drape it over her shoulders? — you close your eyes, taking a deep breath. You need to stop overthinking.

It’s just a jacket. Just an old jacket. It just feels like a stabbing ‘not yours’.

You’re by the lockers, grabbing your things to go home when Robby joins you. Usually you’d wait for him to pass everything on to Jack, but he wonders why you seem like you’re in a rush today. He doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you for a second because he notices you’re quieter, doesn’t seek him out during the shift like you usually do.

“Hey.” Robby calls out, catching your attention. “Haven’t seen you in a bit.”

You glance up and offer a tight smile. “Been busy.”

He frowns when he sees his jacket neatly folded on the bench, and looks at you—you’re shaking. Still cold.

“You warm enough?”

You look down at it. “Yeah. I was gonna give it back, actually.”

Robby blinks. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” you say too quickly. “Just—it’s fine.”

“Uh-huh.” He waits. “Did something happen?”

You shrug. “Nope.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “Okay. So I guess we’re doing that thing where you pretend everything’s fine, and I pretend not to notice that you’ve been silent all day.”

“I haven’t been—”

“You haven’t properly looked at me once since I got here.”

You bite your lip and close your locker.

“I’m not trying to pick a fight,” he says gently. “You’ve been off since this afternoon. Just… talk to me.”

You finally meet his eyes. Your voice is low, but the emotion behind it is impossible to miss. “I don’t want the jacket,” you say quietly.

That makes him pause.

He turns, brow furrowed. “What?”

“I don’t want it,” you repeat, still not looking at him. “You can take it back.”

Then he walks over, slow. “Okay… This is about my jacket?”

“A nurse saw me wearing your jacket today. And he made…a comment,” you say. “How Collins used to wear it. A lot. When you two were—”

Robby goes still.

“I didn’t know,” you continue. “I didn’t know it was… hers. Yours and hers. I didn’t know it had a history.”

“It’s just a jacket,” he whispers, hand hovering near your arm like he wants to reach out—but isn’t sure if he’s allowed.

You let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I told myself too.”

And then you pause for a bit, glancing up at him, eyes stinging.

“I see how you look at her sometimes, Robby,” you say, and now your voice cracks just slightly. “And I… I know you don’t mean it. I know it’s probably not even conscious. But I see it. And sometimes I just…”

You can’t finish your sentence, your throat closes.

Robby doesn’t say anything at first. His jaw tenses. He looks like he’s trying to form a sentence, trying to find the right thing—but nothing comes out.

And that silence is what makes your chest ache the most.

You sling your bag over your shoulder, tears brimming, and brush past him.

“Forget it,” you murmur. “It’s late.”

And you leave the locker room without looking back.

By the time Robby arrvies back home to his apartment, you’ve already showered, now in the kitchen preparing dinner from the takeout you got for both of you. The TV is on, volume low, something mindless playing just for background noise. You just didn’t want the apartment to be silent.

Robby steps in, keys dropped in the bowl, and for a long minute he just stands there. Looking at you. Or maybe trying to gather himself.

He moves slowly, toeing off his shoes. Walks over to you in the kitchen, and stops you.

“I didn’t know,” he starts.

You don’t respond.

“I didn’t know the jacket would feel like that to you.”

Still, you stay quiet. Not because you’re angry now—but because if you speak, you might cry.

“I’ve had it for years,” Robby continues. “Collins used to wear it a lot, yeah. We were together for a while. And after we weren’t… I never really thought about it again. It was just…my jacket.”

He runs a hand down his face, exhaling.

“I didn’t think. That’s on me.”

You glance over, slowly. He looks… wrecked. Worn down. His eyes are softer than usual.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say quietly.

“That doesn’t mean I didn’t hurt you.”

You pause.

Robby leans back now, still watching you. “When you said that thing earlier… about how I look at her sometimes—I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that.”

Your throat tightens.

“And the truth is,” he says slowly, “I don’t know what I look like when I see her. But if there’s even a part of you that felt like I wasn’t really with you—then I’ve fucked up worse than I thought.”

You shift, leaning against the counter next to him. “I know you don’t have feelings for her. It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s just…” You shake your head. “Sometimes… I think you miss her. The jokes. The memories. The way you two work so well together. And I’m still figuring out where… or if I fit in your life.”

“I’m not her, Robby.” You finally say.

Robby’s jaw flexes. “No, of course you’re not. You’re you. And I don’t want her. I don’t want you to be her.”

You don’t look convinced. Robby notices the way your arms fold across your chest. Like you’re bracing for something.

He steps a little closer, voice softer.

You look up at him. Your eyes are tired. But you’re listening.

“I know Collins and I have a history. I know that must be hard to watch sometimes. But it’s not something I miss. It’s not something I want back.” He reaches out, letting his fingers graze your arm.

“I want you. The way you show up when I’ve had the worst day. The way you care about people, even when you’re hurting.” He says. “And if I’ve made you feel like you’re in competition with my past… that’s on me. And I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, trying to will away the tears. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” You repeat.

“But I can do better.”

You blink up at him, eyes a little hopeful. “I just wanted to feel like I wasn’t second,” you admit. “Like maybe… I’m not the one someone settles for after someone else.”

Robby’s face softens even more.

“You’re not second,” he says. “You’re it for me. You’re the one I come home to. The one I choose. And I’m gonna keep choosing you, every day.”

You don’t say anything, only reaching for him.

He hugs you back, pulling you into his chest and wrapping his arms around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Thank you,” You whisper. “For listening.”

Robby lifts his head, leaving a soft kiss on your lips. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you too, Robby.”

815 notes · View notes

steviebbboi · 6 days ago

Text

Across The Hall (12) | Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Michael Robinavitch x Neighbor/Teacher ! Reader

Summary: You and Michael share a strong, loving connection. You plan a heartfelt surprise that brings you even closer.

Word Count: 3570

Warning: Age Gap (early 20s/early 50s)

Authors Note: Thank you for following along and showing so much love to this fic!!! I’ve truly enjoyed reading your comments and messages. They mean a lot (and some seriously cracked me up lol). I had so much fun writing this. Maybe we’ll see them again in the future...(lol im sad its over) but for now they live happily ever after. Enjoy! -Ryn

(if you're into Animal Kingdom, I wrote a Andrew Cody Fic lol shameless plug)

You come out of your apartment, locking the door behind you, and just as you turn around, you see Michael stepping out of his. His hair is still slightly damp from a shower, his sleeves rolled up casually, coffee mug in hand. You both meet in the middle of the hall, that easy, familiar rhythm between you two already in motion.

“Good morning,” you beam up at him, eyes lighting up the way they always do when you see him.

He smiles down at you, warm and a little sleepy, and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His thumb lingers against your cheek for just a second longer than necessary. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he says, his voice low and gravelly, still coated in the softness of morning. He leans down and plants a slow kiss on your lips—gentle, unhurried.

He takes your hand without thinking, fingers intertwined, you walk together toward the elevator, the silence between you filled with quiet contentment. It was like this every week in the morning, just like it was before—but now, instead of being just friends, you were something more.

The elevator doors slide open and you both step inside. He presses the lobby button with hand holding his mug, still holding yours in the other. He glances sideways at you, his mouth tilting into a soft grin. “You sleep okay?”

He watched you for a second longer, then tilted his head slightly.

“How’s the noggin?”

“Sometimes I get dizzy, but mainly headaches now,” you said with a small shrug. “Therapy’s the same, but I’m improving. They’ve got me doing stuff for my coordination—and they showed me some tricks to manage the headaches.”

“Progress is progress,” he said quietly. “Even the small stuff matters.”

You smiled faintly, appreciating how he never made you feel like you had to downplay anything.

Michael was there for you through it all—calm, patient, and steady. He never asked for more than you could give. On the hard days, he gave you quiet comfort. On the good days, he cheered you on like every step forward was something to be proud of.

As you worked on healing and growing, he never rushed you. He just stayed by your side, a constant reminder you weren’t alone.

He loved you the way you always needed—without pressure, without conditions. Not with big gestures, but with quiet care: in how he listened, how he stayed, and how he made you feel like enough, just as you were.

His love was gentle, patient, and safe—and in time, you realized it was the kind of love you’d always deserved.

Michael nodded slowly, taking it all in, his thumb brushing gently across your knuckles. His expression stayed soft but alert, like he was mentally filing away every word.

His smile softened, though that familiar crease formed between his brows—a flicker of concern he didn’t bother hiding. But, like always, he didn’t push.

Instead, he gave your hand another gentle squeeze. “Let me know if it gets worse today. I’ll check in later.”

You nodded, eyes meeting him for a quiet beat. “I know you will.”

The lobby is cool and quiet when the elevator doors slide open again. You step out together, your footsteps soft against the polished floor.

Outside the morning air is fresh, a little crisp, and the city around you is just waking up.

You both stand on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building, pausing like always before going your separate ways for the day. He’s heading toward the hospital, you towards the school. But neither of you moves yet.

“I have a surprise for you tonight,” you said, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder.

“Oh do you now?” Michael asked, arching a brow as he looked down at you with an intrigued grin.

“Mhm,” you hummed, smiling to yourself.

“What kind of surprise?” he asked, that familiar teasing edge slipping into his voice as he stepped a little closer. His hands found your waist, fingers tracing slowly along your sides.

You rolled your eyes and nudged his chest lightly with your hand. “None of that,” you said with a soft laugh. “If you’re lucky, there’ll be dessert.”

His smirk deepened, but he didn’t say anything right away. Instead, he just looked at you, like he was memorizing this moment, your flushed cheeks, the glint in your eye, the way you never fully pulled away after touching him.

The two of you hadn’t officially crossed that line. Not yet. He’d been patient. Always letting you lead. Always stopping where you drew the line.

He tilted his head slightly, a playful glint in his eye.

“Lucky how? Like… dessert or dessert?” he asked, eyebrows raised, voice dipped in playful mischief.

You caught the teasing in his tone instantly—light, warm, and absolutely on purpose.

“Michael Robinavitch!” you gasped, half-laughing, half-scolding, giving his chest a little shove.

He just smirked, completely unbothered. “Don’t wear it out now, baby. I mean, if tonight’s the night, you’re gonna be saying it… over and over.”

“Stop it!” you groaned, burying your face in your hands as your whole body flushed with heat. Your cheeks were burning, your ears too, and you were pretty sure your neck was just as red. It felt like your whole body was on fire.

He chuckled, his grin spreading wide, watching you squirm. “Okay, okay. I’m just teasing.” He nudged your foot gently with his. “I like when you get all flustered.”

You peeked at him through your fingers, shaking your head. “I’m hot now, thanks.”

You grabbed the neckline of your dress and fanned yourself dramatically, trying to cool down, but it only made him laugh harder.

“You’re welcome, lil’ inferno,” he said,looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You shot him a look—half warning, half amused—but you couldn’t hold back the smile tugging at your lips.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath.

“I try,” he replied smoothly, bumping your shoulder gently with his.

