#The Fluffiest Fluff

[estrellami-1]

Growing Young

The BIGGEST of happy birthdays to my spouse @gloomysoup !!! You are an absolute DELIGHT to know and I’m so sorry this is late 😭 I’m in love with you and we are going to run away and be very happy together. ❤️

Eddie wants it put on the record that he didn’t run this time. Well, he did, but it was only to lead the bats away from Dustin, and he cycled more than ran, anyways.

Not that the semantics matter when Dustin’s kneeling beside him and sounds are getting echoey.

Dustin yells for Steve, and Eddie wants to tell him it’s no use, Steve can’t hear, he’s too far away, except here he comes like an action hero, sliding in like it’s third fucking base. Damn Wayne and his sports shows, Eddie’s not supposed to know any of that.

“Hey,” Steve says, clear as a bell in Eddie’s addled brain. “Thought I told you not to be a hero.” He looks off, tells someone to get Dustin out, now, before returning his attention back to Eddie. “You’re gonna make it, y’hear me?”

“Dunno,” Eddie says, gasps for breath. Coughs up blood, if the new wet feeling in his mouth is any indication. “‘M not- not cold, anymore, y’know that’s worse, ‘s okay ‘f I don’t-”

“Shut up,” Steve hisses. “Actually, no, keep talking, stay awake. This is gonna hurt like a bitch but I’ve gotta get you outta here. If you’re gonna throw up, please don’t throw up on me.”

Eddie’s brain is lagging full seconds behind, so by the time Steve’s words process, he’s already being lifted.

He doesn’t throw up, but it’s a close thing. “You’re gonna be okay,” Steve tells him again.

He wakes up from the weirdest dream of his fucking life to his alarm and realizes three things in quick succession.

One: that’s not his alarm. It’s a heart monitor.

Two: he’s in a hospital.

Three: it was not, in fact, a dream.

As he finishes categorizing these things, Steve walks in, doing a double-take when he realizes Eddie’s awake. “Oh, holy shit,” he whispers, freezing for a second before darting back out.

He’s back a minute later with Wayne in tow.

Eddie would like it stricken from the record that he cried like a baby upon seeing Wayne. The record can keep the fact that Wayne cried upon seeing him, though.

“Uncle Wayne,” he whispers. He can’t move his arms enough to wipe his face, so he’s just laying there with tears running down his cheeks, undoubtedly making a terrible face. But Wayne’s an ugly crier, too, so they’re just sitting there, crying, making ugly faces at each other.

They eventually calm down and realize at the same time that Steve’s standing awkwardly by the door. “Sorry,” he says, like any of this is somehow his fault. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Wayne pulls himself together, gestures at a seat across from him. “You ain’t interruptin’, son. You saved my boy’s life. Far as I’m concerned, you got any right you want t’be here right now.”

Steve ducks his head. “I didn’t really- I mean, he was just… passed out, the doctors did the saving.”

“Sure,” Eddie says quietly, “but you got me outta there.” He glances over at the seat, a smile flickering on his face. “C’mon.”

“If you’re sure.” Steve matches his volume, takes the chair. Moves a book onto his lap.

Eddie notices, glances at it. “What’s that?”

Steve colors. “Oh, uh…” he holds it up for Eddie to see. The Lord of the Rings. “Dustin and I have been taking turns reading, just in case you could hear while you were under.”

Eddie pouts. “No, but I wish I could’ve.”

Wayne bursts out laughing. “Well damn, Ed, he ain’t killed your puppy. Fact, I’d bed he’d read t’you right now iffen y’asked him.” He stands, grabs Eddie’s hand and squeezes. It’s the one part of him that doesn’t hurt, but it still makes tears threaten to fall. “I’ve gotta get to work. Y’gonna be alright, son?”

Eddie smiles, does his best to squeeze Wayne’s fingers back. “I’ll be fine, Pops.”

Wayne leaves, and Steve opens the book, pausing halfway through trying to find his page. “D’you want me to start at the beginning?”

Eddie smiles at him. “‘S alright. I’ve read it so many times, you can start from wherever. I won’t be lost.”

Steve nods, flips through a few more pages. Fingers a corner, works his lip between his teeth. “I, uh… Dustin does voices. I’m… not good at that. And I’m probably gonna say half the names wrong.”

“‘S alright,” Eddie promises him. “‘Sides, it’s a made-up book with a made-up language. Maybe you’re saying it right and everyone else is saying it wrong.”

Steve snorts. “I doubt the author is saying it wrong,” he retorts, but settles back in his chair and begins to read.

A couple pages later, Steve stumbles over a few words in a row and shuts the book, grimacing as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, man,” he murmurs. “I’d read more if I could, but I need to be able to drive home.”

Eddie frowns. “Reading’s hard for you?”

Steve rolls his eyes. It’s more of a self-deprecating thing than anything else. “I’ve had… four? Five? Concussions. I wasn’t the best reader before that. It’s definitely gotten worse. Too much and it’ll trigger a migraine.”

Eddie’s frown deepens. “Is there- something you could take? A prescription? Or- or some kind of help?”

Steve colors. “There’s something,” he admits. “I just… don’t like wearing them.”

Eddie’s frown turns curious. “Wearing them?”

Steve nods. Won’t look at Eddie. “Glasses. I just… don’t like the way they look on me.”

“Have you-” he’s interrupted by a cough, and Steve rushes to hand him water. “Thanks,” he rasps out after a couple sips, then clears his throat. “Can you get different frames?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I did. These are the ones I hated the least.”

“Could I see them?” Eddie requests. “If you- if you’re here tomorrow. Would you bring them?”

Steve looks at him for a long second. “Sure,” he finally says. “I’ll be here tomorrow. And I’ll bring them.”

Eddie smiles at him. Steve smiles back, and leaves.

He arrives the next day while Dustin’s there. He leans in the doorway, crossing his arms and smiling at the scene. “Hey, dipshit,” he calls.

“Hey, Steve,” Dustin says back. “Anyways, so Mike was really stuck, right? So he decided-”

“Hey, dipshit,” Steve says again, jerking his head back. “Your ma’s out front.”

“Oh!” Dustin jumps up, gathering his things. “Okay, Eddie, don’t let me forget!” He calls over his shoulder, pointing at Eddie, almost running into the door before Steve nudges him out of the way.

He’s chuckling when he sinks into the chair Dustin had just vacated. “That kid.”

“He’s pretty good, isn’t he.”

“He really is.” He shifts uncomfortably for a second, pulls the book onto his lap, and sighs. “Just… I know I look stupid, okay? Just please don’t laugh.”

“Never,” Eddie swears immediately.

Steve pulls the glasses out of his pocket and puts them on, blinking at Eddie through the lenses as his eyes adjust. “Well?”

“They look good,” Eddie tells him immediately.

“Don’t-” Steve takes a breath, looks away. “We… we’ve been flirting. Right?”

Eddie’s heart rabbits in his chest. “I can stop.”

Steve shakes his head. “No, just… just tell me the truth.”

“The truth?” Eddie murmurs. “Sweetheart, the truth is if you’d been my teacher, wearing those glasses, I would’ve graduated the first time with fucking honors.”

Steve’s cheeks are pink. “You mean it?”

“Every word,” Eddie swears. “Why don’t you think so? Did someone say something? Was it one of the kids? Because I will kick them out of Hellfire until the end of the campaign-”

“No- Eddie,” Steve laughs. “No, it wasn’t the kids. It wasn’t anyone. I just… don’t think I look good.”

“Well you do,” Eddie returns, mildly affronted. “Don’t look good,” he grumbles, halfway under his breath. “Honestly.” It gets a laugh out of Steve, which is what he was going for. “Can I ask you for something that’s probably way out of line?”

Steve blinks. “You… can ask me, sure. Doesn’t mean I have to listen.”

“Guess so,” Eddie chuckles. It turns into a cough, which makes Steve get up, but Eddie waves him down. “Can I ask you to wear your glasses whenever you need to? And tell me if anyone says something, because again, I will kick the kids out of Hellfire until the end of the campaign. Just say the word, and they’re out.”

“You don’t have to do that for me.”

“I don’t have to do anything. I’m doing it because I want to. Because you’re worth it.”

“Okay,” Steve agrees quietly.

“Good,” Eddie agrees nonsensically.

With that, Steve opens the book and begins to read. He gets through quite a few more pages than the day before, but does eventually stop, rubbing his brows. “Sorry,” he says, “Guess I still can’t read much even with the glasses on.”

“That’s okay,” Eddie murmurs. “Do you like reading? Or are you reading for my sake?”

Steve rubs the back of his neck. “Mostly for your sake,” he admits. “I don’t like reading as much as you do, or as much as Dustin does. But I want to know what you like. I want to understand what you like. And I feel like reading is the best way to do that.”

“Makes sense,” Eddie replies, “but you know you don’t have to, right? I’d like you even if you never picked up another book again.”

Steve grins, a small, shy thing. “You like me?” He teases.

“I do,” Eddie murmurs. “I thought – I thought we-”

“No,” Steve interrupts, “we are. We do. Or I do, I don’t know–”

“I do, too,” Eddie promises. “Just… Maybe when I’m out of the hospital?”

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, “of course. Do you have any news on when you get out?”

“Not yet, but hopefully I’ll know soon. I just don’t know what I’m going to do when I get out… I can’t even lift my arms to feed myself. And if I get out soon, before I’ve healed enough…”

“I get it,” Steve swears. “We’ll figure it out.”

“Okay,” Eddie agrees softly. “Okay.”

“I don’t think I can read anymore today,” Steve says, “but I can stay for a bit if you want company.”

“Please,” Eddie agrees, far too quickly, except it makes Steve blush and smile, and Eddie would make himself the fool a hundred times over to make Steve smile.

They decide to watch TV. At some point their hands end up intertwined, and Eddie wants to stay awake, he really does, but he’s still pretty broken, and he finds himself waking up when Steve pulls away. “Sorry,” Steve whispers, “I didn’t wanna wake you.”

Eddie wakes himself up more, makes some kind of groaning noise that he’s pretty sure he’s heard Wayne make before. “‘S okay,” he mumbles, twitching his fingers to pull Steve closer. “Wan’ed’a be ‘wake.”

“It’s okay,” Steve swears. “You need the rest.”

Eddie hums, lets his eyes slip shut. Lets Steve pull his fingers from Eddie’s limp grasp. “Wan’ you t’wear the glasses,” he murmurs. He hears Steve pause as he gathers his things.

“I will,” Steve whispers. “Promise. I’ve got them on right now.”

“Good,” Eddie mumbles, and falls asleep before Steve’s even out of the room.

The doctor comes in a few days later to talk to Eddie while Steve’s there, once again reading to him. “My apologies,” the doctor says. “I’ve got some information for Mr. Munson, if you wouldn’t mind stepping out for a moment.”

“He can stay,” Eddie says before Steve can move. Steve blinks at him, and Eddie nods, inclining his chin down to the chair Steve’s practically levitating in. Steve shifts his weight, sits back down.

“Very well,” the doctor says. “I’ve got good news for you, Mr. Munson, as long as you’ve got someone to look after you, you’ll be free to go as soon as your guardian arrives.” He shuffles a few papers around. “We’ve got some painkillers for you, as well as a round of antibiotics.” He offers the papers to Eddie. Steve takes them, puts them on the chair beside him. “Your wraps will need to be changed once a day and stay dry for another two weeks, so sponge baths only. After that, your wraps can come off while you shower, then be put back on as soon as your skin is dry. If you have any questions once you’ve been released, there’s a number on the paper you can call at any time. If you pop a stitch, come back in. If you have any adverse reactions to the medication, come back in. If you pass out or throw up repeatedly, come back in. If your wounds look inflamed or infected, come back in. Understand?”

Eddie nods, biting his lip. “My guardian- my uncle. He works. I-”

“He’ll have someone to look after him,” Steve interrupts, looking up at the doctor.

The doctor looks between them, then nods. “Very well then. A nurse will come in and make sure you’re okay to be released. As soon as your uncle is here, you’re free to go.” He smiles. “As much as you’ve been a model patient, I hope to never see you again.”

Eddie snorts. “You too, Doc.” He looks over at Steve as the doctor leaves, raises a brow. “I got someone to look after me?”

Steve colors, looks down. “The, uh. The trailer was…”

Eddie winces. “Yeah.”

“Yeah.” A sigh. “And the government’s dragging their feet about getting you guys another place. I offered up my place to Wayne. He’s been staying there since… well, since we got back topside. There’s more than enough room for the three of us.”

Eddie grins. “And this has nothing to do with you liking me, right?”

“I mean,” Steve shrugs, “I wouldn’t say nothing.”

They spend a long minute looking at each other before Steve looks back down at the open book in his lap.

Wayne arrives not too much later, just after the nurse finishes her duties. He grins at his nephew, finally freed from all the wires and tubes. “Y’ready to go?”

“Please,” Eddie agrees, looking at Steve. “I know my legs are generally fine, but just in case-”

Steve moves around the bed to stand next to him. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs, and Eddie believes him.

They get Eddie out of the hospital, into Wayne’s truck, and back to Steve’s house. “Welcome home,” Wayne deadpans, but Eddie can hear the slightest note of pride in Wayne’s gruff voice. He likes living here.

Eddie thinks he will, too.

“Your bedroom’s upstairs,” Steve murmurs. “The only bedroom down here is my parents’.”

“I’ll take the upstairs bedroom,” Eddie agrees, looking up at the aforementioned stairs. “Might need some help, though.”

“I can help,” Steve agrees. “Let’s see how much you can do by yourself first, though.”

The bannister is just about elbow height, so Eddie’s able to grab it and use it for support. He gets a third of the way up before he’s gritting his teeth, then halfway up before he shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“You did great,” Steve tells him, then picks him up bridal-style.

Eddie squawks, causing Wayne to laugh at him. He raises his hand just enough to flip Wayne off, then focuses on not making a fool of himself while Steve carries him upstairs.

“First room’s mine,” Steve tells him, nodding towards his door as he carefully sets Eddie down. “Wayne’s is two doors down, and yours will be here, between us.” He points towards a room, and Eddie walks towards it.

Walking on flat ground is a lot easier than walking up stairs, but he’s still pretty injured, so he’s glad for the chance to sit down on his bed when he gets into his room.

“Now,” Steve says, “way I see it, you’ve got three options.”

“Oh? And what would those be?”

“Sleep, eat, or bathe.” He gives Eddie a tiny grin. “I know you’ll need help with the last one. If you’d rather your uncle do it, I understand, but I’m willing.”

Eddie glances over at the en-suite, bites his lip, and shakes his head. “I think… if you’re willing. I think I’d prefer you.”

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t completely serious.” He holds his hands out, offering Eddie help getting up. He takes it and leverages himself up, and together they walk into the bathroom.

“Sponge bath,” Steve murmurs, recalling the doctor’s words. “There should be a washcloth in here somewhere.” He gestures for Eddie to sit on the toilet for the time being, rooting around in the cabinets until he comes up with a wash cloth, shouting a triumphant, “Aha!” And waving it around like a flag.

“Man,” Eddie says, “I can’t believe anyone ever thought you were cool.”

“Fuck you, I am cool.”

“You’re a complete nerd, Stevie.”

Steve flips him off, tests the water temperature, nods. “Need help undressing?”

Eddie grimaces. “Probably.”

“That’s alright. Anything you can or want to do yourself?”

Eddie focuses on his jeans first. They unbutton and unzip just fine, and Eddie can get them most of the way over his hips, but he eventually gives up with a sigh. “‘M sorry,” he murmurs.

“I volunteered,” Steve reminds him, helping him out of his pants.

He quickly undresses Eddie the rest of the way and alternates between two cloths, one wet and soapy and one dry, so he doesn’t get the bandages wet. He zones out halfway through, glancing over at the sink multiple times.

The last time he does, Eddie gently taps him on the forehead. “I’d say penny for your thoughts, but I don’t think I have a penny.”

Steve chuckles, grins up at Eddie. “Then it’s a good think I’ll give them to you for free.” His smile turns smaller, more genuine. “I was wondering if there was a way to get a chair in here so we could wash your hair.”

“Oh,” Eddie murmurs, because it had been far too long since he’d last washed his hair. “That would be really nice.”

“Then I’ll find a way to do it,” Steve swears. “But I think the chair will work. Once you’re dressed again, I’ll go get it.”

He finishes bathing Eddie, helps him into clean clothes, and guides him back to the toilet. “Wait here,” he tells him, and runs out of the room in search of a chair.

He finds one that’s roughly the right height and brings it back, draping a towel over the edge of the sink for cushion, gesturing Eddie over and holding his hair up as he gets situated.

He starts washing, and it’s different in the sink, with a faucet that doesn’t move and is so close to the basin, but he makes do; cups warm-almost-hot water in his hands, lets it dribble over Eddie’s scalp.

He massages the shampoo in and Eddie hums. He rakes his fingers through the ends of Eddie’s hair, lathered with conditioner, and Eddie makes a breathless little sound.

Steve’s breath catches in his throat and he stills. “Good or bad sound?”

Another hum. “Good. Sorry. Jus’… relaxed.”

“‘S alright,” Steve murmurs back. “Just making sure.”

“‘S good,” Eddie promises, voice barely a whisper now.

“I’m glad,” Steve whispers back, and finishes washing his hair in silence.

