#like what happened in the writing room for him to turn out like that

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

[lostinlovingrevery]

Thinking about old man Logan struggling to… get it up with reader and he gets all insecure 😭😭

It's Natural

Old Man Logan X F! Reader

Logan has some trouble getting his one eyed trouser snake to wake up

A/N: I was giggling writing this. also my search history has really become awful and weird since i started writing fics.

Warnings: SMUT MDNI, Allusions to sex, Logan can't get it up, Logan being extremely dramatic, peepee touching(blowjobs people, blowjobs), did you know men can orgasm and/or ejaculate without an erection? Greek god punishments mentioned lol, a lil fluff, I put F but this actually could be gender neutral!

Huh....So this is what it feels like

Logan avoided your sympathetic gaze.

"It's okay baby-"

His face burned hotter.

"It's natural"

He scoffed.

Your arms wrapped around his waist as you hugged him from behind, your chest, pressed into his firm back, you gave him a squeeze. He moved to stand up from the bed, but you held onto him.

Why, why does God have to keep playing this cruel joke on him? Is this his punishment for his sins?

He rather be cast down by lightning.

Let the pits of hell open up and swallow him whole. Give him punishments fit for the Greeks. He'll gladly let himself be bound, where an Eagle will eat his liver every day; He'll push the damn rock up the mountain only for it to roll back down, and repeat; put him on a fiery wheel, spinning through the sky.

Anything

Anything but this.

He used to laugh at men who were in a position that he has found himself in. A bit of arrogance from aging and never having an issue before. He didn't believe he was invincible, he just thought maybe his body would give out before he would have to worry about a problem like this.

In fact his younger self was always full of piss and vinegar. His stamina unmatched. His refractory period just mere seconds after coitus.

It's not like you didn't get to experience that with him.

You've had to beg him to slow down before. He held a certain pride in being able to make a pretty young thing like you out of breath. Bury himself in you over and over, playfully taunting you because you couldn't keep up with an old man like him. He reveled in your whines and praises.

He never thought that you'd have to experience this, with him.

"You're making it a big deal." You say softly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"Because it is." He snapped turning his head towards you.

"You're just tired. You've been overworking yourself baby." You rested your head on his shoulder as you hugged him. He tensed up. "It happens."

"Not to me." He grumbles sitting up from the bed. The mattress creaked from his weight disappearing.

"Lo." You sigh, dropping your arms in your lap as you watch him walk across the room, nude, reaching for his coat as he pulled out an cigar and his lighter from the inner pocket.

You admired his form. Muscular, hairy, fuck how could you not? He was sculpted, every curve, every divot, every muscle, made your mouth water.

He wouldn't look at you while he smoked, brows creased in frustration as he dragged himself deeper into a pit of self-hatred. A cloud of cigar smoke hazed the room and made you a little light-headed.

You had been fooling around. Logan came home early tonight, claiming he missed you. He was all over you, kissing and touching and you were loving it. One by one your clothes were yanked off - Logan had nearly ripped your pants off you - again.

Course time went on and you were becoming more eager for the main course- not that you didn't love the foreplay. You noticed Logan's frustrations as he kept grinding and kissing you. Before he finally pulled himself off you, shame in his face, and a glance downwards told you what you needed to know.

It really didn't bother you. Of course it didn't! You loved him. Things happen. He was already older than an average man, and to be honest his libido had surprised you at his age.

No words were going to making him feel better.

Fuck it, stiffy or not, he's your man, and you wanted him.

You climbed off the bed where he was leaning against the creaky old dresser you had thrifted from a local shop.

"Lo." You say, and his eyes only glanced at you for a second before glancing away. "If you're going to be like that, then I'll just do it myself."

Logan looked at you, a small bewilderment across his face as you dropped to your knees. You took his flaccid member into your hand, and began stroking him. Slowly and gently.

"Jesus-" His breath hitched. "Baby what are you doing?"

"Lo..." You hummed, looking up at him with a sinful smile, you leaned forward, playfully tapping his cock against your lips. "I want you. Okay?"

He watched in surprise, as you took him in between your lips, swirling your tongue over his tip. His stomach tensed, and flexed, as his lips parted as he watched you take him in between your lips.

Fucking hell

He tipped his head back, the feeling of your tongue swirling over his soft cock was different. You acted no difference from him being hard or soft though, taking him down your throat, bobbing your head over him. Your spit soaked his cock

Your hand came up to fondle his balls, gently squeezing and groping them, as your other hand ran soothingly up and down his thigh.

Just when he thought he couldn't love you more

The humiliation was there still. Yet every suck, pop, and lick as you worked over him pushed it farther and farther away. You devoured him as he were desirable.

A deep moan reverberated from you, and that was the nail in the coffin for him.

A hard grunt escaped him as his shoulders lurched forward and his hand dug into your hair, gripping you as he pushed himself further down your throat making you gag. His cum coming out in short, hot spurts.

His chest heaved, and he tipped his head back.

Not quite as powerful as normal orgasm, but as he looked down at you, it didn't matter.

You stood up, wiping your lips of spit and cum before leaning forward to kiss him, your arms wrapped around his waist.

"See? No biggie." You smile up at him.

He observed with you fascination.

"I love you. In every way." You reassured him, pecking his lips again.

The both of you stopped, surprise on your face as your felt something hard on your hip. He raised his brows as he looked down at you, a faint grin growing across his face. You hummed, leaning in to brush your lips over his, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace.

"Well, Bonjour Monsieur"

[st7rnioioss]

could you maybe write a little fic about brothersbsf!matt looking in sweetheart!reader's diary and seeing what she wrote about him!!

(idk if i got the au name things right!)

❛❛DEAR DIARY❜❜

⋆ ˚ .ೃ ࿔ * pairing... sweetheart!reader x brothers bsf!matt

𓂃 ֹ ᮫ in which... matt sneaks into sweetheart!readers room, expecting to find her, but to his surprise, she's not home. but something catches his eye immediately--her diary.

warnings... most suggestive stuff is all fiction!!! (literally lol), mentions of fingering, mentions of unprotected sex, mentions of kissing, implied masturbation (m)

♡ ˖ ࣪ ◟ the door to your room twisted open, the faint and high pitched creaking filling the empty room. you weren’t in there, the room was pitch black, and almost cold from the absence of your presence.

confusion settled in matt’s chest. huh? he’d snook away from your brother, telling him he just really quickly had to use the bathroom, but you weren’t there. he stepped inside when the confusion was replaced with curiosity, flicking on your bedside lamp to see where he was walking.

your room was pretty, but eerie when you weren’t there. matt’s eyes trailed over your decoration—the small trinkets, your bedsheets, the few posters you had up. god, it just screamed you. he chuckled to himself, his gaze finally landing upon the pretty little diary you always kept close to yourself.

oh, he knew it was wrong, very wrong. he didn’t have any sisters, but a diary was like.. a girl thing. but he took seat on the edge of your bed, your diary playing flat in his lap.

matt thought about it for a second, awkwardly flicking some hair out of his eyes. frightened to be caught, he listened intently for your brothers footsteps, but none could be heard. so, he continued to slowly turn the front, due to the lack of lock, seemingly one that used to be there but fell off.

matt’s eyes skimmed the front page where you had neatly written your name, along with a few doodles, and sweet words. he smiled to himself, before curiously flipping through the pages. some were filled with sketches and drawings, others going on for page after page about school drama, which he carefully read through, even gasping because some of the hidden information.

but one page caught his eyes, rather a page with his name caught his eyes. there wasn’t a certain title or description, just straight up words you had blurted out onto the paper. his heart started racing when he read through the page, his ears turning read.

“dear diary, i think i have a crush on my brother's friend matt. i’m not sure, but i think he’s really, really sweet, and sometimes he even says hi to me. i think it’s mainly because he’s trying to be kind to me. after all, my older brother is his friend, but i really hope it’s more than that. he’s really cute too. he’s got blue eyes, and this dark hair i really wish to run my fingers through every time he looks at me. and his lips are always pink, and they look so soft.”

and that was it. his heart drummed in his ribcage, nervously fiddling through your diary to find more.

and oh boy, did he find more. it was like your diary had taken this sharp turn, going from girl gossip, and rants about your favorite movies, to all being about him. matt couldn’t believe his eyes, his heart nearly beating out of his chest when his eyes picked up on the naughty sentences.

“dear diary, today matt came into my room to say hi. or at least that’s what happened, but i think he wanted to do more. i was just showing him around, when he suddenly stood so close to me, i swore he could hear my heart, and just as he was about to kiss me, my dumb brother walked in!!! gosh, i just wish he could’ve kissed me without any interruptions. i wonder how he’d kiss. if he would be gentle, and soft, or he would be rough, and fill the kiss with desire. maybe he’d do both. i don’t know. i dream about his fingers running down my waist, hooking under my shirt to pull it off, how he would run them through my hair. would he yank my hair, or carefully twirl it?? or maybe he’d wrap his fingers around my neck while kissing, i don't know. i dream about his tongue licking over mine, tasting and claiming me. anyways i gotta go.”

matt’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, groaning when he felt his cock harden from just the ink on paper, that you had written in the silence of your own room. in shock he dropped the diary between his legs, quickly picking it up again. he couldn’t stop, he wanted to read more. he needed to.

matt quickly flicked through the pages upon pages, searching for his name like before, but suddenly all he could seem to find was gossip. but he found another one, this one much more recent, seemingly the last one your written just the night prior.

“dear diary, gosh i need matt. like really bad. i don’t even understand how i’m writing right now, but i had to, i can’t tell anyone else. it’s so stupid. i think about him all the time, when i’m in school, when i’m in the shower, eating dinner or breakfast, when i’m in bed. i wish i didn’t. every time i touch myself, it’s like an image of him pops up, and i can’t make it stop. it’s so wrong, but it feels so right and good when i imagine him doing the stuff i do to myself. i get so wet thinking about it. how i wish he would just sneak in here one night, kiss me, and then take off my clothes without us feeling guilty about it, and anyone finding out. i can almost feel it, how he would push his fingers inside me while kissi”

it looks like you stopped right there, and matt could only imagine what was going on behind the diary, behind the pen on paper, what you were doing. he let out a low growl, an obvious tent forming in his pants from how vividly he was imagining you laying in bed, grasping your pen while ignoring the ache between your legs, before you’d give up and tug your panties down your pretty legs, easing your smaller and slender fingers inside your slick walls.

matt frantically searched for a pen, his mind going wild as he let his thoughts roam freely. the diary laid open on your bed when matt finally found a ballpoint pen, brushing the pages to the last one you had written on, before writing;

“i would kiss you down your chest, admire your body while i touch you after your sweet noises to get it right, my fingers sticky. then i would let go of you and take off my own clothes, leaning over you to push my dick into you, listen to you gasp and moan. i would take my time with you, wait until you allowed me to start fucking you, doing it gentle and slowly. i’d hold your hands, kiss you down your beautiful face and body, eventually going faster and harder. you have no idea how bad i wanna sneak into your room every time i’m hanging out here. i’m not even here for your brother anymore.”

matt let go of the pen, his hand nearly cramping from how concentrated and neatly he’d been with the filthy note, his cock aching hard and throbbing in his pants from imagining just how well you’d take him, and how adorable you’d look. “goddamn it,” he groaned, leaving the diary on your bedside table before turning off the lights, immediately heading to the bathroom.

more sweetheart!reader x brothers bsf!matt here!

˚𝜗𝜚 notes... #need that

۶ৎ taglist: @jetaimevous @missmimii @mattscoquette @pearlzier @witchofthehour @elizasturn @loveparqdise @delilahsturniolo @phone4pills @sturnsmia @hearts4werka @cayleeuhithinknott @strnilolover @sturnvxz @lovergirl4gracieabrams @ifwdominicfike @toftomgmf @emely9274 @sturnioloangell @blushsturns @sierrraaaaxz @slut4chris888 @marrykisskilled @sophand4n4 @sturnihoelooo @unknvhx @chrisslut04 @sturniolossss @slvtf0rchr1s @blahbel668 @starkeysturniolo @miolos @user1smvtysturniolo @lizzyzzn @sturnslutz @decimatedxdreams @chrissturnioloswife88 @sturn777 @sturniolonationsblog @frankoceanfanpage @priscillaog @courta13 @sweetrelieef @loverboysturn @sturns-mermaid @cutseylady @sofieeeeex @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @mattsturnii @conspiracy-ash

❛❛ © 𝐒𝐓𝟕𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐎𝐈𝐎𝐒𝐒 𝐞𝐬𝐭. 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟑 ❜❜

[aureatelys]

as soft as the rain, pretty as a vine

pairing: aaron hotchner/fem!bau!reader w.c.: 6k a/n: inspired by that one gifset of hotch desperately needing some moisturizer on his neck im so sorry. also my first time writing hotch's pov, pls be gentle. c.w.: fluff! friends to lovers, kinda sunshine/girly!reader, mutual pining, alcohol mention, author pretending like they know about skincare, hotch is whipped and touch starved af, no y/n

summary:

You think Hotch needs to take better care of himself. Hotch doesn't know what to think. Or, 5 times you teach Hotch about skincare more than he wants to and 1 time he teaches you.

read below or ao3 here

one.

When Hotch first walks into the conference room ready to go over a new case, there’s something different that he can’t quite put his finger on.

Words dying in his throat, he sweeps his eyes over the entire room and doesn’t see anything significantly out of place. Then he’s passing over everyone’s faces, mentally keeping a note on how exhausted most of them are looking, and then landing on you.

Having only joined a couple of months ago, you were still fairly new to the team. However, with your sunny disposition and eagerness to learn, you blended right in. Hotch had watched in amusement as you were able to keep up with Reid’s ramblings, Morgan’s flirting, and Garcia’s antics. You were insightful, able to give new perspectives that Hotch would never have even considered, patient with victims and their families, and Hotch admired you for that.

Today, however, you look considerably suspicious as you give him a sheepish smile and a little wave. “Morning, Hotch,” you say, eyes sparkling, followed by a round of greetings from the rest of the team.

“Morning.” And then he spots a machine on the table near the wall, shaped and designed like a cat and spouting off what looks like steam at a steady and continuous rate.

Now that he’s noticed it, he realizes the conference room feels significantly stickier, the sudden humidity a stark contrast to the dry winter air outside. He can sense the slight congestion he’s been waking up to the past several months gradually disappearing.

“It’s a humidifier,” you explain after spotting the slightly confused expression Hotch was wearing, as if he’s never seen one before. To be fair, he doesn’t think he’s seen one in years as Haley was usually the one who dug it out of storage when Jack wasn’t feeling well. “I brought it from home, I thought it was a little dry in here. Is that okay?”

“I hope so, I was worried about getting a nosebleed the other day.”

“It’s good to have it around during this time of year, Hotch. Did you hear Anderson coughing this morning?”

“It’s also beneficial to have one on while you sleep, both with the white noise and being able to clear your sinuses and breathe easier with its optimal humidity levels.”

Truthfully, Hotch doesn’t care and he’s sure there isn’t some ridiculous regulation about not allowing a small humidifier, especially when Garcia has two space heaters in her office that you’ve had to ask to borrow at least twice a week.

However, the way you’re glancing up at him now from your spot at the round table, eyes wide and fluffy pink scarf wrapped around you because you apparently run colder than the rest of the team, Hotch would probably let you get away with anything.

He immediately sets that thought aside, not wanting to dwell on exactly what that means right now. He takes the only empty seat left that just happened to be right next to you, making sure to keep a respectable distance. “It’s fine. Just make sure to turn it off and empty it before we go.”

You give him a blinding smile that momentarily distracts him from the bubbling humidifier and the clouds of mist that are nearly falling into his face. “Sure thing. Did you know that it can also help with dry skin? So technically, we’re just taking care of our bodies if they ask why we need it.”

Although it makes sense now that he thinks about it, Hotch didn’t know that. He also doesn’t remember the last time he put on lotion or moisturizer, no matter how dry his hands felt.

Just then, Garcia wobbles in with her yellow heels and coffee mug, immediately launching into the brutal details of the case and where the team will be headed out to for the next couple of days.

When Hotch gets up to grab his go-bag from the office, he tries to ignore how it feels like he can breathe a little bit easier.

two.

“God, it’s freezing in here.”

Hotch glances up from his laptop mid-report to witness you taking the seat next to his with a resounding oof. You’re wrapped up in a blanket that you had brought from home that has somehow taken permanent residence on the jet, shivering despite the heater being on full blast. The corner of it lands on his knee, soft and warm.

The team had just finished a case in rural Montana, surrounded by mountains of snow and the wilderness. You had remembered to pack warmly at least, as Hotch had witnessed you struggling to take off the several layers of sweaters every time you arrived at the precinct. He remembers frowning in the car on the way to apprehend the unsub as you shivered in the passenger seat, having had to wear only a layer or two due to the bulky Kevlar vest and needing to be quick on your feet.

“It’ll warm up here in a second,” Hotch says, already wracking around his brain to see if there was another blanket hidden in a compartment somewhere. “A cup of tea will probably help.”

You slouch down further in your seat, cocooning yourself even further under the thick blanket. “I don’t want to get up.”

Hotch is almost tempted to lock his computer and get up to make you that cup of tea himself, however he glances around the cabin and notices several knowing pairs of eyes on him. He doesn’t have to be a profiler to know what the rest of the team thinks—that he’s gone soft on you.

You with your fuzzy blue blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cape and the thick socks that you put in your bag specifically for the plane ride home. He knows he’s not imagining the lingering glances you throw at Hotch or the way you occasionally stay late as an excuse to bother him in his office.

And he doesn’t necessarily mind. There’s a strange, innate pull that tugs in his stomach when it comes to you, causing him to watch you more carefully and seeking out your presence at almost every opportunity. The sheer grip of panic on his heart when you were shot after taking down an unsub by yourself and without backup several months ago had Hotch re-evaluating everything he knew about himself.

He’s aware of the possible repercussions, which is exactly why Hotch has learned to be patient when it comes to you, who has threatened him to forgo his patience altogether with every bubbly laugh he can hear from his office or knock of your shoulders against his in the conference room.

So he doesn’t get up to make you that cup of tea despite knowing how you take it with a splash of milk and two sugars, and instead turns back to finish the action report.

It’s only several minutes later when he notices you rummaging around in your bag out of the corner of his eye before you pull out a small and colorful lotion bottle with a triumphant noise. You pop the cap open and slather some on your hands before you’re turning to face Hotch again, the novel that Reid recommended to you untouched on the table. “Do you want some?”

The bottle in your hand looks somewhat familiar, most likely something he’s passed by at the store or on your desk, but Hotch balks at the pink flowers painted all over the bottle. He’s lucky the undoubtedly suffocating smell hasn’t hit him yet. “I’m fine, thanks.”

But you don’t put the lotion back in your bag, instead shifting in your seat until you’re fully facing him. Your blanket is nearly draped over Hotch’s thigh. “Are you sure? You know, it’s really important to make sure your hands are moisturized, especially with how cold it is here.”

He doesn’t know why you’re so adamant about this, peering up at him with bright and eager eyes and the open lotion bottle poised over his hands. He’s never liked putting on lotion, or any kind of creams, as it always made his hands feel uncomfortably greasy. He would eventually wash it off anyway.  

He turns his attention back to his laptop, yet wordlessly puts a hand out towards your direction.

He thinks you’re going to pour a generous dollop and let him rub his own hands together, but instead, he nearly jumps in his seat when you’re grabbing onto his hand with both of yours and slathering whatever’s leftover on your hands into his palms and the back of his hands.

Your hands are cold, even moreso than his, but the sharp tingle that runs up his arm at your touch causes something warm to bloom in his chest.

“I didn’t want to waste it,” you respond to the confusion on his face. You’re thorough; making sure to slather the cream in between his fingers and even down to his wrists. He senses the sneaking glances the rest of the team are throwing his way, maybe even smug, but he’s painstakingly distracted by the way your hands look in his, the way he can feel both of your hands gradually warming up.

And then you’re pulling away, and Hotch suddenly misses your tender touch.

Like he expected, his palms suddenly feel gross, unpleasantly slippery like he has oil all over them. He wants to rub his palms on his pants or go wash his hands, but your watchful eyes stop him.

And then it hits him—  the sudden scent of you, floral with some hints of vanilla, overwhelming his senses. It’s undeniably the same scent as your perfume, the one that seems to linger every time you stride past him at the office or when you’re leaning over Hotch to laugh at something Morgan said. Now, it causes him to sharply inhale, chest feeling unnervingly tight as he unconsciously marks it to his memory.

