#there is just under two days left to buy the bundle

[rizwalda]

my piece for _pysics' Jukebox 20: An Album Redraw Zine - created as part of @d20zinejam 2024 get this zine and 67 others in a bundle and help support humanitarian aid for the people of Palestine

there is an wonderful, accompanied playlist 🎶 here

orignal art by @wishbow

[buckyseternaldoll]

Blooming From Within

🍼 based on this ask.

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky x Fem!Reader

Summary: It wasn’t planned, but it was never unloved. Bucky’s ready—and he’s never looked at you like this before.

Disclaimer: unplanned pregnancy, pregnancy symptoms (fatigue, fever, early ultrasounds), emotional softness, no smut, just pure fluff and devotion, baby fever, husband material Bucky, prenatal care

Word Count: 2.8k

You never asked him to pull out. Not once.

There was trust—steady, intimate trust—and besides, you’d been taking your Depo shots religiously. Every appointment made, every three-month window counted down and scheduled on your phone. Bucky never questioned it. Neither did you. You’d been careful. Responsible.

But your body had been whispering something different lately.

It started as a flicker—barely a thought, just an off-feeling in your chest. The kind of gut instinct you couldn’t shake even when you told yourself you were being paranoid. You weren’t nauseous. You weren’t even late yet. Your next cycle wasn’t due for another few days. But the feeling was strong. Heavy. Familiar in a way that scared you.

You told yourself it was stress. You tried to brush it off.

Still, that same afternoon—while Bucky was stuck in a debrief with another congressional committee—you found yourself quietly slipping out to the pharmacy and buying a pregnancy test. Just one. Just to shut the feeling up. You didn’t tell him.

You waited until he left again the next day, locked in his office for hours, drafting policy proposals and doing interviews you never had the patience to watch in full. You stayed in the bathroom, reading the test’s instructions over and over again. Your hands trembled a little as you peed on the stick and set your phone timer. Three minutes.

You weren’t expecting anything. You told yourself that. But you exhaled so hard it almost hurt.

When the timer buzzed, your hand hovered. You picked the test up.

Two lines. One faint. But undeniably there.

You stared at it for longer than you meant to, pulse crawling up your throat.

Could be a false positive. Could be a fluke. The box did say early testing wasn’t always accurate. So you tucked the test into the back of the bathroom drawer, locked your phone, and waited for your period to come.

It didn’t.

���

The next evening, Bucky was humming low under his breath in the kitchen, layering lasagna sheets like some war hero–turned–domestic god. You told him you’d set the table. Instead, you went into the bathroom again.

This time you brought five different tests. Two of them were digital.

Your hands didn’t shake as much this time, but your heart still did. You weren’t even sure what you wanted the answer to be. You weren’t planning for this. You’d never even let yourself imagine it.

You waited on the cold tile floor, knees to your chest, staring at the row of tests on the counter.

Positive.

Pregnant.

Double lines.

Double lines.

Pregnant.

It was real. It was all real. And somehow you weren’t surprised. Your body had known.

But you didn’t tell him.

Not that night. Not the next day either.

You read somewhere that early pregnancies could be fragile, and maybe you needed time—to adjust, to breathe, to even believe it yourself. You thought: twelve weeks. That’s when I’ll tell him. When I’m sure everything’s okay.

So you kept the secret. Quiet. Close.

It wasn’t hard at first. You felt fine. No morning sickness. No major symptoms. Just… tired. A little lightheaded sometimes. But nothing dramatic.

Then one morning, you woke up shivering with fever, body aching like you were coming down with something nasty. It was the first time Bucky saw you that way—slumped on the couch, bundled in a blanket, half-asleep with your forehead damp with sweat.

He panicked.

You never got sick. In your whole time together, you’d only ever had one cold, and you still powered through like a soldier. But now? You could barely keep your eyes open.

He made soup. Texted Sam. Cancelled his meetings for the next three days. Sat on the floor beside the couch, cradling your feet in his lap, running his metal hand over your skin to gauge your temperature. You’d never seen him that still, that focused.

When you saw him reaching for the phone again, you reached for his hand.

“Don’t,” you croaked softly. “I’m okay. It’s just a fever. Probably something nasty going around.”

“You never catch anything nasty,” he muttered, brows still furrowed.

You gave him a tired smile, voice hoarse but teasing. “That’s because you’re the one who’d shut down completely if you were the one in this blanket.”

He huffed a soft, reluctant laugh. But he still looked worried. He didn’t call the doctor—but only because you insisted.

Bucky took the next three days off entirely. No briefings. No dinners. He nursed you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Made warm broths. Pressed cool cloths to your forehead. Cooked whatever you wanted, even when your cravings barely made sense. He watched over you like you were breakable.

And somehow, he still didn’t suspect.

Not once did he mention your period. Not once did he count the days.

By day four, the fever was easing. You could move again. Shower. Change clothes. Brave through small chores like folding laundry or wiping down the kitchen counter. You were still tired—bone tired—but you masked it when Bucky was around. You smiled more. Sat up straighter. Made jokes just to ease the look in his eyes.

And when he was gone—when he left for Capitol meetings or early morning roundtables—you slept.

You slipped out once, too. Quiet and careful. While he was caught in back-to-back interviews, you went to the clinic alone and met a doctor. You wanted to know. Needed to hear it from someone else.

Five weeks pregnant, the doctor said.

You held your breath as the ultrasound wand moved across your stomach. There was nothing but a soft blur of shadows.

No heartbeat yet.

But the doctor smiled gently and told you not to worry—it was too early.

“Come back around week eight,” she said. “We’ll most likely see the heartbeat then.”

It didn’t mean anything was wrong.

So you nodded. Took the list of supplements they offered. Bought the vitamins. And started taking them in secret, tucking them behind other bottles in the cabinet, swallowing them quietly when Bucky was too busy reading news reports to notice.

You hadn’t told him yet.

But you were sure of it now.

Your body wasn’t whispering anymore. It was humming—quiet, steady, certain.

You were pregnant.

And someday soon, you were going to have to tell the man you loved that his whole world was about to change.

—

You didn’t tell him right away.

You waited. Waited for something firmer, clearer. Something that said yes, this is real, not just a whisper in your body.

So three weeks after that first quiet visit, you went back to the clinic. Alone again. Your palms were cold, pressed between your thighs as you sat on the edge of the exam table. The nurse adjusted the wand and angled the screen toward you.

“There,” she said softly. “Right there.”

A tiny rhythm blinked on the monitor—irregular, still faint, but undeniably alive.

A heartbeat.

You covered your mouth with both hands. You didn’t cry, not quite, but your eyes went glassy with warmth. It wasn’t fear this time. Not even nerves. Just… awe. A slow rush of something that felt bigger than joy.

You were a mom now. A tiny life was growing inside you, and it already had its own pulse. Its own tiny rhythm that matched nothing in this world but itself.

And suddenly the fear about telling Bucky didn’t feel as heavy. You still didn’t know exactly how, but you knew one thing for certain: he’d be a good dad. Maybe the best. You’d seen it already—in the way he took care of your fever like it might steal your breath. In the way he looked at you like the world never made sense until you existed.

You spent the next few days curating a box.

You tucked in both ultrasound scans—the first one, and the newer one from your latest visit, where the baby looked more like a little lima bean than a blur. You carefully cleaned and dried the pregnancy tests, lined them up in order, like stepping stones leading to the truth. And in the corner of a baby blue velvet pouch, you placed one tiny pair of LEGO-sized shoes you’d found at a novelty store downtown. No laces. Just molded plastic. They made you laugh the second you saw them, and you figured Bucky would too. Humor was how you both survived the hard stuff.

You tied it up with twine and hid the box in your nightstand drawer. Waiting for the right moment.

—

That moment came quietly.

It was a weekend. The kind that moved slow, where the sunlight stretched across the sheets and neither of you had anywhere to be. He was spooned around you, your back to his chest, one arm slung across your middle, chin nestled in your hair.

“You look…” he hummed, low and lazy, “kinda glowy lately. You know that?”

Your cheeks warmed. “Glowy?”

“Yeah. Like you’ve got this extra something. Little dash of beautifulness I can’t quite figure out.”

You smiled against his forearm, heart thudding louder now. You turned in his hold until your cheek rested on his chest, hand splayed over his sternum. The rhythm of his heart was steady under your fingers.

“I’ve got something for you,” you murmured.

That got his attention.

“Yeah?” His brow ticked, lips curving at the corner. “What kind of something?”

“Sit up,” you whispered, voice softer now. “And close your eyes.”

He did—without teasing, without hesitation. You could see him trying to guess by the way his jaw shifted slightly, but he kept his eyes shut, a little grin playing at his lips.

You reached for the drawer, fingers brushing the twine-wrapped box.

“Okay,” you said, voice just a little shaky. “You can open them.”

Bucky opened his eyes.

And went still.

The grin slipped from his mouth, lips parting slowly. His eyes scanned the open box in his lap—the scans, the tests, the tiny plastic shoes—and everything inside him shifted in that moment. His brows drew together. His mouth moved but no sound came out at first.

Then—

“Wait…”

His voice cracked slightly, low and careful.

“You’re…?”

You nodded.

He blinked twice, still looking at the contents of the box like they might dissolve if he stared too hard. Then he looked up at you.

And you didn’t expect it—how fast he moved. One second he was sitting there, and the next his arms were around you, pulling you tight against him, burying his face in your neck like he couldn’t hold himself together otherwise.

The first words he said were not about the baby.

“How are you, baby? How’s your body?”

You blinked against his shoulder, caught off guard.

“Are you okay? Have you been in pain? Was that fever—was that because of this?” He leaned back just enough to cup your face, eyes flicking over every part of you like he was cataloging anything he’d missed. “Have you had morning sickness? You didn’t say anything, you—Jesus, sweetheart, are you okay?”

You laughed, breath catching a little at how serious he looked. “You’re asking all the questions like you’re the one growing it.”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “I’m serious. I’m trying to catch up.”

You kissed his jaw, smiling. “I’m okay, Buck. No morning sickness, no pain. The fever passed. I’ve been tired, that’s all. And I’ve been taking my vitamins.”

He exhaled hard, like he’d been holding that breath for weeks. His eyes finally flicked back to the box.

You watched him, amused. “You’re not curious about the baby, love?”

He blinked. “Shit. I didn’t even ask.”

You smiled gently, heart soft. “I know.”

He swallowed hard. “I’m just… I’m so used to it being us. You’re the only thing I’ve ever really had.”

You nodded. “I know.”

He looked down at your belly—not showing yet, not even a hint—and placed his hand there. Just rested it, like he was trying to feel something through the skin.

“How far along?”

“Thirteen weeks yesterday.”

He looked up, eyes shining with something thick and quiet.

“And the baby’s okay?”

You nodded. “Healthy. Measuring right on track. I even heard the heartbeat last week. It’s strong.”

He pulled you back into him again, holding you even tighter this time. His lips brushed your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

“You’re gonna be the best mom,” he whispered, voice thick with awe. “God. I’m so fucking in love with you.”

And you just smiled—because at that moment, the world felt steady. Full.

You didn’t know what would come next, but you knew you’d face it with him. With his hand on your belly, and yours over his heart.

Together.

—

Time slipped by like soft wind. Weeks passed in a rhythm that grew more familiar by the day—naps in sunlit rooms, grocery lists that included pickles and strawberries, quiet Saturday mornings with Bucky curled around you like a human blanket. You were twenty-four weeks along now, and it felt real in every sense. Visible. Tangible.

Bucky had never missed a single checkup—not once. And today was no different. He was already in the waiting room with your hand held tight in his, thumb brushing little circles into your wrist like it was muscle memory. His eyes had this light in them—like he couldn’t wait to see his kid again.

Every time he heard the heartbeat, he got a little quiet. You’d learned to read the change in his face—how his smile turned a bit softer, his eyes just a little glassier. He never said much in those moments, but his grip on your hand would tighten, and he’d kiss your temple like he couldn’t help it.

He was attached. In love. With both of you.

He’d even taught himself how to read ultrasound scans—seriously taught himself, like some people learn how to restore motorcycles. The last visit, before the tech even said a word, Bucky had leaned forward with this quiet little grin and whispered, “She’s a girl, isn’t she?”

The technician had paused. Blinking. Then turned to look at the screen again.

“…I didn’t even say anything yet,” she’d laughed. “How did you—?”

You chuckled, rubbing your belly, voice warm.

“He’s just overjoyed. And very skilled at everything.”

Bucky blushed and ducked his head, but you saw the quiet pride on his face. And he’d earned it—he really was learning. You found three pages of names tucked inside his notebook, all neatly written in his sharp, precise print. Girls’ names this time. Ones he liked the sound of when said with your last name. Or his.

—

Despite how overwhelmed he sometimes looked when he stared at your growing belly like it still surprised him… Bucky never let the nerves get louder than the joy. And he never once forgot you in the process.

He treated you like you were royalty. No—like something holier than that.

He came home during lunch hours just to eat with you, even if it meant rushing back into meetings with food stains on his shirt. He brought flowers one evening. Plums the next. There was no pattern—just whatever reminded him of you. Your body started to ache in the evenings, so he massaged your hips, your calves, your shoulders, murmuring low praises as he worked out the knots.

He got serious when your OB mentioned blood sugar.

“I’ve been reading about gestational diabetes,” he said one night, flipping through a folder of printed articles. “You’ve got me now, doll. That means no extra spoonfuls of honey. And you’re down to one coffee a day, max.”

You gave him a look. “Are you going to monitor my espresso shots?”

“Yes,” he said flatly. “And I’ll replace them with kisses. More effective.”

Even weekends became little love letters. He’d take you out—to museums, parks, bookstores, lakesides. Nothing too crowded. Nothing that would make you tired. He kept a blanket in the trunk of the car just in case you needed to lie down somewhere. Always thinking ahead. Always thinking of you.

It wasn’t just something he started doing after you got pregnant. It was simply who he was. It was in his DNA. This quiet devotion. This way he loved you in every language—words, time, touch, gifts, acts. He spoke all five fluently. And with you, he was always fluent.

—

Sometimes, late at night, you’d lie awake and watch him sleep beside you—his hand resting over your belly without even thinking, as if that was where it belonged. As if he already knew what it meant to protect someone too small to be seen.

You felt blessed. Not in the way people toss the word around lightly.

But truly, deeply, humblingly blessed.

To have him by your side.

And to be carrying his child.

You had never been more certain: this was the kind of love that stayed.

[ruinix]

hi i’m just here to drop in and mention how bad Quinn wants to leave marks on your body. he doesn’t care where or how he just needs to see him on you at all times ya know?

Halloo, love, my lovely moot😚. I’m sorry it took me long. I blame my two braincells. They got distracted. [Also... i totally didnt try to repost this (i did, but it didnt happen...😭 sorry)] Here it is...ummm.... i think i have veered off in a different path. Sorry...🧎🏻‍♀️

One. Two. Three.

CW/TW: 18+ MDNI, Smut or smut(ish), Sloppy kisses and Marking, Slightest bit of choking, Quinn being a love sick fool 🙂‍↔️

Count: 1449 words | Masterlist | Taglist

One. Two. Three. Hmmm, that’s not right. Quinn swears he left you four marks on your neck…Why the fuck are you bundled up after all the hard work he did?

He could feel his irritation bubble up his throat, but he swallows it down—crossing his arms, eyebrows drawn—as he tracks your movement across the apartment. You’re doing miscellaneous cleaning, dusting here and there, dancing along with whatever music blasting in your headphones.

You look cute, really. Pretty and cozy in your matching sweatpants and your crewneck sweater. The colors are soft and makes your skin glow. The fit is oversized. You demanded that size when you got him to buy it—he bought five sets for you, because you rarely request something. You are even wearing your comfy and grippy socks. Adorable, really. Really—Fuck. What the fuck? Are you covering him—his marks—up? Didn’t you say you love them last night?

Before he could spiral, you finally notice him. Whatever complaints he has disintegrated to nothing. Your smile with the twinkle in your eyes takes his breath away. When you squeal and run towards him, his arms instantly drop, spreading to give in your hug. You smell like fresh laundry. Home. You smell like home. His home.

Quinn melts into your touch, head dipping where your neck and shoulders meet. His eyes dart from one mark after the other. Where is the other one?

 “Quinn, you’re home! How’s your day? How’s practice?” you ramble on, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek.

“All good. I had fun,” he murmurs, slightly parting from you. “How’s yours?”

You happily recount your day—cleaning, work, watching a show, taking a good and satisfying bath. Quinn guesses that this day is for a nonlinear storytelling, which he has no complaints about. He could get lost in your voice, that’s like the soft patters of rain, like the soft breeze in summer, like the rustle of leaves, like soft chirps of birds. Your voice is like every calming tune of nature. Soothing. Nurturing. That’s what you do to his soul.

Mix that with how firmly your arms are wrapped around his torso, hands slipping into his shirt. They smoothen over his muscles, tracing his spine, causing shivers to run down his fucking soul. Oh, the effect you have on him, but that doesn’t appease him as it usually does. Not one bit—fine, maybe just slightly—because where the fuck is it?

While you talk about a grocery list, Quinn carefully rubs your arms and your shoulders. When he thumbs the column of your neck, you instantly pause, shuddering, breaths picking up. You look at him with wide eyes. The blush staining your cheeks deepens. Cute.

Quinn slips his thumb into your collar and tugs. He almost gets distracted with the goosebumps on your skin. Almost. Because there it is. The fourth mark. It’s just hiding under the edge. Still red and purple, the same shade as the other three. Still so beautiful on your skin. So fucking beautiful.

“Quinn?” you call, confusion etched in your face. “Did I lose you?”

Lose him? Never. You will never lose him. You’re stuck with him. He will chase you no matter where you go, stand beside you, hold your hands every step of the way.

You know that, but you’re still pouting. As second ticks, your confusion turns into annoyance. Your eyebrows furrow. You’re such a brat sometimes. It makes him want to kiss you, so he does. Your arms hook over his nape. The way your lips instantly part sends blood rushing down his groin. You’re always so eager, parting your thighs for his leg to step between.

“You ignored me,” you murmur, nipping at his lip. “You can’t ignore me.”

Fuck. That feels good.

“Not ignoring you. I heard everything you said,” Quinn whispers back in between kisses. “You know that, brat.”

He feels your smile, hears your giggle. He’s so fucked. Even that turns him on. With how your eyes shine, you know you had him in a chokehold. Well, he can have you in a chokehold too. Literally. So, he gives your neck a squeeze. A small whimper comes out your lips.

“Quinn.”

Your name spills out from his lips as a response.

You moan like he’s already fucking you, grinding your clothed cunt over his thigh. He pushes it up, letting you take all the friction you want.

When he goes for another kiss, your lips are already parted, tongue out, waiting for his. You beautiful siren. Quinn can’t hold in his growl as he meets it.

The kiss is sloppy, messy, and hungry. Your spits mixing. Your tongues lashing. Your teeth bumping and nipping each other’s lips. So different from the first one just a while ago. So different, yet utterly the same—full of love, lust, and devotion. So fucking good.

Quinn grinds his hard-on against you, raising his thigh to help you chase your high, but he stops. Not yet. You can’t come just yet. Your whines fill his ears as he parts from you. Tears threaten to spill as you try, try, and fucking try to get him to kiss you again. To get him to let you ride his thigh again. To get him to fuck himself on you.

You have to wait.

“Maybe,” he mutters against your lips, almost laughing when your tongue darts out to gaud him for another kiss. Little seductress. Quinn impatiently tugs on your sweatshirt. “Maybe you should get rid of this, yeah?”

He nearly preens when you nod—desperately and utterly wrecked. His hands shake as he helps you pull it off.

Fuck. You’re just wearing an almost-sheer crop top underneath. Your nipples are already taut, begging for him to touch, to kiss, to suck. Your low neckline showcases your beautiful skin littered with different shades of kiss marks. Some are old. Some are new. All his.

Yet. Not. Enough.

Not when there are still lots of blank spaces of skin to mark. Not when many of them are already fading. Not when you can still hide them. He doubts it will ever be enough. He just needs him on you.

His kiss marks.

Different from cum and spit which you—or he, depending on your mood—wash away.

Different from the occasional fingerprint bruises he leaves on your hips and thighs from holding you so tightly as he fucked you until you couldn’t stop cumming, until he’s left with watery cum or with nothing because your sweet pussy already sucked him dry.

Different because it shows the whole world how he worshipped you, your skin, your being.

Different but they always come one after another. He can’t have you all marked up with your pussy unsatisfied, can he? No. That’s not possible. An offence that he would rather die than commit.

“You’re so pretty,” he breathes, grazing his knuckles over your ribs. His other hand tenderly holds our hips, keeping them pressed against his, not letting you do anything else. “So pretty.”

He nearly chokes on those words. He relishes the feel of your hands on his shoulders, fingers casually tugging the tips of his hair—a demand for him to stop fucking around.

Well, can you blame him for taking his time? He just loves you so much.

Then, your little tugs turn more desperate, fingers wrapping around his locks. You tug on his hair like you want to rip it off, but you would ease and scratch his scalp effectively seducing him.

But first, he needs to remedy his problem. He grips your arms, holding them against the wall, as he partakes on your skin. The way you surrender—when he starts sucking and adding marks on your neck, even craning it to give him more access—almost made him fall to his knees. Oh, he is essentially on his knees, because you are his love, his law, his Goddess. He is always kneeling for you. His existence is nothing without you now. He can only beg that you always be with him—of course, he will ensure that.

But he can’t be on his knees right now. How can he reach your neck then? How can he hold you up when you are melting with every suck and lick and kiss then?

Later, he can be on his knees. Later, when he needs to mark up your belly, your hips, your thighs, the creases between them that leads to your pussy, and your beautiful fucking ass. Later.

Right now, he needs to mark up your neck to show everyone—honestly, just him, fuck everyone else—that you are his and his alone.

[vunblr]

A Hand in the Dark (#5)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Hurt/Comfort. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Suicidal thoughts (neither Bucky nor Reader). Canon-Typical Violence. Suggestion of past non-con.

Summary: In a brief moment of lucidity, Soldat makes a choice. And some choices echo across time, shaping the future in ways no one could predict.

Word Count: 4.5.k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

Lately, it had started to worry him.

The pattern of his steps echoing hers through the apartment. The way his eyes tracked her when she moved from room to room, like his body couldn’t help but orient toward her presence. He didn’t mean to ask when she’d be back every time she reached for her coat or keys. Didn’t mean to wait in the same spot where she left him, like a tethered thing. But he did.

And now he was noticing it.

He caught it again that morning, her voice low in the kitchen as she took a call. He stayed out of sight, crouched by the radiator as if twirling the knob meant anything, listening to her pacing steps and the careful tone she reserved for people who didn’t know him.

“Yeah, I just… I’m not feeling well,” she said into the phone. “Sorry. I- I know. Next time, promise. Yeah. No, no-it’s fine, maybe I didn’t bundle up enough. Yeah. I’ll text you later.”

He heard the clink of the mug when she hung up, the soft sigh she let out.

She wasn’t sick.

Not in the way she said it.

She was staying because of him. Kept missing things. Apologizing for his gravity, for the way he bent her time under his weight. He was her sickness. The one that kept her shackled.

And she didn’t even blame him.

That made it worse.

His thoughts were still turning that over when he saw her cross the living room, keys in hand.

“I’m going to the grocery store,” she said casually.