Eddie’s tired after, eyes slipping shut even as he sits up in the chair and Steve dries his hair, so Steve takes mercy on him when his hair is half dry and leads him to bed. “Take a nap,” he whispers. “I’ll clean up and be out of your hair. I’ll be in my room with the door open if you need anything.”

Eddie hums, eyes slipping shut again as he grabs at Steve’s hand. “Stay?”

“Okay,” he agrees. “Just let me throw the towels in the hamper.”

Eddie hums, hand dropping back down to the bed and eyes slitting open as he watches Steve walk to the bathroom.

He’s back less than a minute later, smiling at Eddie as he tries to stay awake. “Go to sleep,” he laughs, sliding in between the sheets next to Eddie. “I’m here. I’m not leaving. Now sleep.”

Eddie lets his eyes close as he moves his hand under the sheets, searching for Steve’s. When he finds it, he grabs and squeezes it, just once, and falls asleep.

Steve doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but there’s not much keeping him awake. He awakens later to Eddie trying to leverage himself out of bed.

He sits up with a snort, blinking at Eddie. “What’re you doing?”

Eddie tosses an apologetic look over his shoulder. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to wake you. I just needed to use the bathroom.”

Steve hums, stands, walks over to Eddie and helps him up. “I don’t mind you waking me. I’d actually prefer you did, instead of popping your stitches.” He grins, pokes at a bit of Eddie’s side that he knows is unharmed.

Eddie grins back, wide and happy. “I’ve gotta learn. ‘S not like this arrangement is gonna continue. You’ve got your bed and I’ve got mine.”

“It could,” Steve considers. “What if you’re trying to get up in the middle of the night and can’t? What if you have a nightmare and thrash around and pop a stitch?”

“What if you barely sleep because you’re not used to another person in bed with you?”

“What if,” Steve whispers, “that nap was the most restful sleep I’ve gotten in a while?”

“Really?”

Steve looks down, realizes he’s still holding Eddie’s hands. He lets go, takes a step back. Doesn’t look up; he knows his face is burning. “Really.” He flicks his chin over to the bathroom. “Go ahead. I’ll help you downstairs after, it’s almost dinner time.”

Eddie doesn’t move for a minute. Steve chances a glance up at him, and his breath catches at the naked affection staring back at him.

It’s only after Steve looks up at him that Eddie moves, stumbling over to the bathroom and quickly finishing up. Steve stands still, staring at where the sheets are messed up. Two spots. He’s not used to that in his bed. Even when he’d have girls over, none of them wanted to stay the night. Even Nancy left.

But here he is, in a room in his house that isn’t actually his, with a guy, and they’ve been flirting with each other, and-

He thinks he needs to call Robin.

He thinks, as Eddie emerges from the bathroom and smiles at him, he knows exactly what he’s feeling, and doesn’t need to call Robin after all.

They make their way downstairs and Steve settles on a simple pasta dinner. Eddie somehow wiggles his way up onto the counter, and sits beside the stovetop, kicking his leg out and occasionally hitting Steve’s thigh. Steve always glances at him when he does, and it becomes a game, and soon enough they’re both giggling as Steve dumps the pasta into the boiling water.

The water splashes, and Eddie hisses, jerking his arm away and rubbing at it. Steve looks up, worried. “Did it get you?”

Eddie waves him off, nudging his thigh with his foot again. “‘M alright. Not even a mark, ‘s just hot.”

“Still,” Steve says, and steps closer. “Can I see?”

Eddie stares at him for a minute. Offers him his arm.

He’s right. There’s no mark apart from an old scar, years old and years healed. Steve’s hand comes up, and his thumb strokes the scar, then down a little, towards his elbow. “Well?” Eddie asks teasingly. “What’s the prognosis, doc?”

Steve stares at him flatly, playing into it. “You’ll live,” he says, completely deadpan, grinning when Eddie giggles. He bumps Eddie’s knee with his hip, moves away to collect plates and silverware. “Make yourself useful and stir the pasta, would you?”

Eddie sticks his tongue out but picks up the spoon and does as he’s asked.

And so it goes. They’re mostly left unattended, as Wayne is usually at work, but sometimes he’ll sit on the couch with Steve and they’ll watch football or baseball, much to the chagrin of Eddie, who takes every opportunity possible to bemoan the existence of sports for stealing Steve’s attention away from him.

Steve doesn’t tell him that even when his eyes are on the TV, his mind is on Eddie. He’s well aware he falls too fast, too hard.

He helps Eddie up and down the stairs. He gives him sponge baths and washes his hair. Eventually his wounds begin to heal, and he’s able to get up and down the stairs on his own, if not a lot slower than usual.

He starts taking quick showers on his own. Steve still washes his hair in the sink, and now he helps Eddie change his bandages after he showers.

One day, Eddie hesitates on the edge of the bathroom threshold. “I don’t…” he looks away, bites his lip. Puts his arms up, tousles the top of his hair to prove his point. “I can do it on my own now.”

“Oh,” Steve says, feeling strangely heartbroken. “Right, yeah, that’s great. I’ll just, uh-” he takes a step back, angles his thumb behind him.

Eddie jerks forward, wraps his fingers around Steve’s wrist. “But you could help? If you wanted?”

Steve tugs Eddie over to the bed, sits on the edge. Doesn’t say anything until Eddie sits, too. He plays with the frame of his glasses as he says, “You’ve been flirting with me.” Eddie lets go of his wrist. Steve tries not to miss it. “It’s… it’s okay. You don’t have to stop. I just need you to be honest with me.”

“Anything,” Eddie whispers, and Steve drops his voice to match.

“Do you mean it? Or are you just flirting because you can?”

“Baby,” Eddie murmurs, bringing a hand up to cup Steve’s jaw, and oh, Steve thinks.

Oh.

“Really?” He whispers, and Eddie nods.

“Really.”

“I can’t,” Steve murmurs. “I can’t do this if you just like me. If this is… is gonna be a fling, or whatever.”

“Baby,” Eddie murmurs again. “I’ve long since healed enough to sleep alone. I don’t want to. I want to wake up to your face every day. I want to bring you your glasses when you forget them, I want to stir your pasta sauces and annoy you in the kitchen until you threaten to throw me out, even if we both know you never will. I want to be the one you come home to every day, the one you turn to when you need support. I want you to feel safe with me the way I do with you.” His thumb strokes Steve’s cheek, wiping away a tear. “Because I do. I feel safe with you. You make me feel safe. You- baby.” He strokes Steve’s cheek again, studies his eyes. “Baby. Can I kiss you?”

“Please,” Steve gasps, and Eddie does.

He leans in slowly, enough time for Steve to close his eyes and part his lips the barest amount, not out of any desire to tease, but just because he’s feeling so much he can’t contain it all, and it has to come out in gasps and breaths and small, shaky moans, when Eddie licks into his mouth, pulls his tongue into a tango, back and forth and in and out until Steve’s positively dizzy with it.

He pulls back just to tilt his head the other way and dive in with just as much fervor, sucking Steve’s bottom lip into his mouth, nipping at it until it’s swollen and tender and Steve feels like he could float away.

Steve breaks the kiss first, dizzy and panting and overwhelmed, leaning forward and pulling Eddie into a hug. “I’m so glad,” he murmurs. “I didn’t think…”

“Of course I would,” Eddie mutters back, holding Steve tight. “Of course I would, baby. Didn’t have a chance, really, was just gone on you from the moment I saw you.”

Steve pulls back, tugs Eddie down until they’re both laying down, halfway on the bed, noses nearly brushing. “And you want me to… to help?”

Eddie grins big enough his eyes are slits. “I’m gonna be honest here, sweetheart, I definitely imagined help would come after.”

Steve giggles back, leans in to steal a peck of a kiss. “I can do that,” he agrees, standing up and pulling Eddie to the bathroom.

They’re both laughing like little kids as they go, and a part of Steve wonders if that’s what falling in love is: growing young again.

[d-llahanspade]

Woof

[stvrniclo]

✩‧₊ chris sturniolo drabble

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ

as music played in your air pods, you painted your nails a subtle shade of light pink. you were sitting amidst piles and piles of mess in chris' room; clothes, soda cans, wrappers, what not. but honestly, you were tired after a long day of working at the café and were busying yourself up with something that would drive your headache away, and you just could not be bothered with another session of cleaning.

chris, meanwhile, was at his desk, playing games with nick, matt and some of their friends. in his left hand was a can of his favourite soda, and his eyes were widened as he concentratedly gazed at his screen. you looked up at him every three minutes or so, smiling to yourself about just how adorable he looked, doing his own thing. like, you couldn't help but giggle at the way his hair always found a way into his eyes and he brushed it away annoyedly. or how he widened his eyes when he was really concentrating.

you'd finished painting your nails and you were in love with the way they looked. you excitedly hopped off chris' sofa, putting on your slippers as you rushed to chris. "chrissy! look at how cute my nails look!" you giggled. he looked up at your hands for a second, nodded, then looked away, but looked back up at you as he saw the cutest smile playing on your lips and just how happy you looked. "c'mere," chris said, beckoning you into his lap. he placed his soda softly on the desk, pushing it away to the side.

"okay," you said, gently climbing into his lap. you wrapped your hands around his neck, nuzzling your head into the crook of his neck, warming up to the soft material of his grey hoodie. "your hoodie's so soft," you say indignantly. "can i borrow it later?"

chris let out a little laugh. "of course you can, baby." he pressed a few kisses to your forehead. "you don't need to ask."

"okay, so i can steal your clothes any time i want?" you asked, looking up at him.

"yeah." chris reassured you. "whenever you want."

"you're so cute, y'know.." you said, planting your hands into his soft hair as you ruffled it up.

"yeah?" chris replied. "of course i am. i'm christopher owen sturniolo, the cutest man to ever walk this earth."

"i know that," a soft giggle slipped past your lips. "your hair's so fluffy, i wanna mess it up all the time, and your eyes are so pretty. i want them to be looking at me all the time."

"but i do look at you all the time. you're all i ever look at," chris said indignantly.

"i know, baby," you sighed. "you make me so happy."

"yeah, well, i love you," chris said, planting soft kisses across your neck and your collar.

"mm.. i love you too," you managed.

𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒

thank u for readingg !! mwahh <3

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ #ㅤㅤ𝒅ivid𝖾r by @florietasㅤㅤ☆

[uwingdispatch]

From the Very First Night

From the Very First Night

Notes: Ezra Bridger/Reader, established relationship, gender neutral reader, post-rebellion/post-war, hurt/comfort, chronically ill/disabled reader

CW: light discussion of past traumas/implied PTSD

Ao3 Link

★★★★★★★★

The day you met Ezra Bridger you laughed when he told you his name. 

“Forgive me,” you told him, “but you’re not the first man on Lothal to try and pick me up while claiming to be the guy in the mural on the wall outside.”

“Well that’s new,” he said. “I tell you my full government name and you think it’s a ruse. Maybe I should have used one of my old aliases.”  

You’d been finishing up some work in what had come to be your favorite caf bar in town, a few blocks from your home on Lothal. And you were thinking about leaving when a man approached with a look in his eyes that, on another day, might have prompted you to pick up your comms and fake an emergency call from a friend.

But now he was reaching for his wallet, pulling out an ID. “You can check my chain code if you want. I didn’t realize I had so many doppelgängers.”  

You quirked an eyebrow. None of the other “Ezras” you’d met had offered ID but, as soon as you saw it, you felt heat rush to your cheeks. “Okay,” you said. “This is embarrassing. ”

He smiled warmly as he put his wallet away. “To be fair, most of the stuff in town depicts me as a kid, and I didn’t have this handsome beard back then. But I can appreciate a skeptic.”

You put away your datapad, your instincts still split between staying where you were and running out the side door. Surprising yourself, you say, “But I’m not hearing you say that you're not trying to pick me up.”

“Well…maybe. That depends, I guess, on whether you mind if I join you.”

You nodded, and he sat opposite you, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling when he smiled. Up close, you could almost see the teenage boy from the mural. But his hair was longer, dark curls falling soft around his face, and he had a short beard that he did wear quite well.

You wondered if his nerves had caught up with him as he ran a hand through his hair, the late afternoon light coming in through the window catching a streak of silver at his temple.

“Sometimes it feels like I know everyone in this city. Or at least that everyone in this city feels like they know me.” he said. “But you’re new, aren’t you?”

“What gave me away?” you asked.

“Well, I could never forget such a lovely face.” 

“Are you serious right now?”

“I really am.”

There was something sincere about him, despite the flirtations. Something about the way he moved was honest. Welcoming. A server brought him a cup of caf and Ezra exchanged a few words with him in Rodian. 

“So how long have you been in town?” He asked.

“About eight months,” you said. “I just hit this point where I felt like a fresh start might be nice. I don’t usually abandon ship when things get rough, but I thought maybe this one time…I can’t believe I’m telling you this.”

He winked. “I used a Jedi mind trick.” 

“Right,” you said, fairly certain he was kidding.

He shrugged. “And somehow you landed on Lothal.”

“I narrowed it down to the places where I’d be able to have my astromech serviced.”

“Must be a special astromech.”

“She’s a therapy droid.”

“Ah,” he said. “There are several mechanics in Capital City who work with that program.”

You were a bit taken aback at how unfazed he was at the mention of your therapy droid—issued by the New Republic. Similar programs had been available to injured veterans before, but the civilian program was newer. And he not only knew about the program, but didn’t seem bothered by the fact that you had a condition that required this kind of aid.

“We had a lot of options,” you said. “But Ceetoo and I decided Lothal seemed nice. So…I’m here.” 

“Glad you are,” he said, both hands cupping his caf mug.

“You just met me and the first thing I did was call you a liar.”

“That’s what I like about you.”

A day would come when you’d realize what he meant then. That when you saw him you weren’t thinking about all the war stories, about the way Lothal had memorialized him when they’d thought he was dead. That he had a chance, at least for a moment, to show someone who he was without the burden of their assumptions and expectations. 

You would also come to realize that from the first time Ezra smiled at you, there was no coming back. He had you, melting like chocolate in the palm of his hand. Because he saw you too, like no one else ever had before.

***

It’s late afternoon when C2-B35 comes in from the garage bleeping about the line at the pharmacy. She’d gone with Ezra to pick up your medication after getting your doctor to call in something new for your joint pain. Ezra could have gone by himself but, because of an incident early in your dating history when there’d been a mix-up, Ceetoo almost always insists on going with him—and he learned a long time ago not to fight a stubborn astromech.

Ezra finds you on the sofa where you’ve been trying to relax, the pain in your back making it hard to even lie still. He knows better by now than to tell you that you’ve been working too hard, that you should take more breaks. He knows to help you up, taking you gently into his arms and kissing your hair. By the time he hands you the tablets, you’re already feeling a bit of relief.

You take the medicine and let out a heavy sigh, resting your head on Ezra’s chest before whispering a thank you. 

“I wish I could heal,” he says.

“We still don’t know if that kind of healing would help me,” you say. “Genetic condition.”

It’s a dance you dance every time you have a flare like this, bad enough that Ceetoo insists on contacting your doctor. 

“I met a kid once who could do it. His dad said he could nullify the effects of a neurotoxin. Close a wound like it had never been there at all.”

“What did the kid say about it?”

“The kid doesn’t talk much. Still working through some things, I think.”

He gets quiet, and from the look in his eyes you know that he’s gone somewhere in his mind lost you can’t follow. It’s been 25 years since he last saw his adoptive father, the man who’d trained him in the Force, and there are some wounds that time never quite heals. Ezra is still working through some things, too.

“Hey,” you say. “Come back to me.”

He smiles, his eyes bright as he gently squeezes your arm. “I’m right here, sunshine.” 

The medication starts to hit, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. You reach for his face, the sharp line of his bearded jaw, the parallel scars on his left cheek. “Just as you are, you’re enough, Ezra. I don’t need a Jedi. I just need you.”

C2-B35 beeps irritably before retiring to her room, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since breakfast. 

“Thank you, Ceetoo,” you call, with a promise that you’ll have a proper dinner.

“Is it helping?” Ezra asks. “The medicine?”

“It is,” you say. “Finally.”

“Have you really not eaten all day?”

Your face tells him everything. 

“Right,” he says. “Dinner. I could make some quick dumplings? I think I froze some last time to fry later…I’d just have to make the sauce, really.”

He’s up and in the kitchen, pulling jars of spices out of the pantry, and you know he can already taste this comfort dish, and so can you.

So much of his life had been unstable after Ezra’s parents disappeared. He was on his own at such a young age, and then after a few short years in the Rebellion he ended up in exile on Peridea. Now, everything he had felt like a luxury to him: a permanent home, a pair of naughty indoor loth-cats, soft clothes he wore without consideration for armor. He’d told you about learning to cook when he came back to Lothal and, now that he has access to just about any ingredient for any dinner in the galaxy, he has every intention of not only enjoying the luxury of any hot meal he can dream up, but to make sure you enjoy food as well. When Ezra offers to cook, you never say no.

“Ezra?”

“What do you need, love?”

“I need you to kiss me.”

And he does, pulling you up from the sofa, taking your face in his hands as he presses his lips to yours, his neatly trimmed beard soft against your skin. You’re lacing your fingers through his dark curls when he pulls away to look right into your eyes.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” you whisper.

And he replies, “I can’t imagine being anywhere else.” 