You’re still watching him with an expectant smile, bottle stored away in your bag for you to pull out again after you’ve gotten up to use the restroom and used the cheap hand soap that you’ve repeatedly complained about before. You look unfazed, as if your simple touch hasn’t sent Hotch’s brain reeling.

“It’s nice,” Hotch manages to say, voice only slightly strained. The smell is not as strong as he expected, but it’s still doing strange things to his heart more than he’d like to admit.

If possible, your smile widens. “Just nice?”

“Well, I don’t think it’s quite my signature scent.”

You hum and turn away, picking up your book despite Hotch knowing you’re not going to read a single page of it today, the spine already creased from where you’ve been laying it face down multiple times over the past month. “No, your signature scent already fits you.”

Hotch says nothing, not entirely sure how to respond to that, but your attention is already caught by the game of cards Reid and Emily are playing several seats away. You immediately set your novel down and scramble up and out of your seat to be their enthusiastic audience, leaving a trail of vanilla behind you.

Hotch immediately misses the warmth of your blanket.

three.

“What are you looking for now?”

You’ve been digging through your bag, your pink personal one that’s almost as big as your go bag, for the past five minutes. Hotch can hear the various items clinking around and the crinkling of multiple old receipt papers as you curse under your breath. He frowns, tempted to encourage you to clean out your bag if only to make packing more convenient for you. He couldn’t count the number of times you’ve exclaimed on the jet that you had forgotten something.

The team had gotten called to another small rural town in North Dakota for an unsub that’s been killing during the protective guise of blizzards, which is why Hotch was driving so painstakingly slow that Morgan would’ve surely had an aneurysm if he was in the same car. Despite the roads having already been salted, there was still a concerning amount of ice on the roads that had Hotch sitting ramrod straight in his seat and gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles were nearly turning white.

Luckily, it was only you and Hotch in the car, heater on full blast. You’re wearing at least three sweaters today with your coat draped over your legs and haven’t even complained once about it being too cold, citing how you’ve never seen this much snow before in your life. Hotch found it all extremely endearing watching you nearly jump in your seat at how the evergreen trees looked covered in snow. Like a Christmas movie, you had said.

“Found it!” You pull out a travel sized bottle of sunscreen, hurriedly twisting the cap open to squeeze and draw lines down three fingers.

Hotch glances at you out of the corner of his eye, brow furrowed in confusion at your strange method. “Sunscreen? Are we going to the beach?”

“God, I hope not. I didn’t think to pack a swimsuit.” You roll your eyes while slathering the cream on your forehead, cheeks, down your neck, and even strangely over your ears before rubbing the rest on the back of your hands.

Hands tightening on the steering wheel, Hotch clears his throat. “I didn’t expect you to be so invested in your skin health.”

“It’s called skincare, Hotch,” you tease, screwing the cap back on but suspiciously leaving it out on your lap. “And it’s important to take care of your skin. Did you know that snow reflects UV rays, so even during winter you should put on sunscreen?”

Hotch chuckles before he could stop himself. “You’re starting to sound like Reid.”

“Did you want some?” You’re twisting your body again to face Hotch, eyes sparkling despite it being horribly dreary and cloudy outside.

The only times Hotch has worn sunscreen was during especially hot summer days when he took Jack to the park or to go swimming. He’s seen you apply sunscreen in the office even when it was raining outside and the sun wasn’t forecasted to come out that day. He’s grown to learn not to ask questions.

“I’m okay, thanks.” The answer’s immediate, partly because he doesn’t need sunscreen and partly because he is concentrating on not crashing into a ditch.

“Come on, Hotch, it’s good for you!” He knows this is exactly the same thing you said on the jet several weeks ago, and since then, every time you’re putting on lotion and he’s somewhere in the near vicinity, you’re already squeezing some on his hands before he could respectfully decline. Luckily, you haven’t tried to apply it for him again.

You’re incredibly stubborn and Hotch wonders if you’re persuading the rest of the team to invest in expensive and fruity-smelling creams in an effort to have everyone properly take care of their bodies like you are with him.

“Alright.” And then he’s pulling his foot off the gas pedal just a bit to compensate for the distraction of having to put his hand out, desperately hoping you’re not going to lean over to apply it to his own face.

You luckily don’t squeal in excitement like he expected, just silently squirting the cream into careful and meticulous lines on his three fingers. Hotch can tell it’s definitely more of an expensive brand than what he was used to during the summer—lightweight and smelling like nothing.

Hotch carefully slathers it onto his face, starting at his forehead, down his nose, and then out to his cheeks and his chin. There’s still quite a lot left on his fingers and he remembers how you made sure to spread some on your neck, so Hotch does the same thing. However, he is definitely not going to put some on his ears.

Satisfied, you put the sunscreen away and twist as best as you could underneath your thick layers to put your bag in the backseat, because the floor of the car was too wet from the snow from your shoes.

“Happy?” Hotch’s face inexplicably feels greasier than he would like, but it’s not as bad as the vanilla-scented lotion or the cheap sunscreen laying forgotten in his closet. It’s already absorbed into his skin and when he rubs a hand along his jaw, he realizes that it must have had some moisturizer in it as well because his face feels softer than he was used to.

“Ecstatic,” you say, turning your face towards the window to hide the wide grin spreading across your face.

four.

The fourth time Hotch learns about skincare from you was completely and utterly by accident.

It had been a long and brutal couple of days chasing a serial in Tennessee, one that had nearly as much technological experience as Garcia. He had been two steps ahead of them until tonight, when they had finally caught a break and caught him before he could take any more women to hold hostage.

The all-consuming relief was palpable during dinner at the hotel restaurant despite the underlying knowledge that the same thing was going to happen next week. Conversation flowed, drinks were had, and Hotch was adamantly ignoring the fleeting looks you were throwing his way across the table.

Hotch and you had been dancing around each other for months, tension so tangible that the rest of the team were starting to feel uncomfortable. He’s been able to brush off Dave’s sly remarks in the privacy of his office, Morgan and Emily’s raised eyebrows tossed in his direction at every interaction he had with you, and Garcia’s elbow jabs at every possible second when you were in the room.

It's been frustrating for him, to say the least. He can’t tell them that he can’t make that choice for you, that he’s too conscious to not cross any of those professional boundaries himself. If that means that Hotch has to wait for several more months for you to make the first move, if that even happens, then so be it.

When Hotch watches the way you throw your head back in laughter at something Dave says at dinner, eyes bright and face slightly flushed from the wine, he thinks he’d be willing to wait as long as you wanted.

After being nearly kicked out of the restaurant from being too rowdy and Hotch hinting at being able to take the rest of tomorrow off once they fly back in town early, the team quietly shuffles back to their respective rooms. He knows there’s about a 50/50 chance that most of them will sneak out to a nearby bar in ten minutes, but at least he warned them ahead of time.

“Night, Hotch,” you had said, giving him a little smile and wave before your door across the hallway clicked shut.

Something warm settled in Hotch’s chest at that, so he did the most reasonable thing to cope with the unfamiliar and turned the TV on to a random news channel. With the volume on low and his laptop and files laid out on the rickety table, he got to work.

Several hours pass like that as he throws himself into the fine print, going over everyone’s action reports from last week and shuffling through old crime photos to make sure everything matched. It was a familiar process, and almost concerning with how much comfort he’s found in it—the scratch of his pen, the drone of the city several floors down, and the growing smudge of ink on his hand from his thoughts running faster than he could write.

When he gets to your report and notices it’s missing several key points of the case, as well as your loopy signature, he frowns.

The immediate thought that comes to mind would be to just put the file aside and move onto the other one. It wasn’t as if the report was due this second and he knows there were plenty of others that required more immediate attention.

The other thought that emerges, almost reluctantly, was that Hotch could easily go across the hallway and ask you to take a look at it and finish the report rather than waiting for the following morning on the jet when the rest of the team was undoubtedly going to be hungover. Prentiss was most certainly going to be cranky and demand everyone to be quiet because the hum of the jet was already grating enough. He’d just be doing the team a favor.

That’s what Hotch tells himself as he stands up from the low desk, neck and back aching, and makes his way out his room and to yours across the hall.

He briefly pauses, straining his ears as if he could hear anything through the door and over the erratic thumping of his own heart. Hotch is suddenly aware that you may be sleeping, or even out with the rest of the ladies to a sleazy bar, and he’s about to turn back around with defeat weighing heavy on his shoulders when he hears the click of the bathroom door open and your humming, faint even through the thick wooden door.

Feeling confident that he’s not disturbing you and something else Hotch can’t name at the fact that he’s going to be seeing you in the privacy of your hotel room, he raps twice against the door.

“Just a second!” And then the door swings open.

Hotch’s attention is immediately caught by the fluffy headband you’re wearing, light pink and with a comically large bow in the center. You’ve clearly just gotten out of the shower, the scent of your body wash infiltrating Hotch’s senses and causing him to tighten his grip on the files he forgot he was holding in the first place.

You’re wearing a matching set of light blue pajamas, short and clinging to your body in a way that has Hotch immediately tearing his gaze away and back to your bare face. Your lips are glossy, slicker than normal, there’s a drop of water slowly trailing down the side of your neck, and a dab of cream on your cheek that you seem to have not noticed.

“Hotch?” you ask, confused, before letting out a squeak and crossing your arms over your chest in an effort to hide your modesty. Hotch ignores the fact that it just makes everything worse. “Is everything okay? Don’t tell me there’s a case.”

The droplet of water has disappeared underneath the collar of your shirt and the scent of vanilla nearly suffocates him. “No case. Just needed to get your final touches and signature on this report.”

He hopes his voice doesn’t sound as strained to you as it does to him as he remembers why he was standing in your hotel doorway in the first place, the files in his hand suddenly weighing like a ton.

You don’t seem to notice anything wrong, if anything, a slow smile spreads across your face that has Hotch’s stomach flipping.

You look radiant, the intimacy of being near you in your pajamas when you were clearly in the middle of your nighttime routine not going unnoticed. He peers over the top of your head to notice your go bag on your bed, clothes and your personal laptop strewn all over the comforter, and the TV being tuned to what you’d call an “entertaining yet trashy show.”

“You’re still working even though you’re the one who suggested having an early night? It’s late.”

Hotch blinks at you because what else would he have done if not attempt to catch up on the seemingly never-ending pile of papers and reports? “You’re still up late too.”

You roll your eyes. “I was just about to go to bed before you knocked, so technically I have better work-life boundaries than you.”

“Do you want me to come back tomorrow?”

You study him—still wearing his suit sans the jacket, tie only slightly loosened and sleeves rolled up his forearms. He hadn’t even bothered to put his shoes back on, comfortable enough with the hotel’s reputation to be in his room and take the two steps across the carpeted hallway in his socks.

“As long as you make it fast.” And then you’re stepping aside and opening the door further, the sweetness of the vanilla nearly pulling Hotch in.

Except he’s somehow distracted by the dollop of cream still on your cheek, right underneath your eye. Witnessing first-hand the twinkling of your eyes as you glance up at him and the way your pink headband has your hair pushed back, baring the most of your face he’s ever seen, has him sidetracked.

“You have a little…” He motions to his own face, hoping that you will take the hint.

And you don’t, not exactly, because of course you don’t. You immediately swipe at your face but on the wrong cheek and stare down at your hand when you don’t catch anything. “What?”

Hotch is a problem-solver, meticulous, and always thinks things through. That’s his job, to always be two steps ahead of anyone and everyone. So he’s not sure how or why he’s suddenly reaching a hand out to swipe at the cream on your face with his thumb, his touch lingering on the warmth of your cheek.

Whatever Hotch was going to say dies in his throat at the very audible hitch of your breath, the way your eyes widen at his close proximity. Your skin is smooth, softer than anything he’s ever felt, and he ignores the way you’re staring into him as he pulls back and absentmindedly rubs the moisturizer in the palm of his other hand. If he tries hard enough, the cream on his own skin nearly replicates the feeling of yours.

He's about to clear his throat to apologize, maybe even mention something about how the report can technically wait until tomorrow and turn right on his heel back into his room to ignore the adamant weight pressing down on his chest, when your expression changes.

Something almost akin to smugness tugs at the corners of your lips, the shininess inexplicably different and more distracting than your usual lipstick. Your bright eyes dance with amusement before your arms fall from where they were crossed on your chest to your sides.

“You know, I’m wearing a lip mask right now if you want some of that too.”

“Excuse me?”

If possible, your grin widens, causing Hotch to internally deny that he was suddenly feeling breathless. “I use a lip mask every night. They just make them look so kissable, right?”

Something in Hotch snaps, because if that wasn’t a clear invitation, he doesn’t know what is.

When he finally steps into your room, closing the door behind him, you’re slowly backing up until you’re pressed up against the nearest wall with that infuriating grin on your face.

You’re playing with him, you’ve been playing with him, but he doesn’t care and can’t even think about that when you’re peering up at him with soft eyes.

When Hotch brings a hand up to cradle your cheek, he thinks his stomach nearly twists itself into a knot at the immediate way you lean into him and the way your eyes flutter shut.

When he finally kisses you, he can smell the sweetness of the raspberry lip mask before he tastes it, seamlessly blending in with your vanilla body wash and making him feel more drunk than he’s felt in a long time.

You place your hands on his chest, your warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt, and something about touching him has you unconsciously parting your lips to deepen the kiss, causing the smell of raspberry to become stronger.

Hotch can immediately feel the stickiness of your mask on his mouth, and he’s tempted to pull away at the unfamiliarity of something on his lips, but then you’re sighing into him and his hands are suddenly on your waist where the bottom of your pajama top has barely lifted. The warmth of your skin was intoxicating.

You have to be the first one to break the kiss, and when Hotch opens his eyes, you’re staring at him, your smirk having morphed into a smile of disbelief. His eyes flit to the almost imperceptible smear of gloss at the corner of your mouth.

“You have a little…” You trail off, your eyes drifting to his own lips, your smile doing nothing to calm the erratic rhythm Hotch’s heart has taken.

Hotch wonders how much you had put on yourself because the amount that he can feel on his lips makes him immediately want to swipe at his mouth. But that would mean having to take his hands off of you and he doesn’t think he has the willpower for that.

Instead, he rubs his lips together in an effort to spread the tackiness equally over his lips before he says “I like it, but I don’t think I got enough.”

You huff a laugh at that, your fingers tightening from where they’re gripping the lapels of his dress shirt. “I think I can help you with that.”

five.

“Are you okay in there?”

“Just five more minutes, I promise!”

That’s what you had said ten minutes ago. It’s not like Hotch is impatient per se, just content that you had agreed to sleep over again after another late date night and there wasn’t a looming case coming up.

You had only slept over one other time when the team had gotten back from a case late and Hotch wasn’t going to let you drive yourself home when you could barely keep yourself standing. You had dozed off the entire car ride home, head leaning against the window which caused Hotch to adamantly avoid all the potholes and tight turns, and yet you still managed to do your skincare routine in his ensuite bathroom before coming to bed.

After that night in your hotel room, you’ve become bolder. You’re now sitting next to Hotch on the jet, you make your way up to his office when there were still plenty of people milling about in the bullpen, and the way you peer up at him through your eyelashes during case briefings has him itching for a cold shower.

Neither have you said anything to the rest of the team, but at this point, Hotch doesn’t think he has to with the way both Dave and Morgan have patted him on the back the day after you laughed at something Emily had said and leaned against him, leaving his shoulder thrumming from your warmth for the next hour.

Another five minutes pass and Hotch can still hear the clinking of your serums as you rummage through your cosmetics bag. He silently sets aside his phone to get up from his extremely comfortable spot in the bed to pad his way over to the bathroom.

The sight that greets him has Hotch’s stomach plummeting all over again.

You’re sporting that same headband with the pink bow again, however this time, you’re wearing one of his old academy shirts that had mysteriously gone missing from his dresser several weeks ago. You’re freshly showered and you’re holding onto some kind of strangely shaped metallic instrument that you’re scraping over your cheekbones and then down your neck. The way it drags over your skin has Hotch cringing sympathetically.

You immediately spot him, meeting his gaze through the mirror, and the way your eyes immediately light up has a small smile forming on Hotch’s face before he can help it. “Hey you.”

“Hey.” Hotch leans against the doorway, content to watch the clearly practiced movements of you rubbing your skin with this strange contraption. “It’s been over five minutes.”

You pout. “Sorry, I’ve been holding this off all week and I need to do it tonight.”

Hotch was sure that “need” was a strong word, but he doesn’t question it. He stopped questioning your thorough skincare routine months ago.

And then you turn to him, something mischievous tugging at your glossy lips. “Wanna try it?”

Apprehension thuds in his chest, but he takes a step forward into the glow of the bathroom anyway. “And what is it exactly?”

Detecting your hesitation a mile away, you give him a warm smile as you hold it up to him. “It’s called a gua sha. It’s supposed to help with blood flow and getting rid of toxins and all that.”

Hotch may not be a beauty or skincare expert, but he has doubts that this piece of metal can actually do all of those things. To be fair, he’s had quite a few doubts about most of the items you use and not so subtly make him try.

The delight painted clear on your face though has Hotch tucking those thoughts away. He’s sure he has no right to question one’s own method on how to relax.

“Okay.”

You immediately muffle a squeal and turn to grab some other serum you left out on the sink, a light gold swimming around in the bottle.

“I’ll only do half of your face, I promise.” You squeeze some of the mysterious liquid on your hands and reach up to pat the left side of his face.

It’s thicker than your usual products, most likely some kind of oil that smells like roses, but the heat from your hand and your close proximity has Hotch feeling inexplicably warm all over.

“Okay, now you just use this side to run up your cheekbone like this.” You demonstrate for him and he adamantly makes note of the light pressure you’re using. “And then you run it down your face and down your neck.”

When he attempts to copy your movements with the warm metal, he doesn’t notice any difference in how his skin feels or the blood flow in his face, but you’re studying him so closely that Hotch is tempted to say he does.

It’s a strange sensation, but honestly it doesn’t feel any different than if he used his own fingers to rub up against his cheekbone or jawline.

When he puts the piece of metal back in your open palm, you’re nearly teeming with excitement. “So, what do you think?”

He pauses. “I don’t think it’s for me, sweetheart.”

You pout but he can tell that you’re not offended. “Boo. Fine, I’ll meet you in bed, handsome.”

Hotch is about to turn back to go to bed before he remembers the thick oil covering half of his face, evenly dispersed but still uncomfortable and will surely stain his pillowcase. He attempts to discreetly wipe at it with his hand as best as he can before quickly rubbing it off on your arm and escaping.

The screech you let out echoes in his bathroom as you try to swat at him and narrowly miss, and the way he feels heat tinge at the tip of his ears is better than any metallic contraption’s claim to improve blood flow.

+1

On his days off, Hotch much prefers spending as much time as he can at home, either with Jack, you, or, more recently, both. Even if Hotch technically sees you every day in the bullpen, you at work is much different than the you at home.

Or at least, he likes to think there’s a difference as you drag him to the grocery store during what was possibly the quietest afternoon he’s had in several months.

I just have to pick up a couple of things, you had said as you buckle your seatbelt in the passenger side. We’ll be back home in a jiffy.

Never mind the fact that the word home coming from your lips has Hotch’s mind reeling. You’ve been seeing each other for several months now and he’s almost sure that you haven’t stepped foot in your own apartment for at least a month. You’ve taken up half of his dresser, most of his closet space, and the entirety of the counter space in the bathroom with your multi-colored serums and skincare tools that don’t work no matter what you claim.

He follows you around the store, dutifully pushing the grocery cart, as you mentally go through your checklist on all the toiletries you’re almost out of. Which is why he finds himself in the cosmetics aisle when you exclaim “Oh, I forgot about tomatoes for taco Tuesday!” and scamper off before he could say there were plenty of tomatoes from last time in the fridge because Jack has suddenly decided he doesn’t like them anymore.

He's content to wait, maybe check his emails on his phone, when he spots the familiar label of his face wash out of the corner of his eye.

It’s a brand that Haley had recommended for him when they were in college and Hotch knew absolutely nothing about skincare then, so he just continued buying it. He’s gone through countless bottles over the years, having used it nearly every day, yet Hotch finds himself frowning as he stares at the bright orange bottle.

The large bold letters advertise the cleanser being able to effectively combat oiliness, but Hotch distinctly remembers you offhandedly mentioning how lucky he was to have dry skin and not a combination like you.

