#it still comes across strangely to me that he’s just never mentioned after he left Steve to go back to trying to help Bruce

[daydreamerdrew]

The Avengers (1963) #35

[missbiting]

࣪ ⠀太⠀𝖘ummary⠀ 💬🌸⠀⠀ ׅ Tengen swore he wouldn’t cross the line. Swore you were nothing but a girl. Swore he’d keep his hands off you. But deep down he knew he was lying from the start. He knew he was going to ruin everything just to taste you.

❤︎⠀ 𝖙ags 𓈒⠀ ⠀꣹ ⠀ Tengen Uzui x f! reader, smut with plot but the plot is feral, infidelity, cheating and not even a little sorry, obsessed tengen, kind of stalker behavior, mentions of violence, blood, reader gets verbally harassed in one scene, kind of tsundere tengen, praise kink, size kink, breeding kink, first time for reader but it's never mentioned, fingering f recieving, p in v unprotected, a lot of dirty talk, he pleads a lot, pet names, soft dom energy for a bit, belly bulge, big dick TM tengen.

ノ ⬞ ׄ 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒 ㅤ♰ second fic yeppeee!! guys hold on tight this one is like 8k words long ㅜㅜㅜㅜㅜ i hope you enjoy it, pls let me know if you have requests !! i write for multiple fandoms. if i missed any tags please let me know !!! not betad yet so expect some changes.

You were humming when he firat saw you.

A song so faint it felt like something long forgotten, or remembered by accident. The kind of tune a child might hum while plucking apples at dawn.

Tengen Uzui had just returned to the Butterfly Mansion after nearly a month away. A simple wound, really, nothing worth a fuss, but Shinobu had insisted, and well, even a Sound Hashira couldn’t argue with poison in the bloodstream.

He was walking the corridor past the tailoring room when he heard you. A voice like honey stirred into warm tea. Not loud, not flashy. Not like him at all.

Through the open sliding door, he glimpsed at you for the first time.

A new tailor, clearly, your face unfamiliar, your hair tucked back in a silken scarf. You were sitting cross-legged in the center of the room, a swatch of pale haori spread across your lap, hands busy with neat, delicate mending.

He might’ve kept walking.

But you tilted your head just slightly, lips still humming, and the light caught on your lashes. You smiled to yourself, perhaps at the evenness of your stitches, perhaps at nothing in particular.

Something about that smile made him still in his step.

There was nothing remarkable about the scene, not really. No dramatic lighting, no gust of wind, no gods-sent sign, all though he could see the blossoming sakura trees out the window, their petals raining down. And yet something in him stirred. Unfamiliar. Soft. Like silk sliding off a blade.

He stood there too long. Way too long.

You didn’t look up. You didn’t see him. That alone was strange. Uzui Tengen was not used to being overlooked. He's a God. He didn’t say a word. Tengen took one step back, then another. Left as silently as he’d come. But even after he walked away, he couldn't stop thinking about you.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

A few days passed before he saw you again. A clean tear across the lower hem of his uniform gave him the excuse. It wasn’t bad, Hinatsuru could’ve fixed it in ten minutes, but he wrapped it carefully and left the house with a lie half-formed in his mouth.

The walk to the Butterfly Mansion was unusually quiet. But his heartbeat wasn’t. It wasn’t about the uniform. Not really.

He told himself he’d forgotten about you. That whatever spell you’d cast when he first saw you stitching in that room, with the falling flowers in the background, has long faded since.

But the truth was what he wasn’t willing to admit, yet. His steps slowed as he neared the sewing room. He didn’t even knock at first, he just stood there in the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest, watching. Maybe shying away.

You didn’t notice him until he cleared his throat.

Huh. Tengen Uzui isn't shy. He's a God.

You were there again. Bent gently over a pile of cloth, humming something faint and wordless, lips pursed in concentration. A tiny crease between your brows.

Your name. That one, tiny thingㅡ it kept him up all night.

You startled, not a jump, but a soft, pretty flinch, and when you looked up, your eyes went wide. “Uzui-sama!” you gasped, already pushing back from the table, skirts brushing the floor. “Forgive me— I didn’t hear you come in—”

You bowed once. Then again. Hands flitting like butterflies, fingers wringing. “I’m sorry for the mess, I was just— just finishing up a seam— I didn’t know you were—”

He lifted one hand, stopping you mid-apology. “You don’t have to do all that,” he said. “I’m not your daimyo.”

His voice was easy, bored even. But he didn’t stop watching. Didn’t stop the way his gaze dragged down, slow as syrup, over your bowed form. You stayed kneeling beside the low table, heart skipping in your chest like a startled fawn.

And he didn’t look away. Didn’t ask you to rise. He enjoyed seeing you like that. He laid the folded uniform on the table between you. “Tore the hem,” he said. “Figured I’d bring it in before it got worse.”

You nodded quickly, already reaching for the bundle, fingers brushing over the fabric with reverence. “It’s not too bad,” you murmured. “I can have this mended by tomorrow afternoon.”

“That fast?”

“I try to be efficient, Uzui-sama!”

You were trying very hard not to look at him. But he was there, tall, golden, too much. You felt it in the heat rising in your cheeks, and the flutter in your belly. The way he stood without moving, like a statue carved from amber and sun. The rumors were correct. He did look unreal.

You worked quietly, inspecting the seam, smoothing it out. He didn’t speak again. Just watched. Like he had all the time in the world, even though he said he'll get back home that same day.

“I should introduce myself,” you said, sitting back on your heels. “I’m the new tailor here.” Then you gave your name, and you were a little breathless.

And then he said it back. Low. Heavy. Like an echo dropped down a well. Your whole chest burned. He nodded once, sharp chin tilting. “Alright then.” You looked down, hands curling in your lap. You weren’t sure what else to say.

He turned toward the door, then paused. “I’ll pick it up tomorrow,” he said. You nodded quickly. “Yes, Uzui-sama.”

He left without looking back. But that night, he didn’t sleep again. Not because of battle wounds, or old ghosts, or even his wives’ soft voices curled around him in the dark.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

You’re alone. For a little while. Until you aren’t.

Another morning for you of the same old. You carry a bundle of folded kosode to the little stall in the village square, where some of the younger slayers exchange worn pieces for repairs. The sun is soft through the mist, the wind just gentle enough to lift the hems of your sleeves. You think the rain will fall soon.

He leans in, low enough to make you flinch, and you can smell the alcohol in his breath. “I could tear something right now. Want to fix that for me, sweetheart?” A sharp spike of fear floods your chest.

A man steps into your path. Civilian, tall, with too many teeth in his smile and a type of stare that makes your stomach pull tight. “Well now,” he says, eyes dragging down your chest. “They’re lettin’ girls like you dress the Corps these days?”

You blink. Stiffening. “I’m— excuse me—” You try to push past him.

“Aw, don’t be like that.” He steps closer. His breath is sour. “Bet you take special requests, huh?” Your hands grip the cloth tighter. “Please move.” But he doesn’t.

You look around and see a woman across the road. Two shopkeepers. An older man leaning on a cane.

“Just words,” you say. “It’s over now. A few people stepped in.” He steps back, just once and nods stiffly.

Someone shouts. “Hey!” You manage to slip by him.

The man’s eyes flash. “Tch. Fuckin’ bitch.” And then he’s gone after being shoved back by a younger slayer who must’ve seen the whole thing.

You’re left shaking. Breath caught in your throat. The bundle of cloths limp in your arms. Someone takes you aside. Someone offers tea. Someone asks if you’re alright. You nod, because it’s easier than explaining the ache in your lungs. You nod, because you are alright.

Mostly. Nothing happened. Nothing really happened.

You don’t go back to the mansion for a while. But when you do, that night, under the wash of stars, you find Uzui Tengen waiting in the hallway.

He looks like he’s just returned from a mission. There’s a cut on his cheek and shadow in his eyes. “Tailor girl,” he says quietly. “Come here.” You stop mid-step. “Uzui-sama?”

“I said, come here.”

You move to him slowly. Nervously. And when you reach him, he lifts his hand to touch your arm. Gently. “You alright?” You flinch but smile up at him.

“I—I’m fine.”

“Something happen today?” You hesitate. He notices. His hand tightens. “Someone hurt you?”

“No. I’m fine, truly. It was just—someone said some things. It wasn’t a big deal.” His face darkens.

“What kind of things?”

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

His face is wet with blood and sweat. His eyes roam over you. Careful. Hungry. So hungry. He just watches. Drinking in the peace he doesn’t deserve.

You don’t need to know.

The moon is high. Pale and watchful. And Tengen is already halfway into the village. His long hair swings with each step. His jaw is locked. Every footfall thuds heavier than the last.

He doesn’t run. He hunts.

“Just words,” you said. But your eyes said something else. Your hands trembled. Your mouth pressed tight. You didn’t want to worry him. Didn’t know that you already do.

The bastard’s name took five minutes to get. Someone saw. Someone whispered, then someone told him where that piece of shit likes to loiter, behind the sake house, under the back stairs.

That’s where he finds him. Leaning on the wall, half-drunk, shirt open, muttering to himself. Tengen doesn’t speak. He doesn’t give a warning. He grabs the man by the collar and slams him against the wooden wall so hard it cracks.

“What the fuck—”

Another slam. Wood splinters fly up around him.

“Please,” the man chokes, “I didn’t do nothing—”

“You looked at her.” His voice is low. Deadly. “You touched her.”

“I didn’t! I just said—”

A punch. Hard enough to knock some teeth loose. The man howls, blood spraying across the dirt. Tengen doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop.

His fist meets jaw. Meets ribs. Meets gut. The man drops to the ground and he goes with him, grabbing the front of his yukata and dragging him up only to hit him again, again, again.

“You don’t speak to her.”

Crack.

“You don’t look at her.”

Crack.

“You don’t breathe near her.”

Blood stains his hands. The man sobs. Whimpers. Curls into himself like a dog. Tengen exhales hard and drops him. “Be grateful I didn’t kill you.” The man doesn’t answer. Can’t. His mouth is full of blood and broken teeth.

Tengen turns. His knuckles are raw. His breath burns in his chest. But all he can think about is your voice, your doe, teary eyes. The way you smiled like nothing had happened. He keeps walking until he's back at the Mansion.

The hallway is silent at this hour. The walls of the Butterfly Mansion seem to breathe, wood creaking gently, the wind sighing through paper doors. Tengen walks without sound, barefoot, still blood slicked.

Your room is near the end. It's small, tucked away and lavender-scented. He would know. He stands outside it for a long time. Long enough that a sane man would have walked away.

But he doesn’t. He slides the door open just enough to slip in, closing it behind him with a soft click. Moonlight pools across your futon, washing over your sleeping form. One hand curled near your cheek. Your chest rising and falling slowly. Hair loose across your pillow like spilled ink. He stands there, not moving.

But you don’t wake. He stays only a moment longer, then slips away, leaving nothing behind but the faint smell of iron.

At one point, you shift. A soft sound escapes your throat, and his whole body tenses, poised like a predator, afraid like a boy.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

And when he sees you put it in your hair, he already knows he won't sleep a damn minute.

It’s Mitsuri who mentions it. She's babbling about cake, about confetti, about surprises, and then she says your name, laughing brightly.

"Did you know today’s her birthday? The little seamstress! Isn’t she cutest?"

Tengen stiffens. Doesn’t say anything. Mitsuri blinks. “Oh? Didn’t you two talk the other day?” He nods slowly. “I didn’t know.”

“Well, now you do!" she says, pouting. “Better get her something before the day’s over!” He brushes it off. Shrugs. “I don’t do birthdays.”

But that night he’s standing in a shop in the merchant quarter, scowling at tiny boxes with trembling fingers. He picks a hair clip. It’s small. Elegant. Pearl-inlaid. Shaped like a chrysanthemum.

When he gives it to you the next day, he’s awkward. Which is not like him. So not like him.

"Don’t read into it," he says, handing you the tiny box without meeting your eyes. “Mitsuri said it was your birthday. That’s all.” Your fingers brush his when you take it and he twitches.

You open the box slowly, and when you see what’s inside, your eyes go wide. “Oh,” you breathe, like the wind’s been knocked out of you. “It’s beautiful!" You look up, glowing. “Thank you so much, Tengen-sama! I’ll treasure it.”

He crosses his arms, looking off to the side. “It’s just a clip.” But he’s biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from grinning like a fool. His ears are red and his heart won’t stop hammering.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

But that night, he dreams of your mouth around his aching cock, as he he pumps himself with one hand and with the other keeps the handkerchief smelling like you close to his nose. Who could've seen this coming?

Some more weeks pass. He's here more and more and his wives are asking him more and more questions. It hurts him to lie, really, but he feels so alive knowing he gets to see you everyday. Is it that wrong? He thought this would go away, thought fucking away his feelings might work, but it's pointless.

What is wrong with him?

He's awakened from his deep thoughts when his fingertips graze something soft. He finds a handkerchief. Tucked between folded linens in the supply room, smelling faintly of lavender and honey. A neat corner embroidered with tiny stitched flowers. Not your name, but he knows it’s yours. He recognizes your threads now the way a soldier recognizes his blade.

He touches it without thinking, brushes his thumb over the edge. There’s a smear of pink there.

Lip balm? Lipstick?

He brings it to his nose before he can stop himself. Something stirs low in his stomach. Shame. Hunger. Guilt.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice rough, snatching his hand back like he’s been burned. What the hell is he doing?

You're just a girl.

Just a soft-spoken girl with careful hands and beautiful eyes who bows way too much when she speaks and smiles so gently it makes his heart feel too big for his ribs.

A girl.

He balls the handkerchief in his fist and walks out without folding the linens back. He needs air. He needs distance. He needs to get you out of his head.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

“…You’re out early,” he says, voice unreadable.

You were just walking back from the market, a little paper bag in your hands. You’d bought too many skewers of dango. You’re never good at saying no when the vendor smiles like that.

And then you see him. Tengen Uzui, leaning against a shaded post, wiping sweat from his neck. Shirt open. Eyes dark. He sees you and straightens himself.

You’re there, hunched beside a workbench this early, smoothing out a sleeve with steady, practiced hands.

You bow too fast. Nearly drop the bag. “Uzui-sama. Yes—I just— had a market run.”

His gaze flicks to the bag. “Is that dango?” You blink. “Oh! Yes, um. Too much, honestly. I—” He holds out his hand. “Then share.”

Your eyes widen, but you offer him a stick. He takes it and chews slowly. You watch, embarrassed, but he says nothing. “Do you like it?” you ask, shyly.

He swallows, and you swear something shifts in his expression. “It’s good. Too sweet, though.” You smile faintly. “I like really sweet things.” His eyes flicker to your mouth.

“So do I,” he says.

That night he dreams of you. Again.

Not the kind of dream he can laugh off in the morning, not a flickering day-image or idle thought curled into his pillow. This one touches every part of him. He wakes up hard and aching.

Your voice had called to him in the dark. Your hands had trembled against his jaw. Your lips had parted like they knew him. It felt real. Too real.

So he comes to you. Still dressed in the clothes he slept in, hair undone, the sky outside barely greyed. He doesn’t even knock, just slips in through the side door, past the empty corridor, breath loud in his chest.

“…But don’t you have wives?” you whisper.

When you look up, surprise flickers across your face. Then soft delight, and then concern. “Tengen-sama?”

“Please—” His voice cuts through the morning hush. “Don’t speak.” You blink.

“I need to tell you something,” he says, walking toward you like it’s the only direction that exists. “I’ve been holding it in for the past three months. I thought if I ignored it, it would go away, but it hasn’t. Not even once.”

You straighten, heart fluttering too close to your throat. “I think about you,” he says. “More than I should. More than is fair. I’ve dreamed of you. I’ve… I’ve wanted you. Not just your body, but your breath, your laughter, your eyes when you concentrate, the way you look at me when I speak. I’ve memorized your damn footsteps, and it’s hell, it’s driving me insane.”

You inhale too quickly.

This time, it’s full of breath, of heat, of all the months he’s held back. His hand tangles in your hair, the other cradling your jaw, pulling you in like you’re the last soft thing left in the world.

His face twists. “I do,” he says. “I do. And I love them. I swear it. But you— fuck.” His voice splinters. “You’re in my veins. You’re in everything. I try to shut it down but it only gets louder. And when I’m near you, it’s like I finally… breathe.”

You don’t know what to say. So you just smile. Small. Sad. A little flutter of a thing.

“I’m really flattered,” you murmur. “That someone as honorable and strong as you would… would feel something like that for someone as insignificant as me.”

“No.” His voice is low as he takes a step closer. “You’re not insignificant. Don’t ever say that. Please.” He lifts one hand and touches your face like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His thumb ghosts over your cheekbone. And then he leans in so slow you could have stopped him. But you don’t.

His mouth brushes yours like a broken prayer but just as fast he pulls back. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, anguish flashing across his face. “I shouldn’t—”

“No,” you whisper. “It’s okay.”

He searches your face. “You’re sure?” You nod.

“You… can kiss me, Tengen-sama...” And he does.

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

“Have you been avoiding me?” he asks.

Ever since that kiss, he’s been different. You feel it in the way his shadow lingers outside your door. In the way his voice softens only for you. In the way he finds a reason to see you nearly every day.

A loose seam. A torn uniform. A spare button, missing. He’s never been this involved in fabric care.

You’re bent over your work when he appears, broad silhouette darkening the doorway. “Again?” you say with a small smile. “You must be the most destructively dressed man alive.”

Tengen doesn’t smile. Not really. Just steps inside. Closes the door. Your fingers falter on the spool. He watches you, slow, quiet.

You blink. “You’ve been here almost every day.” You joke, trying to break the tension, like you always do.

“I want to touch you,” he says. “I want to ruin you.”

“I think you should just move into my sewing room at this point.”

He huffs a dry laugh. You laugh too. But neither of you is really laughing. Silence curls between you. His eyes find you. And you see it in them. That something’s come undone in him today. “I dream about you,” he says. Your heart jumps. You blink, unsure if you heard right.

He walks forward. “You,” he repeats. “Every night. Every damn night. I can't sleep, eat, speak. I think about your hands. Your smile. The way you bite your lip when you try to fix something.” He stops in front of you. " That kiss ruined me even more." You look up, breath caught in your throat. He lowers his voice, hoarse and shaken. Your lips part, but no words come.

He needs more than a kiss.

Heat floods your cheeks and your throat closes up.

Your knees press together as your mouth goes dry.

“I think about it,” he continues, voice gravel. “About the way you'd sound. How you'd look beneath me. About the things I’d whisper in your ear while I made you cry with pleasure.”

You clutch the edge of the table, fingers trembling.

“And I know I shouldn’t. I know it’s wrong. I have wives. I’m not supposed to want anyone else, you said all that. But gods,” he exhales. “You make me forget myself.”

His hands cradle your face. “I’m going to make it perfect,” he promises. “I’ll make it so beautiful for you. You won’t forget it for the rest of your life.”

He leans down, eyes burning. “I want to get on my knees for you. I want to taste every inch of you. I want to make you fall apart with just my fingers, just my mouth—”

“Tengen-sama—” you whisper.

“Say my name,” he breathes. “Just my name.”

Your lips part. You whisper: “Tengen…” He groans, low and broken, and cups your cheek. He doesn’t kiss you. Just holds your face like it’s the most precious of metals.

“Wouldn’t you…” you whisper, voice barely there, “Wouldn’t you want our first night to be… more special?”

He blinks. Did you want him just as much?

You swallow. “Not just… rushed. But something meaningful.”

And for the first time, he looks stunned. Then he lets out a shaky, half-laughing breath. “Ohㅡ Oh my muse...” His forehead falls to yours, and you feel him smiling. “You’re right,” he murmurs. “You’re right. What was I thinking? I’m just a man. A weak, obsessed, broken man.”

“I do,” he says. “Because it’s you.”

You smile, shy and soft. “You don’t have to go that far…”

︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶ ୨୧ ︶ ֢ ⏝ ֢ ︶

He picks out a silk-lined robe in deep garnet. No armor. No weapons. Just him. His heart races.

Some days passed.

Tengen’s hands are meticulous as they arrange the room in a hidden villa tucked away in the mountains, far from curious eyes. One of his old performance hideouts. He dusted it, aired it, scrubbed it with his own hands. Changed the sheets three times before they were soft enough. Sprinkled crushed plum blossom into the bath. Polished every candleholder, lit them with trembling fingers. He’s sweating through his clothes.

The table by the window is set. Handmade sweets. Fruit sliced into roses. A single porcelain cup, because he knows you sip slow. There’s a bottle of plum wine, unopened, because he wants to watch your lips stain dark and sticky, just a little.

The bed is layered in silk with pale lavender and soft white, like you. The air smells like sakura and honey.

And in the center of it all, a gift. It’s not much. Just a comb. Gold-filigree, inlaid with amethyst, the color of twilight. He bought it a month ago and has carried it ever since; in pockets, tucked inside scrolls, clutched in his hand when he thought of you. It’s warm from his touch when he sets it down on the pillow.

When everything is finally perfect, he heads home to his three loving wives.

The silence in the Uzui estate is louder than any battle drum. Tengen steps through the door just past dusk, the scent of sandalwood still clinging faintly to his sleeves.

His wives are seated around the table, Suma with her brows knit in worry, Hinatsuru with her usual softness turned taut, Makio staring down at the food she hasn’t touched.

He notices it immediately. The tension coils in the air like smoke. “Welcome home,” Hinatsuru says, but it’s brittle. Makio doesn’t even look up. “Where’ve you been?”

Tengen removes his haori with a long, deliberate motion. “There was a mission.”

“There’s always a mission,” Makio mutters. Suma pipes up, her voice small. “It’s been happening a lot lately. You’re… always gone."

He smiles, the kind that once made them melt. Now, it feels thinner. Forced. “You think I don’t want to be here? With my radiant, perfect women?”

Makio’s gaze sharpens. “Don’t treat us like we’re stupid.”

Tengen doesn’t flinch. Instead, he moves across the room, kneeling before them. “I would never,” he says, voice deep and smooth as honey. “You three are my soul. My pride. You think I’d risk everything we’ve built, everything we’ve suffered for, on some meaningless indulgence?”

Suma blinks. “Then… why do you feel so far away?” He exhales heavily and leans forward, taking her hand, then Hinatsuru’s.

“You want the truth?” he murmurs. “I’ve been training harder. Pushing myself. I can’t afford to be weak when I’ve got three precious lives depending on me.”

“Why the secrecy then?” Makio asks, but her voice has softened. “Because I didn’t want to worry you.”

He lifts her chin, eyes glittering. “You know how I get when I take a mission personally. When someone gets under my skin. But it’s not about you. You’re my family. You’re the ones I fight for.”

Suma is crying. Hinatsuru pulls him close. Even Makio leans into him, breathing out slowly. And just like that, the tension loosens. He’s still the man they married. Isn't he?

They fall asleep soon after, curled into him, believing every word.

But as soon as night hits again Tengen doesn’t stay.

The air shifts the moment he enters his dressing room. He sheds his clothes like it’s armor after a long war. Washes his face, his hands. Scrubs the scent of his wives off his skin. Stares at his reflection with something close to guilt. Or maybe awe.

“You,” he whispers under his breath. “What have you done to me?” His hand hovers over his cologne, that's faintly spicy. You once told him you liked the way cloves smelled. He never forgot.

His voice is quiet. Like it costs him to say it.

In the drawer where he keeps his cufflinks, there’s a soft thing wrapped in tissue: a little embroidered corner of fabric. One of your handkerchiefs, fraying at the edge. He presses it to his lips.

Then, as a final detail, he tucks a single flower into his belt, fresh from the garden. Pale and pretty. You mentioned, once, how much you missed flowers from your hometown. Something dainty, something shy.

He looks in the mirror once more. Adjusts his collar. Touches his neck, still flushed. Then he whispers, half in awe, half in desperation. “Tonight.” And he walks out the door.

You got to the villa first, as he told you. When you walk in you can't believe your eyes at how beautiful everything looked. Couldn’t believe that he actually did all of this for you.

You wear something soft, something sheer, something that shimmers just enough when you move. Your hair is down. You smell of rose wine and early spring. You sit there with your hands folded in your lap, nervous, glowing, and you don’t even realize how utterly lethal you are.

The door slides open with a creak. You don’t turn. Tengen stands there for a moment. Silent. You know he’s watching you, the way your robe clings to your shoulders, how your hair spills loose down your back, the way you shift slightly, fingers wringing the fabric in your lap.

He breathes in sharply, like he’s been punched. Like your beauty physically strikes him in the chest. You rise slowly, head tilted, a shy smile touching your lips.

“Tengen-sama,” you murmur. His throat works. His hands clench. He doesn’t move closer. Not yet. He’s afraid that if he does, the hunger in him will swallow the whole room. The whole night. You. “Don’t speak,” he says, and it’s barely a whisper.

“Please don’t say a word yet. Let me look at you.” Your eyes widen. Your hands flutter nervously against your skirt.

He smiles. Shy. Unlike him.

“You look,” he says softly, “Unreal.” And your scent. Gods. You smell like blossoms and innocence and want.

You laugh, but your voice shakes. “You did all this?”

His hands twitch at his sides. “For you.” He takes one step forward.

“I’ve dreamed of this very moment. Of you.” His voice is thick, hoarse. “So many nights. I see you when I’m awake, too. Your smile in my mind when I touch my wives. Your voice when I lie to them. I think about your hands. Your skin. I think about what you sound like when you say my name.”

Your lips part. You tremble, slightly. You should feel guilty right about now, no?

He presses his forehead to the back of your shoulder. “Do you know,” he whispers, “how many times I’ve dreamed of this?” You swallow.

You still don’t turn. You feel him step closer. Hear the hush of his silken haori, the soft thud of his knees hitting the tatami behind you. And then his hands, warm and trembling, cradle your face from behind.

His hands slide down, slow, to your waist.

He moves, slowly, around you. And then he’s kneeling in front of you; proud, dazzling, yet undone.

“I’ve imagined this a thousand ways,” he breathes. “You in candlelight. You in shadows. You beneath me, above me. You begging, whispering my name like it’s the only word left in the world.”

Your lips part, but he shakes his head, gently. His thumb brushes your lower lip. “You don’t know what it’s been like,” he says, almost angry with longing. “To want something this badly. To see you every time I close my eyes. To crave you. Dream you. Need you.”