He didn’t say anything. But whatever expression passed over his face made her pause.

Her hand dropped to her side. “It’s going to be about 30 minutes, tops. Then I’m staying home, it’s my day off.”

She said it so gently. Like she’d already rehearsed the answer for whatever words he might throw at her.

His mouth felt dry. He wanted to ask what route she’d take, if she’d keep her phone on her -even if he didn’t have one yet-. He wanted to say he didn’t trust this city, didn’t trust its men, its sidewalks, the alley she had to pass behind the deli. His mind started to paint it, someone grabbing her arm, shoving her into a van, holding a gun to her head, asking questions he couldn’t afford her to answer. What if she screamed? What if they didn’t wait for her to scream?

“Do you want to come?”

Her voice cut through the spiraling.

“I know you’re still struggling with crowds,” she added, “but this is a quiet hour. Barely anyone is around. And you’ve gone out on your own lately. What do you say if we buy the food together?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her.

Not at her face, but at her coat buttons, her hand flexing over the keys, the scuffed rubber of her shoes.

Together.

That word did something to the part of him that had clung, the part that had already started mourning her before she left.

He nodded once.

Maybe he could handle the aisles. The too-bright lights. The sound of doors opening and closing behind them.

As long as he could see her.

As long as he could make sure nothing touched her.

She smiled, rummaged in the side table drawer near the door, and came up with his gloves.

Not the woolen pair he'd picked up during one of his silent walks through the city, those always caught on the plating of his metal hand, snagging in the joints, tearing at the seams. They’d lasted maybe two days before ending up in the back of a drawer. No, these were the ones she’d found for him. Black leather, soft and almost new, from a second-hand shop. The good kind. Broken in by someone else, but worn just enough to mold comfortably to his hands. He’d struggled to say thank you when she gave them to him. Had waited for the catch, for the favor in return, but none ever came.

He pulled a baseball cap low over his head, took the gloves without a word, and worked them on one finger at a time. Then the jacket, which refused to close across his chest.

“We need to get you one your size,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

She reached for a black scarf next, stepped in close, and draped it around his neck with slow, careful hands and knotted it at the front, letting the ends fall against his chest.

“There. At least you won’t get cold.”

He almost told her it was fine. That his body could take worse. That this kind of cold was nothing, laughable, even. Not like the tundra. Not like the cryo chamber.

But he didn’t.

Because her fingers lingered a moment too long on the scarf’s edge. Because her voice had gone soft in that way it only did for him. Because he craved the attention, even if he struggled with it sometimes.

So he let her fuss.

----

He walked a step behind her, silent steps against the cracked sidewalk, slightly hunched shoulders like the whole world might take a shot at her if he didn’t keep watch. His head stayed down, just enough to keep his features shadowed, half-hidden under the baseball cap, eyes always moving, always scanning.

Inside the store, the air shifted as a stale cold pumped through a too-strong vent, and the stink of cheap detergent and raw meat carried on it. He flinched at the lights. Long, buzzing white fluorescents that made the linoleum shimmer and the corners of his vision twitch. They felt wrong. Too familiar. They belonged to damp corridors and stainless steel tables, not with frozen dinners and paper towel rolls.

“Do you want to push the cart?” she asked, almost gently, as they passed a neat row near the entrance.

He shook his head.

He didn’t want his hands full. Didn’t want his eyes away of her. Couldn’t push that rickety thing down an aisle and track the threat level of every stranger walking too close, couldn’t focus on her and the cart at once. Couldn't let it come between him and her, even metaphorically.

She gave him a tiny nod and moved on.

She talked a little as she walked, muttered to herself more than to him. Something about the price of her favorite coffee. Something about needing to remember batteries.

He stayed close, and watched her pick the things they used the most. Rice. Eggs. Consommé cubes. Toilet paper. The shampoo she liked.

He hated this place. Hated the colors, the clashing signage, the music screaming through too-old speakers. Mostly, he hated the choices. Too many brands for one thing. Rows and rows of options for cereal, bread, milk. How the fuck was someone supposed to choose between eight different types of ketchup?

It made his brain fuzz. This was the kind of overstimulation that made his skin prickle and the back of his jaw tense. More than the crowd or the noise, it was the indecision. The expectation that he should have opinions.

One afternoon, weeks ago now, she’d asked him what he liked. What kind of cereal, what kind of bread. Some brand of something he remembered. His brain had fought it -rattled against the questions like a bug in a jar- but he’d forced the answers out, one by one, stilted and unsure. Didn’t even know if they were real preferences or just echoes from whatever life he’d had before.

Still, she remembered them. Always brought home the same things after that.

Black bread. Plums, not bananas. A plain kind of cereal he vaguely recognized from somewhere old and faded in the back of his head.

When he looked up, she was already halfway down the aisle, comparing labels on a can of lentils. His feet moved without thinking.

He didn’t like this world. Didn’t trust it not to swallow her whole.

But he could walk behind her, make space for her in it.

And if he had to, he’d burn the goddamn store down to keep her safe.

“Was thinking…” she said, casually as they turned toward the vegetables. “That roast beef cut you brought the other day, what do you prefer to go with it? Baked potatoes or maybe some kind of salad? Was thinking of making it for dinner.”

He almost answered but got caught in the choices. Neither was what he wanted.

Not exactly.

What came to mind was the creamy gratin potatoes she’d made once. He’d eaten so much he’d ended up unwell, with a tight stomach and nausea, but he couldn’t stop swallowing. He hadn’t tasted anything that good in- hell, maybe ever.

But, she hadn’t offered that.

He looked down, slowed down a little. His left foot bounced once, then again with jittery energy. Because he couldn’t ask unless the door had already been opened.

She glanced up and noticed the stall. “Okay, let’s not lie to ourselves,” she chuckled, nudging her shoulder lightly into his arm. “We both know neither of us wants the salad.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Barely.

“But,” she continued, reaching for a bag of carrots, “maybe you want something else with the potatoes? Like sweet potatoes? Or carrots?”

His foot bounced again. She’d made room. She had said something else.

That counted.

He forced himself to breathe slowly, then tried to speak. “C-cream.”

The music overhead flared with some fast, pop beat, and two people walked too close, chattering in tandem. She didn’t catch it.

“Come again?” she asked, frowning slightly, leaning in.

His voice faltered worse the second time. “C-cream.”

Confused at first, she cocked her head, then her face lit with recognition.

“Oh. You want creamy potatoes?”

He gave a short, jerky nod without eye contact. His gaze was fixed on the crate of yams.

She smiled. “Well, the weather’s perfect for those. Let’s grab the ingredients then.”

He started to follow, but she stopped him, brushing his arm softly.

“It’s getting a little crowded,” she said casually, like it wasn’t to spare him. “Why don’t you pick the potatoes, and I’ll go grab the cream?”

He hated it. Hated the way she disappeared even for a second, the blind curve around the shelf where he couldn’t see her. But he’d asked for the recipe. This was his fault. His choice.

----

The song changed again. A strident thing, percussive and synthetic. He couldn’t make out most of the lyrics, but the few words that pierced through were so graphic, so crass, that it made him frown.

A shopping cart scraped into his hip, an old woman too focused on a can of peas to notice or care. He stepped back, but it wasn’t enough. A group of teens clustered by the freezers, laughing, one of them doing some exaggerated dance. Their voices spiked, pitchy and close. It was getting harder to filter. To aisle it all away.

Every sound hit him at once. The beep of the checkout, the rustle of plastic bags, a baby’s distant scream. A cough. Shoes squeaking on tile. Too many variables. Too many directions.

And his hearing, fuck, his hearing. The enhancement that had once been an asset was turning on him now, dragging in every little noise and shuffle like a sensory avalanche. His breath caught, his chest clenched.

His neck prickled as the collar of his jacket suddenly felt too close to it, even without being clasped. The fluorescent lights above his head buzzed with a low whine no one else would ever notice, but it was drilling into the base of his skull.

He dropped the bag of potatoes. Didn’t remember picking it up.

His left hand clenched and unclenched, metal whining softly in his glove.

Tunnel vision.

Too loud. Too close. The smell of bleach and citrus cleaner hit his nose with a chemical punch.

He didn’t see her at first -he was staring at the floor, blinking too fast, trying to count tiles- but then there was a voice. Her voice. Low. Measured.

“Hey,” she said softly. “I’m back.”

He didn’t look up.

She hesitated only a beat, then her tone turned even gentler. “I’m gonna take your hand, okay?”

He gave the smallest nod. Couldn’t form words.

Her fingers found his, and she wrapped her hand around his gloved one.

“Let’s go outside,” she said.

He followed.

He couldn’t think enough to object. Not really. But halfway to the door-

“The- the cart. You- your stuff. You need-”

“It’s okay,” she said. “None of that matters right now.”

“But the- you needed… pads. You said-”

“I’ll get them later. Doesn’t matter.”

The door hissed shut behind them, cutting off the store’s fluorescent chaos, but the world outside was no kinder. Cars roared in blurs of chrome and dust, someone cackled too loudly at the corner, a dog barked, and a horn screamed two blocks away. His head jerked slightly at each sound, pupils blown wide, chest stuttering like a misfiring engine.

She followed his gaze and saw what he saw: everything, all at once. There was nowhere to look that didn’t demand alertness.

He needed out.

She didn’t ask this time. Just tugged gently on his hand -come with me- and steered him toward the far edge of the parking lot, away from the doors, away from the cars, toward the quieter, cracked pavement behind the dumpsters where no one went unless they had to.

He followed her, but his steps were uneven, like his feet weren’t connected to his body. They made it halfway before his knees gave in.

He stumbled and she moved to catch him, but he was already going down. He sank to the curb and folded in on himself, burying his face in his forearm, shaking.

She dropped beside him without a word and tried to pull him into a hug, wrapping one arm around his shoulders, the other over his ribs, but the angle was awkward, and his body was too rigid, too twisted.

God. Was she making it worse?

But then, then he moved.

Not away, but into her. He turned and curled himself tighter, all the way down to the pavement, resting his head heavily in her lap. His arms wrapped around her waist with a desperation that stole her breath.

He pressed his face into her belly, tucking his nose just beneath her sweater, and held on like the world was ending.

And maybe, in his head, it was.

“Hey,” she whispered, moving her fingers without thinking, smoothing the damp hair from his forehead, trailing down to rub slow circles between his shoulder blades. “Darling, you need to breathe. You’re safe. You’re okay. No one’s here. Just me.”

She then rocked him gently, threading her fingers through the long strands of his hair again, brushing her thumb behind his ear.

He didn’t answer, didn’t lift his face, but his grip closed on her.

“I swear you’re safe. Why don’t you tell me five things you can see right now if you open your eyes?” she asked softly.

He didn’t move at first. Just stayed there, curled against her, breathing erratically. But her hand kept tracing lazy lines on his scalp, his back soothing him. She didn’t rush him.

Then, slowly, he shifted. Pulled his face back an inch, then two, opening his eyes a little.

“Your sweater,” he murmured in a raw and cracked voice. “Y-your face… and…” his gaze twitched, shaky. “The buttons on your jacket.”

She nodded, brushing the hair back from his temple again. “That’s good, sweetheart. You’re doing so good. Two more.”

He swallowed hard. His eyes drifted upward, unfocused, then narrowed.

“There’s… a discount sign on the brick wall,” he muttered. “Up there.”

“Good. One more.”

He squinted. And then, grimacing faintly “I think a fucking roach is walking across the sign.”

That startled a tiny huff of breath from her. Not quite a laugh, but the ghost of one. “Gross. Okay, four things you can touch?”

His arms were still around her waist. His fingers twitched a little. “Y-you. The ground. My gloves. Your… jeans.” His face shifted slightly, grazing the fabric.

“You’re doing great,” she breathed. “Three things you can hear?”

He closed his eyes, listening. “You,” he said instantly. “The wind. And… a cart wheel. Someone left a cart rolling.”

“That’s it, you are almost there.”

He nodded slowly. His breathing began to even out, each exhale longer than the last. His shoulders dropped half an inch, then another. Still curled, but not so tightly. Still holding her, but not clinging for dear life.

“Two things you can smell?” she prompted.

“Your shampoo,” he rasped. “And… thrash.”

“Yeah,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “We’ll sit somewhere nicer next time.”

His lips twitched. Barely, but she saw it.

“One thing you can taste?”

He blinked. Swallowed. “Adrenaline.”

She nodded again and leaned forward, pressing her lips to the crown of his head. “You’re back.”

He nodded a second time, firmer, and his hands loosened around her middle.

The silence stretched, but this one was bearable.

He didn’t speak. But when he shifted again, and rested his temple against her belly instead of trying to burrow in. Like he could breathe now. Like the world had stopped ending.

----

The door clicked shut behind them, and she turned the lock, slowly and deliberately, the way she always did: two twists, one check. But his body didn’t relax. If anything, it tensed more.

He didn’t wait, didn’t look at her. Just walked straight to his room like he was being marched, boots silent against the floor, hands fisted inside the gloves he hadn't even taken off.

He opened the door, didn’t turn the lights on, and sat on the bed.

His lungs felt like they were trying to crawl up his throat. His back still buzzed where she'd touched him, where her hands had drawn him back from the edge, but that comfort only made his shame deeper.

He hadn’t just glitched out in public. He’d done it in front of her.

In the dark, it was harder to tell what time it was, what place.

One part of him knew: he was in her apartment, safe -safe-with walls painted in warm tones, the faint smell of coffee and hand cream and the shampoo she used.

The other part, the one rewired by Hydra, was screaming.

Because he had failed.

The mission wasn’t to shop. The mission was her.

Surveillance. Security. Deterrence. Control.

That was his job. That was why he allowed himself to be outside. Why he tolerated the lights, the noise, the civilians.

And what did he do? He gave her a panic attack in a fucking vegetables aisle. Gave her the thrill of guiding a grown man out of a meltdown while people gawked and carts squealed past like nothing was wrong.

He’d been focused inward instead of outward. He hadn’t clocked the teenage group circling back near her purse, hadn’t checked the blind spot near the fridges, because he had a meltdown and ended up curled up like a fucking child behind a dumpster, hyperventilating while she -she- knelt in the gravel beside him and cooed like he was some poor mangled dog.

His shoulder twitched. He ripped off the gloves and flung them onto the bed. Then followed the jacket, and the cap.

Too hot. Too tight.

He pressed his fists to his temples.

If he couldn’t operate as a man, and now couldn’t even function as a weapon, then what was left?

The Soldat would never have let her get out of sight. Would have kept himself two paces behind, scanned every face, predicted every variable. Would’ve taken a bullet without blinking, slit a throat in silence, hauled her over his shoulder and extracted with precision.

But he -whatever this version of him was now- wasn’t capable of even picking potatoes without falling apart.

He dropped to the floor, resting his back against the bed. Sank his head into his hands. Titanium fingers pressed to his temple, not hard enough to bruise, but closely.

He could still feel the warmth of her thigh against his face, the way she let him curl in like he belonged there. Like she wanted him there.

But she didn’t sign up for this.

She brought in a stray, with some moral obligation rooted in something that happened about sixty years ago, and he didn’t even remember. And now she was elbows-deep in someone else’s wreckage, buying extra food and necessities for a man who couldn’t remember how to grocery shop.

She’d come in soon. Knock. Maybe ask if he wanted tea or if he was hungry. She always did. Even now, after that mess.

But-

How long until it was too much?

How long before she wanted her life back, clean, ordinary, undisturbed?

How long before she realized the thing she dragged through her door wasn’t a man at all, but a half-operating weapon, sharp in all the wrong ways, and useless in every right one?

He pressed the heels of his hands harder into his eyes until he saw stars.

Maybe she was already realizing it. Maybe today was the beginning of the end.

----

She didn’t follow him.

The instinct was there, of course it was, an ache to reach for him when he tore away down the hall like something was chasing him. But she stayed still.

He needed space. He always needed space. That was one of the first things she’d learned: how he stiffened when she stood too close to him in the first days, and sometimes it still happened. How long it had taken for him to even sit on the same couch without bracing for some invisible blow. Physical contact wasn’t normal for him. It had meaning. A cost.

Which is why what happened earlier somehow haunted her.

She didn’t think at that moment near the dumpster. Didn’t weigh it or ask for permission. He’d been curled in on himself like a dying thing, and her arms had moved before her brain caught up. She’d touched his back, his hair, pulled him into her lap like he was hers to comfort. Like that would be okay.

And he had leaned into her. Nestled his face into her belly, wrapped his arms around her waist, trembling and broken.

But what if-

Her hand twitched. She turned the kettle on.

What if he hadn’t wanted her hands there at all, hadn’t wanted her breath on his skin, her voice in his ear? What if he endured it, like a cornered animal pressing into warmth because it couldn’t run?

She’d spent a lot of time learning his rhythms, never pushing. Letting him come to her in small ways when he felt comfortable. He wasn’t tactile. He didn’t initiate. He had started to follow and trail her, bordering on obsessive, but never touching her.

Until today.

The kettle shrieked. She clicked it off quickly before the noise could reach him, and poured the water over the tea bag with careful hands. Chamomile.

She added a splash of milk, since she had learnt he fancied it like that.

Her knuckles rapped softly against his door.

“Bucky?” she murmured. “I made you tea. It’s… chamomile. You don’t have to open the door, I just- I wanted you to know.”

Silence.

She didn’t expect an answer. Not really. But her stomach still twisted when there wasn’t one.

“I’m sorry if I… overstepped. Back there,” she added quietly, “First asking you to come with me, and then- then you looked like you were drowning. And I just… I didn’t think and touched you. I’m really sorry.”

She waited one more second, then another, then bent down slowly to leave the tea on the floor outside his door, right beside the frame. The mug made a soft tap against the hardwood.

Then she walked away.

----

He’d known she’d come. The way she hesitated at the threshold, the way her footsteps paused like she was holding herself back. He knew her mannerisms by now. Kindness was always on a delay, like she had to convince herself it was okay to offer it.

But what he hadn’t expected was the apology.

Her voice had been soft, careful, like she didn’t want to spook him. Like he was a half-wild animal crouched behind the door, which, frankly, wasn’t far off.

She apologized to him. For holding him. For touching his hair like it were something worth soothing. For making herself small and warm and soft in a filthy parking lot while he broke down like a malfunctioning relic. Like it was her mistake to reach for him when he’d been shaking so hard he couldn’t see straight.

His fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his jeans. Titanium groaned against flesh.

She had no idea.

No fucking idea what kind of thing she’d brought into her home.

He wasn’t her roommate. He wasn’t her friend. He wasn’t even a person half the time, not in ways that mattered. He was a machine gone haywire, with its instructions mangled. Hydra’s fist, and he couldn’t even keep her safe in a grocery store.

And she was sorry?

He still could hear the soft clink of the mug being set down outside. Like he was a goddamn ghost she didn’t want to offend.

Maybe he was. A haunting. A sickness. Her sickness.

Because she had to be sick, to keep choosing this. To feed it, to clothe it, to let it live down the hall and act like that wasn’t terrifying. Like it didn’t bleed danger with every breath, with every flinch, every half-forgotten reflex.

She didn’t really know what he’d been built to do. Half the things he’d done. She only saw the aftermath. The broken thing.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to breathe.

He didn’t deserve to be there. Or the apology. Or the goddamn chamomile.

But he still reached for the doorknob.

He turned it slowly. Barely breathing.

The hallway beyond was empty. She’d already walked away.

Of course, she had. She always gave him space. Always let him come to her like some half-wild thing that needed coaxing.

He knelt. Picked it up.

Warm. She’d timed it right. Like she always did.

He shut the door again before he even took a sip, as if maybe the shame would be less heavy if no one saw.

And then, sitting on the floor like a child in hiding, with his back pressed to the door she had just stood behind, he lifted it to his mouth.

The chamomile was faint and soft, with that trace of milk she knew he liked, he didn’t even remember telling her that.

His chest ached with the smallness of the gesture. The intimacy of being known, even a little.

He drank all of it, like a selfish thing.

How long?

How long until she has enough?

Until the kindness runs dry, and the silence between them becomes something final?

Until she stops knocking? Stop making tea? Until she comes to realize her mistake?

Next Chapter

Taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @escapefromrealitylol @bodhisattva11 @kittieboo @iyskgd @stell404 @lil-riddle-kiddle @maryevm @yindoesstuff @shaheea @maladaptive0romantic @cricket-reader @nynxtea @justalittlebitbored @icefox8155

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[likeumeanit9497]

in the clouds | m.s. |

matt sturniolo x fem!reader

summary: matt is taking y/n home to boston to meet his parents for the first time, and y/n would be lying if she said she wasn't nervous. but once they've been in the air for a few hours and boredom begins to get to them both, they find a way to occupy themselves.

warnings: smut; established relationship; mutual masturbation; p in v; dirty talk; a little fluff if you squint; unprotected sex; 18+

notes: i wrote this suuuuper quick so def not my best work, but it's been a while since i posted something so i wanted to get something up here. i hope ya'll enjoy!!!

“Have a great flight.” The lady at the terminal gate said to me with a smile as she handed me my scanned ticket. “Thank you.” I replied before walking towards my boyfriend, Matt, who was waiting for me a few feet ahead. Once I reached him, he grabbed my hand and placed a soft kiss on my forehead. “You ready?” He asked, to which I inhaled a deep breath and nodded apprehensively.

Matt and I met at a party about eight months ago, and had hit it off right away. I had been drawn in by his sunken blue eyes and withdrawn behaviour that night, but grew hooked by his kind nature and complex personality once we began speaking regularly. We made it official less than a month after meeting, and had been inseparable since. Our relationship developed into something quite serious rather quickly, but things still somehow felt new and exciting everyday.

Today, we were flying back to his hometown in Boston, where I was going to meet his parents for the first time. Although he had reassured me countless times that MaryLou and Jimmy were going to love me, I couldn’t help but feel a bit intimidated by meeting two of the most important people in Matt’s life. Not only that, but I had also never been in a relationship that grew serious enough to meet the parents of my significant other before now; so the unknown territory made the whole ordeal all the more daunting.

Matt’s triplet brothers Chris and Nick had left for Boston the day before, as I had to stay in Los Angeles an extra day for work. This added another unsettling element, as I had grown so used to the presence of the other two on a day-to-day basis. However, what that meant was Matt and I had a good excuse to buy first class tickets instead of the usual economy tickets. This brought me some relief, as I had never sat in first class before and knew that I would be able to relax much easier than I had on previous flights.

Arriving at the front of the plane, we were guided by the flight attendant to the fifth row of seats and I gasped. In front of me was a spacious row with just two large seats. The seats were joined together — separated only by an arm rest — but both had a ridiculous amount of leg room, and there was even a privacy curtain available to use at the end of the aisle.

“Oh my god Matt, this one row is almost as big as my entire bedroom at home!” I exclaimed excitedly before hurrying into my window seat. Matt chuckled before following me into the row and getting comfortable in his own seat beside mine. “I take it you like it?” He asked sarcastically, though I still nodded my head like an enthusiastic toddler. “Well, get settled in baby. We’ve got a five and a half hour flight ahead of us.” He leaned over the cushioned arm rest between our seats and planted a soft kiss on my lips. I sighed at the reminder before investigating the small gift bundle beside my seat. There were a few snacks, some travel-sized toiletries, and a pillow and blanket; I couldn’t help but squeal from excitement. “Holy shit Matt! Look at this stuff!” I quickly unfolded the blanket and wrapped myself in it as he did the same. “I know, it’s cool right. And it doesn’t stop there, watch this.” Matt smirked before reaching under his chair, when suddenly his seat reclined all the way back and transformed into a bed.