Honestly, he had no idea, but it would make sense with how you were constantly slathering him in lotions and creams any chance you got.

He browses through the available cleansers, keeping an eye out for those that treat dry skin, when you sidle up next to him with a bag of tomatoes that were undoubtedly not going to get eaten. He can hear the hesitation in your voice when you ask “What are you doing?”

“Looking for something different.”

“Oh yeah? I knew I was wearing you down, Hotchner. Soon, you’re going to be begging me to take you to Sephora.” You’re joking but Hotch can detect the underlying seriousness in your voice.

He continues as if he didn’t hear you. “I’ve been using the wrong face wash for my skin so I’m looking for a different one. I probably haven’t been doing my skin any favors all these years.”

A pause. And then, incredulously, you say “Who taught you that?”

Finding one that was a good size and affordable enough to try, Hotch grabs it and throws it into the cart. When he meets your eyes, you’re staring up at him with a disbelieving smile.

“You did.” And it’s true—Hotch would’ve never thought about the long-term benefits of having a humidifier in the bedroom or the importance of sunscreen everyday if it weren’t for you. Taking care of your appearance was clearly important to you, which meant it was now important to him.

You stare at him, lips parted as if you’re at a loss for words. Your skin is glowing even under the harsh fluorescent grocery store lighting. “You’re such a sweet talker, you know that?”

You toss the tomatoes in the cart, making him wince, and loop your arm through his to tug him along the aisle. You smell sugary sweet with maybe a hint of his cologne from where you had slept in one of his old shirts last night. Hotch remembers how he had felt lightheaded, fondness flooding his chest, when he woke to you laying on his chest this morning. He tugs you closer into his side.

“Does this mean that you’ll try that new light therapy mask that I bought?”

“One step at a time, honey.”

taglist <3 @kiwriteswords @solardrop @knitmeatardis @mggslover @maeintree @pastelpinkflowerlife @storiesofsvu @actualdeemon

[writeriguess]

Can you please write Bakugo x Short Reader, who always has trouble reaching tall shelves and stuff like that, he always finds it very cute and has to make himself not to show a smile when she requires his help. Maybe sometimes he just picks her up to help her reach stuff and always teases her about it. Thank you!

Just Ask, Shorty

It happened again.

You stood in front of the kitchen cabinet, glaring at the top shelf like it had personally offended you. Your fingers stretched as far as they could, the tips just barely grazing the edge of the cereal box you wanted. You refused to get the stool. That thing only reminded you of your constant struggle against gravity, and you weren’t about to let an inanimate object win today.

With a deep breath, you prepared to jump—only to freeze when a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

“You look like a damn idiot.”

Your shoulders stiffened, and you turned your head just enough to see Bakugo leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, definitely trying not to smirk.

“Shut up, Katsuki,” you huffed, returning your focus to the shelf. “I got this.”

Bakugo made a low sound in his throat—something between an amused scoff and a chuckle. He knew damn well you didn’t ‘got this.’ And, honestly, he found it absolutely adorable watching you struggle, even if he’d rather die than admit it out loud.

“Yeah, sure,” he muttered, pushing off the wall. “Move.”

You didn’t move. Instead, you stubbornly hopped, fingertips brushing the box just enough to nudge it further away.

“…You’re doin’ this on purpose, aren’t ya?”

“No!”

He rolled his eyes before stepping up behind you. Before you could protest, his hands gripped your waist, and in one smooth motion, he lifted you up like you weighed nothing.

“K-Katsuki!” you squeaked, flailing slightly as he held you effortlessly.

“What?” he snorted. “You wanted the damn cereal, didn’t ya? Hurry up before I drop your ass.”

You grumbled under your breath but grabbed the box, feeling your face heat up. The worst part? This wasn’t the first time he’d done this. If anything, it was becoming a regular occurrence. And he always took the opportunity to tease you about it.

Once he set you down, you spun to face him with a glare, only to find his usual scowl in place—but his eyes held something softer, something amused. You knew he was holding back a smirk.

“I hate you,” you muttered.

“Pfft, yeah right,” he scoffed, ruffling your hair before walking off. “Just admit you like bein’ picked up, short stack.”

You grabbed a kitchen towel and threw it at him. He dodged without even looking back, laughing as he disappeared into the living room.

…Yeah. You were never going to win against him.

[sturniololuvz]

Ok, feel free to ignore this if its super weird, but I was thinking; could you maybe write about the sturniolos sister, who just got her first boyfriend and like one night all three of them + her are sitting on the couch watching a show or doing their own thing or wtv, and she just randomly says something like, "what do I do if he asks me to give him head?" and all of them turn to her and are just like "...what?" Idk if this makes sense😭

omgggg yes lmaooooo

“Wait… WHAT?!”

Sturniolos x sister

The four of them were sprawled out on the couch, half-watching a random show that none of them were really paying attention to. It was one of those rare peaceful nights—no filming, no drama, just them hanging out as siblings.

Nick was on his phone, Matt was mindlessly scrolling through Netflix, and Chris was lying across the couch with his hood up, staring at the ceiling. Y/N sat between them, casually munching on a bag of chips.

And then, out of nowhere, she spoke.

“What do I do if he asks me to give him head?”

The entire room froze.

Nick’s thumb stopped scrolling. Matt’s eyes slowly lifted from the TV. Chris’s head snapped toward her so fast it was a miracle he didn’t get whiplash.

“…WHAT?”

Y/N blinked at them, completely unfazed. “What? It’s a serious question.”

Chris sat up instantly, looking personally offended. “NO, THE HELL IT’S NOT.”

Matt’s face was blank, like his brain was buffering. “Why are you asking that? Who is asking that? WHO IS THIS ABOUT?”

Nick just rubbed his temples, already feeling a headache forming. “Jesus Christ, Y/N.”

She sighed, throwing a chip at Chris. “Relax, it’s not that deep.”

Chris dodged the chip, eyes wide. “NOT THAT DEEP? NOT THAT DEEP? YES, IT IS.”

Matt leaned forward, his hands clasped together like he was about to have the most serious discussion of his life. “Start from the beginning. Who is asking you for head?”

Y/N groaned. “No one yet, I’m just saying if it happens, what do I do?”

Chris pointed at her. “You say no. That’s what you do.”

Nick scoffed. “Or you break up with him because why is he even asking that?!”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, you guys are so dramatic.”

Chris threw his hands in the air. “We’re dramatic?! You just blindsided us with the most insane question of all time!”

Matt exhaled, running a hand down his face. “Y/N. Are you seriously thinking about doing that?”

Y/N shifted awkwardly. “I mean… I don’t know. I just—thought I should be prepared in case it comes up.”

Chris looked physically ill. “In case it comes up—EW, WHY WOULD YOU WORD IT LIKE THAT?”

Nick groaned. “Oh my God, I wanna die.”

Matt shook his head aggressively. “No. Nope. We’re not doing this. We’re not having this conversation.”

Chris crossed his arms. “Absolutely not. You’re too young for this.”

Y/N scoffed. “I’m sixteen.”

Nick shot her a glare. “And you’re still too young for this conversation.”

Chris pointed at her. “You are a child. My baby sister. You are NOT putting—”

“OKAY, WE GET IT,” Y/N cut him off, throwing a pillow at him.

Matt sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, if a guy ever pressures you into doing something you’re not sure about, he’s not the right guy. Simple as that.”

Nick nodded. “Yeah, and if he ever makes you uncomfortable, you tell us.”

Chris cracked his knuckles. “And then we kill him.”

Y/N gave him a deadpan look. “You’re not killing my boyfriend, Chris.”

Chris huffed. “Well, if he asks you for head, then maybe I will.”

Matt shook his head. “Alright, enough. This is officially the worst conversation I’ve ever had.”

Nick groaned, tossing his phone onto the table. “I need to bleach my brain.”

Chris shuddered. “I need therapy.”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Next time, I’ll just Google it.”

Chris gasped so dramatically you’d think she just threatened his life. “ABSOLUTELY NOT.”

Matt sighed. “I’m going to bed. This night is ruined.”

Nick stood up, shaking his head. “Same. I literally cannot process what just happened.”

Chris pointed at Y/N as he stood. “You—stay away from Google. And boys. And everything.”

Y/N smirked. “Can I at least—”

“NO!” All three of them shouted in unison before leaving the room.

Y/N just laughed, grabbing another chip.

Honestly? Totally worth it.

[macabrecravings]

Newbies Guide to Degrees of Brutality!

Post inspired by @degrees-of-fuck because of this post :) Here I will list everything I remember about it, but take it with a grain of salt --

Degrees of Brutality was a DOL mod set in the US (instead of the UK) after Nazi Germany won WW2. (US was renamed New Berlin" to show allegiance w/ Germany) However, none of this was stated in the game, it was just what the creator said in the Discord.

DOB was an incredibly repetitive, broken, bare-bones mod (it only had a few builds before its removal and there were only a few character interactions you could have. I remember Whitney, Kylar, Harper, and Bailey.

The concept was interesting to me because it turned DOL into a survival game, instead of what it normally is. You had a thirst meter and a food meter that you had to keep track of.

Instead of living in the orphanage, you live in a house with your catonic parents. You need to make money by the end of the week otherwise your landlord will quite literally bomb/set your house on fire while you're gone. I found this out when I didn't make my payment on time and came home to nothing. Just ash. No house, no parents, and I had to live in the alleyways & sleep in a cardboard box.

Speaking of money, there were 2(?) ways to grt it. 1) Working at the Orphanage as a cleaner and 2) Donating your blood to Harper the doctor.

If you worked at the orphanage, you did not get paid very much but it became clear that Bailey was a murderer who was feeding the orphans human meat. So, if the orphans didn't pay him on time, instead of whoring them out or selling them to Eden... He kills them and feeds them to other orphans.

Selling your blood to Harper gives you a lot more money, but you could only do it a few times because it locks you into a bad end. The more you come in, the more obsessed Harper will get with you. They will ask you if you want to do another experiment and this results in them murdering you. There was a blurb at the end about them getting caught.

At the hospital, there is a chance that you will meet an unstable person in the waiting room. They are holding their arm, bleeding through their shirt due to self-harm. When you leave the hospital, you will be ambushed on the street by this individual and it is impossible to outrun them. This is Kylar :)

Kylar keeps you as a pet. You are given a dog bowl where they feed you soup that reeks of human meat, and they will cut your arms and legs off to keep you from running away. Unlike DOL Hysterial Kylar, DOB Kylar is unstable to a point of delusion and due to the extremely poor writing it was incredibly ... offensive(?)/stereotypical. They will also give you prosthetic limbs that they get from Harper. (The two of them work together a lot.)

Amongst working to get money, you have to eat and drink. This can be done by buying groceries for your house or by digging in the diner's trash and drinking puddles in the alleyway. Let's be honest, no one was making enough money in this game to buy groceries. They wanted you to dig into the dumpster for greasy hamburgers and drink gravelly alley water. It damaged your health, but honestly it was what I liked in the game pfpffjgjgn....

In the alleys, there are cardboard boxes that you can sleep in. But also, Whitney encounters! All they did was force you to smoke / eat cigarettes. If you refused, they'd cut a glasgow smile onto your face.

The encounters on the street from NPCs were so much more frequent than in DOL, and there was NO option to save. Except in your bedroom / sleeping areas. No save-slumming allowed. No saving before encounters, no escaping the frequent REPETITIVE encounters.

If you escaped Kylar, they'd bring you back and the whole thing would happen again and again. Cut your limbs off and have it show on your character model as if they hadn't already done it... Crawl around on your legs even tho they had been removed XD It didn't make a lot of sense.

IIRC, there was a casino. I didn't spend any time there, I don’t think there was much to do.

There was also a bridge that had guards and you had to pay to get across (get out of the slums/ your area). Here there was a shop, alleyways, and a library. This was hypothetically where you could get your skills up (like the grades & get new clothes bc literally 90% of DOB was running around naked). But, yeah. It didn't work too well. Cause it's impossible to make enough money for any of it and not die before then XD

It was the most Grindy Mod EVER and had No rewards for all of that grinding, just disappointment.... This is why I adore when people create their own DOB AUs :) ( @degrees-of-fuck @digenerate-trash ) As a horror/ dark fiction enjoyer I think the concept of "DOL but more brutal" is cool, but the execution was awfullllllll..... It's kind of lost media atp but there wasn’t much media to um... archive even XD

So, this is my archival of it~

[zerosbubble]

Coffee Routine.

Tim Bradford x Rookie!reader [PLATONIC] — Ongoing series: Like Father, like Rookie.

A/N: Thank you so much for the support! I honestly didn’t expect so many of you guys to love this series. Definitely gave me more motivation to write! 🥹

Summary: Your everyday routine consisted of many things—one of them being bringing Tim coffee right before roll call without fail. However, one morning, Tim notices something awfully wrong. You didn’t bring him coffee today.

The first time it happened, Tim barely even looked at you.

You strolled into roll call, dropped a coffee onto his desk without ceremony, and took your seat like it was nothing. Like you hadn’t just handed him a large black coffee from his usual spot, perfectly made.

Tim blinked at it. Then at you.

You didn’t even glance up, already flipping through your notes.

Alright. Maybe it was a coincidence.

But then it happened again. And again. And again.

Every morning, like clockwork. Before his first cup of the day, before he even had a chance to be irritated at something stupid, you were there, sliding the cup over without so much as a greeting.

Like it was routine. Like you just knew.

And Tim—being Tim—did what he always did when confronted with something odd. He ignored it.

For weeks.

But then, one morning, he got to work a little later than usual, and when he walked into the briefing room—no coffee in hand—he felt it immediately.

Something was missing.

He glanced around. You were at your desk, looking half dead, chin resting on your palm as you aimlessly scrolled through a report.

And on the table that he sits at every morning?

Nothing.

No cup waiting for him. No routine exchange. Just an empty desk and a sluggish-looking rookie who was barely upright in her chair.

Tim frowned. “Where’s my coffee, kid?”

You blinked up at him, eyes unfocused, like it took you a second to register the question. “Huh?”

“My coffee,” he repeated, slower this time. “The one you hand me every morning like some kind of overgrown intern.”

“Oh.” You yawned, rubbing a hand over your face, expression hazy. “Didn’t get one.”

Tim squinted, like it was a riddle that he (for once) didn’t have the brains to decipher. “You didn’t get one?”

You shrugged, barely lifting your shoulders. “Forgot.”

Forgot.

That was new.

You had managed to grab coffee every single shift for the past three weeks, unprompted, like some weird unspoken pact. You weren’t exactly a creature of habit—more impulsive, more instinct-driven—but somehow, this had become routine. Reliable. And now, suddenly, you just… forgot?

Tim crossed his arms, taking in the mess of you. Your uniform was a little more wrinkled than usual, your posture slumped. Dark circles weighed under your eyes, and you had that glassy, half-there look of someone running on fumes.

It clicked.

“You overslept.”

You groaned, dropping your head onto your folded arms. “Why do you say that like it’s a crime?”

Tim huffed, unimpressed. “Because for you, it kind of is. What happened? Alarm not go off?”

“Woke up an hour late,” you mumbled, voice muffled against your sleeve. “Didn’t have time to stop.”

Tim stared at you for a long moment. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and walked right back out of the briefing room.

You barely even noticed. Probably too half-asleep to care.

Five minutes later, when he returned, he dropped a cup onto your desk—your usual order, still warm.

Your head lifted slowly. You stared at it. Then up at him.

Tim just arched a brow. “What?”

You squinted. “Did you… just get me coffee?”

He scoffed. “Yeah. It’s called returning the favour.” He muttered, before clearing his throat to restore his imagine, “—and I can’t have a rookie who’s sloppy just because they didn’t have their morning coffee. Don’t overthink it.”

You blinked again, as if trying to make sure this was real. Then, with an exaggerated sniffle, you clutched the cup to your chest. “I take back every bad thing I’ve ever said about you.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Drink your damn coffee, kid.”

And just like that, the routine was set back into place.

[finelinevogue]

Heyyy! I adore your writing, it's so soft and ahhh just obsessed, I can never get enough! Could I request something with shy!reader (maybe non-bau) and Emily where they had a meet cute and are maybe on their first date? xx

meet cute

OMG AN EMILY REQUEST YEASSS!! hopefully this is sort of what you wanted…?!? 💛💛

pairing - emily prentiss x reader

word count - 2.1k

Why did no one talk about the horrendous anxiety that came with first dates?

Your heart felt like it was beating so hard that it might as well be trying to escape your chest and the rest of your body was so shaky.

Normally when you were anxious you could never really pinpoint why, but this was different. The root of your anxiety was so easy to pinpoint and it was because you were going on a date with the prettiest girl you had ever seen.

Emily Prentiss had come into your life like a page out of a meet-cute novel.

She had mistakenly taken your coffee order for hers, even though it said your name on the side of the cup not hers. As shy as you were, you had not been ready to give up your morning coffee. Turns out confronting someone for taking your coffee can lead to exchanging phone numbers. Then phone numbers can lead to arranging a date.

And that date was today.

<.><.><.>

“Why are you in such a rush?” Morgan asked as he watched Emily clear her desk and pack her bag.

Normally Emily was here well past everyone else. Well… Maybe not Hotch, but definitely later than anyone else on the team.

Tonight was different though.

It was already 5PM and she was stressing that she hadn’t left herself enough time to get ready.

“There’s somewhere I need to be.” Emily answered.

Morgan chuckled because he should have anticipated a cryptic answer from his partner.

“Oh yeah? Where?” Morgan crossed his arms.

Spencer popped up from his desk, “I think I know.”

“Go on then pretty boy.” Morgan said.

“Emily rarely leaves work before 7PM, except today she’s been watching the clock countdown the seconds until she can legally leave work at 5PM. That tells us she has somewhere really important to be. Considering there’s no immediate family involved and we haven’t been invited I would suggest that Emily has a date.”

Emily scoffed, both annoyed and impressed that Spencer had managed to deduce all of that.

“Combine that current look she’s giving us with your theory Reid, I’d say you were right.” Morgan smiled and leaned forwards in his chair. “So…?”

Emily raised her eyebrows at Morgan, silently challenging him.

She didn’t deny anything though. Mainly because she knew she had been caught and there was absolutely no point in lying to a duo of profilers. However, that didn’t mean she needed to divulge in the details of her night.

“You two need to get a life and stop spying in on mine.” Emily said.

“You know that’s not gonna happen.” Morgan argued back, Spencer giving an understanding nod of agreement.

“Worth a shot.” Emily shrugged and left it at that. Not only was she eager to get away from this conversation, but she was also really determined to not screw this date up and so that meant leaving now.

“Details tomorrow, Prentiss.” Morgan shouted as Emily left the room.

<.><.><.>

The nerves had gotten ten times worse.

You had felt confident leaving the house, but now you felt somehow both underdressed and overdressed. You felt like you weren’t really meant to be meeting up with Emily this evening, like this wasn’t something that happened to you.

Maybe you’d made a mistake? Maybe this had all been a dream? Or maybe she thought she had been messaging someone else this whole time?

At least you were meeting in a neutral location, so if anything did go wrong then you could both leave and return to your own homes.

You let your shaky hands reach for your phone to check your messages again.

1 hour ago - From Emily Prentiss:

Looking forward to seeing you tonight : )

30 minutes ago - To Emily Prentiss:

Me too xx

25 minutes ago - To Emily Prentiss:

I am at the restaurant now xx

10 minutes ago - To Emily Prentiss:

It was ‘The Olive Bistro’ that we were meeting at right? x

2 minutes ago - To Emily Prentiss:

Just checking you’re okay?

Then your phone started vibrating and you could see that Emily was calling you.

You took a deep breath before answering.

“It’s okay!” You blurted out before she could say anything.

“Y/N?” Emily answered, her breathing sounding laboured.

“Yes, it’s me.”

“Sorry, it just sounded like you said ‘It’s okay’.”

“No - I-I mean yes. Yes, sorry, it is okay.”

“What’s okay?”

“I’m assuming you’re calling to cancel?” You questioned.

“Not at all. Why would— Will you please stop walking so slow!”

Who was she yelling at?

“Sorry?”

“Y/N, I swear… Wait, have you been standing outside the restaurant this entire time?”

Emily’s question made you stand alert. Surely the only way she would know that is if she could see you right now.

“How do you…” You said, before being cut off by watching Emily walk really fast paced down the street towards you.