He leans in, mouth brushing over your shoulder, the curve of your collarbone, soft kisses that worship your burning skin. Your heart pounds so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “Tengen…” you whisper, voice barely a breath. “I—I don’t know what to do.”

“I thought I had control. I thought I could keep my hands to myself. I can’t.” His forehead presses to yours. “I want to ruin you so gently. So sweetly. I want you breathless and trembling beneath me. I want you weeping from pleasure and still asking for more.”

You shiver and he kisses your palm. "Tengen?" You shy away a bit and he looks at you like you've just slashed his heart. "Yes, my beautiful flower?"

"Pleaseㅡ just kiss me." You’re breathless.

He doesn't need to hear more. This time, it’s not soft. It’s hungry. Desperate. His hands cradle your face like a relic. His lips claim yours like a sinner at the altar. You melt into him. You gasp against his mouth, he moans into yours. "This feels unreal." he laughs like it hurts.

Your heart races, the air is thick with anticipation. You don’t answer him. You just let him decide. Let him take that final step into what he’s been yearning for since the moment he laid eyes on you. "Oh, to have you at my mercy..."

Your body responds before your mind can catch up, your hands find his chest, your fingers trembling, and the softness of your touch makes him shudder. His lips brush your neck, feather-soft. "May I undress you?"

Your breath catches. You nod all shy and he closes his eyes like that one gesture was a wish answered. His hands move with ceremony, slow and trembling with restraint. He unties the bow at your collar, brushes aside the fabric like it’s woven from morning mist. Each layer falls away under his careful touch, revealing more of you, inch by aching inch. His eyes never leave your face.

“You’re divine.” His voice breaks. He swallows hard. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. My beautiful flower. ”

You blush so fiercely it burns. You reach to cover yourself out of instinct, but he catches your wrists, firmly. “No,” he commads. “Let me see you. Please."

“Gods, l-look at you,” he stutters. “Sweet little thing, licking your own mess like a perfect pet.” You whimper around his fingers. He pulls them out slow, watches the spit and slick string between them and your lips, and then drags his thumb down your chin.

He smiles against your skin, and it’s soft. It's real. You're unreal. “Just be mine,” he says.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly he’s laying you down, careful like you’re porcelain, and you reach for him like you're afraid he'd let go. He looms above you, eyes wild. “Beg me.” And your breath halts. His large hands are on either side of your head, his body caging yours. “Beg me, my love,” he murmurs, like it’s the gentlest thing in the world, even though it is so dirty. “Let me hear how much you want me.”

And oh, you want him. Your face heats. You try to look away but he tilts your chin up, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Please,” you whisper, shaky. “Tengen— please touch m-me.”

A sound rips from him, low and helpless. His mouth crashes to yours again, like he’s starving. Like you’re the only meal he’s ever wanted. In a way, you are.

He breaks away just enough to look down at you. His hair’s come loose, falling around his face like threads of silk. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth damp. "Oh, my little flower,” he whispers and lowers himself slowly and kisses your exposed ribs, your stomach, the plush of your hip.

He growls something low in his throat, a sound more animal than man, his hands are everywhere, desperate. “Fuck— look at you,” he mutters, like he’s in pain. His lips trail fire across your nipples as he licks at them. “I’m not gonna be gentle, I can't. ” he warns, breathless. “Not tonight. I’ve waited too long.” His rough fingers pull at your undergarments and you jolt, embarrassed, overwhelmed and you try to turn your face away, but he catches your chin again.

“No,” he says softly. “Eyes on me. That’s it. Look at me while I touch you.” You do. You force yourself to, and he smiles. His hand slips off the fabric, and your whole body goes tense. “Shhh,” he whispers, eyes burning into yours. "There... Good girl."

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he says. “Every inch. Every sound you make. I want to hear it all. I want to teach your body how good it can feel. Can I do that for you, baby?” You nod, lips parted, dazed with heat. He leans in close again, mouth at your ear.

His fingers dip lower and you gasp. He watches your face, obsessed with every little reaction. “Fuck, you’re already so wet... All for me.” You gasp, arch under his touch, and he moans. “Tell me you’re mine,” he growls. “Tell meㅡ Come on.”

“I—I am yours” you whisper. “Tengen, please—"

He drags his mouth down again, hot and hungry, teeth grazing tender skin. His voice drops, guttural: “I wanna make you cry for me. Wanna make you scream.”

“Tengen—!”

“I want you ruined,” he pants, pressing kisses just above your exposed core, “so ruined you forget your own name and can only remember mine.” His hand replaces his mouth and you gasp, back arching. “That’s it,” he groans. “That’s it. Let me hear you. Louder.”

One of his thick digits poked at your dripping entrance before he finally pushes it inside, all whilst his mouth sucks at the shiny skin of your folds, your juices mixing up with his saliva, as soft wet sounds and your little whimpers fill the room. He pulls his mouth away to speak, finger still curled inside of you.

“Do you know what I’ve dreamed about?” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “The things I want to do to you, my flower…”

You whimper and he smiles, all dark.

“I’ve thought about tying you up,” he says, confessing. “Laying you out on silk sheets, blindfolded. Just your body, waiting for me. Dripping for me. I’d take my time. Tease you until you’re sobbing. Until you can’t even remember what it feels like not to need me.”

He makes a short pause to add another finger inside.

“Sometimes I think about keeping you,” he whispers. “Locked away. Pretty little pet in lace. No one else gets to see you. Just me. Just these sounds—” he curls his fingers again and your moan shatters the room. “Fuck, just like that.”

Your thighs start shake, yet he doesn’t let up.

“I’d ruin you every night,” he sighs. “Leave you shaking and marked. My name bruised into your skin. My mouth between your thighs until you can’t breathe, until you forget how to speak— except to beg.”

You gasp his name again, overwhelmed. He presses his forehead to your belly.

“I want to make you need me,” Another finger goes in and you see stars. “So badly it hurts. I want to own every sound you make. Every part of you. I want your first thought in the morning to be me. I want you crying into my pillow because you’re still sore but you still want more.”

He slows just for a second, just to feel the little pulse in your cunt. “I think about you walking around with my seed inside you,” he whispers. “My scent all over your body. Marked. Owned. Loved so good you never recover.”

Your nails dig into the sheets below you. “You’d take it for me, wouldn’t you?” he pants. “Whatever I give you. However I want. You’d let me use you, keep you, worship you, because you’re mine. You’re mine, right? Say it again. Please, say it."

“I’m yours,” you choke out. “Tengen—I’m yours—”

You come undone on his fingers, gasping, writhing, your pussy clenching, slick gushing around him in wet pulses he feels all the way up his arm. And he just watches, stunned and mesmerized, lips parted like he’s witnessing some divine miracle. You sound holy. You look holy. “Fuck,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “You’re so beautiful"

You’re still shaking when he pulls his fingers out, slow, glistening. Then his gaze drops to your mouth. “Open,” Tengen breathes. It takes you a bit to register, but you do, puffy lips parting soft and obedient, and he groans, the sound deep as he slides the soaked fingers past your lips.

“There,” he murmurs, watching your mouth take him in, knuckles-deep. “That’s it. Suck. Come on. Clean them off for me.” You close your lips around him and his head falls back.

“Fuck. That’s it. Just like that.”You swirl your tongue, shy at first, then bolder when you hear the way he loses it, grinding against you, cock hard and aching and leaking at the tip.

He unties the sash slowly and lets it slide off his shoulders, fabric whispering down muscle and skin like water. You barely have time to gasp before your eyes drop, and you finally see it.

His voice is velvet when he leans in again. “I should make you suck my cock next,” he whispers. “Make you beg for it. Let you choke on it while I hold your hair and tell you all the filthy things I’m gonna do to you.”

Then he kisses you. He tastes himself on your tongue, and it drives him mad. “You’re mine,” he pats roughly at your cheek. “You get that? I own every inch of you.”

He shifts back, slowly, kneeling above you, eyes raking over your flushed skin, your messy lips, your dazed expression. “You’re so good for me,” Then his hands go to his robes.

Oh..

Oh.

You don’t even mean to whimper. It just escapes you. A soft, panicked noise as your eyes widen and your whole body tenses.

He’s huge.

Thick and flushed and dripping, so hard, with veins standing out along the length, the head angry red and glistening. And it curves up heavy against his abs, obscene, like it was carved to wreck you.

You make a tiny sound in your throat and scramble back on the sheets, panic and arousal tangling in your gut. He just smirks.

“Oh,” he coos, voice low and smug. “Look at you. Don't be scared of it...” You shake your head, eyes still wide, heart hammering in your chest.

“You’ll take it,” he purrs. “You’ll be good for me. Let me stretch you nice and slow. Let me feel this tight little pussy open up around me inch by inch.”

“Thank you, thank you...” his forehead was pressing against yours, his whole body trembling. “Thank you, ahh— fuck, you don’t know what you’re giving me. Letting me have you like this—own you like this…”

Your breath hitches. Your thighs press together. “I’ll make it fit, dear. I’ll go slow. I’ll be so good to you.” He leans down, brushing his lips over your jaw, your neck, your racing pulse. He presses a kiss to your collarbone. “Come on, little flower,” he almost whines. "Lay down."

It's like your body listens to him before you even hear him. You obey his command, and lay down, and despite the fear, you feel yourself more slick than before, skin blushed and lips hurting from how much you nipped at them.

His hand runs down your side, warm and steady, until it curls under your knee, guiding your leg up to wrap around his waist. His other hand settles at your hip, holding you just so. He looks down at you like you’re made of glass, pupils wide, his cock heavy and flushed, nudging at your entrance.

“I’ll be gentle for now,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna take me so good, little flower. Just breathe for me.” You nod and then he starts to push in. It is painful, that in itself would be an understatement. It feels unreal how full you feel with just the tip in. Your body opens inch by inch, tight and trembling around the stretch. You clutch at the sheets, back arching, gasping his name as he groans low in his chest.

“Shhh, I got you,” he soothes, forehead pressed to yours. “Feels too big, doesn’t it? But you��re doing so good.” You whimper, clinging to him, and he doesn’t move, just stays there, buried only halfway, letting you adjust. He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your lips, hands caressing your sides, trying to soothe you, even as his cock throbs inside you.

"T-Tengen...Ohㅡ" your eyes well up with more tears as he pushes some more inside, and you swear you're being ripped apart. He waits for a bit, whispering sweet things, but then your legs curl tighter around his waist, pulling him down. And something in him snaps.

His breath stutters. He pulls back just slightly, and then slams back in. You cry out, body jerking beneath him, and he growls, low and filthy.

“Oh fuck— you want it like that? Huh?” His hand shoots under your thigh, yanking your legs up over one of his shoulder. You can’t even speak, your mouth is open, your voice caught somewhere between a sob and a moan. He braces one hand on the bed, the other gripping your thigh, holding you down as he starts to pound into you, deep and merciless, over and over.

“Listen to you,” he pants. “Crying for me already—shit, this pussy’s so tight— ah, so good, squeezing me like it was made for me.” You’re shaking, tears sliding from the corners of your eyes, tongue lulled out, your body overwhelmed and overstimulated, your brain blank.

“T-Tengen—! Oh, myㅡ I can't.." You whimper, ear ringing, you can faintly hear the wet sounds your cunt makes wrapped around him. Tengen growls, teeth bared. “You can take it. You’re gonna take every inch I give you.” Your vision blurs. You can barely breathe, barely think. You want to speak, but can't, you're drugged on him out of your mind, drunk on his voice and smell and the way he feels so deep inside of you.

“That’s it,” he whimpers. “Cry for me, little flower. Let it all out." He looks down, eyes catching the bulge he's made inside your lower belly as the loud plap plap plap sound fills the room.

Your body trembles beneath him, boneless and burning. The world narrows down to the weight of him above you, the way his breath stutters near your ear, the press of his hand between your ribs and waist as though he's holding you together and keeping you from unraveling entirely.

“You’re taking it so well,” he murmurs, almost reverent, yet wrecked.

His forehead presses to yours. Sweat beads at his temple, his mouth parted, whispering things you barely catch, mine mine mine. His rhythm deepens, drawn out, like he wants to memorize the shape of your soul through your skin. He doesn't slow. Doesn't soften.

Tears blur your vision, overwhelmed and stretched so full you think you'll burst. You’ve lost count of how many times he’s pulled you over the edge, making your orgasm; once, twice, three times? Your mind is syrup, your body trembling.

His mouth presses to your ear. “Tell me I can come inside,” he whispers, almost crying. “Tell me I can give it to you. All of it. I need you to let me—” he pleads.

"Hㅡah.. Yes, yes, yes please, Tengen." Your answer is barely a breath, but it breaks him. He sinks deeper, grounding you in place with the weight of his chest. He holds you folded beneath him, your knees nearly to your chest, your hips locked between his broad hands. “You feel that?” he rasps, watching the way your belly bulges each time he thrusts deeper. “Made for me. Soㅡah, perfect.” You try to answer, but all you can do is sob, your fingers scratching at his shoulders, your lips mouthing his name like a prayer.

He slows, just barely, “Want to fill you up and keep you like this. Want you round a-and glowing. Full of me. Mine.”

You gasp. Your eyes flutter open, glassy and wide like a doe, and he smiles like you’ve just gifted him heaven. “Yeah?” he smiles, dipping lower, kissing the tear-streaked corner of your mouth. “You’d let me? Let me breed you, keep you soft and heavy with my baby?”

Heavens help you. “T-Tengen…”

He shudders, his pace faltering a bit. “You’d look so fucking b-beautiful,” he moans, hips grinding into you now, deeper, deeper. “Swollen with my child. Dripping with me every night. I’d worship you, little flower. Kiss your belly. Talk to them inside you.” More, more, more. A breathless cry escapes your lips, your nails digging into his back, leaving red marks he's not sure how he's gonna hide. “Say yes,” he moans, nearly undone. “Say it again. Say I can give you all of me.”

“Yㅡes,” you sob, the word catching in your throat. “Please—please, Tengen—give me, ooh!” That’s all it takes.

He lets out the most broken, guttural sound you’ve ever heard from him, like he’s unraveling at the seams, like your words just carved him open from the inside out. His hips snap into you, brutal and deep, until your breath stops and you cry out again.

The consequences are the last thing on your mind at this moment.

You can feel it that moment he starts to lose control, the rhythm falling apart, the heat coiling tighter and tighter inside him. He adjusts his grip, arms locking around the backs of your thighs, folding you deeper into the mattress, and Gods...

He watches your belly again, mesmerized. Watches it swell with every desperate thrust. “Look at you,” he pants. “Already so full. Gonna make it stick, hahㅡ Gonna fill you up so deep they won’t even have a chance to slip out. You’ll feel me for days.”

His voice breaks. You’re crying again, shaking under him, and still you beg for more, your body clinging to him, greedy for everything he’s offering. It’s too much. It’s perfect. It’s him.

It hits him like a wave, violent, full-body. He cries out your name as he spills into you, hips twitching, the air between you two sticky and hot. You feel it flood you, thick and endless, and he doesn’t stop. Not even as you cry. Not even as you plead. He ruts into you, needing to mark you. You feel all warm inside.

“Take it, take it, take it— fuck, you’re perfect. Mine, you’re mine, only mine—”

Finally, finally, he slows.

And he doesn’t pull out. He stays buried deep, keeping it inside you, his big body draped over yours protectively. You’re both trembling. You feel the heat of his breath on your cheek. His lips graze your temple.

“I’ll take care of you now,” he whispers. “You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll cook, I’ll bathe you, I’ll kiss every inch of you when you’re sore. I’ll be so good to you, little flower. Just stay with me, yes? Just let meㅡ let me keep you.” Your lashes flutter, vision hazy. You're all sticky and wet. All you can do is nod. He kisses your cheek. Then your jaw. Then your lips.

[likeumeanit9497]

made for me | m.s. |

matt sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: it's been three years since they've seen one another, two and a half since they last spoke to one another. but on this night, time seems to stand still as they meet once again.

warnings: SMUT; angst; unprotected p in v; oral (f receiving); handjob; mentions of alcohol; dirty talk; 18+

notes: hey party people...i...have been trying to work on this singular one shot for months. i've been so busy with school (yes, my program goes over the summer how lucky am i!!!!) and have had absolutely no motivation to write more than like a paragraph or two in one sitting. i miss writing and the tumblr community sooo badly literally every single day, but unfortunately i just have to accept the fact that i don't have the free time i had this time last year. so long story short i'm still here and will still be writing whenever i have the time (and inspiration) to, but pls be patient with me if i disappear for months again (and again). i love you all and appreciate the support u all have given me for over a year (WHAT?!?!?) i hope u enjoy this little angsty fic <3333

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

You winced as the tequila burned your throat down to your stomach. Bringing a lime to your lips and sucking desperately, you shut your eyes so that all you could focus on was the sound of blaring music coming from the speakers littered throughout the house. You were at a party, which is not unlike you on a Saturday night. In fact, you couldn’t even remember a weekend that you hadn’t spent stumbling through crowds of people in a strange house — their figures so blurred you couldn’t even see the faces of the men you let take you home at the end of the night.

It was still early, this shot being only your second of the night, but you had a feeling that it would be far from your last. The past week had been especially stressful — you had told your friends that it was your busy work schedule or that finals were coming up, but you knew what the true reason for the stagnant pit in your stomach was. Matt — your best friend since first grade, your first love, and the one who you thought would be your forever — had been rumoured to be back in Boston for the first time since you saw him last, three years ago.

You dropped the lime and leaned against the countertop — hoping that your body language wouldn’t give away your despair but rather lead your friends to believe that the shot was sitting wrong. When he left three years ago, deep-seeded love combined with youthful naivety blinded you to the severity of your distance. You were so certain that no matter what, you and he would be okay and that the love that felt so powerful at the time would never fade.

Only one of those things proved to be true — and after only six months of him living across the country, one gut-wrenching phone call put an end to what you thought would be your forever. You had no idea that, upon picking up that call, you would shatter the years of what was, but it was as though your mouth formed the words without the help of your mind, and once they were spoken aloud, you both dissolved into tears of acceptance. Not because it was what either of you wanted, but because it was what you believed both of you needed.

That was two and a half years ago, and you hadn’t seen him since. He had been busy with his career in LA, and at times you allowed yourself to search him up — watching his YouTube videos with his brothers — just to allow your chest a moment to ache for what once was. Because the truth was, no matter how much you drank or how often you moaned out the name of another man, his face was what haunted your dreams each night. And now, he was allegedly back home — living, breathing within the same time zone; the same zip code as you.

You shuddered, pushing away the thoughts you had been attempting to drink away as you lifted yourself off the counter. Reaching for the bottle of tequila, you were sure you felt eyes on you. And as you began pouring the clear liquid into a shot glass, you nearly lost your grip as your eyes lifted to find the culprit. Because no more than 10 feet in front of you — as though he had been summoned by your disparaging thoughts just moments before — stood Matt.

It was disorienting seeing him in this environment — at 18 years old you and he cared very little for the house parties of your peers. Yet there he stood, a figure so familiar yet somehow completely different. Arms once completely bare now covered in tattoos crossed against his chest while his eyes — the same crystal blue from your dreams — burned your skin as they travelled across it. The room had grown deadly silent; whether that was truly the work of those around you or simply the fact that the blood roaring in your ears muted their chatter, you weren’t sure. But in that moment, you and he were the only ones in that room.

Not a word had been spoken between you two, yet your frantic, searching eyes seemed to have a conversation of their own. After what could have been hours, Matt’s eyes dragged themselves from you before he began heading in the direction of the stairs. Your stomach dropped at the sickeningly familiar tug, as if an invisible string tied you to him and refused to let go. Fingers white against the counter top, you forced your feet to stay in place as your eyes followed his back — a back that now seemed like a canvas of power; each stride of his revealing coiled energy beneath his black t-shirt — waiting for some sort of signal, an invitation for you to come to him.

As he reached the first stair, the signal came in the form of a brief pause and a final look over his shoulder. Your mind had no say at that point — it had long ago surrendered to him — and you began following him in a daze; throwing a brief regard to your friends over your shoulder as you did. Only once he recognized the determined look in your eyes as you headed in his direction did he continue up the stairs, trusting that you were in fact just behind him.

Once you reached the top of the stairs you found him at the end of the short hallway, peeking his head in the door of what you only assumed was a bedroom before taking one last glance at you as his frame slipped past the open door. The upper level of the house was obscenely quiet, and you could hear your heart pounding as you reached the doorway he had just walked through.

The door clicked behind you, and suddenly you were both alone. No more loud music, no more people, just the two of you and the gravity of three years hanging between you. He was standing a few feet away, arms crossed — not defensively, it seemed, just unsure of what to do with his hands now that you were there in front of him. For a moment, the only sound in the room was your breathing. Quiet, but shallow, the kind of breathing that gave away how much restraint was barely holding both of you together.

Closer now, you took a moment to really look at him. He hadn’t changed much. The boyish narrowness you remembered was gone — replaced by the quiet strength of a man who had grown into himself — but the essence of him that you had somehow memorized without realizing was still very much there. But more than anything, the way he looked at you — longingly, desperately, lovingly — that was exactly the same.

“You really came back,” Your voice came out more breathless than you wanted it to. He didn’t seem to notice, or if he did he was gracious enough to not react with pity. Instead, he ran a hand through his hair and took one small step closer to you. “Why did it take you so long?” You added at nearly a whisper, terrified to hear his answer. “You know why, Y/n.” His voice sent shock waves down your spine. Deeper, the voice of a man, yet still achingly recognizable to the voice of that young boy you met on the first day of school all those years ago.

Your eyes fell in shame from the weight of his reply, knowing that you were the reason he had chosen to stay far away from his home town — his friends, his family — for three years. When you spoke again, your voice had somehow managed to drop even quieter, “Then what made you come back now?” The silence permeated the empty room so immensely that your ears began to ring from the density of it. With your eyes still on the floor, you felt more than saw him move one step closer to you. “The same reason I stayed away for so long.”

His words left his mouth like a confession, and they draped themselves across your skin like a python — the weight of them satisfying but also jarring; threatening to wrap themselves tight around you until your walls cave in. Your eyes flashed back up to his, and upon noticing the question marks swirling within them, he clarified with earth-shattering honesty. “You. It’s always been you.”

The silence after his statement was charged — thick with everything you hadn’t said since that last phone call, with every memory you both buried under the weight of growing up — and growing apart. “I hurt you,” You finally replied, voice thick with emotion as tears began welling in your eyes. Through the blur of your tears, his face seemed to morph into that of his younger self as he fought against his instinct to comfort you. “You did,” He replied, his own words laced with pain, “But I never blamed you for it, not once Y/n.”

You didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything, so you just looked at him — studying the faint lines beside his eyes that hadn’t been there before, the shadow of a beard that 18 year old Matt could only dream of growing. “Why not?” You asked, true disbelief trapped in the crack of your voice. Instead of answering your question, he pulled on a weak smile. “You cut your hair.” Subconsciously, you ran your fingers through your shoulder-length hair; about five inches shorter than it was the last time Matt was standing in front of you. “It’s been a long time.” Your reply almost sounded bitter, and you instantly wished you could take it back because how could you possibly blame him for the unilateral decision you made years before?

If he took offence to your tone, he didn’t show it. Instead, he took another step towards you, closing the ice-cold gap between you even more. “I just mean,” You began, letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment as you pulled your trembling lower lip between your teeth, “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” There was the air of hesitation between you now, just for a moment, as he struggled to find the words. “I tried to stay away, because it seemed like that’s what you needed,” His words were spoken in the soothing cadence he always used to comfort you all those years ago. “I didn’t want to make it harder than it already was, for both of us.”

It was you who took the next step forward, making it so that you were only inches apart. “Then why are you here nowMatt? And how could you possibly not blame me for what happened between us?” You repeated your question from before, hoping that he wouldn’t ignore it once again. Looking up into his eyes, you recognized the weight of his gaze and the pain buried within it. “Because,” He began, clearing his throat before continuing, “Because I have never been able to stop missing you, and every day without you has felt like a living nightmare. I thought if I stayed away, we would both heal. But instead, I forced myself to endure years of a torture that I knew would never go away unless I saw you again.”

A tear fell from your eye as you watched his face through his confession, each word resonating so deeply within you that it felt like looking into a mirror. “I regretted it the moment I did it, you know.” You replied softly, feeling the years of regret boil over within you, “I was weak.” He shook his head firmly before gently brushing your hair from your face; his familiar touch sending a welcomed shiver down your spine. “You were young. We both were.” His tone was firm, an attempt at freeing you of the guilt that had been slowly eating you alive. You nodded sadly, recognizing his words as truth. “Maybe,” You began, closing the gap so that your chest was pressed against his front, “But I really did love you with everything I had, and I really don’t think I ever stopped.”

Something glimmered in his eyes, then. The same glimmer that had appeared that day on the playground when you had asked him to be your best friend, the day in ninth grade when you had told him that he had been your first crush, and the day in junior year when you had told him you loved him for the very first time. That glimmer had given you so much pride each time you had been the reason for its existence. Another tear fell in relief, as you had long ago accepted that you would never again be witness to it.

His hand slipped from your hair down to your cheek, where he swiped away your salty tears before resuming his movements down your shoulder, down your back, before finally resting in familiarity against your hip. You felt the electricity from his fingertips permeate your skin — shooting throughout your body at the revival of your intimacy. Your hand traveled up to his neck where you toyed with the ends of his hair — slightly longer than it was the last time you had ran your hands through it.

“Did you stop loving me?” You whispered, your lips mere inches from his own. His grip on your hip tightened slightly, pulling you against him even closer than before. “Never.” Was his reply before pulling your lips into his with the slow burn of long-suppressed hunger. The kiss was slow at first, hesitant, like a rediscovery of one another’s mouths after too long apart. Not yet frantic, as you had imagined it would be; just aching.

His tongue brushed against yours with a deep, searching kiss that made your knees weaken. You clutched his shirt, pulling him closer and grounding yourself in his taste, his smell, the gruff sound he made when you moaned against his open mouth. The kiss deepened as his hands slid around your waist, carefully walking you backwards until you were pressed in between him and the wall. When his mouth dropped to the sensitive place on your neck, just below your jaw, that only he knew existed, everything felt too hot, too necessary. You wanted to drink him in — every groan, every sharp scrape of his stubble against your skin, every part of him that you hadn’t touched in years.