“WHAT?” I exclaimed before searching under my own seat for the recline handle. I giggled as my chair fell back and I was suddenly horizontal. “Oh my god, I am in heaven.” I sighed blissfully, stretching my arms above my head in bliss. “And look,” Matt continued, reaching for the arm rest and pushing it back so that it became flush with our beds, “Now we just have one big bed to share.” He giggled before scooting closer to my side while simultaneously grabbing my waist and pulling me into him. I laughed and rolled over so that I could face him; propping myself up on my elbow and gazing down at him. “Thank you Matty.” I said before planting a gentle kiss on his eyelid. “You don’t have to thank me, Y/n,” He chuckled, “I just can’t wait for my parents to meet you.” My heart fluttered from his words, and I repositioned my body so that I could curl into his.

“I can’t wait to meet them, either. I mean, I’m nervous as fuck but I really do want to get to know the two people who created you three weirdos.” I closed my eyes, feeling my body relax as the plane began moving down the tarmac. Matt mindlessly rubbed my back as we laughed, just waiting for the unmistakable sensation of the plane taking off.

Once we were finally in the air, I rolled over to fetch my air pods from my backpack. “Let’s listen to some music, I can’t stand all this white noise in here.” I said, handing the left pod to Matt and keeping the right for myself. Once they were secured in both of our ears, I scrolled through my Spotify account to find mine and Matt’s shared playlist before hitting shuffle. I fell onto my back and closed my eyes as the music played in both of our ears; growing more and more comfortable as my eyes grew heavy and the sensation of sleep began to overtake me.

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

I was awoken from my deep sleep by the sound of a baby wailing a few aisles behind me. Forgetting where I was for a moment, I woke with a startle before remembering that I was on a plane. Slightly disoriented, I checked the time on my phone to discover that we had been in the air for four hours. I was shocked that I was able to sleep that long on a flight, since usually in the economy seats I would struggle to even get 45 minutes of true rest. I looked to my right at Matt’s sleeping figure. He was lying on his stomach with his peaceful face turned in my direction — very clearly having as deep of a sleep as I was previously having. His dark eyelashes fluttered slightly every now and then, and due to the way his face pressed against the small pillow, his pink lips were squished into an exaggerated pout.

Admiring his undeniable beauty, I had to resist the urge to lean over and pepper him with kisses. Instead, I went on my phone and began scrolling through our music playlist. After queuing a few songs, I moved onto my camera roll to kill some time as I felt boredom begin to overtake me. I felt like the biggest loser ever as I scrolled through the countless photos I had taken of Matt and I over the past few months with a corny smile plastered to my face. We truly had spent nearly every single day together since that first night that we met, and I had been sure to capture as many memories on camera as I could.

I continued to scroll for a few moments before coming across a particular memory that caused me to audibly gasp. It was a video that Matt and I had made about a month before. Our first and only sex tape. Before playing the video, I snuck a glance at Matt to make sure he was still sleeping and turned the volume down to zero so that it wouldn’t play through the air pod that was still resting in his ear. Cautiously, I hit play on the video and watched from Matt’s angle as he pounded into me from behind. To be completely honest, I had totally forgotten that we had taken that video and hadn’t even watched it before, so I stared in awe as our bodies collided again and again. The only issue was that I so badly wanted to hear the audio as my curiosity notoriously got the better of me in situations such as this. I was curious to know what I really sounded like during sex, and knew that listening to the audio was one of the only ways that I could.

Suddenly, I had an idea that would not only allow me to listen but would also have the potential to wake Matt up. Looking at him once again with a smirk across my face, I started the video from the beginning; this time with the volume about halfway up. Instantly, my right ear was filled with the unmistakably erotic sounds of our sex; body parts smacking against one another, loud moans, and the occasional dirty phrase falling from one of our mouths.

With the brightness on my phone turned down low, I watched intently at our moving bodies on my screen. I could only pull my eyes away to take a quick glance at Matt, who was beginning to shift around slightly under the blanket. I watched him for a moment, noticing that his eyes were still closed and he appeared to still be sound asleep. Growing frustrated that he still wasn’t waking up, I turned the sound on my phone to maximum volume just as the recorded version of him and I were reaching our climaxes. The crude noises became more and more erratic as the volume increased, and suddenly Matt’s blue eyes shot open.

He scanned the area frantically, obviously disoriented and confused by the sounds swarming his ears. When his eyes finally met mine and he noticed the playful smile on my face, he visibly relaxed and rolled his eyes sarcastically. “Y/n, what the fuck are you watching?” He asked through a chuckle before leaning towards me to take a glance at my phone screen. “Oh my god, you’re ridiculous.” He added once he caught a glimpse of the two of us in the video; falling onto his back and covering his eyes with his crossed arms.

I collapsed into a fit of laughter before innocently replying, “What?”, fluttering my eyelashes and softening my voice. He simply shook his head, but I could see his lips curling into a smile behind his protective arms. “Don’t get me started, baby. Get some rest.” Was his reply, and I grumbled internally. I was far from tired, not only because I had already slept for four hours, but because I had just worked myself up for the past few minutes by watching that video. Still, I reluctantly obliged by hitting shuffle on our playlist once again before finding a comfortable position to attempt to get a bit more sleep.

My eyes were closed, my breathing was steady, but my body was wide awake; so I felt the shift that came from Matt sitting up in the bed. I was laying on my side with my back facing him, but through the soft music playing in my ear I could hear the privacy curtain slide across its rod. My eyes stayed shut as I felt the warmth of his body pressing up against me. I pretended to not feel his hand gently gliding across the curves of my hips, or his hardening member nudging against my thigh. However, once his lips pressed against the sensitive spot on my neck, my body began to fail me in its pretend ignorance. He delicately sucked on my thin skin, and my pulse began to quicken. His cool breath tickled my neck and I shivered in anticipation. His hand slowly traveled from my hip down my stomach, before finally reaching under my waistband towards my core, and I released a shaky breath.

I felt his lips upturn into a smile against my neck at my clear response. “Oh, so you are awake.” He teased, moving his hand away from my heat and resting his chin in the crook of my neck. I opened my eyes to a squint and looked at him. “What are you doing?” I asked with a slight whine in my voice. He scoffed dramatically. “What, you think you could play a video like that and expect me not to get worked up?” I smiled shyly before responding. “I just wanted to wake you. I was bored.” He scooted himself even closer to me, so that now our bodies were pressed tight against each other. “Oh yeah?” He placed a kiss to my neck again, this time tugging lightly at the skin with his teeth. “And what did you want to do to try to counteract this boredom?” He whispered, and my breath hitched as he brought a hand under my shirt and began fondling my sensitive nipples.

I closed my eyes before turning my body so that I was now facing him. “Matt, we are on a plane right now.” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper by the end of my sentence. He smirked before shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “That’s what the curtain is for, sweetheart.” My eyes shifted to the space behind him, where the curtain was shut and properly secured by a hook near his head. My focus was brought back to him as I felt his hands gently begin tugging down my sweatpants. “You just have to be quiet for me, okay?” I gulped nervously before nodding my head mindlessly, already growing distracted by the arousal beginning to form in my panties.

Matt pulled me closer to him before placing a soft kiss against my lips. His hand gently ran up and down my inner thigh, just barely grazing my heat with each stroke. He placed another kiss against my lips, this one longer and deeper than the first, and he put his right leg between my knees to prop them up and apart. Our mouths moved against each other in sync, and my hands began to travel through his hair, over his shoulders, and finally down to his stomach. I hissed when he finally cupped his hand over my heat, his thumb just barely resting on my clit. Even through the thin layer of fabric that was my panties, the contact was intense. “Mmm, baby, you’re already so wet for me.” He mumbled gruffly against my lips, causing me to squirm.

“Touch me Matty, please.” I begged softly, my eyes pleading as my core began to throb. He chuckled, our teeth clanking together gently, before attacking my neck with his mouth. “So needy, huh? You want these fingers?” He cooed, sliding two of his fingers — now hooked under my panties — up my slit to collect my juices. I squeezed my eyes shut and bit my bottom lip as I nodded frantically. “Mhm.” Was all I managed to get out in response to his question. “What was that? I couldn’t quite hear you.” He was taunting me, both with his words and with his fingers as he toyed with my outer folds. I squirmed again, shifting slightly so that I was more on my back so that I could widen my legs easier. “N-need your fingers baby.” I managed to groan out, doing my best to keep my voice low so that our actions could go unnoticed by everyone around us.

Now leaning over me slightly, he looked down at me with hooded eyelids and a matching smirk. “That’s my girl.” He replied before finally rubbing circles on my swollen clit. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as I became engulfed in the overwhelmingly pleasurable sensation. I opened my eyes to find his traveling across my face. He had clearly been watching me in my state of ecstasy, and his blown out pupils and parted wet lips were clear signs that he was liking what he was seeing. Suddenly, a sharp moan escaped my lips as he plunged two of his fingers into me, and he quickly planted a firm hand over my mouth to prevent any more noises as he curled his fingers in and out of me mercilessly. The sensation became almost too much once he connected the base of his palm to my clit and began rubbing it in rhythm with his other movements, and almost without thinking I began clawing at the waist band of his sweatpants; desperate to feel more of him.

I pulled his sweats and his boxers down in one swift movement, and immediately began toying with his rock hard cock. Looking up at him as he continued his movements, I brought my hand to my mouth and allowed my collected saliva to drip onto it before bringing it back to his member. I began milking the tip of his cock and immediately noticed a change of pace in his fingers on my cunt. I watched his face as his eyes fluttered shut momentarily and his ears began to grow red. “Fuck, Y/n.” He moaned softly, his words alone enough to drive me crazy. I continued to stroke him, feeling each and every vein along his sizeable shaft, as I felt the familiar tingling sensation of an orgasm fast approaching.

“I-I need more of you Matty. Give me your cock please.” I was really begging now. My legs were beginning to shake and I was close to losing all control, but I wanted to cum around him. I watched as Matt’s eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head as his dick twitched in my hand, a clear sign that my words had an impact on him, too. “Turn on your side.” He commanded, and I immediately obliged. Once I was facing away from him, he wasted no time in lying down beside me — one of his arms wrapped across my chest and massaging my right tit — and sliding his cock into my soaking wet pussy.

We both couldn’t help but release small moans at the satisfying feeling that came from him bottoming out, but he gave me little time to adjust to his size before thrusting into me almost desperately. Using his grasp on my tit, he pushed my back against his chest so that my body was flush with his. “Jesus baby, you’re so tight.” He praised softly, his mouth pressed against my ear as his hips continued to snap against my ass. I couldn’t manage a reply, instead I brought my right hand up to grab onto the back of his neck. I fell into a deep trance from the feeling of my spongey walls stretching and moulding to his cock as if they were two matching puzzle pieces. He left sloppy open mouthed kisses all along my face, growing careless with his movements as the pressure in my lower half began to grow almost unbearable.

“You’re close, aren’t you sweetheart.” He breathed against my hair. I couldn’t do much more than nod my head. “It’s okay, let go. Just be a good girl and stay quiet for me okay?” He used his free hand to once again cover my mouth in anticipation of what might come just as my orgasm bubbled over. I did everything I could to stay silent, but as my orgasm tore through me a plethora of moans fell from my lips and into his gentle hand. My grip on the back of his neck tightened and my back arched away from his torso as I felt the unmistakable warm spurt of fluid stream from my cunt.

Just as I began coming down from my high, Matt released a few short grunts before halting his movements entirely. “Fuuuuck.” His profanity came out in a breathy sigh. His forehead fell to my shoulder, and I could feel his dick pulsating inside of me as he painted my walls with his cum. After a moment, I felt his body relax behind me and he collapsed onto his pillow. For a little while, the only sounds coming from our little corner of the plane was the sound of our ragged breathing as we attempted to regain our composure.

“Well,” Matt eventually began, sitting up and lifting the blanket, exposing the wet spot in the bed that my squirt created, “How are we gonna explain this one?” I took a moment to look at it before sliding my sweats back on. “Easy, we just tell them that you got a little scared of the turbulence and pissed yourself.” He rolled his eyes as he put his pants back on as well, and I laughed. “You’re something else kid.”

Just then, a woman’s voice came from behind the closed curtain. Matt looked at me quickly to ensure that I was fully clothed before opening the curtain and coming face to face with an older flight attendant. “Hi there.” She said, her voice cheerful and her face plastered with a fake smile. “We’re going to be making our landing in Boston in about thirty minutes, please return to an upright position as soon as you can.” Matt nodded his head and gave her a quick smile before she promptly moved down to the next row of flyers. As soon as she was out of earshot, he gave me a cheeky side eye and we both immediately broke into fits of laughter.

“We timed that well.” He said through his laughter and I covered my face with my hands. “I can’t believe we just did that.” I replied, shaking my head as I came to the realization that I had just fucked my boyfriend on a commercial flight. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into his chest. “We’re in the mile high club now, baby.” He kissed the top of my head. “Now let’s get our seats back up. Only thirty minutes until you meet my parents!”

[cherrynflowergarden]

angel baby || matt sturniolo (smut)

an; hellooo thank you sm for 50+ followers<333 i love y'all omg!! this is my first time writing a one shot and smut😥

matt thinks he just won the lottery. his beautiful, beautiful girl dressed up all for him. and only him.

after a long and tiring day spent filming for his youtube, he didn't think his day would suddenly turn good. seeing his girl friend, all dolled up in a new and pretty pastel pink colour lingerie, waiting for him, he swore he won the jackpot. all he needed now was to peacefully burry himself in her sweet little cunt.

her doe eyed almost glassy eyes made her look so innocent and naive; her actions however were totally contrasting to her looks. pulling matt inside the room she put his hand on her clothed breast urging her boyfriend to squeeze the soft muscles.

she's an angel. he thinks. groaning quietly, matt gently pushed her towards the bed. locking the door he slowly came up to her, like a predator does to it's prey.

"fuck angel, you look so pretty all dolled up for me. c'mon angel sit on my lap like the angel you are." he said as she moved to sit on his lap. grabbing her by her neck he fiercely put his lips on hers. slightly choking her with one hand, his another moved to grope her body. when he squeezed her satin covered breast a too forcefully she whined. the sound travelled straight to his dick and in a minute she was laying on the bed, under him as he left open mouthed kisses and lovebites on her skin.

"matt please, don't tease." she whined out softly which turned into a whimper when matt moved down only to lick and suck the soft skin of her thighs. he was so close to where she needed him yet so far.

"shush angel let me get the taste of those panties, yeah?" he licked a strip over her pink satin panties. as he continued licking her folds and sucking her nub over the cloth, she grew desperate and impatient. "fuc- matt please no more teasing please" whimpers leaving her mouth as he ate her out over her panties. "baby please, let me enjoy the taste" he said as divided down in her clothed pussy. "mhm mmm m-matt shit oh oh god mmm" her mouth hung open in moans as matt pushed her panties aside. running two fingers down her wetness, he spread open her folds. kissing her bare button of nerves, matt doesn't stop gulping her juices. not even for a second.

finally putting his index and middle finger in her, he moves to make out with her bundle of nerves. slightly biting and sucking her nub, while he fingers her to death? is this what heaven feels like? she thinks. however her last stroke was when matt came back to eat her out while his fingers were ripping her apart. he also caressed her clit in '8' motions with his thumb. this seemed to do it for her because she was cumming all over his hands and face with a loud moan.

"fuck angel you taste divine." he says as he 'cleans' her leaking juices and cum (making her more dirty and messy in the process.) he looks at her. fucked out expression. eyes still rolled back in pleasure. sweaty body. messy tangled hair. tits almost spilling out of her bra cups. and his favourite; panties pussed to the side while her juices leak and disappear in the sheets even after matt cleaning her mess.

he thinks he's the luckiest man on the earth. his angel looks and sounds like an absolute angel. yet the unholy things he just did with her was a proof that his angel is not so angelic. perhaps he was a devil. a devil set to ruin this angel. his animalistic ravage added to it. yet he wasn't satisfied. not yet atleast.

groping her right boob harshly, he leaned down to whisper "you already tired angel? too bad we aren't stopping till i rip this thing apart."

he ended up ripping the set apart that night. he also ended up buying a new set for her as a apology, knowing very well it will serve the same in the near future.

[amsznn]

CHRIS STURNIOLO BF HEADCANONS ⋆˙⟡♡

warnings: none, just fluff!

-

⭑ you better have tylenol, and a whole bunch of patience if you’re with this boy.

⭑ so much energy and expects you to be on the same level as him.

⭑ sometimes he’ll tone it down if you’re having a bad day or if you just need some quiet time.

⭑ at the end of the day, he’s so exhausted that he doesn’t even say goodnight, just knocks out.

⭑ you and chris are cuddled up on his bed, enjoying each other’s presence when you decide to ask his opinion on something.

“chris what do you think about this hoodie?”

chris: 💀😴

you: 😐

⭑ BLANKET HOGGER. doesn’t matter how big or how small the blanket is, you’ll be left shivering while chris is bundled up with 50% of the sheets dragging on the floor.

⭑ on nights where he doesn’t immediately tap out, he’s resting his chin on your head while one hand is playing with your hair and the other caressing your arm while yapping your ear off.

“if you were a chicken, what kinda chicken would you be?”

“chris i swear to god.”

⭑ needs to be touching you in some way. And it’s not always sexually. small touches like, playing with your ears, hand on your thigh, or just playing footsies under the table, contact is his fav.

⭑ whenever he’s in disagreement with his brothers about something he makes sure to throw you into the mix and ask your opinion cus lets be real, you almost always agree with him.

⭑ randomly jabs your side to tickle you whenever there’s a moment of silence between you two.

⭑ asks your opinion on designs for his brand before launching anything. also makes sure you get at least one of every item he’s designed.

⭑ don’t think he’s the jealous or protective type. but if someone is making you uncomfortable he’ll definitely tell them to back off.

⭑ the media found out about you two on accident 💀.

⭑ chris was streaming one day and forgot to tell you but it was too late when you walked into his room unannounced in your grammy pj’s ready to knock tf out when chris let out a loud “ohhhhh shitttt..” when you realized that you were fucked.

⭑ you looked at chris and chris looked at you before you both shrugged your shoulders and went on with what you were doing, honestly not giving af atp.

⭑ comments flooding about who you were, tiktoks posted about you two with dating rumors, had to wait until the next day when chris posted on his story the both of you in skin care hello kitty masks facing the mirror with his arm around your shoulder and you leaning up to give him a peck on the face.

⭑ yeah, yall broke the internet.

⭑ you were featured in the next podcast with you and chris properly talking about your relationship.

⭑ after that chris would post you any chance he got. from cute insta stories, to goofy tiktok trends, he just wanted the world to know about his amazing gf.

⭑ PDA PDA PDA PDA. in the back of the triplets vlogs that you sometimes feature in, fans can spot you and chris in the background hugging with chris sometimes attacking you with kisses.

⭑ just a clingy guy tbh.

⭑ whenever you wake up from one you and chris’ shared afternoon naps to go find something to eat in the kitchen, chris makes his way to you like 2 minutes later and wraps his arms around your waste peeking over your shoulder so he can also have some of what you’re making.

⭑ loves going out and seeing things that remind him of you, but when he’s about to buy it and the store says “we don’t take apple pay” he’s upset for the rest of the day talking about “what fucking store doesn’t take apple pay”

“what kinda guy forgets his wallet…”

⭑ he ends up ordering it for you online 💀

⭑ overall a cute silly guy who just loves to love on you.

-

A/N: i want him. im posting sm cus theres soo many things in my drafts guys, imma try to even my posting days out though, bare with me <3.

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddiesmuttyseptember and @steddiesongfics.

No Loose Ends

Week #3 Prompt: Sneaking Around | Word Count: 6500 | Rating: E | POV: Steve | CW: Post S4, Sexual Content, Underage Recreational Alcohol and Weed Use | Tags: Eddie Munson Lives, Florida!!!, Hiding Out, Healing, Steve & The Boys of Corroded Coffin Taking Care of Eddie, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Bisexual Eddie Munson

Song inspiration to fill the @steddiesongfics prompt is FLORIDA!!! by Taylor Swift feat. Florence & The Machine:

Little did you know, Your home's really only the town you'll get arrested, So you pack your life away, Just to wait out the shitstorm back in Texas Indiana

Steve's almost eight hours into the twelve hour drive, when he starts looking for another gas station. The smaller the better. One with a cashier who would rather be anywhere else other than at work behind the counter, and who in turn, won't be paying any attention to anything going on around them.

Not that he's wanted, or being looked for, because he's not. He's just being extra careful. Trying to garner no additional eyes on his car, or himself, if possible. No speeding, no rolling through stop signs. He's never driven this carefully in his entire life, and he feels tense from it.

It gives him a glimpse of what it might be like, sometime in the future, if he's in charge of hauling around six of his own little nuggets.

But that's not today. Today he's just in charge of one, well two, other people.

And himself. But he's used to being in charge of himself, since he has been, since basically forever.

If everything goes smoothly tonight, nobody's even gonna realize he's been out of town. Only Robin knows, and she's running interference with everybody else. Giving excuses for why they haven't seen him all day. Just buying him the time to get down, and back, without being missed.

The next filling station is a little raggedy, but exactly what he wants. Probably no cameras. Perfect.

He parks alongside the pump, and pulls up on the handle, starting to fill his tank. He looks in the backseat, and the bundled up figure moves under the blanket, shifting. It's dark under the poorly-lit canopy, three of the six fluorescent bulbs are out, and it makes it look just a little bit spooky. But even better, unless you were looking for him, you'd never see the slightly moving lump in the backseat.

And nobody's looking for him. Not anymore.

Thank fucking god.

Steve pays for the gas, and grabs drinks. Back in the car, he puts his own Coke in the cup holder, then lays the Mountain Dew in the backseat floorboard for when Eddie wakes up, and finally slides the Dr. Pepper into the passenger side cup holder.

He doesn't know Gareth Jones, not really, and it has taken everything he has to trust him. But Eddie couldn't be left alone, not yet, and Steve had asked who could they trust, and Gareth had been Eddie's answer.

Now he's asleep, head against the window, and Steve pulls back out onto the two-lane road, and keeps heading south.

They pull up in the driveway of the dark house, and Steve kills the engine.

"We're here," he says, and Eddie stirs in the backseat.

Eddie can barely walk. Once they've gotten him out of the car, he can only shuffle along, blanket over his shoulders. Together, they hold him up on both sides. The sand surrounding the beach house is not making it easier for him to move, Steve can tell. Steve has to try three keys before the door swings open, but they get him inside. Steve's not satisfied until Eddie's on the couch of his grandparent's vacation home in Destin, the city they swear is gonna become a tourist hot spot in the coming years.

So, the elder Harringtons scooped up a waterfront home that they only use once or twice a year, swearing it's an investment they'll be able to turn a profit on in the future. Steve doesn't care about that, but he is glad they have it right now, so they have a place Eddie can lay low. 

It's a little musty from being shut-up, but it'll do. 

Especially since there's no chance anybody in his family will turn up, since they're all in Europe right now without him. That left it just sitting empty, the perfect place to stash Eddie long enough to wait out the shitstorm back in Indiana.