Emily must have hung up the phone so you did too, putting it into your coat pocket. Your attention was solely on her now and you didn’t want any distractions.

And gosh was she beautiful.

Emily was wearing dark boot-cut jeans, a high-neck black jumper and black boots. Her hair was styled perfectly around her face and her makeup looked the same as it had the other day.

You suddenly felt very okay about what you’d chosen to wear; similar jeans, also boots but a white shirt instead.

Your hands got more and more shaky as she approached.

“I’m so sorry.” She said as she stood a few feet in front of you. “You must be freezing.”

“I’m okay.” You gave her a nervous smile.

“I swear I’m not normally like this. I even left work early to avoid being late, but Sergio would not let me leave and then the car park… What?” Emily smiled when she saw the look you were giving her.

You shrugged your shoulders, “You still came here, even after a long day at work plus cat troubles?”

“Yes. Of course.” Emily looked wounded that you’d ever consider anything else.

“That’s kind of… romantic.”

Emily stepped closer to you and held out her hand for you to take. Your hand stopped shaking as soon as you held hers. She grounded you and reminded you that you were completely safe with her.

“No, it’s just basic human etiquette.”

“Not to me.” There was a hint of sadness to your tone, which Emily quickly picked up on and wiped away with the softest kiss to your cheek.

“Shall we?”

<.><.><.>

You hadn’t laughed like this in ages. The kind of laughing that left your belly stitch and your jaw ache. The kind of laughing that came from getting along with someone really well, which was interesting considering you’d only known Emily for a couple of weeks.

Dinner had gone really well.

You remembered to go for something that wouldn’t slop everywhere and drink something you knew was safe. Pesto pasta and a limoncello spritz. You had unintentionally impressed Emily with your choices too, which you were counting as a small win.

“Well I’m glad he’s okay.” You laughed.

“Him? Honey, it was me who was under attack.” Emily feigned shock.

“Yes, but he’s a cat. He doesn’t know any better.”

“Wow. Cannot believe you’re taking Sergio’s side over mine.”

You would have fallen for her pouty lips and her sad face if it wasn’t for her hand that held yours across the table. She had reached for your hand after dinner and hadn’t let go since.

It was really nice.

That sounds silly to say that holding a pretty woman’s hand was ‘nice’, but that was the truth. This was new to you and so you were taking everything in moment by moment.

“I’m sorry. How can I make it up to you?” You asked.

“Oh I don’t know.”

“How about…”

“A kiss? You’re so right.” Emily jumped in before you could.

You blushed. She made you so nervous it was ridiculous. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Emily squeezed your hand.

“Okay.” You said, unsure.

You looked around the busy restaurant and thought about how uncomfortable this room would make you as you tried to have your first kiss.

Emily must have noticed though, because she squeezed your hand again to direct your attention back to her.

“I’m not kissing you here.”

“No?”

“No. It’s not the end of the night yet.” She smiled and your whole body relaxed. You actually felt your body return to the moment with Emily, knowing you could peacefully admire her under the warm restaurant glow for a little longer.

<.><.><.>

The end of the night came quickly.

You stood at your front door and Emily was there with you. She insisted that she came home with you, knowing exactly what kind of creeps are out there late at night.

The night had been so perfect and you could feel yourself becoming slowlh more comfortable with her. She laughed at your jokes, which told you you weren’t making a fool of yourself, and she listened to everything you had to say, which made you feel important. Emily had made you feel special all night.

“I had a good time tonight.” You said, picking out your keys from your coat pocket.

“Me too.” Emily smiled.

“Are we going to see each other again?”

“I hope so. If it wasn’t clear from sharing a lemon dessert with you when I actually hate lemons, then I really like you and I’d love to go on a date with you again.”

“Emily…” You pouted sadly.

“What? Are you upset about the dessert?”

“Yes!” You exclaimed.

“It’s okay.”

“No it’s not, because now when I kiss you all I’m going to think about is how I probably still taste of lemons and you’re going to hate every moment of it.” You frowned.

If you didn’t get your kiss off Emily then it wasn’t literally the end of the world, but it sure would feel like it.

“I don’t mind.”

“But…”

“Y/N, love, I don’t mind.” Emily cut you off firmly. “Okay?”

She took a step towards you, closing the distance, and cupped a hand over your cheek. She hesitantly guided your lips towards hers, ghosting over them to give you the chance to pull away if you wanted.

You closed your eyes as she got close and allowed your other senses to take over.

When Emily kissed you it felt weird.

You’d heard so often you would feel butterflies or fireworks, but in reality it wasn’t anything like that. It just felt natural, like you’d been doing this forever.

You felt right together.

She tasted of lemons so no doubt you did too, but that didn’t stop either of you from kissing each other. She felt so warm against you and you moaned a little in delight at the feeling.

When she pulled away you whined - like, actually whined - from the loss of contact. You watched Emily laugh as you opened your eyes again.

“We have time.” She said softly.

“Yeah, but… we have time now.” You said, trying to initiate another kiss.

“Where’s Little Miss Shy gone from earlier, huh?” She teased.

“You’re mean.”

“And you’re impatient.”

“This is unfair.”

“But it’s the end of the night.”

“Does it have to be?” You whined, probably sounding a lot more desperate than you were hearing.

“Yes,” Emily laughed, pinching your cheek, “C’mon.”

Emily walked you right in front of your door and motioned for you to open it with your key.

You had this intrusive thought that you could just kidnap her and keep her inside your house all night, just to spend more time with her but even that seemed a bit far-fetched.

Right?

You opened the door and stepped inside, leaving Emily standing on your doorstep.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me.” You said.

The way you were acting all clingy would no doubt cause you to have an anxiety attack as soon as you shut the door, because you had only been on one date and were already acting like you loved her.

No doubt it wouldn’t be hard or long before you did love her, but after one date seemed a little unreasonable.

Emily might even be thinking that you were coming on a bit too strong and this could be it…

“For today.”

“So unfair.” You muttered to yourself.

“Y/N.” Emily said, causing you to look at her seriously.

“Yeah?”

“Thank you, for tonight.”

“Of course. I enjoyed spending time with you. Just don’t make me wait too long before the next one.”

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

Lights, Camera, Colombia

💫  Prologue 💫 

Summary: Ten years after he quit the DEA Javi gets approached by a production company, asking if he would like to be involved in the production of a documentary about Pablo Escobar and the drug war. When he agrees, he meets you, one of the producers of the documentary and the woman who he will spend the next months working with on the documentary and travel back to Colombia, the woman who will get to know about the side of him that he never wants anyone to see, the woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with.

Pairing: Javier Peña x fem. reader

Wordcount: 3k

Rating: G (for now)

Warnings: angst, kind of a meet cute, fluff, a look into Javi's head, mentioned character dead (I'm sorry), a little big of backstory

follow @toomanystoriessolittletime-fics and turn on notifications to get notified when I post new fics

Full Masterlist // Javier Peña Masterlist // Lights, Camera, Colombia Masterlist

There was a Colombian restaurant across the street form where Javier lived in San Antonio. 

When he came back from work he would sit on his small balcony with a cold beer and just watch. It wasn’t much different from watching the boats on the Rio Grande back at his papa’s ranch. They had raided the place almost three months ago but now it had opened up again with new owner. 

A little search in the DEA database told him everything he needed to know about those new owners, another raid already in progress within the next week.

The internet would have made his job back in Colombia so much fucking easier. 

Sometimes he wondered how his life would be now if he hadn’t taken the job with the DEA all the years back. He wondered what his life would be like without the nightmares, without the urge to watch over his shoulder when he walked the streets at night.

His therapist told him what he had was PTSD.

And his therapist didn’t even know half of what had happened in Colombia. 

After he emptied his beer he made his way back inside his apartment. It was a good apartment. Big living room, small kitchen, two bedrooms, one of which he used as an office/guest room. Not that he did get any guests. Ever.

It was the space where his computer stood on a desk his father had build for him when he went to high school. It was one of the few things he had taken with him from the ranch when he left Laredo three years ago. 

He didn’t see any point in staying after his father died. 

There was nothing left there for him, except the ghosts from his past.

And those were with him no matter where he went, so why continue to stay back in a town where he was reminded how lonely he was at ever corner?

So when the call from Steve came about the job offer in San Antonio he took it even though he never wanted to be involved with the DEA again. Not that he thought they would take him back anyway after what he had pulled, but things had changed. 

It was around the time that he moved here that he began to write. Write about his life, his experiences in Colombia and about his thoughts. About how everything had changed him.

To a certain point he became numb to his own feelings. He saw so many people die in front of him that he was sure that something inside of him had died too. 

He realised that after he caught his ex girlfriend Alice cheating on him back in Laredo just before his father died. He wasn’t sure if he just didn’t love her anymore or hadn’t loved her at all. They had been together for almost two years and he thought back then that she could be the one. Maybe. 

He now knows that it would have never worked out between them. Not because Alice cheated on him (well maybe that was a factor too) but because he wasn’t sure if he was made to get married. Or be in love. 

He wasn’t sure if he had ever been in love at all if he was honest with himself. 

And so, in a never ending spiral of anxiety and self doubt his therapist, a woman in her sixties called Margery, told him to try to write everything down when it felt like the thoughts were getting too loud, or when he couldn’t fall back asleep after a nightmare. 

And after a year he had written almost 100.000 words of something that Margery said could have people interested if he were to turn it into a book. 

He still remembered her laugh at the look he gave her at hearing that. 

But anyway…

When the offer of this documentary came in the first time, he never even entertained the thought. Writing things down about Colombia for himself was a very different thing from sitting in front of the camera and talking about it to a room full of strangers. 

But then Steve had called and told him that he signed in on it. 

It was a small studio in New York that had been working on several documentaries about the drug war before and once he watched a few of them he entertained the idea of participating. 

Truth to be told he was getting bored. So why not try out something new?

He flew out to Miami to meet up with Steve and the producers to talk things through. 

It’s where he met you for the first time. Well, sort of. You were on the phone from New York and called into the meeting to answer every question the both of them could have. Apparently your flight had been canceled, otherwise you would have been there too.

While he first thought his job would be to only have a few questions to answer in front of a camera he pretty quickly learned that this was not the case at all. 

Originally the idea was for Steve and Javier to both go back to Colombia to revisit some places that were significant to them, and that had been significant for Pablo Escobar and to just speak about their memories about these places.

It would mostly be only them and you with your camera traveling through the country while the rest of the team followed to shoot some of the scenery and be on call should you need them. 

But since Steve couldn’t just leave for six weeks, it would be Javier and you alone for the most time. 

Something he was less than thrilled about. Going back to the place that gave him nightmares with a woman he hadn’t met before? 

He never wanted to smoke as much as he did as they took their lunch break. 

„So you gonna do it?“ Steve was sitting across from him in the restaurant of the hotel they had met up at. Javier would stay at Steve’s place tonight though to visit Conny and the kids and he would never admit it, but he was looking forward to it.  

„Man, I don’t know,“ Javier sighed, rubbing his finger over the moustache he was still rocking no matter how much he got teased about it from anyone.

„Why? Not like anyone is waiting for you at home,“ Steve grinned and Javier rolled his eyes. 

„Fuck you,“ he spat, making Steve laugh. 

Steve didn’t know that he hit a nerve with his jest. Lately he had realised just how lonely he was. He never craved a typical family with a wife and some kids. He never was really lonely before because no matter how many people he pushed away, he knew that back in Laredo, on a ranch he grew up on was his father.

But ever since his father had died, Javier found himself questioning if this was it. If working his nine to five for five days a week, eating single microwave dinners and drinking too much beer in front of the TV would be his life until he just…. Died.

Would people even care? When would someone realise that he was truly gone?

It had been a topic in his latest therapy session that he was still processing. But Steve didn’t know that. He didn’t even know that Javier went to therapy in the first place. 

„I’d go back. Would love to watch everything that somehow had to do with that fucker crumble,“ Steve said with a shrug, before he began to eat his burger. 

Javier sighed. 

What exactly was holding him back?

Steve was right, there was nothing and no one at home waiting for him and frankly, he hated his job. But somehow he had to make a living and there were worse things than spending eight hours a day in an air conditioned room. 

But going back to Colombia?

„I think this could be good for you, Javi,“ Steve said, emptying his glass. 

„How so?“ Javi asked.

„I think you never really got closure on what we did in Colombia. Yeah, you went back for Cali but… all the things that happened while we chased Escobar through the whole country? All the decisions we made? All the deaths? It’s been fucking awful. And I think going back to see that we actually did make a difference? That all those years we spent there were actually worth something? I That we helped the people? I’d fucking love to see that,“ Steve said and Javi looked at him before he leaned back into his chair with a sigh. 

„Fuck, Steve. When did you become so fucking wise?“ Javi said with a small chuckle and Steve shrugged. 

„Got a killer wife at home and a therapist I see regularly,“ he said and Javi was surprised to hear that. Part of him still was ashamed that he had to get help from someone, even though his therapist is slowly convincing him it’s actually pretty damn great that he took the leap of faith to talk to someone. 

Mental health was not really something people talk about, especially men. 

You're either a strong man, who can handle everything that life throws at you or your a fucking pussy if you couldn’t. 

He never understood someone using the term pussy as an insult. Pussies were fucking powerful. Pussies could make men drop to their knees. They gave life, for fucks sake. 

„You know I read that they’re turning Escobar’s home in a fucking waterpark,“ Steve said and Javier snorted. 

„Seriously?“

„And a zoo. Apparently those hippos he brought there have been fucking like… well animals and now there are so many there, they have no idea what to do with them,“ Steve said with a grin, shaking his head, clearly amused. 

„Think they have plush hippos so I can get Olivia one?“ Javier asked and Steve chuckled. 

„Guess you gonna find out huh?“ He got up, slapping Javier on his shoulder. 

„Think we still on some kill lists over there?“ Javi asked as he got up too, walking next to Steve towards the elevator, back towards the floor they had their meeting on. 

„Probably,“ Steve shrugged and Javier rolled his eyes. 

„I have some questions,“ you heard Javier Peña say once the meeting continued. You were sitting in the small meeting room of the production company you worked in. You were alone, everyone else already having gone home to enjoy their weekend. 

You never minded staying longer, loving your work. 

And this project? Well this was very close to your heart. Growing up with the knowledge that your father had been killed because he was one of the patrol officers at the Mexican borders that regularly found the coke that the cartels tried to smuggle into the states, left you to grow up with a hatred towards everything responsible for taking your father from you when you were just four years old. 

You were very passionate about this project and would do almost anything to have one of the DEA Agents that have been involved the most in taking down not only Pablo Escobar but the Cali Cartel too in your documentary. 

„Go ahead. I’m sure I have answers for all of them,“ you said with a smile and heard the men on the other end of the line chuckle. 

„If I agree to this, I need to reach out to some of my contacts beforehand. There is the possibility of me still being on kill lists and that would endanger you and your crew,“ Javier Peña said and you did a little happy dance, because it sounded like he was on board. 

„Of course. If you feel better, I could also arrange for some kind of security…“ you began but were interrupted. 

„No. I would…. I would handle that myself. I just like to be prepared beforehand. I hope you have no problems with me carrying a gun throughout the whole thing, because there’s no way in hell I can go back there without one,“ Javier said and you nodded. 

„Understood. I took extensive shooting classes and I have a gun license too. If you can handle the part of me actually taking a gun to Colombia, I could carry one too,“ you said. 

There was a pause. 

„I’ll think about it,“ he finally said and you nodded. 

„Talk me again through the timeline,“ he said.

„The overall time we would spend in Columbia would be six week. We would fly out to Bogota to meet up. I have a few locations lined up that I would want to visit. I would send you those via email and I would love it if you have some locations that are significant to you too that we could add. Overall I am thinking about three weeks in Bogota and three weeks in Medellin. We would fly out to Medellin, spend time there to go through all the locations and then we would drive back to Bogota. I am currently working on getting the permit to film at what used to be Escobar’s hacienda.“

„Are they really turning it into a waterpark?“ The other man, Steve Murphy asked. You smiled to yourself. 

„Oh yeah. Apparently it got a lot of traffic after Pablo died and people took everything they could find from there. I am also trying to find out how much money was found on the property,“ you said, hearing the man chuckle on the other line. 

„It would be just the two of us,“ Javier said again. You nodded. 

„Yes. The crew would travel with us, and be on call. They will shoot scenery from all the places we visit, but going through those locations and talking? That would be just the two of us and my new travel sized camera,“ you said. 

You had tried the camera out on your nieces third birthday party some weeks ago and were pleasantly surprised by the picture and sound quality. 

You could hear murmuring on the other end of the line and you pursed your lips, your feet nervously tapping on the floor. 

„Fine. Send me the whole plan via email and I will look into it and get back to you with any suggestions. When would we leave?“ Javier asked and you threw your hands in the air in a silent cheer. 

„Middle to end of may. We would have to be back by mid July because I have another job I need to be here for. Interviews would happen sometime in August for a release of the documentary before Christmas.“

„Sounds good to me,“ Javier finally said and you felt like a weight was lifted from your shoulders. 

You had a vision for this project, and you were now so much closer to getting your vision. 

„Thank you Mr. Peña. It’s…. I am looking forward to officially meeting you in Colombia,“ you said.

„Me too. And please call me Javier. Or Javi. Mr. Peña makes me feel fucking old,“ he said.

„You are old, Mr. Peña,“ Steve Murphy said and you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you as you heard what sounded like a slap on the other line followed from an Fuck you Javi. 

„Noted, Javier. I will send you the schedule and legal will send you the contract.“

„Please also send me your ID and gun license so I can take care of the permit for Columbia,“ Javier said and you nodded. 

„Will do. Thank you so much for agreeing to do this,“ you said. 

„No need to thank me,“ he said.

„Do you have any more questions?“ You asked. 

„Not right now. If I do I’ll get back to you. I do have you number,“ he said. 

„Perfect. Well then, have a great rest of the day,“ you said. 

„You too,“ he said before they all said goodbye to you and the call disconnected. 

You jumped up and did a little happy dance, feeling so fucking relieved that you had one of them on board for this. With the extensive research you had made on them you had to admit that you would have loved to have Steve Murphy on too, but with him having a family that was waiting for him at home, you could understand that he didn’t want to spend over a month apart from them. 

Javier Peña was a little mystery to you. 

You knew from your research that he had left Columbia just weeks before Pablo Escobar was killed, only to be sent back after to take down the Cali Cartel. Something about the whole thing didn’t seem right to you and you had the hope that spending time with him would lead to answers to that question. 

From your research you also knew that he had a… let’s say unique system on how to get information. You had actually reached out to some of the women he got out of Colombia after finding out about him using prostitutes for information on the cartel members. 

Something an ex CIA agent with the name William Stechner had told you when you had met up with him weeks prior for the possibility of having him on the documentary too. 

An idea you had pretty quickly got rid off after meeting him. 

There was something about the man that left you uneasy, and the thought of spending one on one time with him for too long was not your idea of a great work environment. 

Yes, you wouldn’t meet Javier Peña before Colombia either. But except for Stechner, every single person that you had talked about him had only good things to say about him. So you were going with your intuition and would trust those people. 

That meeting Javier Peña would end up changing your whole life?

Well that was something you hadn’t anticipated in your documentary (or life) plan. 

next chapter

Taglist (please send me an ask if you want to be added to the LCC Taglist, I only have a taglist for this series, not for all of my works)

@pasc4lfuzz// @kirsteng42 // @imdreaminghere // @greenwitchfromthewoods // @theorganasolo // @inept-the-magnificent // @maried01

[evermoreness]

moonlight and mending pt.9 | remus lupin

pairing: remus lupin x reader

summary: you become remus' girlfriend, officially.

obs: this is part nine of a series. here's part one.

masterlist

The past few days had been… odd.

Remus was acting strange.

Not in a bad way—if anything, he was more affectionate than usual, constantly tucking you close to his side, pressing random kisses to your temple, and looking at you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. Which, in all honesty, you kind of loved.

But he was also sneaking around.

And Remus Lupin was a terrible liar.

“Alright,” you said, crossing your arms as you cornered him in the library. “What’s going on?”

Remus blinked up at you, feigning innocence. “What do you mean?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Oh, don’t you dare try to act clueless, Lupin. You’re up to something.”

His ears turned pink. “I—what? Me? Up to something? Pfft, that’s ridiculous.”

You raised a brow. “You’ve been whispering with the boys every time I walk into a room, Lily keeps giving me knowing looks, and you nearly jumped out of your skin when I caught you writing in your notebook yesterday. You never hide things from me.”