You tugged his shirt up, hands dancing across familiar warm skin and foreign muscle. You pressed your palms against his chest, where you felt the rapid thud of his heart below; matching your own. His lips found yours again, and the kiss was deeper — darker. His mouth opened hungrily against yours before strong teeth bit down on your lower lip. A claiming, yes — but not possession. His hands roamed slowly, deliberately. Skimming under your shirt, teasing the bare skin just above the hem of your jeans. A muffled gasp fell from your lips when his fingers travelled higher, delicately brushing the curve of your tit over your bra. You felt his lips curl into a smile against your swollen lips. “Your boobs got bigger.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t deny the flutter in your stomach from being reacquainted with Matt’s goofy side. “Shut up,” You replied with a giggle before taking his mouth in yours again; not wanting to lose the familiar taste of him on your tongue. With a soft hum, his hand traveled behind your thigh, lifting it until it wrapped around his waist; your hips instinctively grinding into his. You released a gritty moan into his open mouth, and he swallowed the vibrations like it fuelled him.

He pulled at the hem of your shirt, undressing you as though he was afraid you might disappear behind the wall of fabric if he moved too fast — each button, each inch of new skin exposed was met with a soft breath of relief. Once you were in nothing but your bra and thong, Matt lifted you up and carried you to the bed; lowering you gently atop the soft comforter before pausing to look at you as though he couldn’t believe you were real.

“You’re just as beautiful as I remembered,” He murmured, lowering himself on top of you, kissing your sternum while reaching behind you to unhook your bra with a practiced flick. Discarding the material, you watched as his lips traveled to the underside of your tit, then higher, before taking your pebbled nipple into his warm mouth; circling his tongue until you whined.

“God, I missed you,” He mumbled against your skin as he began fumbling with his belt buckle. Your body responded to his words as though lit on fire by them, and once he was in just his boxers, you grabbed the back of his head and pulled him closer to you before whispering, “I have dreamt of having you in this way since the last time I saw you.”

He kissed you again then, rougher than before — raw tongue and teeth and years of longing poured into it. Moans slipped between you two as your almost-naked bodies pressed against one another, reconnecting like old friends into a familiar mould. One of his hands slid down your body slowly, between your legs, and as his fingers ran delicately against the warm, damp material of your thong, he groaned. “Still so ready for me,” He uttered against your lips, slipping his fingers under the lacy material and pressing two inside of you just deep enough to make you gasp for air, “Say my name,” He pleaded, his words laced with a longing you had never quite heard from him before, “I need to hear it.”

“Matt,” You moaned, breathless as he began slowly pumping his fingers up into your spongey core.

“Again.” He demanded, picking up his speed slightly — giving you some relief, but not quite enough.

“M-Matt, please,” You begged, your words punctuated by sharp breaths.

He didn’t tease you for long. After hearing the desperation in your tone he pulled his slippery fingers from your core before kissing down your stomach, leaving a trail of your juices along your left leg as he pulled your thong down to your ankles. Now completely exposed, you spread your legs to give him full access to your glistening core — wordlessly begging him to bring you the relief only he can. His mouth traveled from your trembling stomach down to the crest just above your core, hovering there for a moment with his eyes fluttered shut. “Tell me what you want.” He breathed, his voice soft but laced with gruff undertones; giving away just how bad he needed you too. “You,” You replied without hesitation, comfortable in telling the man on his knees in front of you exactly what you needed, “Your mouth. Please, Matt.”

The honesty was all it took, because as soon as the words left your mouth you released a moan at the feeling of his warm tongue against your clit. His tongue moved with slow precision — as though he remembered exactly how to undo you. You threw your head back with a cry, hips bucking against the strong suction of his mouth, but he held you down — savouring every second as if it were something sacred. Through hooded eyes you looked down between your legs, watching Matt’s practiced routine in awe. His eyes, glazed over in sheer satisfaction, locked onto your own as he absorbed every sound, every expression you made in response to the pleasure he was granting you.

Your mouth dropped open in pleasure, fingers knotted in the sheets below you, as he used his powerful tongue to break down your walls. He slipped his thumb inside of you, leaving it there, unmoving, knowing that the slightly-full sensation made your head spin. He used his free hand to push gently against your lower stomach, knowing that the pressure intensified your orgasms tenfold. You moaned on each breath now, your heavy eyes refused to stay open. And once your hands flew to his hair, pressing him firmly against your pulsing core, he responded to the wordless confirmation of your impending orgasm by finally pumping his thumb in and out of you while simultaneously twirling his tongue feverishly against your swollen bundle of nerves.

You violently came undone against his tongue, trembling, moaning his name as if it were the only word you’d ever known. Back arched, you held tightly onto his wavy hair, unsure whether you were pulling him away or closer as the pleasure tore through you in overwhelming waves. Still, he continued to push you through the high, flitting his tongue expertly against your clit as you trembled below him. “Matt!” You cried out, your body so hot with intense pleasure that your skin grew splotchy and red — something it hadn’t done from an orgasm in years.

Just as quickly as it had appeared, the pleasure slipped from your fingers. As your loud cries turned to gentle moans of satisfaction, Matt’s deliberate licks transformed into sloppy kisses as he drank up your juices — memorizing the taste of what had just hours before been a memory. When he finally moved up your trembling body, you immediately dragged him into another kiss — reigniting your desperation at the taste of yourself on his lips.

Hooking your legs around his waist, you tugged gently at the elastic on his boxers. You were both flushed and panting, bare skin against skin, yet still it didn’t feel like enough. Matt seemed to feel the same, because without you having to say a word he covered your hand with his own — helping you slide his boxers down. With his mouth on yours hungrily, you couldn’t see his cock, though as soon as you heard the firm slap of it making contact with his stomach, your hand wrapped around it with ease. A grunt escaped his lips and you swallowed it hungrily — relishing the relief that you were able to grant him — as you began pumping his length in just the way he liked it; soft at the base, tighter and with more pressure at the tip.

“No more waiting,” He breathed against your gasping mouth, “I need to feel you.”

With a soft moan, you began guiding his cock to your core. Not with your hand, as that was proven unnecessary, but by the widening of your legs — the damp warmth emanating from your centre enough to act as a gravitational pull to bring his length right to the slippery crest of your opening. Wrapping his strong arm around your waist, he sank into you slowly, both of you gasping at the sensation; the crushing weight of it all. The heat, the stretch, the sensation of home was enough to bring tears of relief to your eyes — mirrored in his anguished face before you.

He pressed his forehead against yours, locking eyes with you as his hips rolled against you as though he couldn’t look away for fear of missing a single second. Your bodies moved as one, slow at first. Then deeper, harder, a shattering rhythm that came to you as easily as breathing. Yet, neither of you rushed. Every movement, every hushed sound, every messy kiss was a memory revived. Your moans were not just out of pleasure, they were the release of years spent missing him.

He placed a hand under your lower back and you moaned, eyes rolling to the back of your head as his cock hit that spongey spot that made your body tremble. He pressed open-mouthed kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, and your chest as the room filled with the wet harmony of two bodies that know one another so well. Everything you never said was finally being spoken in the sound of your arousal as it coated his front; and everything he never said was finally being spoken in the sound of his pelvis spreading the sticky fluid against your inner thighs upon each methodical thrust.

“Made for me.”

His head nestled against your shoulder, where the rumble of his groans burned through your skin. The familiar phrase caused your stomach to do a flip. Those three words had been spoken by Matt thousands of times over the years — both in and out of the bedroom — that the fact that they had fallen from his lips thoughtlessly, as though they had been sitting there waiting to be spoken aloud for years, in a tone of sheer desperation, was enough to tear away any last shred of sanity you had.

You smiled through a breathless gasp, threading your fingers through his hair and tugging at the strands until his mouth met yours again. His kiss was messy, open-mouthed and wet; the kind that said he needed you in every way. He lifted your right leg higher to angle deeper into you, causing your breath to catch in your throat. “More,” You pleaded against his swollen lips, “Right there.” You felt his mouth curl into a smile bordering on arrogance, “I know.” Was all he replied with, proving that each of his movements were calculated, as though the years of exploring your body had burned into his memory and he had every intention of giving you exactly what you craved.

He held you there, driving his cock at just the right pace, into just the right spot. Your mouth dropped open, unable to kiss him back as the pleasure building deep within you doubled, and then tripled. “Oh my god, M-Matt—” Your head fell back against his left palm, and he cradled it gently as your toes curled around his waist. “That’s it,” He murmured, dropping his mouth to your exposed neck and deepening his thrusts, “Let go, I’ve got you baby.”

You shuddered, the pressure of your impending orgasm laying heavy against your helpless frame. He thrust into you again — this time deeper, slower. You could tell that his control was fraying, the cords of his muscles tight beneath your hands as you felt him struggle to keep from falling apart himself. Using all of your restraint, you held your own orgasm back as you spoke, “Cum with me,” You whispered, the strain evident in your thin voice, “I want to feel you fill me up.”

You felt his mouth drop open against your damp neck, his body trembling above you as his struggle was intensified by your filthy words. Using all his strength, he lifted himself from the crook of your shoulder to gaze down at you with his dark, hooded eyes. Him before you like this — undone, trembling with need, his body worshipping yours with every movement — was almost more impactful than the physical pleasure itself.

“I love y— Fuck,” He dropped his forehead against yours once again, “I love you.” He whispered, voice scratchy with tension as your heart melted. “I l-love you.” You parroted just as he sank into you one final time, releasing a guttural moan as he buried himself to the hilt as he came, his breath catching in your ear and spurring your own mind-bending release.

Warm ropes of his cum painted your walls as they flexed maniacally around his pulsing length, driving you both to the edge of insanity as your bodies took complete control. And as you moaned, cursed, and cried out one another’s names, it wasn’t just release. It was relief. The kind that settles deep in your chest when something you thought was gone forever finds its way back. It was a homecoming.

Once both of your bodies stilled, you stayed completely still; breathing one another in at last. Time passed, and as your heart rates returned to normal, the sound of the party still very much alive below you returned to you consciousness. Still, neither of you made an attempt at moving, instead you let the weight of what had just happened settle into your veins. Not just the satisfaction, not just the pleasure, but the rediscovery. The ache that had shaped who you and him had become over three years now filled by each other’s presence.

Even once Matt eventually shifted above you, the post-sex lull was evident in the way he delicately pulled himself from your raw core, using his discarded boxers to clean you up before tucking you against his chest — his lips peppering indulgent kisses against your hair as you ran an idle finger along his forearm.

“What happens now?” He asked, his words soft against your hair but laced with an undertone of fear of what your response may be. You look up at his gorgeous face that, while slightly older, you knew you had memorized, offering him a soft smile. His eyes focused on your lips as his hand subconsciously reached for your cheek; his expression one of a man hungry for another innocent taste of your lips. You relaxed into his hand, granting him the kiss —deep, tender, and laced with words unspoken — before replying in a whisper. “Now we stop pretending we ever stopped loving each other.”

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

[opulace]

── HOMECOMING 糸師 冴 itoshi sae

contains: fem!reader, angst, aged up characters, breakup (reasons unspecified), implied childhood friendship and sibling-like relationship with rin

word count: 0.8k

the past comes running back and you can't hide from it, no matter how hard you try. a part of you never wanted to anyway.

grief manifests in shades of pink.

it's in strands of a darker, brownish tint. locks that loved being tangled between your fingers, stroked and combed through with soft touches and bathed in sunlight as they splay over plush white pillows and tousle from being buried in the comfort of your chest. you still find them strewn around the house, loose strings trapped in the shower, a wisp on the living room floor, mixed in with the sheets. no matter how much you clean, traces of them remain like the permanent draw of lint to nylon.

you see it in the shade of pink painting your lips, one that's left countless stains across the cheeks, forehead, lips, nose, anywhere within reach, of the one you loved, still love. the exact hue in the tube burning into the back of your eyelids along with every curve, angle and sculpt of his face.

it's immortalised in pictures, the dust of colour finely powdered across his cheeks when you say something and catch him off guard, once round with baby fat and slowly loosing its fullness as the years rolled by. now you can only hope to trace across them with the pad of your thumb, all that's left is the feeling of glossy paper on your skin.

it's strange isn't it, how the world seems to continue in its orbit, yet your whole universe seems to have simply stopped, frozen in a time where the other side of your bed was still warm and there were two toothbrushes in the mug by the sink.

your days have felt hollow since itoshi sae left, nothing but passing dates checked off the calendar.

everything reminded you of him. that used to be a happy thought, akin to a sweet nothing. you spent a good portion of your life with him after all, once neighbours to the itoshi's, now just a receipient of apologetic smiles. you're still close to his mother, you drop by with flowers every month and she insists on cooking you a meal, just like old times.

she'd sit you down and talk about you, what you've been up to and how's the family, but never about him. yet just being in that home, felt like holding a piece of him in the palm of your hand that you should no longer have access to. it felt wrong, and you felt guilty, though she never has and never will hold it against you.

you see rin there on a rare occasion and you catch up over tea like grown adults, even if it means still being sat cross legged on the floor of his childhood bedroom like when you were kids and having convenience store popsicles after.

there's no more toys scattered over the ground, no more bunk bed, just a twin sized bed one on each extreme end of the room. it's mostly untouched, only rin occupies it when he returns home on breaks to visit family. the less than perfect plushie you gave sae at age five still sits against the headboard. you can't bear to look at it for too long.

"i win. what about you?"

you shake my head, showing him the stick. you used to, not anymore.

"i spoke to niichan the other day." that's new, you didn't know they were on speaking terms.

"he asked about you." oh.

you look up at him then, expression unreadable for the most part but there's a slight hint of pain no matter how much you try to bury it. the words leave you before you can stop them, barely above a whisper, "what did he say?"

"asked me to check up on you."

"what, does he think i can't take care of myself?" you scoff, but there's no bite, there never is when it comes to him. "is that why you're here?"

he doesn't deny the latter.

"you know he doesn't think that." rin mentions offhandedly, but really, he's eyeing you as if he's trying to gauge your reaction. "season's wrapping up, he's coming home."

he's coming home.

you can't help the tinge of bitterness seeping through your words, and as you picked at your nails, a part of you knew that deep down, you never moved on, and if rin's words imply what you think they do, maybe he hasn't either, but you need to hear it straight.

no roundabouts, no beating around the bush.

"and what has that got to do with me?"

he sighs, letting his head loll and his fridge mask his eyes for just a second, like he knew this would happen, "do you really need me to spell it out for you neesan?"

"he wants to see you."

notes. should i do a pt2 of the meeting or let them grovel

masterlist

taglist: open (link to form) @mikiruie @saucejar @stellar-headquarters

© opulace. please do not repost, plagiarise, translate, or feed my work to ai.

[lovebugism]

after skinny dipping at a lover’s lake alone, eddie is shocked to see someone else was there all along (reader) 🫶🏻

thank u for requesting anon! this prompt literally drove me insane! (in a good way)! — eddie falls in love with the weirdest stranger he's ever met in his life (wednesdayaddams!reader-esque, mentions of being naked, 18+ | 1.2k)

The edge of Lover’s Lake sits right outside Eddie’s trailer, partially visible through a thin treeline of bright orange oaks. He stumbles through it on graceless, lanky legs — high out of his mind, which is filled now with racing thoughts of boyish rage. 

He’s failing English (again), for one. For another, Corroded Coffin’s been bumped to Tuesday night shows instead of Friday nights (a death sentence if he ever saw one). And ever since then, Wayne’s been on his ass about working with him at the car shop (‘cause moonlight as a rockstar isn’t a real job, apparently.)

Eddie gets angrier the more he thinks about it — which is perpetually and without mercy. It makes his pale skin feel red hot, boiling to the touch, practically repelling every wisp of autumn breeze that threatens to cool him down. He wonders, briefly, if it could be the weed fucking with him. ‘Cause everything else has been today.

He stands on the grassy bank of the moonlit lake and strips off his clothes to find out. He stumbles trying to get his pants off, right after his chin gets stuck in the neck of his t-shirt. He doesn’t think to check if anyone’s around until he’s left only in his thin, navy plaid boxers.

“Free show?” a feminine, unfamiliar voice calls from the center of the pitch-black lake.

Eddie practically jumps out of his buzzing skin. His heart lurches into his throat as his palms hurry to cover his still-clothed crotch. “Shit!” he shouts, voice echoing over the empty clearing.

You don’t flinch at the volume of the voice. He can’t even tell if you’re blinking from here. You just remain in the middle of the rippling, silver water, only visible from the tops of your bare collarbones.

Eddie swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing, and tries to catch his breath. “Sorry. I— I didn’t know anyone else was out here…”

“Don’t stop on my account,” you tell him, flirtatious words that sound strangely deadpan falling from your lips. “Lover’s Lake is big enough for the both of us.”

Eddie squints into the darkness, dark eyes flitting across the water. “You’re alone?” he concludes after a few moments. 

“Usually…” you hum, lifting a naked shoulder in a lazy shrug. “…Are you?”

“Usually.”

“Want some company?” you offer, still strikingly monotoned. The strange boy with the wild hair and pale legs stammers for a response. You tilt your chin to your chest and look cautiously at him through your lashes. “…Or should I go?”

“No!” Eddie blurts, then clears his throat with a red face. Quieter, he adds, “No, it’s not that. You don’t have to go.”

A smile quirks at the edges of your lips. So faint Eddie can hardly tell it’s there. But still, it sparkles in your eyes like the moonlight does. “Just act like I’m not here,” you lilt, disappearing back into the water before Eddie can blink.

He’s not so sure how possible that is, but he gets into the water with you, anyway.

The fall season has turned the lake into silk. It’s cool and soft against his burning skin as he slowly submerges himself within its void. Eddie’s wide, attentive eyes never leave the water as he searches for your body beneath it. He follows the faint, silver ripples until they disappear completely — until he starts to worry if you’ll ever come back up again — until he starts to convince himself you were never there at all.

There’s a loud and sudden splash before him. He blinks, and your face is inches away from his own. An almost uncomfortable proximity between two strangers. “Jesus!” Eddie blurts, flailing awkwardly in fear.

“Did I scare you?” you squint, like it wasn’t totally obvious.

The boy exhales a wavering breath. “Yeah… Yeah, a little bit.”

“Sorry. Won’t happen again,” you promise with a faint smirk that tells him otherwise, as you swim slightly back from the boy ahead of you. The dark waves rise and valley at your bare chest. Eddie’s boyish mind immediately wonders exactly how bare you are underneath them. 

“Actually, it might,” you continue. “But it’ll be an accident… Probably.” 

Eddie struggles to tell if you’re joking or not — if you’re playing games with him, or if you’re just too aloof to know what you’re doing to him.

“You’re a strange… strange person,” he tells you, a half-compliment and a half-something-else, as the words tumble from his lips before he can think about them. His chocolate eyes narrow into thin slits at you. “Did you know that?”

The question’s mostly rhetorical, but you nod rapidly in response anyway.

“It’s ‘cause I’m not a person,” you confess, eyes wide and glittering with sincerity. “I’m a mermaid trapped in human form.”

“Aren’t mermaids already half-human?”

A contented noise sounds in your throat. 

“Hm… Guess I’m already halfway there, then.”

Eddie forgets to respond, and the conversation lulls. It makes the rest of the world seem terribly loud. Wind whistles through trees. Frogs croak in the tall grass. Water sloshes softly around your bodies. He gets lost in the serenity surrounding him and drowns in the chaos in your eyes.

“You have a staring problem,” you blurt. “Did you know that?”

The boy blinks rapidly to clear the haze from his glazed-over eyes. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m just—” Eddie clears his throat and shakes his head, hair damp at the edges and sticking to his freckled shoulders. “I’m just trying to figure out if you’re real, or if I just… made you up in my head or something?”

Something about that seems to please you. 

A mischievous smirk pulls slowly at the edges of your mouth — into a smile brighter than Eddie thought you were capable of. You float towards him with little effort, like two distant planets now threatening to collide. He doesn’t realize how close you are until your breath fans warm across his jaw.

“How’s this for real?” you hum quietly, leaning in like you plan to kiss him.

Eddie’s stunned still. He forgets how to breathe as his heavy eyes fall to your lips. He moves closer to you on instinct, mouth gravitating to yours despite himself — like you’re some kinda siren controlling his mind with a song he’s too far gone to hear.

Through the mist in his vision, he watches your mouth curl into a cheeky half-smirk. You look on at him, at this puddle of a boy, like you’ve got him in the palm of your hand. 

“You are a strange… strange boy, Eddie Munson,” you hum quietly.

Eddie shakes his head as he descends (face-plants, more like) back into reality. The water ripples faintly around you as you swim away from him. He stammers for words while you head back towards the bank. “Wait— How— How do you know my name?” the boy gapes.

Your body ascends from the silver lake, naked as the day you were born, and shining beneath the full moon. 

Water drips from your skin like diamonds as you crouch to grab your clothes, lying in a discarded pile beside the dock. The sight of your bare ass would make Eddie implode if he wasn’t already reeling.

“Sorry!” you call to him over your shoulder, with your all-black clothes balled at your chest. “Can’t hear you all the way over there!”

You never cease your stride back towards the pitch-black treeline. Eddie shouts at the back of you anyway, “How do you know my name?!”

He never gets an answer.

[parkjihoonswifey]

literally ANYTHING ABOUT BAEKJIN THAT ISNT NSFW 💝

A/N: Guysss ngl when I first saw Baek-jin in the show I said he was chopped🥀🥀

Title: Timeless Tutor

Pairings: Na Baek-jin x Fem! Reader

Warnings: Ummm fight scene, mentions of blood, idk what else

You weren’t failing. Not really.

You just weren’t passing.

And apparently, that was enough for your homeroom teacher to assign you a tutor. A volunteer tutor.

"Na Baek-jin," the teacher had said, tapping his name onto the printed list of top scorers. "He doesn’t talk much, but he’s ranked high. You’ll meet after school in the library. Tuesdays and Thursdays."

You weren’t thrilled. He wasn’t either.

The first tutoring session was cold in contrast to the growing heat outside. Baek-jin didn’t even look up from the math book between you. “You should’ve figured out linear functions in middle school.”

You blinked. “Thanks, I’ll be sure to go back in time and fix that.” He glanced up, one brow raised like you’d spoken out of turn in church. He had sharp eyes, cold and unreadable��but there was something restrained behind them, like a blade always half-drawn.

Still, you didn’t like being spoken down to. “I’m not stupid,” you muttered. “Just bad at numbers."

His pencil paused. “Same thing.” You exhaled slowly. Okay. So he was going to be that  kind of tutor.

But as the weeks went on, something strange happened. He kept showing up. He never bailed. And although his tone never softened, he explained things over and over again when you didn’t understand—never mocking, just persistent.

And you? You started to learn. But even more confusingly, you started to notice him.

The way his voice was quieter when talking through solutions. The small furrow between his brows when he concentrated. The fact that he never checked his phone. Never yawned. Never looked bored.

Na Baek-jin was sharp, distant, and mysterious—but he was focused. In control. He was always watching the world like it could betray him at any second.

So you began staying a little longer after each session. Making small jokes. Asking things unrelated to math. Trying, slowly, to push past the wall. Sometimes, he gave you nothing. But other times, you swore you saw it—a flicker of something beneath the surface.

“Why do you even bother tutoring?” you asked one Thursday after school. The library was empty, golden light pouring through the windows.

Baek-jin didn’t look up. “They said I had to volunteer for something.”

“And you picked this?” You questioned.

“I didn’t pick you.”

You let out a soft, tired laugh, but not offended. “Yeah. You just got stuck with me.”

His pencil scratched across the paper. “You’re not the worst.”

You blinked. He said it so plainly, like it didn’t matter—but you knew it did. “Thanks, Baek-jin,” you said, and his name rolled off your tongue easier now. “That’s practically a love letter coming from you.”

He paused. “Don’t say things like that.”

Your smile faded a little. “Why not?”

“Because you don’t mean them.”

“I could,” you said quietly. His eyes finally met yours. And for a moment, the silence between you felt charged. Dangerous.

But Baek-jin looked away, jaw clenched. “This isn’t that kind of thing.” You didn’t ask what kind of thing he meant.

But your heart hurt anyway.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

You didn’t know people had been watching you.

You weren’t close to the center of the fights, not like Si-eun or Hyo-man or the rest of the violence-soaked names that hung over Eunjang’s walls like ghosts. You were just a girl with average grades who stayed too late at the library.

But one night, that was all it took. You left tutoring after dark. Baek-jin had left earlier, silent and unreadable as always. You lingered, packing up slowly. When you stepped outside, you felt it before you saw it—like the air was suddenly thinner. Two guys leaned against the wall near the gates. Older. Not from your class.

“Hey,” one of them said. “You’re Baek-jin’s little student, right?”

You froze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” They grinned.

“Wow, she really is as slutty as they said she was.” One of them said to the other.

You wore a plain white shirt that suddenly felt too tight, and a pair of denim shorts that felt too short. You tried to back away—but one of them grabbed your wrist.

You pulled your hand with all your strength, but he let go, your body falling to the concrete. You landed with a gasp, and his foot stepped on your hand. You cried out from the pain, pleading with him to stop.

That’s when it happened.

You didn’t hear Baek-jin approach—Didn't see him come running—but in one instant, the guy’s foot was ripped from where it was placed—and the next, Baek-jin had slammed his fist into the first one’s jaw.

The sound was sickening. The second guy lunged, and Baek-jin didn’t hesitate—he struck, blocked, elbowed, moved like he wasn’t thinking—just reacting. You'd never seen him like this. Not just cold, but furious.

By the time it was over, both of them were on the ground, groaning. Baek-jin stood over them, chest heaving, knuckles red. Then he turned to you.

“You’re bleeding.”

You blinked, and sure enough—your palm was scraped from falling. You hadn’t even noticed, but he had.

Baek-jin stepped closer, hand twitching like he wanted to reach out—but didn’t. “Why the hell didn’t you call anyone?”

“I didn’t think—”

“You never think.”

You flinched, and he froze. “I didn’t mean—” he said, then stopped. Looked away. Swore under his breath. “Damn it.”

“Why did you come back?” you asked quietly. “I thought you left.”

He hesitated. “I was still downstairs. I saw them follow you.” He didn’t say more. He didn’t have to. He’d stayed behind.

That night, you didn’t go home. You ended up on the rooftop of the school—wrapped in your jacket, staring at the stars.

Baek-jin sat beside you. Silent. Your hand was bandaged, courtesy of the school nurse. Your heart still hurt worse. You didn’t talk for a while.

