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navybrat817 · 5 months ago

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Deep in the Woods: Part 1

Pairing: Soft!Dark Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Fic Summary: A relaxing getaway in the woods may become your permanent home when you catch the eye of a lumberjack.

Series Masterlist | Part 2

Chapter Summary: You encounter your grumpy temporary neighbor while attempting to chop some firewood.

Chapter Word Count: Over 3.3k

Chapter Warnings: DARK AU, bits of MCU canon, cheating mentioned (reader's ex), grumpy x sunshine trope, invasive behavior, reader is too trusting, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning and a bit rude at first, okay?), more warnings to come.

A/N: A new dark AU inspired by @darkficsyouneveraskedfor 's ask. ❤️‍🔥 Thanks to @targaryenvampireslayer for cheering me on! ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @whisperlullaby , but any and all mistakes are my own. Bucky edit by the beautiful @nixakimbo . Divider by the talented @firefly-graphics . Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

The sun shining in the sky was deceiving as you hauled a large piece of wood to the tree trunk. It was chillier than expected, and the cold would only get worse once the sun went down. Your cabin had heat, but you'd be stuck if it went out and you didn’t manage to chop some firewood. Making a fire you could handle. Chopping wood?

That was another story.

“Okay,” you smiled, setting the log upright and adjusting your gloves before you grabbed the axe. You gripped the handle tight, raising it above your head. “I got this.”

The blade hit the log almost dead center. Unsurprisingly though, it barely pierced the wood. You hunched over, tugging at the axe, nearly losing your balance in the process. “I still got this,” you huffed, shaking out your arms and swinging again.

The next swing went deeper, but only by an inch. The swing after that, you nearly missed completely. Sweat beaded on your forehead, your body warming despite the chill in the air. After a moment, you dropped the axe and stared at the log with your hands on your hips. It was nowhere near split.

“I don’t got this,” you sighed.

“Who the hell are you?” a gruff voice asked from behind you.

Your heart leapt to your throat as you spun around, and it raced even faster when you spotted a figure just a few feet away. He was a large man, and one of the most handsome men you had ever seen. He would likely tower over you if he stepped closer. His dark hair hung messily past his shoulders, while his perfectly trimmed beard gave him a rugged edge. The flannel he wore strained against the biceps of his muscular arms, one of the shades of blue matching his thunderous eyes.

Was he glaring at you?

“Hi,” you smiled, trying to sound friendly as you gestured toward the unchopped log. “I was just trying, and failing, to chop some firewood. I hope I'm not disturbing you.”

He kicked a small twig away with his boot. “I didn't ask what you were doing. I asked, ‘Who the hell are you?’”

Your smile slipped. Maybe he was local and didn't like outsiders, though something about him seemed familiar. “Oh, yeah. Right,” you said, giving him your name and nodding to the cabin nearby. “Mr. Hunter rented the place out to me. I’m staying for a couple of weeks. Just got here this morning.” You hoped the place wasn't double booked.

He relaxed a fraction, but his glare didn't disappear completely as he took out his phone and dialed a number. You heard a ring as he put it on speaker. While he tapped a foot impatiently, you weren't sure what to say or do.

“Howdy, neighbor,” a raspy voice answered on the other end.

“Did you rent out your place?” he asked, keeping his eyes on you when your face got hot. You wanted to yell that you wouldn't lie about something like that, but that didn't seem like a good idea.

“Yeah. Pretty lady. Paid in full upfront. Clean background, too.” You looked at your feet. It was weird to listen in even though it was on speaker. And did he say “clean background”? What did that mean? “Why? Is she-”

The man hung up the phone. “Didn't think he rented his cabin out anymore,” he said more to himself than you.

An awkward silence filled the air. “Yeah, well, apparently he does. I booked it a couple of months ago and he left a code to get in and some instructions for the place,” you explained, trying to smile again as you looked around and breathed in the fresh air. “It’s a really nice place and the view up here is gorgeous, like something out of a photograph. Do you live nearby?”

He grunted and jutted his chin out. “My cabin is the next one over to the left.”

“That’s nice,” you smiled more, grabbing the axe again. “And it was very interesting meeting you, temporary neighbor, but I should try to finish this up.”

Before you could blink, the man was directly in front of you with one hand on the handle. He was even bigger up close. “If you’re thinking of taking another swing at that log, don't,” he barked at you, snatching the axe from your hands. You weren’t sure if it was his tone or him grabbing it from you that made you flinch. “This isn't a toy, it’s dangerous. And from the looks of that log you have no business trying to do that to begin with.”

Your cheeks burned again. It was bad enough that this guy didn't take your word for staying at the cabin, but the last thing you needed was for some stranger to lecture or humiliate you, and a grumpy one at that. “Yeah, well, if my cheating asshole of a boyfriend hadn't been balls deep in his colleague, we wouldn't be having this conversation. He'd be out here chopping firewood and I’d be inside cooking, which is something I'm actually good at, thank you very much,” you snapped.

Your tone surprised him enough to let you take the axe back. “I didn't…” he trailed off when you held up a hand.

“You don't know me and that’s fine, but I’m trying to be friendly and that's more than you can say,” you continued, his nostrils flaring. He didn't have to be nice to you, but he didn't need to be rude either. “And not that it’s any of your business, but I'm stuck here by myself, I’m trying my best to make it work, and I don't need some random stranger out here giving me a hard time for no reason.”

Your eyes burned as he stared at you, but you squared your shoulders and held your head high. You spent enough time crying over a prick who wasn’t worth it and you refused to shed another tear because you deserved better than an unfaithful asshole. And you sure as hell wouldn't cry in front of some hot grump with a chip on his shoulder.

The man’s pensive look dissipated more of your sudden anger and his tone softened considerably when he asked, “You’re really out here by yourself?”

You tensed up. It wasn't smart of you to broadcast that you were all by your lonesome. “Yeah, for now,” you said, your voice softer, too. Maybe you could convince a friend to stop by for a day or so. “I know I’m not good with an axe, but I tried. I just wanted some firewood in case the heat went out for any reason,” you said, your shoulders sagging. “So if you don't mind, can I please finish up?”

He nodded, taking the axe more gently this time. “Let me,” he offered, your eyes wide at his change in demeanor. “And step back. I don't want you to get hurt.”

Once you moved out of the way, he lifted the axe and split the log down the middle with expert precision. With his view on the task at hand, you swept an appreciative gaze over him. The guy was a bit of a grump, but he filled his jeans out well. “I’m sorry I snapped at you, mister,” you told him, getting a grunt in response. “My problems aren't your problems and I didn't mean to get so defensive about my lack of wood chopping skills.”

“You can call me Bucky,” he said, grabbing another log. “And nothing to be sorry for. I didn't exactly lay out the welcome mat for you.”

“It’s… Wait, Bucky.” Your eyes widened in realization. “Bucky Barnes?”

He froze before he brought the axe down again. “Heard of me?”

“Of course I have. You helped save the world,” you smiled. Years back, an alien warlord had wiped out half of the population. Not only did a group of heroes called the Avengers help reverse the wipeout, but they stopped the monster with the help of many others across the galaxy. Bucky was one of those people. No wonder he seemed so familiar. “You’re a hero.”

A tortured one at that. You remembered seeing a few articles about him. A former prisoner of war turned brainwashed assassin turned hero. He was pardoned for the crimes committed while was brainwashed, and rightfully so in your opinion, and he went on to use his skills and expertise to help others.

What was he doing out here in the woods?

“Not really a hero anymore,” he said, brushing his hair back with his forearm. “Now I’m just a lumberjack who values his privacy.”

“Oh.” That answered your question. “I guess valuing your privacy explains why you didn't roll out the welcome mat,” you teased, wringing your fingers together. You felt kind of bad again for snapping at him. Given his past that you were aware of, it made sense why he would've been suspicious of someone new popping up near his home.

He stopped to glance at you. “Guess it’s my turn to apologize,” he said.

You blinked, not wanting to lose yourself in his deep gaze. “No need. I figured you were just a local who didn't like new people around.” You smiled at the pile of wood he made. “I think you chopping firewood for me is the perfect apology. You saved me a lot of time and trouble.”

He hummed, putting the blade in the tree trunk once he finished. “You said you cook?” he asked, wiping his gloves on his jeans as he faced you.

“Yeah. I actually have a stew keeping warm right now,” you replied, shifting on your feet when he stared you down. “Are you hungry? I made plenty.”

“Sure,” he shrugged.

“Okay.” Your smile faltered when you walked toward the cabin with Bucky close behind. Was it a good idea to invite him in when you didn't exactly know him? The guy was a hero though. No reason to be suspicious.

The aroma of seasonings, beef, and vegetables greeted you as you opened the door and set your gloves on the entry table. “If you don’t mind taking your boots off, that was one of the instructions,” you told him, removing yours and hanging your coat on the hook.

While the cabin wasn’t large, it was in great condition. It was also extremely clean and tidy. The guy who owned it likely didn’t want dirt on his floors.

“Yeah, God’s kind of picky about that stuff,” Bucky said, putting his gloves on top of yours. You caught a glimpse of his metal hand, but you quickly looked away. It wasn’t polite to stare.

“Wait. The G in G.B. Hunter stands for God?” Your brows pinched as you walked toward the kitchen. “What the hell does the B stand for?” you muttered to yourself.

“That’s really what it stands for. He’s a bit of a strange guy, but a good neighbor when he’s here,” Bucky said, following close again. He was practically on top of you. “So, your boyfriend. He-”

“Ex-boyfriend,” you corrected him, inhaling deeply as you lifted the lid from the warm pot. The scent brought a smile to your face and pushed a bit of the bitterness away. “What about him?”

Bucky grabbed a couple of bowls from the cupboard. He knew where the spoons were, too, so he was at least somewhat familiar with the place. You weren’t sure how that made you feel. “How long were you two together?”

“Almost a year,” you replied. A waste of about twelve months and it wouldn't be fun to start over again.

He set the bowls on the counter before he grabbed a couple of drinks, sweeping a look over you. “Did you catch him cheating?” he asked curiously.

You froze, the image of your ex scrambling to cover himself and his colleague up as you walked in taking over your mind. You had to blink multiple times to make the image go away, but it didn’t stop your stomach from turning. “Yep,” you answered, your throat tight. Why did he want to know? “Tried to give me some lame excuse that it wasn't what it looked like, but I slapped him and said we were done. I can forgive a lot of things, but cheating isn’t one of them.”

“Loyalty is a good trait to want in a partner,” he mused.

“It is, but it’s a trait he didn't have apparently. At least we didn’t live together,” you continued, taking a breath. It hurt and felt good to talk about it. “We were supposed to come up here for a getaway and I debated cancelling the reservation, but I figured it would be a good way to clear my head.”

The kitchen felt warmer and you figured it was because you were close to the stove until you realized Bucky was right at your back. You went rigid when he inhaled. Maybe he was just smelling the food. “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear.

You gripped the ladle until your hand ached. “Not your fault,” you whispered, keeping perfectly still. If you moved forward, the stove would burn you. If you moved back, you’d be right against him. It was a small kitchen, but there was no reason for him to stand so close.

You didn’t exhale until he moved to set the drinks on the table. “You got a job?” he asked.

Clearing your throat, you nodded, thankful for the change in topic. “Yeah, data entry. Not too exciting, but it’s decent pay and I don’t have to go into an office or deal with traffic.” You scooped a generous portion of stew into a bowl for him, just in case he was really hungry. “As long as I have my laptop and an internet connection, I can get the job done.”

“Must be nice,” he commented, but it sounded more admirable than sarcastic. “You said you and your ex didn’t live together. Do you have a roommate? Pets?”

You side-eyed him. The tone was casual, but what was with the multiple questions? “I live alone because my apartment is about the size of a shoebox,” you said. It was cozy though and yours. “Nice thing is the rent is cheap. Sad thing is the building is pet free.”

He took out his phone as you got your bowl ready. “I have a cat,” he said, shoving the phone close to your face. It was a photo of a beautiful white cat sitting by a window. It was endearing picturing a burly man holding such a delicate creature. “Her name’s Alpine.”

You smiled at the image. “She’s really beautiful. I’ve always loved cats.”

He smiled a little, too, but it went away as fast as it appeared. “She’s very particular with people, but you’re welcome to meet her.” He took the bowl from your hand to carry them to the small table nearby. “She might like you since you’re sweet.”

Heat rolled up your neck. “That’s nice of you to offer, but I wouldn’t want to impose,” you said. It wasn’t like you had any plans during your time there, but he had done enough by chopping the firewood for you.

His jaw ticked. “If it was an imposition I wouldn't have asked.”

“Oh, I wasn't trying to imply anything,” you promised, your stomach twisting in knots. It wasn't your intention to upset him.

“Are you allergic to cats?”

“No, I’m not,” you answered.

He set the bowls on the table and leveled you with a hard stare. “Then I think you should meet her,” he said, pulling out a chair for you. It sounded more like an order than a suggestion. “Sit.”

You hesitated before you sat down. “Okay then,” you said. Maybe he was trying to make up for being rude earlier by welcoming you in some capacity. “Does tomorrow work?”

His lip curled up in a smile, giving you a nod, too. “Tomorrow. Early afternoon,” he replied, taking a seat. How did he still look so big sitting down? You watched him blow on a spoonful of stew before he took a bite, his eyes shutting with a groan. It was a deep, primal sound and you shouldn't have liked hearing it. “This is… really good.”

You beamed, unable to help yourself. You took pride in your cooking. “I’m glad you like it,” you said, digging in, too. “So, you said you’re a lumberjack now. How long have you been doing that?”

He hunched over a bit as he took a few more bites, like he hadn't eaten all day. “About nine months. Tough mission happened and I had to walk away from it.” He shrugged dismissively. Did the mission have a bad outcome or was it just the straw that broke the camel’s back? It wasn’t any of your business. “Came out to the woods with Alpine, started chopping down trees to work out some of my frustration, and it somehow became my new job. The woods suit me better than the city anyway.”

“Yeah? How so?”

He shrugged again. “It’s quiet, peaceful. No judging or prying eyes,” he answered, pushing the now empty bowl away. It almost sounded like he was hiding from the world. “And I don’t mind working with my hands. Can chop trees down pretty fast and it doesn’t take long to get the logs to the sawmill. Even built some of my own furniture in my place.”