***

It was night before you left the caf bar and, at this realization, Ezra insisted on walking you home. “Unless you don’t feel comfortable with that,” he’d said. “I would understand. It’s just dark out and…”

And something about being with Ezra just made you feel safe. Even on that first night. You’d never let a strange man walk you home before—it was on its face a bad idea. But you’d stayed out much later than you normally would, and the idea of being alone felt far more unsafe than being with this charming man.

“I don’t normally do things like this,” you told him, the words coming out way too fast, just a block from your building.

“I figured,” he said. “For what it’s worth…I haven’t done anything like this in quite a while.

This did surprise you. “Walked someone home?”

There was a playful tone to his voice when he replied, “Approached a beautiful stranger in a caf bar.” 

“You sure are bold for someone who doesn’t regularly…do whatever this is.”

“I just…” he started and paused, taking a breath. “This is going to sound like a line, but I just felt so drawn to you.”

“In the Force?”

“Maybe.”

“It does sound like a line,” you said. “But somehow I believe you. Jedi mind trick?”

“I’d never actually—”

“I know.”

You were both standing outside your door, a cool evening breeze in the air. You took all of him in—his firm chest beneath the deep v of his tunic, his dark hair catching on the wind, those blue eyes that seemed to see right past all of your walls. You’d met this man just a few hours ago but, beyond all reason, you so wanted to—

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, the words falling from his lips as if he hadn’t considered the consequences.

You nodded and he took a step closer, cupping your face in his hands, his nose brushing yours as he leaned in to press the most delicate kiss to your lips. And you felt his smile just as you felt that joy in yourself—a spark of something unlike anything you’d felt before. Maybe it was the Force, but every inch of your being wanted to be close to this man as you reached for his face, drawing him nearer, slipping a hand into his hair as the kiss deepened.

“I should go,” Ezra said, breathless into your ear.

“Why?” you asked.

“I have an appointment.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Then stay.”

Nervously you fumbled with your keys, dropping them not once but twice as you tried to open your door, Ezra eventually placing them steadily into your hand, and just the touch of his fingertips against your palm sent a pleasant shiver through you. Quickly you shooed an alarmed Ceetoo away as you entered. Unlike you, her memories included files from the war, and she recognized Ezra as soon as she saw him. Beeped out something along the lines of this one’s mostly trustworthy and I’m going to charge.

“Mostly?” Ezra said, almost in a whisper. “I wonder what she’s heard.”

You bite back a laugh. “I just need you to know I don’t normally do this either.”

“Okay.”

“I could make some tea.”

“Sure.”

But his arms were around you again and you both stumbled toward the sofa, falling into the cushions wrapped in each other like teenagers, wholly unworried about anything else in the galaxy.

That tea didn’t get made for hours. And it was nearly dawn when you retired to your bedroom and Ezra fell asleep on your sofa, your loth-cat sitting at his feet. When you woke, he was gone, a note left on your kitchen counter: Had to work this morning, but I hope you’ll call me. You traced your finger over the comms code left in scratchy handwriting below, wondering for a split second if this could be real. But if you closed your eyes you could still feel the sensation of his fingertips ghosting over your cheek when you’d handed him a blanket the night before. His voice when he’d whispered in your ear, “Sleep well, sunshine.” 

★★★★★★★★

Thank you so much for reading! They really gave us Hot!Ezra in the Ahsoka series and I'm just here to be a gremlin about it. I hope this fic made you feel seen and loved.

I have a taglist now! Sign up here if you want to be tagged in future fics. (And choose if you only want to be tagged for certain characters.) In the meantime, I’m tagging my taglist as well as some folks who have been reblogging my fics. Love y’all!

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[wolfawaycamp]

I am humbly requesting LauraMax fluff, maybe including an ever growing number of pets because they keep bringing home strays? Y'all know where to find me if you have any questions 😂

🐰 Someday, Max told himself, he’d learn to say no.

To say no to a pair of sad puppy dog eyes, whether they were Laura’s or those of an actual, literal puppy dog. And Laura didn’t do sad eyes often, that was the thing that really got him about it. It was always a sneak attack when Max’s headstrong, self-assured girlfriend pulled out the big, sad baby blues, batted her eyelashes at him, and actually said, “please?” It was unfair, really, because it worked every single time. It was just giving Max the illusion of choice when he inevitably gave in and let Laura have whatever it was that she wanted.

That was how, across multiple separate occasions, they’d ended up with their current menagerie. Max had known that cohabiting with a veterinary student would expose him to a number of critters, but he hadn’t expected it to turn out quite like this. Certainly, Max hadn’t expected to turn into some kind of creature himself the summer before Laura embarked on her graduate school studies, but with what they now jokingly called ‘Wolf Boy Summer’ squared away (they had to laugh, you see, to keep from crying), the creatures had at least been smaller and more manageable.

They’d moved to San Francisco with only a tiny cage with two tiny mice inside, for their tiny apartment. The mice, which Laura had liberated from a science lab she’d worked a few shifts at in undergrad, were champion puzzle-solvers and cheese-finders named Trillian and Cashew. Max didn’t even get consulted about these guys, given that Laura had lived in her own dorm at the time she’d acquired them, but she did let him name one, which is how Trillian ended up named after a character in The Hitchiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Laura named Cashew Cashew because that was the flavor of nut milk she was testing that week. (Max thought Cashew was lucky the two mice hadn’t shown up during pea protein milk week.) Laura was “pretty sure” they were both female, until Cashew ended up pregnant and blessed them with baby mice Frankie, Benjy, Ford, Hazel(nut), Almond, Pecan, and Peanut. Max told her this bode poorly for her career in animal care, but Laura took it in stride, saying she’d have to spend more time studying sex differences in mice in the future. They got two larger enclosures and separated everyone out by sex, properly this time, and now Max has to turn the sound up on their white noise machine when he and Laura snuggle up in bed, or else he hears the Galaxy-Nut siblings running in their wheels all night long.

Then, Laura fell in love with a stray cat with a severely matted coat that had been hanging around their doorstep for days, and Max found his loyalty to his mouse family strained. Should they really bring a predator into their happy little home? But Laura was absolutely certain she could make it work, even in the limited space their apartment provided, and the cat really was pitiful-looking. So Max capitulated and the Kearney-Brinly household expanded to include ten mice and one cat.

The pathetic ginger cat, Westley, luckily, turned out to be utterly uninterested in the mice. He got his name because he showed up for the final time on movie night and meowed pitifully through the first half of The Princess Bride (both Laura and Max’s favorite) until they brought him inside. Laura took him the next day to check for a microchip and, finding none, she had the matted orange furball completely shaved. In the middle of winter. And sure, it was a relatively mild San Francisco winter, but Max still thought Wes looked cold.

“I’ve already ordered him a sweater,” Laura said, “but I know you’ve been working on your knitting, maybe you can make him another?”

Max had scoffed at first. Then he’d taken a second look at his pitifully nude cat and stayed up late researching cat sweater patterns. Now Wes has an entire wardrobe of knitwear and Max, Laura, and Wes have matching Christmas sweaters for their Christmas card photos. Max drew Emma for the Hacketteer gift exchange, but he traded with Abi for Dylan and now he’s working on another set for Dylan, Ryan, and Schrödinger. (He knows Ryan will be especially delighted.)

Then it was Max’s turn. He found a large bedraggled dog of indeterminate breed tied to a stop sign in an abandoned parking lot and the dog let him know immediately that Max was his chosen father, riding home with his head in Max’s lap the entire way. Westley liked Laura best anyway, why shouldn’t Max have his own cuddle buddy (you know, other than Laura)? Laura agreed it was only fair, and now Inigo stretches out between them on movie night and he has to get his fill of both scritches and popcorn before he’ll allow them to cuddle with one another.

“Hon,” Max told Laura, who was sitting at her desk with Westley perched on her shoulder like a pirate’s parrot, “you know I love all our kids, but we really cannot have any more animals in this apartment. We might actually get evicted.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more, honey,” Laura replied, and Max had thought that would be the end of their animal acquisition. He could admit that was pretty naive of him.

The next day, Laura had a list of rental houses for them to visit a little further from the city. Sure, she’d have a longer commute to her classes, and Max would to his job, but wouldn’t it be worth it for the ‘kids’ to have more space? Max couldn’t exactly argue with that, so they moved into a two-bed, two-bath with a small fenced yard.

And that was where Max was, cutting up a salad for dinner, when there was a knock at the door. Max answered to find Laura on their doorstep holding the saddest-looking beagle Max had ever seen, her own face mimicking its hangdog expression perfectly. They were both whimpering. “She was released from the surgical program at school and needed a home, I said we’d take her on a trial basis but baaaabe, just look at this faaaace.”

He sighed, but couldn’t help smiling a little, both at the wriggling dog and at his girlfriend. Her big pretend sad eyes, her genuinely huge heart.

Someday Max would learn to say no. But today was not that day.

[sidraofthewildflowers]

Renaissance meets Bear

Alicent Brown: Alicent’s favorite place (other than the kitchen where she can usually be found baking up all kinds of new creations) is the oddball shop she works at just around the corner from their home, where she works alongside the shops aged and equally eccentric owner, Mr. Gruber.

Life recently took an exciting turn when, on the way home, Alicent and her family spotted a little brown bear at the train station. It didn’t take much convincing to take him back home. Paddington was his name. He loves to eat her various kitchen creations, and has made a wonderful addition to the family.

Criston Brown: Criston never expected to have his life spun around when a little bear entered his family’s home. Though, with his wife Alicent, he should have learned that anything was possible. Life as a banker should have been a simple one, but with four children, a bear, and his colorful wife, life was never simple.

He has always tried to be the parent that kept the havoc of the house in order, but his family was far too exciting for such a thing. And that’s something he’s just fine with.

Aegon Brown: Aegon loved nothing more than building rockets. Well, that and his family. He wants to go to space and see what the world looks like from way up above. Ignoring his father’s loving advice of “thinking safe”, Aegon likes to set his handmade rockets off outside, which then usually means that he will loose rocket making privileges for a little.

It’s an often sight to find Aegon and Paddington tinkering away at a rocket in the middle of the kitchen while Alicent bakes and the rest of the kids take part in their own hobbies.

Helaena Brown: Helaena likes to call herself an explorer. Well, if going out to explore the city makes someone an explorer, than she is one. She likes to bring home pastries from the cafe she works at. She always makes sure to bring marmalade muffins for Paddington to eat. He adores them.

Paddington likes to join her on adventures and the two like to take breaks by eating at little hole-in-the-wall restaurants where they serve the best English food.

Aemond Brown: Aemond loves to take pictures of just about anything. At the moment, he’s been making his family dress in odd costumes for a theme he likes to call “Renaissance meets Bear”. Alicent loves it, and Paddington does too because he gets to eat the little marmalade sandwiches she makes while they work.

The movie theater that he works at allows him to watch all of the films he loves. On special days, when Aegon and Paddington beg, he’ll play a movie of his family’s choice.

Daeron Brown: Daeron, the youngest of the rowdy bunch, loves history and everything to do with it. He can usually be spotted hand in hand with Paddington as they walk around the large museums of London. His room is full of books that are stacked on top of one another. Don’t tell his dad that another stack fell down and broke his lamp.

He enjoys spending his time in the kitchen where most of his family is, and telling his family a new history fact that he and Paddington recently learned.

.

.

Requested by and with help from @fatherforgivethem ✨🐻🐻🐻✨✨ tyyyy!!!

[questioningwriter]

(Y'all remember when I said I'd have second parts out to stories... yeah, then this happened.)

(I typed this in a hurry to get something out, so it's relatively unedited. I skimmed it once, so I may have missed something.)

Boredom

TW: suggestive @ the end

"I'm booooooored." Villain flopped over the side of the sofa in the shared apartment. "Come sit with me?"

From the desk, Hero snorted. "You're such a crybaby." They teased their partner. "Come on, can you wait? I'm working."

Villain pouted. "No." They walked over to see what their partner was working on. "What'chya doin'?"

"You're not the only villain out there, you know." Hero said. "I have to find counter strategies for every possible plan that Supervillain or the others could come up with. Superhero wants them by the end of the day."

Villain sighed. "Fine, I'll go." They walked away, leaving hero to their work.

~

A few hours later, Hero gets a call from the Hero Agency. More specifically, Superhero.

"Come and get your partner." Superhero snapped before Hero could say anything. "They're glaring a hole through me because I gave you work on your day off."

Well, shit. "I'm on my way." Hero grabbed their go-bag, and threw their uniform on over their clothes. "Sorry about this."

"No, I'm sorry." Superhero said as Hero got on his motorcycle drove out for the Agency. "I never should have given you work on your day off. I'll never do it again."

Hero sighed. "Villains holding a knife to your throat, aren't they?"

"Is it that obvious?" Superhero tried to joke as Hero pulled up to the tall building the agency was in.

"I know Villain." Hero answered. "So yeah, it is."

Hero made their way to Superhero's office, thinking every curse word in the book. When they got there, they saw Superhero sitting in their chair, with Villain standing behind them in their villain getup, pressing a knife to their throat.

"Hey, baby!" Villain said cheerily, as if they were just happy to see them come home.

Hero sighed. "Sweetheart, baby, love of my life, I love you with every fibre of my being. Please let my boss go."

Villain pouted, but removed the knife from Superhero's neck. "Come on, baby." They muttered. "You have to see where I'm coming from here. You were ignoring me."

"As if I'm not allowed to work from home." Hero grumbled, but they were smiling.

"Nope!" Villain danced over to their partner, throwing their arms around them and mashing their bodies together. "When you're at home, you're mine!"

Hero winked. "Than why don't we go home and you can make me yours all over again?"

Villain smirked. "Yes, lets."

[strawberrywinter4]

Fandom: Sherlock (TV)

Rated: Teen and Up

Relationship: Sherlock/John

Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Sally Donovan, Philip Anderson, Original Female Character

Notable Tags: Jealous Sherlock Holmes, Fluff and Humor, Insecure Sherlock Holmes, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Christmas Fluff, Cuddles

Summary:

Sherlock Holmes has never had such a relationship in which his significant other treats him like John does. John treats him like he's the most precious thing in the world. Sherlock can't lose that, he can't lose him.

When a new recruit of Scotland Yard seems to take a liking to John, Sherlock does everything in his power to keep John from leaving him when his insecurities get the best of him.

Chapter one up on Ao3

[wtfuckevenknows]

“It’s okay.  I couldn’t sleep anyway.” for tarlos <333

Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii :)

I am soooooooo fucking sorry this took so long 😅 and it honestly isn't my best work but I'm just so fucking happy I finished it after not writing a single word for two months.

Hope you like it anyways 🙃

16 “It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

Carlos steps into the dark loft, only the street lights casting a sliver of light, and slowly and as quietly as he can slides the door closed behind him before locking it. 

The clock reads nearly 2am and Carlos is sure TK is fast asleep, even though they both have the day off tomorrow. He was supposed to be home hours ago but his shift ran long and he has missed date night.

TK tried to sound upbeat when Carlos called earlier to let him know, but Carlos wasn’t fooled. TK only tried to make Carlos feel less guilty about having to cancel their date – as he always does when Carlos has to work overtime – but Carlos knows TK was disappointed and he felt guilty anyway.

Keep reading on ao3

[roosterbox]

October Almost-Drabbles 10/4: Pumpkin

Pairing: Steddie

Word Count: 621

Additional tags: FLUFF, pumpkin carving, transfemme!Steve

Side note: was initially going to be t4t, but I didn’t end up getting around to Eddie’s characterization. I think it’s already too long as it is, lol. I don’t mind it if you think of him that way though.

Side note #2: new headcanon unlocked - Eddie is awesome at pumpkin carving artwork.

———

“Is it ready yet?”

Stevie was almost bouncing in her chair. Her own pumpkin was finished - triangle cut out eyes and a big toothy smile - so now all that was left was Eddie’s. But the big jerk wouldn’t let her see. ‘Not until it’s done,’ he’d said.

Stevie Harrington wasn’t known for her patience.

“Almost,” Eddie said, not looking at her. He was surprisingly focused. For him, at least. His hair was tied back, though some thin wisps managed to settle against his forehead, and his tongue was pressed anxiously to the corner of his mouth. He wore a similar look when he was working hard on his campaigns. It seemed like an awful lot of concentration and trouble for a pumpkin carving, Stevie thought. But that only made her want to see even more.

“How much longer?”

Eddie sighed, more out of fondness than exasperation. “In a minute, baby.” He looked up and winked at her. “Can’t rush art.”

Right. Pumpkin art. She rolled her eyes a little. Never saw much need for any fanciness. Everybody loves the simple designs, right? Besides, there’s only so much a person can do with a pumpkin.

After a few moments, with one final flourish of the carving knife, Eddie turned to her, smiling.

“All done! Wanna see my masterpiece?”

She rolled her eyes again, but she was smiling too. “Damn right I do. Make some room.”

He scooted his chair out from the table a bit so she could plop down on his lap. Eddie coughed out a mild ‘gentle on the goods there, darlin’’ before wrapping his arms around her. She made herself quite comfortable before actually looking at the…

…pumpkin?

“Oh shit,” she breathed.

It was the moon. A carving of a full moon. With craters and everything, though they probably weren’t scientifically accurate if she’d had to guess. But damn, it looked good. The way he’d carved into the flesh of the pumpkin, not all the way through but thin enough for the light to pass through, was incredible. There were cut-outs along the side, a few in the moon shape itself. It took her a minute to realize they were bats. Just like one ones on Eddie’s arm.