Remus swallowed, looking anywhere but at you. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, love.”

You gasped dramatically. “Oh Merlin, you’re actually lying to me.”

“I’m not lying—”

You poked his chest. “You are! You’re the worst liar, Remus Lupin!”

“I am not—”

“You so are! You do this thing where you scratch the back of your neck—”

He immediately stopped scratching the back of his neck.

You smirked. “Aha! Caught red-handed!”

Remus groaned, covering his face with his hands. “I hate that you know me so well.”

You giggled, reaching up to pry his hands away. “Come on, just tell me what you’re planning.”

“No.”

“Remus.”

“Nope.”

You sighed dramatically. “You’re cruel. This is cruelty.”

He laughed, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead. “Patience, dove.”

You huffed. “You do realize I will figure it out, right?”

He smirked. “Not if I ask James to hide all your detective novels.”

You gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

“I would.”

“You monster.”

Remus chuckled, looping his arms around your waist. “Just… trust me, alright? It’s nothing bad. Just something I want to get right.”

You sighed, resting your forehead against his. “Fine. But if you take too long, I will take matters into my own hands.”

He grinned, kissing your softly. “I’d expect nothing less from you.”

And with that, he escaped before you could question him further.

He still had work to do.

The following days only made you more suspicious.

Remus was still sneaking off with the boys, still whispering in hushed tones whenever you entered a room, and now, even Lily was in on it.

You tried everything to get it out of him—puppy-dog eyes, playful threats, bribery with his favorite chocolates—but nothing worked.

Remus Lupin was a terrible liar, but when he was determined to keep a secret? He was infuriatingly stubborn.

Which was why you were currently slumped over the Gryffindor common room couch, dramatically groaning into a pillow.

“Why are men?” you whined.

Lily snorted from the chair across from you. “I assume you mean Remus.”

You lifted her head, pouting. “He’s hiding something, Lils.”

Lily gave you an infuriatingly knowing look. “Maybe he just wants to surprise you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You know, don’t you?”

Lily only sipped her tea, looking far too smug.

“Oh, Merlin,” you groaned, flopping back onto the couch. “First the boys, now you? I’m losing.”

Lily chuckled. “Patience, dear”

You huffed. “That’s what he keeps saying.”

Lily smirked. “Then maybe you should listen.”

You were about to throw a pillow at her when the portrait hole swung open and in walked Remus, looking slightly winded, his uniform a little rumpled.

And Sirius, grinning like a maniac.

Oh, this was suspicious.

Sirius clapped Remus on the back. “Alright, Moony, you’re all set. Now go get your girl—”

Remus shot him a look. “Shut up, Pads.”

You sat up immediately. “Go get your what?”

Sirius smirked. “Your girl, obviously.”

Remus pinched the bridge of his nose. “I hate you.”

Sirius only wiggled his brows. “You love me.”

Remus sighed and turned to you, looking nervous but also determined.

You stared at him, heart racing. “Remus?”

He took a breath, then held out his hand. “Come with me?”

Your stomach flipped. “...Alright.”

You let him take your hand, casting one last suspicious glance at Sirius and Lily—both of whom were grinning like idiots—before following Remus out of the common room.

Whatever he was planning… you had a very strong feeling that you were about to find out.

Remus led you through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, his hand warm around yours. He was nervous, you could feel it in the way his grip tightened slightly, in the way his thumb traced absentminded circles against her skin.

You wanted to ask but something in his expression stopped you.

Instead, you let him guide you up a staircase, down a hallway, and finally to a familiar wooden door.

The Astronomy Tower.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Remus glanced at you, then hesitated. “Close your eyes?”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Are you going to push me off the tower?”

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Not this time.”

You giggled but obeyed, closing your eyes as he pushed the door open and led you inside.

“Alright,” he murmured, stopping behind you. “You can look now.”

You opened your eyes—and gasped.

The Astronomy Tower, already one of the most beautiful places in Hogwarts, had been transformed into something straight out of a dream.

A thick, cozy blanket was spread out in the center, surrounded by enchanted candles floating in the air, casting a soft, golden glow. A few pillows were scattered on the blanket, along with a basket—probably filled with food, knowing Remus—and a thermos of what you hoped was hot chocolate.

But what really caught your attention was the sky above—clear, open, vast, the stars twinkling like tiny diamonds.

It was breathtaking.

You hand flew to your mouth. “Remus…”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “D’you like it?”

You turned to him, eyes wide. “Like it? Remus, this is—this is beautiful.”

His shoulders sagged in relief. “Good. That’s… that’s good.”

You turned back to take it all in, still in awe. “Did you do all this?”

Remus chuckled. “I had some help.”

You smirked. “Sirius?”

“Mostly James, actually,” he admitted. “Sirius just told me not to mess it up.”

You laughed, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the blanket. “Well, you haven’t.”

You sat down together, and as soon as you were settled, Remus reached into the basket and pulled out a familiar-looking bar of chocolate.

Your eyes widened. “Remus, is that—”

He smirked. “My favorite chocolate? Yes. And before you ask, yes, I’m sharing.”

You gasped dramatically. “You must love me.”

At that, his face turned serious.

You blinked. “Remus?”

He took a breath, then took both of your hands in his. His thumbs traced over your knuckles, his expression soft but determined.

“There’s something I need to say,” he murmured.

You tilted your head. “What is it?”

He hesitated for a fraction of a second before looking her straight in the eyes.

“I love you.”

“I know I’ve said it before,” he continued, voice steady, “but I need you to know how much I mean it. How much you mean to me.”

Your fingers curled around his. “Remus…”

He shook his head, a small, almost nervous smile playing on his lips. “Let me say this, dove.”

You nodded, heart pounding.

Remus took another breath, then spoke.

“You are—everything to me. Before you, I thought I’d always be alone, that I deserved to be alone. I never let myself believe that someone like you—someone so good, so kind, so brilliant—could ever want someone like me.” He squeezed your hands. “But you do. And I still can’t quite believe it.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out—your throat was too tight, your eyes burning.

Remus swallowed, then continued, “You take care of me when I need it most. You see me—the real me. And you don’t turn away. You never turn away.” His voice wavered, but he pressed on. “I love you. I love you more than I ever thought I could love someone.”

He exhaled, gaze locked onto yours. “And I—” He let out a nervous chuckle. “I had this whole speech planned, but my brain’s gone completely blank because you’re looking at me like that.”

You laughed, finally finding your voice. “Like what?”

“Like you’re about to kiss me,” he teased.

You grinned. “Maybe I am.”

His lips twitched, but then his expression turned serious again. “Before you do, I need to ask you something.”

You nodded. “Anything.”

Remus took a shaky breath. “Will you—will you be my girlfriend?”

Your heart stopped.

“Because I—I want you to be,” he continued, voice thick with emotion. “More than anything. But only if you want to. I don’t ever want you to feel like you have to—”

You didn’t let him finish.

Because you did kiss him.

Hard.

Remus let out a startled sound before melting completely against you, hands coming up to cup your face as he kissed you back like you were the air he needed to breathe.

When you finally pulled back, you pressed your forehead against his, smiling. “You idiot,” you murmured.

Remus blinked. “Uh—”

“Of course I’ll be your girlfriend.”

His eyes widened. “You—”

You laughed, nudging his nose with yours. “Did you really think I’d say no?”

“I—” He huffed out a breathless laugh. “I don’t know—I was terrified—”

You kissed him again, softer this time, pouring every ounce of love you had for him into it.

When you pulled away, Remus was looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You smiled. “I love you, too.”

Remus grinned, then let out a relieved laugh, pulling you into his arms. “Merlin, I’m so lucky.”

You hugged him back, eyes closing as you listened to his heartbeat.

And for the first time in a long time, Remus Lupin felt like the happiest boy in the entire world.

You settled onto his lap, arms wrapping around his neck as you nuzzled into him, breathing him in. You just wanted to be close—closer than ever. Like you could melt into him, merge your hearts together because Godric, you loved him.

And Remus—Merlin, he was still trying to wrap his head around the fact that you were his now. Officially. Not just in the way you gravitated toward each other, or in the way you cared for each other, but in the real, undeniable, world-acknowledging way.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against your temple, like he was testing the words out loud, making sure they were real.

You grinned, pulling back to look at him. “Yours,” you confirmed, tapping his nose. “And you—you’re mine.”

His lips twitched. “That’s how this whole ‘relationship’ thing works, yeah.”

You giggled and kissed him again, just because you could. Just because it felt right.

When you pulled back, you ran your fingers through his soft, messy hair, admiring him. Your boyfriend.

Remus still looked a little dazed, eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes. “I still can’t believe you actually said yes.”

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your heart. “Remus John Lupin, are you insulting me?”

He blinked. “What? No, I—”

“Because I’ll have you know I love you, and I would’ve said yes the second you asked me—maybe even before.”

His lips curled into a lopsided smile. “Before?”

You grinned. “Oh, yeah. I would've just known.”

He let out a chuckle, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

“I do.”

You beamed. “Good.”

He took your hand in his and started tracing random shapes on your palm, looking thoughtful. “I just don’t get it,” he admitted after a moment.

You raised an eyebrow. “Get what?”

“How you—this brilliant, beautiful, perfect girl—ended up with me.”

You groaned and lightly smacked his chest. “Remus, shut up.”

He laughed. “I mean, really, you could’ve had anyone—”

You sighed dramatically. “Okay, fine, let’s settle this right now.”

Remus blinked as you leaned in, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You are brilliant,” you whispered. “You are beautiful. You are perfect. And you are mine. And if you ever question that again, I will throw hands.”

His breath hitched, and you could feel the way his hands tightened on your waist. “Throw hands with who?”

You pulled back, eyes serious. “With you, if necessary.”

He grinned, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you said again, giggling.

Remus let out a dramatic sigh. “I do,” he admitted, feigning defeat. “I really, really do.”

You hummed in approval and reached for the basket, grabbing a piece of his chocolate. “Good. Now, since I’m your girlfriend, I think I deserve the biggest piece of this.”

His eyes widened in mock offense. “That’s my favorite—”

You smirked, taking a slow, obnoxious bite. “Mmm,” you said, exaggerating the sound. “Tastes even better when it’s yours.”

He huffed, crossing his arms. “Merlin, I should’ve known this would happen the second I asked you out.”

You giggled, leaning in to kiss the pout off his lips. “Oh, Remus,” you whispered against him. “You love spoiling me.”

He groaned. “I do. And it’s awful.”

You gasped. “Did you just call loving me awful?”

His face dropped. “That’s not—I meant you’re awful—no, wait—”

You threw your head back, laughing. “Remus, I’m teasing you.”

He sighed in relief. “Oh, thank Merlin.”

You kissed his nose. “You’re adorable.”

He huffed. “I was trying to be charming.”

You grinned. “You were.”

Remus blinked. “I—wait, really?”

You nodded. “In your own awkward, bookish, Remus way. And I love it.”

His lips twitched. “I tried to flirt with you, you know.”

You tilted her head, intrigued. “Did you?”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat. “And then you stole my chocolate, and now I’m questioning my life choices.”

You giggled, popping another piece into your mouth. “Welcome to dating me, Lupin.”

He just shook his head, wrapping his arms more securely around you. “Merlin help me.”

You kissed him again, softly, sweetly. “You’re stuck with me now.”

He smiled against your lips. “That’s the best part.”

Officially his.

The days passed, and being Remus Lupin’s girlfriend was, quite literally, the best thing in the world.

You had always loved him, always been close to him, but now—now you got to call him yours. Now you got to kiss him whenever you wanted, hold his hand under the table, steal his sweaters without pretending it was an accident.

And the best part?

Remus—your shy, awkward, bookish boyfriend—was so different when you were alone.

In public, he was still himself—still sweet, still affectionate in his own way. He’d tuck loose strands of your hair behind your ear, guide you through crowded hallways with a hand on your lower back, steal soft, fleeting kisses when he thought no one was looking. But when they were alone?

It was ridiculous.

You had no idea where he had been hiding this side of him, but you loved it.

Like right now.

You were curled up in his bed, a book in your hands, completely relaxed as Remus lay beside you, his head resting in your lap. He had claimed he was reading, too, but really, he had spent the last fifteen minutes tracing slow, lazy circles on your thigh, humming softly to himself.

You smiled down at him, brushing his messy hair away from his face. “You’re staring,”.

He hummed, looking unbothered. “And?”

You grinned. “And you’re distracting me.”

His lips twitched. “Am I?”

“Yes,” you said, closing your book with a soft thud. “What are you thinking about, love?”

He tilted his head, considering. “How beautiful you are,” he said casually, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Your heart skipped. “Remus.”

He smirked. Smirked. “What? Am I not allowed to admire my girlfriend?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not when I’m trying to read.”

He hummed, running a gentle hand up and down you arm. “Mm. You can read later.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? And what do you propose I do now?”

Remus sat up, shifting so that they were face to face. His hands found your waist as he pulled you closer, to his lap, pressing a soft kiss to your nose.

“Be kissed,” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped.

“Oh,” you breathed. “I see.”

And then he did kiss you.

Soft, slow, deep. Like he had all the time in the world just to kiss you senseless.

You sighed against his lips, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I think I like this plan.”

He chuckled, kissing you again, this time at the corner of your mouth. “I thought you might.”

You grinned. “You’re so soft when we’re alone.”

Remus groaned. “Don’t tell anyone.”

You giggled. “I won’t. But it’s adorable.”

He sighed dramatically. “Merlin help me.”

You kissed his cheek. “I love being your girlfriend.”

His arms tightened around you. “I love that you’re my girlfriend.”

You beamed. “I think I’m the lucky one.”

Remus snorted. “No, I am.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Remus, look at me. And now look at you. You’re sweet and smart and stupidly handsome, and you love me. I win.”

His lips twitched. “I do love you.”

You grinned. “And I love you.”

Remus sighed, pressing his forehead to yours. “Fine. We can both be lucky.”

You giggled, kissing him again. “Deal.”

Not the same.

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with life, but in one particular corner, a very important discussion was taking place.

Remus sat on the couch, you tucked securely under his arm, your legs draped across his lap. James, Sirius, and Peter were sprawled across the furniture, with Lily sitting comfortably beside James, her legs crossed, eyes sharp with amusement.

And at this very moment, all of them were grilling Remus.

“I’m just saying,” James said, tossing a chocolate frog in the air and catching it in his mouth, “you’ve changed, mate.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Have I?”

“Oh, definitely,” Sirius jumped in, pointing a dramatic finger at him. “You’re all smiley now. And confident. And you let people touch you.”

Peter nodded furiously. “You used to flinch when Sirius so much as breathed near you.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “That’s because Sirius used to randomly tackle me in the corridors.”

Sirius smirked. “I still do that, but now you fight back.”

Lily leaned in, grinning. “They’re right, you know.”

Remus groaned. “Not you too, Evans.”

“Oh, absolutely me too,” she said, smiling knowingly. “You’re different. Happier.”

James nodded sagely. “A man in love.”

You laughed, snuggling closer to Remus. “I like him like this.”

Remus looked down at you, his heart flipping at the way you smiled at him like he had hung the stars. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “I am happy,” he admitted. “Really happy.”

Sirius gasped. “Merlin’s beard! Moony just admitted to being happy? Who are you?”

Remus rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Pads.”

Peter cackled. “You are different though! You talk more, joke more—you even initiate affection.”

James wiggled his eyebrows. “So tell us, Moony, what’s your secret?”

Remus sighed, looking down at you, who was staring up at him with the softest, sweetest expression. He couldn’t help but smile.

“She’s my secret,” he said simply.

The room erupted.

“Oh, gag—” Sirius groaned.

“That was so disgustingly romantic,” Peter whined.

James clutched his chest. “Moony, I think I might cry.”

Lily just laughed, nudging you. “You’ve ruined him.”

You grinned. “You say ‘ruined,’ I say ‘improved.’”

Remus chuckled, squeezing your hand. “I have to agree.”

Sirius made a choking sound. “He agrees?! Who are you?”

James threw an arm over Remus’ shoulder dramatically. “He’s in love, Pads. Let the boy live.”

Remus just smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple.

For once, he didn’t mind the teasing. Because, for the first time in his life, he was truly, ridiculously, wonderfully happy.

Later that night, when everyone had gone to their own forms, you both stayed behind, just the two of you.

It was late, the Gryffindor common room nearly empty except for a few students scattered around, quietly studying or chatting in hushed voices. The fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow over the room, and outside, the sky was painted with stars. It was the perfect setting for a quiet, peaceful night.

You sat curled up on the couch, a book resting in your lap, but your focus was barely on the pages. Not when Remus was sitting beside you, leaning into your warmth, his head resting lightly against yours. He was tired—exhausted, really—but he never wanted to leave your side.

You closed her book with a soft thud and turned slightly, taking in his relaxed expression. “You should go to bed, you know,” you murmured, gently brushing a strand of hair from his face.

Remus hummed in response but made no move to get up. Instead, he turned his head slightly, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your shoulder. “Mmm… ‘m comfortable here,” he mumbled sleepily.

You smiled softly, your fingers gently running through his hair. “You’re practically falling asleep on me, Moony.”

“That’s because you’re warm,” he said, voice drowsy but affectionate. “And I like being close to you.” He nuzzled against your neck slightly, breathing you in. “Smell good, too.”

You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head as he pressed another lazy kiss just below your ear. “Is that the wolf in you talking?” you teased.

Remus chuckled against your skin. “Probably,” he admitted. Then, his lips curled into a small smirk. “Or maybe it’s just me being completely in love with my girlfriend.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you bit your lip, trying (and failing) to suppress the giddy smile that spread across your face. Even after all this time, he still had this effect on you.

“Well,” you said softly, “I think I might just be completely in love with my boyfriend too.”

Remus lifted his head slightly to look at you, his warm brown eyes searching yours. His expression softened, full of something deep and unspoken. Slowly, he reached up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing tenderly against your skin.

“You are?” he asked, his voice quiet but filled with awe.

You leaned into his touch, nodding. “I am.”

A slow, loving smile spread across his face. He looked at you as if you were the most precious thing in the world, like he still couldn’t believe you were his. “Merlin, I love you,” he whispered, his forehead gently pressing against yours.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your eyes fluttering shut as you savored the moment.

Then, before you could say anything else, he tilted your chin up slightly and kissed you. It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was soft, sweet, and filled with so much love. His lips moved against yours slowly, taking his time, savoring you, as if he wanted to memorize the way you felt against him.

You sighed happily into the kiss, your fingers threading through his soft curls as you pulled him closer. His hands found their way to your waist, holding you gently, grounding himself in your presence.

When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against yours again, your breaths mingling.

“You make me so happy,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled, pressing a tiny kiss to the corner of his lips. “You make me happy too.”

Remus let out a soft chuckle, rubbing his thumb over your waist in slow, soothing circles. “I still can’t believe you’re mine,” he admitted.

You cupped his face, looking at him with nothing but adoration. “I’ve always been yours, Remus.”

His breath hitched slightly at your words, his arms instinctively tightening around yours. He didn’t say anything, just held you close, his heart full.

And in that moment, with the fire crackling beside you and the world fading away, nothing else mattered except the fact that you had each other.

—— 🌙 ——

A note from the author:

Hello my lovely people!

This took a while to post because i was struggling with exam week at uni! Sorry!

Hope you liked it! This is officially the last part! But there will be one more just for bonus, just for you to see how their future turned out!

Thank you for all the love in this series! 🤍

See you soon!

Taglist: @iloveremmy @jjamjamie @breakawayfromeveryday @oursweetmoony @whimsical-mistakes @froggiedragon @sophie-0012 @deathmybride @nerdbirdsworld @wolfstarsprongs @mischievousmoony @httpvomitello @msfandomsblog @starofthedawn @malenk @diiyaa @theonyxstate @waitforiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit @theredvelvetbitch @ohheyitsrowan @a1ienmush @michtellch @weirdstartshere @arcane-fan @ilovejamespottersomuch @koolayee @lovelyteenagebeard @ill-be-okay-soon-enough @worldofsaturnsblog @lovelyygirl8 @myalchemicalgnomace (If you want to be tagged, let me know!)

[systlin]

You know I have repeatedly seen people in the forums of the hellpits of the Interwebs I have crawled through on this cursed quest for knowledge be like 'oh yeah the early ones are just planetary swords and sorcery fantasy they aren't that bad for the first five books'.

This, my friends, is a filthy fuckass lie.