Then, softly, you said, “You didn’t have to save me.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

His jaw tensed. “Because if I didn’t...” He trailed off.

You turned to him. “Say it.”

“No.”

“Baek-jin—”

“Don’t push me.” He said firmly, tone almost breaking you.

“Why not? You’re allowed to feel things.”

“I’m not,” he snapped. Then, quieter: “Not for you.”

The silence that followed was louder than any shouting. You swallowed. “Why not?”

“Because I can’t protect people.”

You stared. “You just did.”

He shook his head. “I wasn’t fast enough. You still got hurt. If I let myself care—if I let you matter—then it’s just one more weakness someone can use.” Your chest ached.

“That’s not weakness,” you whispered. “That’s being human. He turned his face away, jaw clenched so hard it looked painful.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he said finally.

It was the smallest whisper. But it shattered everything. Your breath caught. You reached out—slowly—and rested your hand on top of his, bandaged fingers and all.

“I’m not yours to lose,” you said.

Baek-jin didn’t move.

Then, slowly, carefully... he turned his hand over and held yours back.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The next day, he didn’t talk much. He walked you home, stood a little too close, didn’t say what he felt—not out loud.

But he didn’t have to.

Not when he watched you like you were the only thing in the room.

Not when he showed up outside your class for no reason.

Not when he said, “Come study,” but it meant, “Stay with me.”

Not when you touched his arm and he didn’t pull away.

Na Baek-jin wasn’t good at words—at people, or at love—but he was trying.

And for now, that would be enough.

A/N: Guysss is this good??

[midnightfictionlibrary]

Contrary - Sanji Vinsmoke x F!Reader

Contrary - Sanji Vinsmoke x F! Reader

Content : angst, fluff, jealousy, light swearing, mentions of drinking/being drunk

Word Count : 1083

A/N : Here I am again, just coming out of nowhere with a new fandom to write for. Been seeing a lot of HCs that Sanji would still flirt with other women after being taken, but I think the opposite (he just needs someone to be serious about him ok)

Contrary to popular belief, as soon as Sanji had you, other women left his mind. Sure, he knows they're pretty, but something about you has Sanji watching every movement, attuning to every need. 

In short, he loves to make sure you're taken care of. 

That's why, when you enter the tavern on the rainy island, standing beside Nami, you freeze in your tracks. 

Cigarette dangling from his lips, that half smirk you know so well...and it's trained on a woman that's not you. A small, strange, strangled noise comes from your throat, and you immediately feel Nami's hand on the small of your back. 

You felt like the world was spinning, like the floor beneath you was going to give out. Breath catching, you spin on your heel and leave the tavern, right as Sanji looks up to see you. 

"Merde..."He mutters, moving faster than Nami had even seen him. He whizzes past Nami, the smell of smoke and spices whipping by as if he were in one of his cooking frenzies. 

You were walking down the cobblestone street, boots clunking on the stone. Your jaw was clenched, your steps heavy. You hear someone calling your name, and you try to speed up once you realize it's Sanji. 

"Damn it-" Sanji mumbles, finally catching your wrist and tugging you to a stop. You jolt a bit, unexpecting him to actually catch up to you. 

When you whip around, Sanji almost falters, not expecting to see your face bathed in such hurt. 

"Baby -"He says. 

"What?" You snap. "I know that stupid little smirk of yours that you get while you're flirting."You hiss at him. 

Sanji frowns, curly eyebrows pulling down in an expression unknown to you. "I wasn't flirting with her, I was telling her I was waiting for the most beautiful creature to walk this island -"

"Oh save it!"You cut in. "Do you forget that I know exactly how you are or used to be before we got together?" You cross your arms after pulling your wrist from his grasp. 

Sanji frowns again. "I...is that what you really think of me?" He asks you softly, a look of hurt running across his face. 

For just a moment, panic bubbles in your stomach. You never wanted to hurt him, but you were too angry to think straight at the moment.

Sanji softly releases your wrist, taking a step back. 

"Who....was that, then?" You ask, voice clipped. 

With a frown on his perfct lips, Sanji shrugs. "I dunno. She asked me to buy her a drink and I said no."He shifts his weight from one foot to another. "You can ask Mosshead."

You feel bad, suddenly, and your face burns with shame. "I-"You snap your mouth shut, embarrassed and upset with yourself. "I'm sorry." You mumble, turning your gaze from him. 

Sanji is still frowning. "I am too. I'm sorry it looked that way and I'm really sorry you don't trust me."

Your gaze snaps to his, quickly. "That's not -"

"Isn't it? You ran before I could even say anything, darlin'." He says, hands in his pockets now. "I thought I made it pretty clear how I feel about you, but I suppose you don't believe me." He says softly, eyes flickering to yours, searching your face for something you didn't know how to give him knowingly. 

"Sanji.." You say, unable to form a coherent sentence. Why couldn't you speak? You cursed yourself silently, upset that you couldn't say what was on your mind at the moment. 

"I...don't want to hear it. I'll see you on the Sunny." He says, voice a bit choked. Without another word, he walks away from you, leaving you stanfing in the street light's soft glow. 

Frowning, you return to the Sunny, rushing to your quarters and pacing immediately. What did you do? Did you just fuck up your relationship because you were being insecure? Sanji didn't deserve the way you snapped at him, and the fact that he told you to ask Zoro proved to you that he was speaking the truth. 

It wasn't until much later that you heard the boys return, laughing and stumbling. You give it a few moments, deciding to venture to the kitchen, where you knew Sanji would be. 

He was there, his back turned to you, scribbling furiously. He didn't seem to be drunk, but he was partaking in very aggressively writing the menu for the next day. You could tell by the way you could hear him muttering measurements. He heard you, before he saw you.

"What?" He asked gruffly. 

Usually, when you entered the kitchen, he immediately asked if he could get you something. The absence of the familiar question lets you know that you hurt his feelings. 

"Sanji.."

"Yes, what, angel?" Even upset with you, he still called you a pet name. That made you feel even worse. Nervously, you cross the kitchen, rounding the kitchen island to stand in front of him. He keeps his eyes trained on his menu, but you speak anyway. 

"I'm sorry." You rush out. "I saw you standing with that girl and thought of all the times before we were together that I saw you flirting in taverns and I got insecure. I'm not half as pretty as some of these women and I got so jealous seeing another girl who was obviously interested in you-"

Sanji stands abruptly, and your words falter. You watch as he rounds the kitchen island, large hands coming up to cup your face. 

"Contrary to the belief of everyone on this ship that I'm unable to resist flirting with everything that moves, all I see is you. I go to sleep thinking about you, I wake up thinking about you, I skip having as many cigarettes as I do, because of you. You are the center of my world. I plan the menu around things I know you like. Haven't you noticed that there haven't been any mushrooms in your dishes for weeks?" He asks. 

Your eyes flicker over his features. He looked so eager, so sweet. "I'm so sorry - so so sorry." You cry out, leaning up to pepper his face with kisses. "You're so sweet to me, I don't deserve kindness like-"

Once again, he cuts you off, kissing you softly. It's not heated,sloppy. It's a soft, reverent, adoring kiss. And it's just for you. 

Like all parts of Sanji now, it was just for you.

[thebarneschronicles]

Steady (Closer To Home)

A Closer To Home side-story

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 6.7k

You and Bucky have been dancing around a fragile intimacy for months—close to comitting, but never crossing the line. Despite being somewhat settled, Bucky still has his bad nights—haunted by dreams that tear him out of sleep and away from your arms. But this time, when he returns home shaken and silent, the rhythm between you shifts.

What begins with coffee and warmth turns into a conversation that redefines everything—labels, love, and the future you're building together. From a phone background to a blushing soldier, to a question that changes it all, this is what it means to choose each other, every day.

Trigger Warnings: Bucky Barnes (he needs a warning of his own); nightmares and implied PTSD; references to emotional trauma and past violence; fear of loss and emotional vulnerability; intimacy; light sexual content (implied foreplay, heated kissing, groping, innuendo); mild possessiveness, dominance, and suggestive dialogue; mentions of bruising from prior sex; discussions of romantic labels and commitment anxiety.

Closer To Home Masterlist

Author’s Note: Surprise, surprise: I have returned after an insane few months. I am so sorry it took me this long, but genuinely, life took over in a way I couldn't even comprehend. I missed these two so badly though and hopefully you have too. Give me your thoughts! Love, B xx

--

It was too early. That strange, in-between hour where the world was still waking, where the sun barely stretched past the horizon, and where the warmth of your bed felt impossible to leave.

And yet, here you were—blinking sleep from your eyes, drawn from the comfort of your blankets by the faint sounds coming from the kitchen. The quiet clatter of pans. The slow scrape of metal against a skillet. The low hum of something that might have been a sigh, or just the house settling.

You knew the real reason you were awake.

Bucky had a rough night.

You felt it before you even opened your eyes—the restless way his body tensed behind you, the sharp, ragged breaths fanning against the back of your neck. When the tremors had started, you didn’t hesitate. You turned into him, wrapped yourself around him, grounding him with your warmth, your steady hands, your quiet presence. For twenty minutes, you held him, whispering soft reassurances into the space between you, running your fingers through his damp hair, waiting for his breathing to slow.

And then, just like that—he was gone.

Slipping from your arms. Pulling on sweatpants and a hoodie with that blank, withdrawn look that made your chest ache.

You didn’t stop him.

Because sometimes, Bucky just needed to go—to run, to move, to fight against something only he could see. It was still dark when he left, and though part of you wanted to stay awake and wait for him, sleep eventually pulled you back under.

Now, the smell of coffee and the quiet rhythm of him moving through the kitchen had pulled you back into wakefulness.

Bucky was already making breakfast by the time you dragged yourself into the living room, still swaddled in one of his old sweaters, your feet tucked beneath you as you curled up on the couch. He hadn’t noticed you yet.

He was lost in thought, stirring scrambled eggs absently, his vibranium fingers tapping against the handle of the pan in an absent rhythm. His hair was damp from the shower he must have taken when he got back, a lone strand falling across his forehead. His shoulders, broad and still faintly pink from the heat of the water, flexed slightly as he worked. He was shirtless, grey sweatpants slung low on his hips, and the soft winter light streaming through the window caught on the metal of his arm, making it gleam in the quiet morning air.

You watched him in silence.

It was rare—these quiet, introspective moments where he wasn’t a soldier, wasn’t fighting, wasn’t running from something unseen. Just Bucky. Barefoot in your kitchen. Lost in a world of thoughts you weren’t sure you could pull him from.

If he needed you, he’d come to you.

If he wanted to talk, he would.

And if he didn’t? You’d sit here, offering him the kind of company that asked for nothing in return.

But God, he was beautiful like this.

You reached for your phone without thinking, lifting it just enough to snap a photo. He still hadn’t noticed you, the faraway look in his eyes making it easy to capture a few more. The quiet intimacy of the moment was too much to resist—the way the golden morning light softened the sharp edges of him, the way the steam curled from his coffee, how utterly real he looked, standing there.

But then—his gaze flicked up.

He caught the movement, blinking like he was just now registering that he wasn’t alone.

"What you doing up?" he mumbled, voice rough with sleep, still thick with whatever weight sat heavy in his chest.

You grinned, tucking the phone away. "Missed you," you admitted easily, offering him a lazy, sleepy smile from your spot on the couch. "Was worried."

Bucky huffed softly, shaking his head as he grabbed another mug from the counter. "You didn’t have to be," he said, pouring a second cup before making his way over.

You took the coffee from his outstretched hand, watching as he sank down next to you, his arm draped along the back of the couch, close but not yet touching. He smelled like soap and fresh air, a little like the night still clinging to his skin.

You turned slightly, pressing a kiss to the crease of his elbow, your free hand wrapping around his bicep, thumb skimming the underside of it where smooth skin ran over hard muscle. Bucky let you, saying nothing, but his fingers found the back of your hair and flexed slightly, just once.

You hesitated, debating whether to push, before deciding against it. Instead, you just said what you already knew.

"You had a nightmare."

It wasn’t a question.

Bucky sighed, nodding reluctantly before tipping his coffee to his lips. Vibranium fingers gripped the mug, and you didn’t miss the way he used the motion to shield the slight downturn of his mouth.

You caught it anyway.

"Yeah."

Your voice softened. "Hydra?"

"No."

That made you pause.

Most of his worst nights—the ones that left him trembling, breathless, drowning in memories he couldn’t control—were tangled up in his past. But if it wasn’t Hydra…

Your grip tightened slightly around his bicep, thumb brushing gently against smooth skin over strong muscle. "Should I ask what it was, or should I leave it be?"

A muscle ticked in his jaw. His gaze flickered to yours, and for a second, you weren’t sure if he was going to answer.

Then, quietly—"It was you."

You stilled.

"Me?"

Bucky exhaled sharply, his vibranium fingers tracing along the rim of his mug, eyes fixed on a point on the floor. His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke. "You were… gone."

Your heart clenched.

You swore you felt his words crack something inside you.

“I couldn’t— couldn’t help. Couldn’t bring you back." His throat bobbed, and when he spoke again, his voice was rougher, quieter, and you had a feeling he was sparing you whatever gory details had sent him running into the night. "I kept trying, I looked for help everywhere, but you—” Bucky’s eyes squeezed shut. “You were gone. It felt… real."

Your heart squeezed painfully in your chest.

Bucky had lived through nightmares most people couldn’t even imagine. He’d been broken, controlled, forced to be something he never wanted to be. But somehow, the thought of losing you was what sent him running into the cold morning air, like it was something he could outrun.

You set your coffee down on the table, shifting closer, tilting his chin toward you so he had no choice but to look at you. Fingers warm from the coffee, you scratched against his stubble, eyes locked on his.

"I’m right here, Buck."

He blinked slowly, eyes flickering over your face like he was memorizing every detail, every breath, every reassurance. His fingers found the nape of your neck, threading through your hair, and you let him pull you closer until your foreheads touched.

"I know," he murmured, but there was something fragile in the way he said it, like part of him wasn’t convinced.

You pressed a lingering kiss to the bridge of his nose, staying there for a beat, letting him feel it. "I need you to hear me," you whispered against his skin. "I am safe. I am healthy. No one will hurt me. And I’m not going anywhere. Not in your dreams, not in real life. You’re stuck with me, James."

The corner of his mouth twitched—just the faintest ghost of a smirk. You saw it. Felt it.

"Lucky me."

Your heart swelled with quiet relief, and you huffed, nuzzling against him, letting your nose brush his. "Damn right."

Finally, finally, his arm slipped from the back of the couch, wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you into his warmth. You tucked yourself against his side, letting your head rest against his chest, feeling the warmth of him, the solid weight of him against you.

Silence settled over the two of you, thick but no longer heavy. You traced absentminded circles against his chest, and slowly, you felt the tension in his body ease, the tight coil of anxiety unraveling bit by bit.

He was safe. He was here.

The quiet almost had you drifting back to sleep, but then his voice broke through it—low and rough, like gravel.

"I’m sorry I left the bed."

You shook your head, turning your face into the crook of his neck. "It’s okay. You came back."

And that was what mattered.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Just tightened his hold on you, like he was testing the weight of those words—you came back—letting them settle over him like a blanket.

You waited until his breathing evened out before speaking again, this time with a teasing lilt. “But if you ever leave our bed at four in the morning again, I’m chaining you to me.”

You felt the shift before you heard it—the way his chest shook just slightly beneath you, the subtle way his lips pressed together like he was trying to contain it.

Then, a small huff of laughter.

Quiet. Barely there. But real.

“…Kinky,” he murmured.

“Bucky!” You gasped, swatting his side. “You’re hanging out with me too much… I’ve corrupted you.” He chuckled deeper this time, the sound low and warm against your skin, vibrating through you in a way that sent something heady curling in your stomach.

And this time, when he tipped your head up and kissed you—slow and deep, fingers threading into your hair—it wasn’t about grounding himself.

It was about you.

–

Weeks had passed since that quiet morning, but the warmth of it still lingered, wrapping itself around the two of you like an unspoken promise.

Things between you and Bucky had settled into a rhythm—soft, steady, something unspoken but deeply felt. He still had bad nights, but he came back to bed more often. When he needed space, he’d at least leave you with a kiss, a silent reassurance that he wasn’t running from you—just from the ghosts that still clung to him. And when he was ready, he’d let you pull him back, let you ground him in the safety of your arms.

Sometimes, you caught him staring—like he was trying to make sense of it all, trying to understand how he had ended up here, with you, with something so… real. Little did he know you wondered the same.

Life felt easier than it had in a long time—like the universe had finally pressed pause, giving you both a moment to breathe. The world, always so chaotic, had granted you this reprieve, a chance to settle into the simple, domestic routine of being together. Bucky continued to spend more time at your apartment, despite your attempts to make his feel more like home. He always had a counterargument—yours was better, cozier, you had a bed, and more importantly, you were there.

You couldn’t quite argue with that one.

And so, you let yourself fall into what it meant to be loved by Bucky Barnes. It wasn’t perfect. There were moments when you felt helpless, when his mind dragged him somewhere you couldn’t reach. There were nights you worried—worried that one day he’d wake up and decide he didn’t deserve this, didn’t deserve you. But still, you held on. Because it was good. Because he needed good. It was calm. And he needed calm. It was loving. And god, did he need to be loved. It was passionate, and that—well, that was something you both needed in equal measure.

You felt, for the first time in a long time, like a teenager—caught in the all-consuming pull of something new, something that made the rest of the world feel distant, insignificant. He was everywhere. In your bed, in your arms, against your skin, in your thoughts. It didn’t help that he was also, technically, your boss—your sort-of, kind-of boss. But that didn’t stop the way your world seemed to orbit around him.

And somehow, without you realizing it, he had even claimed a place on your phone.

The picture you had taken of him that morning had slowly but surely become your favorite. It had started small—just something you’d pull up when he wasn’t around, a quiet reminder of the way he looked in the soft morning light, lost in thought but undeniably beautiful. But as the days passed, you found yourself reaching for it more and more, until finally, you caved and set it as your background.

It felt silly, juvenile even, but you let yourself have this one thing.

It never even crossed your mind that he’d see it.

It never even crossed your mind that you’d be the reason he’d see it.

You didn’t even think about it, leaving the phone on the bathroom counter after you got out of your shower. You were practically done getting dressed when you remembered, calling out to him from the bedroom.

“Buck? Baby, could you get me my phone? It’s on the bathroom counter!”

There was a pause, just long enough to make you wonder if he hadn’t heard you, before he answered. “Yeah, I got it,” Bucky called back.

You went back to pulling up your panties over your hips, dragging one of his hoodies over your head and dragging a hairbrush over your tangled locks while you heard the quiet scuff of his socked footsteps. It wasn’t until he crossed the threshold of your bedroom that you realized something was… off.

He had your phone in his hand, sure, but he wasn’t looking at you. His eyes were locked on the screen, brow furrowed, lips just slightly parted like he was in the middle of trying to figure something out.

“Is this… me?” he asked, voice lower, slower, as he lifted the phone just enough to show the screen.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

Heat rushed to your face and you scrambled for something, anything, to deflect. “Uh—no, it’s… uh—”

Bucky arched a brow, tilting the phone toward himself, as if double-checking. “It’s me,” he said again, this time with something different in his voice. Not teasing, not mocking—just curious. Maybe even a little surprised.

You hesitated, caught between embarrassment and the sudden, crushing realization that—honestly? This was a big deal. Or at least, it was starting to feel like one.

You sighed, crossing your arms, leveling him with a look. “Yeah, it’s you. Don’t make it weird.”

Bucky’s lips twitched, that barely-there almost-smirk that drove you insane, but his eyes told a different story. He wasn’t teasing. He wasn’t mocking. He was curious.

“I’m not making it weird,” he said slowly, his voice quieter now. “Just… didn’t expect it.”

That, you believed. Bucky wasn’t used to people holding onto him like this. Keeping pieces of him close. He wasn’t used to the idea that he was something someone wanted to look at, to remember.

Your chest ached a little at the thought, but you brushed past it, rolling your eyes to cover the sudden rush of warmth in your face.

“Well,” you muttered, turning away, “I like the picture.”

Bucky hummed, glancing down at your phone again before lifting it slightly. “When’d you take it?”

You kept your back to him, rifling through your dresser for socks as if this was the most important task in the world. “A few weeks ago.”

“When?”

You hesitated, fingers tightening around the fabric in your hands. “...After you had a nightmare.”

The room went still.

You could feel his gaze on you, heavier than before, as if he were working through something in that head of his. When you finally turned back, your stomach gave a sharp twist—he had stepped fully into the bedroom now, standing in the doorway like a force of nature. Unshakable. Unstoppable. Your phone was still firm in his grasp, but he wasn’t looking at it anymore.

He was looking at you.

“Why’d you put it on your screen?” His voice was closer, softer—but no less insistent.

Your pulse jumped.

Jesus, what was this? An interrogation?

“What’s with the Spanish Inquisition?” you scoffed, laughing a little too nervously. You turned back to your socks—because if you kept looking at him, you knew you were going to combust—clumsily yanking them on before you darted past him, making a beeline for the door.

You almost made it. Almost.

But before you could slip away, before you could pretend this conversation had never happened, his hands were on you.

Large palms gripped your hips, pulling you back into the solid heat of him. You yelped, your momentum halted so suddenly that you barely had time to catch your breath before he was right there, pressed against your back, his voice low and teasing in your ear.

“Hey, now—wait a second.” His fingers tightened slightly, grounding, steadying. “I have questions.”

“Oh my God—”

“Let’s talk about this.”

“No, let’s not—”

“Let’s definitely talk about this.”

You grunted, trying to wiggle free, but it was useless. His grip was firm, unrelenting, the sheer strength in his arms making any escape attempt laughable at best.

“God, you’re so—annoying!” you groaned, shoving at his forearm, but there was no real heat behind it. You were just embarrassed. Embarrassed that he caught you being soft, caught you simping, caught you—

Bucky chuckled, breath warm against your neck. “Annoying, huh?”

“Yes!” You twisted in his grip, but that only made things worse, because suddenly, your ass was pressing back against his front, and—

Oh.

Oh.

A sharp inhale left you, and Bucky—that bastard—must’ve noticed, because his grip on your hips tightened.

You cursed under your breath. “What do you want me to say?”

Bucky was quiet, waiting. Watching.

You exhaled sharply, closing your eyes for a brief moment, before finally turning your head slightly to glance at him. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those damn eyes—were burning.

You swallowed. Hard.

“That you’re handsome?” you muttered, voice quieter now, a little breathless. “That I like looking at you? That I miss you when you’re not around?”

Bucky’s fingers flexed against your hips.

“That I wanted something of yours to keep?” Your voice dropped even lower. “That I need a visual for when I—”

You caught yourself just in time, slamming your mouth shut, but it was too late.

Bucky stilled.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence between you, thick and charged.

Then—

“When you what?” His voice was deeper now, slower. Smug.

You gasped, immediately trying to pull away, but his arms caged you in.

“Oh, no, no, no—”

“None of your business, Barnes!”

Bucky laughed, actually laughed, and the sound of it sent a rush of warmth flooding through you.

“You absolute menace—let me go!” You struggled, bent forward in a desperate attempt to pry his hands off you, but in doing so, your ass pressed firmly into him again, and—

Oh, fuck.

There was definitely something there.

Bucky let out a low grunt, grip tightening, and—shit. That was not helping.

“You were saying?” His voice was rougher now, the teasing edge still there but undercut with something else. Something darker.

You clenched your jaw, mortified. “Fucking super soldier serum,” you grumbled under your breath.

Bucky grinned. You felt it against your skin.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured, lips brushing just below your ear, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Just tell me.”

Your resolve wavered. God, he was so unfair.

“I cannot have this conversation before I’ve even had my coffee,” you argued, exhaling dramatically as you gave up and went limp against his arms. If he was going to hold you hostage like this, you might as well get comfortable. Your eyes fluttered closed as you felt him—solid, warm, inescapable.

Bucky chuckled, arms tightening around you, pressing you more firmly against him until you were practically weightless in his hold. “I’ll let you have your coffee…” he promised, voice dripping with amusement. “But we’re discussing this while you drink it.”

He huffed, shifting his grip, turning you around and before you could blink, he was lifting you. You gasped as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, arms locking around his neck as he carried you with frustrating ease.

“That was nice,” you sighed, unable to help the giggle that slipped out when he effortlessly adjusted his hold. You nuzzled into his neck, voice muffled against his skin. “Remember when you weren’t a menace?”

“What do you mean weren’t?” He pulled back just enough to shoot you an indignant look. “I’ve always been a menace.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight your smile. “Yeah, but it was more of a brooding, dangerous menace before. This?” You gestured vaguely between the two of you, still wrapped around him. “This is a smug, cocky menace and I don’t know if I like it.”

Bucky smirked. Smirked. “I think you do.”

You scoffed, burying your face into his shoulder, squeezing your arms around him tighter—not just to shut him up, but because you could.

And because… you needed a second.

Because there was something in the air between you now—something shifting, stretching, growing. Something unspoken but suddenly very loud.

Bucky was looking for something. Waiting for something. You could feel it. The careful weight of his gaze, the way his arms settled so securely around you, like he wasn’t just holding you but keeping you. And the realization that he had been thinking about this—about you, about where the two of you stood, where you were going—it shook you.

You knew this wasn’t casual. It never had been. Not after everything in D.C., not after what you both admitted—what he admitted. Not after the way he loved you.

And now? Now he wanted to talk about it.

Shit.

You barely realized he had walked you both into the kitchen until he set you down on the cold surface of the island. The moment your bare thighs made contact with the freezing countertop, you yelped, clinging to him instinctively.

“Could’ve warned me!” you cried out, squeezing your arms around his neck in retaliation.

Bucky laughed. Full-on, unabashed laughter. The warmth of it curled through you, but you refused to acknowledge it, choosing instead to scowl at him as he pulled back slightly.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” He didn’t sound sorry at all.

“You’re pushing your luck, Barnes,” you grumbled, reluctantly releasing him as he stepped back, heading toward the coffee maker.

“I’ll take my chances,” he sighed, shooting you a smirk over his shoulder.

You huffed, watching him move around your kitchen like he owned the place. Which, honestly, at this point? He practically did.

No matter how much effort you’d put into making his apartment feel like a home, he spent more time here—left his boots by your door, tossed his jacket over your chair, claimed half of your closet without even trying. And you let him. Because no matter how much you pretended to be exasperated by it, the truth was, you loved it.