“Like it? I was gonna try to do a howling werewolf or something. Felt too cliché.”

“It’s amazing, Eds.” She kissed his cheek, leaving a tiny smudge of her dark red lipstick. Neither moved to wipe it away. “Have you always carved pumpkins like this?”

He shrugged, and held her closer. “Not really. Got tired of the typical shit a few years ago, figured I could stand to get more creative.” At her withering look, he sputtered, “N-not that yours is uncreative or anything! I mean, that design is a classic for a reason, and-“

She silenced him with a kiss. Slow and deep, leaving his lips stained red. But before she could grab a tissue or a towel, he licked them clean. This earned him another fond eyeroll.

“How’s my lipstick taste?”

Another lick. He grinned. “Perfect. Just like my Stevie.”

“Dork,” she said, and settled further in his lap.

“You love me though.” He nuzzled at her neck, kissing a bit at the freckles and beauty marks there.

“Yeah, I do. God help me, but I do.”

Another time, he might have feigned offense. Maybe even whined about his cruel, cruel girlfriend, how could she say such mean things to him? But tonight? Tonight he just sighed, and squeezed her tight.

“Wanna help me set ‘em up outside?”

“In a minute,” her voice was muffled from where her face was pressed in his hair. “I’m comfy here.”

He chuckled, careful not to jostle her too much. “Dork.”

[spurious]

🌹🌹🌹🌹

(Send a 🌹, get a WIP line!)

From 20 more Questions:

Rodney's looking down at John's dick like it's a tricky engineering problem, and it bowls John over with a wave of amused fondness that makes him want to laugh, or cry, or maybe both.

[aiyaiy]

CINNAMON SUGAR — CARMEN BERZATTO

summary Carmen comes home to you late at night. Luckily, you manage to stay awake.

length 2k

contents absolutely zero plot, literally just a sweet n cute n sappy moment existing in a vacuum, holy shit so much fluff i might die (got the idea for this while listening to margaret & let the light in by lana del rey n it's realllll obvious), too many kisses to count, this is what he'd be like after intensive therapy i reckon, not proofread so be nice

Carmen opens the door to the bedroom carefully, minding the creaky hinge in the middle of the night. Moonlight peeks through the window, caught at the right time when the city doesn’t block its path into the apartment, giving just enough glow to the room to see you fast asleep in bed. It’s late, he realizes, even later than usual. He needs to work on that.

He makes his way to the bed, stopping at your side to kneel beside you and simply adore you: the curve of your nose, the plush of your lips in that pout you wear only when you’re asleep, the eyelashes laid against your cheeks.

You stir when he presses his lips to your temple, a soft groan pulled from your lips. “…Bear?”

“Yeah, ‘s me, baby.” Even at a whisper, he thinks he’s too loud, and with his rough and tired hand he brushes over the top of your head just light enough to keep you sleepy.

A drowsy hand reaches out from under the covers to smooth over the contours of his face, tracing along shadows made hazy by a few hours’ rest. “You coming to bed soon?”

“Almost,” he murmurs, smoothing a palm up your exposed arm to hold your hand steady. He pulls ever so slightly away from your palm, only to turn to land gentle kisses against its soft skin, worshiping the pieces of you that treat him with more care than he thinks he’s worthy of. “Needa take a shower first, alright? But I’ll be right back.” 

He could’ve done that much by now—could’ve cleaned himself, rid himself of a day's work before seeing you—but truthfully, waiting any longer would’ve driven him mad. He would’ve been itchy in the shower, skin aflame knowing he could’ve felt your touch by then, arms and hands jittering to have your curves beneath them. His lips trail down to your wrist before he turns over your hand to kiss the backs of your fingers.

“Okay,” you answer, muffled by the blankets and pillow and the squeak of the floorboard as Carmen stands back up.

He makes his trip quick and quiet. He brushes his teeth and swipes up a towel while the water heats up, leaving just enough time to hang it on the hook and strip before hopping in. There’s a beat where he closes his eyes and just breathes, clears his mind of the day’s stress, lets warm water saturate his hair and cascade down his back. He lathers his hair with shampoo—the one you bought for him once to free him from the chains of 3-in-1 and that he’s been purchasing ever since to keep you happy—before cleaning the rest of his body, all while thinking about how much better it’d feel, how much more relief he’d get if it were you beside him under the stream instead of just his thoughts. But with the shampoo and soap down the drain goes that idea, much like the fleeting thought of using conditioner. You’ve yet to get to him on that one, especially at a moment like this, when time is of the essence and you’re waiting on him. Maybe another night, when you take your own product and swirl it around his curls; if it gives him an excuse to stay with you just a few minutes more, he’ll do it.

He hops out of the water like it’s acid and wraps the towel around his waist after drying himself to avoid trouble in the morning (you hate when the floor gets wet, and even if it wastes time, he’ll be sure to prevent that). Out goes the light again as he walks into the hall, sneaking back into the bedroom to get dressed into briefs and nothing more—you’ll keep him warm enough under the blankets.

It’s only then—when he peels back those final layers—that he realizes he’s been smiling the whole time.

Once he’s settled into the grooves of the mattress, chest to your back, you’re turning around to curl into his torso, like a magnetic field brought you there. 

“Hey,” he coos, “Y’don’t have to move f’me, yeah? Just sleep, baby.” Moved by your eagerness, his arms curl around you, one along your waist as the other nicely fits comfortably into the space between your neck and shoulder. 

And yet you shift a little more to cast an arm against his chest, his heart beating beneath your palm, head on his shoulder with a leg hooked onto his hip, split halfway between mattress and his body. “ ‘S more comfy this way, Carm.” You sigh and breathe deep into his skin. “You smell good, too.”

He can’t even lie well enough to convince himself his heart doesn’t run a million miles faster when you cozy up to him like this, caught in a space part fatigue and part love, with your hums ringing in his ear. “ ‘S that shampoo you got me a while ago…Sometime this week—” he yawns, and if he weren’t dying to hear your voice a few more times, he’d be a little more thankful for sleep coming so easily— “Sometime this week we can go t’the store, you can pick out another body wash f’me to try, too.”

“Mm, I’d like that.” You smooth your hand from his chest to his neck and shoulder, massaging there gently where he gets sore as a barely-there kiss lands to the skin beneath you. “How was it today?” The restaurant. His headaches. Richie’s mood lately. The flow of the kitchen. The strain in his back.

“Was alright,” he answers, as honestly as he can, soothing himself by brushing a hand up along your spine. “Real busy, so I didn’t get to leave ‘till late, ‘m sorry.”

“ ‘S alright, I stayed in and just relaxed for the night.” You snuggle into him a little deeper, and he thinks he could melt. “I was gonna ask you to bring something home, but it’s a weekend, so I didn’t wanna bother you in a rush.”

“What’d you want?”

From your lips comes a light and airy giggle, milliseconds of the best sounds he’s ever heard. “I just wanted some fries, honestly…didn’t feel like going out.”

“Heh,” he laughs, smiling while his eyes stay glued to the ceiling—as if looking at you would make the moment disappear. “I would’ve picked ‘em up for you, ‘r at least had Fak get ‘em to you.”

You yawn in tandem with the tailend of his thought, so your answer’s a bit softer. “Uh-uh, I like them better when you make ‘em.”

“Yeah? ‘ve I been pampering you too much?” He teases you, adds on a kiss to the top of your head as he squeezes you a bit tighter, but it’s all a ruse to cover up how much faster his pulse is when you say those words, like all the work he’s put in—all the love he has for you—makes its way to the table for not just anyone, but for you, the one person he’s sure matters more than the rest. More than those fucking stars, more than Chef of the Year, more than any critic’s review, more than he can wrap his head around; he feels it in his chest and that’s enough.

“Of course you have,” you agree, peeking up at him and craning your neck to plant your lips to his jaw, savoring it long enough to leave a smirk against his skin. “You’re always so sweet to me, Bear—” one more quick peck just beneath his ear— “love when you cook for me.”

He thinks he could pass out like this, with the last thing he hears being those words, but his fatigue seems to serve as an anesthetic that lets him soak it in for a bit longer, running his free hand through damp curls while a heavy, giddy sigh leaving his lips that lets you know he hears you, that he loves telling you he loves you through his art, that he lives for the smile on your face when he stays home for a few hours longer to make you breakfast. Yet with all the time spent having his shell soften for you, he can’t always find the right words, so he settles for the next best thing: “Y’know, uh…Marcus’s been playing around with recipes…”

He feels you smile against his chest, knowing what’s to come. “Yeah?”

“Mhm, an’ I’d never let ‘im serve ‘em, ‘cause, y’know…” He loses himself for a moment in the lull of your fingertips tracing mindless shapes into his chest. “They don’t fit the menu…but uh, he made these…these rolls today…”

“Mhm? ‘M listening…”

Carmen knew that, of course, from the faint kisses you peppered between breaths. He lets the fan whir through the gaps in his thoughts. “I think you’d like ‘em, he had some classic cinnamon, ‘n…a blueberry lemon goin’…”

“That sounds really good,” you whisper, the syllables lengthened from a shared lack of sleep.

“I know,” he drawls, and he’s a little too proud of himself for once when he adds, “Which is why I said I’d let ‘im fix up the lemon recipe a few more times if he made a batch for you.”

“Did you really?” The dazed smile comes through in your voice, a bubbliness to it that tells him he made the right call. 

He figures that’s why he’s so drawn to you—all the right calls come easy to him, the effort feels natural and unpracticed, unlike the tar that builds in his throat when it comes to so many other people. With you, being good is anything but demanding. “ ‘F course, baby…” 

It turns him to a puddle, the sweetness that drips from your fingertips, so he cradles your wrist carefully in his hand and lifts it to his lips to show it the love it deserves before urging the hand to busy itself with the tufts of hair behind his hear, to which you happily oblige. You twirl a lock around your finger, performing a methodical spiral, and even though he knows by the time it dries it’ll stick out from the mess like a sore thumb, he’d stop breathing before pulling your hand away. It’s soothing, that pattern. It stokes the fire in his gut that makes him feel a little less lonely when you’re not around.

“I brought…” He yawns again, his eyelids growing heavy. “I brought you some of the cinnamon rolls…Sugar liked ‘em…they’re on the counter for you tomorrow mornin'…” He’s not sure whether it’s your doing or the hours of stress endured throughout the day, but he knows this is the most relaxed he’s ever been, laying with you and doing little else other than indulging in your tender touches and shy kisses.

“Thank you, my love,” slips away with breath, sotto voce, as Carmen leaves brief kisses to your hairline. 

And he thanks God for being able to do it even with such an intense fatigue washing over him—at least part of him does, the part that’s still awake—because the movement lets you tilt your head and graze your fingertips by his jaw, bringing his lips kindly to yours for the first and last time tonight. Somewhere in that beautiful tangle there’s a mutual agreement: an unspoken Goodnight, I love you, in the mix, a finality in his offering and your gracious thanks that doesn’t warrant anything more than your head tucked neatly into his neck, left to bask in the comfort of his arms wrapped around you.

Just like any other night with you, he can sleep peacefully with the unconscious push and pull of your bodies intertwined. He knows that by morning, you’ll still be in his arms, in the bed you share, waiting on your good morning kiss from under the covers.

And he’ll still be beneath your warmth, his mind fuzzy and full of tenderness, every part of him dying to marry you.

[uwingdispatch]

Wayward Evenings

Notes: Ezra Bridger/Reader, established relationship, gender neutral reader, post-rebellion/post-war, hurt/comfort, chronically ill/disabled reader

CW: alcohol consumption, the aftermath of alcohol consumption, implied sexual intimacy

Ao3 Link

★★★★★★★★

You hadn’t expected to spend your evening holding your husband’s hair back in the refresher. In fact, you’d had other plans. But when Hondo was in town…you’d learned to expect this kind of thing. Perhaps it was your mistake to try and do tonight any other way, but you’re still annoyed that Ezra is just so…Ezra when it comes to the former pirate. 

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you tell him. Ezra is leaning against a cabinet on the floor doing his best to stay upright. Despite your irritation, you’re right there with him, smoothing his sweat-slicked hair away from his face. “Every time,” you say. “It’s like you’re incapable of making good decisions around that man.”

“I think you’re onto something there, sunshine,” he says. “But can we talk about it tomorrow? I feel like I’m going to die right now.”

You let out a deep sigh. “Sure,” you say. “If you promise to never drink pirate moonshine again.”

“It was made on Batuu, so technically it’s moons-shine.”

“You know what? I’m just going to leave.”  You have no intention of leaving.

“I’ll never touch that shit again,” he says. “For you, of course.” And then wretches again. 

An hour ago someone at the cantina had called you to come get your idiot husband. They normally would have called Sabine—she was more physically capable of dragging Ezra out of a bar and throwing him into a speeder—but she’s been off planet for the past few weeks and that left you and your droid to come coax Ezra out of the building and get him home. 

“I know you had plans,” he says. “I’m so sorry,”

“Too drunk to stand up,” you say, “before the sun’s even fully set!”

“I guess I was just feeling ambitious.”

“When they called me to come get you they were worried you were going to try and fight a Dowutin. Over an insult to Hondo’s ‘honor.’”

“I would never actually—” 

“If you weren’t who you are you might have gotten arrested.”

“I know.” 

“Ezra, I love you, but I really don’t love this.” 

Even still, you’re rubbing his back, holding him steady. There are people you meet at a certain age and somehow, whenever they’re around, you become that age again. You understand this. It just doesn’t make your current predicament any less frustrating..

C2-B35 rolls in grumbling and hands you fresh towels, which you pass off to Ezra, who seems to be regaining his balance as he stands, the nausea abating.

“I think the worst is over, Cee,” Ezra says.

Ceetoo, being a therapy droid ultimately concerned with your wellbeing, chirps and whirrs—a curse-ridden message for Ezra that you don’t bother acknowledging. Because despite her vitriol, the little astromech has been monitoring his vitals since the two of you picked him up earlier. 

“Get cleaned up,” you say. “Is there anything you need?”

“You’re too good to me,” he says. “But all I need is you.”

In the kitchen, inhaling a bowl of leftover pasta, you remind yourself that this is not a regular occurrence. You hear the shower running and feel a bit of relief knowing you’ve moved on to the part of the evening where Ezra can take care of himself. Which means the vomiting is over. And given how much of that had gone on earlier, you’re pretty sure he meant it when he said he’d swear off Hondo’s moonshine.

When he emerges he’s wearing just a pair of gray lounge pants and a soft red robe—yours—left open. 

Ceetoo is nearby watering her plants and in a series of beeps and whistles she asks if she needs to still be monitoring Ezra. 

“I’m good, Cee,” he says. “I just need to rest. And make up for…all of this.”

He slips his arms around your waist and nuzzles your neck before pressing a soft kiss to your temple. 

“Feeling better?” you ask.

“Eh…mostly.”

“Still a little drunk?”

“A little.”

You take his face in your hand, brushing your thumb over his cheek before tucking a few wayward curls, still wet from the shower, behind his ear. He leans in as if to kiss you and you stop him. “Not before you drink that water,” you say, pointing to a large glass on the kitchen counter. “All of it.”

“And then?”

You shrug.

“You know I’d do anything for you, sunshine,” he says, his voice low, his lips almost touching your ear.

You reply: “I know.”  

***

You’d been dating Ezra for six months when you first met Hondo. Ezra had described the old Weequay as “kind of like an uncle, but not the kind of uncle you call in an emergency…unless it’s like a real emergency, he’ll show up for that.”

And after a night out with Ezra’s “uncle” you wondered if you really knew who you were dating. It wasn’t that the liquor had changed his personality, or even that Hondo had. You just hadn’t seen this side of him before.

“I think I overdid it,” he said.

“You did.”

“I should have warned you.”

“Ezra,” you said. “I don’t know if there’s any way to warn someone that one of your dearest friends is the kind of person who thinks axe-throwing while drunk is a good idea.” 

You were walking a rather tipsy Ezra home after what you had thought would be a casual dinner with a quirky family friend. But that was not how time with Hondo would ever go. You’d threatened to leave over the whole axe-throwing throwing thing, but stayed a while when Ezra reluctantly backed down from the challenge.

“I forget that Ezra Bridger cannot hold his liquor,” Hondo had said. “I would do anything for this boy, but he would have made a terrible pirate.” 

Ezra looped his arm around your waist and sighed. “With Hondo,” Ezra said, “sometimes it feels like I can go back in time. Like…”

“Like all the time you lost while you were away didn’t happen?”

“You get it,” he said. “Of course you get it.”

“I don’t know if I get it, but I think I know what you’re saying.”

Ezra never got to go through a wild phase—not the way most people did as young adults. Hondo, however, seemed to make space for the chaotic teenager in anyone. Which maybe under other circumstances might have been fine, but Ezra’s limit was usually a pint or two of ale. Tonight there had been Correllian wine. And then shots of something that smelled like explosives.

Just outside of his house now, Ezra mumbled, “I would have been a great pirate.” 

You swiped his key card to open the front door and, as soon as he could get to it, he flopped into his bed. 

You sighed, watching Ezra struggle to take off his socks. “I’m sure you would have been legendary.”

“Legendary!” he repeated.