Laughing and moving the conversation you say “Be ready by nine.”

He nodded slowly. “Attire?”

“Dress up, please,” you said

“Alright, you got it”

“Anything else, sweetheart?” His voice dropped just a fraction

“Yes, I need a kiss before we part ways.”

He leaned in without hesitation, giving you a peck.

When he started to pull away, you didn’t let him. Your hand slipped up to his jaw, fingers curling there as you kissed him again—deeper this time, slower, unwilling to let go.

He smiled against your mouth, his voice low between kisses. “Babe, I gotta go. Jack’s gonna light me up if I’m late for shift change. He already gave me the ‘don’t make this a habit’ speech last week.”

“Tell him it’s not your fault,” you said, breathless. “Tell him I made you a little late.”

He let out a soft laugh, eyes half-lidded as he looked at you. “He knows it’s you. Everyone at work knows it’s you. I’ve stopped even pretending it’s foot traffic.”

You giggled. “Foot traffic? That’s the best you could come up with?”

He shrugged, shameless. “It worked—twice.”

You grinned, fingers gently tracing the edge of his scrub collar. “Well… can you blame me? I love kissing you…”

You murmured it as you leaned in, pressing kisses to his cheek, then his jaw, and finally his lips.

“Sweetheart…” he groaned

His ears were pink. His cheeks, unmistakably flushed.

You blinked, then grinned. “Ha! Look who’s all flustered now.”

His brows shot up. “I’m not flustered,” he said quickly—way too quickly.

“Ohhh, yes you are,” you teased, beaming. “You’re blushing. You’re red as a tomato!”

“It’s the sun,” he muttered. “I’m getting sunburned already. It’s only gonna get worse if I stay here any longer.”

“Okay, okay—one more kiss, and I’ll let you go.”

You lean in and plant a quick peck.

“Alright, go,” you laughed, giving him a gentle push as he started to back away.

But then he paused, sighed like it physically pained him, and stepped right back into your space. His hand slid to the back of your neck as he kissed you again—this time slower, more deliberate. There was weight behind it, warmth, like he was imprinting something into you to last the rest of the day.

When you broke apart, his thumb traced a soft line down your cheek, his eyes never leaving yours.

“I’ll see you tonight,” he murmured.

“Have a good day, Teach,” he added, still smiling as he walked backward.

“You too, Doc.” You tossed him a playful salute before turning around and heading off.

And finally—reluctantly—you both went your separate ways.

—

“I know. Please don’t start,” Michael muttered, striding past the nurses’ station without slowing down.

Jack barely glanced up from the computer, already smirking. “Didn’t even say anything yet.”

Michael didn’t stop. “Your face said enough.”

Jack chuckled, logging out of the computer and trailing him toward the staff room. “It's hard to keep a straight face when you come waltzing in here looking like a lovesick puppy.”

“I am not a lovesick puppy.”

“Yes, you are,” Princess chimed in from her station as they passed by, not even looking up from her charting.

Michael groaned, while Jack grinned wider. “See? Not just me.”

The majority of the staff had lost the bet made months ago—except for Mateo and Perla.

Mateo had guessed right: Michael didn’t have a girlfriend (at the time.) And Perla? She’d hit the nail on the head when she insisted you weren’t in the medical field.

After your accident and unexpected trip to the ER, Michael finally came clean—shutting down the whole “friend-neighbor-almost something” narrative for good.

But not before ripping everyone a new one for turning his love life into some kind of fantasy draft.

“Gee, thanks,” he muttered now.

Jack clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’re whipped. So whipped. It’s actually unbelievable how whipped you are,”

They stepped into the staff room, the door clicking shut behind them. Michael walked over to the lockers, tugged his open, and tossed his bag inside.

Jack leaned against his locker, arms crossed. “I’m just saying—before her, you were all scrubs and sarcasm. Now you’ve got layers. Emotions, loved up—”

Michael didn’t answer right away. He shoved his bag further in, then shut the locker with a quiet click.

Jack watched him, still smirking. “Seriously, though. You’ve changed.”

Michael glanced over, brow raised. “Is that a bad thing?”

Jack shook his head, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “No, man. It’s not.”

He meant it. For all the teasing, all the jokes—Jack was genuinely happy. His best friend was happy. And that was rare enough in their world to be worth holding onto.

“She’s got a surprise for me tonight.”

Jack tried—tried—to look innocent, but the smirk was already creeping in. “Does she now?” he said as he opened his locker and grabbed his bag.

Michael turned, fully facing him. “You know what it is, don’t you?”

Jack shrugged, clearly enjoying himself. “Nope.”

“Jack.”

“Don’t look at me like that, man. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

“So you do know.”

Jack slung the strap over his shoulder, still pretending to study the inside of his locker. “I may have… helped coordinate something.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “You helped her?”

“She needed access to a contact. I made a call. That’s it.”

“So, you do know.”

Jack finally looked at him, the grin breaking through. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Michael gave him a flat look. “You’re the worst.”

Jack laughed, heading for the door. “Tell her that after you see what she planned.”

Jack zipped up his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “All I’m saying is… maybe wear something nicer than the hoodie you’ve been living in.”

Michael gave a faint, amused scoff. “She did say to dress up.”

Jack nodded like that confirmed everything. “Then don’t screw it up with that ‘comfort over effort’ routine.”

Michael smirked. “You done?”

Jack was already at the door. “Almost.”

He turned back, backing out of the room with his usual smug ease. “Try not to look too shocked when she blows you away.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

Jack grinned. “What can I say? It’s fun watching you fall.”

He disappeared into the hallway, the door swinging closed behind him with a soft click.

Michael stood there a second longer, the room suddenly quieter. Then he exhaled, just once, and started thinking about what the hell he was going to wear.

—-

You met Michael in the middle of the hallway, and for a moment, he just stood there—staring.

“Wow… you look… wow,” he said, a little breathless, eyes sweeping over you. “So beautiful,” he murmured, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.

You giggled, cheeks warming under his gaze. “Thank you. You look wow too.”

He stepped closer, hands naturally finding your waist, already drawing you in like it was instinct. But before he could close the distance, you held up a hand—and something else.

He blinked. “Is that… a blindfold?”

You smiled, a little mischievous. “It is.”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere special,” you said, stepping behind him.

He let out a quiet laugh, but didn’t argue as you gently slipped the blindfold over his eyes, fingers brushing his hair back before tying it.

“You trust me?” you asked softly, your hands resting on his shoulders.

Michael nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting. “With everything.”

You gently tied the blindfold over Michael’s eyes, your fingers lingering for a moment as you brushed stray hair away from his face.

“Ready?” you whispered.

He nodded, his breath steady despite the darkness behind the fabric.

Taking his hand, you led him softly through the hallway. The subtle click of your footsteps echoed as you guided him toward the elevator.

The doors slid open with a quiet ding, and you stepped inside, still holding his hand firmly but tenderly.

You led him through the lobby and outside, taking a careful step forward onto the sidewalk.

The city felt alive yet hushed—the distant wail of a siren, the soft buzz of neon signs flickering above closed shops, and the rustling of trees in the faint wind. Michael could hear the occasional hum of a car passing by.

“Almost there,” you murmured.

His grip tightened just a little, the only sign he was feeling the anticipation too.

You slowed your pace as you approached the spot you’d picked, the shadows folding gently around you both, mingling with the distant murmur of nighttime traffic.

Your fingers brushed lightly against his palm, grounding him, “Just a few more steps.”

You stopped and gently tilted his chin up, the blindfold still shielding his eyes

“Okay,” you whispered, your fingers brushing his shoulder. “You can take it off now.”

Michael slid the blindfold off, blinking into the warm glow spilling onto the sidewalk. His eyes landed on the familiar sign: Bella Notte

He turned to you, surprise lighting up his face.

“Surprise,” you said softly.

He smiled—partly at the moment, partly at the memory.

Michael's kind gesture, asking if you wanted to come with him. It ended up being the start of something neither of you saw coming.

You’d order takeout—cacio e pepe, bruschetta, mozzarella and prosciutto, and of course, tiramisu. Then back at your apartment, you’d sit across from each other at the island table, eating and talking like you’d done it a hundred times. It was quiet. Easy. The kind of night that stayed with you long after it ended.

“It’s closed” you told him now, voice soft. “Just for us.”

He looked back at the glowing windows. “Really?”

“Mhm.”

“How’d you manage that?”

“I had help from Jack, actually,” you admitted, glancing at Michael as you both stood outside Bella Notte. The soft glow of string lights spilled from the restaurant’s windows, casting a warm, romantic hue across the cobblestone sidewalk. “The owner came into the ER a few weeks ago with a burned hand. Jack treated him, and the guy said he owed him a free dinner.”

Michael raised an eyebrow, amused. “So Jack cashed it in for us?”

You nodded, smiling. “Yes.”

Michael shook his head with a soft laugh. “That sneaky bastard.”

You bit your lip, hesitating for just a second. “I was telling him about Bella Notte… how we went there together that night. He mentioned the free dinner, and—”

Michael’s expression shifted—barely. Not hurt, but something softer, more reflective, settled in his eyes.

“He thought it’d be romantic,” you added quickly, fingers fidgeting at your side. “You know, a full-circle kind of thing.”

Michael looked at the restaurant, then back at you, his eyes lingering.

“It is,” he said simply, voice low and sincere.

You searched his face, suddenly nervous under the weight of the moment. “Is this okay? If not, we can—”

But he didn’t let you finish. He closed the space between you and kissed you—gentle, but certain. His hand slid along your jaw, anchoring you in place as his lips pressed against yours, warm and full of quiet affection.

When he finally pulled back, he kept you close, his forehead brushing yours.

“This,” he murmured, breath warm against your lips, “is perfect.”

—-

The two of you ended up trying the majority of the menu—half out of curiosity, half because neither of you could decide on just one thing.

It started with the bruschetta—crispy, warm slices of bread topped with bright tomato, garlic, and fresh basil. Michael took one bite and immediately pushed the plate toward you. From there, it spiraled.

You shared bowls of creamy fettuccine alfredo and rich, red-sauced rigatoni that left both of you shamelessly mopping up the last bits with warm focaccia. The waiter barely had time to clear each plate before the next round arrived—crab-stuffed ravioli, garlicky shrimp scampi, a perfectly blistered Margherita pizza with fresh mozzarella and basil.

At some point, Michael leaned back with a groan, hand on his stomach, and said, “Okay, I’m officially full. But also, we’re sharing the tiramisu.”

You laughed, cheeks aching from smiling so much. “We’re going to roll out of here.”

You sat across from him, legs brushing under the table, sharing bites between laughs and stories. The flicker of candlelight danced in his eyes, and your heart felt impossibly full.

You weren’t just eating dinner. You were making a memory—layered and warm, like the food, like the company. One that neither of you would forget.