“You build your own furniture? That’s so cool,” you smiled. It took a moment, but he smiled back a little. “Being a lumberjack sounds like hard but satisfying work,” you added. You admired him for being a hero, but also for his new, humble lifestyle.

“Yeah, it is.” He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his stomach. “This might be rude to ask, but you wouldn’t mind making us lunch tomorrow, would you? I can cook, but it’s nothing like yours.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Part of you took it as a compliment that he liked your cooking, but something in his stare made you want to squirm. Could it be the assumption that you were going to have lunch with him when all he said was that he wanted you to meet his cat? “I don’t mind,” you smiled. Maybe the guy was a bit lonely and just wanted someone to share a meal with. You could sympathize with that. “Anything in particular you like? If I don’t have it, I can go to town and-”

“Surprise me, doll.” The chair scraped along the floor as he pushed himself up, towering over the table and you. “And don’t bother going to town. Whatever you have here to cook, I’ll eat it.”

“I’ll surprise you then.” Your brows pinched as he went back to the kitchen. He walked around like he owned the place. “Oh, help yourself,” you said when he stopped at the stove for another bowl.

He paused to look back at you. His blue eyes looked a shade darker and you couldn’t help but shiver. “I plan to,” he stated.

You gave him a smile, discreetly patting your pants pocket to make sure you still had your phone on you. It wasn’t like you needed to call anyone for help, but you were all alone and had to be careful. You were still going to have a nice time though. It would be a relaxing trip and you could catch up on reading, relaxing, whatever you wanted.

Besides, Bucky was nearby just in case. The guy didn’t seem to have a complete sense of boundaries, but he wasn’t a bad guy. He was a hero. You didn’t have anything to fear.

Right?

Oh, our reader did herself no favors by answering truthfully that she's all alone. I wonder how Bucky will play this... Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

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worlds-we-write · 15 days ago

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Sweet on You

Chapter 1: Bread and Butter

pairing: Jackson!joel miller x baker!reader

Summary: You spend most of your days elbow-deep in dough, trying to stay invisible in a town that’s only ever half-safe. But when a snowstorm traps you inside the bakery — and Joel Miller comes back to check on you — the walls you’ve built start to crack. And Joel? He’s more than willing to crawl through them.

WC: 7.4K

Rating: Explicit (18+) MDNI

Tags: Joel Miller x Reader, Jackson Era, Age Gap, Bakery AU, Snowed-In, Protective Joel, Abusive Ex, First Time, Oral (f receiving), Praise Kink, Dirty Talk, Aftercare, Soft Dom Joel, Emotional Tension, Smut & Comfort

Series Masterlist

The first light of morning bleeds through the frosted bakery windows, casting long shadows across the flour-dusted countertops. You’re already elbow-deep in dough by the time most of Jackson is still stirring under blankets. Your hands move on instinct — knead, fold, turn, press — the motions steady, repetitive, almost comforting. Almost.

The radio in the corner crackles with the latest weather warning. Snow’s rolling in faster than expected. Maria’s voice, stern and clipped, advises nonessential workers to stay inside.

You keep working.

The heat from the ovens hasn’t fully kicked in yet, and your fingers are stiff with cold. You blow into your palms, flexing them as pain stabs through the joints. The skin on your knuckles is raw — half from the dry air, half from where your ex’s grip had been a little too tight last night when you tried to walk away.

You’d brushed it off. Said something about catching your hand on a doorframe. You lie easier than you used to.

You glance toward the window, hoping no one will come by this early. Hoping he won’t come by. He’s unpredictable that way. But even thinking about it makes your stomach churn.

Instead, you focus on the one thing that helps: work. Baking. The soft resistance of dough, the smell of rising yeast, the way cinnamon sticks to your fingertips like sugar-slick sin. It’s your rhythm. Your armor.

The door jingles at 7:32 a.m. sharp.

Your heart skips. You freeze, hands full of dough.

But then—

“Morning.”

His voice. Warm gravel. Low and rough like coffee at sunrise.

Joel Miller.

You don’t even have to look up to know it’s him. He always comes in at this time on Thursdays. Like clockwork. Orders the same loaf of sourdough. Pays in full. Sometimes talks. Sometimes doesn’t. Always looks at you just a little too long.

You wipe your hands on your apron, trying not to notice how your pulse jumps. “Hey. You’re early.”

He tilts his head slightly, mouth twitching. “You’re open early.”

“Some of us don’t like to sleep in,” you mutter, reaching for the wrapped loaf already waiting for him. You’d made it automatically. Without thinking. That part makes your cheeks burn.

Joel steps up to the counter, wearing that damn brown jacket that clings to his shoulders too well. Snow dusts his hair. His glasses are fogged slightly, and you swear he lowers them to peer at you over the rim — just to mess with your head.

“Cold in here,” he murmurs. “You alright?”

You hesitate.

You could say yes. That you’re fine. That the cut on your wrist is from the oven. That you’re not shaking because of him. That Joel’s eyes on you don’t make it worse and better all at once.

But instead, you just nod. “Yeah. Cold front’s coming in fast.”

Joel takes the loaf, but his gaze lingers. Like he knows there’s something unsaid. His hand brushes yours when he takes the bread. It’s nothing. Barely a second.

But it sets your nerves on fire.

You avoid his eyes. He doesn’t push.

“Be careful out there,” he says.

You don’t reply. Just watch him go.

As the door swings shut behind him, you whisper it too late:

“You too.”

You think that’s it — just another Thursday morning, another few seconds of Joel Miller brushing against the edge of your world before disappearing back into his.

But fifteen minutes later, the bell above the bakery door jingles again.

Your brows pull together. It’s too early for your regulars. And Joel? He never comes back the same day.

You wipe your hands on your apron again — a nervous habit you haven’t been able to kick — and turn toward the counter just in time to see him step back inside.

His hair is a little more damp than before, snow melting against the curve of his collar. His jacket’s still zipped up, and he’s carrying… what looks like a small crate of canned goods.

You blink. “Did you… forget something?”

He shrugs, but his eyes scan the room, lingering on the prep table behind you, the woodpile beside the stove, your thermos of half-drunk coffee. He takes his time.

“Figured you might need this,” he says casually, setting the crate on the edge of the counter.

You glance down — it’s stacked with preserved fruit, two bags of flour, and a few canned items you’ve been out of since last week’s trading haul. It’s the kind of stuff you usually have to beg Tommy to scrounge up for you.

“I—Joel, I didn’t ask for this.”

“I know.” He slides his hands into his jacket pockets, eyes never leaving your face. “Heard you mention last week you were running low.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. No one ever listens that closely. Not unless they want something.

Joel doesn’t say anything else. Just watches you, waiting.

You force a smile. “Thanks. Really. That’s… sweet of you.”

His brow ticks up. “You don’t gotta call it that.”

“What? Sweet?”

“Yeah.” He looks down, almost self-conscious. “Ain’t a word most folks use for me.”

You stare at him. At the way his jaw tightens slightly. At the soft crease in his brow. He really doesn’t know how he sounds when he says these things, does he?

Your fingers twitch at your sides. You want to ask him why he came back. Why he’s really here.

But instead, your mouth betrays you. “You didn’t need to bring this.”

“Didn’t need to,” Joel agrees. “Wanted to.”

Your throat goes dry.

The silence stretches for a second too long. You reach to move the crate off the counter, but when you do, the cuff of your sleeve pushes back just far enough for the healing bruise on your wrist to show.

Joel notices.

You see it the moment his eyes drop to it — the way his expression stills. Sharpens.

You yank the sleeve back down quickly. “Banged it on the oven door.”

His voice is quiet. Careful. “That so?”

You nod, too fast.

Joel doesn’t press. Doesn’t call you out.

But he lingers.

“You staying here through the storm?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. “I usually do when it’s bad. Easier than trying to haul everything back and forth in the snow.”

He’s still watching you like he’s trying to read between the lines. Like he knows there’s more to it. Maybe he does.

“I’ll come by later. Check in,” he says finally. Not a question. Not an offer. Just a fact.

Your heart flutters in your chest. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

And just like that, he turns and walks out again — boots heavy against the wooden floor, the door closing behind him with a gust of cold air that feels far too empty once he’s gone.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

Your fingers graze your wrist, brushing over the dark mark that’s just starting to fade.

You’re not sure which man scares you more.

The one who bruises you in the dark. Or the one who looks at you like he already knows — and gives a damn anyway.

The bakery is quiet again after Joel leaves, but the warmth he brought with him lingers in the space. You can still feel it in your chest — the way he looked at you, the way his voice softened when he asked if you were okay. He doesn’t ask like other people do. He actually wants the answer.

You try to shake it off.

There’s dough to shape, pastries to glaze, loaves to prep for the lunch crowd that may or may not come with the snow already starting to fall. Your hands get back to work, but your head is still replaying that moment — how close he stood. How easily your wrist fit in his hand. How badly you wanted him to pull you in and stay.

The bell over the door rings again.

You freeze.

That’s not his walk. Joel’s heavy but measured. This is lighter. Quicker. Familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist.

You don’t turn around until you have to.

“Morning, sweetheart.”

His voice is low and syrupy. The pet name lands like a punch.

You force yourself to look at him — your ex. Smiling like he owns the room. Like he still owns you.

“Didn’t realize you were open this early,” he says, stepping up to the counter, hands stuffed in his coat pockets like he’s just passing through. “Thought maybe I’d stop in. Say hi.”

You grip the edge of the counter tighter than you mean to. “I’m busy.”

He leans in slightly. “I can see that. Must be a lot of work keeping this place going all by yourself.”

You nod once. Don’t give him anything more.

There’s a long pause. He doesn’t leave.

You know this game. He’s waiting for you to break the silence. To give him space to wedge something sharp between the cracks. You focus on the cinnamon rolls instead — brushing them with egg wash, pretending he’s not watching the way your hands move.

Then he does it.

“You and Joel Miller seem real friendly lately.”

Your body stiffens.

He notices.

“Saw him bring in some supplies earlier. Thought that was sweet.” He cocks his head. “You baking him something special?”

You don’t answer.

“I mean, I get it,” he says, voice dipping lower, a sneer barely hidden under the sweetness. “Big strong guy like that. Bet he knows just how to handle a woman like you.”

Your chest tightens. “You need to go.”

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Relax. I’m just saying — wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea. People talk.”

You finally look up. Your voice is calm, but shaking underneath. “Leave.”

Something flashes behind his eyes — something darker.

And then, too fast to stop, he moves around the counter.

Your heart kicks into overdrive. You step back, but he grabs your arm, fingers digging in too tight, his breath hot and sour against your cheek.

“You really think a man like Joel wants someone like you?” he snarls. “With those thick thighs and soft arms? C’mon. You think he’s not just playing the long game, waiting for something younger, tighter?”

You wrench your arm away, voice low and panicked. “Get out.”

He doesn’t budge. “You don’t belong with someone like him. You belong with someone who knows how to handle you.”

Your blood runs cold.

He leans closer, his voice a whisper now, just for you. “You’re lucky I still care enough to keep you in line.”

You shove him — hard. He stumbles back a step, startled.

“Touch me again and I’ll scream.”

He looks at you for a beat, and something in your eyes must finally register — that you mean it this time.

He straightens his coat. Smiles like it’s all been a joke.

“See you around, sweetheart.”

And then he’s gone.

The door closes softly behind him, but the tension stays — soaked into the floorboards, the walls, your skin.

You lean against the prep table, shaking. Your wrist aches where he grabbed it, and you rub it with trembling fingers.

You stare at the cinnamon rolls, now cold and glossy, untouched.

Your appetite’s gone. But your rage is just starting to simmer.

The snow starts falling harder by midafternoon.

It comes in slow at first — thick, drifting flakes that cling to the bakery windows like static, soft and silent and deceptively gentle. But you know better. Jackson winters aren’t subtle. When the storm hits, it hits hard.

You hear Maria’s voice come through the town radio again, clear even through the walls: “All residents are advised to head home and stay in for the night. Scout patrols will halt after sundown. We’re expecting a full whiteout.”

You don’t respond. Don’t call in. Don’t leave.

You pull the blinds instead. Turn off the storefront lights. Lock the front door even though it’s hours before closing.

The kitchen stays lit, oven humming quietly behind you. You move through your routine like a ghost — stacking trays, folding dish towels, setting out a cot in the corner you keep hidden behind the supply shelves. It’s not the first time you’ve stayed here overnight. Probably won’t be the last.

You tell yourself it’s the storm.

Not the bruise on your wrist. Not the echo of his voice in your head. Not the fact that the apartment you live in is only two doors down from his, and you haven’t slept soundly there in weeks.

You pour yourself a mug of chamomile tea and sit at the tiny prep table, trying to ground yourself. The cup trembles faintly in your hand, and you stare at it like it might give you something solid to hold onto.

He touched you today.

He grabbed you.

You swallow around the lump in your throat.

The bruise is blooming slowly — deeper than the last one. You know how this goes. He pushes until you flinch, then smiles like you’re the one who started it.

You could tell someone. You could tell Maria. You could… tell Joel.

Your stomach flips at the thought.

Joel saw it. The bruise. You could see the tension in his jaw. The way his gaze dropped to your wrist and lingered. The way he didn’t believe you when you brushed it off.

But he didn’t push.

God, you wanted him to.

You finish your tea. Try to distract yourself with prep work — organizing supplies, checking your limited pantry. The crate Joel brought sits near the corner of the kitchen like a quiet promise. You glance at it more than once.

He came back for you today.

No one does that. Not for you.

The wind picks up outside. The walls groan softly. Somewhere far off, a patrol dog howls and the sound is swallowed up by the snow.

You light a few candles when the power flickers — just in case. There’s a thick blanket tucked under the cot, and you pull it around your shoulders, huddling on the small bench by the fire oven.

You don’t expect company.

You definitely don’t expect him to come back.

So when the knock comes — three quick raps against the bakery door — your heart lurches in your chest.

You’re halfway across the kitchen before your body even catches up with your brain, pulse racing, feet bare against the cold wood floor.

You unlock the door, pull it open a crack.

And there he is.

Joel Miller. Covered in snow. Brow furrowed. Eyes locked on you like he’s been waiting to see your face again.

Joel stands just beyond the threshold, snow clinging to his hair, his shoulders, the folds of his coat. His scarf is half-soaked, pushed down around his neck, and his gloved hands are tucked into his jacket pockets like he had to stop himself from knocking again.