Nobody knows he survived. Not the public, and barely any of their friends. Not even Wayne. Not yet. It's easier to keep a secret when you don't know the truth, as guilty as that makes Steve feel. 

But right now, he can't dwell on that. Today, Steve's gonna try to get him holed up in here, and then figure out a more permanent solution once Eddie's back on his feet. 

He can't dwell on the rest of them, or his guilt will eat him alive. Knowing Wayne's mourning his nephew. Knowing that Dustin is going through hell. Steve hopes they'll both forgive him, when the truth comes out. Eddie swears Wayne will. Says he'll understand. Says he'll only be relieved that Eddie's safe, and well. 

Steve hopes that's true. 

He knows he'll be in for an ass-chewing from Dustin, but that's nothing new. He can handle that.

Steve gets Eddie situated. A blanket. Some pillows. A drink. All while Gareth looks around the house, snooping, and it sets Steve on edge. He's a kid. Is he really gonna trust a kid to keep Eddie safe? Alive? He supposes he is. It's not like he has any other choice.

Gareth's older than Steve was when he got involved in the Upside Down. But still. Kid.

Steve can't stay long. He takes a nap, and then gets back on the road before he's missed. Back in his bed in Hawkins before anyone has started asking any real questions that Robin can't deflect.

A week later, when Steve steps out of his front door, Pop Tart in his mouth, he nearly chokes when he sees two guys leaning against his car. Jeff and…the other one. Steve's drawing a blank. They're Eddie's friends, but as far as Steve knew, they'd evacuated with the rest of the town. 

Out of the way, not a concern. But, here they are.

People are starting to come back, Steve's noticed, now that the town is rebuilding after the earthquake damage. If they have houses to return to, lots of them are doing just that.

He should have expected this.

Well, not this. Because they shouldn't know Eddie's alive or that Steve might be a person to talk to about anything.

"Uh, hey?" Steve says as he pulls the dry pastry out of his mouth, trying to chew it up, and buy himself some time.

"Where's Gareth?" the one that isn't Jeff asks. 

"Um, Gareth who?" Steve asks.

Jeff laughs, showing a mouth full of braces. 

"Gareth Jones. He's not with his mom, and she thinks he's with you."

Steve tenses. That little shit. Gareth told his mom the truth? What the fuck? For real. That wasn't the plan. At all. 

What a dumbass kid. He can't believe he has to trust him with Eddie's safety. Clearly, he's doing a bang-up job.

Steve looks around, "Don't see him, do you?" Steve asks, sliding back into his King Steve persona easier than he'd imagine he'd be able to after a few years.

"Harrington," Jeff says. 

"He's not with me," Steve says, which is true. "I don't even know him." Also true. 

"If you have Eddie. If he's out there somewhere, you're gonna take us to him," the other one says. Goldie? Steve thinks his name is Goldie. Goldwin, maybe? Gareth was talking, and he's sure he mentioned him, but Gareth talked a lot. Steve zoned out. 

"Or we're going to the cops."

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn't actually think they'll do that, but fuck, what does he know? He cannot risk that. He'd rather tell them what he knows, than have any officials poking holes in their story.

He makes a decision, one he hopes he won't regret.

"Okay, Goldie, get in," Steve says, resigned to this, but Jeff laughs loudly, mouth open as the guy who is probably not Goldie by his reaction, jabs Jeff in the ribs with his elbow.

"Goodie," Jeff corrects, "but that was closer than most get."

In the car, Steve squeezes the steering wheel. 

"Where is he?" Jeff asks. 

"Florida," Steve answers.

"Florida?" Goodie demands, and Steve just nods.

"He's healing. Gareth's with him. You can't tell anyone," Steve stresses. "If the government finds out. They'll, well. Dispose of him, I reckon. No loose ends."

And Steve starts from the beginning.

They worked out a schedule. Every week they'll switch. And somehow Steve is stuck making the long fucking haul in the dead of night, with one of them in his passenger seat. It's awkward. He doesn't know them, and they definitely don't like him.

This week it's Jeff Williams. Honestly, he's nice enough, but Steve runs out of things to say before they hit the Indiana state line.

The long haul back has Gareth jabbering nonstop about what they did this week. All Steve really wants to hear is updates on Eddie. Is he getting better? Are his wounds healing? Still no infection? Did you help him change the bandages he can't reach? Can he climb the stairs yet?

But he's having trouble getting those answers. He does learn all about the new Accept album, though. Whoever the fuck that is.

The third week is even worse, because hauling around Goodie Goodwin is like having an angry bear locked in the car with him. A brown bear, not a black one. He's fucking pissed, and snarky, and only belligerently agreeing to help for Eddie's sake. Not for Steve's. He's made that abundantly clear. 

He hates Steve, in case Steve needs it spelled out for him. 

Steve does not. 

It's definitely clear.

Super duper clear.

Crystal clear.

And that's fine. Eddie just needs a babysitter, and an angry bear will do, so long as Eddie trusts said bear, and he seems to, for whatever reason.

When they fucking finally pull up, after a twelve hour drive that felt more like twenty-four, Eddie's sitting on the covered porch, the color finally seeping back in his face. Goodie sits down in the glider right next to Eddie, and steals Eddie's lit cigarette right from his mouth. Eddie leans against his shoulder, face pressed into his very weather inappropriate leather jacket, and smiles.

Oh, so now he's a gentle giant. 

Fucking dickhead.

Hauling Jeff back to Hawkins is a breath of fresh air after twelve hours of having Chernabog in the passenger seat. And he actually gives helpful information. Eddie's doing great. He's made some real progress, and he probably doesn't need a babysitter much longer. He's getting out of the woods.

Steve wishes he knew that before he had to spend time in the car with Goodie, but it's still good news, even if Steve had to suffer.

"Are you sure you're gonna be okay alone this week?" Steve asks, and he doesn't know what he'll do if the answer is no. Leave Goodie for a second week of duty? Stay himself?

"I'm fine, Harrington," Eddie promises, and Steve nods.

"Okay, then. I'll be back next weekend," Steve assures.

Steve worries about Eddie being alone the whole next week, and it's a long drive by himself, but not as long as it was with Goodie refusing to make even the smallest of small talk. 

Goodie didn't say a word for the eight hundred miles back to Hawkins.

Honestly, it was actually an improvement from the ride down.

When Steve pulls up the house, Eddie's on the porch again, and Steve wonders if this is where he spends most of his time. There don't seem to be any neighbors here right now close enough to see him, and even if there were, they wouldn't know the Harringtons well enough to be sure Eddie didn't belong. 

"Harrington," Eddie says, foot pushing slowly, keeping himself in a soft sway on the porch glider.

Steve sits down next to him, and then Eddie keeps them moving, the breeze coming through the porch, and not feeling bad at all. 

"Ocean air is healing, you know," Eddie says as if he's serious, and Steve smiles.

"Is the gulf considered an ocean?" Steve asks.

And Eddie just shrugs and grins back, shaking another pack of cigarettes out of the fresh carton Steve brought him. Steve feels like a pack mule, hauling food and smokes and beer, back and forth across several states.

"Closest thing I've ever seen to one, at least," Eddie says, and Steve has the fleeting thought that someday, Steve will change that. 

He doesn't know why. They aren't really friends or anything. Just two people that were thrown together to fight back against evil. They don't exactly have a whole hell of a lot in common beyond that.

They get into the beer, and Eddie pulls out a joint. It's fun, and relaxing, honestly. Doing a whole lot of nothing. It feels like a mini vacation, and like Steve's settled for the first time in weeks, months. So, he stays an extra day, and then another, because they're having so much fun. Robin will cover for him. She will. But he's really gotta go in the morning. 

"Your friend Goodie hates me," Steve says. 

"All bark, no bite," Eddie laughs. 

Steve doesn't know about that. He seemed pretty nippy to him. 

The next week, he brings the decks of cards Eddie had asked for, and now they sit around the round table on the porch, and play hand after hand, going through a case of beer and cigarette after cigarette. It's fun, and unexpected, and Steve's pretty sure next week, he's gonna find a way to stay longer. 

He's tipsy, they both are, as they stumble up the stairs towards their rooms. He's got his hands on Eddie, the excuse that he's helping him not fall, but he's pretty sure that's not the whole reason.

He doesn't examine it too much.

They're just having fun, and that's a nice change of pace from the shitshow that Hawkins has been over the past few years.

He wants to stay. 

As his head hits the pillow, and he rolls over onto his belly, he tries to devise a plan to make that happen, even as he's drifting.

The kids aren't happy about it when he says he's going to be traveling with his parents for a while, and they'd really be pissed if they knew that he was actually sneaking back to Florida to hole up with a very much still alive Eddie Munson. 

He's gonna have to pay for lying about this, to a lot of people that really love Eddie. Steve knows it. But, he'd do it again. Eddie's safe. He's healing up. Every week he's been more mobile, more agile, more…Eddie.

Sure, it's not as if Steve knew him well before all this. But they went to school together. He knows what Eddie Munson is all about, and it's definitely not being quietly introverted on a couch.

When he gets there, he lugs in his huge suitcase, and takes back over the empty room across the hall from the one Eddie's been staying in. 

And then they spend their time laying on the beach, or getting drunk, or stoned, as Eddie's body slowly finishes stitching itself back together. He still aches, and so does Steve, but it's not too bad anymore. There are no more bandaids, ointments or creams. No more antibiotics. They hurt, sure, but they're getting by better now.

Eddie wants to venture into the water, and with no open wounds, Steve can't find a reason to say no. Eddie had had to watch from the porch that first week as Gareth ran across the sand, wading out into the water.

Now, it's his turn. 

Steve by his side, making sure he's okay. Strong enough. They didn't go through all this just for Eddie to drown.

Steve's getting concerned that he can't quit touching Eddie, but Eddie doesn't seem interested in making him stop.

They're wet, and wrapped in towels, but it feels inevitable when Steve pushes Eddie towards the bathroom, and into the shower. Inevitable when he turns to leave, and Eddie snags his hand, pulling him back towards the tub. Inevitable as he washes his body, trying to not only ignore his own half-hard dick, but Eddie's too.

It's still inevitable as he slips on his clean underwear, and crawls into Eddie's bed instead of his own, and finally presses their lips together. 

Eddie kisses back, and hands roam across bare skin. Eddie's fingers trailing his back, making Steve squeeze his eyes shut. He didn't realize how long it's been since someone touched him like that.

Neither of them take it further than that, but they do find themselves, lips kiss-swollen and laying together, breathing heavily in the quiet of the room, and Steve doesn't even know how they've gotten to this point.

One day Eddie was just some guy, then he was wanted on trumped up murder charges, and now, well, this.

"What's the plan? I can't stay here forever," Eddie says into the darkness, and Steve thinks maybe he could. They both could. They'd be safer that way. Hawkins can fuck off. It's their hometown, but not home anymore. Just a place that would arrest Eddie and throw away the key, given half the chance. 

"We could," Steve says, and Eddie meets his eyes.

"You know you can't. And your grandparents will turn up eventually, and be less than thrilled to see me here."

"They won't be back until winter, and even that's iffy," Steve reassures, more himself than Eddie, he's pretty sure.

They could sneak around for months, until the snow birds fly south, and nobody would know. 

That's all Steve thinks about as he falls asleep, Eddie's arm slung over his stomach.

"You've got to be kidding me."

Steve jerks, sitting bolt upright in bed. Eddie doesn't even stir beside him.

Gareth Jones is standing at the foot of the bed, and Jeff and Goodie are in the doorway. Steve's heart is hammering in his chest. There's no explaining this away as anything other than exactly what it is. Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Eddie," Steve says, nudging him with his elbow. Eddie still doesn't budge, but his foot is sticking out of the comforter, and Gareth runs his knuckle up Eddie's bare sole.

Eddie's awake then, jerking his whole leg backwards.

"Jesus H. Christ, kid!" Eddie screeches, pulling the sheet up to his neck as if he's trying to protect his precious modesty. It's fucking endearing. 

Terrifying, but endearing.

Steve must be staring at Gareth, because the kid shrugs, "He was late to school. A lot. Wayne asked me to start getting him there before he was a fifth year senior from tardies alone. The bottom of the foot is foolproof."

And Steve's hammering heart slows, just a little. Nobody is screaming, there's no fight breaking out. Nobody's being called names. He's not sure how to take this. They've been caught in bed, but nobody is really reacting to that. 

It's just a best friend explaining how to get Eddie awake. Robin would know how to do that for him, too.

"What are you doing here?" Steve finally asks. 

"We thought we'd come give you a break," Jeff says from the doorway. 

"Doesn't look like you want it though," Goodie adds, and it's the nicest thing he's ever said to Steve, Steve's pretty sure.

"Our parents think we're at a band camp," Gareth adds, "before school starts back up for me."

"Band camp," Eddie laughs, flopping back against the pillows, "Go wait downstairs."

And they listen. 

Steve just lays there next to him, finally saying, "Well."

Eddie laughs, then turns to face Steve, "They knew about me. I mean, the theory of me. It's not like I was getting any action. From boys or girls. But they're cool. Freaks gather together."

Steve chuckles, but Eddie keeps talking, "I'm sorry they know about you without you okaying it first, though."

It's fine. Honestly. Like, if they aren't gonna kick his ass? Everything's fine. Sneaking around always ends this way. Steve knows it. You always get caught by someone. He just didn't predict it to be so soon, or here.

"How'd they even get in here?" Steve asks, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He's pretty sure he locked the door when they went to bed.

"That's probably my bad. I taught Goodie to pick locks."

"Another Munson family trick?" Steve asks, pulling his jeans on, sliding up the zipper.

"Yep," Eddie answers, "the school would sometimes forget to leave the room unlocked for us to have Hellfire. So, I taught him to open it, since I have a bit of a tendency to run late."

Steve laughs, pulling his shirt over his head.

"Regret it now, though," Eddie says dryly, and Steve holds open the bedroom door for him.

Gareth and Goodie are sitting around the kitchen table, already helping themselves to the beer they found in the fridge. Cards dealt. Waiting.

Jeff's cooking a massive skillet of eggs and there's toast piled high on a plate.

Beer and eggs. That's something. Breakfast of champions.

"You can fuck him, but Eddie is my card partner," Gareth says, pushing a waiting hand of cards towards Eddie.

Fair enough.

Steve snags a plate, and is more interested in eating than cards, anyway.

"We can't have set partners with five of us," Jeff says. "It's just gotta happen as the game unfolds."

Gareth starts to argue, and it's like they totally moved on from what they all saw upstairs. Steve feels off-kilter, but he takes another bite of toast.

Maybe these guys are Eddie's version of Robin. That's the only thing that makes any sense. 

Steve picks up his cards, and starts organizing them in his hand. He isn't even sure what they're playing, but he guesses he'll figure it out. There were lots of card parties in the Harrington household growing up. He probably knows whatever they're gonna throw at him, as long as it isn't something they've straight made up.

Which is possible, he's sure, knowing Eddie.

But that's about the extent of the discussion about what they walked in on earlier. 

Jeff turns over a card.

"Eldest, auction is in your hands," Jeff says, and Eddie looks down at his cards.

"Order it up," Eddie says, eating eggs and playing at the same time.

"Trumped up, just like your murder charges," Goodie says, and everybody laughs. 

"That doesn't even make sense," Jeff says.

"You just wanted to say it," Gareth adds, and Goodie takes his needling pretty damn well, all things considered.

And Steve smiles, happy that this is something they can all joke and laugh about. That as fucking terrible as it all was, is, that they can still make light of it to cope.

That's not nothing. That Eddie wasn't lost to it. That he's here to be gently ribbed. That his friends believe in his innocence, totally.

Eddie names his card, and Gareth plays it, becoming Eddie's partner. 

They continue to play, and things do not go Gareth's way, which Goodie seems to be enjoying.

And later, Goodie smirks, "I'm in the barn."

Gareth heaves a big sigh, "Damn. I'm gonna get skunked." 

And everybody laughs at his misfortune.

They stay. Camp out in all the rooms in the house, staking their claim. And it's actually a lot of fun. Like a high school house party that just doesn't end in a fist fight on the lawn. Steve hasn't been this relaxed since, well, before. Before 1983. Before monsters and the Upside Down came crashing into his life. 

He embraces this break, this chance to just be. He's not a kid anymore. Not in age, and definitely not in life experience. 

He lays on the beach, catching a tan.

These couple of weeks have felt as close to a vacation as he's gotten in years, and he lets the worry of the past slide off his back. 

Steve supplies the beer, Goodie has a few pre-rolls left, so they smoke, drink, and play cards. Steve watches them fight over the stereo, and he learns to recognize the new Accept album by ear with time. 

They swim, except for Goodie, because apparently he's scared of gators. Even if they tell him that the gulf isn't a swamp, and the chances of him being taken down by a gator are extremely unlikely. Not impossible, gators gonna gate, but it's not like it's super plausible. 

Goodie doesn't care. He's not doing it, and says no amount of peer pressure will work on him. So, he sits on the porch, beer on his knee. Cigarette in hand. 

So much for him being big and bad, Steve thinks. 

Today, girls have suddenly appeared down the beach. Screaming and laughing, and they all watch them intently. Taking in the bikinis. The bouncing boobies. Not one of them above watching a free show. 

They have a volleyball that comes bouncing in their direction, leading the girls to finally notice them and approach. Apparently Steve's the only one with a working voice, though. He learns there are a pair of sisters staying in their grandparents' beach house with their friends. One last hurrah before going back to, or for a couple of the girls starting, college. 

University of Nebraska. Go, Cornhuskers. Apparently.

Since Steve's the only one engaging like a normal human, they're paying extra attention to him. One in particular. And she's cute. But he politely rebuffed her attention the best he could, and then watched Eddie do the same.

Goodie builds a little bonfire, and Steve is kind of impressed. He doesn't even know where he got the wood at. 

Of course, Steve was less impressed when he was sent off for the stuff to make s'mores.

Eddie followed him, and as nervous as Steve is any time Eddie pokes his head out of the house, it's probably fine. Honestly. They are so far from Hawkins. 

Eddie does wait in the car at the grocery store, but then digs through the bag to see what Steve bought. 

Graham crackers, chocolate bars and marshmallows. Steve's not sure what else Eddie expected, honestly. It's s'mores.

By the time they get back, one of the girls has taken a shine to Gareth, and now Steve and Eddie are watching him blush and blunder through what Steve thinks could be considered flirting, maybe. 

It's honestly a good show. 

For some reason, she isn't put off by Gareth's awkwardness, and later that night, with the window to his room open, Steve can hear Gareth talking to her down below on the porch. 

He's not as bad as Steve once thought, none of them are.

Just like Eddie.

Steve should have realized that earlier, he's pretty sure. First impressions are almost never right about anyone.

And their partying continues, just now there are girls involved. The group, growing. 

Goodie's suddenly not as scared of gators, apparently. Because there's a girl on his back out in the water. 

Steve sees Gareth dip under the water, and knows where this is going, and sure enough, he must snag Goodie's foot, which causes a commotion. 

Steve misses Robin. He sits there considering if there's any way he could get Mrs. Buckley to let her join them, but can't think of an excuse that would seem plausible. Unless Robin also wants to go to fake band camp, too.

Steve's lounging on the steps, leaned back, his elbows braced against the wood. Watching from behind his sunglasses. 

Gareth sits next to him. 

Two of the girls are hitting around a volleyball. Bouncing along the sand. 

"Boobies," Steve says. 

"Boobies," Gareth echoes, then laughs. 

They sit and watch a few seconds longer, then Gareth says, "Eddie doesn't have those, you know." 

"I know," Steve answers. "I like both. I'm okay with that. Are you?" 

"Yeah. Eddie does too," Gareth says, then turns and looks at Steve fully. 

Steve turns to see what he's doing. 

"Thanks. For saving him. I know we've been kinda shitty at times, but we owe you." 

They don't owe him anything, but he still teases, "Don't worry. Someday I'll collect." 

Gareth slaps him on the shoulder, and then inserts himself in the volleyball game down below.

The next morning, Steve's shaving at the sink, bathroom door open, when Gareth appears in the doorway. 

Then says nothing. 

Steve keeps shaving, waiting to see what this is. Finally asking, "Eddie okay?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, he's fine. Um, I have a question." 

Steve meets his eyes in the mirror. Still waiting.

"Do you have a condom I can borrow?" 

Steve grins, "Maybe. But not borrow. I definitely don't want it back."

Gareth rolls his eyes, "Very funny. Eddie told me to ask you. I regret that decision, now." 

Steve reaches over and gets his bathroom bag, and tosses it to Gareth, "Help yourself."

"Thanks," Gareth says, as he digs through it, finding what he was looking for. And then takes the whole box. Little shit.

But Steve lets him. He'd rather Gareth have more than he needs, instead of less. Steve can buy more. He's not embarrassed at all. 

"Play safe," Steve says as Gareth tosses his bag back, it thumping against Steve's bare chest.

Gareth doesn't come home that night, and by mid-afternoon the next day and still no sight of him, Eddie is sending Steve down to check on him. 

He's fine. Just laying on the couch in the girls' house, hand up the shirt of the petite, blonde one. 

"Check in with Eddie later," Steve says, startling him. "You know how he worries." 

Gareth laughs, and gives Steve a little salute and then a dismissive shooing away motion. 

Another girl is at the top of the staircase, and lifts the hem of her shirt, flashing him. 

"If only I wasn't already spoken for, sweetheart," he says, holding his hands to his heart, as if he's wounded by this admission. 

And she's laughing, and seems charmed, not offended, which is what he'd hoped for. He hasn't made anything official with Eddie, and they have definitely cooled their jets since Eddie's friends arrived, even if they all know. 

Steve walks down the sand, and Eddie is waiting on the porch.

"Well?" Eddie asks.

"I saw some tits," Steve says, sitting down next to him, "and Gareth's fine."

Eddie laughs, and briefly slides his hand through Steve's arm, squeezing his elbow.

In no time at all, the girls are packing up their cars, and Gareth is acting like he's about to become a war widow. 

Steve gets it. He does. Your first, you don't forget. But this should have been a little summer fling for him, not a pending broken heart. 

It's not like Gareth doesn't have to go soon, too. Labor day is quickly approaching.

Gareth is pretty pissed off that summer has slipped away, and now he has to go back to school. One more year. The youngest. Without him, they could probably stay indefinitely. 

And he's very unhappy about that fact.

But, he's made it his life's mission to make it clear to all of them that while he has to go back to high school for another year, at least he's not a virgin anymore. 

They're all sick of hearing it, and Steve's grateful it isn't gonna be him stuck in the car for twelve hours with him this time.

Eddie has given Gareth very explicit, detailed instructions on how to run Hellfire. How to keep it going for the other sheepies. Sure, the name will likely have to be changed. It's far too tainted now. And they might even if they have to do it in private, away from that godforsaken school, but Eddie wants that to happen, if need be.

A few days later, it's their turn to leave, and they're dragging feet, Gareth especially. 

"Are you ever coming home?" Gareth asks Eddie, standing next to his mom's borrowed minivan.

Eddie looks at Steve, and Steve doesn't have the heart to answer that. 

But no. Eddie's probably not.

Alone, once again, Steve follows Eddie up the staircase, his hand resting in the small of his back. As if Eddie still needs help with his balance. He doesn't, but Steve wants to touch him, nonetheless.