You glanced at him across the candlelit table, your fork idly pushing the last bite of tiramisu. Your heart thudded softly, nerves prickling at the edge of your calm. You took a breath, reached for your water, then set it down again.

“I have to ask you something,” you said, your voice quieter than before.

Michael looked up immediately, eyes warm and attentive, the same way he always looked at you when you had something important to say.

You looked up at him, a little nervous but smiling, heart fluttering as you finally let the words leave your lips.

“May I be your girlfriend?”

His expression softened instantly, the corners of his mouth tugging into the smallest, most tender smile. His eyes, warm and steady, never left yours.

There were no expectations, no pressure—just the quiet honesty between two people who already knew. There had been no labels, no formal declaration before now. But still, it had always been there. You knew how he felt. And he knew how you did, too. You were his, and he was yours.

“Honey,” he said gently, voice full of affection, “what do you think we’ve been doing all this time? I’ve seen you as my girl from the start. I’ve just been letting you set the pace. I’ve been yours, and you’ve been mine. We both know that.”

“I know,” you murmured, cheeks warm. “But I wanted to make it official, you know… say it out loud. Make it real. You’ve been so patient with me.”

He leaned in slightly, thumb brushing your cheek in the softest stroke. “It’s real. It’s always been real.”

The air between you felt electric but calm, like something solid settling into place.

His eyes never left yours. “Well then—yes,” he said softly. “I’d love it if you were my girlfriend… but I may be your boyfriend?”

Your smile deepened, your heart fluttering at his words, the warmth in his tone.

“Yes,” you whispered, breath catching.

“Okay then, it’s settled—out loud and in the air,” he chuckled, his voice low and full of something rich and steady. He leaned in and kissed you, soft and sure, sealing the promise between you.

“I love you,” you whispered against his lips, your voice steady.

He paused, pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze deep and unwavering.

“Is that too fast? I know we just officially started dating and all,” you joked, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you tried to ease the nerves that still fluttered under the surface.

He laughed softly, the sound warm and full of affection. “Too fast? No way. Just right.”

He leaned in again, resting his forehead gently against yours. “I love you too.”

And just like that, everything felt still and full all at once—this moment, this love.

This was the love you deserved. Him. And though you never expected it, somehow, you found it—right across the hall.

Thank you again for the love!!!

Tags: @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere@beebeechaos@antisocialfiore@delicatetrashtree@xxxkat3xxx@homebytheharbor@woodxtock@letstryagaintomorrow@livingavilaloca@elkitot@annabellee88@hagarsays@emma8895eb @the-goddess-of-mischief-writing @jazzimac1967@lafemme-nk @kmc1989@whos6claire@harrysgothicbitch@trustme3-13@qardasngan@silas-aeiou@k3ndallroy@ohmystrawberrycheesecake@ay0nha@404creep @dantemorenatalie @obfuscateyummy@steviebbboi@alliegc28@catmomstyles3@ardentistella@madprincessinabox@circumspectre@the-one-with-the-grey-color@thatchickwiththecamera@violetswritingg @valutfromlune @baileythepenguin@capj-1437@airgoddess@nah2991@interestellarprincess@laurensfilm@peachjellyy@aj3684@sorryimstupidrn@escapingjune@robbyslittlelamb@nicisthename92@littlezee80@lucidanne@spooky-librarian-ghost@the-salty-asian@lonelyheartsm@lovelyjulieee @memoriesat30 @glamorizethechaos@guiltypleassure243@princessjayll@teapartydreams

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steviebbboi · 7 days ago

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sacraments master list

the way we were raised and the people we were raised by leave permanent scars no matter how badly we wish them away. robby proves to you over and over that he loves those scars and wouldn’t change a thing, even if you’re always wishing things were different. (this started as a sort of reimagining of ep 2x06 of the bear and spiraled from there)

robby x f!attending!reader ; established relationship

content: 18+ only minors dni, angst, swearing, sexually explicit content, smoking, alcohol, sibling death, grief, complicated mother/daughter relationship, family/childhood trauma, mentions of physical/emotional childhood abuse, accidental pregnancy, abortion, age gap

healing

penance

baptism (coming soon)

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steviebbboi · 7 days ago

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"𝑶𝒑𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆" 𝒅𝒆𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒐𝒂𝒓𝒅

"𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐲𝐞. 𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬."

All images from pinterest, dividers by @steviebbboi and @trainwreckrenegade

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steviebbboi · 10 days ago

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graciously kind of you for the feedback miss autumn 💕💕💕 keep you posted!!

Old Bonds, New Beginnings plot poll

hey lads, question~

VOTING POLL OPEN FOR READERS OF OLD BONDS, NEW BEGINNINGS! As I'm finishing up part two, I'm realizing that I may need to do a part three as its sorta stranded where it is now. My plan was to finish the story in its entirety (solid 3-parts) and then post it - but I am also aware that so many of you have been waiting for this update for OB,NB for some time now. I don't wanna post it and leave you hanging but I also can't guarantee when part 3 would be posted.

Tagging some peeps who may be interested:

@patzammit @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters @mercurial-chuckles @misscherry-26 @autumnrose40 @innorogers @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @rogersbarber @blushingrn @alexxavicry @mrsevans90 @casey1-2007 @littlebitb

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steviebbboi · 10 days ago

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🤩💕💕💕💕💕💕

Old Bonds, New Beginnings plot poll

hey lads, question~

Tagging some peeps who may be interested:

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steviebbboi · 10 days ago

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Old Bonds, New Beginnings plot poll

hey lads, question~

Tagging some peeps who may be interested:

#OLD BONDS NEW BEGINNINGS QUESTION #series update question #steviebbboi asks

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steviebbboi · 11 days ago

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Shut Me Up

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader

Summary: You rant after a long day and want Steve to shut you up.

Word Count: Over 1.3k

Warnings: Established relationship, oral sex (m. receiving, f. receiving discussed), implied sex, dirty talk, swearing, slight feels, possessive behavior, Steve Rogers (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Yeah, I don't know where this came from. Yay for Steve Rogers! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

“Fuck this day!” You flopped down on the bed with a sigh and pointed at Steve who stood by the closet with a small smirk on his face. “And don’t you dare give me that ‘language’ bullshit. I know what kind of mouth you have on you.”

I said “language” one time, and it’ll haunt me forever.

Steve chuckled and put his hands up in surrender. When you were in this kind of mood there was no arguing with you. Well, people could try to argue with you, but chances were they’d lose spectacularly. It impressed Bucky and Sam, and it may have scared them, too. “Wasn’t going to, sweetheart.”

Your gaze softened before anger took over your beautiful features again. “Damn right, you aren’t,” you muttered, slowly exhaling as you looked at the ceiling. “But, seriously, fuck this day.”

“Tell me about it,” he urged, shutting the closet door and leaning against it so he could keep his eyes on you. He didn’t go to the bed just yet, knowing you’d motion him over or give him a sign once you wanted him there. He also knew that whatever you had to say, you didn’t want his advice. Sometimes you needed to vent, and he was more than happy to listen. “Please?”

You sighed. “Since you asked so nicely…”

Steve listened as you launched into a tirade about the frustrations you dealt with at work today, such as fixing errors made by people in higher positions, changes to a policy that would affect your day-to-day that no one knew about in advance, and more. He tried his best not to smile when you realized how loud your voice had gotten during your rant or how you threw your hands up when something in particular got under your skin. You were so passionate, so raw, and he loved that about you.

He also did his best not to get angry on your behalf, but his jaw clenched when you mentioned a rude coworker. You could defend yourself, but it was in his nature to stand up for anyone wronged, especially his girl. If there was any kind of battle you needed to fight, he wanted to fight beside you.

“I’m sorry,” he cut in. “You deserve better.”

The words weren’t to placate you. He was sorry he couldn’t force your company to do better, and you did deserve better with all the work you put in. At the very least he needed to see if there were better jobs out there for you if things didn’t improve or somehow convince you to quit.

“Thanks,” you whispered before you continued.

He didn’t interrupt again, but he occasionally hummed or grunted so you knew he was paying attention to every word, and he was. Whenever you talked, he listened. It would always be that way.

But he wasn’t prepared for what you said next.

“I’m done,” you exhaled once your rant was over. “Now shut me up.”

“What?” he asked, his brows furrowing when you stretched out more on your back.

“I’m tired of talking and I’m tired of listening to myself rant,” you replied, hanging your head off the edge of the bed. “So fuck my throat and shut me up.”

Steve’s ocean eyes widened and he was lucky he didn’t break the door when he pushed himself off of it. “As much as I want your mouth around my cock, I should be taking care of you.” The bulge in his pants said he clearly wanted it, but you were the one who had a rough day, not him.

You giggled. “Oh, don’t worry. You’ll be going down on me before the day is over and you’ll give me at least two orgasms before you fuck me,” you said as a matter of fact, color creeping into his cheeks. Bold and unfiltered. He appreciated that. “And you’ll cuddle with me after.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “You want to cuddle?”

You nodded slightly and whispered, “Yes.” At the end of the day, what you wanted was for someone to love and hold you, to let you know they’d be by your side.

“All the cuddles you want,” he promised because he wanted to hold you, too.

“Good,” you said, pointing at your mouth. “Now shut me the fuck up.”

His fingers curled as he took slow strides toward the bed. “You giving me orders?” he asked, a hint of a growl in his voice.

“I am, and I expect you to obey them, Captain,” you said, letting your mouth fall open. It was a beautiful sight.

“Fuck,” he hissed, unbuttoning his pants. It was almost unfair how quickly you could make him hard. A single look, a word, and he was ready for you. He couldn’t complain when he turned you on just as easily. He knew you soaked your underwear just from the thought of his dick sliding across your tongue.

“Language,” you teased in a sing-song voice.

He shoved his pants and underwear down and heard the way your heart sped up when he stroked himself. “Thought you wanted me to shut you up.”

“Oh, I do. Shut me up. Make me choke on you, Stevie,” you said, moaning when the tip slid in.

“You gonna take me, sweetheart?” he rasped, resting a hand on your throat. “Gonna feel me here when I come?”

You moaned, taking him in deeper. With your head upside down he wanted to make sure you could still breathe. And, fuck, did your mouth feel like heaven.

“You’re gonna sit on my face and shut me up, too,” he groaned, sliding his hand to your breast and toying with your nipple through the top, his thrusts shallow at first. “But I’m writing my name with my tongue ‘cause it’s my cunt, sweetheart. Mine to worship and fuck. It’s mine.”

Your whine vibrated around the length of him. People thought he was America’s golden boy with a polite mouth, but you knew better. You loved how dirty he was with you. And, yes, he was a little possessive. So were you.

“That’s it. Don’t talk, don’t even think about work,” he ordered, his hips moving faster. You sputtered only once, but quickly adjusted like you always did. “Just suck my cock like a good girl and I’ll eat my pussy so good you’ll cry for me.”

You’d cry, beg, ride his face like your life depended on it and you’d scream his name when you came. And you’d swallow down every drop when he spilled down your throat. Give and take.