You blink at him in the cold air spilling into the bakery.

“You came back.”

His brows lift, like he’s surprised you’re surprised. “Told you I would.”

You step aside silently, letting him in. The moment the door shuts behind him, the sound of the wind fades, replaced by the warm hush of the bakery — the soft crackle of the fire oven, the faint clink of mugs on the drying rack, and the flutter in your chest that just won’t stop.

He stands in the center of the kitchen like he’s unsure where to go, snow melting off him and pooling beneath his boots.

“I was just… checking supplies.” You gesture vaguely toward the pantry shelves, your voice quiet. “Didn’t want to risk walking home.”

Joel’s eyes trail over you — not in a leering way, but like he’s taking inventory. Making sure you’re whole. Untouched.

His gaze drops to your wrist for half a second. You feel it like a spark.

“You didn’t call in,” he says finally. “Maria’s been tellin’ folks to stay in.”

“I’m in,” you say simply.

He hums low in his throat. Removes his gloves, tucks them into his pocket. “You eaten?”

You shake your head. “Didn’t feel like it.”

Joel looks around the kitchen, then back at you. “Mind if I sit?”

You gesture to the bench near the prep table. “Go ahead. Want some tea?”

He nods once. “Yeah. If it’s not too much trouble.”

You busy yourself with the kettle, grateful for something to do. Something to stop your hands from shaking now that he’s sitting barely six feet away, his big frame hunched slightly from the cold, elbows on his knees. Watching you.

You pour the water slowly, grab two mismatched mugs, and hand one to him.

“Thanks,” he mutters, fingers wrapping around the cup like he hasn’t felt warmth all day.

You sit across from him in silence, both of you nursing your tea. The bakery glows softly in candlelight, the fire casting long shadows on the flour-dusted walls. You can hear the wind howling again just beyond the windows, but in here it feels quiet. Tucked away. Like a snow globe, sealed off from the rest of Jackson.

Joel shifts, finally breaking the silence.

“You ever stay here before?”

You nod. “Couple of times. Storms like this, I’d rather not risk the walk. The apartment’s drafty anyway.”

He eyes you for a moment. You wonder if he knows the truth — that it’s not the cold you’re avoiding, but the man who waits two doors down.

He doesn’t ask. But something in his expression hardens just slightly.

“Wasn’t sure you’d want company,” he says.

“I didn’t,” you admit. Then, softer: “But I’m glad it’s you.”

That gets his attention.

His head lifts, and for the first time since he walked in, his eyes meet yours fully. There’s no heat behind the stare — not yet — just a deep, quiet focus. Like he’s listening to more than your words.

“Earlier today,” he says, voice low. “When I came in. You looked... shaken.”

You go still.

“I’m fine.”

“You keep sayin’ that.”

Your breath hitches.

He sets his mug down carefully. Leans forward. “You want me to leave, I will. But if you’re scared of somethin’, someone—”

“I can handle it.”

His jaw ticks. “Didn’t say you couldn’t. Just don’t think you should have to.”

The words land heavy.

You look away. Down at your hands. “He was here today. After you left.”

Joel doesn’t ask who. Doesn’t need to.

“He grabbed me,” you whisper. “Said some shit. About you. About me. Made it real clear he’s still watching.”

Joel is quiet. Too quiet.

Then: “He touch you again, I’ll break his fuckin’ hands.”

You look up sharply.

He’s deadly still. Not posturing. Not trying to be dramatic. Just stating a fact — calm, final, and terrifying in how much he means it.

Your chest tightens. Something behind your ribs begins to unravel.

“I don’t want you to get involved,” you say, but it sounds weak, even to you.

“Too late for that.”

He stands, slow and deliberate, walking around the table until he’s standing in front of you. Not crowding. Not threatening. Just there — solid and steady and burning at the edges.

His voice softens. “You don’t gotta tell me everything. But if you’re gonna stay here tonight… you shouldn’t have to stay alone.”

Your breath catches.

He reaches down, fingers brushing your blanket-covered arm. “Can I stay?”

The wind howls again outside, but in here — it’s warm. And for the first time all day, you feel like maybe you’re allowed to exhale.

You nod.

Joel doesn’t smile. But something in his shoulders eases.

He pulls up a chair beside you, and the silence returns — but now, it feels like safety.

Like something’s shifting.

Like tonight might change everything.

The heat of the tea fades, but neither of you reach for more. The mugs sit forgotten on the table, half full, as you and Joel fall into a heavy quiet. Not uncomfortable — just charged. Like static building in the air before lightning strikes.

Joel sits beside you now, not across from you, close enough that his knee brushes yours every time he shifts. He’s peeled off his coat and scarf, now just in a henley and worn jeans, both still clinging to the chill he brought in with him. You can feel the warmth starting to return to his skin — slow and steady, like everything else he does.

You glance over, catch him watching you from the corner of his eye. Not in a hungry way. Not yet. Just… studying. Like he’s learning something he’s never been allowed to look at this long.

You feel his eyes trace the curve of your cheek, down to your collarbone, then flick quickly away. You swallow.

“You always show up like that?” you murmur. “Right when I need someone?”

Joel huffs softly — almost a laugh, but not quite. “Wasn’t tryin’ to time it.”

“But you did.”

He looks at you now, fully. There’s something behind his eyes — something heavy and unspoken, just waiting to be said.

You press your lips together, turning your mug in slow circles between your palms. “You don’t have to keep checking in on me.”

“I know.”

“You barely know me.”

He shifts in his seat. His voice is low, thoughtful. “I know you get here before sunrise every damn day, even when there’s snow on the ground and half the town’s still in bed. I know you’re polite to everybody, but you don’t really talk to most of ‘em. I know your favorite apron��s the one with the little burn hole on the hem. And I know you flinch when you hear a certain man’s voice outside the window.”

You blink. The air leaves your lungs like he knocked it out of you.

“I know enough,” he says, quiet but firm.

You set the mug down. Slowly. Your hands have started shaking again, and you hate that he can see it.

Joel leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, his voice gentler now. “You ever talk to Maria?”

You shake your head. “I can’t. I mean, I could. But if I do, then it becomes real. On paper. Everyone will know. And he’ll know I told.”

Joel watches you. Not pushing. Just there.

“I don’t want to be a problem,” you whisper.

“You’re not.”

“But if you’re seen with me more…”

“I don’t care.”

You blink up at him.

“I don’t care what anyone says. I don’t care what he thinks. He lays a hand on you again and I won’t be talkin’ about it — I’ll be dealin’ with it.”

Your throat tightens.

You look down at your lap. Your voice barely makes it out. “Why are you being so nice to me?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “Because I’ve been where you are.”

That surprises you. You glance sideways, catch the shadow in his expression — the weariness in his shoulders. Like he’s carrying things he never let anyone see.

“And because,” he adds, clearing his throat, “I look at you, and I don’t want to look away.”

The silence thickens.

You exhale shakily. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start believing you mean it.”

Joel shifts closer. Just enough that you feel the heat radiating off him now. His knee brushes yours and this time he doesn’t pull away.

“Maybe I do.”

You look up, eyes locking with his.

The moment stretches — long and loaded, heartbeats rising, breaths catching in the quiet between you. You can smell him now: woodsmoke, clean cotton, snow and earth. His hands are resting on his thighs, strong and calloused and so close. You wonder what they’d feel like on your hips. On your waist. Between your—

You stop yourself, but the thought lingers.

Joel’s voice drops, deep and low. “You cold?”

You shake your head slowly. “No. I’m—fine.”

But your voice betrays you.

And Joel? He hears it. All of it.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

The tension turns molten.

He leans in, just a little.

And you don’t move.

Not away.

The space between you shrinks by the second.

Joel’s gaze is on your mouth — heavy, deliberate, and hungry. He hasn’t moved more than a few inches, but it feels like gravity is tilting the entire room, pulling you into his orbit. And you… you don’t want to stop it. You don’t even try.

“Joel,” you whisper, unsure if it’s a warning or a plea.

His voice is rough when he answers. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

You don’t.

Your breath catches as he reaches up — slow, like he’s afraid you’ll spook — and brushes his knuckles along your cheek. They’re warm now, calloused, trembling just slightly.

“You’ve been on my mind,” he murmurs, “every goddamn time I walk past this place.”

You swallow hard, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. “Why?”

He huffs out something close to a laugh. “Why?” he echoes. “You really don’t know what you do to me, do you?”

You can’t answer.

Because the truth is: you’ve felt it too. Every lingering look. Every “just checking in.” Every time his voice dipped a little lower when he said your name. You just never let yourself believe it meant anything.

Not when he’s him — older, guarded, heavy with grief you don’t have the right to touch — and you’re… you.

“You don’t want me,” you say, voice small. “Not really.”

Joel goes still.

His hand drops from your cheek, only to settle at your waist instead — big and warm and grounding.

“Don’t say that.”

“I mean—look at me.” You gesture weakly at your body, your soft curves wrapped in a worn sweater and flour-dusted leggings. “I’m not like the women here. I’m not— lean. Or… easy.”

Joel’s expression darkens, but not with anger. With something else. Something possessive.

He leans in slowly, until your noses nearly brush. His breath ghosts over your lips, and his hand on your waist tightens just enough to make you shiver.

“Baby,” he growls, “you think I don’t notice you? You think I don’t lay awake some nights wonderin’ what you taste like?”

Your breath stutters.

“You think I don’t look at those pretty thighs and imagine ‘em wrapped around my head?”

A sound escapes you — half gasp, half whimper.

Joel smirks. Barely. But it’s there.

“You think I haven’t fucked my hand thinkin’ about how sweet you’d sound moanin’ my name?”

You feel heat rush to your core, thighs clenching instinctively.

“Still think I don’t want you?” he murmurs.

And then he kisses you.

It’s not gentle.

Not rough, either — but there’s no hesitation. No uncertainty. His mouth crashes into yours like he’s starved for it, like he’s been waiting far too long and won’t waste another second. His hand slips to the back of your neck, holding you still while he devours you slowly, thoroughly, like he’s memorizing the shape of your lips.

You moan into him — soft, needy — and he groans in return, pressing you back against the prep table without breaking contact. You don’t even remember moving, but suddenly you’re sitting on the edge of it, legs parting instinctively as Joel steps between them.

His hands settle on your hips, warm and possessive.

“You feel this?” he mutters between kisses. “How fuckin’ hard I get just touchin’ you?”

You do.

God, you do — the ridge of his cock straining against his jeans, pressing right where your body is beginning to ache for friction.

You whimper. Joel swears.

“Tell me if I need to stop,” he rasps, voice raw. “Tell me now.”

You grab his shirt and tug him closer.

“Don’t you dare.”

The kiss leaves you breathless.

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling like he’s holding back everything — every word, every groan, every instinct that’s telling him to lay you down on the prep table and wreck you.

His thumb brushes your cheek. “You okay?”

You nod, lips swollen, head spinning, heart doing somersaults.

But then it hits you — hard and cold, like a bucket of ice to the chest.

The kiss. The way he touched you. The look in his eyes.

It felt real.

And that’s what scares you.

Your hands slide to his chest, lightly pressing — not to push him away, but to breathe, to make space, to speak.

“Joel,” you whisper. “This is probably… a mistake.”

His brow furrows. “Why?”

You look down, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.

“Because you’re—you’re you. And I’m…” You gesture vaguely at yourself. “I’m not what you want. I’m not what makes sense.”

“Sweetheart.”

“I’m younger—way younger. And not in a fun way, in a why-is-he-looking-at-her kind of way. People in this town already talk about me. You really want to give them something else to whisper about?”

Joel says nothing, but the air around him shifts — sharpens.

You press on before you lose your nerve.

“And it’s not just the age. I’m not… easy to love. I’m not quiet. I’m soft and curvy and I overthink everything. I cry too much and I shut down when things get hard. And you—”

Joel cuts you off with a hand on your jaw, gently forcing you to look at him.

“Stop.”

You blink up at him, stunned into silence.

“I don’t give a single fuck what anyone in this town thinks,” he says, voice low and deliberate. “You hear me?”

Your throat tightens. He continues.

“I’ve had enough years and too much loss to waste time worryin’ about gossip. I don’t want some perfect little thing with nothin’ to say. I want you.”

Your lip trembles.

“I want your messy feelings and your soft thighs and your smart fuckin’ mouth. I want the way you light up when you’re talking about bread and the way you shake when you’re scared and still get the job done.”

You let out a shaky breath, and Joel steps in closer, crowding into your space with purpose.

“You think I look at you and wish you were someone else?” he growls. “Fuck no. You walk around this bakery like you don’t know what you do to me.”

His hand slides to your hip, squeezing gently.

“You got no idea how many times I’ve had to walk out of here before I said somethin’ I couldn’t take back. But tonight? I’m not walkin’ away.”

Your heart is beating out of your chest.

He leans in, mouth brushing your ear. “You don’t need a boy who flirts with you. You need a man who knows how to make you feel.”

Your thighs clench. You can’t help it.

He pulls back just far enough to look you in the eyes.

“I’m not gonna ask again,” he says, voice ragged. “Do you want this?”

You don’t speak — you grab him, dragging him back into a kiss that’s messier this time, desperate, all teeth and tongue and years of longing collapsing into one breathless collision.

Joel groans into your mouth, like he’s finally letting himself feel it.

You barely register it when he lifts you off the floor, your legs wrapping around his waist, the prep table bumping against your lower back.

“I’ll show you how wanted you are,” he mutters against your throat. “Every goddamn inch.”

And you believe him.

God help you, you believe every word.

Joel lays you back on the prep table with careful hands, like you’re made of something breakable — but his eyes say otherwise. His eyes say he’s wanted this. Planned for this. His pupils are blown wide, jaw tight with restraint, and his voice is already dropping into something darker, deeper.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty when you’re flustered,” he murmurs, hands coasting down your sides, fingers squeezing just a little too firmly at your hips. “And you don’t even know it, do you?”

You try to sit up, but his hand on your sternum stops you — firm, grounding.

“Stay there,” he growls. “Wanna look at you.”

Your breath catches.

He starts slow — tugging your sweater up over your head with practiced ease, tossing it aside like he’s done this a thousand times. But his eyes stay locked on your skin like it’s the first time he’s seen anything worth touching.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice low and reverent. His palms skim the curve of your belly, not rushing. “Soft everywhere.”