You got ready for bed, using the items of yours that had started to collect in the refresher. Some you’d left at Ezra’s place over the last few months. Others Ezra had bought for you, wanting you to feel welcome and at home with him. He called your name, and you went to the kitchen to get him a glass of water, knowing he’d be feeling this in the morning if he didn’t at least try to hydrate.

“Come here,” he said. “Let me hold you.”

When you joined him in bed, he pulled you toward him, undressed now, his skin warm against yours. “I don’t usually drink like this,” he said.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ve seen you this intoxicated before.”

“That’s on purpose,” he said. “I can’t believe I let myself…you know what? It doesn’t matter. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Drink the water,” you told him.

“I will,” he said. “Hey. Hey…can you look at me?”

You tuck his hair behind his ear, let your fingers trail down his neck and along his jawline. “I’ve been looking at you this whole time.”

“I’m just so glad you came out with me tonight. I know Hondo is a lot, but he’s family.”

“He’s probably not too fond of me.”

“Are you kidding? He loved you.”

“Really?”

“How could he not, sunshine?” he said. And after a pause, “Do you know how important you are to me? How much I love you?”

It was the first time either of you had said these words to the other. And you hadn’t expected to hear them as a drunken confession. “Ezra, I—”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“It’s okay. Just…tell me again when you’re sober.”

“I will.”

He pulled you close and you rested your head on his chest, breathing deeply. He smelled of sweat and alcohol, of course. But also of him. Of a man you’d very much fallen in love with. Sometimes you thought you’d fallen in love with him the day you’d met. But you’d held those words back, wondering sometimes whether Ezra Bridger was the type to settle down. 

But now, there was something about the way he stroked your hair as he started to doze off. And when he said “I’ll tell you I love you every day for as long as you’ll have me,” tipsy or not, you believed him.

***

You’re in the kitchen brewing a fresh pot of caf when you hear Ezra stumbling down the hallway, followed by the loth-cats that had been sleeping at his feet.

“You’re never up this early,” he says.

His hair is wild, and he’s wearing a robe—his this time—and not much else. You don’t need to tell him he’s a mess. He knows. And he knows how he got here.

“There’s no Jedi trick for hangovers,” you say. “Or at least that’s what you’ve lead me to believe.”

You put a plate of eggs and two headache tablets on the table and he sits, a look of defeat in his big blue eyes.

“I’d been hoping to make you breakfast today,” he says. “I really kriffed things up last night.”

Ceetoo comes in the front door carrying a shopping bag, looks straight at Ezra and starts grumbling in binary.  

“I know,” he says. “I’m profoundly aware of this. Can you please lower your volume?”

You bring two cups of caf to the table and sit beside Ezra. A man who’s stayed up with you through countless nights when your chronic pain was at its worst. Who makes a point of bringing you your favorite tea anytime you have a particularly bad migraine. A man who, when you’d first met, lived on the opposite side of town—but when he found out how difficult your anxiety could get, he started making that long drive to you any time you were struggling and he thought he could help.

He did kriff up last night. But you can’t find it in yourself to hold it against him. “It was a rough night,” you say. “But it’s behind us.” 

Sipping his caf he says, “Thank you, love.” 

“You would do the same for me.”

“I don’t mean the breakfast. I mean, I do. But you deserve better than a grown man who can’t get his shit together for one night so you can go out with your friends.”

There’s something sheepish about him as he takes your hand, and you see the “boy” Hondo always refers to when he talks about Ezra, despite his being in his forties. 

“You have your shit remarkably together ninety-nine percent of the time, Ezra,” you say. “I can make new plans. And you were sick enough yesterday that I think that might be punishment enough.”

Ceetoo grumbles as she brings you a plate of sliced fruit. She’d happily gone to the store for you but had been less than enthusiastic about it when you told her the fruit was for Ezra—she could hold a grudge as well as any organic. But you reminded her of how many times he’d been there for the two of you, and that if you could forgive him for one ruined night, she could, too. 

As she’s leaving the kitchen she beeps and whistles: try not to barf.

Ezra laughs. “I’m so glad she doesn’t actually hate me,” he says. “Though sometimes I wonder.”

You sit in silence for a while, listening to the wind blowing a tree branch into the window outside, the birds singing in the garden. And you remember planting that garden with Ezra when you first moved into this house, how you reminded him again that you probably wouldn’t be able to help much with maintaining the garden because of your chronic pain. And he’d taken your hands and told you that he didn’t expect anything of you other than that you being in his life. That just you being here, making a home together—that was enough. He’d wiped the tears from your cheeks when you began to cry, your heart so full it was spilling over.

“How are you feeling?” you ask.

“Better now that I’ve eaten, actually.”  

He gives your hand a squeeze before you get up to feed the two tooka cats who have gathered under the table, nipping at your feet. One you’d had when you met Ezra—the other was a three-legged stray Ezra had found living in an alley behind his work, far too friendly to be a street cat. You nearly trip over the little guy as you turn to put the kibble away, only to be steadied by Ezra—you hadn’t even realized he’d gotten up from the table.

“Hey,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

“I was fine,” you insist.

He smiles. “Sure.”

His grin is infectious, and soon you have your arms around his neck, unable to stifle the smile on your own face. He ghosts his fingers along your cheek, his thumb swiping over your bottom lip for a moment before leaning in to kiss you, slow and lingering.

“You can make me dinner tonight,” you tell him. 

“And in the meantime?”

You can’t imagine he’s recovered that quickly. But Ezra is always full of surprises. So when he leads you back to the bedroom you follow. He discards your clothing in the hall, piece by piece as you stumble over each other, a feeling of lightness filling you as he kisses your forehead, your nose, your neck before you tumble into bed. And when you find yourself beneath the sheets with Ezra, you’re thinking about how seamlessly he fit into your life, from the very beginning. And now, how perfectly your bodies fit together, his deft hands finding exactly where and how you love to be touched. 

He whispers in your ear: “Let me make this up to you.”  

And you melt into him, your fingers lacing into his hair as he kisses you deeper, a spark of electricity running through you as if it were the first time he’d ever kissed you. 

“You still owe me dinner,” you tell him.

“I’ll give you anything,” he says, pressing a kiss to your clavicle. “Anything you want,” he says, “it’s yours.”

And, if only because he’d never once given you a reason not to, you believe him. 

★★★★★★★★

Thank you so much for reading! Once again I am here to be a gremlin about Ezra Bridger somehow growing up to be Blorbo. I hope this fic made you feel seen and loved.

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[guiltyasreid]

high heels ll spencer reid x reader

warnings/tags: non, fluff, total fluff, fem reader, prince charming spencer reid word count: 1226 a/n: this is so not me I can run in heels so have fun with this one.

You were used to wearing boots, booted heels, platforms, and trainers. Never in your life had you thought you'd wear stiletto heels. It was fine, you could walk perfectly fine if you were on a flat surface, the pain wasn't even that bad.

Stairs?

No. Stairs were your biggest enemy in them. Up or down, you were like a new born deer.

"Are you sure you don't want to just wear another pair of shoes?" Spencer asked as he watched you wobble down the stairs of your apartment building.

You gave him a stink eye.

"Fine, but don't ask for my shoes later on." He gave you a look, and you smiled, taking his arm.

"Wouldn't dream of it, Doc." You giggled as you walked to the car.

Both of you were dressed formally, Spencer in his nicest black tux and you in a black satin dress that fell to your midcalf. The FBI had a dinner every couple of years just to celebrate. Spencer and you both knew it was just an excuse for an open bar. 

The drive there was easy enough. It was not far, the two steps into the hotel, you held Spencer's arm for dear life.

"Just up the stairs."

Your heart dropped at the sentence that came out of the receptionist's mouth. You looked towards the grand staircase that was heading up, in that moment, you were sure you'd end up falling down them. Spencer was clearly enjoying your sense of dread, its as if he was waiting to say 'I told you so.' 

"Come on." Spencer tugged you along, and you tried not to trip over your feet.

You started delicately taking steps up the stairs, again holding Spencer's arm. He looked amused at your struggles, but when they got to the 10th step, he sighed. It had taken you 3 minuets to climb them.

You let out a shout as he scooped you into his arms, carrying you up the stairs bridal style. Your arms automatically wrapped around his neck as you went red.

"I couldn't watch you struggle any longer, it was hurting me deeply." He spoke. You tried to hide your smile in his suit. "You definitely are liking this."

You smacked his chest with one of your hands. "Shut up."

You did enjoy every moment of it. He gave you another cheeky smile as you hit the top of the stairs. Delicately, setting you down. You brushed off your dress and gave him a bright smile.

"Thank you." You whispered, already feeling eyes on you both. You fiddled with his tie for a moment.

"Anything for you." He kissed the side of your head before allowing you to take his arm again.

The night went usually. Greeting people you knew, moments where you were on the small room for dancing. Spencer had wandered off somewhere with Derek while you stood with JJ and Will. "How are the shoes?" JJ asked, staring down at her feet. She was the one who'd gifted you them.

"They're nice, but I think most of the time I'm trying not to fall to my death." You let out a chuckle.

JJ gave you a sympathetic look. "You get used to it, I promise."

A tap on your shoulder made you turn around. Spencer stood with his arms behind his back and a cheeky smile on his face. You narrowed your eyes, wondering what he was up to.

He held out his hand dramatically, bowing slightly. "May I have this dance, my lady?"

Your cheeks heated, and you grinned. "Why, of course." You mock curtsied at him as he pulled you onto the makeshift dance floor, where a few people were swaying together.

JJ and Will were joined by the rest of the team, and they all watched them dance together with soft expressions. You giggling at his dramatic flairs to the dance. Him making sure you were only focused on him, it wasn't hard, he was the only one for you. His hair was pushed back slightly, his face had its usual light stubble, he looked like rugged prince charming.  

"Another side to him comes out with her." Derek spoke, a chuckle coming out as he sipped his drink.

Your squeal was audible when he twirled you out quickly, pulling you back in and dipping you low. "You're going to make me fall." You shook your head amused. 

"I'd never let you fall." He smiled back, kissing the side of your mouth. "If I did, I'd always be there to catch you."

"You're so cheesy." You giggled in his arms.

"I'm lactose intolerance." He quipped back, you snorted and pressed your head to his shoulder.

Will smiled at the pair and their antics. "I'll be surprised if they're not married by the end of the year." He spoke out loud.

"It's November." JJ reminded.

Will shrugged. "Like they'd ever have a traditional wedding, they'd probably get married by an Elvis impersonator, with ring pops." JJ laughed leaning back into Will.

"You look wonderful." Spencer whispered as you swayed together.

"And you look magical." You whispered back, he hummed leaning his head on yours.

The night dwindled down, You and Spencer didn't let go of each others hands for the rest of the evening. You said your goodbyes to everyone, making sure to remind the rest of the team about your Christmas party.

As soon as you started making your way out. Spencer scooped you into his arms again, everyone's eyes turned to the pair of you as he rushed out with you in his arms.

Will nudged JJ to look at what Spencer was doing. JJ raised her eyebrows. "Okay, maybe you'll be right." She muttered.

"You like doing this more than me." You laughed as he made his way down the stairs. One arm under your knees, the other under your arms.

"I admit nothing." He replied, kissing your cheek. You hid your face in his neck as he continued.

As soon as they hit the last step. You were sure he'd let you down, instead he kept walking towards the door. "What are you doing?"

"Taking you home, my lady." He replied, giving you another cheeky smile. His eyes were bright staring at you with love in his eyes.

The doorman opened the door with a smile on his face. You wiggled to be let down and he let you down softly laughing at your scowl. You shivered at the cold. He took of his blazer, quickly wrapping you up.

"You don't have to do that." You replied, about to start taking the blazer off. Instead, he just scooped you up again, not caring about the looks he was getting. "Spencer!" You laughed smacking his chest.

"Just enjoy it, I am." He grinned down at you. You rolled your eyes leaning into his shoulder.

Will was right. Three weeks later. Spencer and you announced you two were married at your Christmas party.

Pictures of you with a Elvis impersonator, two red ring pop rings on your left hands. There was pictures of you kissing while dipped. Him holding you bridal style with a bright red lipstick stain on his cheek, and a bright smile on both of your faces. One where you were holding Spencer bridal style, your face red and Spencer trying to hide his face with one hand. Then another where you both had your foreheads together just cheesing at each other. 

[alltheirdamn]

Killing Me Softly | (Joel x teacher!f!reader)

Chap. 4: Lost In Moonlight

Chp. 4 Summary: You couldn't deny Joel any longer. You needed him. Rating: Explicit 18+ MDNI Word Count: 7.8k Warnings: SMUT (finally), unprotected piv sex, nipple play, cock riding, cum eating, creampie, oral (f receiving), fingering, praise kink, dirty talk, pet names (baby, good girl), aftercare, heavy kissing, mentions of past emotional abuse, soft!joel, so much FLUFF!!! A/N: I know this is what y'all have been waiting for, so I hope I did this moment justice :') I'm putting together a lil playlist for this fic, so please lmk if you're interested in seeing it! xoxo <3

Masterlist | Ko-Fi

Flower petals were strewn across the entryway as you and Joel staggered through the dark house. You couldn’t find the time—or care—to flick on the lights, too busy finding Joel’s mouth in the darkness. His hands caressed every curve of your body, fingers reaching under the seam of your sweatshirt to press against your warm skin. You tried blindly guiding him toward your room, only to awkwardly bump into corners and walls in the search, leaving you giggling and Joel cursing. You were nearly at the door when he stopped short, pinning you to the wall of the hallway so that he could devour your mouth once more. Helpless moans left your lips as he coaxed your mouth open wider, his hands roaming down your lower back. You pressed yourself closer to his chest, the outline of his hardened cock rubbing against your upper thigh. Joel pulled away from your mouth, his breath ragged as he palmed your ass with his large hands.

“I don’t want you regrettin’ this in the mornin’ if it’s not what you want,” he panted. 

“Don’t try and tell me what I want, Joel,” you whispered, kissing down the base of his neck.

He let out a shaky breath, his hands squeezing you harder. By the night's end, not a single inch of you would be left untouched. You raised your mouth to his ear, grazing over the shell of it with the tip of your tongue.

“I’m sick of pretending like I don’t want you.”

“You’re killin’ me, baby,” he groaned. 

You searched for his hand through the blanket of darkness around you, guiding him to your bedroom. You counted the steps in your head until the back of your knees hit the mattress, and you were falling back. Joel tumbled over you, one knee propped up beside your waist while his other leg was wedged between your thighs. His hands pulled at the hem of your sweatshirt, tugging it up your body until you took control and stripped it off in one fluid motion. It barely hit the ground before his hands were all over you, the touch of his skin on yours electrifying you beyond words. Every touch was soft…so fucking soft. It was dizzying to be handled so gently and with such determined intensity. Where you struggled for words, Joel responded with another caress, another kiss, another praise of adoration. 

The pads of his fingers began tracing down your sternum, working at the material of your bra. 

“Can I?” he asked, reaching behind your back.

“Yes,” you exhaled.

His fingers made easy work of the clasp, freeing you of your bra in record time. Even if you were drenched in shadows, you knew Joel’s eyes were washing over your body with rapt attention. 

“Jesus Christ, you’re fuckin’ beautiful,” he muttered as he leaned back over you.

His mouth was hot against your collarbone as he worked his way down your chest. Peppered kisses trailed over the swell of your breasts, and you arched into his gentle touch as he swirled his tongue around your hardened nipples. His tongue flicked at the sensitive skin, forcing a breathy whine to escape your lips. Joel’s teeth grazed over the soft skin of your breast before dipping his head lower and scattering your navel with soft kisses. 

“Joel,” you whimpered, carding your hands through his hair.

A thin sheen of sweat hung on the curls, forcing them to stick against his temples and forehead. You raked your nails over his scalp, earning a deep groan that rumbled through his chest. He pulled himself up so that he stood over you, and as your vision adjusted to the darkness, you watched as his hands worked at tugging his shirt over his neck and shoulders. Fuck, you wished the lights were on so you could catalog every part of his body. You sat up on the bed, craning your neck back as you traced your fingers over the soft skin of his stomach and up his chest. The hair spattering his chest tickled your fingertips as you crept higher, your hands caressing the thick muscles on his shoulders. Joel’s hands reached to cover yours, halting your blind exploration of his body.

“We should stop,” he said, strained.

You cringed as he said those three words, letting your hands drop and wrap around your bare chest. You knew it was too good to be true; he didn’t want you. Even if every atom of his being called out to yours, like some prayer for divinity, he wanted to stop. 

“I—I understand,” you hesitated.

You didn’t know where to go, with him still looming over you, so you shuffled your body up the bed, trying to find the edge of your comforter so you could bury yourself in the deepest part of your mattress and disappear entirely. Joel’s hand shot out to grab your ankle, tugging you back to the edge of the bed, and you raised yourself on your forearms, staring at him confused. 

“We should stop,” he started. “Because I don’t have a condom.”

“I haven’t been with anyone in two years,” you confessed, adding, “I’m on birth control, too.”

“Are y’sure?”

You hooked a leg around his waist, tugging him closer until he was falling forward and caging you between his arms. You craned your head to capture his lips in a hungry kiss, holding him firm against you.

“I want this, Joel. I’m sure.”