He moaned when you reached back to cradle his balls and gently squeezed. You were so good to him, knew exactly what he liked, what got him off. “Fuck, sweetheart, do that again,” he demanded, his toes curling. “Fuck, I’m-”

He couldn’t finish his warning when you squeezed once more, triggering his orgasm. He moaned your name and coated your throat with his release with a few more thrusts. Once he finished, his head still spinning, he quickly pulled out so you could breathe. Both of you panted as he checked on you through the fog of his orgasm. You didn’t lift your head just yet, but you locked eyes with him and smiled a devastatingly beautiful smile.

Beautiful. Perfect. Mine.

“Fuck me,” he whispered, bringing a hand to your cheek. “Better?”

You finally lifted your head and nodded. Between the venting and having your throat fucked, you seemed in better spirits. And instead of speaking, you pointed to an empty spot on the bed. It was his turn to get you off.

“Yes, ma’am,” he smirked.

And before you shut up for good, you’d softly thank him again for everything.

And in the quiet of the night, he’d thank you, too.

I need to give Steve more love, okay? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Steve Rogers Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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steviebbboi · 11 days ago

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❲send a comment, ask, or message to be added❳

˖ִ ࣪𖤐 @simjaexy

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steviebbboi · 12 days ago

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loved this!

Flare

Steve Rogers x OFC

Summary: Is not that he has a kink for long hair. But everyone loves your hair but him.

Warning: Minors DNI / Fluff / Fun (?) / Smut / Oral (male receiving) / 18+ / This one is very long

Characters: OC, Steve Rogers, mentioning Sam, Nat, Maria.

This series is called Burning Sun. No need to read but also enjoy: ✨Heliophilia ✨

“God, I hate this thing!” You groaned, holding a hairdryer in one hand, your hair still half-wet from the shower. Staring at the mirror, you tried to push the strands away from your face. “That’s it. I’m cutting it off!”

“Oh…no, no, no, no. No.” Steve said immediately. He was drying his hair with a towel, but moved behind you in an instant. Taking the hairdryer from your hand, he brushed the hair from your face. “I got it, okay?” He chuckled, disbelief coloring his voice. “You handle the most advanced technology, machinery, and weapons, but can’t beat a hairdryer?”

“It’s so annoying.” You frowned. “I’ve had my hands up for like five minutes, and this…thing keeps blowing in my face. And these layers…Omg why do I have so much hair? Ugh, it’s just stupid.”

“Woah… five minutes, huh? Like, five whole minutes?” Steve teased, his fingers slipping through your hair as he gently massaged your scalp. “That sounds so stressful.”

“I don’t see the point of it.” You muttered, leaning your head into his touch despite your frustration. “It takes forever to wash, it’s all over the place, my scalp hurts from tying it up all the time, and drying it takes forever.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s a waste of time. We could be in bed instead of standing here blowing hot air.”

“Well, I love it.” Steve said with a grin, guiding the hairdryer gently through your hair as his fingers traced soothing patterns, the scent of jasmine shampoo lingered as he worked, and his smile deepened.

“And I think we’ve been in bed all day, not that I’m complaining, or that it’ll ever be enough…but come on…your hair is beautiful.” He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to it. “You are beautiful.”

“Fine.” You sighed, rolled your eyes, and let him deal with it, still unable to understand why he liked it so much. Steve only smiled and continued, meticulously drying every strand to ensure you wouldn’t catch a cold.

It’s not like he has a type. Or a thing for long hair. Honestly, he had no idea what his dream woman would be like…until he met you.

You were like…everything he loved about this world had taken human form, and your long hair was just...a part of you, so he loved it.

Although, there was also a reason behind it, not related to stereotypes or looks, but the thing is, you are one of the captains of the Special Tactics Forces of the Commander’s Elite Troop, which basically made you almost an Avenger. And that title came with an impressive résumé, several badges of honor, a very formal (“sexy as fuck”, as Steve calls it) combat gear, and a tidy and clear hair: always tied back in a high ponytail or a tight bun, so when you were kicking ass on the training field, or on a mission, the loose hair won’t get in the way.

But when your hair was down, though, it meant you were relaxed, at ease. And Steve loved seeing you like that.

He remembered the days before you were together, when he practically envied a few of the ‘lucky bastards’ who got to talk to you in your relaxed mode: Sam, Clint, and even Tony. When you were chatting with them, you would let your hair down or adjust it. And as your long hair cascaded like loose, silky fabric down your spine under the sunlight, Steve could only hold his breath and try to steady his racing heartbeat as he watched you from afar.

His thoughts wandered to those early days after he first kissed you: after nearly two years of being quietly, hopelessly in love with you, and not knowing you felt the same, yes, just as the world's leading authority on "waiting too long", so cliche. That almost-dream-come-true kiss had finally happened. And the tall walls you had so carefully constructed began to crack, and he started to glimpse the parts of you no one else had ever seen.

And… it drove him mad, to know that this side of you was his. And his alone.

Those fleeting moments where your boundaries, the cold badass facade, came down just for him.

How you smiled at him, and only at him, not the polite, practiced one you reserved for the team (not that those were often, more like…ever), but a genuine, sparkling, cute chuckle. The way the curve of your lips rose, and the entire world seemed to brighten.

The way you looked at him, the quiet, peaceful, and transparent gaze of your eyes, filled with unspoken words and silence fading into something so deep, he was almost afraid to explore, but wanted to fall into it helplessly all at once.

The touch of your hand on his skin, damn, that felt right and longing... He never thought he could miss someone’s touch until he met you.

He had loved you before all of this, of course. Loved the parts of you that everyone else saw: the unshakable captain, the unbowing, unbreakable soldier, the stubborn-as-fuck teammate who would break through enemy lines just to retrieve his stupid shield. (Yeah, he wasn’t letting that one go anytime soon.)

But discovering these hidden facets of you? The warmth, the vulnerability, the quiet strength that lived behind all that protected armor?

It left him utterly undone.

Every time you let him in a little more, every time you showed him something new, he fell harder. Stronger.

The way you’d curl up next to him, your sharp edges softened, your head resting on his chest as if that had always been where you belonged. The way you reached for him in your sleep; you’d murmur his name, your hand seeking him like it was instinct. Then, in the mornings, when the sunlight filtered through the curtains, you’d wake up, lost in your foggy, sleepy mind, looking at him like he was part of a dream. You’d blink slowly, as if afraid he might disappear the moment you were fully awake. It melted his heart, broke it in the best way, making his chest tighten as he pulled you closer, because holding you felt like the only thing in the world that made sense.

He loved the quiet intimacy of those moments. No one else got to see them; they were his.

And your hair, your beautiful, messy hair, reflected all your moods and quirks.

The way you’d steal his shirt after a shower, looking impossibly beautiful in something so simple, your damp hair draped over your shoulders. The way you’d let him braid it on lazy afternoons, laughing at his clumsy attempts until he got it just right. It wasn’t perfect, but you never cared; you’d wear it proudly, as if his touch had transformed it into something extraordinary.

The way your hair looked in the morning, wild and untamed, spilling across the pillows and his chest. Your clumsy attempts at making a nice hairstyle, usually accompanied by a few choice curses under your breath. Steve had to bite back his grin whenever you struggled with bobby pins and brushes, muttering about how you weren’t “made for this fancy crap” before inevitably giving up and throwing your hair into a ponytail or bun.

He especially loved the way your hair would fan out across his chest after a long day, when you’d collapse onto him with a sigh, too tired to bother tying it back. The silky strands would scatter everywhere, and Steve would run his fingers through them, untangling knots as you slowly drifted off.

And…ahem.

Your hair, wet and sticky on your neck and chest, with transparent drops of sweat, running through your bare, nude skin as you move on top of him, your lips swollen from his heavy kisses or soft bites, moaning his name, calling out for more. The moment when his fingers gently gripped your hair and you tilted your head back with your eyes closed and immersed in pleasure and lust.

Fuck that was hot.

He loves you, madly, utterly, immensely, and every part of you too.

So… when your hair was cut in the middle of a training session, all hell broke loose.

Oh shit. No one saw that damn blade coming.

Maybe it was a malfunction, maybe your partner was distracted, or maybe these things just happen in a training field, duh.

The scenario was a simulation of an abandoned factory, full of hazards, and when the robotic blade came flying, you had only a second to react. You pushed your partner out of the way, saving him from being sliced in half. The blade curved in the air, spinning back like a damn frisbee, but…this one was made of VG-MAX sharpened steel. And in the blink of an eye, your hair was on the ground.

There was this… deadly silence across the field. Everyone held their breath. And judging by the panic in Steve’s eyes, you almost thought for a moment that your head had been chopped off instead. So you touched your neck. Oh, thanks to the fucking Gods, it’s still there.

"Oh, come on…" You grimaced. It was just hair. Thanks to Odin, it was your hair and not your scalp, like something out of Kill Bill. Rolling your eyes, you reached down and pulled your teammate up from the ground.

“I’m SO SORRY, CAPTAIN…” The guy stammered, practically shaking. "I… I don’t know what happened, I… I’m so sorry…"

"Hey, it’s okay. It’s just hair. I mean, you actually saved me from having to go to the… I don’t know, what do you call it? Beauty salon? Whatever, you good?" You shrugged, running your fingers through your hair, now awkwardly short on the left but still long on the right. "Ugh, shit, guess I’ll have to go to the salon anyway…" You clicked your tongue in discomfort, brushing it off when you saw the guilt and anguish on your teammate’s face.

"Hey, it’s nothing, okay?" You patted him on the shoulder. But then you looked up, and on the second floor of the training gym, you spotted your boyfriend. His expression was tense, his jaw clenched. You winked at him with a smirk and mwah a kiss. He just sighed heavily.

Training hours were in the morning, so after a quick shower, you grabbed some scissors to even out the mess. But when you saw the disaster in the mirror, you sighed and decided to go to a professional instead.

You didn’t know that, sometime after, Steve had casually wandered into the simulation field. Acting like he was just training, he "accidentally" turned that machine, the one that threw blade-shaped frisbees, into a pile of scrap metal.

Two hours later, you returned with a refreshed hairstyle… and the meeting room came to a literal five-second stop when you walked in.

Okay, so you were cool. Like, almost-an-Avenger cool. You had an impressive resume, icy cold looks, and an I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. Always polite yet distant, your demeanor commanded intimidating respect. You looked like a total kickass assassin, exactly the stereotype of an elite troop member coming from a Call of Duty mission. But now? With this new haircut that sharpens every one of your features? Short, sleek, fierce? Damn. You were hot. Fierce and sexy as fuck hot.

Steve didn’t know. Or at least, he didn’t notice the difference. In his eyes, you were always beautiful. But he did sigh when he ran his fingers through your hair, realizing that what was once a long, silky cascade now ended far too soon. And he missed it already. :(

You smirked as Steve ran his fingers through your newly cut hair for what had to be the fifth time, his brows slightly furrowed in deep contemplation.