You flinch slightly — out of habit. Out of shame.

Joel notices.

“Uh-uh,” he says, firm. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you whisper.

“Shrink.” He leans in, brushing his lips against your ear. “Not when I’m about to show you how fuckin’ perfect you are.”

Your pulse stutters. His words — slow and deliberate — feel like a weight settling between your legs.

He kisses down your neck, unhurried, dragging his scruff along your skin until you’re squirming. Until your thighs are rubbing together on instinct.

“Joel—”

“Shhh.” He kisses along your collarbone, nips at the skin just hard enough to make you gasp. “I’m takin’ my time. You’re gonna lie there and let me enjoy what’s mine.”

You whimper, and he smirks against your skin.

“That’s it. That’s what I like.”

He pops the clasp on your bra like he’s done it blindfolded before — pulls the straps down your arms slowly, watching your chest rise and fall.

“Fuck,” he murmurs. “Look at you.”

His palms slide over your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples until they’re peaked and aching, the heat in your core building to something unbearable. But still — he doesn’t go lower.

“You ever been taken care of properly?” he asks, not unkind, but rough with intention. “Or just used and left?”

You can’t answer. Not out loud.

But your silence is telling.

Joel’s jaw tightens. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

Then his hand dips — finally — to the waistband of your leggings, and his tone shifts.

“Gonna ruin every memory he left behind.”

He peels your leggings down, slow and steady, eyes locked on your thighs as they spread for him — unthinking, eager.

“Mm,” he hums. “Just like I fuckin’ dreamed. Thick little thighs I can sink my teeth into.”

You whine.

“Joel—”

“Oh, now you’re impatient?” He grins, leaning over you, one hand still gripping your thigh. “You wanted a man, baby girl. Not some boy who comes in two minutes and apologizes for touchin’ you too hard.”

His fingers slip under your panties. You arch.

“And this?” he rasps, rubbing gently over your soaked core. “This is mine now.”

You can’t breathe. Can’t think.

“Say it.”

You shake your head, too shy, too overwhelmed.

“Say it,” he demands again, voice low and commanding. “Say it’s mine or I’ll take my sweet time and leave you beggin’.”

You bite your lip. Whimper.

“Yours,” you whisper. “It’s yours, Joel.”

He groans.

“Good fuckin’ girl.”

And then he drops to his knees.

As Joel peels your leggings the rest of the way down, his breath hitches — not in lust, but something sharper.

His hand stills against your hip.

You follow his gaze and feel your stomach drop.

Bruises.

The ones you thought were fading. The ones you tried to cover. But in the warm glow of the bakery light, there’s no hiding them. Faint finger-shaped marks blooming along your upper thighs. A deeper one on your hip. And the fresh, angry purple smear still curling around your wrist.

Joel’s whole body shifts — tightens, coils.

“Who did this?” he says, voice low and dangerous.

You open your mouth. Close it.

His fingers ghost over the mark on your thigh, gentle, reverent, as if afraid he’ll hurt you further just by looking.

His other hand curls into a fist on your knee.

“Tell me.”

You swallow, throat dry. “You already know.”

Joel exhales slowly through his nose. His jaw flexes so hard it looks painful.

He stands, just enough to lean over you, one hand still braced on the table beside your head.

“You listen to me,” he says, voice barely a rasp. “That man ever touches you again, I don’t care who he is in this town. I’ll put him in the fuckin’ ground.”

You don’t answer — you can’t — but something in you cracks open. Not in fear. In relief.

Because finally, someone’s seeing it. All of it.

Joel lowers his forehead to yours, breathing hard, shaking with the effort it’s taking not to act on what he just saw.

“I wish I could go back,” he whispers. “Wish I could’ve stopped it before it ever touched you.”

Your lips tremble.

“You didn’t know.”

He pulls back just far enough to cup your face in both hands. His thumbs brush away tears you hadn’t realized had started to fall.

“I know now,” he murmurs. “And I’m gonna take care of you, baby. However you need.”

You nod, barely.

“I want you,” you breathe. “I want this.”

Joel’s eyes darken again — the hunger returns, but now it’s laced with something deeper. Something devotional.

He kisses your inner thigh — right above the bruise — soft as a secret.

“Then let me show you,” he whispers, sinking slowly to his knees, eyes never leaving yours.

“Let me make it better.”

Joel settles between your thighs like he’s meant to be there. Like the space was carved out for him and no one else.

He kisses the inside of your knee first, then lower — dragging his scruff over sensitive skin and watching the goosebumps rise in his wake.

“You’re already shaking,” he murmurs, voice thick with pride and hunger. “Ain’t even started yet.”

Your breath hitches as he hooks two fingers under your panties and pulls them down — slow, deliberate, savoring the way you squirm and bite your lip. When the fabric slips past your knees, he tosses them aside and stares down at you like he’s been starved for years.

“Look at this,” he growls, eyes locked on your soaked core. “Drippin’ for me already. So fuckin’ sweet.”

You try to close your legs, overwhelmed — but Joel grabs your thighs and holds them open with both hands, firm but gentle.

“Don’t you dare,” he says, voice gone ragged. “You let me see you. All of you.”

Your body obeys him before your brain does.

Joel leans in and presses a soft kiss to your inner thigh, just above a bruise, then another — and another. His hands trail up, warm and rough, one settling on your belly, the other resting possessively over your hip.

And then his mouth finds your cunt.

You gasp.

His tongue parts your folds like he’s memorizing every line, every texture, every breath you take. He moans into you, low and deep, like you taste better than anything he's had in years — and maybe you do.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans against you. “You’re better than I ever imagined.”

You whimper, hips twitching, but he holds you still.

“Stay right there,” he murmurs, voice a little hoarse. “Let me take my fuckin’ time.”

He licks a slow, deliberate stripe from your entrance up to your clit, then flattens his tongue and drags it again. Each pass is slower. Wetter. More intentional.

Then he starts talking.

“Gonna eat this pussy ‘til you can’t remember your own name.”

You cry out, grabbing a fistful of his hair — not to pull him away, but to ground yourself. To remind yourself this is real.

“Joel—”

“That’s it,” he growls. “Say my name while you soak my fuckin’ face.”

He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking just right, and your hips lift off the table. He growls again — this time into you — and you nearly scream.

He pushes two fingers into you without warning — thick, slow, curling deep.

Your back arches.

“Oh my god—”

Joel laughs softly. “Ain’t even close to god, sweetheart. But you keep makin’ those noises and I’ll do my best.”

His fingers fuck you slow while his tongue circles your clit, every movement precise — like he’s listening to your moans, cataloging them, using them as a map.

“Y’taste so fuckin’ good,” he groans. “Could spend the rest of the storm right here. Let you ride my tongue ‘til you’re cryin’.”

You already are.

Your body’s trembling, vision blurring, muscles tightening around his fingers.

Joel lifts his head just long enough to rasp, “C’mon, baby. Let go for me. Show me what a real man can make you do.”

Your whole body locks — and then breaks apart.

You cum with a sob, thighs clamping around his head, back arching off the table.

Joel doesn’t stop.

He keeps going — licking you through it, fucking you slow with his fingers until your legs are shaking and you can’t breathe.

You whimper something close to “too much,” and he finally slows, easing you back down, licking you gently until your thighs fall open again and your body goes slack.

Then he kisses the inside of your thigh, right where the bruise blooms.

He looks up at you — flushed, chest heaving, eyes wide.

“Next time?” he says, voice wrecked. “I want you on my face. Gonna make you cum so hard you forget you ever let that piece of shit touch you.”

Your throat works as you try to speak. You can’t. You just nod.

Joel stands slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He kisses your cheek, your temple, your shoulder — everywhere healed.

You’re still trembling.

He kisses your lips and whispers: “You did so good for me, baby.”

The storm rages outside, but inside the bakery, it’s quiet. Soft.

Safe.

Your body feels like it’s floating — half air, half jelly, skin still buzzing with the ghost of Joel’s mouth, his voice, his hands. You’re vaguely aware of him moving, but you don’t open your eyes. Not yet. You’re still too overwhelmed, too raw.

And he seems to understand that.

There’s no rush. No awkwardness.

Just the sound of running water.

You blink your eyes open slowly to find Joel back by the sink, damp towel in one hand, the other wiping down the prep table like it matters to him — like cleaning up the space where he touched you is part of how he honors it.

He glances over when he sees you stir.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Still with me?”

You nod, cheeks flushed, voice barely a whisper. “Yeah. Just… floatin’.”

A flicker of a smile ghosts across his face. “Good.”

He walks back over, towel now warm and wet in his hands. He pauses, waiting — not assuming. Always waiting for your yes.

You sit up slowly, and Joel eases between your knees, lifting your chin with two fingers. “Can I?”

You nod.

He starts gently — wiping between your thighs with slow, careful passes, his touch clinical but tender. Like this isn’t about sex anymore. Like it’s about you — your comfort, your body, your trust.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he murmurs, eyes searching yours.

“No,” you breathe. “God, no. You were…” You trail off, biting your lip. “Perfect.”

That look in his eyes — soft and unreadable and so full — it makes your chest ache.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, then gently lifts your sweater from the floor and helps guide your arms back into it. He helps you off the prep table like he’s afraid you’ll break, one arm wrapping around your waist to steady you.

You don’t let him go.

He hesitates — like he doesn’t want to move too fast — but then you lean into his chest and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night.

Joel wraps his arms around you, holding you to his chest.

“You did real good for me,” he says quietly, voice thick. “I hope you know that.”

You nod into his shirt. “I do.”

He strokes your back for a while, slow and steady, like you’re something worth calming, worth keeping. You don’t realize how tense you still are until the shaking in your limbs finally starts to ease.

“I don’t usually let anyone see me like that,” you admit, voice small.

“I know.”

“And I’ve never…” You pull back just enough to look up at him. “No one’s ever touched me like that. Not like I mattered.”

Joel’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t say anything at first.

Then: “They didn’t deserve you.”

You look at him, searching his face.

His voice softens. “But I ain’t makin’ that mistake. Not once.”

You exhale shakily, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his.

Outside, the wind howls, rattling the windows.

Inside, Joel holds you like he isn’t going anywhere.

And for the first time in a long time… you believe him.

AN: this was supposed to be a slow burn and then joel said “you don’t need a boy, baby—you need a man” and suddenly we’re feral in the bakery 💀

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist so you don't miss future updates! 💌

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ghostedgwen · 2 days ago

Text

hear it in the silence | j.potter

note : I've been writing this for about three days and it has concluded on 11.6k word count, which is crazy. But with such a fleshed out plot, I couldn't just wing it on about 2k words for my standard fics, and I didn't fancy having more series on my plate so here's one very long fic for JP to celebrate 800 followers further and cope with my own grief lol - enjoy.

warnings : grief and death, terminal illnesses - losing family members, reader had abusive parents and left her in debt, questionable themes of jp taking advantage of reader's predicament, fake marriage trope, just overall angst and lots of sad stuff but it has good moments slipped in between

James Potter feels like his whole world had crumbled apart, terminal Dragon Pox was the diagnosis. It was already too much he has to deal with his parents being sick but then, they ask him to assure them that when they leave, he wouldn't be alone. And you, you with your piling debt and threatening letters from Gringots can only fall into despair when the two grieving paths cross - and a deal is struck. He gets a wife, and you clear your tab.

You two are dancing in a snow globe, 'round and 'round, and he keeps the picture of you in his office downtown . . .

Diagon Alley smells like burnt sugar, star-anise, and smoke. You can no longer tell which scent is yours.

The oven’s been on since four. The air is thick with the scent of puffing pixie pies, their blue-glazed crusts still gently sparkling in the cooling racks. You rotate a tray of warm wandwood scones with steady hands and an aching back, ignoring the familiar twinge in your wrist - a brewing injury from years of kneading dough without proper rest.

The enchanted glass dome that displays your bestsellers glows faintly with golden sigils - today's highlighted treat is a fresh batch of Honeyduke-inspired fire-fudge croissants that puff steam in satisfying curls. A chalkboard near the till scrawls out notes in overly chipper handwriting:

Please don’t tap the jar of Charmed Cherry Tarts - they bite. Broomstick Biscuit special ends at sundown. Please remind ____ to eat.

You erase that last one quickly with the back of your hand, smudging away the concern Essie must’ve tucked into the notes.

The debt letters - from Gringotts, from old family contacts with clenched fists and colder curses - sit unopened in a toffee-colored cauldron bowl beside the register. They hum faintly. One of them pulses like a cursed wound, red wax seal still unbroken. The goblins have stopped pretending to be courteous - not that they ever were.

You left the last one unopened.

The wards above the till flicker as your morning protection spell resets, casting a soft violet shimmer across the room. It catches in the sugar that dusts your counter like frost. You stare at the floating menu quill scratching out the day's specials and feel absolutely nothing.

Until the door creaks open with the distinct jingle of spell-silver bells.

You nearly jump - but it’s just Essie, your apprentice, dragging her broom in behind her and mumbling under her breath. Her hair is twisted into a half-up knot with sugar pearls tucked in like constellations, and she’s wearing her favourite pink cloak with scorch marks at the hem.

"Morning," she yawns, flicking her wand to float the Fanged Brioche into the window display.

You nod, already elbow-deep in kneazle-cream batter for the batch of Custard Cauldron Cakes you need for the lunch rush. "Morning."

She eyes the cauldron bowl with the debt letters. "They sent more?"

You don’t answer, just tap your wand against the iron mixing bowl and watch the batter stir itself into stiff peaks.

"You know," she starts carefully, "there’s a program at the Ministry for -"

"No." Your voice cuts too sharp. You soften, slightly. "Just get the Skyberry Tarts prepped. I’ll open the register."

She mutters an understanding, "Alright, alright," and you hear her charm the stove to a low simmer as she sets to work.

The till clicks open. You count the galleons and sickles. Barely enough for rent.

The display case glitters as the floating pastry charms adjust themselves, casting brief illusions of glowing stars and festive flickers. Some customers come just for the theatrics. Most leave without buying.

It cycles on, one spell after another. You don’t notice the time pass - just the deepening ache in your legs and the strain in your voice from offering smiles like empty potion bottles.

By the time the shop thins out and the wards reset for the evening, you can barely feel your feet. The sun creeps low through the frosted windowpanes. You lock the door with a flick of your wand and collapse against the back counter, sliding slowly to the floor.