That was all Joel needed to hear before he lost all semblance of control. His restraint was replaced with this frantic urgency as his fingers worked at the button and zipper of your jeans, yanking them down your thighs and leaving you exposed to the cool air circling your room. His pants were shed less than a minute later, and now you were both only separated by thin pieces of fabric that covered your lower halves. The press of Joel’s hardened cock against your thigh ignited a fire within your stomach, and your underwear dampened through at the thought of what he could do with it. Having sex with Bennett always felt like an obligation—a chore. But with Joel, you craved it beyond understanding. You needed to put emotions into action and feel how he thought about you. Every ounce of your resolve and control were far gone now, left somewhere between the front door and the bed beneath you. The second Joel had kissed you, you knew you’d never say ‘no’ to him again. He was a weakness you couldn’t control, and you were so tired of trying to keep him at a distance.

Joel’s hands worked at your underwear, and you let out a giggle when he tossed them carelessly across the room along with his own. Your heart pounded in your chest as he lifted your leg by the back of your knee, propping it over his broad shoulder. He angled the head of his cock against your slick entrance, coating it in your wetness before pushing in slowly. Your head fell back against the bed as he broke you open inch by inch. The agonizing stretch to adjust to him faded away, and you both moaned in unison as he bottomed out, filling you completely. 

“S’fuckin’ tight, baby,” Joel cursed. “Feels fuckin’ amazing.”

He started moving, his hips rocking against you at a tender pace as you squirmed under his body. Each thrust amplified the coiling warmth, creating an unbearable furnace inside you. You needed more; you needed to feel everything and forget every lingering emotion crawling through your mind.

“Harder,” you begged.

“Yeah?” Joel panted, driving into you with such force your body shoved up the bed. “Like that, baby?”

Your only response was a vigorous nod of your head and an outward cry as he plunged deeper with each snap of his hips. Sounds of your bodies slapping together, your endless cries of pleasure, and his ragged breath became a cacophony floating through the air around you. 

A car drove past your house, the headlights streaming through the blinds, drenching Joel’s silhouette for a fleeting moment. At that moment, you could see the flex of his arms, the pinch of his brows, and the slight tug of his lips upwards as he continued wrecking into you. Rewashed in darkness, you ached to see how his pupils blew wide as he gazed down on you. 

“God, you’re so fuckin’ perfect,” Joel muttered, squeezing your hips to anchor you against his body. Perfect. There was that word again, sounding so simple when he said it like it wasn’t a lie. Like he meant it. And every action he showed you proved he not only meant it but believed it. 

You chased the warmth that unfurled through your muscles, the pleasure building higher and higher until you could barely contain it. Joel must have felt it, too, because as your eyes scrunched tight, Joel’s fingers found the sensitive bud at the apex of your sex and drew long, tantalizing circles. That touch was all you needed to come undone completely; your body was paralyzed as the orgasm wracked through you with such intensity you lost all breath inside your lungs. 

“Good fuckin’ girl,” Joel hummed. “Let go, baby. Gimmie more.”

Bennett had never spoken to you this way, nor did he praise you when you came—which was rare with him. He barely did anything but grunt once in a while, but this? Hearing Joel talk you through every thrust, every ripple of your orgasm, only spurred you on more. You clung onto every word he spoke, like a moth to the flame, and his mouth was a forest fire. 

Joel bent forward, wrapping a strong arm around your back and hauling you over until you were perched on top of him. From this angle, his cock felt so much bigger, stretching you wider until your thighs ached. He sprawled back against the comforter; his hands splayed against your hips to guide you in fluid motions above him.

“Joel…” you exhaled, grinding your hips down against him. 

“Talk to me, baby. Tell me what you need,” he urged.

You lifted your hips, sinking back down onto him, finding the perfect rhythm that rendered you speechless. You couldn’t form words or think of anything else but his name.

“C’mon, baby. I know y’can use your words. I wanna hear you.”

“It’s just—.” You heaved in a breath as he rocked up into you. “You feel so fucking good, Joel. Your cock…”

“Keep talkin’,” he moaned.

Shuffling his knees up, Joel started pistoning into you hard, making it impossible to form coherent sentences. How were you to speak when his cock was driving into you so hard your vision was blurring? Joel gritted out your name, coaxing you from your chaotic thoughts. 

“Never.” You gasped. “Been fucked this good.” Another gasp. “Need this all the time. Need—you. Fuck… Joel…”

“I got you, baby. Ain’t gonna let you go.”

You whispered his name like a cantation, each syllable a broken prayer leaving your lips. Another orgasm throbbed inside your core, and you snaked your hand to rub circles against your swollen clit, trying to alleviate that growing ache throbbing in your veins. Joel’s pace was unrelenting as you toppled closer to the edge, a cry escaping your mouth as you felt your body seize up. The clench of your sex around his cock was enough to force him to the edge, too, and as you hit your climax, his release exploded inside you, with your name falling off his tongue.

Joel lifted himself, molding your bodies together in his firm grip, your lips crushing together as he swallowed the tiny sounds still finding their way up your throat. Your hands clasped around the sides of his neck, keeping his mouth locked with yours until you felt his cock soften inside you. With a roll of his hips, Joel had you pinned to the mattress once more, his cock slipping free as he worked his mouth down your body. You tensed as his mouth grew closer to your navel, embarrassment forcing your spine to stiffen.

“Joel,” you cautioned. “You—you don’t have to do that.”

His nose brushed over your stomach, his hands working in tandem to pry your legs apart. With a dip of his head, he placed a gentle kiss on each thigh, humming in satisfaction.

“Y’want me to stop, baby?” He asked, his warm mouth hovering over your sensitive clit.

“I just—.” You were flustered. “I’ve never had someone…”

His fingers flexed and tightened around the supple skin of your hips, and you could see his dark eyes peering up at you with confusion as his brows knit together. 

“Don’t you dare tell me you ain’t ever had a man eat your pussy,” he warned. 

You bit your lip and gave him a single nod of your head. Bennett never went down on you, always making some sort of excuse. “You wouldn’t like it.” “I’m too tired, honey.” “Maybe next time.” He never offered, and eventually, you gave up asking. You could hardly count any guy before him since most had been careless hookups and one-night stands—most of them leaving you to chase your orgasm after they left. You couldn’t even count on two hands the times Bennett actually made you cum, and now Joel was setting himself up to do it again…for the third time.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered, covering your face to hide the shame that burned under your cheeks.

“Baby, don’t do that,” Joel pleaded. “S’nothin’ to be sorry for, okay?”

“But you just…” You could feel his cum leaking out of you, still. Was he seriously considering this right now?

“I don’t care. I wanna taste us together, baby. Let me show you how good it can feel.”

You inhaled sharply, only responding with another tilt of your head. Joel’s mouth hovered over your slick entrance, his eyes still trained on you.

“Gimmie words, baby,” he said. “I need to hear you say ‘yes’.”

“Yes, Joel,” you whispered.

“Y’want my tongue?”

When you didn’t respond, he teased you with a sharp flick of his tongue against your clit, forcing a cry to erupt from your mouth. Joel groaned at your responsiveness to his touch, awarding you with a thick swipe of his tongue over your slick entrance. He worked at you like he was a dying man, and you were the last drop of water in an empty desert, lapping at every drop of cum dripping down your sex. You glanced at him, meeting his piercing stare between your legs. Rough fingers massaged your sore thighs while his tongue dove into you with such desperation you couldn’t tell if he was pleasuring you or if you were pleasuring him. Euphoria sparked in your veins, overwhelming you to the point of tears. Snaking a hand under your thigh, Joel worked two thick fingers inside you, prying you open and coaxing a sob from your throat. 

“Right there, oh my god. Joel, don’t stop,” you choked, gasping for air. 

His fingers and tongue worked at you in tandem, the orgasm surging inside you becoming all-consuming. It thrashed inside your veins and tore through you forcefully and without warning. You slumped against the comforter as your soul floated above your body. Was delirium a real thing? Because if it was, this was the precipice of madness. Joel swept a soft kiss over your aching clit before crawling on top of you again. Tangling his hand in the hair at the base of your neck, he brought his wet lips to yours until your lips parted, allowing his tongue to slip inside. 

“Taste yourself, baby,” Joel moaned into your open mouth. “Don’t we taste so fuckin’ good?”

“Mhmm,” you whimpered.

Joel kissed you fervently; each stroke of his tongue against yours was purposeful and searing, a blistering admission of devotion and admiration. You still felt undeserving of it all: his patience, tenderness, and kindness… but maybe this was a start. Maybe he was worth letting it. 

As the kisses slowed and your bodies begged to be unstuck from one another, you found a stream of tears rolling down your cheeks. Fuck. The euphoria you had been sucked into was fading into the distance, and you were overly aware of the emotions crashing at the surface. Your voice was hoarse as you mumbled his name, breaking away from his embrace. 

“I’m sorry,” you sniffled, turning your head into the pillows. 

Joel hushed your cries, dragging his thumb over your cheek to collect your tears. 

“What’s wrong, baby?” He asked. “Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

“No, no,” you said, voice muffled. “I’m okay. Everything was great.”

“Then why’re you cryin’?”

You turned your head back to face him, catching the furrow of his brows through bleary eyes. 

“It’s stupid,” you muttered.

“Talk to me, please.”

You curled into his arms, burrowing your head into the crook of his neck. The smell of sex and sweat wafted off of him, mixing with the lingering warm cologne wafting off his skin. You never wanted to leave this moment. You never wanted to be untangled from his limbs. It was a terrifying realization; this was something you wanted. 

“You’re just—not what I expected.” It came out as a mixture of a laugh and cry, leaving you gasping for breath. “I haven’t been the easiest person to get to know, and I haven’t been the kindest, but you… you haven’t left. I don’t understand why you haven’t left.”

“Hey, hey… oh, baby,” Joel crooned. “Look at me.”

Joel’s fingers slid under your chin, fighting against your reluctance as you met his shadowed gaze. In the sunlight, you could see the unmistakable flecks of amber and gold swirling in his eyes, but in the darkness, they were nearly black—but just as soft and ardent. 

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, okay? There ain’t a single thing that’s gonna change my mind about you. I know you’re worried about all this stuff happenin’ between us, but we can take things as slow as you want, baby. You call the shots from now on, and whatever you wanna do, I’ll be here,” he said. 

“I’m not worth—.”

“Don’t,” he interrupted. “You are worth it. I’ll spend every day provin’ it if that’s what it takes.”

You didn’t know what to say when all you could cling to were the lingering memories of Bennett and the words he had once said. Yes, you loved him at one point, but there were so many reasons to hate him. The constant fights, the constant feeling of never being enough, the constant silence. The silence. Bennett’s silence was a weapon he used to pacify you. You learned over time that speaking up and communicating your feelings was unimportant to Bennett; if anything, it was an opportunity to minimize your voice and keep you docile. You became the smallest version of yourself in his shadow, clawing for scraps of his attention to try and keep the relationship afloat. You tried so hard to keep him happy until it came at the cost of losing yourself entirely. You didn’t recognize yourself anymore. 

“What can I do right now?” Joel asked, his voice swimming upstream against the thoughts that drowned you. “D’you wanna take a shower and sleep? Sarah’s at a sleepover tonight, so I ain’t got nowhere to be but here with you.”

You exhaled a heavy sigh, nodding your head at his offer. Joel unwound his limbs from yours, pulling you to your aching legs and letting you take the lead toward your ensuite. With a shaky hand, you flicked on the lights, your eyes squinting to adjust to the harshness of color that washed over the room. A quick look in the mirror told you everything you needed to know; you were thoroughly fucked and completely strung out. Your hair was a tangled mess hanging over your shoulders, your lips fuller and swollen from kissing, yet your eyes were hollow and glossy. Joel’s tall frame came into view behind you, his tanned arms snaking around your middle and tugging you back against his chest. Through the mirrored reflection, he held your gaze with an unwavering kindness that tore through every self-deprecating voice in your head. With his hand splayed over the expanse of your stomach, Joel dipped his head lower, his mouth hot against your ear. 

“Look how beautiful y’are, baby,” he praised. 

“Joel,” you whimpered, clenching your thighs together to quell the slow ache pulsating inside you again. 

You wanted so badly to see what he saw, but all you saw was the lingering handprints of the past plastered over your skin. The places Bennett had touched and kissed before, the echoed arguments that deafened your ears, every inch of you was left tainted. They say it takes the body seven years to replace its cells—seven years to be a new person from the inside out. You were hardly on the cusp of three years since Bennett last touched you, but you desperately wanted to be shed of every fiber that still clung to his memory. You couldn’t speed up the process; it was out of your control, but Joel touched you like he sought to do it himself. Inch by inch, your body would forget Bennett’s touch. It was your heart that needed to follow the same path. 

Joel’s deep voice whispering your name roused you from your thoughts, and your eyes snapped up to meet his through the mirrored reflection. Everything fell away, and you lost yourself again in the simplicity of being in the moment with him. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he urged, his hand coming down to palm your ass before delivering a light slap. 

You let out a startled laugh, forcing your legs to move and start up a warm shower. The second you both stepped under the blazing warmth of the spray, Joel had you pinned to the wall. You yelped at the startling cold of the tiles that pressed into your spine, but Joel’s hungry mouth swallowed every noise you made. Droplets of water fell off his damp curls, settling on your open mouth as he intertwined his tongue with yours. 

“C’mere,” he whispered, tugging you back under the pelting rain of the showerhead. 

You leaned your head back under the water, letting the water rush over your skin and drench your hair. Joel’s fingers twisted their way up the wet tendrils, gingerly massaging your scalp until a satisfied moan escaped your lips. He worked at lathering shampoo into your hair, scraping his nails across your scalp with each drag of his fingers. 

“This feels nice,” you muttered, your voice lost in the downpour of water above you. 

The resounding hum from Joel’s chest was all you heard as he washed your hair, his hands never leaving your body, even after the suds began to float down the drain. You lifted yourself on your toes to bring your mouth to his, not trusting yourself with words. For once in your life, you were speechless.

Time slipped away, and it wasn’t until you noticed your fingertips had pruned and the water ran cold that Joel finally tugged you out of the shower. You searched for two towels in your cabinets, watching as his hands worked the fabric over the low taper of his hips. Water droplets clung to the dark hair covering his chest, the muscles of his torso rising and falling with each breath. Your eyes wandered up to his face and settled on the natural upturn of his lips. You tried to fight the smile forming on your lips, but denying the emotions spreading through your body was practically impossible. 

You were happy. 

“I don’t like when you’re this quiet,” Joel chuckled softly. “I’m so used to you talkin’ or arguin’ with me.”

You blinked up at him, watching the crease form between his brows. It was the first time someone had an issue with you being quiet. 

“I’m sorry,” you said. It was your default response to everything. You were sorry for talking too much; you were sorry for not talking enough… you were just sorry. 

Joel’s hands came up to cup your face, leaving you with no choice but to look into his tired eyes. 

“I hate that you always say that,” he confessed. “I’m gonna make sure y’learn not to always say 'sorry'.”

“You’re gonna teach the teacher?” You lifted a brow. 

He chuckled and lifted his lips to press a gentle kiss against your forehead. 

“There she is,” he muttered against your skin. “Now, c’mon. You tired me out, and I can’t sleep without hearin’ your voice.”

“Oh, really?” You teased, peering up at him.

“Yeah, really,” he smiled. “So, let’s get our asses in bed, and y’can talk my ear off ‘til we fall asleep.”

And that’s exactly what you did. Hidden under the sanctuary of your comforter and pulled tight against Joel’s chest, you talked until the hours grew late. You told him about your childhood and how you failed math in sixth grade. You told him about your rebellious teen years, divulging the horrendous stories of how you and Beth would sneak out to parties together. He asked about college, and you told him what you could without including Bennett in the story. Occasionally, he would chime in to ask another question, and the conversation would keep rolling, suspending you both in time as you remained wrapped up in one another's embrace. Every doubt had faded, but as your eyes drifted shut, you hoped your guard would start fading, too. 

Morning sunlight streamed through the blinds that fluttered against your bedroom window, drenching the room in the warm colors of sunrise. You burrowed deeper into Joel’s body, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat matching yours as he kept your back flush to his chest. His fingers flexed against your hips, tugging you closer—if that was even possible. 

“Mornin’, baby,” Joel said, his voice gravelly from sleep. 

“Good morning, Mr. Miller,” you yawned, shimming your body back against his, awarded with the hard press of his cock at the seam of your ass. 

“Oh, don’t start with that shit again,” he groaned, rolling you onto your back.

A laugh bubbled out of you as he framed you between two large arms. Craning your neck, you met his tired eyes and saw the laugh lines creasing the corners. This was how Joel looked in the morning, happy. With his curls untamed and that lopsided grin, he looked happy…with you. 

“I’m only teasing,” you laughed as his mouth worked its way down your neck.

“Fuckin’ better be,” he muttered in between each kiss. “I just got you sayin’ my name, so y’ better not take it back.”

“Oh, does me calling you Mr. Miller not turn you on?” You quipped.

“Trust me, baby, everything you do turns me on,” Joel growled.

“I don’t believe you.”

Joel’s mouth traveled down your chest, sucking marks into the skin of your breasts. You careened into his touch, moaning as his teeth grazed over a peaked nipple.

“When I saw you for that first time,” he started, his mouth still hot against your skin. “That fuckin’ dress you wore at the dance…I knew I was a goner. Looked so fuckin’ beautiful.”