“Damn, Rogers…” You teased, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “And here I thought you loved me for my personality or something. Turns out you just have a kink for long hair?”

Steve scoffed, shaking his head with a half-smirk. “Oh, come on.” His hands settled on your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “I do love everything about you. And…” He clicked his tongue: “The personality is just…hitting all my g-spots, you know, the one that wakes me up at 5 AM for training drills and casually threatens government officials? Oh, and that one time you actually told Ross to fuck off…God that was…”

“Yup…” You nod: “That night was very…wild…I could barely walk in the training field the next day. Thank you, General Ross.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, brushing his thumb over your jaw. “I just… got used to it, that’s all. You’d be smug too if you had the perfect hair to run your fingers through every day.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Had?”

Steve blinked. “Have. Have. Have! You still have perfect hair. My gorgeous, totally beautiful, love of my life, perfect and stunning, no matter how long your hair is.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He chuckled, shaking his head before leaning in, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

“Damn fucking right, I do.”

You grinned, and the new hairstyle was not mentioned until the next day. Actually, Steve found that he really, really adored the new hairstyle. Now, he could see your whole face. Your long hair was beautiful, yes, but now...he could see your expressions: your eyes shining with lust, your lips parted as you moaned and groaned, the way your tongue was out, sucking his fingers. And the fact that your hair was no longer covering your bouncing breasts when he thrust in...yeah, he could definitely get used to that.

Now the shitty thing is, he found out the next day that everybody just loved your haircut, as much as him.

As you were on the elevator with him, barely able to keep your eyes open due to his passionate demonstration of how much he loves you and your perfect hair by having sex all night, Katie, a cute young intern (you didn't even know her job title, probably something in the accounting or administration department), greeted you both with a friendly smile and a good morning.

For some reason, she stumbled over her high heels and started to fall backwards. You reacted instantly, wrapping your arm around her waist and preventing her from hitting the floor.

"You okay?” you asked with a soft voice. It was a normal move for you, but just in that instant, the morning sun was shining brightly through the elevator’s glass wall, casting a warm golden glow on your face, enhancing your beautiful features, which were now more noticeable thanks to your new haircut.

"I...I..." The young intern stuttered, her cheeks turning a bright shade of pink. And Steve was SO SURE he saw the girl's eyes transform into hearts as she gazed at you.

Steve: "..."

Wait…what?

Steve stayed quiet as you positioned Katie back to normal, patted her shoulder, removed a messy strand of her hair from her face, and went back to lean against the wall, waiting for the elevator to reach its destination. As you walked out as if nothing had just happened, Katie stayed there, looking at you with her eyes as heart emoticons, a hand on her chest, and inhaling a dreamy breath.

Steve frowned slightly and nodded to her politely before walking out after you: “Good day.”

“Hmm-hm.” Katie barely responded to him, her gaze following your back silhouette, and added shyly: “Good day, Captain. And, thank you.” Certainly not referring to him.

Now this was new, Steve furrowed his brows. But he continued with his day. He was not surprised, actually, that you would enchant someone. He was enchanted every time he saw you again. So… he just carried on.

But. Something… was not quite right. He could feel it, hear it. The feeling lingered like a prickle behind his ribs, making him frown more than once throughout the day. Suddenly, people were talking about you. Loudly. Casually. Like they knew you. Like the image of you sharpening knives in a tank top, the brand new cool haircut was theirs to pass around like a meme or gossip.

During the morning training, he walked past the signup sheet for the open training session outside Training Field 003. It was your team’s turn for an open combat on the next day. He glanced over the sign-up sheet and blinked. There were names scrawled in every open slot… even some written in the margins. He recognized three people who’d stated they had stomach cramps and skipped last week’s drills. Now they were fine?

“Wow…” Sam muttered next to him, sipping coffee. “Seens all these people want their asses kicked, huh?” He grimaced. “Damn. Does your girl even have the time? This thing is what… an hour?”

Steve didn't laugh. He stared at the sheet for a moment longer, jaw ticking, then calmly pulled out a pen and wrote “CLOSED” at the top.

He wasn’t amused by it or impressed. He knew how people looked when they admired skill. Folks around here just bent to strength. But this? This was curiosity wrapped in fantasy.

And the longer the day stretched, the more he noticed it.

You returned from lunch, stretching your shoulders as you walked toward your usual desk in the strategy wing for the analysis meeting; not that you really had a desk for paperwork, but you always used the same spot. Which was the same as always. Except... not.

You stopped short.

There were five to-go coffee cups neatly lined up on the corner of your workspace. All different labels. One had “Cap ♡” scrawled in messy ink. Another had a little smiley face drawn beneath your name. One was a frapuccino? Wtf is that? And two more were experimental guesses, extremely alarming. With strawberry and caramel? Yikes. Clearly, from someone who tried too hard to impress you.

What the fuck?

You blinked.

Steve used to do that. Just Steve. Quietly, every day without fail, your coffee would be there, right before the long, hideous briefings and strategic analysis talks that Commander Hill would hold. Never loud about it, never waiting for a thank-you. Just… there. A ritual.

Now? It was a whole-ass parade.

You looked around the room. No one was watching you directly, but you felt it. Averted glances. Subtle looks. And someone definitely ducked behind the printer and behind the pothos line.

You sighed.

Then, from across the room, Steve appeared, holding your usual. No doodles, no weird personalization. Perfectly made: iced, strong, pure, no sugar. And from him.

He stopped mid-step when he saw the lineup. His eyes tracked the cups. One brow lifted.

You gave him a helpless shrug and muttered, “It seems everyone on this floor figured out I drink coffee.”

Steve walked over, placed his cup beside the others, and said evenly, “Yeah. But only one of those is made exactly the way you like it.”

You chuckled and pulled him closer for a long, possessive, demonstrative kiss.

“Just like the man that brings it.”

He laughed and caressed your face after the kiss, smiling softly as he lingered on your lips. “And I thought you were enchanting everyone because of your personality. Turns out everyone has a kink for short hair.”

You laughed, but you could see his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

You knew what was bothering him. Of course you did. You sighed and rolled your eyes when some guy…”Marcus”, “Marco”, “Mark”? approached you after training and asked if you were doing ‘something fun’, because ‘the guys’ were going to Moe’s.

Excuse me?

You glared at him, so full of judgment, silence, and coldness that it would freeze the deserts of Wakanda with only a look. First of all, who even dares to talk to you after late training? Everyone, like everyone, knew that the silence after training was to be sacred. Yours. Untouchable.

You’d stretch, put away all your equipment for the next morning’s training (one that you meticulously craft for your team), make sure everything is perfect to kick their asses the next day, and then take a long shower before your boyfriend steps out of the Commander’s room.

So, “fun”? With “the guys”? Like, who the fuck were “the guys”? You only referred to ‘the guys’ for ‘my boyfriend’s friends’, aka the Avengers; this newbie still had a long road to the major leagues.

Steve, who was picking you up and waiting for you to be ready, watched the whole interaction, and suddenly just closed the closet door in a motion that probably had shattered the door and the wall behind it.

You smiled at Marco, or Marcus, or Mark, whoever the hell he was.

“Yes. Something fun,” You said as you moved to tangle your hand with Steve’s, without even looking back: “I’m going to go home and fuck my boyfriend.”

Steve chuckled at the comment, but he was a little blue when he arrived home. You just sighed as he headed to the shower, alone?! Not requesting your company.

Damn you, stupid, stupid new haircut.

You knew exactly what was going on in that very busy, strategic Avenger’s Commander's head of his. he used to see you: his precious gem, his ultimate sparkling secret that no one had seen but him. It was your little magic you had with him and him alone. Everyone gets the cold, badass Captain, but only he gets the adorable, clumsy with her hair, tantrum version of you. But now, everyone was interested. Everyone gets to see you, admire you, and even flirt with you?

So you took it personally.

The doors were closed when he stepped out of the shower. His skin had the steaming fragrance of the soap: grass and cotton, some damp hair still falling like crystals on this bare, Apollo god-looking torso. He was sitting in the bed, just putting on some lounge pants and drying his hair with a towel when you approached from behind.

The kiss was first pressed to his shoulder, then to his neck. That’s when the super soldier’s senses kicked in. It started with the feel of your lips. Soft. Damp. Slow. Like heat blooming through cotton. You knew exactly how his nerves were wired and whispered to each one.

His breath caught.

Your skin radiated warmth, still fresh from your earlier shower, your pores releasing a sweetness that clung to him like a summer memory. English pear and freesia. And underneath that. You. Citric and vanilla, like sun-warmed skin and tangled sheets and a danger he couldn’t name.

It dragged him under.

Then kisses started, fuck, the kisses…Sweet. Slow. Sinful. Pressed with intention, one after another, tracing a map you had drawn by memory, and pushed in each spot that made him gasp.

He swallowed hard and tilted slightly, eyes still cast downward, towel draped across his lap, fighting for composure, until he looked. Just one glance to bring him down and gone.

That sleeping top. Barely a garment, more an idea. A sliver of silk draped like suggestion, temptation and a tantrum. The strap had slipped off your shoulder, trailing down the line of your arm like it knew exactly what it was doing. And beneath it, your perfect, round, pumped breasts, full and rising with each breath, just barely concealed, the hem of the top doing nothing to protect him from the torment.

A visual orgasm and a slow death. Punishment wrapped in a fantasy and an invitation to sin.

You pushed him down to the mattress with a knowing smirk. Oh yes, that wasn’t going to be seen by anyone. You pulled his hands off you, not that he even resisted, and pinned them behind him, forcing him to brace himself on the mattress while you ground down with slow, merciless control. Watching him fall apart, muscles flexing with restraint.

He was hard already. So hard.

You lifted the shirt over your head and let it fall to the floor. His jaw clenched, eyes raking over every inch of you like he couldn’t decide where to look.

And you moved down like a cascade falling, your short hair, oh god bless the short hair, thank you razor blade of the training field, tickling all your way down, until you looked up, and let out your tongue.

You maintained eye contact as you wrapped your lips around the swollen head of his cock, your tongue swirling teasingly. Inch by torturous inch, you took him deeper, relishing the weight of him on your mouth. Your hand worked in tandem with your lips, stroking what you couldn't fit, twisting gently at the base.

You played with it, your tongue swirling around the head, letting him watch as his cock slid in and out of your mouth. Your breasts pressed against him as moans sounding like his name escaped your parted lips, over and over again, as you stuffed your mouth with his length.

Above you, his breath came in short, sharp gasps, his chest heaving with each drag of your lips along his shaft. The tendons in his neck stood out in stark relief as he fought to maintain control, fingers twisting in the sheets beneath him. A low, guttural moan tore from his throat when you hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder.

“F-fuck, baby…” he grunted, hips twitching involuntarily. “Oh my God…you feel so good.” His praise came out in a husky rasp, voice thick with desire. The muscles in his abdomen jumped and flexed with each bob of your head, a testament to the restraint it took for him not to simply grab your hair and thrust into the welcoming heat of your mouth.