You lean your head back against the wall. Close your eyes.

The bakery smells like cinnamon and burnt hope.

And for a long time, you don't move.

The sign swung lazily in the breeze, a battered little thing that proudly read Back in 15 minutes in slanted gold script. You exhaled hard through your nose before disappearing into the back kitchen, apron strings snapping against your hips.

Essie was already wringing her hands by the cooling racks, her face creased in the worried way you had learned to dread.

“You can’t keep pretending it’s going to get better,” Essie said quietly. Her voice was soft, too soft, like she was afraid of shattering something already cracked to hell.

You yanked open the icebox a little too hard. The bottles clattered. “We’re fine,” you said shortly.

“We’re not.”

Essie shifted from foot to foot, casting a nervous glance toward the front door. “I heard from Malkin’s this morning. They’ve been getting letters too. The kind that come with curses stitched between the lines.”

You slammed the icebox shut and pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, willing the hot burn behind them to settle. It didn’t.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” you snapped. “Do you think I don’t know exactly how deep in it we are?”

Essie took a cautious step forward. “Maybe you could - could ask someone for help. You have. . . friends, don’t you?”

A bitter laugh escaped before you could stop it. Sharp and ugly. “No, Essie,” you said, voice low and shaking. “I had parents who gambled away everything. I had parents who drank themselves stupid and died brewing potions they weren’t qualified to touch. And now I have a bakery that barely scrapes by, a name no one dares trust, and debts that have more teeth than half the werewolves in Knockturn Alley. I don’t have friends.”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t have anyone.”

The silence that followed was worse than shouting could’ve been.

In the front of the shop, the door had creaked open.

Neither of you heard it - not over the ringing in your ears, not over the slow collapse happening between you.

But James Potter heard everything.

He hesitated on the threshold, the smell of vanilla and spellfire curling around him. He knew grief when he felt it - raw, ragged, clinging to the curtains and floorboards like cigarette smoke. It was the same cold weight that sat heavy on his chest these days, whispering things he wasn’t ready to name.

He thought about leaving. Thought about pretending he hadn’t heard the way your voice broke like that.

But his feet stayed rooted to the ground.

In the back, you exhaled sharply, dragging your hands down your face before smoothing your hair back into something that almost looked composed.

“I’ll take the rest of the deliveries,” you said, voice scraped raw but steady. “You stay here. Lock up when you’re done.”

Essie nodded mutely.

You stepped back into the front of the bakery - and stopped cold.

James Potter was standing there, unmistakable even in the simple navy robes, hair sticking up at every angle like he’d flown there backwards. He looked up from the display case with a polite sort of blankness - just another customer looking for a pastry.

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

Of all the people to walk into your bakery today - it had to be him.

You pushed a smile onto your face.

Professional. Untouchable.

If he recognized you, he didn’t show it - facial expression mastered over years of pulling pranks, he feigned innocence.

“What can I get you, Auror Potter?” you asked, voice calm, hands smoothing over your apron as if you could scrub away the tremor in your fingertips.

He didn't bother asking how you knew him - everyone did at this point. Starchaser James Potter quickly climbing Auror ranks, or whatever rubbish the Prophet blurted out these days.

James blinked at you, thrown for half a second - there was something familiar about the curve of your mouth, the sharpness of your gaze - but he shook it off.

Just a tired girl behind a counter.

Just another place he would leave behind when the real world came calling again.

“I’ll just have whatever’s hot and butter-y,” he said, flashing an easy, careless smile.

You nodded, turning toward the shelves without another word, heart hammering so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

The waiting room hummed with too-white light and antiseptic silence. James stood still for the first time in hours, though the tremble in his fingers betrayed him. His Auror robes were still singed from the mission he'd cut short, boots flecked with soot. He looked like he was ready to duel a dragon, but his wand was jammed too tightly into his belt, and his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of something heavier than duty.

He couldn’t sit. Couldn’t stop moving. Each tick of the wall clock pressed deeper into his chest. The healer’s door opened once - then twice - and still, not for him.

The world dulled at the edges. Muffled. Like he was underwater, ears clogged, vision blurry with the ache behind his eyes. He didn’t realise he’d stopped breathing until someone said his name.

“Mr Potter?”

He followed the Healer into a room where the walls felt too close. Too still. Her voice was calm - rehearsed, maybe. She said words like progressed, like untreatable, like comfort-focused now.

His mother and father had advanced Dragon Pox. The magical immunity treatments had failed. There was no cure.

They had months left. A year, if they were lucky.

James didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The sound in the room went static. The lights above buzzed like flies in his ears. The floor rocked like it might fall out from under him. He just stood there, barely nineteen, freshly graduated, a job he hadn’t even warmed into yet - and now this?

He left without remembering how.

He returned the next day.

Euphemia was pale, but smiling. Her hands had thinned, bones showing where soft skin once was, but she still reached for him like he was her world. Her room smelled like lavender, and there was a vase of sunflowers on the window ledge, yellow as his childhood.

“Don’t look like that, sweetheart,” she murmured, “we’ve had a good run, haven’t we?”

James tried to laugh, but it cracked in the middle.

“We’re not afraid, James. Not really,” she went on, voice low and steady. “We’ve had each other. We had you. You’ve given us everything.”

He shook his head, blinked hard. “Mum - ”

“What we’re afraid of is leaving you alone.”

She said it so simply, it cleaved something open in him. All his carefully stacked defences. All his grown-up bravado, tearing at the seems and ripping out stitches.

“We won’t rest easy knowing you’ve got no one left. Not when you've always carried so much. You never let it show, but we know. You’ve always been the light in our lives. We just want to know someone will carry that with you.”

He tried to brush her off. Said he had the boys - nevermind that they were all scattered around the world, all thirsty to find their purpose in this world and its brewing war. That he was fine. But she reached for his hand and stilled him with a look.

“Someone to come home to, James. Someone to stand beside you - not because they have to, but because they want to. You deserve that.”

James knew his parents' concerns too well. He's gonna be inherting that big manor, all to himself - with no one to come home to.

It lodged in his chest like a spell misfired. Her words, her softness, the knowing way she held him in her gaze. He nodded, but it felt like a lie. Because how could he promise her something like that?

How could he find love in the shadow of goodbye?

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

The manor was too quiet. Every corridor echoed. The portraits whispered too softly to hear. Grief sat heavy on his ribs, like wearing a crown too big, too heavy, for a boy still learning how to carry himself like a man.

He still had the traces of his youth, barely smudged by an adulthood stamp. He's still the same boy in red robes running through darkened halls with his brothers as their laughter echoed, followed by the loud sound of dungbombs going off.

He walked the halls until his legs ached. Stepped outside when he couldn’t breathe.

The night air bit at his cheeks.

And then - her voice.

Not real. Just a memory. Echoes from earlier in the week. From a tucked-away bakery in Diagon Alley.

“I don’t have friends. I don’t have anyone.”

He hadn’t meant to overhear. But now it's stuck on him like a gum he had stepped on during a stroll - he could get rid of it but that would require effort that he didn't manage.

You voice was stuck in his head.

It was sharp and tired. Raw and ragged.

He remembered her now - vaguely. Head Girl. Two years above. Always quiet. Always watching. She hadn’t looked at him like he was anyone special. And when she spoke, there’d been something in it he hadn’t known he needed until now - someone else falling apart.

Someone else with no one left.

And maybe - maybe two desperate souls can help each other out.

The bell above the bakery door chimed, soft and familiar, but you didn’t look up right away. Your hands were dusted in flour, wrists deep in dough. It was nearly noon, and you'd barely had a sip of your tea. The day had been steady - enough customers to keep you occupied but not enough to keep the intrusive thoughts out.

Your shoulders ached. Your back was killing you. (girl, same)

You muttered a quick greeting without turning around. "We’re out of treacle tarts. And the jam puffs won’t be ready for another hour."

A pause.

Then -

"That’s alright. I didn’t come for pastries."

Your hands froze. Not because you recognised the voice - not immediately. But because of the tone: uncertain, careful.

You looked up.

James Potter was standing just inside the bakery, hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers, hair a mess, robes too nice for this part of town. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time he’d come in.

The last time. Which had been. . . what? Two days ago?

He looked out of place. But not like a prince slumming it. Like someone who didn’t know where else to go.

"You again," you said, more confused than anything. "If not for pastries, come back for what, then?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry. I know this is strange. I just - can we talk?"

Essie, hovering by the front counter, raised an eyebrow at you. You waved her off. "I’ve got it. Go get started on the almond wands."

Essie didn’t argue. Just wiped her hands and disappeared into the back - she'd surely ask about it later.

You turned your gaze back to him. Folded your arms. "Alright. Talk."

James took a breath like he was about to dive into something very cold.

"I need a favour. A big one."

You blinked. "You need me to do you a favour."

That was the last thing you expected from James Potter.

He smiled, grim and lopsided. "Yeah. Mad, innit?"

You didn’t return it. "What kind of favour?"

"Marriage."

The silence that followed was so complete you could hear the oven ticking behind you.

"Pardon?"

He took a step forward. "Not - not real marriage. Not like that. Not at first. I just. My mum. She’s sick, both my parents are. Really sick. And she asked me - well, she wants to see me settled. She wants to know I won’t be alone."

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head as he scrambled to explain himself.

"You don’t even know me."

"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know you’re proud. That you’re hurting. I heard you, the other day. You and your friend, in the back."

Your stomach dropped.

"You were eavesdropping?"

"Not on purpose," he said quickly. "I just - heard you. And something about it - about you. It stayed with me."

You looked away. Heat prickled at the back of your neck. Shame, and something else. Something heavier.

"So what? You figured we’re both miserable, might as well be miserable together?"

James smiled faintly. "Something like that."

You should have laughed. Or told him to leave. Or hexed him, maybe - blacklisted him from your bakery for such an incredulous proposal.

Instead, you said, "And what do you get out of it? Besides ticking a box for your mum?"

"I'll handle the debt - you’d live at the manor during it," he said. "You’d be safe. Comfortable. No debts. No dodgy landlords knocking on your door."

"And in return?"

He met your gaze. "We pretend. Just for a bit. We give my parents the peace of mind they deserve, just before they go."

A long pause.

You looked at his hands - tucked into his pockets, knuckles white with pressure. He looked exhausted. Raw around the edges. Just like you.

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no, either.

He stepped forward and slid something across the counter.

A small piece of parchment. Just his name and an address, perhaps a place to owl. His handwriting neat and surprisingly careful.

You didn’t pick it up.

He nodded once. "Think about it."

Then he left, the bell over the door chiming again like a punctuation mark.

You stood there long after he was gone, arms folded tight across your chest, heart thudding loud in your ears.

You looked down at the name.

James Potter.

You didn’t throw it away.

The letter comes just after dusk.

It’s marked in red wax, the goblin seal pressed so deep into the parchment that it’s cracked the paper. You don’t open it right away. You don’t need to. You already know what it says.

You read it anyway.

Final Warning. Immediate repossession scheduled.

Your hands shake. The bakery’s quiet - too quiet - and the ticking of the old brass clock on the wall sounds like thunder. Upstairs, a leak drips steadily into a teacup you’ve stopped bothering to empty. It’s all falling apart. Bit by bit. Month by month.

You’ve sold nearly everything of value. You haven’t bought new robes in a year. You haven’t paid yourself in longer.

You sit at the kitchen table, still in your flour-stained apron, and stare at the parchment like it might change if you just will it to. It doesn’t.

Essie finds you like that. She’s still in her coat, scarf looped once around her neck. Her wand glows faintly as she steps into the back, eyebrows raised.

Then she sees the letter.

You don’t say anything. Just slide it across the table.

There’s a long silence.

“You’re not sleeping,” she says, not unkindly. “And you look like you’ve not eaten properly in days.”

You press your hands to your face. The tears hit before you can stop them - stupid, useless tears that burn your eyes and your pride alike.

“I’ve tried everything,” you whisper. “I’ve given everything I have, and it’s still not enough.”

Essie doesn’t interrupt. She lets you break. Quietly. Without judgment - like she always did, she's younger by a year but you feel as is she's decades matured than you.

Then, she says the one thing you’ve been trying not to think about:

“Maybe it’s time to take the offer.”

You freeze.

“You could do worse than a Potter,” she continues, setting her bag down. “And it’s not like he’s a stranger. Not really - and more than anything, his offer makes sense and it's not for shady reasons.”

But he is, you want to say. James Potter is a ghost of your childhood, a flicker of a memory too golden to have ever been yours. You haven’t seen him in years, and even when you did - you were just someone in the corner of his world.

He wasn’t supposed to remember you. He wasn’t supposed to come into your bakery. He wasn’t supposed to hear you like that.

But he had.

And he offered you a lifeline.

You don’t answer Essie. You just nod, once, and disappear up the stairs to your flat.

The letter is short.

You write it with trembling fingers, the ink blotching in one corner.

If your offer still stands, I’d like to discuss it. - ____ ____

You don’t sleep that night, either.

The café sits at the edge of Diagon Alley, just before the shadows of Knockturn begin to creep in. The windows are fogged, the booths are cloaked in perpetual half-light, and no one looks too long at anyone else.

You arrive wrapped in your thickest cloak, wand strapped at your thigh. The moment you step inside, you see him.

James Potter - sitting in the back corner, hood drawn up, still managing to look unmistakably like himself. Like autumn sun and lightning storms. Like a boy who’s never known real fear until now.

His eyes meet yours.

You sit across from him. The booth is too small, too narrow - your knees almost touch beneath the table. Neither of you orders anything.

You clear your throat. The words feel heavier now, weighed down by everything they mean.

“I’ll do it,” you say.

There’s a pause.

And then James exhales - not quite relief, not quite gratitude - something older, something heavier. The tension leaks from his shoulders, from his jaw. You realise he’s been bracing for a no.

“You’ve no idea what this means to me,” he says, voice low.

For a second, you think he’s going to reach for you. His hand twitches on the table, and your breath catches - but he pulls it back.

Then, from inside his coat, he pulls a neat scroll of parchment. Tied with a green ribbon. Thick and official-looking.

You blink.

“Is that - ?”

“The contract.” He grins, boyish and almost sheepish. “I wrote it up after I left the bakery. Had a feeling.”

“You knew I’d say yes?”