Book THREE is this

And everything in this book is batshit

Go ahead if you don't believe me.

To summarize a lot of shit more succinctly;

Tarl ends up on Gor again for Reasons. He in the last book found that his city of Ko Ro Ba was burnt to the ground by the Flame Death for Reasons, and swore revenge upon the Priest Kings.

(No, it is never answered what the Priest Kings are priests OF. Themselves, I assume?)

So, he goes to the Sardar, where they're supposed to live. The Sardar is a mountain range that is entirely walled off with a log palisade. I will let y'all do the mental math on how absolutely bugfuck wild it would be to build a wall around an entire mountain range. He's told a few times that anyone who goes into the mountains dies, but goes anyway because He's A Speshul Boy.

He of course finds the door to the underground high tech ant nest that the Priest Kings call the Nest. It is guarded by two saber toothed tigers on chains. I would think giant two million year old ant wasp praying mantids could get a better security system but I guess not. He does some Manly Posturing but is about to get mauled to death when, unfortunately, a dude lets him in.

The dude who is like the butler or secretary or whatever for the Priest Kings is named Parp.

Fucking

Parp

Anyway Tarl is put in a room with a hot lady named Vika who is a slave. She insists she hates him because Norm seems to think that showing scorn and hatred is how women flirt (this is a common thread through all his books.) Tarl finds her disagreeable because she doesn't beg to suck his dick immediately. If I were her I would have killed him with a straight razor but whatever.

So THEN there's like fifty pages of bullshit about slavery and how it's totally great for women and they love it it makes their hot love oils just GUSH, and yes I am sorry for writing that sentence. Eventually Tarl escapes the little room and sees an actual Priest King, and goes, predictably, 'what the hell is this thing'

The Priest King introduces itself as Misk. Misk says that Priest Kings have no genders save for the Queen and her mate, but Tarl insists on calling the genderless alien bug 'him' through the whole book. Now, you will remember that Tarl came to this place in the first fucking place because he wanted to kill the Priest Kings for destroying his city, which is a fine motivation!

It goes out the window here. Misk tells Tarl that Tarl is a Good Special Friend Boy and Tarl is immediately like we are friends and I would die for you. Misk immediately shows friendship by putting Tarl in a Contraption that gives him a forced medical examination and cleaning and laxative. This is not the last time this happens to Tarl and you can really map out some of Norm's kinks by following such threads.

SO IT TURNS OUT that the Priest Kings and MISK SPECIFICALLY leveled Tarl's city to get his attention so that Misk could send Tarl on a quest for the last queen egg of the Priest Kings. Because, see, the old mother is, well, old. She isn't laying eggs any longer, and the priest kings are all, minimum, thousands of years old. Misk is two million years old. Process that for a sec.

Okay.

Anyway there has been an ongoing power struggle in the nest because a lot of the Priest Kings don't want to give up power, and power is determined by birth order from the current Mother. So several Priest Kings have been killing queen eggs for several million years. Misk smuggled out the last one and now wants it back to hatch a new mother. You will know where it is if you read my hatefic.

Leave aside the fact that there is no fucking way that egg is still viable. This is apparently A Threat, so Sarm...the main egg killing PK...and Misk now engage in a power struggle, each trying to use Tarl to kill the other. There is a scene involving gollums with suction cup feet milking the priest kings that is the weirdest fucking thing I've ever read, and I've read some weird shit.

Oh. Also there is a golden beetle that eats PK's. It exudes a pheremone that makes them nut so far as I can tell? And then it slurps their innards out like a spider. It also reproduces in the most horrible way. If you've read Bloodchild by Octavia Butler you know what I mean. It's sacred to the Priest Kings for some fucking reason. They offer Vika to it for this purpose, but Tarl saves her and now she loves him.

Also the PK's have thousands of slaves in the nest. They shave them utterly bare, make them wear plastic, and make them shower six times a day. Any who misbehave are sent to the Dissection Room. They theoretically all eat a kind of bland white fungus and vitamin pellets but I call horseshit. Slave Pellets Are People, folks.

SO. There's a big war in the Nest over who gets to be in charge. Norm manages to make a laser gun battle over a glowing probably nuclear reactor boring. They almost explode the planet but don't, and Misk's side eventually wins. Tarl sets out to retrieve the last queen egg for Misk, having utterly forgotten his fury at his actual whole city being leveled, with presumably his Free Companion and his father among the dead. But well, Misk gave him headpats and a literal gerbil cage to live in, so I guess that's enough for him.

The book ends there. It's. It's absolute fucking batshittery, every word of it. And I'm cutting out all the nonsense about slavery and how Men Are Natural Masters and women are Natural Slaves and a solid 50% of the more mundane but still absolutely wild shit here.

THIS IS BOOK THREE. THIS STILL HAD AN EDITOR

you know, as you are the resident Tumblr expert on the gor books, I for one would love it if you were to write a summary/essay/rant for some of the books so the rest of us can know what's going on without actually having to read it. I'm morbidly curious but not subjecting myself to that. I'm certain that you would to a wonderful entirely objective not at all opinionated job. So if you ever feel like bashing the books publicly some more, please do

oh, god

I should actually. I should. But god damn there's so many and every one of them has new heinous shit

For now, I'll drop this knowledge; in the most recent, published only last year, the protag is Agnes, an astrophysicist working at a small radio observatory.

This is important because she notes some weird shit in the orbit of Jupiter. As in, radio signals that are clearly of intelligent origin. She does the thing you would do, which is check to see if there are any probes there. There are not.

So she pokes her nose in further, and finds the Kurii planetoid ships. Thinking 'this can't be right' she sends. She sends the data. She sends the data to fucking. Colleagues to verify it.

Colleagues working at the VLA with SETI

The Kurii then 'vanish' her to gor, where the regular 'oh I love being a slave actually' shit plays out. She's told that this will be shut down on earth by one (1) senior scientist in Kurii pay saying it's nonsense no shut up don't look there again.

Me; dude. DUDE. IF SHE SENT THAT DATA TO SETI THEY ARE COUNTING HULL RIVETS ON THOSE THINGS WITH THE VLA AND EVERY ASTROPHYCISIST ON THE PLANET KNOWS NOW. IT'S GAME OVER BRO. CAT OUT OF BAG AND YOU WROTE IT YOURSELF.

THE ASTROPHYSICISTS SMELL UNLIMITED GRANT FUNDING DUDE. THEY ARE SEEING THEIR NAME IN TEXTBOOKS. IT'S OVER MAN.

EARTH IS GONNA BE LANDING SHIPS WITHIN A YEAR, DUDE

[sacr1ficialang3l]

I am punished by love. 𓆩♡𓆪

DEAN WINCHESTER X CUPID!READER

SUMMARY: Reader finds herself getting in trouble with Lord Eros, and the boys find themselves with a dying Valentine. 3.9k

WARNINGS: A little angst, not a lot. Gods are assholes. fem!reader. Not a lot happens, but this is where the story starts getting good.

NOTES: Cupid is back! I'm sorry it took so long but classes are killing me. Anyway, she's here and she's free. I will probably write another part to this because I love them but still let me know if you'd like that. It's really freaking long because I cannot be brief when I write. Enjoy<3

Every Valentine knew that they weren’t allowed to mingle much with mortals. Yes, Lord Eros didn’t care if you occasionally talked or messed around with a human, but forming bonds with them? That was different. 

That’s why every time you met with the Winchesters, you had to be extra careful. Eros was a deity, he was often too busy to notice what every single one of his followers was doing. And your quota of love meetings was being fulfilled, so you didn’t worry too much.

You liked to surprise the brothers with unannounced appearances, especially Dean. You loved to materialize next to him at a bar, in his motel room, or sometimes even while they were visiting a morgue. You had gotten really good at dodging bullets when you scared him a little too hard, always having a fit of giggles while he clutched his pearls and grumbled at you. 

He never stayed mad for too long. 

You liked to hang around, sometimes helping the guys with research or healing them after an especially bloody hunt. The necklace that was always around your neck, the one with an arrow charm, shining with a soft pink glow as you cradle the brothers’ faces in your hands and let your power heal them. You never got involved in the hunt itself, since killing something could probably end up calling some deity's attention and the information would eventually get back to Lord Eros. 

That was, until that night.

Sam and Dean were hunting somewhere near your zone, you were informed by wind nymph you were friends with. Excited, you decided to finish work early after meeting your quota and pay the guys a visit. It had been quite some time since the last time you saw them, and you were missing the warmth that filled your chest when those green eyes were on you.

But when you materialize wherever Dean was, you see something that makes your blood freeze. Sam is on the floor, unconscious. He was bleeding steadily from a wound on his head, looking as if he had been thrown against multiple walls. But his aura was still there, which meant he was alive. But what makes you grab your bow without a second thought is the sight of Dean, tied up to a column. 

There is something in front of him, your mind doesn't even register what it is. But it is some kind of bird hybrid, with winged arms and clawed feet. But what you do register is the way its clawed hand is over Dean’s chest, steadily digging its way to his heart. 

Without thinking twice, you shoot a celestial bronze heart-pointed arrow through its chest. As the monster drops to the floor, you run to Dean.

“Dean!” Your voice is full of panic as you reach him, quickly cutting his restraints free with your dagger. 

“Sweetheart.” He leans forward, collapsing onto you, clearly dizzy with whatever the monster had done to him and still bleeding from the scratches on his chest. 

“Dean!” You yell again as his whole body weight presses onto you. You lean backwards and cup his face with your hands. After a few seconds, he is healed. Once you make sure he’s not bleeding anymore, you leave him regaining his breath with his back against the pole while you run to Sam, white tights ripped and dirty at the knees from kneeling down on the dirty floor. You quickly heal Sam too, and once he opens his eyes, you go back to check on Dean. 

But as soon as you stand up and turn around, your breath is punched out of your lungs.

There, on the floor, with your heart-shaped arrow piercing clean through its chest, was a harpy. 

“No.” You whisper, slowly walking closer to the corpse on the floor. “No, no. Please, no.”

Sam and Dean share a confused look, but Dean immediately gets up from the floor and walks closer to you. “What is it, sweetheart?”

Not even Dean’s deep voice could calm you down right now. Because you had just killed a harpy. One of Zeus’ hounds. There was no hiding from this, no way to excuse yourself. You were a Valentine, you didn’t kill monsters, you weren’t even supposed to ever find yourself in their path. A harpy would’ve never attacked you, because it would have recognized you as Eros’.

You don’t notice how bad your hands are shaking until Dean takes them into his bigger ones, his rough and calloused skin wrapping around your soft and delicate one. “Sweetheart, you’re scaring us.” He says, turning you around to face him. “Please, tell us what’s going on.”

You open your mouth to talk, but you’re interrupted by a cheerful, childish voice.

“So this is where my favorite little Valentine has been sneaking off to.” The voice is jolly and fake, and it makes you shut your eyes close.

You turn around, letting go of Dean’s hands, and immediately drop to your knees without even looking at the intruder. “Lord Eros.” You whisper, head hanging low and eyes glued to the floor.

“At least your manners are still there.” Eros’ words are full of condescendence, and you start to wonder how bad this would actually be.

People were often afraid of Gods like Ares or Hades, but they seemed to forget that love could be crueler than anything else.

“L-lord Eros, please let me explain-”

“Let you explain what, child? Why you killed a harpy, even when it is imperative that Valentines do not attack other Greek creatures? Especially Zeus’ doggies! Or maybe you want to explain why you are hanging around hunters in the first place.” Eros walks close to you, standing in front of where you were still kneeling on the floor. “All for these… boys?” He scoffs.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Dean takes a step closer to Eros, trying to reach for his gun. You immediately turn to him and stop him, gripping his wrist with force and looking up at him with pleading eyes.

“Dean, no.” You beg, hand still on his wrist. He looks at you incredulous, never having seen you so scared. Not when you met your first werewolf, not when you teletransported to a vamp nest by accident, not even when he had pointed his gun at you the first time you met.

You hear Eros snicker. “Get up, child.” You hastily stand up from the ground, hand still wrapped around Dean’s wrist just in case he decides to try something else against the God. “You know I am all for having some fun. I mean, I wouldn’t blame you for wanting to play a little with these two cuties.” He looks at the brothers up and down, making Dean get even more angry. “But you’re getting too involved, Valentine.”

You gulp, taking in a shaky breath. “My Lord, they helped me kill an Anti-Valentine that was killing people in my zone. On Valentine's day!” You were trying to keep your voice stable, but the weight of Eros’ eyes on you was too much. “They- they got rid of them, so I owed them one. That's the only reason I came to help them today.”

You squeeze Dean’s wrist in what you hope is a message of “I’m lying. Please know I’m lying. I am trying to save our asses, and I probably won’t succeed, but just know that I’m lying.”

“Is that so?” Eros’ eyes study all three of you quickly, and you don’t have the courage to meet Dean’s eyes and know if he got your message.

There was a long moment of silence, and then, “You would think by now you knew better than to lie to a God.”

Your shoulders slump, and your eyes shut down tightly. Dean’s hand tries to move for his gun again, and you stop him once more. 

It won’t work, you want to tell him. He’s a God, you idiot. You’re just going to piss him off even more.

“Look, I don’t know what your problem is-” Dean starts, trying to take a step forward. With one simple movement of his hand, Eros glues him to the ground. “What the-?” Dean grunts as he tries to move his feet.

“Not only did you pick a hunter, but a disrespectful one at that?” Eros sighs, looking down at his nails in disappointment. 

“Kiss my-”

“Dean.” I plead again, finally turning around to meet his eyes. 

Please don’t make this worse.

He clenches his jaw but stays quiet, murderous eyes returning to the God in front of us.

“Aw, aren't you two adorable?” Eros asks sarcastically, his inviting smile twisting into something evil. “Now, my dear Valentine. In any other case, you would be dead already. But,” He sighs again, almost as if he regrets not having killed you yet. “I remember when I reaped you. So lonely, so hurt, so… broken.”

Your eyes dart back down to the floor, a shiver running down your spine as the memory you tried to keep at bay for so long comes back to you.

“You would’ve been nothing after what happened if I hadn't reaped you.” His words are cruel, and his voice is patronizing. “I saved you, gave you a new opportunity. And if I have to be honest, you’re one of my favorites. I always did have a soft spot for pathetic and tragic stories.”

Dean fists clench, and you were sure the only thing keeping him from jumping Eros was the fact that he was magically bound to the ground. 

“I know, Lord Eros.” You whisper. “I will always be thankful.”

And in a very sick way, it was true. Greek Gods weren’t famous for their kindness and altruism. They only did things that benefited them, and reaping broken people as Valentines gave Eros a more loyal following. But nonetheless, he had saved you. And you liked being a Valentine, mistreatment aside.

“Well, it sure doesn't look like it!” He laughs. “But I am nothing if not merciful. So, I'll give you a second chance.”

Your eyes immediately dart up, wide and wary. This wasn’t a gift, it was a test.

Eros sends you a smile that makes you feel nauseous, and then he throws something your way. You catch it mid-air, and look down at it. A celestial bronze dagger. Your blood drains from your face.

“Kill them.” Eros says brightly, like he was asking you to try a chocolate from his brand new chocolate box. “I like you, you get the job done correctly. But we can’t have you distracted, so kill them.”

You stare at Eros for a few seconds, breath ragged. The necklace around your neck, the one that contained Eros’ touch, the one that marked you as his, the one that kept you alive, was burning against your skin. 

You slowly turn to Dean, who was already looking at you. His gaze was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes. Trust.

“I’m sorry” You whisper, and Dean’s eyes darken just a little, his brows furrowing. 

You fix your grip on the dagger and get ready, taking one last breath and looking deep into Dean’s eyes. 

I’m sorry.

You swifty thrust your hand upwards, cutting the necklace off in one clean movement. The arrow charm falls to the ground with a clink, the cut-up cord still hanging around your neck.

“Oh, you dumb little girl.” 

Eros sends you one last disgruntled look before snapping his fingers and disappearing in a bright ball of light.

At first you don’t feel anything, and then your knees buckle. 

You start falling forward, and the only reason you don’t end up on the floor is because Dean catches you. 

Dean screams your name, and then he feels like all the air is ripped out of his lungs. Your face, that beautiful, soft face that he had grown to love so much, was cracking. And he meant it literally. Black lines were expanding through your face, fracturing your skin like a broken porcelain doll. 

He says your name with desperation. “W-what- what is happening?” He screams your name again, eyes wild and devastated. “Sammy, we need to do something. She’s- she’s…”

You shake your head softly, feeling the ache of your skin cracking. It was as if the life was being drained out of you. You could barely move, body heavy and eyes stinging. You felt fragile and weak for the first time in ages. 

“There’s nothing you can do, Dean.’ You whisper, your usually pink lips pale and full of black little slits. “I’m sorr-” Your legs give in as the cracks make their way down to the rest of your body. You fold in half as Dean tries to keep you up.

“Bullshit, we’ll find a way. There must be something-” His voice is wet, and when you look up, so are his eyes. You want to comfort him, to tell him everything will be fine. “Come on, stay with me, sweetheart.”

Don’t worry about me. You want to whisper. I love you.

But you can't talk, throat dry and tongue heavy. 

Suddenly, there’s another bright light behind you, and all three of you close your eyes tightly at its intensity. 

Both Sam and Dean look confused, but you know what that light means. A God.

It doesn’t matter that you were about to die, you had been trained for years to be respectful of Gods. It wasn’t even devotion, it was survival. Greek gods liked being respected, they liked obedience, and they liked to be flattered. Get on their bad side, and you’ll find yourself like Arachne or Medusa or Narcissus. 

With your last bit of strength, you turn around in Dean’s grasp. You try to drop to your knees, but Dean’s arms around you keep you up. 

“Dean…” You whisper, voice dry and raw, skin still cracking. You try to kneel again, but he easily fights your weak attempts.

“Stop, sweetheart. Stop. You’re hurt.” He argues, voice shaky. He couldn’t believe the power these creatures had over you. Dean understood they were Gods, but the sight of you, breaking and dying, still trying to kneel for anyone made him almost blind with rage.

“He’s right, child. You’re going to hurt yourself even more.” Oh, you knew that voice.

Shivering with another wave of pain, you look up.

“Lady Aphrodite.” Your breath hitches. The times you had been in the presence of the Goddess of love had been scarce, but it managed to leave you breathless every single one. 

Sam’s and Dean’s eyes widen. Lady who?

They were sure this would be an easy werewolf hunt, what the fuck had they gotten themselves into?

The almost absurdly beautiful woman walks closer to you, and the air seems to shift around her, her dress made of something that looked like rose petals and clouds at the same time.

“Oh child, you’ve gotten yourself into quite some trouble.” Aphrodite says, looking down at you with eyes that tried but didn’t quite achieve empathy.

Dean’s arms tighten around you, pressing you to his chest as you start to feel even weaker. The action seemed to amuse the Goddess, and she gives everyone a cheerful smile that no one reciprocates. 

“L-lady Aphrodite, it is an honor-” You try muttering, but it only causes you to go into a coughing fit. 

“Don’t talk, child.” She orders, and you shut your mouth. “You’ve really pissed off my son, Valentine.”

“Son?” Dean asks, wary eyes still on the goddess. Oh gods, you need to give him a Greek mythology 101 class as soon as possible.

Except you are actively dying, so there would be no “soon as possible”.

Aphrodite just sends Dean an incredulous look, and I get prepared to beg for her forgiveness in case Dean had offended her. The Winchester brothers already had enough on their plate without pissing off a Greek god.

“Eros. I-I mean Lord Eros.” Sam comes to our rescue, placing a hand on Dean’s shoulders that meant shut the fuck up, dude. “He’s your son, yours and A- Lord Ares.”

“It is refreshing to see a mortal that isn’t so ignorant.” The Goddess sends Sam a satisfied look, her eyes scanning him up and down. Sam squirms under her gaze, and if you weren’t currently about to come undone like a vase that was carelessly dropped to the floor, you would laugh. 

The comment just makes Dean more pissed off, but it looks like he learned from his encounter with Eros, because he doesn’t try to attack the Goddess.

Thank Gods.

“Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about my family tree.” Aphrodite’s dart back to you, still pressed against Dean’s chest and cracking slowly but surely. “I came here for you.”

You frown. You think about everything you’ve ever done, trying to remember if you had ever offended the Goddess enough for her to come searching for revenge on your last minutes of existence. But the look in her eyes is as soft as a God’s eyes get, and she looks almost… not sad, because Gods didn’t care enough about mortals to be sad, but something similar. 