But you were just getting started...you let out your tongue, licked and sucked greedily. Oh yes, that's a image only him had the privilege to see. Your hair laid back, and he could see your entire face consumed by desire and lust, your flushed cheeks and half-opened lids, the way you kissed his cock and savor it as a worship. And your eyes, glimmering seduction, commanding and lost in pleasure, it was driving him insane.

He tilted his head as he drank in the erotic sight of you taking his cock with such fervor. The wet sounds of your enthusiastic suckling filled the room, alongside his guttural moans, pleas, or groans. He reached down to tangle his fingers in your hair, not pushing or pulling, but simply holding on as if anchoring himself against the tide of sensation.

But his resolve was shattering fast, as you increased the pace, your lips and tongue working feverishly along his dick. A strangled groan tore from his throat, back arching off the bed as he finally gave in to the overwhelming pleasure. His grip on your hair tightened, and involuntarily, he began to thrust shallowly into the wet heat of your mouth.

“Fuck, I can't... I need…” he panted, words dissolving into incoherent grunts. The muscles in his thighs tensed, abs clenching as he fought to maintain some semblance of control. But it was a losing battle; you rapidly pushed him towards the edge. “Baby, I'm gonna... Gonna cum…I can’t…”

You could sense his control fraying, and you smirked with your mouth full of him. You lifted your eyes and watched his breathing grow more ragged with each passing second. And mostly teasing with evil purpose, you increased the pace of your movements, taking him deeper, faster, your tongue swirled and flicked along the sensitive underside of his cock, tracing the prominent vein as you bobbed your head, and moaned as you felt him harder as ever.

Soft, needy whimpers vibrated around his cock, the vibrations driving him wild. His hips bucked erratically, chasing his rapidly approaching peak. “God…!” His fingers twisted almost painfully in your hair, holding you in place as he teetered on the knife's edge of ecstasy, seconds away from tumbling over into a strong orgasm.

“Babe…!” He moaned, and with a roar of completion, Steve’s hips snapped forward, burying his cock to the hilt in your eager mouth. His release surged forth in thick, hot pulses. You swallowed slowly, looking at him, your tongue pressed against the core of his cock, your throat wrapping around him, and you tucked a strand of hair back of your ears, as you positioned yourself to take every drop as he shuddered and twitched above you.

“Oh…” He panted. “Fuck…”

His fingers dug into the sheets, holding you in place as he rutted shallowly, riding out the intense waves of his orgasm. After long moments, he slumped back against the mattress, chest heaving as he caught his breath. “Oh my god…” He murmured your name, as a prayer or as a groan.

You gasped, lifted your head, and inhaled for air, running a victorious hand through your short hair as you lifted yourself off the bed, all graceful like some smug, glowing goddess who just slayed a god (because, well… you just did).

Steve blinked after you. Dazed and wrecked, hearing the water running from the bathroom.

“Whe… where are you going?” he asked, voice still hoarse.

But you were already stepping out moments later, face freshly rinsed, teeth brushed, and your hair pulled back like you were starting the day, not ending it.

“Drinking water. Getting some energy back,” you replied nonchalantly, twisting the cap off a bottle. You took a long sip, then grinned at him over your shoulder.

“What? You think we’re done?”

Steve let out a groan that was half laughter, half disbelief, and collapsed backward into the pillows.

“God, you are the most incredible woman in this universe,” he muttered. “I thought you were calling it an early night. You do remember the open training sessions tomorrow, right? You’re fully booked. Like, illegally overbooked.”

You tapped your water bottle against your palm and smirked.

“Oh, Rogers…” You shook your head and turned slowly, eyebrow raised, absolutely glowing. “You think I can’t take you and a full day of training?”

You clicked your tongue and added, deadpan. “Babe, I do this with my left hand tied behind my back. What was that cheesy line you always say?” You mock-thought for a second, then grinned.

“Oh yeah, right… ‘I can do this all day.’”

Steve groaned like he’d just been physically assaulted by your confidence. Which, to be fair… he kinda had.

“Hey…that’s not fair.” he muttered, half-laughing, dragging a pillow over his face. “You can’t just throw my own line at me after sucking the life out of me like that.”

You moved your shoulders as they cracked a little, then you bounced lightly back into bed, all grin and chaos.

“I’m just getting started…”

Steve didn’t say anything. He just stretched his arms out and pulled you in without warning. “...Please marry me,” he whispered into the blanket, then devoured you with a smile in a desperate, aching kiss.

The next morning, Steve wasn’t in a bad mood, not exactly. But his teeth were clenched the entire walk to the training field. He wasn’t proud of it, but it looks this shitshow becoming a routine: wake up, watch people stumble over themselves around you, watch their eyes to glow a little shinier than usual, to see them size you with their glares, and nodding in awe or just drooling over. He had to get used to suppressing the deep, irrational desire to pick you up and growl “mine!” at anyone with eyes.

Last night had helped. Oh yeah, had it helped. You’d been...oh God, everything. Deliberate. Devastating. The possessiveness in his chest had quieted to a slow, satisfied purr, like a kitten that was placing it’s tail around the owner’s hand.

And then the satisfaction went all downhill as he approached the field.

He spotted the crowd immediately. All this fuckers who signed up to what? Test you? Flirt with you? Win and maybe have some claim? Half of them buzzing with energy, the other half suspiciously trying to look casual. A few heads turned at the entrance. But you weren’t around.

Which…was weird.

After last night? You should’ve been asleep until noon, or just tangled around his arms until the alarm sounded by the tenth time, but then you got up earlier than usual and left the place without a text or anything. He thought your stubbornness had kicked in and you were here already, preparing to ‘do this all day.’ But you weren’t around.

Even Sam exchanged a weird look with him, and he looked at your team, sitting in the first row of the training field, sizing up whoever dared challenge their captain.

“Where is your girl?” Asked Sam.

But then…Someone let out a low whistle.

And there you were.

Wearing the same standard hoodie and gym leggings, nothing special, a bottle of water in your hands, as you stepped in and looked around.

The open training sessions encourage trainees, soldiers, and even the Avengers to observe, so there are usually people, but not…a crowd. Sitting there, chatting, talking, everyone was around: friends or maybe colleagues of the people who signed up to train with you today on the 1 on 1 combat.

And the moment you put the water bottle down and looked up, Steve just knew.

Holy shit. You were pissed.

You walked to the center of the training field and just stood there. No stretchings, hoodie zipped to the throat, expression unreadable.

“Whoa…” People who really knew you could notice too. Sam, Natasha, and your team. They raised their brows and leaned back to their seats. This was going to be good. Your team members grimaced, your sub-captain Mendez just shook his head: “Verga, poor that soul…” He said, tilting his jaw to the first cocky bastard who was smiling to his mates in the line waiting for the session to start.

“Capitana is so pissed…” Mendez grimaced.

And of course you were. You were pissed, that no one was taking this seriously. The training field had become a stage. This place. Your place, where you bled, sweated, and broke bones for your team, had turned into some high school drama set with spectators waiting for you to blush or trip or fall into someone’s arms.

God, Steve curved his lips as he looked at you. He was amused, proud, and, to be honest, a little aroused.

This discipline, respect, and seeing the training ground as sacred and not a social event. Fuck he love this about you. This crowd has no idea what they’ve just triggered. They have no fucking idea how seriously you take your duty, the team, and the training time. You don’t put up with bullshit, there’s a thin line with hallway gossips and coming here to even taunt, to test, and to flirt through sweat and punches as this was some kind of drama series or shitty reality show they can talk about it later.

You didn’t speak the entire first round. The woman that had the nerve to picked up some wooden swords when you stood up with your fist was down on the first thirty seconds. You knew before she moved she didn’t give a shit about ‘training’, she was here to see ‘Captain American’s new girl friend’, well then, here we are.

You didn’t taunt. Didn’t breathe heavy. Just moved.

Each opponent, male, female, experienced, cocky, bold, just went down under the weight of your anger. You were this kind of warrior, not wild or savage, not screams or shouts, this is how your mind works: calculated, cold, detached. You scanned, predicted, moved, strike, and take down. Fury that burns clean, and wins that are gained in silent pain,. not a single drop wasted. Fuck this shitshow.

The sound of bodies hitting the mat became rhythm. A metronome of humiliation.

By the fifth takedown, the field had gone dead silent.

And then… it was his turn.

You sighed. And rolled your eyes.

Fucking moron Marcus. Marco. Mark. Whatever the name was from this asshole who’d tried to ask you out yesterday. The one who had smiled too long, whose fingers lingered too much on the training gloves, who thought maybe he had a chance if he landed a lucky hit.

He stepped into the practice mat, grinning, and winked. “Let’s go for a little dance, Cap?”

You raised your brows.

Fuck you.

So this is what they all think happened? Some kind of prizing contest. This is how they think Steve and you ended up together? That he just beat you, and you gave in?

Not in the two years of fighting beside each other, bled, risked their lives, fight, argued, and even saved eachtoher, but in this some funny, playfighting on a mat, instead of the connection earned through trust, pain, history and survival?

They just assumed, that you can be won, that you can be claimed by someone stronger, faster, louder, that you are this shallow, or that you and Steve are, what you have, was this superficial. So they come here, to this place that’s sacred for you, here, where you train to protect the people you love, where you forge soldiers to survive, to accomplish missions that goes beyond a love story, they come here, expecting idiots try to flirt through sparring.

“You think this is a fucking joke?” You said, voice calm, with a curve in your lips, easily heard through the entire silent training fields.

“You think this is a dance? Where you beat up every opponent and you what? Get to fuck with them? Someone should drop on their knees because you broke their nose? Because you threw them over your shoulder?” You scoffed a laugh to your opponent: “You think that this is a fucking high school musical? Where I get to change my looks, and everything about me just…vanishes?”

Mark (yes his name is Mark) stiffens, his smiles vanishing slowly.

But you were in position already, you cracked your knuckles: “Alright, Matthew, let’s dance. Don’t stumble on your ankles.” You said in your calm fury.

“My name is Mark…” Dared to say the asshole.

“Shut the fuck up.”

You laughed. And you moved.

You reached behind your neck. Tugged at the hoodie. And peeled it off in a smooth motion.

The hoodie dropped to the mat with a soft sound, but the weight of what you revealed, landed like a detonation.

A gasp from the crowd that was behind you.

There it was.

Old scar tissue. Healed bullet wounds. Knife slashes. Solder burns. A stitched gash that ran clean across your shoulder from an off-record mission in Jakarta.

And above all of it, across the upper back, barely visible beneath the fresh layer of healing film, still raw, the skin pink and clean and new, three letters, gothic font. No frills. Bold and unforgiving. Like a seal stamped on iron.

“S.G.R”

And suddenly, the fantasy vanished.

And in the stands, Natasha turned to Steve, she didn’t say a word. Just looked at him. So did Sam and your team who were behind them, pretending not to.