He shrugs, leaning back in the booth. A flash of something wicked glints behind his glasses.

“Call it intuition.”

And maybe he’s arrogant. Maybe he’s mad. Maybe you are, too.

But as your fingers close around the parchment, warm from his coat, you feel something almost like air in your lungs again.

A beginning.

Even if it’s the strangest one imaginable.

You arrive in a clean cloak, wand tucked tight in your sleeve, palms sweating despite every calming draught in your cupboard.

The manor looms quietly under the twilight - not cold, not cruel. Just. . . still. The way ancient places are. As if the walls remember everything.

James opens the front door before you can even knock.

“Alright, Head Girl?” he murmurs, and there’s that grin again, lopsided and golden, like this is all just a grand joke between the two of you. You elbow him gently.

“You’re lucky I don’t hex you for that,” you mutter.

But your smile stays.

"Relax, you look great, they'll love you." You pretend that your stomach didn't flip at the compliment. It was probably just to ease your nerves, not much to it.

You’ve rehearsed this story to death.

You were two years above him at Hogwarts. Head Girl. Known for your strict patrols and your no-nonsense duels with some Slytherins. He was a fifth-year nuisance, always in detention. You didn’t even remember him.

Not until he walked into your bakery, two years after you graduated, and said, “Your treacle tart’s going to ruin my life.”

You’d raised a brow. Told him you weren’t interested in love-struck boys with sugar on their lips. He’d come back anyway. Every week. Every Sunday without fail. Talking about literature, Quidditch, philosophy, muggle poetry and how you made the best almond croissants in London.

You tried not to fall. But the story goes - you caved.

It’s soft. Sweet. Just plausible enough to pass as truth.

And tonight, it has to be.

Euphemia Potter is already halfway to the door by the time you step inside. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement, hair pinned up with little golden combs. She’s wearing something soft - silk, maybe - in forest green.

“So you’re the one,” she says, eyes crinkling, voice like warm honey. “Our Jamie’s treacle tart.”

You blink then laugh, it was a real one - the opener was too silly. “That’s me, apparently.”

Fleamont’s footsteps echo from the hallway - slower, but steady. He gives you a long look, then smiles as he extends a hand.

“Didn’t expect him to fall for a baker,” he admits, voice gravelly, “but I respect a man with good taste - and we Potter men are known to have exceptional ones.”

They welcome you in like you’re already part of the furniture. Like you’ve always belonged - which is weird given how everything in the manor screamed luxury.

You knew he was rich and it was no secret that the Potters were influential - and he is to inherit everything, but you didn't really expect this.

You grew up far from all of this, and this might be your first time witnessing such grand luxury.

Now, dinner -

You talk about pastries, your best-sellers, your Hogwarts days. You even pretend to distinctly remember James in the corridors - “a menace in too-big glasses, always running away from trouble.”

They laugh. You laugh.

And each time, it cuts deeper. Because it’s not a performance to them -

It’s not a deal. It’s not debt.

It’s real.

You excuse yourself after pudding. Say you need a bit of air.

James joins you seconds later in the garden, stuffing his hands into his pockets like a boy again. You could almost laugh bitterly - even their garden screamed luxury.

“You alright?” he asks, quiet.

You shrug, eyes scanning the dark blooms around the gravel path. “Didn’t expect them to be so. . .”

“Lovely?”

You nod. “Real.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, and his arm brushes yours. “They are.”

He offers you his arm, gentlemanly and a little cheeky. You take it, because you’re supposed to.

But you don’t lean in.

You don’t think you could bear to.

Not tonight. Not when they believed every word.

You find James in the greenhouse, having been told by the house elf where he was so early in the morning. The morning hues were yet to bleed out, barely a sun peeking out but it was already bright.

It’s quiet, soft with the scent of damp soil and blooming citrus. Golden light spills through the glass, casting long shadows across the stone floor. He’s tending to something leafy and stubborn-looking when he hears your footsteps.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just says, lightly, “You’re early.”

You shrug and nod at him, “You’re always early.”

He turns to you then, wiping his hands on a cloth. There’s something different in the way he watches you - not amused or teasing, just steady. He nods toward the bench behind him -

“Sit.”

You do, without asking. And that’s when he pulls it from his pocket - a small box, velvet red and obviously old.

Your heart stutters.

He opens it, not with a dramatic flourish, but carefully. Like it presenting something heavy, yet important.

Inside, a simple gold band with a red gem in the middle glows under the greenhouse light. Thin. Elegant. The faintest shimmer of enchantment woven into its metal - and the gem that’s glistening like magic.

“It was hers,” James says softly. “Mum’s. She told me she’d like it to go to someone good.”

You blink. The weight of it hits before the ring even touches your skin, a family heirloom passed to every Potter bride.

You manage, “Then you’ve picked the wrong girl, Potter.”

He shakes his head. Smiling - not his usual grin, but something smaller. Truer, you wonder if how many of those he’ve had since the diagnosis.

“No. I don’t think I have.”

You reach out but he moves the box away from your touch, you frown as you watch him pluck it out, carefully moving as he slide the ring onto your finger.

It fits too well. And for one horrible second, you want it. Want this. All of it.

You look down at your hands. Then up at him.

“How are they?” you start, but the words catch.

James nods slowly. “Dragon pox. Started last year. Dad’s got it now too - not as bad, but. . .”

He trails off, sits beside you on the bench, his head hanging low in defeat.

“There’s no cure. Just potions to ease it. Mum’s pretending to make peace with it. But I think she knows.”

Your throat feels tight. You don’t touch him - can’t - but you shift closer, just enough that your knees almost touch.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, hoping your sincerity was bleeding into those two words. You keep your eyes on him, seeing how familiar he look - he looked like you with all the weight on him.

He breathes out. “They’re everything. And they asked me. . .” He hesitates. “They asked me to promise that when they go, I won’t be alone, they’re amazing and just want what’s best for me, I think they’re just holding on to see me happy.”

You understand then - what this is, so much deeper than a boy wanting to appease his parents. It’s a son who wants to give his parents peace.

There was a moment of silence, you turn away to not keep staring at him. Eyeing the plants.

“What about your debt?” he asks, careful not to make it sound like a threat, a burden for a burden.

You consider staying silent. But the ring on your finger glints in the light, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe.

“My parents made a mess,” you say. “Gambled everything away. Stole from the shop. Wrote my name on too many contracts and disappeared. I’ve been trying to pay it back ever since. The bakery keeps me fed, but barely.”

You glance at your lap, willing yourself not to sound too pathetic. Despite laying out all the

“I didn’t think I’d make it,” you admit.

Unsure what to say, he just swallowed the forming lump in his throat. Then he decided to part his lips, - "You're really strong, ____. You didn't deserve any of that, but you're still here."

You laugh a bit, nudging him with your knee. "Guess we both are - must come with being Gryffindors."

A long, quiet silence stretches between you.

It’s not uncomfortable.

The engagement announcement happens that night over dinner - nevermind the fact it wasn't all romantic how you got the ring on your finger.

James was the picture-perfect excitement, grin so wide you almost thought he was genuine about wanting to marry you.

James, lifting his goblet - cleared his throat. "Mum, Dad, we're engaged."

You almost smirk, he did not even make some grand speech. He just dropped it like that - that is so him.

Euphemia gasps like it’s the best news she’s ever heard - and perhaps it was. Fleamont claps James on the back - he sat at the head of the table and to his left was James - you sat next to him.

But Euphemia reaches for James’s hand over the table, and you can tell something’s bothering her - a look of worry paint over her wrinkled features.

“Just tell us this isn’t because of us,” she says. “What we said. About wanting to know you’d be alright.”

You glance at James. He hesitates - he appears to be losing it - the smile faltering and he seems like me might burst, at the reminder.

So you step in, a hand on top of his that rested on his thigh under the table, you didn't think much of it but he was shocked.

“It’s not because of that,” you say, voice even. “He didn’t pressure me. He’s been. . . kind. A gift I didn’t expect while I was struggling.”

Your words were true, you weren't lying and James could tell, he moved his hand to intertwine it with yours under the table, willing himself to be grounded by your warmth and your touch.

He exhales, exaspherated.

You meet Euphemia’s eyes and say, “I’d be proud to marry him.”

She smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at.

Fleamont raises his glass. James is quiet beside you - his grip tightened just slightly.

You don’t look at him.

You move in the next morning - the Potters were very eager to welcome you in as a housemate, Euphemia already discussing what tea to have with you every afternoon as that dinner progressed.

You felt warm all over, they were kind people - you somewhat felt goof to be giving them the peace they deserve, even if it is under deceit.

There’s only one trunk. Your life condensed into canvas and charm-bound compartments.

James carries it easily. Leads you up the stairs to his room - soon to be yours too.

You glance around. Quidditch posters, books on dueling theory, the faint scent of broom polish and pine. It is unexpectedly organized, with his personality - you expected a mess.

He clears his throat, feeling a bit awkward with how you eyed his room - his childhood room. “You alright sharing?”

You drop your trunk at the foot of the bed. “I’ve been through worse,” you say dryly. “Sharing a bed with a man is the least of my worries.”

He laughs, nodding slightly. “So I’m not even a little bit intimidating?”

You raise an eyebrow, turning to give him a look. “I still see you as that troublesome fifth-year. You’re a little boy to me, Potter.”

James scoffs, deeply offended. “I’ll have you know I’m an Auror now. Very manly. Very brave. Very capable.”

You wave him off. “Yeah, sure.”

“Need me to prove my masculinity? I can take my shirt off. Show you the Quidditch captain physique. Maybe throw in some Auror combat moves.” James wiggled his eyebrows and you just laugh at him - shaking your head.

“Merlin, please don’t.”

He grins, but it fades slowly, leaving something quieter behind.

Then the night finally came, the time to actually share the bed - that gryffindor red bed.

There’s space between you. But it’s warm - and you could feel him right behind you, backs turned on each other as if facing each other would reveal things you dared not discuss yet.

Still, it's warm.

Not love. Not yet.

But maybe something like safety.

The invitation arrives tied in a red silk ribbon, dropped onto the breakfast table by a smug little owl who barely waits for a scrap of bacon before flying off again.

You stare at the embossed lettering. Your name in fancy script. An invitation to a Hogwarts friend's wedding. Someone you haven't spoken to in years - not really. Someone who belonged to a life you thought you’d buried somewhere between unpaid invoices and final warnings.

Hariett Selwyn.

James plucks the card from your fingers before you can shove it away - he inspected it.

“A wedding?” His eyebrows lift, and he reads it aloud in a falsely posh accent, smirking. “How charming. Perfect opportunity to show off my beautiful fiancée.”

You groan, reaching for your tea like it might save you - ignoring the compliment, safer to do so. “I’m not going.”

“Come on,” he says, already leaning back in his chair like the decision’s made. “It’ll be fun.”

“Fun,” you echo dryly.

He grins, utterly unbothered. “We’re supposed to look like a real couple, aren’t we? Consider it . . .practice.”

You narrow your eyes. “I have nothing to wear.”

James shrugs like he’s been waiting for you to say that. He waves his wand lazily and a box appears, neatly wrapped, on the table between you.

“Handled,” he says with a wink.

You blink at him. At the box. At him again.

He has that shit-eating grin, you almost worried it was gone - James Potter now 18 years old with the weight of the world on him, he still has that youth in him after all.

“You’re insufferable.” You tell him without any bite to it.

“Thank you. Open it.”

Inside: a dress. New. Beautiful. Silky under your fingertips, clearly expensive - but not loud or garish. Thoughtful. Something you might’ve picked yourself, if you ever let yourself dream that way anymore.

You’re blinking too much. You cover it by rolling your eyes and muttering something sarcastic. James just smiles, infuriatingly pleased with himself.

You arrive at the wedding together - and you might as well be walking into a fairytale.

James is devastating in tailored formal robes, hair artfully messy, glasses gleaming. And you - you barely recognize yourself in the mirror. The dress fits like a second skin. It catches the light when you move.

When James looks at you, there’s a flicker in his expression he doesn’t bother hiding. You swallow all the butterflies down as if you could flush them out -

James Potter is straight out of a dream, no wonder girls swoon at the sight and mention of him.

People flock to you the moment you step inside. Champagne glasses pressed into your hands. Laughter and perfume and old, blurred memories swirling around you.

“You two look so in love!” someone coos, squeezing your arm. Probably in your year, you can't recall.

“About time someone tamed James Potter,” another one laughs - maybe another Gryffindor? Who knows.

James plays his part flawlessly. Arm around your waist. Whispered jokes in your ear. Smiling like you’re the only person in the world. Like he’s been waiting years just to be standing here with you.

At first, you fake it. Smile, laugh, nod in all the right places.

But the longer the night goes on - the easier it becomes. The lies sit lighter on your tongue. The champagne warms you from the inside out. For a few hours, it’s almost frighteningly easy to believe in this story you’re telling.

When the music changes, James holds out his hand with a theatrical bow -

“May I have this dance, Miss Treacle Tart?”

You roll your eyes but place your hand in his anyway, snorting at the name.

The floor tilts under you slightly - too much champagne, too many lies - but James steadies you without a word. His hand fits at the small of your back like it belongs there. His other hand twines with yours, easy and sure.

He twirls you under the soft golden lights.

You forget yourself for the berifest moment.

Forget the debt. The bakery. The past nipping at your heels like wolves - how everything has changed for the worse since Hogwarts.

For a dizzy, dangerous heartbeat, you forget where you end and he begins.

You laugh - breathless, lightheaded - and when you look up, you catch James already looking at you.

Soft. Something terrifyingly earnest in his hazel eyes. Right, they're hazel, so warm - the color of late autumn, all gold-flecked green and fading warmth, like the last good day before winter

The song ends. You pull away too quickly, mumbling something about needing air, needing another drink, needing space - just to put a distance between you two before it all collapse.

James lets you go without comment, just watching you with that same unreadable look -

Later, across the room, you feel his gaze again - heavier this time, more sure.

Your heart stutters traitorously in your chest. You tell yourself it’s just the champagne, you never did hold your liqour well - memories of your sixth-year, first time trying Firewhiskey, playing in your head.

You woke up in the Gyffindor common room on top of one Sirius Black, he had teased you relentless about how you quite literally passed out on him - said it was the first time a girl has thrown herself on him without getting a snog out of it.

You of course shut him up with a hex.