Steve watches as Eddie pulls his shirt over his head. He's gotten a bit of a tan while his friends were here, and he looks healthier, finally. Steve's hands find his bare skin, squeezing his sides. Eddie laughs, hair falling into his face. 

And Steve wants. 

He kisses him like he means it, then pulls back. During his last beer run, he'd done some other stocking up as well. He pulls the plastic sack out of the nightstand. New boxes of condoms and K-Y jelly. He shakes them out onto the bed.

"You wanna?" Steve asks, and Eddie looks at them, cheeks going a little red, but he nods.

There's a little confusion on the expectations here, but Steve rolls over onto his belly. This is what he wants. He's never had it, but he wants it, anyway.

"I've never, have you ever?" Eddie asks, holding the tube in hand, flipping the cap open and shut, over and over again.

Steve shakes his head, "No."

There's a learning curve. It's kinda steep, but at least they can laugh about it. They can figure it out together, and now that Eddie's finally got two fingers in him, Steve thinks they're finally getting somewhere. 

It's an odd feeling, honestly. He isn't sure what he feels about it, other than full.

But he's gonna ride this out. See where it goes.

Now up on his knees, the blunt head of Eddie's cock is definitely bigger than his fingers, and Steve hangs his head down between his shoulders, and sucks in a sharp breath.

Eddie stills, "You still okay?"

There's a hand on Steve's ass, and he focuses on that point of contact. Like everything is in that warm touch, and nowhere else.

"It's a lot," Steve admits. Because it is.

"Want me to stop?" Eddie asks, his other hand now trailing up Steve's spine.

"No. No. Just, more lube, I think. And go slow," which Steve knows is an ask. He's pretty sure Eddie's barely been moving at all.

Eddie slides out, and now Steve feels left open, and missing something. It's so fucking weird. There's more lube, and more fingers, and even more lube. Steve feels it dripping out of him, he's pretty sure. 

But then Eddie's pressing in again, and it seems to go a little easier. He feels the head of his cock pop past his rim, right into him, and he groans, fisting at the sheets underneath him. It's good, and the rest of the slide feels easier.

Eddie eventually stills.

"You all in?" Steve asks. He's not sure what he'll do if there's more.

"Fuck, yes," Eddie answers, and then Steve can feels his fingertips brushing along his hole as it's stretched around his cock, buried deep inside. "Look at you."

Steve can't do that, but wishes he could.

"You good?" Eddie asks.

Yeah. Steve thinks he's good, "Yeah. Yeah. You can move. Slow. Go slow. But fuck me."

And Eddie does. It's a little hesitant, and uneven, but he draws back, and then slides deep again. And again. Until he's found a nice rhythm. Steve feels insane, and whiny, and so fucking needy. 

He didn't expect how much he'd enjoy this. He kinda just thought he'd be taking one for the team.

Fuck that. He's taking this for himself. Happily, greedily.

It doesn't last long. Steve knows how that goes. The first time you slide into a body that's allowing, welcoming, you inside. It's overwhelming, and feels good in a way you can't even begin to expect.

Eddie shoves deep one more time, and comes with a noise that is nearly enough to send Steve over the edge, untouched. 

When he pulls out, Steve feels empty. Cracked open, and then Eddie rolls him over onto his back, slick hand finding his cock, eyes locked straight on Steve's, and Steve melts into it. He looks at Eddie. Into his dark eyes, his hand gripping Eddie's scarred waist, holding on.

It's a firm slide up, and back down, and Steve can feel his orgasm building. And when he tenses and comes, splattering his own belly and chest, he feels so fucking good. Eddie eventually lets go, cleans him up, and then curls into his side.

Fingers dancing along his skin, and Steve suspects, going from mole to mole.

He's gonna fall in love with him, hell, probably already has.

"We gotta do something. Make a plan. We can't stay hidden here forever," Eddie eventually says, and Steve squeezes his eyes shut. "Even if I want to."

Steve knows. He knows that's true.

"Okay. I'll figure it out."

Steve paces on the porch, worried. He eyes the nailbat leaning against the railing, waiting, in case he needs it. He's scared he's made a mistake. Scared that it's gonna be helicopters, spotlights, and a whole fucking army decending on them.

It's not.

It's Dr. Sam Owens. Alone, with a briefcase.

Two hours later, Eddie Munson has a whole new identity, and a small tote bag of cash. A payout Steve hadn't even known to ask for, but Owens had brought as a peace offering to keep Eddie quiet if he'll just slink off and not expose all their secrets. 

Wayne's paperwork is on the counter, if he wants it. 

Jeff and Goodie are bringing Wayne out next week. That's the plan anyway. If they can lure him into the car. 

Eddie can't return to Hawkins with his new identity, but he can leave the beach house. Can leave Florida. He can go anywhere he wants, now.

Dr. Owens is descending the steps, nearly onto the sand, when Steve hurries out onto the porch. 

"Hey, wait!"

Dr. Owens turns around, and Steve suddenly isn't sure what to say.

"Yes?"

"Um. What would it take, to get me that kind of paperwork?"

Owens smirks, just a little, and reaches into his briefcase, pulling out a manilla envelope. 

Steve takes it.

"How did you know?" Steve asks.

"I've had eyes on you from the moment you ferreted him out of Hawkins."

Steve swallows. Nods.

Looks down at the envelope he's gripping tight. He could disappear, too. If he wants. He'd have to find some way to loop in Robin, of course, but he could just…go. 

Wherever Eddie wants. 

"Thank you," Steve says. 

"We think the activity in Hawkins has ceased. Once they finish rebuilding, it should be back to business as usual." 

Steve nods again. But it'll never be the same. Can't be. But the town will be able to start over. Have proven that's the plan. Hell, they've already figured out a way to start school on time and everything. 

Dr. Owens gives him one last look, and then he's gone.

Eddie's standing on the porch, and as Steve climbs the steps, Eddie holds open the door, asking, "What's next?"

Steve turns the lock, "Anything you want."

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiesmuttyseptember and @steddiesongfics to follow along with the filth and fun! 💦🎵

Notes: In the 1980's Destin was just starting to turn into the vacation city it now is. It went from fishing village to a resort city.

Accept's album Russian Roulette was released on April 21, 1986. As we're all aware, Eddie was wearing an Accept pin on his battle vest during S4.

[heauxvibez]

Gentle

warning: angst, mentions of depression/anxiety, fluff. Enjoy!

It had been days since Joe lost his match. It meant he could finally be home, taking a break from the WWE's busy schedule. You were thrilled to have him home, just the two of you for a while. Joe was excited too, or so he thought.

He released a huge sigh of relief when he was told prematurely about the outcome of his match with Cody. He loved work but also missed being home with you, and the flexibility to do what he wanted without having to make huge shifts around his work schedule. The guilt that constantly ate at him for missing milestones in your life would finally be put to ease. Your promotion at your job, your birthday, buying your first brand new car with your hard-earned money, all things he missed out on celebrating due to his work.

But as time went by, you noticed a change in him. His energy shifted dramatically. He became quieter, answering with short sentences and avoiding conversations. He barely ate, only managing to do so when taking his medication.

You had to decline many invitations because he wasn't up for crowds; they made him anxious. The bedroom became his refuge, all he wanted to do was lay in bed and rot. It was starting to worry you.

Joe himself didn't understand what was happening. He wanted to shake off this feeling, but it clung to him stubbornly. It was like he'd forgotten his place in life, his roles as your husband, friend, and son. He felt worthless. As the Tribal Chief he knew everything, life was in his control, he was in control. Nothing could phase him when he was his alternative self. His bronze skin was as thick as ever.

But as Joe, he was vulnerable and soft, his hands could barely grasp the concept of life outside of the arena. He believed that he'd let everyone down by missing important moments, especially you. Despite your support and pride in him, he couldn't shake the feeling of being resented. His anxiety whispered that you all hated him, leading him to isolate himself in the room. He thought that by avoiding interaction, he'd be less of a burden.

You were left in the dark, unsure of what was happening with him. You didn't want to jump to conclusions, but you couldn't ignore the signs of either depression or anxiety. It was a delicate situation; you didn't want to say or ask the wrong thing and risk pushing him away. You were at a loss for how to approach him without causing further distress.

"Babe..", you called out as you cracked open the door. Your head peaked in to reveal him bundled under the sheets.

"Hmm?" he hummed back, avoiding looking in your direction.

The room matched his mood—dark and cold. You approached him cautiously, arms crossed before quickly relaxing them, not wanting to convey that you were mad or upset in any way. Squatting beside the bed, you met his gaze. His hair was tousled, covering his face like cobwebs, his eyes red, lips downturned. He looked miserable.

He almost melted at the feel of your fingers feathering through the knots of his tangled beard. He hadn't groomed himself in days, so he looked a mess. But to you he still looked like perfection, just needed a little love. You searched his face, to him it felt like judgment, but for you...you were just looking for any sign of your loving husband.

"You okay?"

That question alone almost unraveled him. His eyes shut tightly, becoming a dam for the flood of tears that threatened to fall from his eyes. He covered his face with his hand when he could no longer contain the wave of emotions. He shook his head, answering your question.

"Oh baby, I'm sorry. I'm sorry", you pleaded. You didn't know what to expect. You thought it would take a while to break through his tough exterior.

Not wanting to overwhelm him, you hadn't moved. You stayed squatted in your position, stroking the side of his face that wasn't covered by his huge hand.

"Talk to me, baby. I can't help if I don't know what's wrong," your voice, soft and gentle, began to ease the tension. It seemed to pull him back from the brink of a panic attack.

"Breathe, just talk," you urged. He took a deep breath, his exhale brushing against your face. His hand fell away from his face, revealing tear-streaked cheeks and watery eyes. You met his gaze, your own eyes welling up with empathy. You fought back your tears, wanting him to feel safe expressing himself.

Joe tried to speak but faltered, closing his lips and shaking his head. He was at a loss for words, unsure of how to begin.

You let out a gentle sigh as you brushed his greasy hair away from his face. He hadn't bothered to wash it in days, neglecting self-care. As your fingers ran through his strands, an idea dawned on you. With a small smile, you met his sad eyes.

"It's been a while since you washed your hair, huh?" you remarked.

He nodded, still focused on you.

"How about we have a little wash day? I just got some new hair care stuff," you suggested.

There was a moment of silence as he considered it. He didn't want to leave the safety of the room, but he was also bothered by his oily, limp hair.

"Yeah, that sounds nice," he replied softly.

"Yeah? Let's go," you said, standing up and offering your hand. He slowly rose from the bed, taking your hand and letting you lead him to the kitchen.

Since childhood, your family had always washed hair in the kitchen sink. Moms, aunts, and cousins would have you lay flat on the counter, and it was always your favorite part of hair care, like a special ritual.

Your hair care routine had evolved. With the right products and tools, you felt like a pro, especially during tasks like washing your hair. Now, wash days were more enjoyable, and you loved washing your husband's hair too. It was a favorite bonding activity.

"Okay, lay down on the counter," you instructed.

One perk was your spacious kitchen, allowing you to recreate the wash days you cherished from childhood. He hopped onto the counter, and a bit of excitement gleamed through his eyes. It had been a while since you shared an intimate moment like this. With his travels and recent struggles, there had been little room for such simple things.

You stepped away briefly to fetch your hair care items. Your favorite line was created by Taraji P. Henson, who understood the needs of tight coils like yours. Today, you opted for the Honey Fresh clarifying shampoo to remove oils from his locs and the Make It Rain conditioner for moisture.

Returning to the kitchen, you laid out the items on the sink: shampoo, conditioner, Denman brush, wide-tooth comb, and a shower cap—everything needed to care for his hair.

You couldn't help but watch as he lay with his eyes closed, fingers intertwined on his belly. Though he didn't show it, he was eager for this wash day, just like you.

Turning on the sink, you tested the water temperature with your fingers, ensuring it was just right for his scalp.

"Okay, let me know if it's too hot or cold." you instructed. With his eyes still closed he nodded.

The water hit his scalp and you watched as his brows furrowed then relaxed.

"Is that okay?", he nodded once again,

"That's perfect."

The warm water felt like a soothing touch on his scalp, the best sensation he'd felt in days.

"Good," you smiled, running your fingers through his hair. It took a moment for the water to penetrate his hair, the oils causing it to bead off into the sink. The touch of your nails on the back of his neck sent shivers down his spine as you worked the water through his hair.

"Alright," you murmured to yourself as his hair drank in the flowing water. With a twist, you shut off the tap, the room now silent. You placed the detachable head back in its place, and your fingers found the shampoo bottle, releasing a dollop into your hand. With a soft sigh, you worked the dollop into a nice lather with your palms.

You started at his hairline, the pads of your fingers tenderly grazing his scalp. Purposefully avoiding using your acrylic nails, your touch was feather-light. You wanted to cocoon him in bliss and make sure that he was as relaxed as possible.

Your fingers trailed to the hair behind his ears, a familiar path that never failed to make him weak. His ears, his sweet spot, where the slightest touch made his toes curl. Each time your wrist brushed against his ear, he moaned softly, bringing a slight blush to your cheeks.

"Feel good?" the soft words left your lips.

"Feels great." he confessed with a contented sigh.

His response brought warmth to your heart as you continued your movements, moving towards the center of his scalp where he was often tender-headed. With gentle strokes, you massaged the area, mindful of his comfort. In this moment, you found joy in this simple act of caring for your husband.

Though you wanted to get into deeper conversations about his well-being, you hesitated, not wanting to disrupt the peace of the moment. Instead, you chose to stay silent, allowing your gentle touch to speak volumes. But Joe had other ideas.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled

"Don't be, you haven't done anything wrong," you assured. Although you knew what he meant. He felt remorseful for acting distant and pushing everyone away, but you knew it wasn't his fault. He was grappling with emotions beyond his control, and you gave him space to work through them.

"But I have, I haven't been the best husband lately. Well really in the past few years if we're going to be honest."

"Joe-"

"No, listen.." his eyes were flooding with tears again.

"I have not been the best husband in years. I thought with this time off I'd be able to make up for lost time but the more I sit with myself, I'm wondering am I capable of being a good husband? I don't even know who I am outside of Roman Reigns."

Tears were now flowing freely down the side of his eyes and into his hair. For the past 4 years, he had been an alternative version of himself. He completely immersed himself into a character and with the time he had to actually sit with himself, he realized he wasn't really sure who Joe was.

Tears were now rolling down your face. It hurt to see him doubt himself like this. You knew who he was—Joe and Roman were completely different. It was hard to believe he couldn't see it; he was struggling with imposter syndrome.

You wiped your tears away with your wrist, trying to steady yourself. You needed him to know that you didn't share his negative feelings about himself.

"Well, your feelings are valid, baby, and I never want you to feel otherwise. But just because they're valid doesn't mean they're right."

You rinsed the shampoo out of his hair with the detachable head of the sink.

"You might not see the difference between Roman and Joe, but I do. I'm not in love with Roman; I'm in love with Joe. I didn't marry Roman; I married Joe. Roman is manipulative, selfish, cold-hearted—wicked, even," you chuckled softly. Joe wiped away his tears, mirroring your laughter.

You began to wring the excess water from his hair. It was finally clean. Now, you just needed to condition and detangle.

You reached for the condition and squeezed a quarter-sized amount into your hand. Then you gently spread it through his clean hair.

"But Joe.. Joe is sweet, he's vulnerable, and he would give the shirt off of his back to anyone in need. We all love Joe and we understand that just because you're away it doesn't mean you're neglectful, you're doing what you have to do to support your family. Joe is a husband, he's a son, he's a family man, he's a sweetheart, he's you."

Using the Denman brush, you carefully distributed the conditioner and untangled his hair, avoiding any painful pulls.

"You are not Roman, you are Joe. Do you understand?", you asked, pausing to catch his gaze. He kept staring ahead.

"Look at me," you said softly, but firmly. His eyes met yours, resembling those of a puppy.

"Do you understand?"

His lips curved into a soft smile and he nodded.

"Yes, I understand, baby," he affirmed. Leaning in, you tenderly brushed your lips against his forehead, savoring the warmth of his skin beneath yours. Then, with a gentle passion, you pressed your lips to his, sparking a feeling that had been dormant for too long.

As you pulled away, you couldn't help but shower him with one last sweet kiss on the tip of his nose before getting back to his hair.

"I know it's going to take time for you to adjust, and I understand it won't be easy. But I want you to know, I'll be here every step of the way. I promise," your voice was filled with unwavering support.

Carefully, you lifted his head to secure the shower cap, ensuring his hair received the deep conditioning treatment it deserved for the next 10 minutes.

"Thank you, for everything...I love you," he whispered, his words carrying deep gratitude and love.

"I love you too, handsome," you said, your heart brimming with excitement as you anticipated having your husband return to his true self.

---------------------------

Hope yall enjoyed!

Tags: @harmshake @southerngirl41 @spritelucozade @empressdede @alichesmi @msbigredmachine @blacst4r @sassginamillls @wrestlingprincess80 @saintmagx @theninthwonder

[warcats-cat]

Sacred Animal

Summary: Hermes takes you on a "mystery date" that becomes very cute and silly, very quickly.

A/N: I'm doing it, I'm being brave and posting one of the drabbles I wrote like over a month ago but felt kinda shy about. Biggest, most fluffy Thank-You to @lickoutyourbrains for reading and rereading and encouraging me through everything. If you guys enjoy this one I'll consider posting the others. Please let me know what you think, and as always let me know if I missed any tags!

Read on Ao3 here!

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Hermes' domains were a wide net that covered a lot. Travelers, Messages, Thieves, Trickery and Cunning, Athletes, Merchants, Speed, Language; the list went on for a while. And in keeping with the diversity of his domains, his moods and interests tended to whirl and swing around with the days. 

It made for some chaotic date nights. 

But really, you enjoyed the chaos; the thrill of his surprises, not really being able to guess but being able to follow where his mind was going. You could keep up with him, and he loved you for that. Therefore, date nights like tonight were surprising, but not completely out of left field. 

You were bundled up in a thick coat with ear muffs on your head; it wasn't snowing yet, but it was cold enough that the snow predicted for the following days would stick, and probably make a thick blanket on the ground. 

You faintly wondered if Hermes had ever made snow angels…

“Ready?” he asked at the front door of your apartment building; he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat instead of his usual helmet, and it cast a shadow over his eyes in lieu of his sunglasses. He also had a warm-looking red cloak, apparently lined with fur or some other fluff over a thin shirt that you couldn't quite see. He probably didn't need the cloak, he never seemed to feel cold, but it was important to keep up appearances when visiting public places. 

So you were going somewhere that would have other people. 

You huffed, checking the strap of the bag you carried to make sure it was close to your chest - he could still easily steal your wallet and phone, but it was a little harder when he couldn't just reach into your pockets. One of these days, you might just cave and buy the weird chest-strap bag that kept all your valuables up high and theoretically safe from nefarious hands. See if he could break into that…

Belongings secure, coat and muffs adjusted, you nodded and his face lit with a grin as he effortlessly lifted you into his arms. You could barely see the glow of his eyes under the shadow of the hat - the longer you dated Hermes, the more you learned to look closer for the little things. Right now, he was excited; more childlike joy than gleeful mischief, which was even more exciting for you. As much as you enjoyed his pranks and silliness, it was rare that he had this much anticipation for something. 

He was usually all soft smiles and warmth, but this was bright like a star. 

You tucked your face into Hermes' chest, knowing he was going to fly directly to wherever he was taking you. There would be no sight-seeing on this trip; another mystery to confuse you about potential locations. He pressed a gentle kiss into your hair before taking off, the wind quickly whipping around the pair of you as he sped towards your destination. 

It was still bright out - the sun wouldn't set for another hour or two, and the light and wind surrounded you for a few moments before you felt Hermes slow and finally land. At least this time he hadn't gone high enough to make your ears pop. 

You waited for his arms to loosen, looking up at him after a few moments. 

“Put me down?” You asked, teasingly. He shrugged. 

“Nah. It's pretty cold, it's nice to have a personal heater.” He replied. He only laughed when you lightly slapped his chest with the back of your hand, and finally released you. 

“How does your hat not fly off?” You asked, noticing the tips of his hair under the brim were ruffled, but the hat itself remained secure. He shrugged again. 

“God magic?” he theorized, jokingly. That was his answer to a lot of questions about his anomalies, and you knew better than to press. You rolled your eyes and huffed, crossing your arms. 

“Ok, fine,” you gestured for him to lead, “where exactly are we?” He took your hand and began to walk across a rather large expanse of grass, passing a little gravel parking lot full of cars, and you could see some farm buildings in the distance. 

“We’re gonna meet some friends!” the wide smile returned, as if his statement wouldn't raise more questions, but you just chuckled and followed. You were definitely on some kind of farm-store property; a place that probably did apple picking or a pumpkin patch in the fall. Right now, though, all of the trees were bare, the grassy field yellowish from winter frost, and the rows of dirt in the distance empty as the plants that grew there waited for spring. 

The pair of you walked up to a little gate, where an older man was sitting with a little cash box. The man smiled as you approached. 

“Well, how can I help you two?” he asked, a bit of a ‘country lilt’ to his words. You expected Hermes to wave a hand and work his ‘god magic’ on the man so he allowed you to pass, but instead your godly boyfriend handed over a real, American ten-dollar bill and responded “Two please.” 

You tried not to look at Hermes in shock and confusion; he ‘paid’ for a lot of your dates, but not usually with actual money. You faintly wondered if he was starting to understand the difference between stealing from corporations and small businesses; a subject of many debates and discussions throughout your time together. You were impressed. 

The man took the bill and traded it into his cash box for two bright green silicone bracelets, and began to fish out some change before Hermes held up a hand and told the man to keep the change. 

The god handed you a bracelet and led you around the gate as the man wished you both to have fun. After it appeared Hermes was not going to say anything about it, you tugged on his hand, causing him to stop. 

“Who are you and where is my boyfriend?” You asked, only half-jokingly. Maybe even less than half. 

He bounced on the balls of his feet; damn he was really excited. “I learn things when we talk! I'm supporting some local farmers!” He defended with a grin. “I’m not only a Patron of thieves, you know.” 

With that response apparently being all he planned to say, he began to walk again, taking your hand, and by extension, you, with him. The pair of you were walking around the main building which you were now certain was some kind of store, and as you turned the corner you could hear the excited jabbering of children. 

What the heck.

‘Meeting friends,’ he said. You were on a farm. There were little kids. You looked at the bracelet now on your wrist which read ‘Friendly Fields Local Craftworks and Petting Zoo’ in thin yellow letters. 

Well, this was certainly the most unique date he'd ever taken you on. 

In the rapidly diminishing distance, you saw a series of low fences housing several animals, and about a dozen children with parents in varying stages of exasperation. Most of the little ones were crowded around a hutch of extremely fluffy rabbits, but there was also a pen with mini ponies, one with two alpacas, one with a cow, one filled with chickens, and one with a small handful of sheep. You were pleased to notice that all of the pens had little heaters for the animals, and were sheltered in case it rained. 

You had to admit, this was kinda cute. 

Hermes continued to lead, heading straight for the sheep who ‘baah’d at him as you both came near. This one was the farthest off, and it seemed none of the children were very interested in visiting the sheep. 

“Hello, lovely ladies,” Hermes said as he leaned down and began to scratch one under its chin. You were a bit surprised; normally petting zoo animals were pretty apathetic towards their visitors, unless there was food involved. But all four of the wooly sheep had wandered over and were waiting for Hermes' attention. 