“Here.” Bucky’s voice was warm as he handed you a steaming mug, his fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. “Drink up.”

You accepted it with a grateful murmur, curling your fingers around the ceramic, letting the heat sink into your skin. You took a sip. Then another. Then a third.

He didn’t move.

You frowned, glancing up at him over the rim of your cup. He stood right there, hands planted on either side of your hips, his body caging you in—not in a way that made you feel trapped, but in a way that made you feel… held.

His blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, steady. Waiting.

Your stomach flipped.

“So…” His voice was casual, but there was nothing casual about the way he was watching you. “The picture.”

Your fingers tensed around your mug.

God, he was relentless.

“You are insufferable,” you muttered, taking another sip, as if coffee could save you from this conversation.

Bucky tilted his head, lips twitching. “And you’re stalling.”

You groaned, setting your mug down beside you. “I told you—I like the picture.”

He nodded slowly, gaze unwavering. “And?”

You frowned. “And what?”

Bucky let out a soft huff, stepping closer, the warmth of him pressing against your knees. His hands found your thighs, rubbing slow, lazy circles into your skin. The touch was grounding, familiar, dangerous.

“And why’s it your background?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“I—”

“Just tell me the truth, sweetheart.” His voice dropped, softer now, rougher. “Let me hear it.”

Your heart pounded.

He wasn’t teasing anymore. There was something in his voice—something careful, something raw.

Your breath hitched as you exhaled slowly.

“Because you’re handsome. And I miss you when you’re not here,” you admitted, voice quiet but unwavering. “Because I like looking at you. Because it makes me feel… close to you.”

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just listened.

You swallowed, suddenly so aware of the weight of the moment.

“It’s… the 21st century equivalent of having a picture of your girl on your wallet. It’s just… something romantic partners do.” The words were out before you could stop them, and your stomach plummeted as realization crashed over you.  

The air between you shifted.

Bucky’s fingers flexed against your thighs.

“What’s this about romantic partners?” His voice was careful, cautious.

Your grip on the coffee mug tightened.

You hadn’t meant to say it. Hadn’t meant to throw it out there like it was nothing when it was actually… everything.

You cleared your throat. “You’d catch on to that, wouldn’t you?” you muttered, eyes darting anywhere but him. “It’s not like we’ve, uh, talked… about labels.”

Bucky studied you, pulling back, arms crossing over his chest, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he worked something out in his head.

“Should we?”

Your breath stalled.

“Bucky—”

“It’s a genuine question,” he cut in, his voice lower now, almost grumbly, like he was bracing himself.

You exhaled slowly, rubbing your temple with your free hand. “We don’t have to,” you said, finally setting your mug down. “It’s not a requirement. And I wouldn’t want to do it if it’s something you’re not comfortable with.”

Bucky shifted, leaning in a little, closing the distance between you, fingers curling along the edge of the counter like he needed something to anchor himself. His voice was even, but his eyes—God, his eyes—were so intense you felt like you were drowning in them.

“But it is something people do nowadays?”

You squinted at him, trying to pinpoint exactly what about this had him all twisted up. His expression was blank—frustratingly so, that careful, calculated mask he wore when he wasn’t sure how much of himself to show, but it was clear his mind was working through it.

“It’s something people have always done,” you pointed out, tilting your head. “Didn’t you ever discuss going steady with your dates back in the day?”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Doll, back then, if you went on three dates, you were practically engaged.”

You blinked.

“Excuse me?”

He smirked, leaning in just a little. “You heard me.”

“That’s insane.”

“That’s the ‘40s, sweetheart.”

You stared at him, incredulous. “Were you ever engaged?”

His smirk softened, turning into something smaller, something almost shy.

“I never got to the third date,” he admitted, and you couldn’t stop yourself—you pinched his waist.

Bucky jerked slightly, laughing, his hand grabbing yours to stop you from doing it again.

“That’s ridiculous,” you muttered, shaking your head.

“What?” He grinned. “The ‘three dates’ rule or me never getting to the third date?”

“Both.”

His fingers grazed the curve of your hip, slow, thoughtful.

“So,” you drawled, narrowing your eyes at him. “By your standards, I should already have a ring on my finger?”

The second the words left your mouth, you saw it.

The way he looked at you—how something flickered across his face. His throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed, the tips of his ears going pink.

Oh my God, he’s blushing.

Your breath hitched.

And fuck.

There it was again.

That shift.

That unspoken thing hanging between you, thick and undeniable, inevitable, something you hadn’t named but had been building, piece by piece, since the moment he walked into your life.

Bucky wet his lips, fingers still tracing slow, absentminded strokes against your hip. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter.

“Would that be the worst thing?”

Your stomach dropped.

The air changed, the teasing burned away in an instant, leaving something raw and exposed in its place. You could feel your pulse in your throat, a heavy, thudding thing, your heart hammering against your ribs.

His fingers flexed against you, just slightly.

You hesitated, inhaling sharply. “New… relationship rule,” you muttered, heat crawling up your neck as you lifted a finger and poked the center of his chest.

Bucky barely moved, but his eyes flashed.

“You don’t get to joke about marriage,” you told him, voice firm despite the warmth in your face.

His lips tugged, but there was something else there now—something dark and interested.

“Who said I was joking?”

Your stomach flipped.

“James, I swear to God—”

He was looking at you, watching, like he was working something out in his head. Like he was measuring the weight of this moment, testing the limits of what could be said.

And then—

“Do you wanna go steady with me?”

Your lips parted.

Your brain stalled.

Bucky Barnes just asked if you wanted to go steady.

It should have been funny.

It should have been outdated.

But the way he said it—so serious, so low and real—made your entire body go up in flames.

He must have caught the way your breath stuttered because he pulled you forward, closer, his grip tightening just a little around your thighs, grounding you, steadying you. 

You swallowed thickly, fingers curling into the fabric of his henley.

“You’re serious,” you murmured.

Bucky nodded, his gaze unwavering. “Yeah, sweetheart. I am.”

Your heart thundered.

It wasn’t just the words—it was everything behind them.

It was the months of falling asleep next to each other, the mornings making coffee, the way he always grabbed your hand in a crowd like it was second nature. It was the fact that he already had half his shirts living in your drawers, the way he kissed you like he was memorizing you every damn time.

The truth was, you’d already been his.

This was just the part where he made it official.

Bucky, the menace, pressed again, voice quieter now, more certain—like saying it one more time would make it real:

“Do you wanna go steady with me?”

Your head was spinning.

Not just from the question, but from him. From the way he stood there, broad and unshaken, all squared shoulders and tension, like he was gearing up for a no. Like he’d been so damn sure before, teasing and smug, but now—now, he was nervous.

Even after everything.

After the nights tangled together, after whispered confessions in the dark, after the I love you’s that had slipped from your lips more times than you could count now.

Even after that ridiculous jealous fit you’d thrown over Sharon Carter in D.C., after all the ways you’d reassured him that you weren’t going anywhere.

He still had doubts.

Your heart clenched.

You wanted to press yourself against his chest and tell him a thousand times over that yes, of course, yes. That there had never been a moment where you weren’t his.

But instead…

You decided to tease him.

Because why not?

You shifted slightly, arms wrapping around his neck as you tilted your head, feigning deep thought.

“What does ‘going steady’ mean exactly?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, the blue suddenly sharper.

“You know what it means.” His voice was gruff, but there was a flicker of amusement in his gaze, something that said he knew exactly what you were doing.

Still, he indulged you.

His hands gripped your thighs and spread them further, stepping between them like he owned the space, pressing himself against you.

Heat licked at your spine, curled low in your belly, but you forced yourself to keep your composure, lips twitching.

“Hm, do I?” You cocked your head, your fingers toying with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. “I’ve never dated an old man before. I don’t know what that entails.”

Bucky’s hands tightened on your thighs.

“Why don’t you give me some examples?” 

He exhaled sharply, and you could see the moment he decided to play your game.

“Alright, doll,” he rasped, tilting his head, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear. “Going steady means I get to hold your hand whenever I damn well please. Even if it’s just to steal your warmth. Even if it’s just to feel you.”

His fingers traced down your arm before intertwining with yours, squeezing gently, like he never wanted to let go.

“It means I walk you home, make sure you get there safe, even if you swear you don’t need me to.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “It means I take you dancing—if we make it out the door. And when we inevitably don’t, it means I’ll just have to sway you around the living room instead. Press you against the wall. Whisper things in your ear that’ll make you blush.”

Heat flickered low in your belly, sharp and insistent. Your breath hitched as he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression suddenly raw.

“It means I’m the guy who shows up when your shower isn’t working, who carries your bags even when you argue you can do it yourself, who remembers how you take your coffee…” His thumb brushed against your cheek, voice dipping lower, more certain. “It means I’m the guy who gets to kiss you whenever I want. Wherever I want. It means I get to have you under me, above me, wrapped around me, moaning my name like it’s the only one you know.”

A shiver skated down your spine. Your thighs squeezed around his hips instinctively, and he smirked, eyes dark, amused.

His voice was a husky promise when he leaned in closer, lips barely brushing yours. “It means I’m yours, and you’re mine. No second-guessing. No wondering. No what-ifs.”

His gaze burned into you, steady, unshaken. “It means you never have to doubt where I stand, 'cause it’s always right here—with you.”

Your teasing resolve cracked, shattered under the weight of him—his words, his presence, the way he was always so damn steady.

Your throat felt tight.

“Oh,” you whispered.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah,” he murmured, dropping his forehead to yours, breathing you in. “Oh.”

Your fingers curled around the front of his shirt, clinging. He was so close, so warm, so Bucky that you couldn’t remember what life was like before him, and you didn’t want to.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he murmured, his voice lower now, almost testing.

“What was your question again?” You breathed out, shaky.

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose. His patience was running out, and still… “Do you wanna go steady with me?”

This time, his voice was different. Lower. Rougher. The kind of voice that sent heat curling down your spine, settling deep in your stomach.

You bit your lip, letting your nose brush against the rough stubble of his jaw before pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the pulse point in his neck.

“James Buchanan Barnes...” you murmured, your voice teasing but thick with emotion. “Are we boyfriend and girlfriend?”

Bucky inhaled sharply, chest rising against yours, his breath hot as it left him in a slow exhale. His hands on your hips twitched slightly, fingers flexing as if he was resisting the urge to pull you in even closer.

“Am I not too old to be a boyfriend?” His voice was low, edged with something rough.

You grinned against his skin, pressing another lingering kiss just below his jaw, loving the way his grip tightened instinctively at the contact. “Would you prefer manfriend? Would that fit you better?”

A low sound rumbled in his chest, a mixture of amusement and warning. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” you whispered, lips barely brushing his skin now, your breath warm against the column of his throat.

The teasing evaporated.

The air shifted.

Bucky wasn’t nervous anymore.

His blue eyes flickered over your face, your lips, your throat, dark and heavy with intent. His grip flexed at your waist, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your sleep shirt, a silent tease of what was to come.

“You didn’t answer me,” he murmured, his voice lower, deeper, dripping with quiet authority.

Your heart pounded.

He was right there. Close enough that all you had to do was lean in, tilt your chin, and—

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his Henley, fisting it tight as you pulled him in until there was nothing left between you but heat and the electric charge that hummed between your bodies.

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice unsteady.

“Yes?” His gaze flickered to your lips, his thumb grazing your hip bone, slow and deliberate.

“Yes,” you repeated, softer this time. “I’ll go steady with you, Buck.”

His breath left him in a slow exhale, something shifting in his expression, in his body.

And then—

He kissed you.

Not slow. Not teasing. Fierce. Unrelenting. Like he’d been waiting forever and couldn’t hold back anymore.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer, and his hands tightened on your hips, tugging you flush against him. His lips were warm, insistent, like he was staking a claim—like he wanted to make damn sure you knew exactly what you’d just agreed to.

His lips were warm, insistent, claiming you in a way that made your stomach clench and your thighs tighten around his waist. There was no hesitation, no uncertainty—just Bucky pressing himself into every inch of you, as if trying to brand the moment into his skin.

And then his hands started moving.

Slow. Purposeful.

Dragging up the hem of your hoodie, rough palms mapping the soft skin beneath. A shiver rippled through you as his fingers teased higher, sweeping over your ribs, grazing the underside of your breasts in a way that made you gasp against his mouth.

Bucky groaned, low and deep, and you felt it everywhere.Your legs locked tight around his hips, drawing him in until there was no space left, no room for doubt—just the heavy, aching pressure of him, firm against the heat of your center. A shaky sound slipped from your lips, and Bucky swallowed it with a kiss that was nothing short of greedy.

His hands never stilled—one sliding slow beneath your hoodie, fingers memorizing the soft give of your waist, the curve of your ribs; the other gripped under your thigh like he needed to anchor himself to something before he came undone. He rocked into you with a controlled grind that had your head tipping back, your breath catching.

He chased the sound like it was the only thing keeping him grounded, his mouth trailing down your throat in open, possessive kisses that made your breath catch.

“Jesus, Buck,” you gasped, your voice hitching on a laugh that dissolved into a quiet moan. “Is this what claiming me looks like?”

You said it at his ear, half-teasing, half-breathless—just as his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your panties. He froze, just for a beat, then let out a short, rough laugh against your skin.

“You did just agree to date me,” he murmured, voice low and threaded with heat. “You really surprised I’m taking that seriously?”

You pulled back to look at him, a grin tugging at your lips as your fingers slid into his hair. His cheeks were flushed, his pupils blown wide—but behind all that intensity was a softness that made your chest tighten.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you whispered, nose brushing his, “I think you’re drunk on commitment.”

He let out another low laugh, one that sounded like it shook something loose in his chest. His lips curled into a smile before he pressed a kiss to your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quiet now, certain. “I think I am.”

Then he kissed you again—slower this time, no urgency, no second-guessing. Just a man who knew exactly where he belonged.

[hysterical-honey]

Heaven

Heaven - Bitter:Sweet

Steve Raglan x Fem! Reader Ao3 Word Count: 1,231 Summary: Down on your luck, you've been desperate for employment, and Steve Raglan has been doing his best to help you to no avail. Tws//: 18+ ONLY, Reader is AFAB, Reader uses she/her, Age Gap, Age difference, Power imbalance, Divorced DILF Steve Raglan, Reader is in her 20s, Misogyny, Takes place in the Early 2000s, Steve is a thinly veiled jackass sorry not sorry, Girl failure reader, Sex fantasy, Sexual Tension, Hand kink, Mentions of masturbation and fingering. A/N: I genuinely don't know what possessed me to write this, but here we go, gang. Also, the cologne mentioned is Mackie for men by Bob Mackie. Chapter one build-up!!

Ten months, nineteen days, eight hours, and seven minutes have passed since you were last employed and left practically desperate for work.  Anyone else would have given up on you by now—frankly, it's a wonder Mr. Raglan hasn't forwarded you to another caseworker, another poor soul to dredge through your resume and smile stiffly through those inevitable words.

'I'm not really sure how to help you, dear...'

The sentence you've come to dread, repeated until it led you here to your current career counselor's office. Steve Raglan—a man you've met quite a few times before, the only counselor persistent enough to keep offering help, arranging various interviews that proved fruitless and ended in rejection. Each subsequent reprint of your resume meant more time at the local library and, more recently, in his office. The warmth of printer paper once brought comfort before this last year's events; now that subtle burn only solidifies the countless rejections.

The office sits silent except for the buzzing fluorescents and the coffee machine's soft drumming. It's early—you arrived at 6:00 AM sharp, just as always. Mr. Raglan's office carries an oddly nostalgic scent, like a church basement kitchen after Sunday morning breakfast, only muskier, without lingering peppermint oil and cinnamon vanilla. Instead, fresh cologne lingers thickly, as if he'd doused himself before every appointment like a teenage boy. The combination is smothering, though you never comment.

Mr. Raglan's brow furrows, his expression twisting as if pained, while crow's feet crinkle and a pout breaks across his face.

"Is everything okay?" The words escape with worry you can't suppress.

Breaking the silence, your question draws his pout into a polite upturn as your eyes meet.

"Hm? Oh, sure... just looking this over..." He trails off, though, he isn't reading anything as his eyes return to the off-white and black lettering. He's read it countless times by now—the changes you make are always insignificant, little things he mentions in passing.

Steve knows the truth, though he'd never say it to your face: there isn't much of a case to work with. You're a lost cause. Employment simply isn't your bread and butter. You might as well get hitched while you still can and pump out a few kiddoes who may prove better at cultivating careers than you are. If Steve were a different type of man—a mean one—he'd recommend exactly that.

He has no clue how to break the news, how to explain that he's run dry once again regarding your ‘career counseling’. It's almost endearing how hard you try without success, nearly out of rent money and barely able to afford the county library printer—hence using his instead.

Steve genuinely feels for you. A strange affection has burrowed into his heart, though his grace can only stretch so far. His eyes drift from the papers toward you for a split second while you fidget nervously despite his assurance that everything is fine. Your gaze falls to his hands, watching dorsal muscles contract and flex under tight, wrinkled skin, observing how his fingers turn each page, how he sometimes wets his pointer finger with his tongue when pages stick together. You probably don't realize he notices the way your eyes linger.

What you definitely don't notice is how his eyes linger in much the same way.

Steve Raglan is a busy man—a busy divorcee with a grown child and an empty suburban home, a job he neither hates nor loves, along with ‘other’ obligations. Despite this, like any man, he finds himself under desire's timeless weight: fist tight around his stiffened cock, pumping and gripping, fondling and gasping for someone he knows he'll never possess.

You.

A twenty-something, barely younger than his own daughter. He often wonders what your father did so wrong to raise such a woman—a pretty girl with obvious potential, yet he sees how you peer away and shy from his gaze. Your lack of confidence bleeds through so profoundly that you might as well be a crime scene of social ineptitude.

A lost cause.

A selfish distraction.

It eats him alive, stringing you along because of his superficial attachment, yet he does it anyway. Here you sit in his office, studying his hands like a Victorian witnessing an exposed ankle. Do you wonder what it might feel like to have them wrapped around your throat, as he does? To feel the thick meat of his pointer and middle—maybe even ring finger—carve into what he imagines to be the tight heat of your wet cunt?

Another break in the silence, you clear your throat, and it snaps Steve from his dirty, ridiculous ideals. He begins to read the useless paper once again. 

* Attention to detail, technologically savvy, prefers night shift…

Oh, he might be the inept one here, not you.

"I have an idea..." He catches your attention as if it had ever strayed from him. It was something you’d heard from him a thousand times before, but the follow-up was new. "I have an... off-the-record job opportunity."

That makes you pause, eyes narrowing, cheeks a bit warm suddenly. Perhaps your mind wandered slightly, flicking from his lips to the cheery disposition he kept over that critical eye.

"Off the record?" You parrot back, almost scoffing out the words.

"Yeah, you know, a personal type thing—I have a...buddy—"

"Mhm,"

"Owns this old place out on the south end of town, you know..."

"Uh-huh..."

"Night shift security pays...terribly, and the hours are worse, but it is something," he says optimistically, his voice straining with the effort as he makes a subtle hand gesture.

You're giving him an odd look; he mirrors it. 

"Oh—sorry," you snap out of that stare, a fake little smile stretching your pretty face. 

"Just...I've never worked a security job. Do I need any certifications or training, maybe?"

"Do you know how to open a door, click a few labeled buttons, and work a flashlight?"

"Yeah..."

"Then you'll be peachy-keen, sweetheart." Steve leans back in his chair. The hinges protest with a loud creak. "I'll say first," he continues, "it's a pesky gig. High turnover and all, but it could be a good fit." His voice carries a more playful tone. "All you need to do is tidy up a little, make sure nobody breaks in, and don't fall asleep on the job." 

"What kind of...place is it?"

"That old place on the south-end...uh..." He'd get up quickly, earning a squeak from that poor chair's hinges. Rummaging through filing cabinets as if he didn't know precisely where the cream-colored folder was. "Fazbears," he drags the title out in a very sing-song manner as he finally finds it. Mr. Raglan pushes his glasses up his nose with his knuckle as he looks through the few papers with what seems like mild intrigue. The file is thin, and the paper is almost yellow rather than cream.

"Oh! The pizza place?" You hadn’t heard anything about that place in forever, you can still recall the shutdown day being all over the news. Your mother taking all the merchandise and shoving it away into some tote out in the garage. 

"Where fantasy and fun come to life!" That sing-song tone persists; it makes you smile more genuinely. You’re sure Steve Raglan must be a saint. Despite how messy everything is, how difficult this job search has been, you have hope for the first time in a long time.

[fanfic-ya-know]

Everything Ends

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader 

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: reader is afab, brief mentions of Bob’s past, including previous drug use and abuse, mostly fluff, not beta read

AN: This one is pretty short, but I think I’m gonna use it to build up to something more (kinda like I did for Did You Get the Feeling?)

The moment you met Bob, something clicked. It wasn’t the same way he connected with Yelena – she was able to understand his emptiness on a deep, personal level. No, with you, it was balance. It was like you could seep into the cracks of him, your muchness, for the first time, didn’t seem like too much. 

Even in that first interaction, buried deep in Valentina’s vault, you could feel the way he was feeding off of your energy, enjoying your brightness that contrasted your surroundings. He smiled at the way you laughed at John, loud and boisterous. He liked the way you filled the space. 

You liked Bob from the start as well. Sure, you were a little wary of him at first, but after figuring out that he was harmless, you felt immediately attached. You and Yelena worked sort of as a team on that – she took a more protective stance, while you sought to support Bob.

That was short-lived, of course, and the next time you saw Bob, he wasn’t himself. He was the Sentry. It was like you had whiplash. Sentry was everything Bob wasn’t. Warm with power, but cold in tone. You knew you had to get back the Bob you had seen before. That’s why you followed Yelena into the Void.

After the New York incident, the Thunderbolts became the New Avengers, and you all moved into the tower, things settled down. You all had time to get to know each other better and figure out routines.

Things between you and Bob moved naturally. Your immediate connection never faltered, even when he questioned almost everything about himself. You had already seen some of the worst parts of his past while fighting the Void, so he felt comfortable coming to you when the darkness crept back in. 

It started one night when he knocked on your door. A nightmare had woken him up, and when he walked to the kitchen to get some water, he could see the warm light seeping out into the hallway from your room. It felt like fate that you had trouble sleeping that night too. The two of you talked for hours, and when you awoke in the morning, Bob was still there.

Bob had told you everything about his past – his struggles with addiction, what his family was like, and everything else that he had endured. You did the same, sharing little shards of darkness that you never let anyone else see. You told him about how you’d been left over and over again, how your whole life just felt like everything was temporary, how everything ends.

There was never really a shift between you two – it was just like pieces falling into place. You’d never classified your feelings as solely platonic or romantic, so when things became clearly the latter, it wasn’t awkward or strange.

Your first official date was simple. It felt kind of silly when he asked you – you were already sleeping in each other’s beds most nights, and only a few minutes at most would go by between times that you'd speak to each other. But still, he shyly asked you while you sat with him on the couch. He was reading while you scrolled absent-mindedly on your phone before he broke the comfortable silence.

“Would you want to get coffee with me tomorrow?”

You looked up from your phone and smiled at him. “Sure, Bob,” you said. “Where do you wanna go?”

“I dunno,” he paused. You thought he was trying to think of a place, but then he said, “I’m asking you out… just so you know.”

You laughed, not mocking in any way, just pure joy pouring out of you at his sweetness. “Yes, I know,” you said through your giggles. Then you leaned across the couch and kissed his cheek just to reassure him, and a deep scarlet blush bloomed under his skin where you had pressed your lips.

The next morning, you grabbed coffee at the nearest shop and walked through Central Park. The city was loud as always, but stepping into the park felt like stepping into another world. It was as busy as the rest of New York, but it was different. Bob held your hand as you walked, and you pointed out every dog that you saw.

You found an empty bench and sat for a while, just watching the world go by. You asked him a million questions about the book he was reading, about how his coffee was – even though he had let you taste it – about what he thought about your new shoes. With Bob, you never ran out of things to talk about because you wanted to know what he thought about everything.

“If you could be anywhere in the world right now, where would you be?” You loved hypotheticals, and Bob was always happy to oblige with whatever answer first came to mind.

“Here.” The world fell from his lips without a second thought.

You turned to look at him, and Bob swore that the smile you gave him outshone the sun. You would’ve thought the line was cheesy if it had come from anyone else, but this was Bob – sweet, perfect Bob – and you knew he was genuine.

When you returned to the tower, you showered quickly and put on comfortable clothes before knocking on Bob’s door. You’d agreed to watch a movie with him in his room after your date. Hanging out together in the late afternoons is how you justified sleeping in the same bed even when he didn’t come searching for comfort after a nightmare.

You talked through basically the whole movie. It was an old sci-fi film, something you both had seen before, so neither of you minded the conversation taking priority.

You took his hand in yours, the action warm and welcome, something you did often. But instead of interlacing your fingers like usual, you pressed your palm against his, forcing him to flatten his hand. You smiled at the way his fingers dwarfed yours, and Bob smiled at you, at the light in your eyes. 

“I’d like to kiss you,” he blurted out, blush rising to his cheeks as he realized how abruptly he’d said it. “If that’s okay.”

You nodded, already reaching for him.

When your lips met his, it felt like coming home. His hands were soft on the sides of your face, the tips of his fingers pressing into your skin. Not rough, just firm. Like he was scared of you slipping away, so every part of him was pulling you closer.

Your hands were fisted into the front of his sweater, your thumbs brushing the skin just above his collar, and you could feel the heat rising in his chest. You pulled away just enough to study his face.

“Bob?” you asked in a whisper, breathless from the kiss. “What are you thinking about?”

“I-I’m scared of not remembering,” he admitted, and you noticed the hint of gold in his eyes. You brushed a piece of his hair away from his face as you watched him, waiting for him to continue. “I’m scared of not being good enough for you.”

That cracked open something inside of you. “I wouldn’t change a thing about you, Bob,” you reassured him. “You are nothing like my past. Say you won’t leave, and I’ll believe you.”

“I-I won’t,” he said immediately. “I won’t ever leave you.”

Your hand that had brushed away his hair stayed on his face, cupping his cheek. His hands shifted to the back of your neck, cradling your head.

“Good,” you smiled softly at him and pulled his face towards you, bringing him to rest his forehead against yours. “Everything ends except us.”