The bakery smells like sugar and cinnamon and something warm you can’t quite name. You’re behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair twisted into a messy bun, a smudge of flour at your temple you haven’t noticed yet.

You’ve only just reopened for the morning rush when the doorbell jingles - and there he is.

James Potter, grinning like he invented sunshine - or like it pours out of his ass.

He leans against the counter like he belongs there, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair as artfully messy as if he planned it. His glasses catch the morning light. He looks maddeningly pleased with himself.

You pretend you don't see him - but it never works.

He pretends you aren't pretending.

The girls by the window definitely see him.

You catch it out of the corner of your eye - the sharp gasp, the hurried whispering. You brace yourself.

Sure enough, a girl (eighteen? nineteen?) edges closer, clutching a pastry box like it might shield her. “You’re -” she breathes, wide-eyed, “you’re marrying him?”

You glance lazily over at James, who wiggles his eyebrows at you, utterly shameless.

You sigh dramatically. “I know. I still don't believe it either.”

The girl giggles and practically skips back to her friend. You see them both collapse into chairs by the window, whispering furiously.

James presses a hand to his chest, mock-affronted. "You wound me," he says loudly enough for half the bakery to hear. "Here I was thinking you were the lucky one."

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, without looking up from the till. “A real catch, Potter. Just what every girl dreams of. A boy who can't iron his own robes and thinks treacle tart is a balanced meal.”

"Oi," he says, affronted. "I've improved. I even have investments now."

"Mhm. I'll believe that when you can go a week without blowing something up in the kitchen."

James turns toward the waiting crowd like he’s hosting a press conference. "For the record," he announces, "best baker in the Alley. Also my fiancée. Did I mention that? Fiancée. As in, tragically, devastatingly off the market."

You throw a dish towel at his head.

He catches it one-handed, still grinning.

The bakery hums around you - the low chatter, the clink of silverware, the golden morning pouring through the windows - and for a few minutes, it feels almost terrifyingly easy. Like this was always meant to happen. Like there was always a version of the future where you ended up here, with him, like this.

James lounges at the end of the counter, watching you work.

“You look happy,” he says after a minute, voice lower, like he doesn't mean for anyone else to hear.

You blink at him, hands deep in the pastry case.

"I am," you say, and it's mostly true. "Feels good. Being here again. It's. . . grounding."

James smiles, soft and crooked, observing you as you continue to work. So natural, so in your habitat.

You clear your throat and reach for a new box. “We're famous now, you know," you tell him, more to fill the sudden quiet than anything. “Top gossip on Witch Weekly.”

James snorts. “Let them talk. They’re just jealous.”

"Of what?" you ask, deadpan. "Your charming humility?"

"My undeniable sex appeal, actually," he says, winking.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle you don’t sprain something.

Somewhere between boxing up an order and wiping the counter, you lose track of him. You hear a suspicious rustle near the pastry display.

You whirl around just in time to see James, mouth full, cramming a stolen tart into his pocket with the guilty look of a five-year-old.

"James Fleamont Potter!" you gasp, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon.

He backs toward the door, laughing so hard he nearly trips over a chair.

"You’re banned!" you call after him, chasing him halfway onto the street. "Banned for life!"

"See you at home!" he calls back, victorious, scattering powdered sugar in his wake.

You stand in the doorway, hair flying loose, apron dusted in flour, laughing in spite of yourself. Your heart is still racing, from chasing him out or something else - you dared not wander there.

The kitchen at Potter Manor's kitchens was all warm light and drifting flour when he found you.

You were kneading dough on the marble counter, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back, lips pursed in focus. You barely glanced up when he entered, dusting flour off your palms like you had every right to be there. Like you always would be.

James lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary. Watching you with a look you didn’t catch - soft around the edges, almost shy. Like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real. Like he thought if he blinked, you might disappear.

A wife, he hasn't really thought of that. He just got out of his Gryffindor robes and rucked it away, never to be worn again - it's all too fresh, a wife. . .

Finally, he cleared his throat.

"You know," he said, voice too casual to be anything but deliberate, "I was thinking we could bake something together."

You arched an eyebrow, skeptical. "You? Bake?"

He clutched his heart in mock offense. "I’m a man of many talents, I’ll have you know."

"You’re a menace," you said lightly, turning back to your dough. "And you’ll ruin your kitchen."

"Our kitchen," he corrected without missing a beat, flashing a grin so boyish you didn’t have the heart to argue - right.

You wiped your hands on a cloth and sighed, pretending to think it over. "And what exactly did you have in mind, Potter?"

He shifted his weight awkwardly, running a hand through his messy hair, not that that ever worked in his favour. "Something for my parents. I. . . I’ve never really done that before. Baked for them, I mean. Thought it might be nice, you know, for once."

Something warm flickered in your chest at that. The sentiment, awkward and sweet, was so very James. It softened the place inside you that had been hardened by necessity, by all the pretending.

"Alright," you said, gentler now. "Let’s do it."

He lit up, the way only James Potter could - sudden and breathtaking, like a boy seeing Christmas lights for the first time - you ignore how your stomach flipped.

You rolled your eyes but laughed anyway, nudging a mixing bowl toward him. "Start by cracking the eggs," you instructed, biting back a smirk.

James nodded solemnly - then immediately dropped half a shell into the batter.

You both burst out laughing, rich heir James Potter couldn't even crack an egg properly into a bowl after years of intricate Potions classes.

Somewhere down the line, flour ended sprinkled all over his messy hair.

"Right," he said, laughing breathlessly as you swatted him with a tea towel, "this is war, then."

"You started it!" you accused, dodging another cloud of flour he lobbed your way.

"You called me a menace."

"You are a menace."

He lunged for you, and you shrieked, ducking under his arm and grabbing a handful of flour to throw back at him. It puffed into his hair, turning it an even more chaotic shade of white, if that were possible.

"You’re going to regret that," he said, grinning wide and reckless.

"Big talk for someone covered in flour, Potter."

He chased you around the kitchen island, both of you laughing so hard you could barely breathe. When he finally caught you, it wasn’t with the triumphant crow you expected, but with a gentle touch - his hands settling lightly at your waist, holding you still.

You froze. Not because you were scared. But because it was so easy. Too easy.

Your chest rose and fell, your pulse a drumbeat against your ribs.

For a moment, neither of you moved - just staring at each other like there was something settling in between. You neglect to notice how his lashes are painted white now, he blinks at you.

James’ smile faltered, slipping into something softer,, you pray to all your ancestors to calm your hammering heart in fear that he would hear it.

"I like seeing you laugh," he said, voice low.

You swallowed hard. "Don’t get used to it."

His mouth tilted in that familiar lopsided way. "Bit late for that."

You turned away under the pretense of rescuing the now-forgotten batter. Your hands shook just slightly as you picked up the whisk, you clear your throat.

James didn’t push. Just stood nearby, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him - you both pretend like you didn't get assaulted by the flour man.

"You ever bake anything before?" you asked, trying to sound casual.

He leaned on the counter, grinning. "Does nicking biscuits from the kitchens count?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then no."

You laughed under your breath. "Hopeless." Yep, you both were.

"And yet you’re letting me help," he pointed out.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. "That’s because I’m benevolent."

He nodded solemnly. "Saint-like, really."

You hid your smile as you handed him the whisk. "Beat that until your arms fall off - put all that quidditch and auror manliness to work."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, giving you a ridiculous salute before setting to work - slopping batter across the counter within seconds.

"You’re a disaster," you said, half fond, half exasperated.

"Disaster’s just another word for creative genius," he said breezily.

You rolled your eyes and bumped his hip with yours. He laughed and bumped you back, and you ended up side by side, shoulders brushing, working together.

Somehow, it didn’t feel strange at all.

Later, once the pastries were cooling on the rack - a little lopsided, a little burnt at the edges - you leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching James lick a smear of batter off his thumb.

You fought yourself from watching how his tongue darted out to lick it off, feeling your cheeks grow hot.

"You’ve got a bit on your nose," you said, pointing - distracting yourself from the image of him licking the batter off.

"Where?"

You stepped closer, hesitated, then reached out and wiped it away yourself.

His eyes stayed glued to you and for one charged heartbeat, neither of you spoke - like the world decided to pause so you can once again just look at each other, everything remains unsaid.

You cleared your throat and stepped back quickly. "There. All sorted."

"Thanks," he said, a little hoarse.

You turned away, fiddling with the edge of a tea towel. "S’pose you didn’t do half bad, for your first try."

"High praise coming from you," he said, mock-gravely.

You shot him a look over your shoulder. "Don’t let it go to your head, Potter."

"Everything goes straight to my head, actually."

You rolled your eyes again, but there was no heat behind it.You watch him pat his hair and the flour on it creates a veil of white in the kitchen, you laugh.

It was then you heard a soft noise behind you.

You turned.

Euphemia and Fleamont were standing just beyond the threshold, watching the two of you with matching expressions - fond, unbearably gentle, a little misty-eyed.

Euphemia had her hands clasped to her chest, her smile wobbly around the edges. Fleamont was clearing his throat, pretending not to be emotional and failing miserably.

You felt your chest twist sharply.

Because in that moment, it didn’t feel like pretending at all.

It felt terrifyingly, achingly real.

You straightened a little, brushing your flour-dusted hands on your apron, but Euphemia only shook her head, eyes shining.

"Don’t stop on our account," she said warmly. "It’s lovely, seeing the kitchen so full again."

James ducked his head, looking uncharacteristically bashful. You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to cry.

"We’ll leave you to it," Fleamont said, giving James a meaningful nod before steering Euphemia gently away.

The kitchen felt too quiet once they were gone.

James scratched the back of his neck. "They like you, you know."

You huffed a laugh, blinking fast. "I can’t imagine why."

"I can," he said simply.

The inevitable was happening, the Potters were getting worse - Dragon Pox was not something one could just power through for so long, they were bound to break down.

They've done so well holding it together for James, for their dutiful son who did everything to make it seem like he wasn't breaking down with them.

As they got worse, so did he. You can only watch as the entire family crumbles down, too afraid to pick up the pieces yourself and put them back together.

You still saw yourself as an outsider, an actor in a role - forced to play.

Instead, you resorted to helping him assist his parents. Nevermind that the house elves were there, you wanted to lend a hand. He lets you.

He feels oddly at peace when you'd sit by Euphemia and Fleamont's bed, talking about how your day has been at the bakery while they listen in. Too weak to stand up.

He watches as you take Euphemia's hand in yours and his mother's eyes fill with fondness.

Like you were the daughter they never had.

James felt something heavy settle in his heart as the days dragged on that they remained in bed, being fed potions to maybe help them regain mobility.

After three days, they were better - not healed or cured from it, but just better. Enough to get out of bed, to have dinner altogether as a family again while you all pretend death wasn't just outside the manor doors.

After those three days of dread, wondering if that was the end - you found James in your bedroom. Sat on the floor, leaned against the bed with his head hanging low.

The room looked like hell, like a bludger was set loose and it made efforts to ransack everything. Only your items remained unharmed, you heave a sigh at the sight of him so defeated.

You decided to sit beside him, distance closed. Your shoulders right next to his and he flinched at the sudden contact.

He made a move as if he was gonna say something and you stopped him. "Don't be sorry, a simple spell can fix all of this," you shake your head and bite your lip, feeling the tears build up.

It was hurting you. So much, and you were just a pretend daughter-in-law, you could only imagine what he's feeling.

He's only 18, and his whole world is falling apart before his very eyes. You probably didn't have the right to cry, this pain wasn't yours.

Then complete silence. You looked around the room to asses more of the damage, it's almost unrecognizable. Like a battle had taken place.

"You're a good son," you tell him quietly in the dark, "they're very lucky to have you.

He laughs, void of humor. "A good son wouldn't lie to his parents just to ease his guilt. A good son would go to the ends of the earth to find a cure."

You felt the tears escape then, his words hurt for so many reasons. He doesn't see himself the way you and his parents saw him, too deep in his regrets.

"That's not - " you breathe out shakily "You're a good son for giving them hope. For giving them peace. Although this is a lie, the fact remains that you have me."

He was quiet for a moment, then he turned. In the dark, you see jsut how tired his eyes are, his cheeks glossed by tears. "I won't always have you."

You were unsure now. Would another lie be better? Would another scam on top of the damned deal patch all this up and wrap it neatly in one big bow?

You decided against it, you only give him a sad smile. He doesn't say anythign after that, a whole minute passes as you looked at each other, everything unsaid still hanging in the air.

Then, swiftly, he shifted his body and his lips were on yours. Your shock rattled your whole body, barely processing the fact he was kissing you as you began replying.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It tasted like grief, and salt, and something desperate you didn’t want to name - his hands grabbed you like you were a lifeline to hold on to.

You let him, you kiss him back like you were answering it all. All the questions he would throw at the void. Why me? Why them? Why now?

You kissed him like you were able to calm the brewing storm inside him. Then he pulled back, heaving as he desperately gasped for air. You were the same, lips swollen and eyes glossed.

You didn't realize you were crying in the kiss.

He retracts his hand, holding his head like a madman. "Merlin, I'm sor - "

"Don't," you dared not let him apologize, because that would make it a mistake. And it wasn't, not to you - at least.

"Don't apologize. Don't explain," you tell him.

You understand, to some extent, why he did it. But there was no need to unpack it, it was the least of your priorities. You threw yourself at him to hug him, that was a first.

He hasn't really had that - something he didn't know he needed until he got it. He broke down in your arms like a man come back from war, he lets you hold him together while his edges were crumbling to dust.

"I'm here, James."

The garden had always been Euphemia's favourite place in the manor, she used to tend to it every day - James has taken over in her absence.

Even now, when her hands trembled too much to hold a trowel, when her legs ached too much to carry her beyond the cracked stone path, she still insisted on sitting outside - breathing in the crisp afternoon air, the fading scent of late blooms clinging stubbornly to the hedges.

You wiped your palms against your skirts, smearing soil across the fabric, and pushed to her feet. You had been kneeling in the dirt for the better part of an hour, stubbornly trying to coax life back into the frostbitten flowerbeds.

Another lost cause, probably. But there was something oddly comforting in these small, foolish acts of hope.

"Come here, darling," Euphemia called softly, her voice a thin thread against the quiet.

You brushed hair out of your face and crossed the grass. The sun caught in the pale wisps of Euphemia's hair, haloing her like a painting. Euphemia patted the bench beside her, and you sank down wordlessly.