“You know, I love a good story. Drama, tragedy, passion.” She sighs, voice dreamy as if everyone else in the room wasn’t in despair. “But love stories are so boring these days! Lovers don’t die for each other like they used to.” She shakes her head disappointedly. “If I had to watch one more man cheat with the babysitter, I was going to send in a new plague.”

All the mortals in the room shiver at her words, but Aphrodite looked as if she had just said she was going to punch a wall, not kill half the population. 

“Wait, does that mean you Gods watch us? Our lives?” Dean is frowning, an uncomfortable sensation crawling up his spine at the idea.

“Just the interesting ones.” Aphrodite makes a dismissive movement with her hand. “I was never too interested in hunters. You all are so emotionally unavailable, it is boring.” She huffs. “But you, little valentine. You have potential.”

There was no way that could be good.

“I see love, and passion, and so much tragedy!” She squeaks. 

Oh, right. Great, thank you.

Everyone in the room stares at the Goddess in disbelief, mouths parted and eyes wide. The silence is only broken when you groan again, curling in on yourself as a wave of pain washes over you. 

Aphrodite grabs your face, and it hurts. Your skin is almost completely cracked, the crevasses getting deeper and deeper, but you swallow your whine. “I can save you, child.”

Dean immediately seems to relax a bit, but you don’t. Because “miracles” like this never came for free. Gods always thought about themselves first, and you couldn’t think of what Aphrodite could ask in exchange to save your life.

“Y-you can? Please, we’ll do whatever-” You interrupt Dean before he promises something like that to a God.

“W-wait, Dean.” you cough, tongue almost black with how drained of color you were, throat feeling dusty. You were actually going to break like a porcelain doll. “What’s the catch?”

Aphrodite laughs, seemingly amused by your question. She lets go of your face and brushes her hair off her shoulder.

“Not much, really.” She exclaims graciously, a perfect smile on her perfect face. “You just gotta give me a good story!”

The room is silent again, not a cricket in the distance. You all stare at her, no one really knowing what she meant.

“Oh, come on!” She pouts. “I told you, you have potential. Give me drama, give me tragedy, give me heart-wrenching angst and tear-worth romance!”

Right, because that was so easy. You were pretty sure love wasn't in the cards for you. There’s only so much time you can spend watching everyone else fall in love while being alone until you start to get convinced you are, indeed, unloveable.

Something on your face must give away your thoughts, or maybe Gods could read minds. You weren’t sure. Whatever it was, it made Aphrodite grin. “That’s what I'm talking about! The good old tropes.”

“Whatever.” Dean grunts, feeling the way your body becomes heavier on his arms. “She’ll do it, just- save her. Please.”

Aphrodite's grin widens, seemingly pleased with what she is hearing. She presses a finger to your forehead, and a wave of warmth runs through your ice-cold body. The cracks on your skin start to close, and the vitality of life slowly comes back to you. 

“Remember, child. A good story.” And in a bright ball of light, the Goddess disappears. 

In a second, you were as good as new. You start to straighten up in Dean’s hold, his arms sliding off your body once you regain your footing. You look down at your arms and legs, free of cracks. 

You quickly look up at Dean, who was looking at you with glossy, relieved eyes. Your heart starts to beat faster. You had accepted the fact that you had to die, because if it was in between Dean or you, the answer would always be you. But now, staring at Sam’s and Dean’s broken expressions, you're grateful you didn’t die.

I’ll have to do so many thank-you offerings.

You push away the thought and instead jump forward, pulling both Sam and Dean in for a hug.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” Dean grunts, subtly burying his face on your hair. It smelled the same as always. Caramel and marshmallows. “Don’t you ever scare us like that again.”

Sam chuckles, nodding. He takes a step back first, but Dean’s arms stay around you for a moment longer. His arms around your waist are unyielding and almost desperate, and you hug him back almost as firmly. 

He finally seems to get a grip on himself and takes a step back. His eyes were still a little wild, but his grin was that same caring, playful one you loved so much.

“You’re okay.” He sighs, almost more for himself than anyone else.

“Yeah.” You take in a deep breath, trying to understand what has happened. “I mean- I don’t know what happened to my powers. I can still see auras but I don’t think I can create a meeting anymore, the part of them that told me if they were compatible with someone else is gone.” I squint at Sam, trying to read his aura correctly. “I don’t know if I can teleport or heal you guys anymore. And I can’t tell if my archery abilities were mine or I had them because of being a Valentine. I don’t even know if I still can read ancient Greek.” 

As you start panicking a little, stumbling with your words as you rant, Sam and Dean share an endeared look.

“Calm down, sweetheart.” Dean’s eyes meet yours, and the warmth in them makes your breath slow down a bit. 

Green might just be your new favorite color.

“Yeah, we have plenty of time to figure out what happened.” Sam offers you a gentle smile, and you slowly return it. “Let’s go celebrate at a bar, first round’s on me.”

Sam is right. Nothing else matters, because you are alive, and you have your boys by your side. Whatever had happened, you three would figure it out.

“There’s something else.” You say suddenly, looking up at the brothers with your shiny, big doe eyes. “I don’t have anywhere to go. Like- I don't have a home, or somewhere to stay.”

Sam and Dean share another look, silently having a conversation as your eyes dart in between them, trying to understand what was happening. 

“I think we have a solution for that.” Sam turns to you with a little smirk.

“How would you like to come live with us, sweetheart?”

[moonydustx]

Hiiii!! I love your writing and was wondering if you’re still accepting requests? If so could I have one where reader is dressed in a similar outfit to Nami’s purple Zou outfit and there’s a big party happening and reader gets self conscious bc no ones talking to her during said party so she leaves to go back to her room that has a balcony and as she’s staring down at the party Law comes in to see why she left so she like tells him she feels ridiculous in her outfit and it turns out that Law was jealous that other people got to see her in such an outfit because he likes her so much that he was staring people down so no one would take her attention and he confesses how he feels under the stars on the balcony? and maybe there’s smut🤭🤭🤭 You can skip this request if you want!! I know i wrote a lot 😅

hello, anyone there?

Sorry for the delay in responding to your request and sort of answering your question, yes, I still accept requests, but I've been working kind of 10 hour days + responsibilities at home, which hasn't given me much time to write.

I made some small adjustments to your suggestion, I honestly hope you don't hate me.

•••

my reach

info: what sensations can a pirate life bring? After a victory, a celebration can mean many things.

warnings: text not proofread, will possibly have some errors as English isn't my first language. a kittle bit angst, F!reader have some insecurities, smut, doing in open skies, a little dirty talk.

For those who haven't reached Zou, this is the reference dress.

You didn't know what was echoing louder at that moment: the drunken voices, the singing or your thoughts. It was a party, you should have been happy or at least a little confident.

After so many fights and disputes, the alliance between the pirates had finally worked out and apparently you would finally have some time of peace. What didn't need many more reasons than this for Luffy, captain of one of the allied crews, to suggest a huge banquet, a party that would probably last for days and no one would question it. The good thing about having other crews together was that the reduced number of women - in the heart pirates it was the large number of two, you and Ikkaku - increased, even if not so radically, just enough to fill the fingers of one hand.

"You really didn't like it?" Nami turned you in front of a mirror, forcing you to look at yourself once more. "It suits you so much."

"I think it looks amazing." Robin added with a simple smile. "And it's a banquet between friends, there's nothing to worry about."

"I agree, but after being so stressed with so many events, I think we deserve a more dressed-up day." Nami added, adjusting one of the straps on your dress. "And also a little alcohol, a little flirting, seriously, being a pirate can't be just that and besides there are so many different people here."

"But don't you think it's a bit much?" Your voice wavered a little and you had to dodge the pillow Ikkaku threw in your direction.

"Don't listen to her. We've been underwater for so long and in our uniforms that I think she's lost her common sense."

"Don't talk nonsense." You shot back, laughing. "Okay, a little alcohol won't hurt." About the flirting part, you don't know how safe you would feel with that.

The main deck of the ship was something almost impossible to cross. Some people walked around each other, singing songs that were almost impossible to decipher, others toasted and competed over how many mugs they could down at once. You just went with the flow, keeping up with the others' hurried steps.

It wasn't long before a drink occupied your hand and you got lost in some almost frivolous conversations. The stress you had recently experienced seemed to prevent everyone from thinking about anything more serious and, to be honest, not even you wanted to get caught up in problems at that moment.

"Ladies." Sanji's voice came across the entire space, in his hand some appetizers and you tried hard to ignore the fact that he was almost drooling. "You are the most beautiful thing my eyes have ever seen, I would write poems about you..."

In a somewhat strange juggling act, you saw him try to balance the tray in one hand and, with the other, twist to alternate between your colleague's hands, placing a kiss on each of them. Except for you, to whom he just smiled in your direction and headed in the opposite direction. Even staring at the other women present, that seemed like a common situation so you allowed yourself to ignore it.

With an almost lame excuse, your feet took you to the other side of the ship, where you could see your captain's sullen face while being disturbed by other crewmates.

"A good victory." You raised your glass, toasting first to Shachi, then Penguin and finally Law, who seemed to be immersed in something inside his own mind.

"Look, I don't think we've ever seen you so..." Shachi couldn't finish speaking before getting elbowed by his crewmate.

"Are you enjoying the party?" Law asked as soon as the two left with some excuse that you didn't try to understand what it was about.

"Yes, as much as possible."

You even thought about commenting on how you had become an outcast, even though in the hours before you had been trying hard to achieve the exact opposite result. However, for a flash, you were sure that Law was analyzing you. From top to bottom, inch by inch.

"Is there a problem, Captain?" A smile filled your lips as you saw him startled as he was pulled out of his own mind.

"Dresses. You don't usually wear them." He seemed lost in his own words. "It looks..."

Beautiful? Interesting? God, the milliseconds of waiting before Law finished speaking seemed like a small infinity of possibilities in your mind. A place where he had a certain captive vacancy, but he wouldn't even dream of it.

"It looks different." He pointed out and you could only nod.

Different. Okay, it's not the worst answer but it's far from a good one. The relationship between the captain and the subordinate of the two of you was intrinsically... different. Strangely comfortable, uncomfortably distant. He would always prefer to discuss some decisions with you and to the jealousy filled with tantrums and laughter of some, he would insist that you were the best cook of the crew. On your side, you loved ask him for tips, from books to medicines, and whenever possible, you would insist on having him stitch you up after some battles. You hated scars and he was the only one who could prevent them. It was a different relationship, he occupied a somewhat different place in you, but that didn't need to be exposed.

Apparently, if the efforts to look even minimally pretty that night didn't affect him, it wouldn't make any difference anymore. With an almost invisible smile on your lips, you just nodded and left him there. You started talking to some, laughed with others, but it didn't seem to work. From the idea of ​​alcohol and flirting, apparently only the first part was working. Heavens, Brook hadn't even asked about the color of your panties.

Luckily, keeping the ships close to each other meant that it wasn't difficult for you to reach the empty deck of the Polar Tang. The sound of the party was getting a little more distant. The full moon illuminated the entire night and, in addition to reflecting on the sea, created an almost distorted shadow of your body. Was that what you were then? You let your hand run over your dress, analyzing every stitch. Nothing was out of place, nothing seemed wrong with the outfit. The problem must be you.

"I would invest a good amount of berries for your thoughts." Law's voice startled you, which made him laugh. "Did you need some time to breathe?"

"Yeah, I guess so." You leaned against the edge of the deck, drowning in your own frustrations.

"I still have some berries to invest." He tried to lighten the mood, leaning against your side. "I know my crew too well. What happened?"

"It's just... is that all there is to a pirate's life?" You turned around, frustrated. "Tonight I wanted to feel something different from all the stress we have. Something more interesting than the smell of gunpowder, than the sting of a blade."

"I think there's enough booze there for you to feel much more than that."

"It's not that, Law. Geez, I dressed in a way I've never dressed before. Makeup, heels, perfume and still, I'm an outcast." you said frustrated and saw a smirk escape his lips. "Man, this isn't funny. I mean, not even Brook cared about my panties?"

"About that..." he began, his fingers adjusting his hat that wasn't out of place, just like a nervous tic. "Maybe someone threatened to throw him into the sea before he could even speak."

"What do you mean?"

"And maybe I told Sanji that if he got close to you his balls would sink to the bottom of the sea too. And maybe I said something similar to Killer, but he's more rational so he didn't need that much of a threat. And I definitely punched Kid."

"You punched Kid?"

"He said some really disgusting things." Law spoke with a frighteningly ordinary naturalness.

However, for you none of that was ordinary. You just stood there, still, watching the little confessions that came out of Law's lips. So he had pushed you away from everyone? That wouldn't make any sense. Unless...

"Apparently I was brave enough to do all that, but I've been a coward in hiding what I feel. You don't look any different, you look beautiful and I can guarantee that I wasn't the only one who thought that."

"You just made sure I didn't know that, right?"

"Sorry." he commented still in a frustrated tone, but taking a few steps enough to stop in front of you. "I like you, I really do. It got to a point where I found myself reading more books just to know what to recommend to you, I found myself hating being a doctor because I have to stitch you up every time you get into a fight at the same time I wouldn't let anyone touch you for that." He sighed deeply. The short distance between the two of you made your fingers itch to hug him. "What you said makes sense, we're pirates, we shouldn't only feel war inside us."

"What else can we feel then?"

Your lips touched before his hands even reached your waist. It was hard to know what had given you goosebumps more: the cold wind against your bare skin, the way your body was leaning against the edge of the deck, making you imminent of falling, or the way he had advanced on you. Definitely the third option.

His tongue began to invade your space, tracing delicious routes through your mouth, a fight for space that you had no interest in winning. His hands traced your curves until they rested on your waist. Whoever invented the theory that two bodies occupied the same place would probably be a good spectator for the way the two of you snuggled together.

Law seemed to have no shortage of air since, when he gave you space to breathe, his lips simply slid to the hollow of your neck. Wet kisses mixed with small grunts that would be marked on your skin, drawn like a map just for him, just for Law.

His eyes met yours as his kisses continued towards the neckline of your dress. A loud request - but still silent - to explore you beyond where his lips could reach at that moment.

"We could go somewhere else." You suggested breathlessly and saw him bury his face in your breasts, sighing deeply. "I really don't plan on being naked here."

"Naked? Nah." Without even hesitating, he supported you on the edge of the deck, preventing you from falling towards the sea by slipping into the gap between your legs. "I've been looking at you in that dress for too long to want to see you without it now."

"You've been looking?"

"Tell me, wasn't that exactly why you put it on?" An involuntary sigh escaped your lips when one of his hands slid down the inside of your thigh. "You drive me insane normally, but this... do you want to know what I thought?"

The question was rhetorical since beyond the moonlight, lust illuminated the eyes of the man tied to you. A moan escaped your lips as his fingers trailed over the damp fabric between your legs.

"Shh, we need to be discreet, okay? Can you be a good girl and stay quiet?" His fingers intensified the pressure, small circles under the damp fabric sending your mind into a spiral. "I promise to take you inside, let you make all the noise you want. And then I'll leave you naked, have all my time just for you."

"What if I want to stay here?" The question sounded like a challenge and you could have sworn that behind the fabric of his pants something had pulsed. "You still haven't told me what you thought, about the dress."

"What I thought..." he gently pulled you down from the support and turned you back to him. Your body automatically leaned forward, seeking contact. "The first idea that came to mind was you like this, on my table. All beautiful ready for me."

His hands adjusted the fabric of your dress so that it was to the side. His nimble fingers traced an indecipherable pattern on the skin of your ass, outlining the thin fabric of your panties.

"May I..." He asked, still circling the piece and saw you nod. With a delicacy unfamiliar to you, you felt him pull the fabric aside.

"Fuck." The word came out of his lips involuntarily. The sight made him hungrier than any dish he had seen at the banquet.

"What else did you think?" You asked, hearing the sound of his zipper.

"You're smart, I believe you know very well what I thought."

Silent kisses ran down your exposed back. The cold night breeze made contact with your damp skin, causing shivers. The first touch of his cock against your pussy elicited a shy moan from you as his teeth scraped your skin, whispering a shh once more, even though thrusting inside you had forced him to press his face against the back of your neck. The almost inaudible sounds that escaped your lips were enough for Law to almost explode right there.

He should have stopped being a coward before. It was only the first time and he didn't know how he could consider staying without feeling you.

"I'm sorry." He said, moving slowly. "You deserved better than the deck of a submarine."

"We're under the stars. Do you want something even better?" You said breathlessly, stretching your hand to reach his dark strands of hair. Law practically put his head under your hand, sinking into your neck. "Law!"

"I told you princess, no noise." He thrust harder, watching you press your lips together and hold back another moan. "Such a good girl, my good girl."

"A p-princess, huh?"

"My princess, yes. All dressed up like that I couldn't think of anything better." You barely understood how he could form a coherent thought while he was thrusting torturously and deliciously inside you. "I could call it an angel too. The way this beautiful pussy is squeezing me is definitely divine." His laugh at your moan sounded almost devilish, however.

The thrusts began to intensify and you pulled his hand that was holding your torso to cover your mouth, vainly containing the moans that escaped. You could already be clawing at the stars when you felt him pulling out of you. An almost drastic fall from the sky you were in.

"I want to look at you, beautiful thing." He turned you around to face him, lifting you up again. "I want to see that beautiful face when you cum."

"Then come back here now." You locked your legs around him, feeling his delicious invasion of you.

His lips once again took yours, just as voracious - if not even more so - than the first time. His coming and going grew louder and louder as he felt your voice vibrate against his. Moans being censored by each other.

"Hold on to me." He pulled away just enough to ask and you readily complied.

The abyss was getting closer and closer, the knot in your belly getting tighter and tighter. You stuck your body to his at first for fear of falling, but each time it became even more of a need to merge. Your screams hid in the small gap between the two of you, your skin would surely be sore at the slightest since his teeth dug in there as he filled you with his seed.

"I think..." he supported you back, still holding your waist with one hand. With the other, he lifted the shirt he was wearing. Both your eyes and his were guided to where your bodies joined. "We made a bit of a mess."

"A bit?" Your finger caught some of your mixed cum, bringing it to your own lips. "Delicious mess."

"Keep it up and you won't be coming back to the party." A light laugh escaped him as he heard you grunt as he pulled out of you. "On second thought, we don't need to go back."

"Law, you're the captain of one of the crews that was more than essential to the conquest."

"Well, that's a good idea." He said as he adjusted his own clothes and then repeated the gesture with yours. "Some clueless people will be able to know that you are out of their reach."

"Am I?"

"If your captain says so, I believe you should agree." He pointed out.

Your hands comforted his cheeks, smoothing every inch you could touch. A calm, almost chaste kiss escaped you. Anyone who saw from afar would imagine it was just a simple kiss and would not even be able to consider what you were doing a short time ago.

"I - I mean, I really want to keep you out of their reach. Only within my reach." That was it, in so much time as captain and subordinate, you had never seen Law look so nervous.

"Sounds like a good plan to me, captain. However, I hope it is reciprocal." He nodded, stealing another kiss from you.

Going back to the party seemed different. As soon as Law led you back to the ship, you let go of each other's hands, a small agreement of secrecy silently negotiated between you. However, you could feel him in you, in unconventional - and delicious - ways. Occasionally, you could feel his gaze burning in your direction, with distant care.

"Can I talk to you?" Zoro's voice startled you before you even noticed his hand on your waist. "Would you like to have a drink somewhere more private?"

"I'm drinking..." You pointed to the mug in your hand, but it took you a few seconds to fully understand what he was saying. "Oh, no. I mean, thank you, but no. I'm accompanied."

"Accompanied? So your captain finally stopped being a wimp?" Zoro saw and glanced sideways, not surprised to see that whatever Robin was talking to Law about seemed like a distant subject. "Nami asked me to do this, to see if he would do something."

"Hey, swordsman." You could hear the irritation in Law's voice from afar and it was clear how unhappy he was at that moment. "Is there a problem with her?"

"No, Captain, everything's fine here." You smiled in his direction and waved at Zoro, who just ignored what Law had said and left.

"So..." You started, trying to give your best mischievous smile. Which was much easier after remembering everything. "My drink is gone and I think I'm tired. I'm thinking about going back to Polar Tang."

"Sure, I can accompany you." Law said in false modesty.