[orellazalonia]

I absolutely LOVED your 4th of Jult fic! It's deliciously hilarious. Just a thought for a short fic;

StuckyxReader, where they don't realize that reader struggles with the fireworks just as much as they do and reader doesn't realize they struggle? They end up cuddling and bonding. Just something cute and festive.

Cheers!

-🤍🐺

Hello, dear! Thank you so much for the kind words, I’m so happy you liked that fic. Such fun and silliness lol. I know it’s past 4th of July, but I hope you still enjoy this! Thank you for the request and Happy reading!!!

Fireworks and Comfort

Summary: On the Fourth of July, you quietly struggle with the noise of fireworks, unaware your boyfriends also feel the same. When the truth comes out, the three of you find comfort in each other’s presence, choosing quiet connection over forced celebration. (Steve Rogers x reader x Bucky Barnes)

Word Count: 1.3k+

Main Masterlist

It was your first Fourth of July with them.

Your loving boyfriends, Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes.

The strange little trio you’d fallen into that started with cautious glances and slow affection, until it had quietly become something real. No one had labeled it, not out loud, but it was there. In the way Bucky’s hand brushed yours when he passed you the coffee. In the way Steve always angled his body to make space for you on the couch, no matter how little room there was.

It was easy, warm, and unspoken.

So when Steve mentioned the idea of a backyard cookout, you didn’t hesitate. “Sounds great,” You said, smiling. “Want me to bring anything?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “You cook?”

“I burn toast. I meant like… napkins.”

Steve laughed. “You can keep me company at the grill instead.”

The day unfolded slowly, like sun-warmed honey.

Steve wore his red-white-and-blue apron with comical pride, flipping burgers and laughing as he argued with Bucky over the “proper way” to make potato salad. You sat on the porch rail sipping lemonade, legs swinging, and soaking in the smell of grilled food and grass clippings, and trying not to think too hard about the night to come.

You always told yourself the fireworks weren’t that bad. And they weren’t, not compared to how they used to be. But the noise, the suddenness, the way your chest tightened like something was about to go wrong and you had no idea what; it always left you shaky, tense, and embarrassed afterward.

You’d never told anyone. It felt like such a small thing to struggle with. And besides, Steve and Bucky had been through so much. If anyone deserved to enjoy fireworks and flag-waving and whatever this day meant to them, it was those two.

So you smiled, laughed, played cornhole with Steve (lost miserably), and let Bucky steal bites from your plate while pretending to be offended. It felt good. It felt real.

And when the sun dipped low and the fireflies blinked to life, Steve lit a few sparklers for the neighbor kids and Bucky slid his arm around your waist, pulling you close. “You doing okay?” He asked softly, watching your face.

“Yeah,” You lied.

The first firework went off just after nine. It cracked through the night sky like a thunderclap.

You didn’t flinch, not visibly, but your whole body went still. The glass in your hand tightening just a little too much. Your jaw clenched as your eyes fixed forward.

“Wow!” Someone down the street yelled, but it sounded like it came from underwater. Distant and too loud.

Another firework burst overhead. This one sent a ripple of gold sparking above the treetops, and the sound rattled something inside you.

You swallowed hard, set your drink down too gently on the table, and forced a little smile as you stood up. “I’m just gonna… move over there for a minute. Wanna get a better view.”

You turned before either of them could answer, walking down the steps and across the yard, away from the light, toward the dimmer edges of the grass and shadows. Somewhere you could breathe. Somewhere the sky wasn’t exploding.

Back on the porch, Steve watched you go, his brows pulling together.

Bucky, next to him, had gone very still.

“You saw that too,” Steve murmured.

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded. “Too quiet. Too fast.”

Steve stood, lips pressed in a thoughtful line. “C’mon.”

They found you sitting alone on the edge of the yard, knees drawn up with your arms wrapped loosely around them. The lights from the house didn’t quite reach you here, but the burst of fireworks flashing red and green across your face gave them just enough to see the tightness around your mouth. The way your shoulders were too high and tense, like you were bracing for something.

You didn’t hear them at first. Not until Bucky spoke, low and steady.

“You okay?”

You turned your head a little too quickly, as if you’d been caught doing something wrong. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine…”

Steve crouched down beside you, not crowding, just close enough to be there. “Too much?”

You hesitated. “No, I mean… it’s just a lot of noise. Not a big deal.”

But Bucky was already sitting next to you, arms resting on his knees, watching the sky with something far away in his eyes.

“I hate them too,” He said simply.

Your eyes flicked to him.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke, just kept his eyes forward.

“Always have. Makes my chest go tight. Like something’s about to happen, even when I know it won’t.”

Steve sat on your other side, letting his shoulder brush yours. “Same. I keep expecting the sound to mean something.”

You blinked at them both. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Steve gave a soft, rueful smile. “Didn’t want to ruin it for you.”

“I didn’t say anything because I thought you two liked it!”

Bucky snorted. “We’ve all been suffering in silence. That’s tragic.”

Another firework went off, not close, but not far enough for comfort. Steve gently reached over and took your hand, his thumb running a slow, grounding line across your knuckles.

“Let’s get out of the noise, yeah?”

You nodded, breath leaving you in a quiet rush. “Yeah. Please.”

As you all found your way inside, the fireworks still echoed outdoors, but now they were muted, muffled by distance, walls, and the hum of the fan Steve had clicked on as soon as you stepped inside. The house was warm with leftover smells of food, the glow of quiet lamps, and the soft scuff of socks on hardwood as Bucky returned with a pile of blankets.

You stood awkwardly in the living room, arms crossed loosely, unsure where to go or what to say now that it was all out in the open.

Steve pressed a glass of water into your hand without a word. You took it.

Bucky dropped the blankets in a corner of the room and started arranging them. Not like a soldier making a bed, but like someone building a fort. A safe one with piled pillows, overstuffed couch cushions, and heavy quilts. Something about the sight of it made your throat tighten.

You sat down quietly in the middle of the mess. You didn’t need to ask. You knew what it was for.

Bucky settled on your left, one leg stretched out, the other bent. He didn’t reach for you, didn’t say anything. Just waited. Steve came next, slower and more deliberate. He sat behind you, drawing you gently back until your spine was resting against his chest.

Only then did Bucky shift closer, letting your knees touch. He watched you carefully, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them.

“I always thought I was just supposed to deal with it,” You murmured, voice low. “It’s just noise. Nothing’s happening. But it feels like… something might.”

Steve’s hand curled gentle around your waist from behind, grounding. “That’s how trauma works. Your body remembers even when your mind knows better.”

You swallowed. “You two–“

“Same,” Bucky said before you could finish. “I get it. I used to leave the room when something popped too loud. Still feel my muscles lock up sometimes.”

“It’s not weakness,” Steve added, his breath warm near your temple. “You don’t have to power through it alone.”

You blinked hard, and Bucky leaned forward, brushing his fingers against the back of your hand.

“We’ve all spent a long time pretending we’re fine,” He said softly. “Maybe we stop doing that now.”

For a while, no one spoke. The fan spun overhead, rhythmic and steady. A firework fizzled faintly somewhere in the distance, but none of you paid any mind to it this time.

Steve’s arms tightened slightly around you, and you let yourself lean into it, resting your head against his shoulder. Bucky laid down beside you, stretching out with one arm draped across your middle, his hand holding Steve’s.

There were no grand declarations, no plans for the next holiday, no promises to fix the past. Just warmth, presence, and a simple shared moment of understanding.

And for the first time in a long while, you weren’t scared of the noise anymore. Not because it was gone, but because you weren’t facing it alone.

[roanofarcc]

omg i just reread “the one” and it’s so good and got me thinking, how about a trevor x alive!reader where she goes to the mansion bc she knew trevor before he died and she ends up using a ouija board to communicate with him? i love alive reader but hate angst w no happy ending so maybe it can have a happy ending 😁🙏 or at least bittersweet 😭 i love your writing and as soon as i watch yellowjackets i’m coming to ur account trust☝️

you are so sweet!! thank you <3 and I hope you enjoy

AN OFFERING

pairing: trevor lefkowitz x alive!reader

summary: you stay at woodstone in hopes of reconnecting with an old and dead best friend

warnings: use of a ouija board, a little bit of angst but with a sweet ending. can be read as romantic or platonic!

word count. 1.3k | masterlist

Your presence flipped and turned Trevor's afterlife upside down. It was unexpected, borderline uncalled for. You just walked into the mansion with your bag shouldered and face gracefully middled-aged.

Trevor had memorized your face long ago, back when he was a little dorkier and you were a constant presence in his life. When he closed his eyes, sometimes, he could still make out every feature.

It was strange how he was a ghost, yet you haunted him. Not in a bad way, just in a long-time longing that sat in his gut like it belonged there. He grew used to it and never imagined he'd actually see your face again anywhere but his dreams.

But life and death were funny in that way. And you somehow ended up at the mansion with a rushed and somewhat sheepish explanation to Sam on how you used to be friends with Trevor. You said something about closure, but Trevor was too stuck in a daze to hear everything you and Sam spoke about.

Your voice was almost the same, just more mature. He wanted you to see him more than he was sure he had ever wanted anything. It was such a sudden gut punch that contrasted with his growing contentment in his ghosthood.

But you, like most livings, couldn't see him. And he was on the verge of being devested before Sam must've noticed. She wasn't one to mention ghosts or play into livings belief in them, unless it was for a specific reason. Yet, she asked you if you believed in ghosts and you said yes.

Using that, Sam volunteered to help you try to 'contact' Trevor using an Ouija Board that a guest had left behind. You seemed skeptical, but Jay butted in and said that it couldn't hurt; plus, there was always 'strange' things occurring at the mansion. That seemed to lift your spirits a bit, the possibility of him being there, which made Trevor giddy.

You went to your room to get settled while they came up with a plan. Trevor's ghostly ability allowed him to touch/move objects, but it was taxing. Sam agreed to help him spell out things and answer questions as subtly as she could, as to not raise suspicion that she was faking it.

When it was time, after the sun had gone down and Jay had lit candles, you nervously sat on the floor opposite Sam with the board between the two of you.

After starting with a 'Hello', Sam asked if anyone was there with them. Trevor gritted his teeth and moved the planchette to the 'Yes,' before you asked who. Sam helped guide the piece with faux shock as she and Trevor spelled out his name.

You gasped, eyes widening. You shot a look at Sam, asking, "Are you moving it?" She quickly shook her head, mirroring your shock. "Trevor? He's really here?"

Once again, he and Sam moved to the 'Yes.' Breathlessly, you replied, "Hi," spelling it out as you said it.

Even though you couldn't hear him, he said it back, smiling softly as he sat right beside you. The candlelight danced across your face; Trevor soaked it up, replacing the image he had from so many years ago with the newer one of you, so he wouldn't forget it.

"I, um, I'm sorry I missed the funeral," you said, hanging your head slightly.

The small gathering his parents had hosted at the mansion after his skull was pulled from the pond, confirming to everyone alive that he had indeed died there. You hadn't come, which he noticed but tried not to dwell on. It had been years before his death that you two fell out of touch, always missing each other until you both stopped trying. Trevor regretted it, but it was one of those things he had to swallow. He couldn't go back, and he never thought he'd even hear your name uttered again, let alone see you on the property in which he died.

"I don't think I wanted to believe it, that you were gone," you continued. "I told myself you had run away to some island or maybe Europe, changed your name or something like that. I thought you just disappeared, not died. I don't know if it was because I was optimistic or because I couldn't deal with the idea of you being gone before I saw you again."

Trevor frowned. He spelled out his message, fatigue starting to spread through his form. "I-M S-O-R-R-Y T-O-O."

You laughed wetly and shook your head. "You don't have anything to be sorry for. We fell out; it happens all the time. But I wish we hadn't." You glanced up at Sam. "We were friends in high school," you explained to her. "But when we left for college, things just kind of fizzled out; we were both busy and eventually stopped reaching out."

"Sounds like neither of you has anything to be sorry for," Sam said softly, trying to comfort both you and Trevor.

With a shrug, you said, "I was also a little scared to come to the funeral."

"Why?"

"I knew if I came, then I'd have to admit that it was real; that Trevor was really dead. It felt easier to pretend to not know," you admitted. "But I couldn't pretend forever, which is why I came here: for closure."

Sam smiled lightly and a little sadly. "Well, maybe you both can get closure tonight. He is here...according to this thing."

You nodded and sucked in a deep breath, refocusing on the board. "Trevor," you started. "I didn't think I'd ever get the chance to speak to you again. And I don't know if it's even really you I'm talking to, but for my sake, I'll say it is.

"I miss you. Before you passed, I did too. And I thought about calling all of the time. It just felt like too much time had passed, which feels stupid to say now. Because I did know you, and deep down, I think I knew you'd still answer anyway. That's just how you were. If you're a ghost, maybe that's how you still are. Whatever or wherever you are, I guess I just want you to know that you meant a lot to me and I'm sorry I never said it to your face."

Trevor wasn't sure if he wanted to smile or cry. He thought about what he'd say to you a million times before if he was even given the chance to, but you stole the words right from his mouth. You had a habit of that, saying what he was thinking without even knowing. You two had always been synced, joined at the hip, and almost able to reach each other's minds. Trevor had never been so close with someone before; he didn't know why he let that go.

"M-E T-O-O," he managed to spell, wishing he could say more for you to hear. Yet, you smiled, and that felt like closure.

A different sort of look flickered across your face next, something younger and even more like he remembered. "If you're still listening, do you remember Laney Micheals from ninth grade?"

The question confused the group, but Trevor laughed, moving to the "Yes."

"Well, you're probably the only person who'll appreciate this, but I heard she ended up marrying Mr. Marty, remember, who was the gym teacher. Their wedding was such an ordeal and ended in a drunken fist fight..." You spoke like you could see him, rehashing drama just like you used to do under the bleachers after school before you had your license.

Trevor eventually took Sam's place as everyone felt you two alone, on opposite plans of existence, yet chatting as if you were back in home room. Trevor just listened, moving over "Yes" and "No" when he could, but just basking in your familiar presence, picking up where you had last left off.

[javierpenaismyhusband]

Peru: Day One

Joel Miller x M!Reader

series summary: I thought this trip to Peru would just be a vacation with my dad. I didn’t expect his best friend Joel to come along or for everything between us to change. Somewhere between the mountains and the silence, I started falling. And I don’t think I was the only one. After a messy breakup with Luke, I needed an escape… I just didn’t expect it to be him.

Chapter Warnings: Fluff · AGE GAP · slow burn· 18+ · Joel is my father’s friend · Cigarettes · Alcohol · Mentions of toxic ex · threats, No Y/N, not an OUTBREAK and more that i cant think right now.

Other Fics of Mine (Dividers by @saradika-graphics)

Series Materialist Next Chapter

Airports have this strange stillness to them. Like everything is moving, people dragging suitcases and calling out boarding groups, yet somehow you're just... waiting. Waiting for the trip to start, for something to change. I sat near the wide terminal window, the sunlight pouring in and making the floor gleam like polished glass. Outside, the plane stood massive and unmoving, a silver beast against the runway.

My dad sat a few rows ahead, flipping through a well-worn guidebook. Every few pages, he'd stop and murmur facts to himself, probably rehearsing them so he could recite them later like a tour guide. He was already halfway into the trip in his head.

Joel sat next to me. His posture was relaxed, one leg stretched out, the other bouncing slightly like he was wired with energy. He held a cup of black coffee in one hand, the kind that looks too strong for anyone to enjoy, but somehow he made it seem like the best thing on earth.

He wore that old denim jacket again, the one I’d seen him in every time he visited. The edges were frayed, and the color had faded into a soft, almost gray blue. Whenever he moved, the faint scent of tobacco and something woodsy lingered in the air between us. It wasn’t overpowering, just familiar. Comforting.

"You sure you packed everything?" I asked. The words left my mouth a little too fast. I wasn’t really worried about his packing. I just wanted to hear his voice.

Joel tilted his head and gave me one of those slow, crooked smiles. "Kid, I’ve been dreaming about Peru since I was your age. I’d fly there naked if I had to."

I let out a short laugh, a real one, loud enough that a woman across the aisle glanced up. Joel’s grin widened like that was his reward.

He bumped his shoulder gently against mine. "You excited?"

I looked over at him, nodding. "Yeah. I've never gone this far before. It's kind of surreal."

Joel’s eyes met mine and held for a moment. There was something in the way he looked at me, something quiet and steady. Like he could see right through the words and into the nerves underneath.

"You’ll love it," he said softly. "It’s not just about what you see. It's about how it makes you feel. The mountains, the cities, the people. It makes you feel small, but in a good way. Like... there's something bigger out there, and you’re a part of it."

I don’t know why that hit me the way it did, but my chest ached a little. He always had a way of saying things that stuck with you. Maybe that was part of why I started looking at him differently. He wasn’t just my dad’s best friend anymore. Not in my eyes. Not after all the quiet conversations, the stories he told when no one else was around, the way he always made space for me.

I don’t know why that hit me the way it did, but my chest ached a little. He always had a way of saying things that stuck with you. Maybe that was part of why I started looking at him differently. He wasn’t just my dad’s best friend anymore. Not in my eyes. Not after all the quiet conversations, the stories he told when no one else was around, the way he always made space for me.

We were barely in our seats on the plane when she appeared.

She must’ve been part of the crew, or maybe one of those off-duty flight attendants catching a free ride. She was older than me, younger than Joel, somewhere in that effortless sweet spot where confidence wrapped itself in charm. Her uniform was crisp, her lipstick a shade too bold for morning, and she walked down the aisle like she’d done it a thousand times, with a kind of practiced elegance that made people notice.

She noticed Joel.

And he noticed her back.

"Excuse me," she said, pretending like she had to squeeze by, even though there was plenty of room. She brushed her fingers lightly over his shoulder as she passed. "You look familiar. Have we flown together before?"

Joel smiled in that way he always did when someone caught him off guard, just slightly crooked, as if he didn’t want to seem too flattered. "Not unless you’ve flown out of Texas twenty years ago and haven’t looked back since."

She laughed, soft and amused, resting her hand on the headrest in front of him. "Well, I wouldn’t forget a face like yours. You sure you’re not a pilot?"

"Nope. Just a passenger today," he said, lifting his coffee cup. "But I’m flattered."

"Well, passenger," she said, leaning in just a little, her voice dropping to something silkier, "If you need anything, anything at all you let me know."

She gave him one last smile, then turned to go. Just before walking away, she pulled something from the pocket of her blazer, folded it neatly, and dropped it onto Joel’s lap.

He picked it up with two fingers, glanced at it, and chuckled under his breath. Then, without a second thought, he leaned over and tossed it into the seat pocket in front of him like it was a receipt he didn’t need.

When he looked at me, his grin was already growing. "That was subtle, huh?"

I couldn’t help but laugh. It wasn’t the kind of bitter laugh I was bracing for, it was real, easy, maybe even a little surprised. "You’ve still got it, apparently."

Joel shook his head and leaned back in his seat, eyes half-lidded like he was already halfway to sleep. "Please. She was just being nice."

I raised an eyebrow. "She dropped her number in your lap, Joel. That’s not ‘just being nice.’"

He laughed again, deep and low, the kind that settled in my chest. For a second, we were just two people on a plane, sharing something light. No tension. No weight. Just a moment.

And the truth was, it wasn’t that crazy. Joel was handsome in every way. The kind of man who looked good without trying, who carried himself like he’d lived through enough to know who he was and didn’t care who else did. The lines around his eyes made him look wise, not old. And when he laughed, you wanted to hear it again.

The flight was long. Too long.

Hours passed like clouds outside the window, slow and formless. I had no real sense of time anymore, just the low hum of the engines and the steady press of altitude in my ears. Everything around me blurred into that strange, in-between space where the world feels paused and unreal.

Joel had fallen asleep somewhere over the Atlantic.

He looked peaceful like that. Head tilted slightly toward me, arms crossed over his chest, mouth parted just enough to soften the lines in his face. The kind of sleep only people who are used to moving through life on their own can fall into deep, unbothered, trusting the world to keep turning without them.

I stole glances at him when I thought I could get away with it. The way his chest rose and fell. The gray in his beard that caught the overhead light. The way his hand, resting loosely near his knee, would twitch now and then like he was dreaming.

I couldn’t believe I was sitting next to him. Not in the sense that I was on a trip with my dad and his old friend. That part had been true a dozen times before. It was something else now. Something quieter. More dangerous.

I shifted in my seat, trying not to wake him, and leaned just a little closer to the window. My reflection looked back at me, faint and ghost-like in the darkened glass. Behind it, there was nothing but endless sky. And him. Still asleep, still so close I could feel the warmth radiating from his shoulder.

There were so many things I couldn’t say.

So many questions I hadn’t dared ask myself until lately. What it meant to feel this way. Why it was always him. How something like this, slow and impossible and entirely unspoken could sneak up on me when I thought I knew myself.

The seatbelt sign blinked on. Turbulence, probably.

Joel stirred beside me, eyes fluttering open halfway. He blinked like he had to remember where he was, then turned his head slowly toward me.

He blinked, squinting through the dim cabin light. “You’ve been quiet for a while.”

I looked over at him. “So have you. You were snoring.”

He smirked. “Don’t lie. I don’t snore.”

I shrugged, leaning back in my seat, pretending to be more relaxed than I felt. “Whatever helps you sleep.”

But he didn’t laugh like I expected. Instead, he studied me a little longer, his expression softening.

“You okay?” he asked. “You look like something’s on your mind.”

I hesitated, eyes drifting to the window again before I answered.

“It’s nothing.”

Joel shifted in his seat, adjusting so he was angled more toward me. He didn’t say anything right away, just gave me that look, the kind that said he wasn’t going to buy the lie, but he’d wait for the truth.

I sighed, quietly. “I broke up with Luke before we got on the plane.”

Joel’s eyes flicked across my face like he was trying to figure out if I was serious. “What?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice quieter now. “It happened right before we left.”

Joel frowned. “I didn’t even know you two were having problems.”

I nodded slowly. “That’s the thing. We were. For a while. I just… didn’t talk about it.”

Joel waited. I could feel the weight of his gaze.

“He didn’t want to come here,” I said. “Didn’t like the idea of me going either. Said it was a waste of time. Said you were a waste of time.”

Joel’s brows lifted slightly, surprised. “Me?”

I gave a dry little laugh. “Yeah. He always had something to say about you.”

Joel didn’t respond to that right away. He just leaned back a bit, eyes narrowed with something unreadable.

“And that’s why you ended things?”

I met his gaze. “That’s one reason. The real one? He was a piece of shit. Controlling. Cold. Self-centered.”

Joel nodded once, slowly. “You’re pretty calm about it.”

“I’ve had time,” I said. “And honestly… for me, it felt over long before I actually said the words. I think I let go a long time ago.”

That stayed in the air between us for a moment. Not heavy, not dramatic. Just true.

Joel looked at me for a long beat, then turned his eyes back to the seat in front of him. “He’s an idiot, by the way. For not coming. For not seeing what he had.”

Something flickered in my chest at that, and I didn’t answer. Just stared straight ahead and let that quiet sit between us.

The silence stretched for another minute. It wasn’t awkward, just full. I could still feel Joel’s last words sitting somewhere in my chest, but I didn’t want to dwell on them too long. So I turned, just enough to catch the side of his face in the cabin light.

"Didn’t you bring headphones?"

He blinked like I’d caught him off guard. "No. I don’t have any."

I let out a quiet chuckle. "Of course you don’t."

He raised an eyebrow. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

I didn’t answer. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my earbuds, and started untangling them.

"Here," I said, offering him one.

Joel looked at me for a second before taking it. His fingers brushed mine, and even that small touch made my breath catch a little.

"What are we listening to?" he asked, holding the earbud between his fingers like it was unfamiliar tech.

"You choose," I said and handed him my phone.

He scrolled slowly, eyes narrowed, mumbling titles under his breath. "You’ve got a lot of sad songs on here."

"Not all of them. Keep looking."

He kept scrolling, pausing on a few artists, tapping his thumb gently against the screen. Eventually, he settled on something acoustic. It started with a soft guitar and a voice that carried just enough weight without trying too hard.

"This okay?" he asked, already hitting play.

I nodded and leaned back into my seat.

The music slid between us, gentle and steady. We shared the same rhythm now, tethered together by a single cord. His shoulder brushed against mine when he shifted, and I didn’t move away. Neither did he.

I closed my eyes for a second and let the sound wash over me. Maybe it was the altitude, or maybe it was just him. Joel, next to me, breathing slow, completely relaxed. That kind of calm was contagious.

The music played on, soft and steady, until my thoughts started to blur at the edges. I hadn't meant to fall asleep, but somewhere between one slow verse and the next, my eyes slipped shut.

I must’ve leaned toward him without realizing it. His shoulder was warm and solid, and he didn’t move when I settled against him. If anything, I think he shifted slightly, like he was making sure I was comfortable. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe it meant more than either of us could say out loud.

Time passed in a haze.

I woke to a gentle nudge at my arm, fingers brushing lightly to bring me back.

"Hey," Joel said, voice quiet but close. "We’re here."

I blinked, lifting my head slowly. For a second, I didn’t even remember where we were. Then I saw the lights outside the window, warm and scattered like stars dropped over a dark city. Peru. We’d made it.

I sat up, rubbed at my eyes, a little embarrassed. "Shit. Sorry, I didn’t mean to."

"It’s alright," Joel said, and his voice had that low, easy calm to it. "You looked like you needed it."

I gave him a crooked smile, still groggy. "Did I drool on you?"

"A little," he joked, deadpan. "But I’ll survive."

I laughed, shaking my head as I unbuckled my belt and started gathering my things.

Outside the cabin window, the tarmac glowed under the floodlights. My chest fluttered a bit, not just from arriving somewhere new, but from the quiet weight of that moment. From the way Joel had just let me rest there. No awkwardness. No pulling away.

Just warmth.

And that tiny, unspoken something building between us.

The plane ride felt like it took forever, but once we landed, everything seemed to move in fast-forward. We grabbed our things, got a taxi to the hotel, and my father was practically vibrating with excitement. He kept talking about everything we’d be doing, his eyes wide, a grin that never seemed to fade.

"So, where are we?" I asked, looking around as the city buzzed past us. Peru was alive with energy, the kind of place that made you feel both small and incredibly alive at the same time.

"We’re in Lima, near the coast," my father answered, his enthusiasm almost contagious. "You’re going to love it here."