“So you're the god of sheep.” You said, a wry smile on your face as you watched him pet one animal with each hand. 

“Ha! You're close,” he replied, “I’m the god of shepherds. But sheep are one of my animals.” He paused, realizing you hadn't joined in, and stood back up to look at you. “Is this ok? You like petting things…” he asked, and now his face was hesitant.

You did like petting things. You constantly tried to pet the stray cats around your apartment complex, and the second someone offered for you to pet their dog you were all over those good boys and girls. You had even been to petting zoos before! Sheep were one of your favorite animals (although now you were absolutely not going to tell Hermes that). You felt your cheeks get hot, and it wasn't from wind burn. 

“Well, you looked like you were pretty excited to see them, and I didn't want to get in your way…” you said lamely. In truth, you just thought watching Hermes talk to a small herd of sheep was adorable, and had forgotten you were also supposed to be interacting with the animals. 

Hermes smirked, and pulled you a little closer, holding out a hand to the sheep closest to him, “here, just let her sniff you first. They'll probably feel a lot safer than normally because I'm here.” 

You followed his lead, surprised when the sheep forewent sniffing your hand and plopped her little chin in your palm. You could almost believe she was smiling at you. A surprised giggle bubbled out of you; no animal had ever done that. 

Seeing that there were now enough hands for all four to get pets at the same time, the whole little herd came up to the fence to vie for attention. It was strange and a little wonderful; their wool was thick and dense and incredibly warm, once you pushed your fingertips into the fleece. Hermes was saying something to the two in front of him, but you were only barely aware of that as you watched the little sheeps’ tiny, nubby tails wagging and twitching. 

He was probably giving them a blessing, the big softie; to be warm and live long and always have the tastiest grass. 

You had no idea how long the two of you had stood there, spoiling the little sheep with your scritches; thankfully the sun hadn't set yet, but it was a little darker. Hermes led you around to the other pens, now significantly quieter as several of the families and children left for the evening. There were still a good number of people around, but not so rowdy. One of the alpacas was interested in the pair of you, though not nearly as much as the sheep. The horses looked at you like you were some kind of aliens; as if you were the ones in the pens for their entertainment. Hermes avoided the cow, saying she was giving him a dirty look. 

You knew he had a history with cows but you didn't think it went that deep…

The chickens were also quick to look for Hermes' attention, running over to the fence posts to investigate. They formed a wide clump of feathers, and would have been centered around him if there hadn't been a barrier in the way. As it were, several chickens were reaching their heads through the fencing, clucking and (apparently) trying to peck at the god. You giggled. Hermes looked around a moment, that mischievous smile on his face, and you saw him pull his hat down in the back just far enough to free the wings behind his ears, which flapped a few times at the chickens in return. 

The chickens went wild, some of them darting away, some of them flapping their wings back, some almost screeching; to the point that one of the farmhands came over to make sure they weren't fighting, and Hermes had to quickly slip his hat back in place. 

You'd never pet a chicken before; and the farm hand was kind enough to let you and Hermes each hold one. They were warm, surprisingly heavy, and you were taken aback when you realized the bird was purring. Not as deep and consistent as a cat’s purr, but still noticeable; the vibrations just barely palpable in your hands. Hermes' face was practically glowing in the low light, looking at you holding the chicken. After a little more cuddling of the soft feathers, and watching Hermes (probably) whispering a blessing to the other birds as well, the farmhand helped you place the chicken back in her coop, and Hermes led you to the last pen; the bunnies.

Angora rabbits, to be specific, with their carefully brushed fur and softly padded pen. A visitor could see clearly that these were the prized animals for the farm. And they certainly were cute; well-socialized and hopping over to see the newcomers, hoping for treats, clearly relaxed while being handled by the humans. 

You opted not to hold a rabbit, but you did get to pet a few of them as they wandered from person to person - their fur was as silky-soft as you imagined; always hearing about angora wool being special and extra soft (and probably extra expensive) but never going out of your way to find clothes made with it. 

The sun was finally setting in earnest, and the farmhands were beginning to pack up the petting area and move the animals back into their warm barns and hutches; the little country store was still open though, and it only took a little bit of begging to convince Hermes to go inside and look around. 

He’d already been planning on going in, but you were cute when you made your sad-eyes and exaggerated pout. 

Inside, the shop was warm and smelled like fresh cinnamon and vanilla. There were a few people milling around, looking at the different products - lots of fresh baked goods, homemade preserves, craft items, and even a cubby of milled goat milk soap. There was also a large sign on the counter that read “Chelly is OUT” in large red letters, and you assumed the tile that read OUT could be flipped to say something like IN as well. 

You wondered if you'd get a peek at Chelly. You did love shops that had kitties wandering around. 

Hermes unpinned his cloak so it hung at his shoulders instead of clipped at his throat, and you loosened your coat as well; the shop was nice and warm, and you were getting a little too warm under so many layers. 

Hermes was definitely just showing off his shirt - a meme shirt, because of course he'd been collecting those recently... 

You took your time looking at different things, eventually Hermes handed you a little shopping basket with a knowing grin, and you blushed again as you carefully placed a bottle of lavender oil for baking and a pack of flaky, delicious looking chocolate pastries into the basket. You were a bit surprised when Hermes actually added some things to the basket - namely two little crochet sheep that had a tag reading [80% angora, 20% wool] and a crochet chicken that apparently had a squeaker in its body. 

Oh gods. That was going to drive his siblings insane. 

And then suddenly, Hermes yelped and jumped, floating just a second too long before landing and looking down at the floor. 

Looking at a little tortoise riding around on a skateboard-like contraption.

The yelp had attracted the attention of the woman running the counter, but Hermes was unbothered; consumed with the sheer delight upon seeing the little reptile appear from under the shelves. 

“Oh, I'm so sorry!” the woman said frantically, “she's perfectly healthy, I promise, she just gets a little feisty when it's close to closing time, because she knows once the customers leave she gets a strawberry. She didn't bite you, did she?”

Meanwhile, Hermes had become a metaphorical kid in a candy store, sitting down right on the floor and cooing at the tortoise. He waved the woman off, saying, “She's so cute! So fast!” And then addressing the turtle, a mess of babbling that included “Look at your little wheels!” 

You'd seen many moods from your godly boyfriend. You'd seen him happy, frustrated, confused, annoyed (usually by your car and your coworkers). You'd seen him drunk and giggly, when he had twirled you around until you both threw up. You'd seen him cry, though rarely; he rarely felt safe to do so. You'd even seen him divinely angry once when a nymph at one of Dio's parties asked why a mortal like you were allowed to attend. 

You had not seen him like this. This was newborn-baby-cute-aggression levels of babbling. He gently scratched around the tortoise’s shell, watching the reptile wiggle when he apparently hit a good spot. (It was admittedly adorable.) You were pretty sure you could see his wings ruffling under his hat. 

Thankfully, the woman was pleased with Hermes' excitement. “Oh, yes. Poor Chelly was hatched without her back legs working. My son made the little wheel board for her. She has one that only has wheels on the back, but she seems to prefer the ability to race around.” 

Ah. Chelly was the tortoise.

“It's brilliant!” Hermes' replied, and then after a moment of hesitation, he surprised you again. “Can I pick her up?” He asked, almost bashful. 

The woman only laughed. “Sure, if she'll let you! Just be careful, she likes to give love bites.” She patted the reptile’s shell gently and asked if you needed any help before returning to the counter to attend another customer. 

Your boyfriend was still sitting on the floor. 

Not knowing what else to do, you joined him on the floor. 

He gently wiggled his fingers in front of Chelly, and when she didn't reach out and bite, he carefully scooped her off of her skateboard and held her right up to his face. 

“Helloooo, Darling! You like to go fast, huh? Go Zoomies? You're such a pretty girl!” He was almost blushing, and for the second time you wondered what clone had spontaneously replaced the man you were dating. Meanwhile, the tortoise was content to extend her neck and brush his nose with her face. Her front legs wiggled as if she was still walking or possibly swimming, and he continued to talk to her. 

The longer you sat there, the more you wondered if they could understand each other. 

With a sigh, you gave Hermes a kiss on his cheek, told him you were going to look some more, and left to explore the other shelves. (You may or may not have snapped several dozen photos of him cooing at Chelly in the meantime.)

He sat there with the tortoise a full ten minutes; meanwhile you found your own mischievous gift. You had paid quietly and hidden the item at the bottom of your purse, under the ‘valuables’ and wrapped in a brown paper bag. That was for later. 

When he finally rejoined you, you playfully bumped him with your elbow as he took some offered hand sanitizer from the counter to clean his hands.  He paid for the rest of the items in your basket, once again with real money, and you knew better than to question it at this point. The pair of you rebuttoned your extra layers and prepared to go out into the night. 

“So, are you replacing me?” you asked. He smiled, nuzzling your cheek with a little huff. 

“Nobody could replace you.” He replied softly, and your face suddenly felt a little warmer. He easily picked you up once more, having put your purchases into his trusty messenger bag, and with little warning he took off. 

This time, he did fly a little higher, just so you could see the stars on the way home. The cold wind bit your nose and you would probably have chapped cheeks in the morning, but it was worth it. 

He landed easily outside your apartment building, fishing the brown paper bag out of his pack. He would have to be back on Olympus tomorrow morning, and was leaving tonight to have time to leave a trap for Apollo. You barely had a moment before he pulled you into a kiss, then twirling you around and dipping you backwards, throwing off your balance. At least he kept you from falling, even if it was an almost cartoonish dip. He was probably floating to have you so far back. 

“So,” he panted lightly, his breath making little bursts of fog in the night air, “did you have fun?” You laughed, patting his shoulders as a request to stand back up. His face was positively glowing as he helped you right yourself. 

Yes, he had been floating, damn god powers…

You laughed anyway; “Yes. More fun than I have in a while.” You said, and it was the truth. Hermes' silly side was your favorite thing about him, and you had gotten to see so much of it tonight. His smile was brilliant once more, and under the shadow of his hat you saw his eyes start to glow silvery. 

“I love you.” he said, and kissed you again. “I'll be back in two days. I'll pick you up from work.” 

“Okay. Don't be too mean to Apollo, okay?” You teased. He rolled his eyes, and began to break away, before you grabbed the strap of his messenger bag and stuffed your own small gift inside, feeling it disappear into the organized clutter of the bottomless bag. He quirked an eyebrow in question. 

“Don't open it until you get back to Olympus. Promise?” You asked, and held up your pinky finger. 

He snorted. “Sure. Promise.” He linked his pinky with yours, and you shook. Truly a sacred oath. One last stolen kiss, and then he was gone, zipping away into the night sky. You hugged the bag from the store to your chest, and went inside to your (thankfully warm) apartment. 

The treats went into the kitchen, to be enjoyed for breakfast tomorrow. You were already scrolling your phone for that lavender shortbread cookie recipe you'd seen a week ago and thinking you would have to go to the store tomorrow after work anyway. The little sheep plushies (you now noticed one was a ram and one was an ewe. Dork.) went onto your shelf of ‘Hermes Trinkets’ for now, though you knew you would probably move them to your bed for cuddling soon. Damn those things were soft. There was also a pair of thick purple socks that you hadn't seen him grab, equally soft, and you already planned to change into them with your pajamas. 

Not even an hour later, as you were settling in for bed, you received a text message with a photo attached. 

Hermes, his hair wild and hat off, with a gigantic grin on his face. Proudly wearing the crochet headband with a carefully curled pair of stuffed ram horns. Captioned: ‘Better than my laurels.’

You suddenly really hoped he wouldn't wear that to council meetings. You'd created a monster. 

(If you enjoyed, please reblog!)

[fanaticsnail]

Misc & Marine Masterlist

Navigation Masterlist Here

Art Link

Koby:

To the ends of the earth (one-shot)

The newest recruits taken under the wing of Vice-Admiral Garp are desperately required of breaking in their training. Leaving them in the care of a young lieutenant, Koby begins to develop a crush on his superior as he pushes his body under her command to perform to the best of his abilities.

Téir Abhaile Riú (3/3 Series)

The mighty Marine vessel Vice-Admiral Garp captains was in dire need of repair. Docking against the peer of a small country town, the Marines are welcomed to the shore by an impromptu performance by the local town celebrity band: the 'Merry Mellifluous Quint'. One of the five members catches the eye and attention of the fast-learning, pink haired cadet who in term becomes immediately smitten by the attention she receives from him.

It's All Okay (NSFW One-Shot)

When submissive Koby gives in to his dominant craving, and all he's met with is support, praise and affirmation in your arms.

Please, I'll be good (one-shot)

After rescuing you in the heat of battle, he can no longer contain his desires for you. He was so good. He can keep being good if it means you'll keep kissing him.

Koby, Sanji, Corazon, Sabo, Buggy, Shachi, Ace, Penguin

How They Kiss (drabble)

Four different kisses with all of your favourites. Where would you place them in these categories?

Helmeppo:

Bound to the Enemy (One-Shot)

Bon Clay:

Engaged in a heated battle between pirates and marines on neutral ground had the locals enact a punishment befitting the crime. Bound back to back with a marine, you come up with a plan to work together to break out of the trap and return to your crew.

X Drake

An acquired taste (NSFW One-Shot)

After battle and witnessing how much you care and respect all life, including that of his subordinate Koby outside of his pirate facade, Drake offers to buy you a drink. What starts as flirty conversation and playful banter hastily leads to Drake tugging you into his lap and placing sweet kisses against your lips. It has been so long since he got anything he wants, and he was not willing to let you pass him by.

I just want you (One-Shot)

The lips you're kissing don't belong to the person you love, and you take matters into your own hands.

Sabo:

Frills and Bundles (NSFW One-Shot)

Bound to your desk, you took to the task of testing out a new prototype of a dress Ivankov made for you. Not used to the frills and bundles, you become wrapped up in the feeling of it while your friend tries to halt his unhinged urges to do something about his pining.

Marco:

Right here beside me (One-Shot)

The weather is getting warmer, and you decide to enjoy the warmth of its radiance on the deck of the ship you served on. Your crewmate joins you at your side, and you take the time to chastise him for interfering in the growing relationship between Oden and Toki while enjoying his embrace.

Rob Lucci:

Don't Run (NSFW One-Shot)

In one moment, you were standing beside your boss and enjoying the silence between you as you worked. In an instant, the dynamic shifted: you became the hunted as opposed to the hunter. When you ducked towards the ground, shifting your eyes and tilting your head to read the tracks left by your target, Rob Lucci was hit by a wave he had long since prayed he had repressed. Instinct.

Aokiji Kuzan:

Five Days (NSFW One-Shot)

Temperatures flaring between a marine and their prisoner brought the two of you to this moment. In charge of the former-admiral's prison transfer, the sweltering heat propels you to do something against protocol. You give in to your temptation, and allow him to give you what he threatened he would.

Kuzan's Kisses (Drabble)

How he kisses you.

Bogard:

The Break is Never Easy (Dance Series) (request) (one-shot)

You were invited as an artist to showcase your work at the bi-anual ball thrown for the marines. A decade has passed between you and your severance from your ex-fiance, old flames reigniting as tension builds throughout the night.

Monkey D Garp:

Bonnie Lass: Part 1, Part 2(NSFW) (2/2 Series)

As the assistant to one of the warlords of the seas, it is your task to man the small den-den-mushi earpiece assigned to Mihawk: managing his assignments, scribing the notes of importance. As the receiver drones on, you answer the call and are greeted to the familiar brogue of the Vice-Admiral you had not yet met face to face. 

Bouquet of Red Roses (one-shot)

Your work day was interrupted by an open display of devotion from your lover, something you both agreed was for the best to keep secret from your colleagues.

Chef Zeff:

Honey Glazed (one-shot)

After completing the closing shift of chaotic energy aboard Baratie, conversations turn into flirtations as the chef's hold a completely hypothetical conversation regarding how to adequately prepare and cook-with human. The front of house manager offers her body to be the central focus for the fixation of the chef's unhinged thoughts. Zeff does not shy away from a flirtatious challenge.

Multiples:

Dreaming of You (drabbles)

They couldn't help it. You looked so heavenly in their dreams. The way they had you wrapped around their body as a marionette in their minds, dancing for them as they awoke to sticky blankets when they jolted upright. Their thoughts got the better of them, and they are wracked with guilt. Koby, Helmeppo, Smoker

[cowboygenesis]

4: call it like you see it | din djarin x reader

part 4 of the "brown eyes" series: masterlist and spotify playlist. | buy me a coffee?

pairing: din djarin x reader chapter warnings: none. word count: 6.3k series summary: din settles on the distant planet of lazure prime while seeking a safe-haven for his son. unbeknownst to him, the choice leads him to unforeseen threats—and a deeper connection he never thought possible. notes: YES MY FRIENDS, two chapter in 2 days! when i tell you i sat down for 6 hours straight making this happen, i mean it. how do you guys feel about valerie's character? let me know!

A week passes after your spontaneous gathering with the soldier-child duo, and you find yourself wondering about them more often than you’d initially liked.

When you’re out and about in town, doing errands—be it groceries or helping out a neighbor in need—the memory of his visor fixed firmly on you muddles your mind as you sat in the seat of his Crest. You remember your quickened pulse, his gaze, and the proximity. Maker.

You want to visit them: bring more baked goods and chat, cuddle Grogu, and unwind in the woods as the duo does… whatever they do— yet each time you think about it, your throat tightens. You don’t want to push things too far, and often you feel as though you’ve stepped out of line by just looking for them in the first place.

And so Lazure Prime, with its rolling fields and soft winds, has never felt this lonely before.

There's a peculiar quiet that follows you home nowadays, leering in the dark as you catch yourself scanning the tree line, hoping to spot the familiar gleam of silver armor. For days, it doesn’t come.

It’s a feeling you’re familiar with, yet can’t quite place as you sit in your home one night. The HoloWave hums with a soft tune, harmonizing with the howling wind breezing through the windows. You’ve left them open to enjoy the downpour— trickling over your rooftop and bringing in that delicate, ozonic smell.

You sit at your dining table, blanket hanging loosely over your hip, and a hand-sharpened pencil in your hand.

The graphite glides over a yellowed page, crisp sound caressing your ears as you try to commit everything from memory to paper. The strange baby, a rouge skyline through the window, and his strong, palpable presence as he gazed over— into you near the console that night.

What would he look like under the armor, had you taken a guess?

You know his skin to be smooth and tan. Then, you picture his face worn from years of hard work, wrinkled at the intersection of his eyebrows from the times he scowls; but in your imagination, in this specific scene, there’s a wide smile on his face. A grin— toothy and boyish— amidst the features of a man who's gone through Hell and back.

And his eyes? You couldn’t tell. Are they blue like the vast oceans of Lazure, or dark like the depth of space?

Your hand shakes against the page as you draw them, as if the fantasy itself was too sinful to ponder.

Thunder strikes beyond the treeline as you fall asleep against the journal page. You dream of rolling fields, gnarled branches, and a metallic safe-haven hidden within.

Today, the market opens again; and because you’ve decided to omit setting up a stand this time around (“I’ve just been too busy,” you had told your friends), you find yourself waking late.

It’s almost noon when you finally check your chrono, and so in fear of missing the market altogether, you prepare in a great hurry.

The caf scalds your tongue as you take brazen sips between brushing your hair, the bundled knee-highs on your calves mismatched when you finally throw on your cloak and scarf. Meanwhile, you find yourself reciting a silent prayer.

As you walk down the familiar path to the heart of the city with an empty basket in hand, your chest thrums with anticipation. Silently, you wish to see them again, if only to know how they’re faring.

The last few steps you make around the bend are hurried. Eventually, you break into a jog as the town square comes into view.

It’s busy, as it is every other week; brimming with locals who stroll from booth to booth, looking for their choice of stockpiles. Children dart between stalls, their laughter echoing above the racket of bargaining voices. Vendors call out to passersby, eager to sell their wares.

Normally, this cacophony would feel lively, but today it only deepens the hollow ache within you. Your eyes squint, trying to spot a familiar head of green or suit of metal, but to no avail.

Your lips dip into a slight frown. The realization dawns on you that the day you spent on the Crest with the unlikely duo was probably the last memory you’d have of them. Yes, Din had told you he’d wanted to stay, but realistically? They had probably left sometime during the week in search of a more suitable, accepting town or planet altogether. After all, it’d probably be warranted with the difficulties they had faced here since day one.

You don’t blame them, not one bit. ‘That’s fine,’ you think throught a shudder.

Then why does your stomach sink at the thought?

You glance around once more. And nothing. No green baby, no sharp visor sizing you down.

It’s because you had grown to enjoy the feeling of company, you think. Something about the pair’s otherness felt like it aided your selfish need for accommodating another. It’s a desire you’ve long forgotten, but they’ve brought it back with a devastating force.

You were so hopeless. So naive.

You exhale softly, adjusting your grip on the empty basket, and step further into the square. Life goes on. You’ll wallow over the departure of your new friends later tonight, over a glass of spotchka.

You imagine the kid smiling in his dad’s lap, as the armored man rises the Crest into the atmosphere, then beyond. The fantasy soothes you just enough to blink the annoying tears away.

A friendly face catches your eye near the spice vendor’s stall, waving enthusiastically as your eyes focus. Spotchka? Maker, of course. Have you been feeding your friend false promises of sharing a drink since the last market?

You force a smile and make your way over, weaving through the throng. Once you’re in the epicenter, you notice she’s without the kids. Her hair flows down her shoulder in a loose braid, held together by an elastic twine. You use the same kind when you happen to choose an updo for the day.

“Val,” you chuckle dryly, rubbing soothingly at your forearm. She cocks her head with a furrowed brow, but her smile is sympathetic as she turns to you. You feel you don’t deserve the compassion.

She says your name, her voice honeyed as ever as she takes your hand.

The look she gives you is almost suffocating, like a mother reprimanding her young child. Actually, you know this is the look she gives her kids when they’re misbehaving.

“Good morning, you little Ewok. Have you been avoiding me?” she questions as if it were the most natural, non-accusatory thing in the galaxy. She’s not mad, not one bit.

Your eyes widen, fingers squeezing around hers. You suddenly realize the dryness on your tongue, and how it twists when you try to speak for the first time since waking. “No— Maker, no, I’ve— I’ve been so preoccupied, I was gonna ask about dinner last night, I—”

“Hey,” she breaks you off, craning her neck forward to match your eye level. Then, she smiles wider, and momentarily it’s all you can think about. “Talk to me.”

You frown, but allow your hands to remain intertwined. You know she’ll understand, yet the idea of venting suddenly seems obscure and out of reach.

You’ve known Valerie for years, but it feels like eons when you try to count it back. She’s the kind of person you managed to click with from the get-go, no small talk or any of that Maker-forsaken ‘warm-up’ you needed with most people— she just understood without needing anexplanation. Since the day you arrived on the planet, battered and bruised, she saw the strength in you and nurtured it.

“It’s nothing,” you shake your head, mirroring her smile. It’s not the first or last time you’ll reject her help, you know it as your tongue flows with sand. You hope she understands.

Valerie’s eyes narrow, and her grip loosens. You want to hold on for a second longer, keep the warmth of her calloused hands in yours, but you don’t humor it. You know better, you always have.

Once you separate, she sighs and lets her brow flatten. There’s a thick bundle of parsley in her arms, and she cradles it like a child.

“Tell me at least… have you been getting enough rest?” she shrugs, and her smile returns. You know each other’s buttons well enough to sense when they shouldn’t be pushed.