Steve didn’t speak. His jaw was locked tight, his hands gripping the metal railing in front of him. Eyes glued to you. Chest rising and falling like he was struggling to contain something, he felt like a goddamn lightning strike to the soul.

What did you go to do this morning? A tattoo.

The world narrowed around him, everything else receding into white noise. The crowd didn’t matter. The tension didn’t matter. Even the man standing opposite to you on the mat, that asshole, didn’t matter.

He thought he couldn’t fall harder. He thought there was a limit. Some edge to this love. Some ceiling to it. Because surely, surely, the human heart could only stretch so far before it ruptured from too much feeling.

But then you just…you just took off that hoodie.

And he realized: There is no limit. No edge. No ceiling. Only gravity. That could…bear what he was feeling. He was just a man with his knees metaphorically in the dirt, looking up at you and realizing he would never, ever stop making you his everything.

Your quiet fury. This… sacred discipline. The unshakable sense of self. And this conviction and statement. Your ‘I’m fine’s, all the ‘I’ve got this’, ‘We’ve got this’. Your stubborn, sassy, unlimited bravery that will be eternally a pain in his ass. You were the storm and the shield. The wreckage and the reason. And you were, as you just declared in your body, in your back: his.

He remembered every moment that led to this. Every wound, scar, hesitation, fear and pain. And now, you have carved his name above all of it. You choose him. Claim him. Carry it as your cross, your crown, your salvation, your burden, your sin and weight, for the rest of your life.

For the rest of your lives.

So he was gone. Absolutely fucking gone. Burned alive from the inside out. There would never be another moment like this. Not in this life. Not in any other.

He took in a shaky breath and stayed in his position, like a marble statue.

“Is he breathing?” Sam muttered to Natasha long after the last round was finished. Looking at Steve.

“Should we pinch him?” Asked the Falcon.

Natasha shrugged, the training was over like five minutes ago. Mark ended the ‘dance’ on the floor, of course, he stumbled, of course, and he got the beat of his life, of course. “Nah, he will recovered, let’s go.” She said but still pat on Steve’s shoulder: “See you later, bud.”

That awakened him, Steve finally blinked. And he started to walk towards you, against all the people who were clearing out. Fast. Not one dared linger today. Not after what they saw.

Steve walked down slowly, feet barely making a sound. Something in his expression was distant, dazed.

Like he’d just survived a dream he hadn’t realized was real.

You turned when he reached you, towel loose around your shoulders, cheeks still flushed from exertion. You looked… grounded. At peace. And for a split second, you thought you’d crack a joke, toss you a line about how you “barely broke a sweat.” But he didn’t.

He reached out. Silently.

His fingers traced just above the film. Barely touching the raw skin with the inked initials. Careful. Gentle. Worshipful.

He swallowed hard. Voice low. “Is that real?”

You chuckled. “Yeah.”

His eyes didn’t leave the ink. “You didn’t tell me.”

You gave a soft little shrug, biting your lip. There was the faintest flush on your cheeks like you hadn’t expected him to look this closely.

“I made the appointment months ago,” you said, quiet.

Steve blinked. Lifted his eyes to yours. “Months ago?”

You nodded, brushing your thumb over the edge of the towel. “Yeah. After we… kissed. And you said you loved me and… all.”

His chest squeezed. “That far back? Why…?”

You hesitated.

Steve’s gaze softened. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Your smile flickered, sheepish. “Well… I didn’t think you’d like the idea. Like…the real reason.”

He gave a quiet, breathless laugh. “Test me.”

Your expression shifted, and sighed, as your eyes met his.

“You know, it was because…well, you know, the life we live. The missions. The risks. The… unknown. I didn’t know where I was gonna end up. If…”You stopped, just for a second, because his face had gone stone-cold at the thought. You pressed your fingers on his hand, soothing and reassuring: “…if there was a chance I didn’t make it back,” You said carefully. “I didn’t want to leave this world without people knowing.”

He blinked, jaw tight, breath silent.

You continued, soft as dusk.

“That I loved you. And… that I was yours.”

Steve didn’t move. Couldn’t. His heart cracked open and filled with something too big to name. He wanted to fall to his knees. He wanted to hold you so tightly the world couldn’t touch you. He inhaled deeply, looked at you in a long silent pause, staring at you like you’d split him open and gently handed him his heart.

He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into him so tightly, it nearly knocked the breath out of you, but still careful. Always careful. His hands curled around your back, one resting near the bandaged ink, the other fisted in the towel at your neck like he was trying to hold the moment in place.

And then he whispered into your shoulder, voice wrecked, rough, breaking apart: “You know me so well…”

You felt his breath hitch.

“…I don’t like the idea.”

You went still, the weight of his voice hitting you harder than anything that had happened on the mat.

“You’re not gonna end up somewhere too far for me to reach. You’re not gonna die on some goddamn mission. Not soon. Not ever.”

You pulled back slightly to look at him, but he kept holding you, his eyes shining, brimming, with unshed tears he wasn’t even trying to hide.

“You’re stuck with me,” he said, forehead resting against yours now, breath trembling, voice rough with everything he couldn’t hold back. “Until we’re old and gray.”

“And one day,” he continued, a fragile smile trembling behind the tears in his voice, “I’m gonna show our grandkids that tattoo, yeah, all wrinkled and faded as hell, and I’ll tell them the story. The real one.”

You smiled, your chest aching in the most beautiful way. Grandkids? Really? He planned that far?

“I’ll tell them how their grandma was the most terrifying, brilliant, unstoppable force I’d ever seen.”

He laughed through his breath, kissed your temple. “And how she didn’t fall for me when I won a fight, but when we survived the world. Together.”

And then, quieter, like a promise carved into the stillness between heartbeats: “I’ll tell them, I can’t have tattoos, but her name is branded forever in my heart since day one.”

You just held him there, pressed into his chest, your breath warm on his skin, and felt his heart beat for you like it always had: loud, steady, forever.

Steve pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes still glassy, lips parted like he couldn’t believe he hadn’t said it sooner. And with a breath of a laugh, he murmured, “I love the hair, by the way.”

You huffed through your nose, rolled your eyes, and kissed him again, chuckling. “Shut up, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.” He laughed as he pressed further for a kiss. “I love you, all of you.”

End, but probably will continue ;)

Happy Birthday to my eternal Sun Captain Seve Grant Rogers ✨

Finally got this chapter done, so fun to write about, now a tattoo was something I always knew this OC would have ❤️

Hope you are all enjoying Cap's Bday and your day also 😘Sending lots and lots of love and hearts, and yes, I know, I'll finish the Miracle Nr. 12 Series 🤭

I'm sorry I got carried away writing so much hehe, hope you enjoyed it!!

💖The dividers from the great one and only @cafekitsune

💖Tag list: @vioplay19 / @jamneuromain / @steviebbboi / @heletsmelovehim / @otterlycanadian / hisredheadedgoddess28

let me know if you want to be added! 🥰

☀️ Burning Sun ☀️ Series:

1: Heliophilia

✨ Miracle Nr. 12 ✨ Series:

#fic recommend #steve rogers x ofc

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steviebbboi · 12 days ago

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welcome to my blog ! 𝜗𝜚

lua ! ✧ 6teen. she her. taurus. black. intp. pinterest. swiftie. arianator. music & films lover. aj enthusiast. horror enjoyer. certified yapper. marvel & nerd. chronic fangirl. loves to sleep.

࿐ྂ⋄ i’ll be posting/writing mainly about hayden christensen (aka the loml) but i might also post about my other interests and taking your requests .

࿐ྂ⋄ ngl im still new to the whole posting/writing on tumblr thingy (kinda nervous lol) and im mainly doing this for fun so i ask you to be kind and patient while im still figuring it out . i’ll also have you know that english isnt my first language so im sorry if my writing isnt always the best !

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dividers by @steviebbboi - xx lua !

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steviebbboi · 12 days ago

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HELL OF A VISION…

|| pedro masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 2.6k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, post-outbreak, established relationship, jackson joel mmmh, domestic joel mmmh, both tags that are good for the soul, set in a sweet and lovely place where nothing bad happens, old man joel RAAHHH, the readers stay on, lots of dirty talk cause he’s old and gross, dry humping, finger sucking (still on this bullshit), lots of come and come talk…like verging on hyperspermia, yeah ik he’s old but he comes like a fire hose because i just can’t help myself y’all, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: i love fucking men who should be on AARP. thank god for them. this fic was actually meant to be the one i posted for rylea and i’s challenge, but i fucked up and accidentally made it over a thousand words…oops. of course i’m all about that reduce, reuse, recycle life sooo here we are. hope y'all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune and @saradika-graphics!

you and joel spend a night reading in bed, amongst other things…

It's rare that you get to see Joel like this.

Relaxed, completely.

Propped up against the headboard of your bed, a pillow behind his back and his legs stretched under the quilt you finally finished up last year.

The copy of Lonesome Dove Ellie found a few weeks before his birthday rests open in one hand, the other slipped up under the hem of an old shirt you stole from him to absently stroke over the skin of your back.

You lay with your head on his chest, legs tangled with his as you count the beats of his heart against your cheek. It soothes you in a way nothing else can, listening to the slow turn of the pages and the occasional rumbling hum in his throat when he comes across a line he likes.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been curled up next to him, quietly watching the tiny shifts in his expression.

Letting your eyes glide along the side of his face bathed in the warm orange glow of his bedside lamp, the messy silver curls of his hair catching the light enough to almost shine. You’re tempted to reach out and run your fingers through the strands, even more than you did earlier tonight, to feel just how soft it is.

Your gaze traces down the slope of his forehead, the caress of his lashes fanning out over his cheeks, the arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips and all the way back up to do it over again.

However long it’s been still isn’t enough. You could watch Joel for hours without getting bored, just a silent spectator drifting in the warmth of his presence.

There’s always something. A new project, patrol shifts, repairs. New everyday things you get to experience with him here in Jackson that you do love, but that keep him just out of your reach for longer than you like.

That’s why moments like these feel so special. There’s no crisis, no issues or problems to keep him out of your bed.

You don’t say much. You don’t need to.

You just…you have him tonight. And that’s enough.

Well, it's almost enough.

You’re in his t-shirt for Christ’s sake, wearing it like a brand. In his t-shirt and just your panties. And he’s so warm beneath you, big and solid, the kind of comfort you ache for. In more ways than you could even think of naming.

You shift your hips slowly. One tiny move that has his thigh pressing between your legs a little more firmly than before. Testing.

Joel’s hand pauses on your back. The subtle drag of his thumb stutters where it was gliding just beneath the hem of your shirt before it starts up again, slower than before. He doesn’t look at you right away. Doesn’t say anything either. Just flicks his eyes further down the page and keeps reading.

You try not to smile.

You do it again. Another slow drag of your hips—like it’s an accident. Like you’re just getting comfortable.