Once we checked in, we were led to our rooms. The hotel was sleek and modern, everything I expected from a place like this. My father went off to do his own thing, and I took a moment to just breathe.

The shower was refreshing, the hot water washing away the travel fatigue. I wrapped a towel around my waist and walked back into the room, a little lost in thought. The steady thrum of the city outside filled the silence.

Then there was a knock at the door. It was light, almost hesitant.

I opened it just enough to see who it was, and there stood Joel, looking as composed as ever, but his eyes flickered to my stomach for a moment, then quickly back to my face.

His expression shifted slightly, like he was trying to figure out whether this was a normal thing or if he should be doing something different.

"Your father asked me to tell you," he said, voice low, a little more anxious than usual, "that we’re going for dinner at the restaurant downstairs in... I don’t know, an hour? I think that’s the plan."

I nodded, not quite sure how to read his tone, but I wasn’t about to make things weird. "Okay, yeah. I’m getting dressed. I’ll come find you."

I smiled, trying to ease the sudden tension in the room. It was just dinner. But something in the way Joel looked at me like he had something he wanted to say but didn’t quite know how made the moment feel charged. It didn’t help that the towel around my waist was starting to feel more like a challenge than something to cover up with.

He nodded and stepped back slightly, but his gaze lingered for just a second longer before he turned to leave.

"Alright. See you there," he said, his voice a little more clipped than before.

I closed the door and stood there for a moment, still feeling the shift in the air, even after he was gone.

I was getting dressed when my phone buzzed on the nightstand. I picked it up without thinking, still pulling a shirt over my head. The message was from Luke.

"Fuck you whore. I hate you, ungrateful piece of shit."

I stared at the screen for a second. I thought maybe I would feel something, anger or sadness. But all I felt was a small, sharp ache. Not for me. For him. For how pathetic he sounded.

I didn’t reply. I just locked the screen and dropped the phone back onto the bed.

I finished getting ready, smoothing my hair and slipping into a clean pair of jeans and a button-down. I checked my reflection quickly in the mirror. There were faint circles under my eyes, but other than that, I looked fine. Maybe even better than I had in a while.

I grabbed my room key, shoved it into my pocket, and stepped out into the hallway. The carpet was soft under my sneakers, and the air smelled like polished wood and something faintly sweet.

I made my way toward the restaurant, heart beating a little faster than usual. Part of it was because I was hungry, sure, but another part of me was buzzing for a different reason.

I was about to see Joel again.

I spotted them across the restaurant, sitting at a table near the window where the warm lights from the street outside spilled in. My father was already halfway through a beer, talking with his hands like he always did when he was excited. Joel was sitting across from him, relaxed, leaning back a little in his chair.

I made my way over and slid into the empty seat beside them.

"There you are," my father said, grinning. "Is your room good?"

"Yeah, yeah. It's perfect. Thanks, Dad," I said, trying to sound casual.

"Don't thank me," he said, waving his hand. "Thank Joel for planning this whole thing."

Joel shrugged, his lips tugging into a small smile. "It’s nothing, Mark."

I looked at him for a second longer than I meant to. His voice was low and calm, like it always was, and somehow it made me feel steady too.

We ordered food and chatted a little. Small stuff. Flights. The city. What we might do tomorrow. It was easy, almost enough to forget everything swirling around in my head.

Then my father leaned forward, his elbows on the table. "How are things going with Luke?" he asked.

I froze for half a second. It was stupid, but it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room.

I forced a small smile, pretending to look at the menu like I had just remembered something. "All good. Things are good," I said, my voice a little too quick, a little too awkward.

If my dad noticed, he didn't show it. He nodded, satisfied, and turned back to his beer.

But Joel... Joel was looking at me.

He wasn’t smiling. His eyes were steady, serious in a way that made my chest tighten. There was a softness there too, a quiet kind of worry he wasn't trying to hide. It made it harder to keep pretending everything was fine.

I dropped my gaze to my water glass, pretending to be interested in the condensation sliding down the side.

My phone buzzed again just as I was stirring the ice in my glass with my straw. I glanced at it and felt my stomach twist.

"Answer, you piece of shit," the message said.

I set the phone down carefully, face down on the table, and stood up so quickly my chair scraped against the floor.

"Sorry," I said, forcing a tired smile. "I'm kinda tired. Think I’m gonna head up to bed."

My dad barely looked up, already caught in another story. "Goodnight, kiddo," he said.

"Goodnight," Joel said too, his voice a little quieter, a little heavier.

I nodded and walked away before I changed my mind.

But I didn’t go upstairs. I walked straight out the front doors of the hotel, feeling the humid night air stick to my skin. I shoved my hands in my pockets and headed down the block to the first store I could find that was still open. A little tobacco shop with a flickering neon light in the window.

I went inside, the bell above the door jingling, and walked up to the counter. The guy behind it looked half-asleep.

"Hello," I said, trying to sound casual. "I want a pack of Marlboro."

He squinted at me. "Do you have ID?"

I blinked. "ID? No. I’m twenty-two," I said quickly.

"Need to see some ID," he said again, voice flat like he had said it a million times before.

I felt a flare of frustration but just shook my head and left without another word.

Outside, the street was quiet. I wandered to the bench just outside the store and sat down, resting my elbows on my knees, staring down at my phone. The last message from Luke was still there, ugly and loud on the screen. My chest tightened. I wasn’t sad. I wasn’t angry. I just felt... heavy. Like the night itself was pressing down on me.

I swiped the message away without answering and let my head fall back, staring up at the sky.

A few minutes passed. Maybe more. Then I heard footsteps. Someone sitting down beside me.

I turned my head, ready to tell whoever it was that I wasn’t in the mood.

It was Joel.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, opened it, and held it out toward me like he had known all along.

I stared at him, then the pack, and then back at him.

He shrugged, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"I figured you might still want one," he said, voice low and easy, like we were just picking up a conversation we left somewhere.

I forced a smile and took the cigarette from him. Joel pulled a lighter from his pocket and flicked it on, shielding the small flame with his hand as he leaned closer to light mine. His fingers brushed mine for just a second, and even though it was nothing, my skin tingled from the contact.

He lit one for himself after, taking a slow drag before leaning back against the bench.

"So, what's up?" he asked, smoke curling from his lips.

"Nothing," I said, flicking ash off the end of my cigarette. "Just tired."

Joel didn’t say anything at first. He just watched me, the way he always did when he knew I was full of shit but was too stubborn to admit it.

"You don't have to lie to me," he said quietly.

I shook my head, feeling a tight knot form in my chest. "I’m not really," I said, even though we both knew it wasn’t true.

I finally turned to look at him. His face was calm but serious, lit by the dim glow from the store window behind us. I stared a little too long, searching his face like I was looking for something I didn’t even know how to name.

Then the thought hit me.

Hard and cold.

Joel is your dad's best friend.

Stop.

It’s wrong.

He doesn’t like you that way.

I dropped my gaze quickly, pulling another drag from the cigarette like it would somehow help clear my head.

But it didn’t.

It just made me feel heavier.

Joel shifted beside me, his knee brushing against mine, and for a second I thought maybe he felt it too.

"It was Luke, wasn't it," Joel said after a while, his voice quieter now.

I didn’t answer. I just nodded slowly, feeling the weight of it settle between us.

Joel shifted again, like he was trying to see my face better. "What did he say?" he asked.

I still didn’t speak. I just unlocked my phone with a swipe and handed it to him, not trusting myself to say it out loud.

Joel took it from me carefully. His fingers brushed mine again, and I almost pulled back, but I stayed still.

He looked down at the screen. I watched his eyes move, his jaw tightening the longer he stared. His whole face changed, and when he finally spoke, his voice was rough.

"This piece of shit," Joel muttered.

I didn’t say anything. I just kept looking at him for a second before my gaze dropped back to the road, feeling too exposed under the way he was looking at me.

The cigarette burned slowly between my fingers, but I barely noticed it anymore.

Joel set my phone down gently between us on the bench, like it was something fragile. He didn’t try to force me to talk. He didn’t say anything stupid like "you deserve better." He just sat there, steady and warm beside me, and somehow that felt like more than enough.

"I don't know if I believe in this anymore," I said, my voice low as I looked at him.

Joel didn’t answer right away. He just looked at me, worry written all over his face, like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how.

I pushed myself up from the bench, feeling like if I stayed there one more second, I would break apart. "Sorry for all of this," I said, brushing my hands down my jeans. "We’re here to have fun and I’m ruining it."

"Don't say that," Joel said quickly, his voice a little sharper, like he hated even hearing me say it.

But I didn’t answer back. I just gave him a small, tired smile. "Thanks for the cigarette. And the company. But I’m really tired. Good night, Joel," I said, my chest tightening as the words left my mouth.

I didn’t wait for him to say anything else. I turned my back and walked away, feeling his eyes on me the whole way down the sidewalk, burning between my shoulder blades.

As I walked back toward the hotel, my hands shoved deep into my pockets, I muttered under my breath, "Fuck Luke. Fuck him."

The anger was there, sharp and hot, but under it was something else. Relief maybe. Or sadness. Or both.

I pushed open the doors of the hotel and stepped into the quiet lobby, the soft hum of the lights buzzing above me.

As I got into the elevator and leaned my head back against the wall, I told myself, "As long as I’m here, I’m gonna have fun. No drama. No thinking about Luke. And no thinking about Joel."

The doors opened on my floor with a soft ding. I stepped out and walked to my room, the hallways too quiet, too heavy.

But I was set on it now. No drama. No heartbreak. Just me, Peru, and whatever came next.

That night was hell. I tossed and turned for hours, my mind a mess of thoughts I didn’t want. Memories I didn’t want. Faces I didn’t want.

But somehow, somewhere between all of it, I managed to fall asleep.

When I woke up, the sun was already creeping through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. I sat up slowly, feeling like I hadn’t slept at all, but knowing I had no choice but to get up.

I took a quick cold shower, letting the water wake me up, shock me back to something closer to normal.

After throwing on a pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt, I ran my hand through my hair, grabbed my wallet, and headed out of the room. I needed coffee. Badly.

The hallways were still pretty quiet. It was early, but not too early. Just that nice in-between where the world hadn’t fully woken up yet.

I made my way down to the hotel’s café, already craving that first sip.

I went to the bar and ordered a double espresso, no sugar, and waited quietly for my order. When it was ready, I thanked the barista and carried it over to an empty table by the window.

I sat down, opened my phone, and started watching some stories my friends had posted on social media. It was nice. Normal. For a second, I almost forgot about everything else.

Then Joel came over and sat across from me, a coffee in his hand. He looked a little tired too, but there was something easy in the way he smiled at me.

"Good morning, kid," he said.

I smiled back. "Good morning, Joel."

He leaned back in his chair, studying me for a second before asking, "How you feeling?"

I met his eyes and shrugged lightly. "Good. How about you?"

Joel leaned back slightly, his coffee in one hand. "Good," he said. "Did you sleep alright?"

"Yeah. It was fine," I lied, keeping my voice light. I saw the way he watched me for a second longer, like he knew I wasn’t telling the whole truth, but he didn’t push.

Before either of us could say more, my dad appeared, full of energy like he had slept better than all of us combined.

"Morning, boys!" he said with a big grin as he pulled out a chair and sat down. "How was your night?"

"Good," Joel answered easily, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Yeah, good," I added quickly, nodding.

My dad smiled, clearly satisfied with the answer, and leaned back like he was settling in. I glanced at Joel out of the corner of my eye. He was still looking at me, just for a moment, like he wasn’t buying my story, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he took another slow drink from his cup, letting it go.

I wrapped my hands around my coffee cup, feeling the warmth in my palms. It helped ground me a little.

"So," my dad said, rubbing his hands together with excitement. "What’s the plan for today?"

My dad and I both looked at Joel, waiting to hear what he had in mind.

Joel set his coffee cup down and stretched a little in his seat. "I mean, we don't have to stick to some strict plan or anything," he said casually. "We’re here to enjoy ourselves, right? I was thinking of just walking around the city a bit. Get a feel for it. See what we find."

I smiled at the idea instantly. It sounded perfect. No pressure, no big tours or schedules. Just wandering around with Joel and my dad, taking everything in.

"That sounds great," my dad said, nodding enthusiastically. "Way better than being stuck on a tour bus all day."

"Yeah, I’m in," I added, taking another sip of my coffee. "Sounds like a good way to start."

Joel smiled too, like he was glad we agreed. His eyes flicked toward mine for a second longer than they needed to, and I felt my chest tighten just a little.

"Cool," Joel said, standing up and tossing his empty cup into a nearby bin. "Finish up and let's get moving before it gets too hot."

I laughed softly and got up, feeling lighter than I had in days. Maybe today would actually be good.

After we finished breakfast, we agreed to go back to our rooms, grab whatever we needed for the day, and meet up outside near the tobacco store.

When I got there, I spotted my dad and Joel already waiting. I jogged the last few steps toward them and said, “Give me a minute,” before heading inside.

The same guy from the night before stood behind the counter. This time, I pulled out my ID without waiting for him to ask. He looked at it, then at me, and smiled a little before reaching for a pack of Marlboros. I paid quickly, tucked the pack into my pocket, and headed back outside.

I opened the pack right there, pulling one out and lighting it. The smoke felt sharp at first, but it grounded me somehow.

My dad raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you started smoking again,” he said.

I met his eyes over the flame of my lighter and shrugged. “Yeah, I know,” I said, not offering anything else.

He looked like he wanted to say something more, but Joel lightly nudged his arm, pulling his attention away. I exhaled a breath of smoke and focused on the street ahead, grateful Joel knew exactly when to step in without making a big deal out of it.

We started walking through the heart of the city, blending into the crowd like we belonged there. The streets were full of life—bright colors spilled from every storefront, music floated from open windows, and the scent of fresh bread and coffee twisted through the air.

Old stone buildings stood shoulder to shoulder with newer ones, their balconies dressed in flowers, their walls faded with time in a way that made them even more beautiful.

Vendors lined the sidewalks, selling everything from woven scarves to tiny hand-carved llamas. Children laughed and darted between stalls, and tour groups passed by with cameras swinging from their necks. It felt alive in a way that cities back home never did.

My dad walked a few steps ahead, busy taking pictures of everything, his voice occasionally calling back to us with some comment about a building or a funny sign he spotted.

I had just stopped to glance at a small shop window when Joel came up beside me, his hands tucked casually into his pockets.

“So,” he said, his voice low and easy. “You like the city?”

I turned to look at him, feeling a smile tug at the corner of my mouth.

“Yeah. It’s beautiful,” I said honestly. “I get why this was your dream.”

Joel chuckled under his breath and shook his head a little.

“Oh no,” he said. “This isn’t the dream. This is just the start. My dream was to see Machu Picchu.”

I blinked at him, surprised.

“Really?”

He nodded, his eyes lighting up in a way that made something tighten in my chest.

“Yeah. Ever since I was a kid. Always thought it’d be something else, standing on that mountain. Seeing something that old, that real.”

I found myself smiling at him without even meaning to, caught for a second in the way he talked about it, not just like it was a place, but like it was a feeling he had been chasing for years.

Joel glanced over at me with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“So,” I said, nudging him lightly with my elbow, “when are we going?”

He looked ahead for a moment, watching my dad disappear around the corner, then turned back to me. “Mmm,” he hummed, drawing the sound out a bit, “I don’t know. I’ve got something in my mind to do first.”

I raised a brow, curious. “Yeah? Like what?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just looked at me with that unreadable expression he sometimes wore half amusement, half something else I couldn’t quite place. Then he gave a small shrug, like it wasn’t a big deal, like maybe he didn’t want to say it out loud yet.

“You’ll see,” he said finally, that smile still there but softer now.

I didn’t push it. I just gave a small laugh and looked away, but inside, I was already wondering what he meant. What could be more important than his dream?

We sat in the café my father had picked, the kind of place with warm lighting and little wooden tables that looked older than the city itself. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting soft light on everything. The air smelled like fresh bread and roasted coffee beans.

We had just placed our orders, coffee and breakfast, when my phone buzzed on the table. I glanced at the screen.

Luke.

Without thinking, I flipped the phone over and tapped the side button to mute it. I didn’t want to deal with it. Not here. Not now.

Joel’s eyes flicked to me, calm and steady. There was something in the way he looked that made it hard to breathe. Like he could see right through me.

My father, sipping his espresso, noticed the buzz. “Who was it?” he asked, his tone light.

I kept my eyes down and said, “I didn’t know the number.”

He nodded and stood up, excusing himself to the bathroom.

As soon as he was gone, Joel leaned forward a little, voice low and careful. “It was Luke, wasn’t it?”

I didn’t answer out loud. Just nodded, still not meeting his eyes.

After a few quiet seconds, I stood. “I think I’m gonna head back to the hotel.”

Joel sat up straighter. “Want me to come with you?”

I paused longer than I meant to. My chest tightened. I wanted to say yes. I wanted him to come with me, to sit next to me in silence, to make this whole thing feel less heavy. But I couldn’t let myself want that.

I shook my head and gave him the softest smile I could manage. “No. It’s fine.”

Joel didn’t argue. He just watched me walk away.

And it was harder than I thought not to turn around.

I slipped into my swimsuit without thinking much about it, tossing a towel over my shoulder like I had done this a hundred times before. The hotel room door clicked shut behind me, sealing in all the noise I didn’t want to hear.

The sun was high, but I wasn’t looking for it. I found a chair tucked in the quietest corner of the pool area, shaded and cool, the kind of spot that felt forgotten. I liked it that way.

A waiter passed by and I ordered a mojito without hesitation, even though I wasn’t sure I really wanted it. Maybe I just needed something in my hand. Something to remind me that I was here, not there. Not with Luke, not stuck in that call, not replaying things I couldn't change.

I put my headphones on, the music a soft hum that settled into my bones. I pulled out the book I brought from home, the one I always brought but rarely read. The pages felt like old friends. I tried to get lost in the words, but my mind wandered.

I thought about Joel. About the way he looked at me earlier—soft, maybe a little worried. I hated that look. It made me feel seen in a way I wasn’t ready for. And it reminded me how much I wanted to be seen, which was worse.

I closed my eyes for a moment and listened to the sound of water, the laughter of strangers, the faint clink of ice in glasses. It was all so far away. I let it be.

I told myself I didn’t care. I told myself I didn’t want to be thinking about him. About any of it.

But the truth sat quietly with me in that shaded chair. I wasn’t okay. And pretending I was only worked for a little while.

Still, I stayed there. I let the hours pass. Let the sun move across the sky. Let my drink sweat against my hand.

And I didn’t answer my phone.

As the sunrise spilled over the edge of the sky, soft streaks of peach and gold painted the surface of the pool. I'd been there for hours, tucked in the shade with a book I wasn’t really reading and a mojito that had long gone flat. The hum of the world had faded, and for the first time in a while, I felt still.

Then I heard footsteps. A familiar kind measured, quiet.

Joel sat down beside me without a word.

I didn’t turn to him right away. I waited a second, pretending to still read, before finally glancing over.

“Hey,” I said, my voice low.

“Hey,” he replied, eyes scanning my face. “How are you doing?”

I exhaled. “It’s... nice here. Sorry about earlier. I just needed space.”

Joel looked at me for a beat too long, like he was choosing what to say next.

“You don’t need to keep apologizing. I’m not mad.”

I nodded, though something in me twisted anyway. The silence stretched.

“How was the walk in town?” I asked, just to fill the space.

“Good. Long. Your dad passed out the second we got back. Said he hasn’t walked that much in years.”

I laughed quietly, picturing it. “That sounds like him.”

Joel smiled, but there was something off in his eyes. Something a little sharp, a little worried.

“You’re not tired?” I asked, finally meeting his gaze.

He shook his head. “Not really. I wanted to see how you were.”

I looked down, tracing the rim of my glass with my finger. “You don’t have to check in on me, you know.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. Then he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and said, “I know I don’t. I want to.”

There it was again—that shift in the air. A pull.

I felt it. I know he did too.

I looked at him. Really looked. The quiet intensity in his eyes was hard to ignore.

“But why?” I asked, softly.

Joel hesitated. “I just... don’t like seeing you like this.”

I swallowed and turned my eyes back to the water, unsure if the heat in my chest was guilt or something else entirely.

“Thanks,” I said. My voice felt thinner than I meant it to.

He sat back in his chair, but he didn’t move away.

Neither did the tension.

Joel stood up beside me, the late morning sun catching in his hair as he pulled his shirt over his head. I didn’t answer right away, half because I wasn’t sure I wanted to swim, half because I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

His chest was broad, dusted with dark hair that trailed down the center of his torso, disappearing beneath the waistband of his shorts. He didn’t have that sculpted, perfect gym-body look but something real. His stomach was soft in places, but firm underneath, the kind of strength you earn from years of actual work, not vanity.

His shoulders were wide and solid, his back broad and tanned, marked faintly by lines of old sun exposure and the kind of muscle that comes from lifting, building, fixing construction work written right into the way he moved.

Joel caught me looking.

“Come on,” he said again, this time with a small grin, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

I blinked and looked away, heart ticking a little faster. “Fine,” I muttered, reaching for my towel. “But only for a bit.”

Would you like what happens next in the pool? Something light, or more emotionally charged?

As I was stepping into the pool, I braced myself, trying not to have a heart attack from the cold water biting at my skin. My muscles tensed as the icy surface wrapped around my ankles, then my calves. I sucked in a sharp breath, clenching my jaw.

Then, out of nowhere, a splash hit me right in the chest.

I froze.

Slowly, very slowly, I turned my head toward Joel.

He was grinning like a damn kid, water dripping off his fingertips, clearly proud of himself.

“I fucking hate you,” I said, voice flat but trembling from the cold and maybe from something else. The tension between us lingered in the air, thick and unspoken.

Joel stood up in the pool, water streaming down his chest, catching in the droplets of his dark hair. His chest was thick, solid, a quiet strength in the way it tapered to his waist, muscles defined in a way that spoke more of labor than lifting weights. The curve of his shoulders was wide, strong, and his back tapered down, showing the subtle evidence of years of hard work, not sculpted in a gym, but built through real-life effort. There was something raw and genuine in the way his body moved, like it had been crafted for purpose, not for show. He was the kind of guy who could carry the weight of the world on his shoulders and still make it feel effortless.

He walked toward me slowly, and something in the way his eyes held mine made it hard to breathe.

“Do you?” he asked, looking down at me, voice lower now.

I didn’t answer.

Then, without warning, he grabbed me.

“Joel—!”

He didn’t wait.

The world tilted as I felt his arms around me and then nothing but air and then water. Cold. Sharp. All around me.

I went under completely. The shock stole the breath from my chest, and I flailed for a second before kicking up and breaking through the surface. I wiped the water out of my eyes, gasping, hair stuck to my forehead, and turned to him.

He was laughing.

A real laugh. Loud, unfiltered. The kind that made something warm flicker in my chest, even though I wanted to slap that smile off his face.

“You’re dead,” I said.

Joel only grinned wider, water glistening on his skin. “You looked like you needed a wake-up call.”

I swam toward him slowly, the water lapping between us, cool against my skin but my chest still burning.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He tilted his head slightly, and that smirk softened into something different. “Can you blame me?”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was charged.

He looked at me like he was about to say something more but didn’t.

And I hated how badly I wanted him to.

“You okay?” he asked, quieter now, less teasing.

I hesitated.

His eyes searched mine, serious now, like he was seeing more than I wanted him to.

“I am now,” I said.

And I meant it.

We drifted in the water, barely moving, just breathing in the slow rhythm of the pool. And without even noticing, Joel and I ended up close, too close. The space between us felt thinner than the surface of the water around us. I glanced up, only to find his eyes already on me, steady, unreadable. Then, slowly, they flicked down to my lips.

My chest tightened.

The heat between us wasn’t from the sun anymore. It was thick, heavy, electric. My heart beat loud in my ears, and for a second, it felt like time held its breath.

But then it hit me.

He was my father’s friend. Older. Trusted. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was being stupid.

I broke eye contact, stepping back awkwardly. “Sorry,” I said with a short, nervous laugh, trying to defuse the moment as casually as I could. “I think I’m gonna head back to the room… meet you at dinner?”

Joel looked at me for a moment longer than he needed to, then gave a small nod. “Of course.”

I turned and made my way out of the pool, the cool water dripping from my skin doing nothing to settle the fire still crawling under it.

I got back to my room with my head spinning.

Were we about to kiss? No. That’s not what that was. Joel’s straight. He has a daughter. An ex-wife. He’s older. He’s my dad’s best friend. He’s not into me. That’s... That has to be true.

But then again fuck, I don’t know.

I paced the room for a while, the memory of his eyes locked on mine, the way he glanced at my lips, it all played on a loop I couldn’t pause. I tried to shut it off. Took a long shower, letting the water scald my skin in the hope it might rinse off whatever was clinging to me. It didn’t.

An hour later, my phone buzzed. A message from my father.

We’re heading to this place for dinner. Me and Joel. Come when you’re ready.

I stared at it like it could answer any of the questions clawing at the inside of my chest.

OK. I won’t be late, I texted back.

I didn’t want to be.

I got dressed carefully. Baggy jeans. A t-shirt that clung just enough to make me second guess it. A few rings. One earring. My cologne two sprays. Never more. Just enough for someone to notice if they were close.

Not that he would be.

But still.

I gave myself one last glance in the mirror, ran a hand through my hair, and stepped out of the room. My pulse ticked just beneath the skin.

Dinner with my father.

Dinner with Joel.

Whatever this was it couldn’t be real.

But it felt like something.

When I opened the door to the restaurant, the warm lighting spilled out onto the street, soft and golden, catching in the glass like honey. The place was busy but not loud just the right hum of people enjoying their meals, clinking glasses, soft laughter.

I scanned the tables until I saw my dad, waving at me with a wide smile. Joel was already seated beside him. I walked over, forcing my expression to stay neutral, like I wasn’t overthinking every step.

“You look beautiful,” my dad said as I pulled out a chair and sat down.

I smiled, heart skipping a little from the unexpected compliment. “Thanks, Dad.”

Joel didn’t say anything at first. But when I glanced at him, he was already looking. His eyes held something quiet, unreadable, and they lingered a second too long. That look said more than words could. It made my chest tighten.

I looked away before I could get lost in it.

We ordered drinks, browsed the menu. The conversation started easy travel stories, the city, a joke about my dad getting lost earlier. I laughed, nodded along, trying to act normal. Trying to pretend I hadn’t nearly kissed my dad’s best friend in a pool hours ago.