You nod, brushing a lock of hair out of your face.

It’s true, you have been sleeping well. Your slumber is deep when it comes, and the dreams are vivid enough to pencil into your journal. You avoid confessing what— who— they’re about.

“Good,” she nods back, placing the parsley in her woven basket. She straightens, gives you a once-over, and sighs again. You know the look, and can only give her an encouraging smile as she hesitates.

“Can I ask you something?” she finally declares, and you nod.

Valerie brings the basket closer to her hip, right hand tracing the slope of her jawline as she thinks of the most appropriate way to approach you. You find it unusual for her usually brazen personality but decide against commenting.

“Are you still seeing him?” she questions, and your eyebrows dip in awe.

Seeing him? As if you’d have the audacity to see that scoundrel after he—

But then, it dawns on you like a summer breeze; it tickles your cheeks and makes them blossom pink.

She’s talking about Din.

Your hands bunch at your front as your lips purse. Before you think to confess, your tongue makes you feign innocence.

“Who?” you question, instantly feeling yourself wince at the blatant ingenuity. Valerie’s eyes narrow, like she’s studying you. Of course she knows better than to trust that.

“The mercenary,” she elaborates, almost offended you’ve forced her to.

“The… the mercenary?” you question, and she nods. You watch her squeeze her lips into a tight line before soothing your hand with her thumb.

“I saw you leave the market with him last week.”

“What?” Your eyes widen. Were… were you being watched all that time? Had you been careless when you prioritized your amity? “You… you did?”

She nods with a shrug. You can’t read her body language; she’s eerily non-commital with her interrogation, making you shiver.

“Not just me,” she replies quietly, glancing around the square. As your gaze follows, indeed, you catch dozens of eyes on you. You’ve credited that strange feeling in your stomach all morning to paranoia, but perhaps it’s true; your act of service made you the talk of town. Obviously. Maker, what did you expect helping someone so blatantly out of place? With your own murky history, no less.

You turn back to your friend, voice lowering to a near-whisper. Your features are stern as you think of the tension between you and Din as he towered over you in his cockpit.

“Nothing happened. What did you think happened?”

“Oh, don’t blame me for worrying,” she rolls her eyes through a scoff, leaning in for some privacy. Still, the leering eyes hang over your shoulder as she speaks. “He’s not just a visitor, right? Was he… was he sent from the Em—”

“No,” you interject, tone lowering. You feel a pit dwelling in your stomach and Valerie notices immediately. She pushed a button.

“Right,” she continues, pivoting from remorse. She’s trying to diminish that bitter feeling in your mouth by rubbing at your forearms, and strangely, it works well enough. “Then… who is he?”

You look down. Should you… should you tell her? Valerie has been nothing but kind to you, even after learning of your past, but with Din?

“He’s a bounty hunter,” you half-confess with a sigh, and she squeezes you. You’re not pressured to continue, but her touch alone lets you know you can be earnest with her, as you usually are.

“Bounty hunter?” she repeats, and you nod.

“A…” you begin shakily, looking into her eyes. She’ll understand, as she always does. “…A Mandalorian.”

You watch in real-time as her eyebrows rise on her forehead. Still, the softness in her gaze maintains as she gauges your own emotions, but your heart is stuck in your throat.

“A Mandalorian?” she repeats quietly, trying the words on her tongue. Her eyes flicker from side to side while you hold your breath. “I…”

Your knuckles are white when her tight-lipped frown turns into a soft smile.

“I thought so,” she nods, almost self-satisfied while you give her a strained glare.

“There… there is no way you’re chill about this right now,” you reprimand in a tight voice, and all she can do is chuckle warmly at your reaction. “He’s the elite of mercenaries, a… a hitman for hire. You should have seen his—”

“Do you think his armor is real beskar?” she cuts you off, rubbing her chin in thought. She’s not being serious at all, and you’re not sure how to take it. Was this really just not a big deal? Have you been overreacting?

Instead, you take her comment in. Beskar, beskar… you had never seen the brilliant material in person but heard great tales of its symbol of grandeur, status, and wealth amongst the Mandalorians. But it couldn’t be.

“Beskar? There’s no way, I mean… he was wrapped in that thing,” you shake your head, feeling the tension in your body fading ever so slowly. “Would cost him a new X-Wing and then a bit to afford a whole set.”

“I heard that the best bounty hunters make enough to vacation on Coruscant every single quarter. Can you imagine the life?” she chuckles softly, “Maybe you should ask him about it next time you see each other.”

Your lips tighten. The next time you’ll see him?

“There…” you sigh as you prepare for the confession. Valerie raises a groomed eyebrow, but you’re already looking down at your feet. “There won’t be a next time.”

“What?” she questions quietly, growing curious, or perhaps sensing the downtrodden lilt of your voice.

Maker, there comes the melancholy. It’s a bit on the nose, you think, but now that you say it out loud, you realize that you’ll miss them. Deeply. Them, or the pleasant feeling their company provided in your otherwise quiet life. But perhaps that’s exactly what missing a person means— you know the feeling all too well.

You’re broken away from your silent daydream when Valerie’s hand comes up to shake your shoulder.

She speaks your name and you wet your lower lip. The watchful crowd shifts in the corner of your weary eye, and suddenly, there’s a chill in the air.

“He’s gone,” you sigh, letting out a dry chuckle. “I haven’t seen him in days, I—”

“No,” your friend asserts firmly. Your gaze rises to her face, and you see she’s peeking over your shoulder. The market murmurs.

It all starts to feel like a bad fever dream, a drunken stupor, until Valerie grabs your bicep again.

“Look!” she squeezes, and you finally feel bold enough to let your gaze follow suit.

Your heart skips a beat.

He stands there, at the edge of the square, cloaked in shadow. The glint of his armor catches the sunlight, briefly stinging your eyes with its brilliance.

You feel a little sting somewhere in your chest. It leaves almost as promptly, but when your hand comes up to cradle the pendant around your neck, you know what the feeling is. They’ve never left, and the realization fills your heart with firecrackers.

As he steps closer, you hear chatter— the village gossip you’ve feared, not for yourself, but for him. You try to spot the orb he usually carries by his side, and surely enough, it hums quietly as it hovers a few paces behind. You smile, now knowing what, or who, resides within.

Din is still as a statue, helmet tilted slightly, as though scanning the crowd before him—or perhaps, looking for someone in particular. It quiets down, and for a split second you think you can feel your pulse quicken.

The man’s visor fixes onto a point, as if he had sensed your heartbeat through the thrum.

You realize as your breath falters.

You.

He’s looking at you.

Your hands feel clammy as he steps forward. Maybe it’s just the ringing in your ears, but it seems as if the chatter has picked up again— perhaps out of respect, or more likely— fear. Things are back to normal for a moment.

Only now do you realise the grip on your bicep. When you turn to look, you catch your friend’s eyes fixed on the stranger.

“Valerie,” you mutter, and your voice is hoarse. When you clear your throat, she finally looks at you.

Her eyes are slightly widened, pupils two small islands amidst a sea of brown. She shakes her head out of the trance, or shock, and loosens her grip on your arm. You watch her wet her lips.

“You should talk to him,” she replies promptly, and you give her a disbelieving frown.

“Okay, and say what exactly?” you chuckle dryly.

When you look back to the sheet of armor, you spot him perusing one of the stalls. The merchant running it, a younger girl named Thalia, keeps her arms crossed tightly as she likely explains her wares.

“That he’s welcome here,” Valerie trails, following your gaze. There’s a dark, solemn look in her eyes the moment you catch her speak, interrupted only by a sympathetic smile. “That we don’t mean harm. Folks are afraid because they’re confused. It’s an unknown they’re not willing to discover.”

You nod vehemently, eyebrows furrowed.

“…And that you’d miss him if he left,” she adds through a smile, and you scoff. Even though she’s right.

You nod at your friend, and she smiles at you.

There it goes.

Your breath picks up with your footsteps as your worn boots carry you to him. You know the market’s natural chatter has picked up again, but you can’t hear it through the rush of blood to your head.

He watches you silently, standing beneath the extended roofing of a nearby hut. Your eyes trail to his armored body, and something about you fills with pride. You got to see the tanned skin beneath it before anyone else here.

“Din,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than anything. You didn’t ask prior, but you imagine it’s safe to assume he’d rather not be addressed by the name in public— whether it’s real or not. Something makes you feel like it was for your ears only.

His helmet tilts slightly as you still in front of him, sizing you up. Does he… does he even recognize you?

You offer a small smile. “Hey, Mando.”

Din looks at your face again, and you wonder if he’s right with the nickname. For all you know, it might be offensive or derogatory, or—

Then he says your name. It’s quiet through the modulator, but unmistakenly yours. It sends a crisp shiver down your spine, making you hum in acknowledgment.

“You remembered?” you tease slightly, and he sighs. You’re genuinely a bit surprised.

“You’re taunting me,” he replies lowly, but there’s no real danger to his tone. It’s almost like he’s… teasing you back.

You chuckle warmly, trying to ignore the soft heat creeping into your cheeks. You stand like that for a beat, taking each other in. You wonder what he’s thinking, but before you can ask, your gaze moves to the humming orb at his hip.

"You and Grogu,” you begin quietly, looking to his visor again, “You’re… you’re okay?”

There’s a beat of silence again, but it’s still as comfortable as before. You know the answer before he even speaks.

“Yes,” he nods, taking a glance at Grogu’s closed crib. You want to ask to see him, pet his little head, hear him coo, when—

“He…” Din begins anew, and you can’t help but quirk an eyebrow when he looks back at you.

You smile at him in hopes of a silent incentive, and it seems to work just fine.

“…He really liked that thing you brought him,” the Mandalorian finally confesses with a nod, and you know he means the meat snacks. “Womp rat finished it the moment you left.”

You beam at him, the grin threatening to spill into a chuckle. Your lips squeeze tight to contain it.

“You’re so mean, calling him that,” you reprimand through a smile, and watch Din tilt his helmet again.

“I call it like I see it,” he retorts, repeating your words from days ago. It makes your already blooming chest puff with glee, and that warm, trickling feeling settles in your tummy.

Your smile suddenly drops when you realise you’re not in his private quarters anymore. When you look around, you see a few stray glances thrown your way, but most people seem to be minding their business.

You look back to the cradle, then Din. His gaze is fixed on you, and you get a gut feeling he’s mulling something over.

“I need your help with the Crest again,” he begins, and you nod for him to continue.

He paces from one leg to the other, and the sight is so out of the ordinary you almost want to giggle. Is he nervous?

“The lagging thruster you found during the check,” he continues, and you’re starting to see where this is going. He lingers on this sentence for a moment, and you can’t help but grin mischievously.

“Yes?” you press, almost teasingly, as he makes a noise under the helmet. It comes out muffled and distorted through the modulator, but for a second you think he might be clearing his throat.

“I want you to take a look at it,” he finally confesses, placing a hand on each hip— you imagine its his attempt at grounding himself in an unfamiliar situation.

“I thought you’d take care of it,” you prompt, but the tease in your tone is so evident you feel his gaze boring into you.

“I did,” he explains sternly, crossing his arms over his chest. “The thrusters are replaced, an old Imperial model. I’m not familiar with the technology.”

You pause for a moment, your smile dropping slowly. Why would he ask this of you?

Before you can protest, he continues, “The Crest’s control panel is from the same period. You had no problem navigating it, so I assumed your knowledge is broad there.”

“Oh,” you reply quietly, feeling the sinking feeling in your stomach fade away. You almost assumed the worst, again.

You cross your arms, mirroring the man’s stance as you take him in. If he’s comofortable enough to ask you a favor, he must really need that check up.

Still, why not bargain something harmless in return?

“Okay,” you finally nod, and the foxy smile returns to your lips, “But— I want you to meet someone first.”

He sizes you up, helmet tilted to the side as he evaluated your proposal. It’s brief, and soon enough, you see him nod once in approval.

You chuckle at his willingness, and nod for him to follow you.

When you turn around, you see a few people staring your way, but most of them retract their attention when you notice. You were never one for crowds, but you feel like with Din around, it makes it a little more bareable.

You head through the market, looking back once just to make sure your companion is following. Sure enough, you spot his strong silhouette shadowing just a few paces behind you.

“Valerie!” you call out, spotting the woman at her stall.

When she spots you, she grins with a small wave. You lean against her stall as Din looks her up and down.

The woman’s eyes squint a bit, but she doesn’t seem afraid, or even nervous. She sizes the Mandalorian back, hands firmly on her hips as she nods.

“Good to meet you,” she greets, and Din nods back.

“Likewise.”

You exhale slowly as relief washes over you. Introductions are always a little awkward, especially when both parties have strong personalities. “I was th—”

“You’re a Mandalorian, then?” Valerie cuts you off, her gaze curious as it bores into Din. There’s a keen grin painting her lips, and you groan quietly, knowing exactly where this is going.

“Yes,” Din replies tactfully, keeping his tone steady. For now, you’ll let them do their thing and pray things don’t escalate.

“Are you looking for a bounty?” she continues, and the Mandalorian tilts his head in amusement.

“No.”

“So you’re here on holiday?” she continues, and you can’t help but chuckle in the sidelines. You realize that your friend might sate your curiosity by asking all the questions you’ve been too afraid to ask yourself.

“…No,” Mando replies, taking a quick look at you. You smile, wondering if he’s asking you for help or cursing you out for putting him on the spot like that.

“Di— Mando, this is Valerie,” you correct yourself, taking your opportunity to break up their little banter. He nods, crossing his arms.

“Mando might be staying with us for a while,” you explain to your friend, and she nods along. Her eyes don’t leave the man’s shiny helmet, and you can’t imagine why.

“…Just until I figure out the next steps,” Din adds. When you glance at him again, he looks a bit more at ease.

“Okay,” Valerie acknowledges, “How have you been enjoying Terrine?” she questions, her tone softening as she joins you in leaning against the stall.

Din looks down for a moment, then to you. For a moment, you worry he might answer with something brutally honest like ‘not at all’, but when his reply finally comes, your shoulders lower.

“It’s a peaceful town,” he acknowledges, taking a brief glance at Grogu’s closed crib— he’s monitoring him closely, still wary of their surroundings. It’s chaos compared to their little clearing in the woods. “Few things to worry about.”

“Indeed,” Valerie nods, “No guards, no bounties, little crime. You must feel a little out of place.”

Din tilts his helmet again, pondering the woman’s words.

“Your people aren’t used to heavy artillery,” he replies flatly, yet Valerie can’t help but laugh at his answer. You join her with your own chuckle, eyes glued to the Mandalorian as he sizes you up as if to ask ‘where’s the joke in that?’.

“What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right?” she elbows you, and you give her a solemn smile. You watch Din flip his gaze between the two of you.

“The people here mean well, Mando,” you add, giving him an encouraging nod. “I know it’s a lot to ask of you now, but I hope you manage to integrate, eventually. No matter how long you decide to stay.”

His gaze stays on you for a beat as he mulls over your words. You’re still unsure if he likes the new nickname, but you’ll have to ask about it later.

“How about this weekend?” Valerie interjects, and you look at her with a raised eyebrow.

“How come?” you question.

“The cantina’s gonna be lively,” she grins with a shrug, leaning closer, “And it’s the perfect chance for our Mandalorian friend to see the best of Terrine. Maybe we’ll even get him to loosen up a little, and hey— you owe me that drink, right?”

You bite your lip at her comment, fully realising she’s right. On both fronts.

“That I do,” you smile, looking over at Mando. “How’s that for your introduction?”

Din shifts beside you, his stance tightening just slightly. “I don’t—”

“It’ll be great!” Valerie cuts him off enthusiastically. “You can meet some of the locals, get accustomed. It’d be a good place to start.”

“It’s not my scene,” he replies, his tone low and skeptical.

“You deserve a break, Mando. Just one evening,” You frown a little, though not out of anger. “Besides, Gro—”

“No,” he stops you sternly, and your lips tighten.

Din exhales audibly through the modulator as he glances at Grogu’s orb. “It’s not that simple.”

“I understand,” you speak softly, tone gentler. Treading lightly is what you do best, so you try that instead. “Do what you feel is best.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, but you can see the hesitation in the slight tilt of his helmet, the way his gloved fingers flex at his sides. You glance back at Valerie, whose grin has softened.

He finally nods, and that declares the end of that conversation.

“Take your time,” Valerie nods, her tone encouraging. “We’ll both be there if you change your mind.”

You look at her with a quirked eyebrow, extending an arm towards her. “We?”

She chuckles, catching your palm in hers. “We. You’re coming.”

“I—”

“No questions asked! You’ve been keeping me waiting for weeks, and it’s about time you talk with—”

“Yes, Maker, alright!” you laugh nervously, squeezing her palm with a little more force than necessary to stop her unhinged monologuing. You’ll tell Din about that eventually, but not yet. “I’ll be there.”

“Jackpot,” Valerie grins, all self-satisfied as she gently kisses the knuckles of your hand. The gesture’s a little dramatic, but it gives you a surge of confidence as you withdraw.

You chuckle warmly, looking over at Din who’s still watching the both of you like a hawk. You sigh, stepping away from Valerie’s stall before standing at the man’s side once more.

“Alright, let’s leave before she starts grilling you again,” you sigh with jest, and your friend winks. “See you soon, okay?”

“See you this weekend!” she corrects as you’re walking away, and you laugh into open air in return.

“Yes, this weekend!” you affirm, waving at her as you and Din disappear in the crowd.

You weave through the thrum, which proves quite simple as Din walks in front for a change. The crowd spreads like a sea as he plunges ahead, leaving a comfortable path for you to follow until you reach an empty alley perched between two homes. With the market open, it sees little traction.

You make the effort to walk ahead in that moment, smiling to yourself as your back hits the wall. You watch as your companion does the same, resting his weight against the one opposite to you.

You watch him like this for a moment, taking in the way his arms cross and the quiet, distant thrum of townsfolk.

“She likes you,” you finally comment through a wide grin, and Din’s scoff can be heard loud and clear through the modulator.

“She likes you,” he retorts, shaking his head. “I’m collateral.”

“So harsh, Mando!” you reprimand teasingly, watching briefly as an elderly couple walks between you. They give you a brief glance, and you smile warmly at them as they pass.

When you look back at Din, you catch him staring as they disappear out of sight. You can’t help but smile, but you’re not sure why.

“You know, I think you should give Terrine a chance,” you confess, clasping your palms behind your back.

When the man tilts his head, you sigh.

“I just think you could find a place for yourself here,” you elaborate, taking a glance at the still-closed orb. “For him.”

The Mandalorian follows your gaze, where it halts briefly. When you feel he’s gotten his fill, he looks at you again, that sharp visor sending a sudden shiver down your spine.

“You want me to come?” he finally says, and your eyes widen.

“…What?”

“To the cantina,” he continues, and you exhale slowly. “Is that why you’re telling me this?”

Is it? You know he cares for the weak, and fights for what he believes is right. Of course you want him to have a comfortable life here, or wherever else him and the kid decide to go in the end.

“Do you want to come?” you ask, biting your tongue at the silly, almost juvenile question.

“Answer me,” he demands, voice stern but rounded at the edges. You almost gasp at the way his lilt makes your stomach flip.

“…I wouldn’t be opposed to it,” you shrug, though your nonchalance is so obviously faked it makes you wince inwardly.

Din’s helmet tilts again, and you can’t help but bite your bottom lip to stop the goofy grin that threatens to emerge there.

“Strange girl,” he mutters quietly, pushing himself off the wall. “Strange, stubborn girl.”

You chuckle, crossing your arms as he takes a step forward.

“I’m stubborn?” you counter teasingly, “You’re the one making a life-or-death situation over a kriffin’ drink.”

The modulator doesn’t mask the slight huff of amusement he lets out. “I told you it’s not that simple.”

You arch a brow, pushing off the wall to face him fully. “But why? People here want to know you, Din. Their fear might hide it, but it’s true.”

His name slips from your lips so easily, but it seems to hang heavier in the air. Din tilts his helmet slightly, as if he’s measuring the sincerity of your words.

“You don’t know that,” he murmurs.

“I do,” you insist, stepping closer. “You’ve done no wrong in my eyes.”

The Mandalorian’s shoulders rise and fall with a slow exhale, his crossed arms tightening momentarily.

“I think that the people here want to give you a chance,” you continue quietly, staring up into his visor. For a moment, you feel the urge to cradle the helmet like it’s his bare face. “You just need to give them one in return.”

“And you?” he asks, voice low, almost hesitant.

Your heart quickens, blood flooding your ears with that familiar thrum.

“What about me?” you blink as he seems to hover closer with every breath.

He studies you closely, his body perfectly still as a gentle breeze musses your hair.

“Why are you so insistent on giving me hope?” he questions, as if the idea was completely foreign to him.

You sigh, eyes trying to map out his face through the dark slits again. You wish you had a rational, satisfying answer to his question, but you don’t. Not yet, at least.

“Someone has to,” you finally reply, a foxy smile tugging at your lips. “Consider it charity work.”

His helmet tilts slightly, and you swear you can feel the weight of his gaze pressing into you, searching for something—answers, reasons, maybe even lies. But you have none of those to offer him, and the closeness and sheer intimacy of the moment makes you fearful. You know he dislikes your answer, but similarly hope he understands why it’s the one you’ve given him.

“You think I need charity?” he says after a moment, his tone teasing but resolute, almost as if he’s afraid of breaking the fragile thread tethering the two of you together in this slim alleyway of the town you’ve learned to love and cherish.

“Maybe,” you grin, gazing up again.

Only now do you become aware of the sheer proximity of his face to yours, the way he could breathe down your neck if only afforded the luxury of discarding the helmet.

His hand flexes in your peripheral. For a second you think he might reach out, but then it drops to his side again.

“Maybe?” he murmurs.

“I don’t want to give up on you,” you explain, feeling a little safer treading the territory ahead. “Is hope so foreign to you?”

You think you might have pressed a metaphorical wound in that moment when Din stiffens, but your worries are quickly washed away when his hand finally rises against all odds.

And this time, he doesn’t back down.

“Hope is a fragile thing,” he mutters, and you’re stuck under his looming stature. You feel the delicate touch of a gloved finger under your chin, soft like a feather, treading so lightly you might think it’s imaginary for a second. “Easy to find, even easier to lose.”

“So?” you counter before you can stop yourself. The words tumble out of your mouth unbidden, like the dam of your restraint has finally cracked on the surface. “Everything worth having is fragile, Din.”

His hand moves up your jaw, ghosting to your ear. He hovers there a while, and your legs turn to cotton. You feel dazed, high, drunk off the strange gesture that you’re unsure to call affection.

And when your hand rises to rest atop his chestplate, you let it.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying for,” you finally add in a half-whisper, just as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The touch is so gentle, so calculated, you begin to doubt it’s the same hand that took countless lives before.

There’s a pause, long and loaded, the air between you thick and sticky.

You feel the ghost of his touch on your jaw as he retracts his hand, never taking his gaze off of you as your hand is forced to leave his chest.

“Strange girl,” he mutters under his breath.

You grin despite the squeeze still humming in your chest. “You keep saying that, but I think you mean it as a compliment.”

His helmet tilts again, the faintest hint of amusement in his posture. “Maybe.”

You chuckle, the sound quiet and easy, and it feels like the moment shifts—less heavy, beaming. You cross your arms and mirror his stance, leaning against the wall again.