“Yeah?” Your voice was ragged as he continued moving lower. 

“I still think about how you teased me at the bar,” he said. “It drove me crazy, I swear.”

He had your legs spread open now, his nose pressed into your inner thigh. Arousal pooled between your legs, and you stole a glance at Joel’s eyes, connecting your slick entrance. Even though he fucked you sore last night, your body was addicted, so devastatingly responsive to every word he said. 

“And when you yelled at me? Fuck, somethin’ about seeing you all riled up. You don’t know how many times I’ve thought ‘bout you with my hand around my cock. I can’t get enough of you, baby,” Joel whispered. 

“You’ve thought about me like that?” You exhaled. 

“Ain’t nothin’ professional ‘bout the way I think about you.”

“Keep talking, Joel,” you begged. You were drunk on his words, completely and utterly wasted on every admission he made.

“Thought ‘bout you spread out like this for me.” He flattened his tongue against your entrance, lapping at the juices leaking out of you. “Dreamt ‘bout how sweet you’d taste and how you’d look when you cum.” His eyes snapped up to meet yours, holding your focus as he repeated the motion with his tongue. “Y’taste better than I ever expected.”

“Fuck,” you groaned, your eyes rolling back.

Joel’s lips suctioned around your clit, his tongue flicking at the sensitive bud in a steady rhythm. You bucked against his mouth, chasing the orgasm that snaked its way through your stomach. He released you with a loud pop, his tongue tracing over your folds and dragging out the pleasure that swelled inside your core. He was teasing you, controlling your pleasure until it became tortuous. You cried out in frustration, bucking against his mouth, trying to find release. 

“Be patient for me, baby,” Joel whispered, ghosting his tongue over your clit again.

“Please, Joel,” you begged. Your fingers twisted into the bedsheets, your nails digging into the fabric to keep you grounded. 

Joel’s tongue teased your entrance, barely dipping into you—enough to make you curse under your breath. The longer he teased you, the stronger the need for release became. All you wanted was to fall apart, to feel the orgasm vibrate your nerves and relieve your heart from its erratic beating. You could hardly contain it any longer.

“I—I need…” You were blubbering nonsense, your thighs shaking around his head. 

“I know what ya’ need, baby. Just a lil’ bit more.”

Then he was assaulting you with his tongue, drawing circles over your throbbing clit until every muscle in your body tensed and trembled. Your vision blurred as everything rushed to the surface, your thighs squeezing around Joel’s head as the pleasure liquified inside you. You screamed out his name as your orgasm crescendoed and crashed hard. You clawed at the bed, your body seizing up with the final aftershocks rocking through you.

“I could do this for hours,” Joel hummed, nudging your throbbing clit with the tip of his nose.

You squirmed under him, trying to shove yourself up the bed and away from him. You were overstimulated and exhausted, your body still recovering from last night… and this. 

“What? Torture me?” You grumbled. 

Joel chuckled, smirking at you. He rolled onto his back, keeping his arm wrapped around your thigh. His finger massaged circles into the sore muscles, another groan leaving your lips. 

“Make you cum, baby,” Joel said. “Anythin’ you want, I’d do it.”

“How about you make me a coffee, Mr. Miller,” you sighed. “You’ve exhausted me.”

“And how do you like your coffee, Miss Smith?” He tossed back.

“Guess.”

Joel tilted his head back to look at you, his brown eyes glowing in the morning sun. He pursed his lips, studying you as he thought up an answer. 

“I’m guessin’ you like it strong,” he mused. “Maybe a lil’ dash of cream, but definitely no sugar.”

You let out an exaggerated gasp that turned into a fit of laughter. Joel raised an eyebrow at your response, rolling onto his stomach to watch you as you continued laughing. How did he read you so well? Even if it was just something as simple as coffee. 

“What’s so funny, huh?”

“It’s just crazy how well you know me, that’s all,” you giggled. 

“Wait, I guessed right?” He gaped. 

“Mhmm, right on the nose.”

“Well, c’mon, baby. Let’s get you that strong cup of coffee.” 

Joel tapped your leg before offering a hand to lift you from the bed. You scoured the floor for your underwear, finding them hidden under your nightstand alongside Joel’s boxers. With half your bodies clothed, you led Joel to the kitchen, the natural light reflecting off the marble countertops. It felt strange having someone in the house; you hadn’t brought anyone over since before Bennett left. You had grown so accustomed to your daily routine that including Joel in it felt unnatural…but also so normal. 

“Make yourself comfy,” Joel urged, motioning to the barstools at the end of the counter. 

You shimmed yourself onto the seat and watched him navigate around your kitchen. Your small pour-over sat in the corner beside the stove, which Joel quickly figured out. 

“Mugs?” He asked, glancing over his shoulder.

“Top right cabinet,” you said, pointing toward it.

Joel’s back muscles flexed as he reached to grab two mismatched mugs, and you leaned forward to watch him so relaxed in your home. His presence filled all the empty spaces you had hidden within the last two years. 

“I made coffee,” Bennett called from the kitchen.

You dragged yourself out of bed, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders as you shuffled down the hallway. The house smelt of coffee and pancakes, and the morning was off to a good start. After a late night of arguing, you hoped a shared breakfast together would at least minimize the hostility between the both of you. 

Bennett slid a mug across the counter, your hands wrapping around the hot ceramic and inhaling the steam that floated above the liquid. You muttered a soft ‘thank you’ before taking a sip, instantly scrunching your nose in disgust. 

“Did you put sugar in this?” You asked, setting the mug down.

Bennett shrugged, sipping from his mug, unphased by your complaint. His hair was messy from sleep, the blonde strands sticking up at odd angles. He had slept on the couch for the night, which clearly didn’t do him well. 

“You always have sugar in your coffee,” he glared at you. 

“Bennett, when have you ever seen me put sugar in my coffee?” 

“I don’t know,” he huffed. “Figured you liked it. Don’t all girls like sugar in their coffee?”

You scoffed at his words, shoving away from the counter and slipping off the barstool. Gripping the blanket tighter around your shoulders, you sulked into the living room, dropping yourself on the couch cushions.

“Here we go again,” Bennett grumbled, loud enough for you to hear.

Whipping your head back toward the kitchen, you jabbed a finger at him, a scowl twisting your lips upwards. 

“Don’t you dare,” you warned. 

“For fucks sake, it’s just coffee!” He yelled. 

“It’s not just coffee,” you argued. “It’s you not knowing anything about me. It’s you not paying attention to me!”

Bennett slammed his mug onto the counter, rattling the ceramic. You jolted at the sound, shrinking further into the couch. 

“I’m so sick and tired of hearing you bitch all the fucking time,” he snapped. “You always have something to complain about. Who cares if there’s sugar in it? I was trying to do something nice, but now you’re turning it into an argument. Like you always do. I can never do anything right, huh? It’s always my fault.”

His words were like a slap in the face, a knife to the open wound still bleeding from last night. You and Bennett had gone to dinner together, and he spent half the night complaining about work, never once letting you speak. When you tried explaining that you wanted to enjoy a nice dinner without discussing work, he unleashed a speech about how you were never happy with anything. The argument followed you home until you were both in a screaming match and eventually retiring separately for sleep—you in an empty bed and him on the couch. All you had wanted was a nice date night together, and it ended as it always did: you alone. 

“I just wish you’d pay attention to me,” you muttered. 

“Because everything is always about you, right? You’ve got to make everything about you. You can’t just say ‘thank you’ and move on.”

You sucked in a breath, trying to keep your anger at bay. Arguing with him was a losing battle; he would never admit his faults, even if it were something as simple as this. You were too exhausted to fight, so you only nodded and rewarded him with a tightlipped smile. 

“Thank you for making coffee. I’m sorry for getting upset.”

Bennett rolled his eyes, dumping his coffee in the sink. 

“Whatever. I gotta get ready for work.”

Then he was disappearing down the hall, slamming the door shut hard enough to knock a picture frame off the walls. You jumped at the sound and let the tears quietly fall as you sat in heavy silence. 

“You alright?” Joel’s voice echoed around you. 

You blinked rapidly, shoving down the memories and returning to the present. Joel had a hand extended to you, the mug piping hot and billowing with steam. You took it carefully, blowing on it before you took a cautious sip. Perfect. It was perfect, and it twisted something unpleasant inside you. 

“I’m fine,” you lied, setting the mug down. You mindlessly traced circles around the brim, watching the bubbles around the edges pop against the heat. 

“Am I that bad at makin’ coffee?” He frowned, leaning against your fridge. 

“No, it’s perfect. Thank you.”

“You’re thinkin’ about somethin’, huh?”

“Stop doing that,” you whispered, adverting your gaze toward the sliding doors leading to your backyard. 

“Doin’ what?”

“Seeing right through me.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Joel moving through the kitchen, rounding the counter to stand in front of you. With a gentle hand under your chin, he drew your attention his way, a deep furrow between his brows. 

“You wear your emotions on your face,” he said. “I can tell when you’re upset ‘bout something.”

“We don’t need to talk about it,” you sighed. 

You didn’t like seeing Joel’s lips downturned; you missed the grin typically plastered on his face. You felt guilty for being the reason he looked so upset, and your knee-jerk apology was on the tip of your tongue. Joel bent down to kiss your forehead, his lips lingering an extra moment before he pulled away. 

“What if I wanna talk about it?” He asked.

“I don’t think you do,” you laughed bitterly. 

Joel crowded you, stepping into the space between your legs. You were at eye level with his chest, counting the constellations of freckles hidden under the hair covering his torso. You’d rather marvel over his broad frame than discuss the painful memories of your past. You didn’t want to ruin this moment together. 

“It’s okay,” you insisted. 

“Don’t shy away from me, baby. Y’can talk to me ‘bout anything.”

You hesitated a moment. Joel had you spread open on your bed only minutes ago, and now the topic of your past was about to be the morning discussion. You didn’t want to talk about Bennett after an amazing night together, but if you knew anything about Joel, he wasn’t letting you off the hook that easily. He always wanted to know more.

“You’re just different from what I’m used to,” you started. “Bennett, my ex, wasn’t like you. He didn’t pay attention to me the way you do.”

Something flashed over Joel’s eyes, a sudden flicker of anger as you spoke about Bennett. He gave you a moment to collect yourself before you continued. 

“We were together for five years, and he didn’t even know how I liked my coffee,” you scoffed. “And you guessed it in two seconds. Two seconds, Joel. I don’t understand how you do that.”

“Do what, baby?”

“Pay attention. You notice all these stupid, little things about me and make it seem so easy.”

Joel cupped your face in his large hands, his thumbs rubbing over your cheekbones. You leaned into him, letting his touch ground you while your eyes fluttered shut. 

“I pay attention ‘cause I wanna know everything about you. Every single lil’ thing. That’s what it’s supposed to be like in a relationship, baby. Y’learn everything about the other person, and you remember it. From what you’ve hinted ‘bout before, I take it this Bennett guy was a real piece of shit.”

“Yeah, that’s what everyone has told me.”

“Am I wrong, though?” Joel pressed.

“No,” you confessed. “He did treat me like shit. I wasn’t allowed to speak up for myself, or he got mad. He liked it when I was submissive and quiet, so that’s what I became.”

Joel’s fingers flexed against your face, his jaw clenching at every new admission. You had never admitted those things aloud, that Bennett forced you into this tiny box, making you become the perfect, obedient girlfriend. With an engagement ring on your finger, you were even more inclined to be whatever he wanted, just to know he wanted to marry you. Looking back, maybe the ring was less of a testament to his love and more of a muzzle on your outspokenness. Someone wanted to marry you, so that should make you quiet, right? 

“I don’t want you quiet,” Joel whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. “I want you to be yourself in every way.”

“I don’t know who I am anymore, Joel. I haven’t been that girl in years.” 

Tears were spilling over your cheeks, soaking Joel’s fingers that still gripped your face. Why did you cry so much around him? You hated how emotional you were; you hated feeling weak and small. You couldn’t get through one fucking interaction with Joel without ending up a mess. Did Bennett ruin you entirely? 

“I’m sorry,” you cried quietly. “You probably need to leave soon, huh? You said Sarah’s at a sleepover, so I’m sure you gotta go get her and—.”

Joel tugged you forward, fusing his lips with yours. The taste of coffee and sleep lingered on his tongue as he coaxed your mouth open, and you welcomed him without hesitation. He kissed you slowly, with deliberate determination. You responded the same, letting yourself grow limp in his arms.

Breaking away, Joel leveled you with a stern stare that didn’t quite reach his lips since they twitched into a smile.

“I’m gonna kiss you every time you apologize just to shut ya’ up,” he said.

“That doesn’t sound like a threat, Joel,” you smirked. “I’ll just apologize more.”

“Then I’ll figure out some other punishment.”

Your thighs clenched at his words, and your mind wandered to all the possibilities of what he could do. You hadn’t lied to him when you said you didn’t always like things ‘vanilla,’ but you hadn’t really dipped your toes into that area yet. You’d willingly explore it with him because if last night proved anything, it was that you trusted him more than anyone. He could do anything to you, and you knew you’d be safe.

“Got a dirty lil’ mind, huh?” Joel’s voice dropped lower.

“Oh, shut up.” You playfully shoved at his chest, shimming yourself off the barstool. 

Joel wrapped a hand around your wrist, pulling you back into his arms. 

“I’m serious, though, baby. It fuckin’ kills me to see you cry. I’m gonna fix that.”

“You don’t have to, Joel. I’ll be okay. I’ll work on it.”

“We are gonna work on it,” he corrected.

You swallowed thickly and nodded. You were in uncharted territory with him, afraid of the future but willing to see where it would go. You had fought against it for almost two months now, and you were tired of fighting. You’d take things slow and test the waters with him… and hope you wouldn’t come out the other side with a shattered heart.

After cleaning up the flower petals left in the entryway and redressing, you finally urged Joel to go home. It was mid-afternoon, and you knew Sarah would want time with her dad. You couldn’t selfishly keep him to yourself, but he made it very known how badly he wanted to stay. With his flannel in his hand and his hair slightly tamed, Joel lingered by the door, reluctant to leave. You had shrugged on a robe while he had dressed, already dreaming about the long bath you’d take when he left. Your muscles were screaming for release after last night and this morning.

“Y’sure I can’t stay a bit longer?” Joel pouted, his lips pushed out as he glanced at you.

You laughed at his demeanor, enjoying the playfulness he always exuded. You wanted to learn how to be like that, to shed the walls built up around you.

“Sarah’s going to want to spend the day with you,” you said. “We can plan another date soon.”

“Or…” Joel wagged his brows. “I could come back tonight.”

“Oh my god,” you laughed, rolling your eyes. “Go home, Mr. Miller, before I kick you out.”

Joel tugged the belt wrapped around your waist, hauling you closer until you were bumping into his chest. Dipping his head, he pressed a soft kiss against your lips. You could feel the smile forming on his lips as you nipped at his bottom lip.

“Have a good day, baby,” he grinned. “I’ll call ya’ tonight.”

“I’ll be waiting,” you exhaled.

You watched Joel until he got to his truck, his grin shining bright under the afternoon's clear skies. You waved at him as he drove off and closed your door with a heavy sigh. You needed to find your phone and make a very important phone call.

“You had sex with him, huh?” Beth asked, the phone barely reaching the second ring before she picked up.

You flopped onto the couch, your head hitting the cushions with a soft thud. 

“I did,” you groaned.

“And?” She pressed.

“It was fucking amazing, Beth. I’m so screwed.”

“Why? Isn’t this a good thing? You finally hooked up!”

You grabbed a pillow to slap over your face, muffling a frustrated scream so that Beth wouldn’t hear.

“I’m scared, Beth.”

“Scared of falling in love?” Beth asked.

“Scared of getting hurt,” you sighed. 

Beth was quiet for a moment, exhaling before gathering her thoughts and speaking her mind. 

“You can’t let your past get in the way of this, sis,” she started. “Joel sounds like an amazing man, and he’s night and day different from Bennett. I get you’re scared of getting hurt, but I seriously doubt he would do anything to hurt you. Let him in, sis. Let him love you the way you deserve.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to reel in the tears… again. Beth was right, like always, but it didn’t make these feelings easier to battle. There was so much to lose.

“It’s obvious he likes me already, but I’m such a fucking mess. I—I feel so broken, still. What if he gets tired of me? What if he never feels anything more than this?”

“I think he’s already falling in love with you, sis.”

[nowthisisliving27]

Omg, it’s so fluffy 😩❤️

Whispered in Russian

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Natasha teaches you how to speak some Russian during your time together on a mission.

A/n: this was inspired from a request. Not sure if it was what you expected but I hope you'll still enjoy it.

Warnings: fluff, suggestive themes, cursing, Russian translations from google (because I unfortunately do not know the language)

Words: 3250

“Bron' dlya Nataliyi Romanovoy.”

Natasha’s Russian accent flows effortlessly, her voice smooth and confident as she speaks to the front desk receptionist. Her tone carries the ease of someone completely at home in the language. 

It’s a voice you’ve grown intimately familiar with—not just as her teammate for years but also as her partner.

Which also makes it easier to pick up and piece together some of the words, though you’re still far from being fluent. 

Reservation for Natalia Romanova, you translate silently.

The receptionist offers a polite smile, tapping away at her computer until she finds the reservation. With a nod, she retrieves a key card and slides it across the counter to Natasha.