You could count on your fingers how many steps you took towards a more empty place before the starry night turned into a room you didn't usually visit. Your body soon found his bed, your dress turned into a pile of fabric on the floor. His kisses finally freed to explore every inch of your nudity.

"I think I need to make it even clearer that you're out of their reach."

[writtenbyan-aries]

heyyy i heard you needed some fluffy requests and I've got one!! Any chance I could get one with sam where y/n is having a panic attack (if you're comfortable writing that) and sam calms her down? If your not comfortable with writing that o totally understand!! love ya!

∶ Summary: While doing an investigation, reader gets a little too freaked out

∶ Warnings: reader has a panic attack, haunted investigation, ghosts, spooky themes, reader gets targeted by spirits, crying, fluffy Sam calming reader down

∶ Word Count: 1.1K

∶ I know panic attacks can be triggering for some, please don’t read if you aren’t comfortable with it. I love you.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

It wasn’t like you to get overwhelmed easy, especially with doing as many investigations with Sam and Colby as you have in the past.

You were always able to hold your own, speak out if something was bugging you. But as soon as you stepped foot inside this house, something was off.

This place was different.

You felt a heavy weight sink into your chest the moment you crossed the threshold. You felt paranoid, like something was always behind you or watching you from a close distance. You kept looking around, wiping your sweaty palms on your thighs every few minutes.

You were scared.

“Hey.” Sam nudges your arm, “Are you good?”

You stare at him, trying hard to hold it together, “Yeah, yeah. I’m good.” You force a smile and he furrows his brows, “Are you sure? You aren’t really saying much.”

You swallow, looking around, “This place.. Sam..” you take a deep breath, “This feels different than all of the other places I’ve been to.”

He furrows his brows, “What do you mean?”

Colby pushing open the door causes you to jump, “Fuck.” You sigh, “I feel more.. on edge here. We’ve only been here two hours and from the time we got here, I feel like I can’t breathe.”

Sam’s face drops, “Why didn’t you say anything? You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“I do want to do this.” You nod, more or less trying to convince yourself, “I can do this. I’ll be fine.”

Sam wasn’t one to tell you what to do, he didn’t like doing that. He glanced at Colby and back to you, “If you can’t, don’t.”

You nod, “I won’t.”

Another hour into the investigation and you were worse than before. You felt sweaty. The camera in your hands was shaking like a leaf in a storm. Every time you looked anywhere, you could have swore you seen something move.

You took a few deep breathes, trying to ground yourself, but it just wasn’t working.

As soon as you took a step forward to follow Sam, it’s like someone grabbed your shoulder to keep you from waking. You gasp loudly, whipping your body around, but no one was there.

You were starting to break.

Sam walks up behind you, “what-“

You gasp again, shaking your head as you lay a hand over your eyes, “I-I can’t-“ you look around, your heart beating faster and louder in your chest, you could hear it in your ears, “Out.. I-I..I-i need out.”

You shove the camera into his hands and make your way out of the room. You fly down the steps, running towards the front door.

You struggle to get the door open, but when you do, you pull it open and go. You clear the three steps, landing on your feet and slowly down as you move further away from the house.

Your face was covering your hands, your breathing was quick, shallow. You were sniffling, sobbing on top of it, and your chest felt tight. No matter how hard you tried, it’s like you couldn’t get air into your lungs.

You were having a panic attack, something that hasn’t ever happened to you before. You slid a hand down, clutching your sweatshirt over your chest.

It felt like you were on the verge of dying, and that scared you even more.

“Hey..” Sam whispers, “Hey.” He gently lays his hand on your back, “It’s okay. I’m right here.” He rubs your back gently, “I’m right here.”

You stand up, slowly turning before falling into him. You were sobbing into his neck, arms wrapped around him as you balled up his sweatshirt in your hands. His arms wrap tightly around you, his one hand pressing to your head as he whispers, “It’s okay, I’m here.” He tightens his arms, “You’re safe, sweetheart, I got you.”

You sniffle hard as you try to regain control, only to end up breaking again.

Sam shushes you gently, rocking back and forth as his arms stay snug around your shaking body, “I got you. I got you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

After a few minutes, you were finally able to get a full breath.

You stay within Sam’s arms, that really being the only place you felt safe right now. He hums lowly, his fingers running back and forth over your hair, “it’s okay.”

Your grip on his sweatshirt starts to loosen and his does the same as you teach up to wipe your face. His hand slide up to your cheek as he looks down at you, “Are you okay?”

You nod, “I think so.” You wrap your arms back around him, your voice quiet , “Thank you for doing that.” Sam tightens his arms around you, “Of course, you’re my number one priority.”

“I should..” you take a deep breath, “I should have said something sooner, I just- I didn’t want to ruin it for you guys.”

His grip tightens slightly, “When you’re with me doing these things, you’re the most important thing. I couldn’t care less about getting footage it if you aren’t okay. I should have called it quits the second you said something to me about it the first time.”

You shake your head, “It’s not your fault Sam, I pushed myself when I shouldn’t have. That was on me.” You sigh, “But, if you want to keep going, you can, but I’m just going to go back to the hotel. I think I’m done here tonight.”

“We’re done, too. I already told Colby to gather up the stuff, I’m not doing this, I can’t with knowing that you’re not okay.” He shakes his head, “I’m sorry this happened.”

You tighten your arms around his torso, “It’s not your fault, Sam. I promise.”

He presses a kiss to your head, “I’m going to go help Colby, you get in the car. I’ll be right back, okay?” You nod, pulling away from him. You get in the car, watching as he walks to the house. A minute later, him and Colby come walking out.

Sam gets into the passenger seat, reaching back to lay his hand on your knee. You lay your hand overtop of his, and that’s how it stayed the whole way back to the hotel.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

If you struggle with panic attacks, anxiety attacks, or any other kind of mental health struggles - you are not alone. None of that defines you. It happens to even the best of us. I love you so much. 🖤

Thank you so much for reading, as I said - I love you so much. I’ll catch you in the next one! 🖤

Likes and reblogs are majorly appreciated!

[astraljedi]

With you, I serve

With you, I fall down - Joaquin Torres

This wasn't requested and I haven't written in a while for Tumblr, but I suddenly had the itch to write this after watching Captain America yesterday. I've loved this man since forever and its a shame that I started so late to write for him! Warnings: Contains spoilers from Captain America: Brave New World, angst, mention of war & combat trauma, severe injuries (burns, surgery)

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x Female OC

Word Count: 2,931

Song: epiphany by Taylor Swift

A/N: For every Joaquin fic I write, I’ll be using my OC. It makes writing easier for me when I can create a character with a backstory. I don't include any detailed descriptions of the OC, other than that she's female.

Unknown Location, Military Base – 08:45

“I want to make this clear: everyone in this room is considered the top of your class as pilots. Your classmates are not your enemy—ego is your enemy,” I begin, scanning the faces of the pilots seated before me. “We are all here for one reason: to protect those who need protecting. We might butt heads during flight practice, but get this through your skulls. We defend the helpless, and we all make it back alive.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the class chants, posture rigidly straight. I stand at the front of the room, just beside the podium I refuse to use. With a nod, I dismiss them to retrieve their flight gear and prepare their planes for their first flight evaluation.

As I gather my belongings to do the same, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I glance at the screen—unknown caller ID.

“Captain, a word.”

I turn to see Colonel Matthews stepping into the classroom. I’ve been under his wing since I started my career and he was still a lieutenant. I enlisted after my mother passed during deployment, and he gave me the support and time to grieve. But he also made sure I knew I was more than my mother’s legendary career. I built my own, becoming a pilot and now a flight instructor.

“Colonel, of course.” I set my phone atop my files and face him.

“What do you think of the class? I need your honest opinion.” His brows are nearly stuck together, and he shifts on his feet, the stress written all over his face.

“Well, on paper, they look good, but I haven’t started their evaluations yet,” I admit. This assignment was suddenly dropped on me, so I only had a few hours to go over their files last night. I barely slept, and during my morning FaceTime with my boyfriend, he didn’t hesitate to scold me for it. As if he has any room to talk when he can knock out the second his head hits the pillow, while I need a full ritual just to get a decent six hours. “I’ll have a solid opinion after their flight practice.”

“Good. With what happened at the White House, Celestial Island, and whatever the hell decides to show up next, we need the best.”

When half the world disappeared, we adjusted and survived. But when suddenly everyone came back, it was chaos. And things just keep happening. Now we live in a new fear—what if the Blip wasn’t the worst? What if something bigger is out there?

“We do.” I nod. “And I know I can push these pilots to their full potential.”

“Oh, I know. That’s why you’re here.” He smiles, patting my shoulder. “Your mother would be proud of you.”

I force a smile, ignoring the faint ache in my chest. “Thank you.”

He glances at my still-vibrating phone and raises a brow. “Looks like someone really wants to talk to you.”

I hesitate, then pick it up. “Excuse me, Colonel. This might be an emergency.”

With a small nod from him, I step into the hallway and answer. “Hello?”

“How’s my gorgeous girl?”

My body melts against the wall as my shoulders loosen, the stress of the morning fading instantly.

“Better now that I’m talking to you.” My cheeks burn. It’s just a phone call, and yet he flusters me so easily. “Why are you calling from an unknown number? Is everything okay?”

“Not really—but we’re okay,” Joaquin sighs. “Listen, I’m going off the grid with Sam. I don’t know when I’ll be able to call or when I’ll be back. That’s all I can say for now.”

I sigh. I really miss him. It’s been weeks since I last saw him. We didn’t even get a proper date night. Instead, we ended up tearing down a wall in the house and pulling out carpet so filthy I don’t even want to guess when it was last cleaned.

“Don’t worry, yo entiendo.” That’s the thing about this job—you never know when you’ll be pulled into a mission or how long you’ll be gone.

“Please try not to worry too much,” he says gently, as if he can already sense my anxiety kicking in. “I’ll call when things clear up.”

I’m proud of him. I really am. But that damn Falcon suit still terrifies me. Some nights, I have to drag him away from working on it and into bed with me. Usually, that’s not an issue, but he’s too damn excited about having his own suit.

“Yo siempre me voy a preocupar por ti, Torres.” I push away the image of him falling from the sky, replacing it with something softer—his smile. The one I catch in the rare quiet of the morning when our schedules align. The one that greeted me at the airport after my deployment. The one he wore when he finally asked me out.

“I have to go,” he says, voice quieter now. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” My throat tightens. “Try to be careful. Please.”

“I’ll try.”

The Following Day, 22:00

“Today wasn’t terrible,” the exhausted group of pilots sighs. Some throw themselves onto the sofa, while others collapse onto the floor.

I could’ve gone easy on them—it’s only their second day with me. But that’s not my style. They’re decent pilots, and with a few tweaks, they’ll graduate as the best.

“Captain Estrada.”

I turn as Captain Sofia Ramos, my best friend, rushes into the common room, her face tight with urgency. “You need to see this.”

My gut clenches. I already know. Even before she grabs the remote and turns on the small TV mounted on the wall, I know.

Joaquin.

The broadcast cuts to footage from Celestial Island, the contested territory between America and Japan. My eyes lock onto the screen, and suddenly, no one else in the room exists. Just me and that damn TV light.

No. No, no, no.

I silently beg any god who will listen as I watch the Falcon in the background, disarming missiles—missiles fired from American fighter pilots.

“Everyone, clear out,” Ramos orders.

The pilots groan but comply, irritated that they’re being kicked out when Captain America is on-screen. They don’t get it. They don’t see what I see.

While everyone else watches Sam, my eyes are locked on the blurry figure in the background, engaging with the other pilots.

“What are they doing?” My voice is barely above a whisper, desperate. Every time Joaquin moves, nausea churns in my stomach.

“All I know is that our guys fired first,” Ramos says, her tone clipped. “It looks like Cap and Falcon are trying to stop them.”

I hear her, but I don’t respond. I can’t. My entire focus is glued to the screen. Paperwork be damned—I have to be here.

Sofia kneels beside me, wrapping a steadying arm around my shoulders. I always worry when Joaquin’s on a mission, not knowing where he is or who he’s fighting. But this—this is my worst nightmare. A front-row seat to him in combat, in the Falcon suit he spent countless hours perfecting. And I can’t do a damn thing.

“What are you doing?” My breath catches as the camera pans to Sam, with Joaquin in the background, flying straight toward two missiles.

“Shoot them down,” I beg the screen, as if he can hear me.

One missile explodes harmlessly in the distance.

The second—

Joaquin flies straight into it as it detonates.

The camera jerks away, refocusing on Sam.

“No—get him back! Move the camera!” I cry, scrambling to my feet, legs unsteady beneath me. “Did you see him fall? Please, tell me you saw him.”

I turn to Sofia, cheeks wet with tears, pleading for an answer neither of us has.

“If he fell, rescue will get to him,” she says firmly, pulling me into her, holding me tight as my body shakes from sobbing. “You and I know how it feels to be on that side. They have only the best there. He will make it home.”

I cling to her words, but fear sinks its claws deep into my chest.

“If I have to pull rank, I will get you on the next flight when he gets back,” she promises.

I nod weakly against her shoulder, unable to say anything past the lump in my throat.

Washington, DC - 14:34

In the end, Sofia didn’t have to pull rank. Colonel Matthews himself got me on a plane and straight to the hospital.

But now, standing outside, I can’t get in.

“Ma’am, I can’t let you in there. Only authorized personnel are allowed.”

I’ve been arguing with this officer for more than ten minutes, but he won’t budge. He won’t even listen.

“I’m his wife! I need to see him,” I shout, my voice cracking. Desperation claws at my throat, but the words don’t seem to reach him.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. You haven’t been cleared to enter the building.”

My hands shake as I pull out my military credentials and shove them toward him. “I work for the Air Force. Isn’t that clearance enough for you?”

His expression doesn’t waver. “I’m sorry, but no.”

I exhale sharply. Behind me, the press stirs, their voices rising, cameras flashing like lightning in a storm. But I can’t be bothered to care.

“You don’t understand—no one will tell me anything. I need to know if he’s okay.” My voice breaks, the hours of agony finally taking their toll. The waiting, the silence, the unanswered calls—it’s been unbearable. Joaquin could be—

No. I can’t let my mind go there.

“Vanessa?”

The familiar voice makes my head snap up.

Sam.

I could’ve kissed his feet right then and there.

“Sam! I need to see him, please.”

He looks like hell. His face is bruised, exhaustion etched deep into his features. His eyes, heavy with worry, probably mirror my own.

Sam doesn’t hesitate. “Officer, thank you for doing your job, but she’s with me.” He reaches for my hand, pulling me gently to his side.

The officer stiffens. “Of course, Captain. I apologize.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Sam shakes his hand before leading me inside.

I pick at my nail beds as a nurse guides us toward a gallery room.

“Are you sure you want to see him like this?” Sam asks, his voice low.

I nod. If I try to speak, I’ll break.

He hesitates. “He’s on the table now. He has burns, and it’s not pretty, sweetheart.”

“I’ve been at war too, Sam,” I say carefully.

Sam exhales, then pushes the door open. I step inside first, my pulse thundering in my ears.

I’ve spent years in the force. I’ve seen injuries—horrific, fatal ones. I’ve suffered them myself.

But nothing—nothing—could have prepared me for this.

Joaquin lies on the operating table, his body covered in burns, his skin raw and blistered. Doctors and nurses move around him in a blur, their voices overlapping as they work tirelessly.

My knees buckle.

Sam catches me before I hit the floor.

“It’s one thing being kept in the dark when he’s away,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the hum of machines. “But watching it happen on TV was a living nightmare.” My throat tightens. “I can’t take my eyes off him now. I’m scared that if I blink, he’ll be gone.”

Sam is quiet for a long moment. Then, barely above a whisper, he says, “I’m sorry.” His hands are deep in his pockets, his shoulders tense. “I tried. But I failed the kid.”

I shake my head immediately. “Don’t you dare, Sam Wilson.” My voice steadies, sharp with conviction. “This isn’t your fault. I don’t blame you, and neither will he.”

His jaw clenches. “I could’ve done more.”

“You carry the weight of the world, Sam. We do the best we can out there—we try to save everyone. But sometimes, we can’t.” I reach for his arm, squeezing gently. “You saved the day. You both did. And I’m grateful you made it back home.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “You would’ve beaten my ass if I didn’t bring him back in one piece.”

A small, watery smile tugs at my lips. “If the both of you had died out there, I would’ve brought you back just to kill you myself.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, and I nudge his arm playfully, the moment of levity breaking through the weight in the room.

But when I look back at Joaquin, the lump in my throat returns.

“You two are important to me,” I say softly. “Don’t ever forget that.”

And as I watch the machines breathe for Joaquin, I silently pray he heard me too.

A Few Days Later - 13:11

“Surgery went well. There were some complications, but thankfully, he’s stable now,” I say into the phone, my voice still laced with exhaustion.

“I’m glad, honey.” Sofia’s voice is a balm on the other end. “You had me scared for a second there.”

“Thank you. If it wasn’t for you, I would’ve completely broken down in front of everyone.” I exhale, pressing my fingers to my temple. The memory of that moment—when the weight of everything nearly crushed me—is still fresh. If Sofia hadn’t cleared the room before I shattered entirely, I don’t know what I would’ve done. “Honestly? I blacked out. I don’t even remember getting on the plane. It wasn’t until Sam was walking me toward the hospital that my brain seemed to wake up.”

“Has he woken up yet?”

“No. They put him in an induced coma to help his body heal, but he’s been stirring more lately. It won’t be long now.” My voice softens. Joaquin was there for me when my body endured its own battles—now it’s my turn to return the favor. For now, Sofia and Colonel Matthews will oversee my squadron’s training while I stay behind to help Joaquin recover.

“I have to go, but keep me in the loop, babes.” We exchange quick goodbyes before she hangs up, off to oversee flight maneuvers for the team.

I tug at the sleeves of Joaquin’s favorite football hoodie—the one I’ve been practically living in since the moment I stepped into the hospital. His scent lingers in the fabric, the only comfort I’ve had in days. The only time I’ve left his side has been when Isaiah or Sam dragged me away to eat or take a quick shower.

Even now, my stomach twists in knots. Sam brought me food, a thoughtful gesture, but I can barely stomach more than a few bites of fries before nausea wins again. I wrap the leftovers back into the paper bag and sit on the bench in the hospital’s courtyard, letting the late afternoon breeze wash over me. Sam had forced me outside, insisting I needed fresh air that wasn’t recycled through hospital vents.

Eventually, I make my way back inside, my steps heavy with exhaustion. The press has finally cleared out, leaving the entrance eerily quiet. I offer the nurses a small, tired smile as I head toward Joaquin’s room, already dreading another night on that stiff hospital sofa—the damn thing might as well be made of cardboard.

I reach for the door handle but freeze.

A sound echoes from inside.

Laughter.

My pulse spikes.

I push the door open, my breath catching at the sight before me.

Joaquin. Awake.

He and Sam are laughing about something, the warm, familiar sound hitting me like a punch to the chest.

“Hi, gorgeous,” Joaquin says, his voice rough, tired—alive.

Just like that, the tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over.

His face has more color now, the rawness of his injuries still evident but softened by the warmth of his smile—the same smile I fell in love with all those years ago.

It’s only been a few days. But it feels like a lifetime.

“Come here,” he murmurs, opening his arms.

I don’t hesitate. I slip onto the bed carefully, resting my head against his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. For the first time in days, the world outside disappears. Neither of us notices when Sam quietly slips out of the room giving us some privacy.

His arms wrap around me, firm despite the exhaustion in his body. A quiet groan slips from him at the movement, and I start to pull back, worried, but he tightens his hold—well, as much as he can.

“Don’t you dare, wife,” Joaquin teases, his thumb brushing my shoulder.

I let out a soft laugh, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I needed a way to get in and stay here with you.”

“I love the sound of you being my wife, but for now, let’s focus on that fixer-upper you begged me to leave an offer on.”

I roll my eyes. “Begged? Please. I barely had to convince you.”

He chuckles. “The second you mentioned an outdoor kitchen and a barbecue pit, I was done for.”

I grin. “Don’t worry. I’m in no rush.” Because right now, I have everything I need—him, here, safe.

“Mrs. Vanessa Torres has a nice ring to it,” he muses.

I tilt my head, smirking. “Mrs. Vanessa Torres-Estrada sounds even better.”

His lips curl into a slow smile. “You got yourself a deal.”

He lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my empty ring finger before pulling me in for the first real kiss we’ve shared in weeks.

And for the first time in days, I finally breathe.