“Guess I’ll just have to keep up this charity a while longer,” you say lightly, though your heart races.

For a moment, you think he might call you stubborn again. But then, so quietly you almost miss it, he replies.

“Guess you will.”

You smile up at him. It’s wide, toothy, and radiating— you hope he sees the gesture as a silent reply as you move away from the wall again.

He watches carefully as your hand ghosts over his outer palm, gaze glued to his visor as you finally make contact. It’s gentle, chaste, and fleeting; you withdraw before you can even catch his hand twitching.

“Now hurry up,” you chuckle, your honeyed tone turning taunting again as you prance out of the alley. “Let’s get your ship fixed.”

[mikkalia]

Angstpril 2025: Day 1: Forgotten

Greez decides Cal needs more clothes than the jumpsuit he left Bracca in and some old ponchos.

Greez gives him a Look when Cal finally stumbles out of his room later than usual, feeling like he's been headbutt by a dozen or so phillak -- which isn't that far off, actually. Cal blinks muzzily at him, still not quite awake, when the captain throws all four arms in the air and goes, "That's it! I'm done. I refuse to allow this to go on any longer. Cere, look at him!"

Now Cal is blinking at Cere, thoroughly confused, and still not awake because he spent two days exploring Zeffo on very little sleep, and he needs caf in his system now, please. Cere's smile is poorly hidden by her mug, but there's definitely concern in her eyes. Cal doesn't know how to feel about being able to decipher her expression so easily. They're not that close yet. Whatever it is, must be worse than Greez's theatrics imply.

"What's goin on?" He doesn't stumble into the galley. Not at all. He's graceful. Balanced. BD is absolutely not recording him right now. He glares at the little droid.

He's yanked away from the caf maker by the back of his jumpsuit. Greez bundles him away from his precious galley and towards the now open door of the ship, the ramp pulled down and everything. They must've landed on Voor Sian when he was sleeping.

"Nope! Don't even think about it." Cal grumbles, reaching back. BD-1, the traitor, chitters a binary laugh at him a he scurries to follow. "You can have caf after."

"After what?" Cal whines somewhat pathetically.

After, apparently, he picks out new clothes.

Greez finds the closest store to them on the waystation they've stopped at and all but shoves Cal inside, threatening to withhold both caf and his favorite flavor of nutribars if Cal doesn't pick at least a week's worth of clothes because one jumpsuit is not enough, especially with how much physical activity he's been doing and the mud he's been rolling in and the various bodily fluids he's been splattered with and, well, yeah.

Okay. So. New clothes.

Cool.

Except not really, because Cal stands surrounded by hundreds of fairly decent quality clothes and for some reason he feels like running away.

Or crying.

BD-1 beeps questioningly. It's right next to his ear. Cal should hear it. He even fixed his hearing aids recently, so they're better than ever. But it sounds like he's coming from underwater.

Overwhelmed, he reaches for the sleeve of a nearby shirt and then stops when he catches sight of his hand. Specifically the sight of dirt and traces of blood in the creases and shoved under his nails, streaked on his forearm where the sonic didn't quite reach because he kept his arm wrapped around his chest to brace his sore (and probably cracked) ribs against the vibrations. Cal takes his hand back from the clean shirt and tucks his arm around himself again. This time, it's less of a brace and more of a pathetic excuse for a hug.

The last time he picked out his own clothes, they were second-hand and not at all clean and all that he could get. He tried to buy big so he could grow into them, but he'd been small at twelve. Too small to risk buying something big enough to wear for a couple years before buying not- new clothes. It'd been a hazard.

Before that, his clothes were provided. Sure they could add some embellishments here and there as long as they weren't too showy.

He doesn't know how to choose.

Greez interrupts his spiral, bustling into the building with bags already on his arms. Cal swallows thickly. How long has he been standing here? Long enough for Greez to grab everything from his list, but the latero is very effective when it comes to restocking his kitchen so that it doesn't mean much.

"Find anything you - hey, what gives?"

Cal shrugs helplessly. "I didn't -- " his voice croaks something terrible. He flushes bright red and swallows again, but being caught under Greez's confusion just seems to make everything worse. He wipes the back of his hand against his eyes roughly then tries again. "I didn't know what to pick out."

Greez shrugs. "Start with your favorite color, then go from there."

Favorite color.

Cal glances at a nearby rack of clothes and realizes....he's forgotten what his favorite color is.

Did he ever have a favorite color? Surely he did. Everyone does. But what was his? How could - how could he forget something like a favorite color?

He doesn't notice his breathing getting rough until Greez is already at his side, two hands on his back, one rubbing up and down comfortingly and the other a solid reassurance. Cal wheezes around bruised ribs and tears in his throat and tries not to notice the way the world wavers. BD calls out for someone, something Greez repeats, and Cal's being led off to the side and sat on a stool that is only vaguely uncomfortable. He tries to hunch in on himself, but Greez is too quick to shove him upright.

"You know, I didn't know what busted ribs sounded like before I met you," Greez is saying, his voice tinny. Cal blinks rapidly, mouth working in an attempt to apologize for....freaking out, for the dirty clothes, for exposing Greez to the sound of busted ribs, for everything. "Nope, none of that. Just breathe, kid. We've got all day."

BD cuddles close to his ear and starts sounding off their established pattern. Cal latches into it gratefully, closing his eyes as he follows along. It's in the same cadence as Master Tapal's meditation mantra, the one he always clung to when he struggled on Bracca. He wouldn't let himself actually meditate, but the comfort was always nice. The peace.

Cal loses track of time again. He blinks, and there's a bottle of eater in his hand, cap missing. He blinks again, and half the water is gone. and He blinks again, and the ambient noise from outside is rowdier. He no longer feels like he's going to unravel at the seams, but he's wrung out and feeling raw.

BD bewoops and Greez squeezes his hand where it's held between two of his. Cal takes a sip of water, ignoring the shake in his hand.

"You back us?" Greez asks quietly. Cal nods. "Good. Good. That was a pretty rough one, kid. You wanna tell me what it was about?"

Cal shakes his head, pauses, then nods. He opens his mouth, but the words don't come out at first, a sad little croak of noise. He hurriedly takes another sip of water, then, "I don't know my favorite color," he admits. "I know I had one. I just...don't remember it."

Greez stares at him and -- well, Cal knows he's not going to make fun, but he still squirms in place, averting his eyes.

"That sucks," Greez says bluntly. Cal nearly chokes on his startled laugh. "That's really, truly something awful, Cal. I'm sorry." Now that the mortification of being so overwhelmed is over with, he can turn red in embarrassment over having some sort of attack about a color. Greez sits back thinking for a bit, which is fine with Cal. He keeps breathing and not spiraling. Finally Greez snaps his fingers. "I know! Let's start with your favorite poncho. Find something in that color and go from there. That's a good alternative. Narrow down the selection."

As much as Cal wants to curl up in bed with his headphones blasting at the loudest volume possible, he does need more than one set of clothes, and Greez's idea does sound good. His favorite poncho is blue and grey. There's plenty to choose from without making him want to run.

Greez nods as if he sees the agreement on Cal's face. "Good. And who knows," he adds as he helps Cal stand and kindly ignores his knees buckling, "maybe you'll figure out what your favorite color is. Or get a new one entirely. The possibilities are endless!"

Cal smiles as BD whirls in agreement, suggesting that maybe Cal's favorite colors can be red and white just like his paint job.

[boba-pearl-writes]

August 9th - jumper - 1195 words - T - @rosekillermicrofic

Evan liked to keep little pieces of his friends.

A small bracelet from Pandora she’d only half finished and never worn. A broken ring that Reg had just never bothered to mend. A muggle watch from Cas that had stopped working.

It wasn’t like he really needed these things. He just liked to remind himself they were there.

He didn’t have many things from Barty, which he found quite strange. For a really chaotic person, it was rather strange that he wasn’t as forgetful or left out his stuff as much as the others.

After they started dating, he started to find this more and more annoying.

He would always search around the common room for any stuff his friends might have left behind. He usually went to bed a bit later than them on some days, just for that. 

As a child, he would actively steal from other people, especially his parents. Not very big things, but still, they’d never appreciate that very much when they noticed. So he learned to be quiet and good in front of them - and then look around after dark just to stop that itching in him to keep some part of them.

Just to remind himself that they were there.

It was one day like this that he found that Barty had left his quill on the desk he was working on. He immediately wanted to pocket it because it was Barty’s and he wanted to look at it and inspect it and maybe see if he’d left his fingerprints - everything about Barty was fascinating to him. But, before he did, he checked to see if it was expensive or something Barty would miss.

It seemed to just be a regular quill, one Barty had said he’d had for a year or two, so Evan didn’t feel too bad about taking it. He pocketed it and, before he slid under his covers where Barty had somehow already fallen asleep, he made sure to put it in the box he stored everything he took in.

A few days after that, he noticed that Barty had left something else. This time it was the back off of one of his earrings. 

The next day, Barty mentioned that he wanted a new beanie, since he’d lost his old one.

Just two days later, there was a beanie. This one, Evan was a bit more hesitant to take. What if Barty wanted it back? He didn’t want to take something that might be of use to someone.

He wasn’t a thief.

He picked up the beanie, and resolved to buy a new one for Barty when they went to Hogsmeade. 

He had to wait a week for the next Hogsmeade visit, and by then the weather was so sodding drafty. Right when he stepped outside the somehow always warm interior of the castle, a gust of freezing cold wind blew against his face. And he’d forgotten his sodding jumper.

Barty, the one who he was going to buy winter clothes for, hummed as he stepped in time with the beat, the height difference forcing Evan to quicken his steps just slightly. The worst thing was, Barty looked completely unaffected by the cold weather.

Probably because he’d remembered his jumper.

So they walked along the streets of Hogsmeade. At some point, Barty’s hand had found its way into Evan’s and they walked, hand in hand, down the street. As cold as it was, Evan felt his heart warm. After so long yearning for his best friend, it felt like a dream for him to be Evan’s.

The shop wasn’t too hard to find, and Evan wouldn’t forget the look on his boyfriend’s face as he handed him the beanie. Evan had pulled him into the shop on impulse after seeing a beanie in the window that would look so good on Barty.

It did.

Oh, did it ever. All bundled up in his knitted winter wear, Barty looked like an angel, with the tips of his dyed- green hair poking out of the black beanie. The jumper fit on him perfectly, the green of it complementing his eyes. Evan wasn’t sure when he’d become such a sucker for clothes and style, but he couldn’t - and wouldn’t - deny that Barty looked heavenly. He pressed a soft, close mouthed kiss to his lips and, before Barty could react, dragged him out of the store, back onto the street.

They fell into step with each other once more, hands swinging between them- and Evan was once more reminded of the obscenely cold weather outside. He tried to stop his shivering but honestly, the sodding English weather made it so hard. He wasn’t surprised when he turned his head and saw Barty observing him, head cocked, in that uncanny way of his, that felt almost like you were being scrutinized. Evan loved it.

After a moment of what looked like deliberation on Barty’s part, he took off his jumper and thrust it at Evan. Evan protested that he didn’t really need it, but Barty silenced him with a pointed look, and Evan realized there probably was some truth to his thinking.

And so Evan ended up with Barty’s jumper, almost nesting into it with relief at the warmth. Technically, he knew they could’ve just cast a spell. And Barty did, which seemed a bit counterintuitive, but Evan could care less; wearing Barty’s jumper felt like being in his arms- warm, comforted, safe.

After he’d put it on, Barty looked him over in a way which made his cheeks heat up. Then, he smirked.

“You can keep that one, too, if you want.”

At this, Evan glanced up at Barty, processing his words. They clicked a millisecond later.

“How did you…? You know?”

“Yeah,” Barty said, smiling at him in a way that would’ve made Evan melt inside if it weren’t for the current conversation they were having. “It really wasn’t that hard to figure out.” Evan furrowed his brow, thinking.

“You don’t hate me?”

Now it was Barty’s turn to frown. “Why would I hate you? I mean, I get it.”

“You do?”

“You want to feel closer to people… yeah, I really do get it.”

“And… you’re not freaked out?” At this Barty smiled, mildly too sharp teeth showing, almost unnerving. Evan hesitantly smiled back, close lipped and tentative.

“I would do anything for you, Ev. I would kill for you.” A hand on his shoulder. “I would die for you, Rosie.” A hand on his waist.

Barty leaned closer to him and Evan’s heart raced as he gripped Barty’s shirt. However long they had been together, this never got old.

“Let’s hope you don’t have to.” Barty’s laugh tickled his cheek

Barty leaned in for a kiss but missed, his lips landing on the corner of Evan’s mouth. He went in again for Evan’s cheek. Evan huffed out a breath, realizing what he was doing. 

“You tease.”

He yanked Barty closer to him by his shirt.

Yeah, Evan liked to collect parts of his friends. But having them, knowing them, whole? Especially Barty?

Barty was like a drug he was addicted to.

He was everything.

[jasmines-library]

‘Tis the Season

Summary: It’s Christmas time, and after a long time apart, you and your brothers are finally together to celebrate, even if it is inside a motel room.

Warnings: tooth rotting fluff.

Note: Merry Christmas!

⛤ SUPERNATURAL MASTERLIST ⛤

The Winchesters have never been big with celebrations. Especially since Mary passed away and hunting became the only thing on John’s agenda.This meant that you had never really experienced a proper Christmas before and neither had either of your brothers. Sure they remember snippets of Christmas from when they were younger and your mum was still around but it was never the same after that. John was never there and the three of you were often left to mill around in a shitty motel. The three of you would celebrate in your own little way. You would exchange gifts which, in Dean’s case, were often stolen or given to you by Bobby, and despite their efforts to make Christmas as normal as possible for you it was never quite how you had pictured it. Never how Sam and Dean remembered it. It didn’t help that John had told you when you were heartbreakingly young that there was no Santa Claus.

But this year, something was different. The Winchesters were celebrating.

You strolled down the road, your arm hooked around Sam’s as you admired the lights that had been strung up like bunting between the rows of buildings and hung from lampposts in the street. You wore your thickest jacket: an old blue hand-me-down from Dean, that you were pretty sure Sam might have even owned at one point before he grew taller than your older brother, and hand bundled yourself up with a scarf to shelter yourself from the frosty air.

The streets were quiet besides a few odd couples that greeted you and Sammy with a warm smile or a gentle nod. Most people were at home, celebrating the Christmas holiday.

The frost that blanketed the ground crunched under your feet and made your feet feel like small ice cubes despite the fact that you were wearing two pairs of socks. You and your brother walked quickly back to the motel where Dean was hovering over the stove tucked away in the corner of the motel. The moment you opened the door and were greeted with the warmth of the room and the smell of the food, you couldn’t help but smile up at Sam, as well as chuckle at the sight of your eldest brother. He had donned a red Santa hat and was singing along to the song he had turned up too loud on the radio between taking swigs from beer. He wrapped you up between his arms when the two of you returned with the last of the ingredients he needed before you made your way into the room.

On the nightstand between the two beds, replacing the lamp that had been shoved aside, sat a tree. It was measly and far from extravagant, sure, but you thought it was a nice touch. Dean had spotted it on the way back from a hunt and had insisted on buying it for the motel room. You spent the rest of the day hanging old car air fresheners from the branches as if they were baubles. It was makeshift; but somehow that made it seem even more special and you beamed brightly. You placed the brown paper bag you had been clutching beneath it, making sure to roll over the top to make sure that the contents were hidden.

“Alrighty.” Dean announced “Grubs up.”

The three of you squeezed around the table and began to tuck into the food that Dean placed in front of you on the table. Dean was far from the best chef that much was true but at a time like this you were grateful that he had made such an effort to cook. As the three of you ate between bouts of conversation and fits of laughter, it made you realise how much you missed spending time with your brothers. This was the first time you had truly sat down together in…well forever. Times had been kind of hectic with Sam returning from Stanford and everything with Dad and Dean, you were glad that for a few sweet moments, the three of you could just be a family. For once there was no worrying about monsters. No worrying about who was going to vanish next. It was just the three of you enjoying the little things in life.

Dinner, by far the best one you have had in a while, was followed up with gift giving and the three of you bundled on to the beds, sipping glasses of cold eggnog.

“Okay Sammy,” Dean said as he produced his first gift from his duffel. It seemed the three of you all had the same idea because it too was wrapped in a brown paper bag. “This one is for you.”

Sam unwrapped it eagerly, producing a dark glass bottle of his favourite beer.

“Thank you.” He laughed, producing a bag of his own. “It seems great minds think alike.”

Dean chuckled and he tore open the paper to reveal his favourite drink secured inside a porno magazine by an elastic band.

“Ok. This is for De.” You pulled out a small bag and handed it to him. Inside lay a small keychain in the shape of a pie that you had spotted on a rotating rack inside the gas station which you couldn’t resist buying, alongside a couple of packets of beef jerky that Dean always seemed to keep stashed away in his glovebox.

“Thanks kiddo” He laughed as he hooked the keychain onto his keys.

“And this is for you, Sammy.” You produced another bag and handed it to him, watching keenly as he unwrapped it, pulling out the clear plastic and producing a pair of wired headphones.

“It’s to stop you complaining about Dean’s music in the car.” You prompted.

“Hey!” Dean said with mock hurt. “I think you’ll find I have great taste in music.”

You raised your hands nonchalantly “tell that to him not me.”

“I’m just saying Dean, there are things out there besides mullet rock. You should try updating your cassettes some time. Seriously, dude.”

“You know the rules, Sammy.” Dean shook his head. “Driver picks the music-“

“Shotgun shuts his cakehole. Yeah. I know.” Sam rolled his eyes. “Anyway, enough. This is for you, Y/N.”

Sam rummaged around in his bag for a small white box before handing it to you. You took it gently. It was light in your hand.

“It's from both of us.” Dean added.

You peeled open the box slowly to reveal the insides which almost made you tear up. Inside the box sat a dainty necklace in the shape of a heart. It seemed familiar somehow, but you couldn’t place where you had seen it before. When you picked it up and turned it over in your palm to admire the delicacy of it, you noticed the small hinges on the side so decided to open it.

Inside was a small cut out of an image. The three of you were much younger here. Sammy was still smaller than Dean and you barely reached his hip. The three of you were grinning from ear to ear as you gripped onto each of your brothers hands as they swung you through the air at the moment the image was captured.

“It’s beautiful.” You sighed, looking up at your two brothers. “Where did you-“

“It was moms.” Dean said. It then hit you that you had seen her wearing it in pictures.

“Bobby found it while sorting through some of Dads old stuff that was left around his. We thought you should have it.”

“It’s perfect. Thank you.” You smiled. “Help me put it on?”

“Of course.”

Dean moved closer to you, moving your hair aside so he could clasp the end of the good chain together.

“It looks like it’s always belonged there.” Sam told you when Dean let go of it so it could hang around your neck, settling on the centre of your chest.

“It’s perfect.” Dean told you.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

“Merry, Christmas, Boys.”

Although being hauled up in a motel may not have seemed like the ideal way to celebrate Christmas for the average person, just being able to spend time with your brothers was enough for you. You cared not for an extravagant meal and bucket loads of expensive gifts. You were happy to settle with what you had and the fact that the three of you had celebrated like this meant so much to you as it did to them. The three of you may not have much, but you have each other, and that’s worth far more than anything else.

[a-rat-who-writes]

UA Class Movie Night (Kirishima)

(This is all Pre-S7 to avoid spoilers!)

‣ After some intense training, some of the girls in the class proposed that you all should have a movie night past curfew since the following day was a weekend

‣ Some people were opposed to it since they either broke the rules, wanted to sleep, or simply were just "above" engaging in group activities that weren't important.

‣ After some convincing from people like yourself, Kirishima, Mina, Midoriya, and Ochaco, you all managed to group everyone up and sit them down for at least one movie.

‣ There was the whole debate on what genre the movie should be, some people like Bakugo insisted on some... rather violent movies, some like Denki who suggested a rom-com, and then there were people like Midoriya who hinted at a hero documentary.

‣ Much to Bakugo's irritation and rejection, it was settled on some musical that was voted on. It didn't seem like the most entertaining out of all the options, but the most widely accepted among everyone.

‣ People like Sato and Yaoyorozu were rather pleased with the preparation phases for making food, and some others took the initiative to go out and buy the normal movie snacks.

‣ When everything was set and ready, you found yourself setting down a bundle of blankets on the couches everyone rearranged around a large TV in the commons when you heard Kirishima's voice speak up from behind you

‣ He held himself in almost a shy way which is unlike him, but upon realizing it was only because he wanted to ask you to sit next to him.

‣ It was a little painful to hear him scramble to find the right words to string together to ask in the least conspicuous way, but you eventually just held a hand up and told him you didn't mind and were planning on asking him yourself.

‣ He was relieved and.. honestly a bit jittery when he heard you say you were gonna ask him yourself. You could very clearly see it on his face-- he wasn't the greatest at hiding his emotions, but it made him all the more endearing.

‣ With that, everyone had food passed out and sat down on the couches, mostly sticking to their friend groups. Kirishima had came over as per your earlier conversation, and the two of you shared a maroon colored blanket.

‣ Everything went relatively smoothly, but you could tell Kirishima wasn't the most.. awake. He was definitely more of an action movie type-dude, which you concluded after seeing the way his blinking slowed.

‣ You didn't want to be too forward by telling him he could rest on your shoulder or change positions, so you continued to glance at him, watching the way he began to relax, whether it was due to your presence or because of the exhaustion from training finally hitting.

‣ By the end of the first movie he was already wiped, resting with his head craned back on the back of the couch. A few people left after the movie was done, but most at least wanted to stay for one more, enjoying everyone at peace and laughing together.

‣ You carefully took his head in your hands and leaned him on your shoulder, relieved he didn't wake up in the process. No one else seemed to pay all that much attention, Kaminari and Mineta already having fallen asleep too.

‣ As the second movie played, you couldn't shake the feeling of butterflies in your stomach when you glanced down at him. The slowness of his breathing against you and the way he was pressed next to you under the blanket made you want to almost protect him because of how peaceful he looked.

‣ The movie was mostly a blur since you were too distracted with Kirishima. During the credits you were tempted to let him continue to sleep, but Iida was pretty insistent on everyone returning to their respective rooms now that you all were finished.

‣ You carefully ran your hand against Kirishima's far arm, trying to wake him up as comfortably as possible. He stirred a few times before actually waking up. He raised his hand to rub his eyes for a moment before looking up at you. (SHIT HIS SKIN WAS SO SOFT)

‣ OH WOW was he cute. You had seen him tired before, but nothing beat this moment as your hand still kept in contact with his other arm. He looked around and saw most people dispersing before he flushed, looked at the two of you.

‣ You pulled your hand away, afraid of making him uncomfortable, but only then did you realize how warm he was, and jeez-- how warm your face was too.

‣ He laughed quietly when he saw your reaction, you avoiding eye contact. He pulled away which made you calm down a bit more, but also missed the contact. (You had it bad for him)

‣ You had gotten up with him and told him that if there was another time like this, you would enjoy it if you two would sit next to each other again, which he immediately agreed to.

‣ Despite him having fallen asleep for most of the movies, he claimed he came in and out of sleep, catching a few moments of the movies.

‣ Although it was more of a mumble, he added that he enjoyed you being by him the whole time and keeping him warm.

‣ He quickly departed after that, leaving you standing there in modest shock, your heart racing at that last sentence before you also turned in for the night.