Joel stayed mostly quiet, but his gaze kept flickering toward me. I felt it every time. Like heat against my skin.

It made me wonder: was he remembering it too?

After a while, the plates were half empty, the wine nearly gone, and the conversation had lulled into a comfortable silence. Then my dad, casually picking at the last of his food, looked up at me.

“You haven’t mentioned Luke all day. Is something wrong?”

The question landed like a stone in my stomach. I felt Joel shift slightly beside me, but I didn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on my fork, twirling it aimlessly against the plate, and forced my voice to stay light.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” I said, maybe a little too quickly. Then I paused, searching for something that sounded closer to the truth without giving too much away. “We’re just… trying to figure some things out.”

That was vague enough to be safe, real enough to feel honest. My dad studied me for a second, and I thought he might ask more. But instead, he just nodded.

“Alright,” he said simply.

And that was it. No follow-up, no lecture, no concerned dad-eyes drilling into me. Just a nod, like he trusted me to handle it on my own. I felt a quiet wave of relief crash through me.

I glanced sideways. Joel was watching me again, his fingers wrapped loosely around his glass. He didn’t say anything, but I could feel the tension there. Like he wanted to ask something too but didn’t.

And for once, I was grateful for the silence.

We started talking about my work back home how things had picked up, how the city was both suffocating and alive, how I missed some parts of it and hated others. Joel asked thoughtful questions, my dad kept chiming in with stories about when I was younger, and for a moment, it all felt… easy. Warm. The wine helped, sure, but so did the way the night unfolded like we’d done this a hundred times before. Like we were just three people enjoying each other's company, not tangled in quiet thoughts or unfinished feelings.

When dessert plates were cleared and the waiter brought the check, my dad immediately reached for it.

“I’ve got it,” he said.

Joel leaned over, stubborn. “Come on, Mark, I’ll cover it.”

“No, you won’t. You already paid for the last one.”

They started bickering, in that way old friends do, light but firm, both too proud to back down. I saw my chance, slipped the card into the little leather folder, and handed it off to the waiter before either of them noticed.

When the waiter returned with the receipt, both Joel and my dad stared at me like I’d committed a crime.

“What?” I said, holding up my hands. “Don’t look at me like that. If I left it to you two, we’d still be here arguing when the sun came up.”

My dad shook his head, grumbling under his breath. Joel narrowed his eyes at me, and I swear, if looks could kill.

“Next time,” he said, pointing a finger at me, “I’m getting there first.”

I just laughed, leaning back in my chair, watching them try not to be proud and irritated at the same time.

“You can try,” I said, sipping what was left of my wine, “but I’m pretty fast.”

Would you like the night to continue with something more intimate between Joel and the narrator, or should we jump to later that evening?

As we stepped out of the restaurant, the night air was soft against my skin, humming with quiet street sounds and the low buzz of the city. My father checked his phone, then looked at both of us.

“I need to grab a few things for the room,” he said, brushing it off like it wasn’t planned. “You two go ahead. Have a good night, kid. Joel.”

I nodded. “Night, Dad.”

He gave Joel a quick pat on the back and disappeared into the little crowd of pedestrians, leaving us alone under the warm streetlights.

The first few minutes of our walk back to the hotel were quiet. Not uncomfortable, just… still. Like we were both feeling the edges of the silence and not sure what to do with it. Then Joel broke it.

“Did you like the food?”

I glanced over at him. The lights cast soft gold on his features, highlighting the faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Yeah,” I said. “But I liked more watching you and my dad argue about the check.”

Joel laughed under his breath, low and rough. “He’s a pain in the ass.”

“You both are,” I said, smirking.

I reached into my pocket, feeling around. Nothing. I tried the other one. Still nothing. Then I stopped walking with a sigh. “Shit. I forgot my cigs at the hotel.”

Joel didn’t say anything at first. Then, without a word, he pulled a pack from his jacket, thumbed it open, and held it out to me.

“Here. Take one.”

I hesitated, seeing there was only one left. “That’s your last one,” I said. “I don’t wanna take it from you.”

He looked at me. Not annoyed. Just steady.

“Fine,” he said, almost teasing. He slipped it between his lips, lit it, took a slow drag. Then held it out to me, smoke curling around his fingers in the dark.

I stared at it for a beat longer than I should have, then took it. My fingers brushed his as I brought it to my mouth.

The first drag was sharp, familiar. But all I could taste was him. That ghost of his breath on the filter. The warmth from where his lips had been.

I handed it back, and he took another pull. Back and forth we went, sharing the single cigarette like a quiet secret. No one said anything, but the air between us was different now charged, humming. Each time I brought the cigarette to my mouth, I could still feel his touch.

And it drove me a little insane.

When we reached our floor, the hallway felt unusually quiet like even the walls were holding their breath. We stopped in front of our rooms, keys already in hand, and for a moment, neither of us moved.

We just looked at each other.

It wasn’t long. Just a few seconds. But it said everything. Something in his eyes made my chest tighten a softness, maybe, or something heavier than words. Like he was trying to figure out if I saw it too. And I did.

God, I did.

Neither of us spoke. No goodnight. No awkward joke to fill the silence. Just a small wave from him. One I returned.

The doors clicked behind us, and I was alone again.

Inside my room, I undressed slowly, the hum of the city outside the only sound filling the air. I dropped onto the bed, my skin still warm from the night air, my thoughts racing far faster than I could slow them down.

That look.

It wasn’t imagined. It wasn’t just me. There was something in it something unspoken, something we weren’t supposed to name.

Fuck.

I ran a hand over my face, staring up at the ceiling, the memory of Joel’s eyes still burned behind mine.

I think I like Joel Miller.

And that scared the hell out of me.

(People that wanted to be tagged: @mrs-hardy-hunnam-butler-pascal, @deviscave, @lady-artemis27,)

Note: I hope you enjoy this new fic of mine! If you like it, feel free to leave a comment or ask me anything. (And if you'd like to be tagged, just let me know!) I mite have some typos in there so please act like you didn’t seen them.

Other Fics of Mine (Dividers by @saradika-graphics)

[sunsettsam]

‘MY SAVIOR’

s1 sam x fem! angel reader

warnings: no particular warnings! pure fluff, s1 sam brainrot, mentions of studying, motel, on the road!! use of y/n !! comfort!

After what seemed like ages, the two boys entered the shitty motel room, the demon that they had banished back to hell was a tough one, winding even dean himself, who usually proclaimed arrogantly that he could ‘never be taken down’ found himself panting like a dog left out in the summer sun, grabbing a towel and immediately hitting the showers.

while he heard his brother in the shower, the water running, he sat on the edge of the motel’s bed, breathing in, looking down at the small cuts, and such, he fucking hated demons, but he hated putting them down too, cause they were so much work.

“sam?” a voice rang out, one he recognizes, almost instantly, that sweet yet monotone symphony that hits his ears, and finds kindness in hearing, he looks up, only to see an all too familiar angel at his side.

“hey… y/n..” he looked up, seeing her face, it made all the hell he went through better. it’s as if she was a balm to his open wound, healing him of any or all injuries, her eyebrows furrowed like a concerned guard dog, her lips slightly agape, worry and concern crossed her mind, and upon seeing the mortal she was employed with watching over for the time being hurt, she cautiously came over, studying him.

“you’re hurt- allow me to-“ she couldn’t even finish her sentence, her hand extended, ready to heal him at her own will, and yet, he persevered.

“it’s fine… just… c’mere..” he muttered, extending his arms out, beckoning her like a hurt animal and she his savior (in a way she was) and almost immediately, she obliged. she walked toward him, the air thick, and sticky, cause the damn AC was broken in the room, so it made all the more memorable for the both of them. Looking down at him, she tilted her head, her lips pursed, ones he wanted to kiss so badly..

“what is this?” she asked, cautious and unsure, as if one wrong move would mean having an angel blade to her throat. sam almost wanted to laugh at her obliviousness, how- strangely unaware she was of human mannerisms, but that’s what you get when you’ve only just come to earth after god knows how many eons..

“it’s a hug.. angel.” he responded, looking at her, a tired expression across his face, eyes half lidded, wanting to just fall asleep but still considering the angels actions, waiting for her, like a saint would from a god.

“a hug?” she asks, and he nods, moving his legs apart so she could move in between them, no other kind of intention needed, he just wanted her.

“it’s what humans do when- when they need to recharge… or maybe just when they need to rest.” sam puts it that way because it really does help to hug someone when stressed, or even tired, it gives him comfort, being touch starved and all.

“oh..” she responded, almost like a whisper, her hand coming up to cup his cheek, observing his cuts and abrasions. she gives in, wrapping her arms cautiously around his shoulders, his head against her stomach. this is what he wanted, soft love, tender.. and all from her nonetheless.

she was his, and he was hers. two beings intertwined in the fate of their worlds. she was his savior, and he was her lifeline.

credits to willow on pintrest for the banner!! ❄️🫧

[treachdoc]

CLOSER TO YOU , steve harrington x fem!reader

♪ closer to you , clairo

WHERE steve is left all messed up after his encounter with the demo-bats, and you feel inclined to help

warnings / wound cleaning fic , mentions of blood , mentions of open wounds

The situation wasn’t ideal, like at all.

You were pretty certain there would be water in your ears for weeks, along with the fact that you had a permanent headache from the events of the past few days that had hit you and your friends (or strange conglomerate of people) like a truck going ninety miles per hour.

Your entire body ached from the fight you had put up, although you supposed you came out on top compared to some of the others. You would only be left with some pain and a few bruises if you were lucky.

Steve, on the other hand, would have to deal with some fucked up scarring from those freakish demo-bat-thingys that had sank their teeth into him like he was fresh meat, not forgetting the ring around his neck from almost being strangled by their slimy little tails.

He looked like shit, by the way. I mean, they all did, but man did they put that boy through the ringer back there. Today was not his day.

When was it ever?

After Dustin's master plan on retrieving the five older members of the group from the upside down through the gate in eddie's trailer, you had made your way across the street to maxs’, where the upside down hadn’t yet claimed it as its own.

You had never actually been here before, but considering the smaller nature of the place you figured it wouldn’t be too difficult to navigate the bathroom. You really needed to wash your face.

And maybe you just wanted a moment alone after spending what felt like years surrounded by people all while running on very little sleep. Your head felt so loud.

The group clambered into the Mayfield residence and you took the opportunity amongst the chaos to slip away, hoping nobody cared enough to notice and follow.

Ofcourse, luck hadn’t really been on anyone's side recently, nevermind yours.

You reached the bathroom, allowing yourself to exhale fully. You were hesitant to look in the mirror, fearing the mess that would be staring daggers back at you.

You knew the eyebags that had formed would not be going away anytime soon.

You tugged the sweater you were wearing off your head, the sweater that had become notably heavier thanks to all of the water, dirt and whatever sludge it was that plagued the upside down. There was probably mold growing in it as we speak.

You liked that sweater, too.

You were left in the tee you wore underneath. It was less dirty, but had definitely seen better days.

The tap squeaked as it turned and you had never been happier to feel water so cold in your life. It prickled at your skin perfectly. It was clean, and it didn’t lead to a gateway to Hawkins' own personal hell! It’s the little things.

You were about to splash your face when the door to the bathroom was knocked on gently behind you.

“I’m in here.” You said, blunt, but not mean. You just sounded tired, it almost burned to speak.

“It’s only me. uh, you— you okay?” Your eyes rolled so far back you were scared they’d get stuck that way. Steve.

“I’m fine. You can go.”

The lack of fading footsteps told her he had not in fact gone. He was standing out there like a dog waiting for its owner to come home from work.

If you knew anything about Steve Harrington, it’s that he was one persistent son of a bitch.

He wouldn’t have forced himself in by any means, but he would have waited out there until you were ready to come out.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and finally opening the door. One look at him and you immediately felt stupid for ever feeling bad for yourself when Steve looked like he had sped through all nine circles of hell on hard mode.

And still, his big stupid eyes lit up like a child on christmas when the door creaked open.

He shuffled in, the bathroom becoming slightly cramped. Nothing they hadn’t done before.

“Ya sure you’re okay?” He asked, his larger frame looking down at the disheveled girl in front of him. You had to hold back a laugh at the question.

How could he ask that when he looked the way he did? How could he care so much?

“Me? Steve, you are literally missing chunks of flesh. I've got a few bruises.” You replied, your eyes trailing down to his stomach which was tightly wrapped with a piece of nancys dirty, torn up shirt. At least it was something.

He laughed, a hand flying up to his face like he was embarrassed of something.

“They really messed me up, huh? pretty sure I have a permanent necklace now.” He joked, referring to the red rings around his neck from the tail of the creatures who had done this to him.

“Kinda kinky, though.” you smirked, backing up and taking a seat on the lid of the toilet.

Steve grimaced, throwing you a look. “Gross.”

There was no malice behind it.

“I’ll be fine. I’m tough as nails.” He said, winking stupidly before taking a glance in the mirror, his eyes faltering when he saw how disgusting he looked.

“Oh I don't doubt it, Harrington. All those fights lost over the years are bound to have toughened you up.”

“Hey! I won a fight against evil Russians last year. I'm not that bad.”

You smiled, looking down at your dirty, beat up knuckles like they had something to say.

Things were concerningly natural between the both of you. Maybe you were just growing up, but man, if this were anyone else you used to have a “weird-relationship-thing” (as steve called it) with you weren’t sure you’d be able to be in the same vicinity as them nevermind in a cramped bathroom joking around about how one of them had almost lost their life to fucked up bat creatures.

Maybe it was a trauma bond.

Yeah, it was definitely a trauma bond.

“Does it still hurt, y’know…” You waved you finger around, circling the makeshift bandages where the wounds were.

You immediately wanted to open the lid of the toilet you were perched on, stick your head in and flush. Stupid question.

“Oh— yeah, but it’s fine. Nancy tied it up real tight. The pressure is definitely doing something to help.”

You sat for a second, thinking before you dropped down to the ground from the toilet, shuffling over to the cupboard under the sink. Surely they had something you could use to help.

“Those bandages are gross. You’re gonna get infected or something.” You pulled out a first aid kit, blowing off the dust like she was a wizard about to open a spell book (you had been around dustin for far too long).

“Pretty sure I already have rabies, according to Robin.”

You scoffed, a smirk crawling its way across your lips as you sat back on the lid of the toilet. You motioned Steve towards you, opening the first aid kit as the boy took a few small steps forward. There wasn’t much of a gap to close.

This was far too comfortable, but he really did need to change that bandage for a real bandage or the healing process was going to be far nastier than it already would be. You were being charitable, duh.

“Can I?”

He nodded, peeling off the vest Eddie had lent him to cover up considering all of his clothes were now discarded on a rickety old boat in the middle of lover’s lake.

You took the grimey, tattered fabric in your hands and tore with all your might, revealing the nasty gashes and wounds Steve had been left with after his attack. You turned up your nose on instinct as Steve winced at the sudden lack of pressure and the way the fabric stuck to the open wounds. Blegh!

“Sorry.” You said softly, discarding the old bloody bandage on the shower floor.

You reached over to the sink, grabbing a cloth and dampening it with water.

You dragged Steve closer to you as you plopped yourself back down.

“This is definitely gonna sting, okay? I just need to clean it.” You warned him, gazing up. He was already looking down.

“I can take it.” He reassured.

You dabbed around the wounds gently, careful not to make direct contact and send him into shock or something.

Steve recoiled under the touch, trying not to move too much as the girl in front of him slowly cleaned the dried blood away.

“Sorry… again.”

A breathy laugh escaped him. He was looking up now, straining his whole body at some attempt to relieve the pain. At least it was you. He wasn’t sure anyone else would be so gentle — not that he would let anyone else do this.

You eventually finished cleaning off what you could, meaning Steve could don some fresh bandages that were actually bandages, rather than a piece of Nancy Wheeler's dirty shirt that she had ever so kindly given up.

You reached around his waist, wrapping the bandage delicately, with such precision, making sure it would last and that it was tight enough to ease the pain, even slightly. Steve noticed how you bit the inside of your cheeks when you were focused on something.

Although, he had always noticed that.

You tied the new wrapping tight, pulling on it so hard that you heard Steve groan in pain ever so slightly.

“There. Good as new, Harrington.” You said, shoving the supplies back into the first aid kit and standing up. Steve stepped backwards, forgetting how close in proximity you were.

“Thanks. Saving my ass, as usual.” He said, looking down at the clean bandages that wrapped around him, completely satisfied. Even if he did get an infection and die a horrible death, at least he got something out of it.

You rolled her eyes at that, pushing your tangled mop of hair out of your face where a goofy grin unfortunately creeped up.

“Don’t sweat it. You can pay me back by killing vecna, or whatever we’re calling him now.”

“Pinky swear.” Steve held out his pinky to you, you took it of course. Your eyes rolled once again, a force of habit.

Steve had that effect on people…

You both lingered for a second, pinky in pinky, before letting go, you squeezed past the taller of the two of you to get to the door as Steve scrambled to get his vest again.

You walked out to a room of more your filthy, traumatised companions who were deep in conversation, conjuring up a plan of some kind.

Nobody really paid much attention to the two who walked out of the bathroom. It’s not like you had anything to hide. just a very strangely intimate wound cleaning session between two people who used to be sort of a thing. absolutely nothing.

It wasn't until Dustin looked up that it was finally acknowledged.

“Dude, did you change your bandages?” The teenager said, raising his eyebrows in curiosity.

“Yeah, man, don’t worry about it. just didn’t wanna get like, infected or something.” he replies, waving dustin off. The younger boy shrugged it off, having more important things to worry about, such as the monster-slash-boy who was terrorizing them and killing everyone in hawkins.

Steve made his way over to sit himself on the couch beside Eddie, melting into it like the spot was made for him. Everyone was exhausted.

You stayed leaning by the wall near Max. That was enough being pushed up against each other for one day.

[kawaiigentlemenpolice]

CUDDLES WITH ZORO...But

Contents:fluff,cute,warm,fuzzy feelings,Zoro x you,cuddles,comfort

Warning: this is a comfort writing but there's mention of scars, past trauma both Zoro and reader,reader past abuse from mother,description of reader trauma,viewers is advise

I'm no english native so sorry for some mistakes

Please reblog 🔁 and like❤️

P.S:first time writing for him so i hope it will turn out good ( ˶ˆᗜˆ˵ ) also the reader joined the crew after the time lapse

@muzansslxt @candy69gurl @kiwicopia @satorkive @ponderingmoonlight

It was a cold night in the Thousand Sunny, everyone was on board trying to keep themselves warm and comfortable. You were sitting outside on the deck, feeling the chill air touch your skin. A blanket wrapped around you in an attempt to keep you warm. Zoro, having taken notice of you sitting there by yourself, stepped outside and approached you. "What are you doing out here all alone" he asked, his voice low.

You looked up at him with a small shiver "I'm just…trying to get some fresh air." Zoro noticed your slight shivering and moved closer, he was standing right in front of you now, towering over your form. "You're freezing" he observed. He could see the steam coming from your breath.

Without saying anything, he sat down beside you, his body close to yours, sharing some of his heat. You felt yourself move closer to him, instinctively seeking more warmth. Zoro noticed, but didn't say anything. He lifted the edge of the blanket and wrapped it around both of you now.

The two of you sat silently, your bodies pressed together for warmth. You could feel his breath on your cheek as he inhaled deeply, and exhaled slowly. It was strangely comforting. You could even hear the soft sound of his heartbeat, a comforting rhythm in the otherwise silent night.

"i always forgot how you got this scar on your chest" you mumbled as you traced it

Zoro looked down at your hand as it traced the long scar that ran across his chest, a grimace momentarily flashed across his face before it disappeared into his usual stoic expression. He didn't say anything, just watched silently as your fingers traced the lines of the scar. "It's an old battle scar" he said finally, breaking the silence.

"i know that but how did you get it?" you asked curiosly

Zoro was quiet for a moment as if deciding whether to tell you or not. This was a piece of his past, a part of his story he didn't share often but something about the way you looked up at him made him speak. "It was during a battle, years ago" he began slowly, his face hardening at the memory.

"A powerful enemy, who I underestimated" he continued. There was a hint of annoyance in his voice, annoyance at himself for being so careless back then. "He managed to get the better of me, left me with this" he said, gesturing to the scar.

You nodded, understanding now why he seemed reluctant to talk about it. It was a reminder of a painful experience for him. You continued to trace the scar, your fingers moving gently across his skin, feeling the ridges and bumps of it.

Zoro watched you silently, his eyes never leaving your face as you touched his scar. He could see the curiosity in your eyes, mixed with something else…pity? He couldn't quite place it. He found himself enjoying the feel of your fingertips against his skin, even though he'd never admit it.

The two of you sat there in silence again, the only sound was the gentle hum of the Thousand Sunny and the soft breathing of Zoro. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, mixing with yours and the blanket, creating a cozy bubble around the two of you.

Eventually, you spoke again, breaking the silence. "Does it still hurt?" you asked, your fingers still tracing the scar. Zoro looked down at you, a small smirk appearing on his face. "No" he replied, his voice low and smooth. "It's just a scar now, a reminder."

"mine does sometimes" you mumbled "it's old too,from the past,it's just a burn scar but it covers all my back"

Zoro's eyes darkened at your words, his expression hardening again. He had never noticed the scar on your back before, but now that you mentioned it, he wanted to look at it, touch it. "Can I see it?" he asked, his voice was gruff yet gentle.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you wanted to show him. But something in his eyes, in his tone, made you feel like it was okay. Slowly, you peeled off your shirt, revealing your back to him. Zoro's breath hitched as he saw the scar. It was indeed large, covering almost half of your back, looking angry and painful.

He reached out a hand, gently running his fingers along the edge of it. You shivered at his touch, the feeling of his calloused fingers against your skin sending shivers down your spine. "It looks painful" he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded slightly "It was, at first. But now, it's just a reminder" you echoed his previous words. Zoro's fingers continued to trace the scar, his touch light yet firm. It was a strange feeling, having him so close, so intimate.

"How did it happen?" he asked after a while, his eyes not leaving the scar. He knew you didn't like talking about your past, but something about seeing the scar, feeling its roughness under his fingers made him want to know more.

You let out a small sigh, bracing yourself for the memories flooding back. "It was a long time ago. During a fight." You said simply. Zoro could tell there was more to the story, but he didn't press. He just continued to trace the scar, his fingers occasionally touching your skin directly now. "Must have been a tough battle to leave such a mark on you" he observed.

"yeah.." you mumbled thinking back about your abusive mother "it was…"

Zoro noticed the change in your voice, how it became strained and pained. He could sense there was something more to this scar than just a battle injury. "Can you tell me about it?" he asked, his voice low. You were hesitant, but something in his eyes made you feel safe, made you feel like you could trust him with this part of your past.

You took a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady as you spoke. "It was…my mother." you said simply, your eyes looking down at the wooden panels of the deck. "She.. wasn't a good person. She was violent. She had her demons I guess."

Zoro's eyes darkened further, his grip on your shoulder tightening slightly. He could see the pain in your eyes as you spoke, and could feel the tension in your body. The thought of your mother abusing you like that was infuriating.

Warning description of trauma!!

"One day, she was in a particularly bad mood. I don't remember what I did to set her off, but she got angry. She was already holding a kettle in her hand, and…she just poured it on me." You could feel the heat of the water on your back again, even now as you told the story. It was a memory that was forever seared into your mind

Zoro's grip on your shoulder tightened slightly, silently encouraging you to continue. He was feeling a growing sense of anger towards your mother, but he kept it contained, focusing on listening to your story.

"I remember screaming, the pain was so intense. She must have gotten snapped out of her anger because she started freaking out, calling for help, trying to cool the burn. But it was too late, the damage was already done." Your voice was shaky now, the images of that day still vivid in your mind.

Zoro's eyes darkened as you spoke, anger and fury building up inside him. The thought of someone purposely causing harm to you, someone as kind and gentle as you, made him want to go find your mother and make her pay. But he held himself back, knowing that wouldn't help you now.

"From that day on, I couldn't stand the heat of hot water. Every time I saw a kettle, or someone was cooking with boiling water, I would panick." Your voice was quieter now, your body slightly trembled. It was as if you were transported back to that day, reliving the pain and the fear.

"that's why that time with Sanji i didn't helped him" you chuckled bitterly

Zoro's grip on your shoulder tightened slightly at your words, his mind going back to the time you didn't help Sanji. He remembered how stubborn you were, how reluctant to even go near the kitchen when the cook was boiling water. Now he understood the real reason behind it.

"That's why you don't like being around the kitchen" he said, a statement more than a question. He was starting to understand your behavior more now, the fear, the avoidance. But it only made him angrier at your mother, at the pain she had caused you.

"That's why you found me out here" you admitted "the crew was in the kitchen and i couldn't bear it"

Zoro's hand moved from your shoulder to your face, gently lifting your chin up so you were looking at him. His eye was intense, filled with a mixture of anger and concern. "You shouldn't have to deal with that alone" he said firmly. "You should've told me, or the others. We could've helped you."

You looked up at him, surprised by the intensity in his voice and the slight anger in his eye. "I didn't want to burden you guys with my problems" you mumbled. Zoro gritted his teeth, his grip on your chin tightening slightly. "You're not a burden" he said sternly. "We're crewmates, we look out for each other"

"But my problem is…different" you protested, your eyes averting from his intense gaze. Zoro's hand moved from your chin to your shoulder, squeezing it gently. "That doesn't matter" he said firmly. "We all have our demons, our pain. That's what makes us human. And as a crew, we deal with them together."

You looked up at him again, seeing the sincerity and determination in his expression. For a moment, you felt a flutter in your chest. This was…different than usual. Zoro was uncharacteristically caring, almost protective. He wasn't the one to comfort or console, yet here he was, doing exactly that.

Zoro could see the surprise in your eyes, the way your body tensed under his touch. He was aware of the effect he was having on you, but he couldn't help it. Seeing you in pain, hearing your story, it triggered something in him. A protective instinct, a need to comfort you.

He pulled you closer to him, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you into his chest. It was a tight, secure embrace, different from the casual brushes and touches you were used to. It made your heart flutter again, the sound of his heartbeat drumming in your ears.

You could feel the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed, the steady rhythm calming your racing heart. His arm around you was firm yet gentle, pulling you closer to him until you were huddled against him. The warmth of his body seeped into your own, chasing away the chill of the night air.