But Joel knows you too well. He knows every part of you now—the tiniest hitch of your breath, the way you go quiet when you want something, the shift in your touch dragging over his chest. Knows that the heat blooming between your legs has nothing to do with the cozy warmth of the blanket.

“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” Joel drawls without looking up from his book, but his hand slides a bit lower, the tips of his fingers brushing over the hem of your panties.

You hum noncommittally, shift again, letting your hips roll forward with a little more intent. You feel the twitch of his thigh, the stutter of his exhale. “I’m just getting comfortable.”

The flick of a page, his fingers drag a little lower. “That so?”

“Mhm,” you murmur, all mock innocence as you press in closer, lifting your leg just enough to drape it over his hips. You’re practically straddling him now, your bare thigh flush to the soft cotton of his sleep pants.

“Doesn’t look it.” Joel’s tone is bland, uninterested. You know it’s just for show, part of the game. It’s always better when he fights you for it. “Looks like you’re tryin’ to take advantage of me.”

You muffle a laugh in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of pine and skin and musk. Your hand trails down his chest, down his stomach until you can toy with the drawstrings of his bottoms. “Maybe…are you offering?”

Joel peers at you over the edge of his readers, skeptical. It’s the first time he’s looked at you since he opened up his book. You try not to preen under his gaze. “I’m too old to be grindin’ like a damn teenager.”

“It’ll be good, promise. Just let me…” You sit up, swinging your leg over him to straddle his hips properly. “Let me rub on it a little, Joel. Please? I just wanna feel it.”

Your voice is all sugar, and Joel’s a sucker for it.

His cock softly jerks to life in his bottoms, lazily hardening under you. It tattles on him, gives away how he really feels seeing you perched on top of him. Your hips are moving before you can even think, rocking down against the rigid plane of heat.

You fit together perfectly, and Joel’s cock slipping between your soaked cunt has your mouth going slack, a soft moan passing through your lips.

"Jesus." His book snaps shut and lands somewhere by the lamp. His hands find your hips, not to stop you, not really—just to hold. You meet his heavy gaze, the blown pupils of his eyes shine like an oil slick under the dim light. He squeezes you hard, holding you in place as he huffs a dry laugh. “I ain’t dry humped since high school.”

You grind down again, fighting his grip. “Then I’d say you’re due.”

You roll your hips again and again. Back and forth in slow and deliberate motions, dragging that damp cotton across the length of him. You know he feels it—feels the heat of you, the slick mess you're making. You're working your clit right along the swell of him, jaw slack as your rhythm picks up.

And Joel is just watching, head tipped back against the headboard. Letting you use him. Eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted.

There’s been days where it’s harder for him to really roll around in the sheets with you, especially in the last couple months. Joel’s age catching up with him, hitting fast and slow all at once.

Joel hates it, not that he'd ever tell you that. He doesn’t have too, you know. Of course you know, you’re not stupid. You knew how old he was when you met him, and it never made you second guess that you wanted anyone else in your bed.

You’d never let Joel’s recent struggle to get it up ruin all that you have. You were more than content to find other ways to be intimate with someone you love, maybe a little excited even.

That’s not the case tonight.

Joel’s cock is fat and hard under you, twitching up through the soft cotton of his pants like it’s straining to get to you. The thick ridge of it bumps perfectly against your clit every time you roll your hips, dragging against the soaked crotch of your panties. The fabric clings to you, flimsy and so drenched with arousal that it’s barely even there.

“You’re soaked through, pumpkin.” Joel’s grip on your hips tightens until his fingers dimple your skin. His thumbs run over the edge of your panties, pressing hard enough that you know it’ll leave behind lacy imprints in your skin when this is all over. “Gettin’ my pants all wet and I ain’t laid a finger on you.”

Your brow arches, lips tugged into a smug grin that you can’t hide. “Is that a complaint?”

Joel squeezes your hips once, hard. A light warning, don’t be a smartass. “Don’t sound like I’m complainin’, do I?”

“I don’t know.” You hum, coy as your fingers dance over the hem of your shirt—his shirt—bunching it up around your hips, the dip of your waist visible in the lamplight. “You sure were talking a whole lot of smack earlier.”

You sneak your hand down the front of his pants before he can respond. His cock jerks when your fingers brush against it, his hips twitching up off the mattress and into your loose grip. You tsk softly, shaking your head as you lay it flat over his stomach, trapping him between the waistband and the coarse gray hair of his happy trail.

Joel hisses through his teeth, hands tightening around your hips. “Shit–”

“Don’t get too excited, Miller.” Your tone is teasing, even when your cunt clenches weakly at the sight. The rosy tip of his cock oozes pre-come onto his shirt, wetting the fabric enough that a dark patch blooms across the thin blue cotton. You want to press your lips to it, to trace the ridge with your tongue so you can taste him—salty, musky, and heady. “I just wanted a better view.”

Joel grunts like he doesn’t believe you, like he knows you’re full of shit, but his hips are shifting under you anyway. His cock nudging up into the hot mess between your thighs, seeking friction, contact—you.

His hands curl around your thighs, pulling you down harder against the heavy bulge in his pants. He’s soaked through too now, the front of his sleep pants dark with it, sticky and wet where you’ve been grinding down.

And his cock—god, his cock is leaking. Fat beads of precome drool out from the tip, smearing slick over the dark hair of his happy trail and dripping down between your folds. You can feel it every time your hips circle down.

“Dirty fuckin’ thing,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You look so pretty like this, baby. Just like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut on a breathy moan, your hands falling to rest on his chest as your hips rock and rock.

There’s a spot, right where his cock curves, that keeps catching against your clit every time you rock forward. You keep grinding into it, chasing that pressure, whimpering with every pass of it.

Joel notices. Of course he fucking notices.

“There,” he grunts, holding you in place and angling his hips up. “Right there, huh? That’s it, baby? That’s the spot.”

You whimper, nodding so fast it’s dizzying. “Feels so good, Joel. I can’t—I can’t stop, you feel so good—”

Your hands drag up his chest, lingering on the tan column of his throat. You run your nails over the thin skin, stretching over the coarse hair he must’ve missed cleaning up his beard. Your thumb rests just over his pulse, right where you can feel the beat of his heart pounding like a hammer on a nail.

Your hand slides up before you can stop yourself, cupping the side of his face like you’ve got the whole world cradled in your palm. Your thumb glides along his bottom lip now, wet with spit. Your nail presses into the fat of it, firm enough to drain the color before you lift up and do it again.

Joel can’t swallow down his noises like this, with the way you’re forcing his lips to part. Deep grunts and groans ring out from around your finger. His eyes never stray from yours as he closes his lips around the tip of your thumb, watching you through the steamy glass of his readers.

You let out a pathetically broken moan, pushing your thumb deeping into the wet heat of his mouth. “Fuck, Joel…”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just parts his lips and sucks it into the heat of his mouth, deep and greedy. His tongue curls around your thumb, wet and filthy, moaning low in his throat like he’s starved. His brows pinch like he’s feeling it somewhere deep, deeper than he’s letting on.

You rock your hips while he sucks your fingers like he’d suck your clit—like it’s nothing to him, just muscle memory now. Your cunt clenches weakly with every pass of his tongue, fire shooting up your spine as your rhythm starts to falter.

Joel feels it, the shift. The way you start to get messy with it, desperate. He knows you’re close.

He groans around your thumb and lets it go with a slick pop. “Go on, girly. Mess up those pretty panties. Rub that sweet cunt all over me—fuck yourself on it. That’s it.”

Your nails dig back into his chest as your stomach clenches with the first signs of your orgasm sneaking up on you. You rock faster, chasing it, slick soaking through the thin cotton. The shape of his cock is so perfect under you—thick and wide and right—even through your clothes.

You whimper something broken, grinding down hard, over and over, as pleasure builds sharp in your belly.

Joel grits his teeth. “You gonna come for me like this?”

“Yes.” You nod again, frantic. “Joel—I’m gonna—god, I’m gonna—”

Your thighs seize and your body jolts against him as you come, trembling in his lap, cunt spasming against soaked fabric.

Joel groans like it’s killing him, watching you fall apart. His voice breaks as he groans your name, “Keep goin’, baby, just like that—fuck, fuck, you’re gonna make me—”

Your eyes are locked on the drooling tip of his cock, you don’t think anything could tear your attention away from it. Not even gunfire. Your hips don’t stop moving, even when your clit pulses with overstimulation each time it bumps up against him.

But you can’t stop. You won’t stop, not when Joel asks you so nicely.

His grip on you tightens, his hips twitch up off the bed. Once, twice, three times. “Fuck–”

You watch as he comes, mesmerized. His cock jerks against his stomach, painting the front of his shirt with rope after rope of thick come.

Joel groans, loud, from deep in the chest. An intoxicating, raw sound, like it’s being pulled out of him with a tight fist. His head knocks against the headboard, jaw clenched, eyes screwed shut like the pleasure hurts.

“Jesus—shit, baby,” he grits out to the ceiling, voice wrecked. His hands are basically doing all the work now, shifting your hips back and forth, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “That’s it, ride it out of me—goddamn.”

He just keeps coming, shooting up high, nearly hitting his chest with it. A slow, filthy mess oozing out of the flushed head of his cock. The shirt’s a lost cause, but you could care less when his come drips down the sides of his stomach as it clenches deliciously.

You stare, panting as the last sparks of your high fizzle out. You want to taste it, to smear it around and dirty him up even more.

By the time he slumps back against the pillows, he’s panting like he just ran ten miles. His chest is heaving, the front of his pants an absolute wreck, and he’s still twitching under you like he hasn’t fully come down.

You lean down, nose brushing his. “Still think you’re too old for dry humping?”

Joel gives a weak chuckle, hands smoothing up and down your sides. “You’re laughin’ now, bet you’ll be singin’ a different tune when you’re the one nursin’ my bad back tomorrow.”

You grin, pressing a kiss on his chin. “Worth it.”

And then you rock your hips once more, dragging your soaked cunt over his softening, come slicked cock.

He groans, his hands twitching over your hips. “You just don’t know when to quit, huh?”

“Probably not. Guess you better read faster next time,” you murmur, mouth against his ear. “Because at this rate? You’re never finishing up that chapter.”

The swat on your ass stings, but you knew it was coming. It’s not enough to hide the low rumble of laughter ringing out over your head, and that’s all that really matters anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: this got waaay fluffier than i thought it would when i started it. it’s probably the fluffiest thing i've written in a while. this isn't what i planned on posting, but it's hot and my knee hurts and i can't sleep...and this was basically done so i finished it up as a distraction from my chronic pain :))) and insomnia :))) yay me! yes the title is a lonesome dove quote because i’m texas trash and so is joel miller.

to the anon who sent me an actual banger of an ask, i am working on it! don’t worry babe, i almost cried tears of joy when i saw it in my notifs…i’m just on the struggle bus rn and the ideas are suffering…

thank you so much for reading, love you!

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