“Dobro pozhalovat, gospazha Romanova. Vot vashi klyuchi ot nomera.”

You listen intently, trying to match the sounds to meaning, but the words come faster than you can process. Your grasp falters after the first few phrases. 

Welcome…Romanova…key

You almost have it, but the rest slips through your mental filter, lost in the quick flow of syllables. Before you can catch up, the receptionist continues in a kind but rapid tone.

“Esli vam ili vashey zhene potrebuyetsya pomoshch, pozvonite na resepshn, i my s radostyu vam pomozhem.”

At that, Natasha’s lips quirk up in a small, amused smirk. The expression is subtle but unmistakable, and it draws your curiosity. 

You glance at her, silently asking what amused her, but she offers no explanation, only thanking the receptionist with a graceful nod as she takes the key card. 

“Spasibo,” Natasha says, her voice as composed as ever.

Thank you. 

That part you recognize immediately, the basic phrase standing out like a familiar face in a crowd.

Natasha’s hand finds your waist as she guides you away from the desk, her touch grounding and affectionate. 

Still, your mind lingers curiously on the exchange. 

Once inside the room, you dive into setting up your equipment for the mission, carefully pulling out the listening gear from your bag. 

Meanwhile, Natasha checks the room methodically, her eyes scanning for anything amiss. She ends her sweep at the window, drawing back the shutters slightly to observe the building across the street—the one where the targets work at.

“What did the receptionist say to you at the end?” you ask, your curiosity finally spilling over as you adjust the calibration on the gear. 

Natasha glances over her shoulder at you, a glint of amusement in her eyes. She takes her time responding, watching as you work with meticulous focus.

“She said if we needed anything, we could call the front desk,” Natasha replies casually, her tone almost too neutral.

You pause, narrowing your eyes as you turn to face her. 

“That’s it?” you ask, skepticism lacing your voice. “Then why did you react like that?”

The smirk you’d noticed earlier reappears, tugging at the corners of her lips. Natasha steps closer to you, wrapping her arms around your waist and leaning in.

“Zhena,” she repeats slowly, enunciating the word with deliberate care. Her breath is warm against your skin as she presses a quick, affectionate kiss to your cheek. “It means ‘wife.’ She called you my wife.”

“Oh,” you reply, your heart fluttering at the thought. 

You fall silent for a moment, processing, before quietly repeating the word under your breath. 

“Zhena,” you murmur, practicing the pronunciation like a secret you want to keep safe. You say it again, slightly louder, trying to mimic Natasha’s intonation.

Natasha’s expression softens as she watches your reaction, her smirk giving way to a small, genuine smile.

Once satisfied with your attempt, you nod firmly, confidence growing. 

Your gaze shifts to the small table in the corner of the room, and something catches your eye. You gesture toward it, brow raised.

“Well,” you say, “that explains the bottle of champagne.”

Natasha follows your gaze, her chuckle warm and rich as she spots the chilled, unopened bottle perched beside two crystal glasses. 

“Hill said this was the only room available,” she replies, her fingers tracing soft patterns at your sides. Her voice drops slightly, the edge of a smirk returning to her lips. “Guess that means we’re playing newlyweds.”

You wrap your arms around her shoulders, leaning against her as you ponder the situation. 

“Alright,” you nod thoughtfully, “and it won’t look suspicious if we don’t leave our room much since, technically, we’re on our honeymoon.” 

Natasha’s smirk deepens, her eyes glinting with mischief. She tilts her head closer, her lips brushing lightly against yours. 

“Oh, that sounds fun,” she murmurs, her tone dropping into a suggestive lilt.

You roll your eyes, though the small smile tugging at your lips betrays your amusement. 

“I meant it’s a good cover for our mission,” you say pointedly, pulling back just enough to regain your composure. You gesture toward the gear on the table before raising a brow at her. “Or did you already forget the reason why we’re here in the first place?”

Natasha doesn’t answer immediately. 

Instead, her smirk shifts into something a little more daring as she tightens her hold on your waist before pulling you flush against her. Her lips ghost over yours again as she leans in, just close enough for her voice to drop to a whisper.

“I’m multitasking,” she teases, the husky tone sending a shiver down your spine before she closes the small distance between you two.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Some time later, after you two manage to refocus on the mission, you settle in to monitor the listening equipment. 

The two of you wait patiently, earpieces in place, scanning for the key information you need.

But after a few hours of static-filled recordings, indistinct conversations, and absolutely nothing useful, Natasha notices your shoulders beginning to tense with exhaustion. 

She rests a hand on your arm. 

“Take a break,” she offers softly. “I’ll keep watch for now.”

You hesitate, but the encouraging smile on her lips convinces you. 

“Alright,” you relent, stretching out your stiff shoulders before heading to the bathroom for a quick shower.

Once inside, the hot water works wonders, the steam easing the tension in your muscles. 

You feel the stress of the mission starts to melt away, but as you finish, you realize you’ve made a small mistake. 

You forgot to grab your change of clothes for the night. 

With a sigh, you wrap the towel around yourself, water still clinging to your skin, and step out of the bathroom.

The cool air sends a shiver through you as you pad quietly toward your bag.

Natasha’s back is to you as she speaks on the hotel phone. 

Her voice flows smoothly in Russian, soft but clear, and you catch a few familiar words—borscht, pelmeni, blini—dishes you’ve heard her name before.

As you rummage through your belongings, it hits you: she’s ordering dinner. You smile to yourself, amused by the domesticity of the moment, even in the middle of a mission. 

Not wanting to take any longer, you quickly grab what you need, tossing your bag back in its original position as you hear Natasha finish up.

“Da, prosto ostav’te—blyat…”

The abrupt edge in Natasha’s voice pulls your attention, her sudden exclamation making you look up in curiosity.

Her words have stopped mid-sentence, her lips parted slightly as her eyes roam over you. Her gaze lingers on the droplets of water still glistening on your skin, the curve of your shoulders, and the towel that clings just a little too loosely to your body.

It takes her a moment to catch herself. Natasha clears her throat, her voice steadier as she quickly finishes her conversation. 

“Prostite,” she mutters into the phone. “Ostav’te yedu u dveri. Spasibo.”

You pause where you stand as you attempt to piece together what she just said. Your limited Russian skills manage to translate fragments: leave…food…door. 

It’s enough to guess that she told them to leave your dinners outside the room so they won’t come in and see all your equipment set up.

But you also notice that there’s one word missing from the sentence—the one she exclaimed earlier.

It lingers in your mind, unaccounted for, and you try remembering how Natasha said it.

“Blyat…” you repeat, testing the word carefully, sounding it out until you nod in satisfaction, confident you’ve got it.

A low groan comes from Natasha, prompting you to look back at her. Her eyes are noticeably darker now.

“Bozhe moy…” Natasha mutters under her breath, shaking her head lightly in exasperation.

Your brow quirks in amusement at her tone, a small smile tugging at your lips. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a curse word—just something someone would say when they’re surprised or frustrated,” Natasha says stiffly, her voice a little strained, though she manages to seem mostly composed.

Her eyes eventually betray her, though, drifting back to the droplets of water sliding down your skin. 

“So what’s the translation?” you press, crossing your arms at her vague response. The motion inadvertently shifts the towel, loosening it further.

Natasha’s jaw tightens. Her gaze flickers to the towel, and she exhales sharply through her nose, her control clearly fraying. 

Even though she looks like she’s about to close the distance between you, it’s clear she won’t answer your question, which makes your expression fall lightly into a mock disappointed pout.

“You said you’d help me improve my Russian during this mission,” you remind her, your tone innocently light as you step closer to stand in front of her. 

The memory of her promise lingers in your mind—how she’d caught you practicing in secret and insisted you ask her for help whenever you needed it.

Her lips twist in hesitation, probably also remembering her promise, and for a moment, it seems like she might resist.

But then she relents with a sigh. 

“It’s basically like saying ‘fuck,’” Natasha explains, her voice low and even. She fixes you with a pointed look, her gaze burning as she adds, “As in, you surprised me, standing half-naked in the middle of the room like this.” 

A laugh escapes you, though your cheeks warm at the intensity of her gaze. You move to hover a hand above her chest, tracing a finger lightly against the edge of her tank top.

“Were you surprised…or frustrated?” you ask, your tone full of mischief. 

Natasha shoots you a warning look, one that says you already know the answer.

“I don’t think learning Russian curse words was part of your original goal here,” she counters, her voice tight.

“Who says I haven’t learned some phrases already?” you reply with a playful shrug.

Her eyebrows lift, intrigued. “Like what?”

You shake your head, refusing to elaborate. “I’m still practicing my pronunciation.”

Natasha smirks, leaning closer. “I can help.”

The listening equipment chooses that moment to beep suddenly, interrupting your conversation, as it signals incoming noises.

“Too bad we’re still on the clock,” you quip with a teasing smile.

Natasha’s attention flickers reluctantly to the gear, her expression briefly clouded with disappointment.

You take the opportunity to head back to the bathroom and finish up.

As you go, a smirk tugs at your lips, the Russian phrase you’ve been practicing simmering in your mind.

Just as you step through the doorway, you hum thoughtfully, your voice low and deliberate as you mutter under your breath—just loud enough for Natasha to hear.

“How did it go again...trak-hni…menya…trakhni menya…”

You don’t need to turn around to know the effect your words have. Natasha’s sharp intake of breath is unmistakable, and your smirk widens in satisfaction. 

Behind you, Natasha freezes, her lips parting slightly, her entire body going still as she processes what you just said. The weight of your casual tone and the boldness of your phrasing leave her momentarily stunned.

By the time she regains her composure, you’ve already disappeared into the bathroom, the door closing with a soft click.

A low, disbelieving chuckle escapes her after a moment, followed by a quiet grumble as she mutters to herself, “Of all the times to be on a mission…” 

Natasha shakes her head and exhales, grabbing the earpiece with a resigned sigh.

Sliding it back on, she tries to focus on the task at hand, her eyes scanning the equipment as if sheer willpower could drown out her thoughts.

But her gaze betrays her, drifting back toward the bathroom door.

It lingers there, her resolve wavering as the temptation to follow you creeps in, tugging at her self-control.

Her mind conjures an image of you inside—water still clinging to your skin and your voice low and teasing as you repeat the Russian phrase for “fuck me” over and over again. 

The imagination is enough to make her swallow hard, her grip tightening on the table’s edge.

With a sharp, frustrated exhale, Natasha forces her attention back to the mission, her eyes narrowing as if determination alone could block the distractions. 

And she does succeed in regaining her composure eventually, though, every now and again, your voice echoes in her mind—soft, playful, and full of mischief.

Each syllable you murmured is as clear as if you were still standing there, taunting her with that dangerous smirk.

The corners of her lips twitch despite herself. 

You’ve always told her how much you love hearing her speak in Russian—how the sound of it stirs something in you. 

Natasha had always found your words amusing, but hearing you just now, with your hesitant yet deliberate tone, she’s beginning to understand exactly what you meant.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

After dinner, Natasha takes it upon herself to continue monitoring the listening gear, insisting that you rest up first after the long trip here and the exhausting setup.

Her tone left little room for argument, so you relented, knowing how stubborn she could be about these things and the fact that she is more than capable of staying concentrated on the task for longer than you can.

Hours pass, the rhythmic static and indistinct chatter from the equipment blending into the quiet of the room.

Natasha barely notices how late it’s gotten until she feels your arms wrap gently around her shoulders from behind.

You lean in close, your warm breath brushing against the side of her head as you carefully remove her earpieces. 

“Poydem so mnoy spat’,” you whisper softly.

Natasha’s lips curve into a small, pleased smile at your perfect pronunciation. Turning to face you, she raises a brow, her expression amused.

“Did you learn that specifically for moments like this?” she teases.

You smirk back at her. 

“With how often you lose yourself in work, I figured learning how to call you to bed should be one of the first things I perfect.” 

Natasha shakes her head fondly, a quiet laugh escaping her lips. 

“Of course you would,” she murmurs, but there’s no mistaking the affection in her voice.

Obliging you, she removes the rest of the gear and allows you to pull her gently from the chair toward the large bed.

As she moves, her gaze flickers to the nightstand, catching sight of your tablet screen. The familiar display of the language-learning app you’ve been using to practice Russian glows faintly in the dim light.

Settling in beside her, you lie back against the pillows while Natasha props herself up on one elbow, her head resting on her hand. Her green eyes glimmer with a soft light as she looks at you, a small smile playing on her lips.

“You know,” she says, tilting her head slightly, “I’m sure I can teach you Russian better than that app.” 

Her comment makes you laugh lightly. 

“I know, but our free time doesn’t always line up for me to get a lesson from Ms. Romanoff,” you tease, smirking.

“It’s Mrs.,” Natasha corrects, her playful smirk matching yours. “Don’t forget, we’re technically married right now.”

You smile, your gaze softening as you look at her. 

“Right. How could I forget that you’re my ‘zhena?’”

The word slips out in a playful, teasing tone, but it has an unexpected effect.

Natasha’s heart flutters so much at hearing you call her your wife in Russian that she has to look away for a moment to regain her composure. 

Her expression is tender when she looks back at you, her other arm moving around your midsection and pulling you closer. 

“I have time now,” she offers, her voice low. “Anything you want to learn?”

You hum thoughtfully, tapping your chin as you consider. 

“Alright, how do you say…‘you look beautiful?’”

Natasha’s smile widens slightly. 

“Ty vyglyadish’ prekrasno,” she replies smoothly.

You repeat the phrase under your breath, scrunching your face slightly in concentration as you practice. Once you’re confident enough, you turn to her with a gentle smile.

“Ty vy-glya-dish’ prekrasno,” you say, your pronunciation close but not perfect.

Natasha chuckles softly in amusement when she realizes you just wanted to say the phrase back to her. 

“Are you trying to make me fall for you even more by complimenting me in Russian?”  

You smirk playfully. “Depends. Is it working?”

Huffing lightly, Natasha rolls her eyes, though there’s a clear fondness in her exasperation. She looks away briefly, but you catch her cheek gently, turning her gaze back to yours.

“How do you say…‘I love you?’” you ask softly, your voice tinged with both curiosity and affection.

Natasha’s expression softens further, her features open and vulnerable as she answers. 

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” she says, enunciating each syllable carefully for you. 

“Ya tebya lyu…blyu,” you repeat slowly, trying to mimic how her lips move, but the last syllable doesn’t quite land how it should.

Natasha chuckles lightly, her hand moving to cup your chin. 

“When you say ‘lyublyu,’” she explains gently, “you have to purse your lips more.”

You try again, adjusting your pronunciation, and then glance at her for confirmation. 

“Like that?” you ask innocently, unaware that you had said it perfectly, making Natasha’s heart beat a little faster at the sound of your voice saying those words to her in her native language. 

“Say it again,” Natasha murmurs, her voice soft. 

Focusing intently, you follow her previous instructions.

“Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Just as you say the last sound, Natasha leans in suddenly, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. 

Your smile grows against her mouth as realization dawns that she made you repeat it for her benefit. 

“Mmm, you’re teasing me when you're supposed to be teaching me,” you murmur lightly in reprimand.

Natasha pulls back slightly, her green eyes glinting with playful mischief. 

“Maybe I just love the way you say it,” she counters, her tone low and warm. 

You huff lightly, rolling your eyes in mock exasperation before scooting closer.

Natasha relaxes fully into the bed, letting you rest your head on her shoulder and tuck your face into the curve of her neck. Her arms wrap around you, holding you in a soft embrace.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Natasha’s voice breaks through, gentle and curious. 

“What made you decide to learn Russian?”

There’s a brief pause as you consider her question, and then you tilt your head to look up at her, your eyes filled with affection. 

“Russian is a part of who you are, Natasha,” you say earnestly. “Where you came from. To learn another way to connect with you…” You trail off, your soft smile widening. “Who wouldn’t want to do that?”

Natasha’s heart swells at your words, and for a moment, all she can do is hold you closer, her fingers brushing lightly over your back.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” she whispers, her voice barely audible but still filled with the depth of her feelings for you.

You settle back against her, smiling into her shoulder, your voice gentle as you reply.

“Ya tebya lyublyu, too.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

a/n: got distracted by a cute request and made another little fluff fic. thank you for reading! Now I'll get back to working on my series. 😅

Also here are the translations below:

“Bron' dlya Nataliyi Romanovoy.” - Reservation for Natalia Romanova.

“Dobro pozhalovat, gospazha Romanova. Vot vashi klyuchi ot nomera.” - Welcome, Mrs. Romanova. Here are your room keys.

“Esli vam ili vashey zhene potrebuyetsya pomoshch, pozvonite na resepshn, i my s radostyu vam pomozhem.” - If you or your wife need assistance, please call the front desk and we will be happy to assist you.

“Spasibo,” - Thank you

“Zhena,” - Wife

“Da, prosto ostav’te—blyat…” - Yes, just leave it—fuck...

“Prostite, Ostav’te yedu u dveri. Spasibo.” - Sorry, leave the food at the door. Thank you.

“Blyat” - fuck

“Bozhe moy…” - My god...

“...trak-hni…menya…trakhni menya…” - ..fuck...me...fuck me...

“Poydem so mnoy spat’,” - Come to bed with me

“Ty vyglyadish’ prekrasno,” - You look beautiful

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” - I love you