Euphemia's hand - delicate - found yours. Her thumb brushed over your knuckles in a slow, steady circle. You couldn't remember the last time someone had touched you so gently, a mother's warm touch.

"Promise me," Euphemia said, voice almost inaudible. "Promise you'll stay with him."

Youblinked, throat tightening.

"He's always carried so much," Euphemia continued, her gaze far away, as if watching something only she could see. "Too much. Even when he was a boy - always looking out for his friends like the leader - he even gave us the gift of another son, our Sirius - "

You stay quiet. Yeah, the runaway Black has been visiting as well. If he knew the deal between you and James, he didn't say anything. Only exchanging greetings and thanking you for caring for his adoptive parents.

News of his adoption was no secret to all of Hogwarts. He was a Marauder, another headache for the Prefect that you were, four troublesome third-years, and then you were Headgirl and catching him snogging girls after dark.

He's changed a lot. Tattoos, longer hair - lots and lots of rings. But you also saw how he looked defeated. He's losing his parents again, how tragic.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The lie hovered at the back of your throat - Of course, I promise — but it stuck there, heavy and sour.

You couldn't do it. Not again. Not to her, and not right now - it was all too much.

The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

The money. The debt. The arrangement you two agreed on to be made because you were both was desperate and selfish and terrified. The fake love you had branded around like it was actually yours to hold.

You poured it all out into the trembling space within the garden.

When you finished, you couldn't meet Euphemia's eyes. Shame burned down your spine like a lash, throbbing.

But Euphemia only smiled. A wise, old glint in her tired eyes and it undid you. Tears falling even more now. She knew.

"Thank you for being honest. But if I may - it stopped being fake long ago, dear. For the both of you."

Your heart twisted, sharp and aching.

You covered your face with your hands - and then, without thinking, buried your head against Euphemia's shoulder. Like a child. Like you hadn't allowed yourselfto be vulnerable in years.

And Euphemia stroked her hair, murmuring nonsense, the way mothers do - holding you like you were hers, and you fell apart even more.

Your voice cracked open on the words you had never said aloud, even when they clawed at your ribs in the dead of night:

"Thank you," you whispered, choking on the sound of it. "Thank you for being the first mother I ever had."

None of you saw him.

James had come to call you for dinner.

But now he stood frozen just beyond the hedge - the golden light of the dying day catching on the frames of his glasses, painting him in shades of grief and awe.

He had heard everything.

Every word.

And for the second time in his life, James Potter didn't know how to move forward. Didn't know how to carry it all.

He just stood there, heart splitting open silently inside his chest, as the girl he had fallen in love with cried quietly against his mother's shoulder - not for herself, not even for him, but for a family she was terrified to lose.

It happened days later, when the worst of the storm had settled - when Euphemia managed a frail smile again, when Fleamont grumbled weakly about his porridge being too bland.

You were in the kitchen, elbows deep in soap and dishwater, when James leaned against the doorway. Arms crossed. Watching you like he had all the time in the world.

The elves could've done it - but you wanted to do something more than just exist within the walls of Potter Manor. A future daughter-in-law waiting to be.

"Come out with me tonight," he said.

You blinked at him, suds dripping from your fingertips. "James - we can't leave your parents - "

"We won't be too far, just the gardens," he interrupted gently and you frown at him.

"Is this about the," you look over your shoulders to see Fleamont cradling a tea between his hands on the counter. You lower your voice. "The kiss?"

"What"

You shake your head. "You don't have to make up with me for that, I told you it was truly fine - "

"Just say 'yes', you stubborn woman," he laughs a bit at the end but he was pleading.

You pressed your lips together, searching his face. No jokes despite his boyish grin. Then you gave in, no word needed to be said as he let out a satisfied hum.

The garden was transformed.

Hundreds of tiny candles floated in the air, bobbing like fireflies. The table was small, intimate - just two chairs and a scattering of wildflowers in jam jars. The night air was cool and sweet, stitched through with the scent of late summer roses.

"The elves were the rewal MVPs for this by the way," he commented, grinning. You snort.

James pulled out your chair with a dramatic bow. You laughed, cheeks warming despite yourself, and sat down.

There was a picnic basket between you. He opened it with a flourish - and there, tucked carefully inside, was your favorite pastry from your own bakery. The lemon tart you always made fresh on Sundays.

You blinked. "You stole from me."

"Purchased, actually." He grinned. "You're very expensive, Miss Future-Potter."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt so full you were surprised it didn't spill out your mouth and drop to your lap.

You ate under the stars - swapping stories, teasing, laughing - like it was the easiest thing in the world. No performances. No pretending.

Just. . .you and him. It felt very real now, after the kiss was a date in the gardens - you can only guess that his parents were watching from the drawing room window.

Halfway through, James pushed his chair back and stood up. For a dizzy moment, you thought he was going to fetch more food - but then he turned to you and, without hesitation, dropped to one knee.

The world tilted.

You stared at him - at the way the candlelight caught the gold in his eyes, at the way he looked more sure, more himself, than he ever had before.

"This time," James said, voice steady, reverent, "I'm asking for real."

No contracts.

No debts.

No saving each other.

"Just me," he said, reaching for your hand. "Just you."

You covered your mouth with trembling fingers, tears blurring your vision. You didn't trust your voice, so you just nodded. Hard. Over and over as he caressed that ring.

You felt like you could choke from happiness but finally, you found your voice -

"Yes," you answered, laughing through the tears.

James surged up, caught you in his arms, spun you once under the floating candles - avoiding tipping the table over. You were both laughing, crying, a little broken, a little mended.

Maybe the world was ending - maybe winter was coming fast and cruel - but right now, right here, you could pretend it was only this.

Only James.

Only you.

And it would be enough.

It is a small thing - nothing like the grand celebrations that the tabloids expected and theorized soon as they heard that the esteemed Potter bachelor was to be wed -

They called it a wedding to look out for, with the Potters being rich and all, but it turned out to be an intimate gathering. One that you prefered very much.

Euphemia is wheeled into the garden, bundled in soft blankets, a wreath of tiny white flowers tucked into her hair. Fleamont sits beside her, his hand resting atop hers, their fingers still finding each other after all these years.

The air smells of lilies and earth and late spring - the world on the cusp of summer, trembling at the edge of something new.

You walk down the aisle alone, lilies cradled carefully in your hands, heart rattling against your ribs like it might break free. Had Fleamont been strong nough, he would have been with you - he said so himself.

Friends sit at the front, close friends of James from Hogwarts - a few of the Gyffindor girls from his years, you managed to invite your Headboy counterpart and his wife, the Longbottoms, there was even Essie, your greatest friend who stuck through the hardest times.

Essie winks as you pass. You mouth her a ‘thank you’ as she wipes her tears away, happy to see you finally in the light after so long in the dark.

Sirius stands beside James, ridiculously overdressed in formal robes, grinning like he knows a secret he’ll never tell.

Remus lingers just a step behind them, hands clasped neatly, a rare and quiet warmth in his gaze, behind him was also Peter who just looked happy to be included.

And James - Merlin, James.

He looks like every good memory stitched into one living, breathing thing: black hair wild in the breeze, glasses catching the light, suit fitted perfectly to his frame.

When he sees you, the whole world shifts slightly off its axis. For a moment, it’s just you and him, like it always was meant to be.

You reach him, hand trembling when you slip yours into his. He squeezes gently, grounding you, steady and sure.

The ceremony is short. Sweet.

No grand speeches. No crowds. Just the two of you standing stubbornly in front of everyone you love, hearts bare and open.

James says his vows like he’s carving them into the very bones of the earth, voice low and rough with feeling. "You came to me in the quiet, and you stayed. I will never forget that."

You barely make it through your own. The tears come halfway through, thick and hot, making the lilies in your hands blur into nothing but white and green smudges.

When you slip the ring onto his finger, you are shaking so badly that James has to guide your hand, thumb brushing your knuckles, steady and patient.

When the officiant says, "You may kiss the bride," James doesn’t wait.

His hands cradle your face like you're something holy - and he kisses you like a man who has finally, finally found home.

There are cheers, and petals tossed high into the air, and Sirius shouting something wildly inappropriate that makes everyone laugh through their tears.

Later, under the flowering arch, Sirius gives a toast - half a roast, really - about how he 'he never expected a troublemaker Marauder to marry a proper Headgirl who always gave them detention, but he supposed it was fitting as both became Heads in their last years' and "Prongs here got himself a Head Girl, although older, eh? Guess you like 'em more mature, mate!"

You laugh so hard your ribs ache. James presses a kiss to the side of your head, rolling his eyes at the implication, murmuring something only you can hear.

Probably to insult Sirius.

There are tiny cakes, charmed lights strung between the trees, plates passed hand to hand. The air is heavy with lilac and laughter and the stubborn kind of joy that refuses to be dimmed by grief.

You dance barefoot with James under the golden wash of the lights, your dress trailing behind you like a whisper.

The grass is cool beneath your toes, the sky wide and open above you. James spins you once, twice, until you are dizzy with it, until all you can do is clutch his hand and laugh into his chest.

The world feels soft. Real. Precious beyond measure.

Euphemia watches from her chair, smiling like she is imprinting the whole thing onto her soul. Fleamont squeezes her hand. She leans her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes, a small, satisfied sigh leaving her lips.

It isn’t forever.

But for now, it is enough.

And for once - enough feels like a miracle.

. . . And you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars, and why I've spent my whole life tryin' to put it into words.

end. masterlist

#james fleamont potter #james potter #james potter marauders #james potter x reader #james potter imagine #marauders #marauders era #hp marauders #marauders x reader #harry potter #harry potter marauders #harry potter marauders era #don't blame me

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juletheghoul · 10 months ago

Text

The General

a/n: So, the Roman got me. It was to be expected, honestly lol. I am well aware we know practically nothing about this character but I couldn't help myself. I wrote reader as a slave here, if you aren't into that - no worries. This is un beta-ed, any mistakes are my own. Shout out to @foli-vora for letting me flood her with my thoughts and ideas and for helping me flesh it out🩷 Hopefully you enjoy!

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, piv sex, some dirty talk, creampie, alcohol, master / slave dynamic (power imbalance) one creepy dude making a pass, Marcus calls reader Girl, reader calls Marcus Dominus, let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Marcus Acaciusx F!Reader

word count: 1.6k

reblogs are appreciated

Series masterlist Masterlist next chapter; the baths

He comes through the tent flap late into the night, covered in blood, grime, and rage, and yet - you are there to greet him. The gods have seen it fit to bestow him with another day of victory, another day of life and with that life, comes his expectations of you.

You rush to pour the water you’ve kept hot at his fire into the basin he uses to wash, eyes scanning quickly for the clean linens he uses to cleanse himself of the gore of battle, and making yourself scarce once the basin is full.

He says nothing, but he has no need to.

You watch from your place at the edge of his vision, every nerve and receptor in your body honed to anticipate his needs.

His armor needs to be cleaned before first light, thank the Gods I didn’t fall asleep. I will need to mend the tear in his tunic as well–

His hand shot out, face up towards you, interrupting your mental tally of his state but your body responds quicker than your mind and you’re there in an instant, placing the clean linen into his dampened hand. Still, he says nothing.

You move towards his table while he finishes, shuffling his maps and well laid battle plans with great care in order to set out the olives and cheese he likes, the crusty bread and the dark wine he prefers.

“General.” The gruff voice at the tent flap scares you half to death, but you don’t cry out. You’re too well-trained for that. A few of his soldiers stand at the threshold. “We wish to share a cup, a toast to your victory.” They are eager, the red glint of blood still fresh in their eyes.

He grunts in response, but gestures to his table before giving you a pointed look. You rush to fetch more cups, setting them down at the extra places at his table. They are all seated by the time you finish pouring for them, and with another glance from Marcus–your general–you move to fetch more food from his stores.

They’re raucous, the heat of the battle still coursing through their veins. Where Marcus is focused on calming the blood, they are eager to stoke the fire. They are either oblivious to his dark mood, or unbothered by it.

“More wine!” One of them cries out, despite the way the General’s jaw clenches. You hurry to comply, pouring into the younger man's cup without spilling. “You are lucky General Acacius, a pretty, young, thing like this waiting to warm your bed of a night,” he leers up at you, his gaze slipping across your body like eels in a bowl, “would you share your wealth, I wonder.” His other hand slides up the back of your thigh causing you to gasp, his touch wholly unwelcome.

“If you would like to keep your hands, I suggest you keep them to yourself.” His voice cuts through the air, “Come girl, take my cup away. I have no taste for wine just now.” You move away from the unwanted touch and towards Marcus, avoiding his eyes to complete the task at hand. “Go now, all of you. I will see you in the morning.” He moves from his place at the table, and if the others are unwilling to comply, they make no mention of it. The table is clear by the time he comes back, absent unwanted company.

He says nothing while removing his armor, but you rush to his side to assist anyway, carefully putting the pieces aside to clean.

The mood shifts, and his gaze now bores into you, and your heart races to feel it. Where the other man's eyes made your skin crawl, Marcus’ eyes feel like a caress. You feel them on the slit in your tunic, where your thigh is exposed. You feel them on your chest when you turn towards him to help take his chest plate off.

Goose flesh spreads like a stain across your skin, and your cunt weeps for him, betraying any thoughts that you might not want what he quite obviously wants to give you. The proof of it tenting his tunic when the leather Pteruges are removed.

Those brutal hands, the ones that’d been covered in blood and grime not an hour past, now grab onto your hips, the grip hard enough to bruise. The thin linen shift does nothing to insulate you from his heat, does nothing to dull the press of his want against your belly. Any doubts swimming in your mind about crossing this line with him–again–are silenced when the linen is all but ripped off, leaving you almost shivering in his arms.

The arousal is something fierce, an entity all in its own and it responds to his brusque movements with a perverse glee. It sets your nerves alight, drips down onto your thighs as he herds you towards his bed mat. His intensity infects you, it strengthens your grip, you’d swear it sharpened your nails by the way you rip at the very tunic you’re going to have to mend.

You land on your back amongst his linens and he’s quick to follow you there. It takes less than a breath for him to shrug everything off, both of you as nude as the day you were born.

“Open your legs.” His voice is gruff, and thick with want, the same want that smears fat pearly drops against the skin of your thigh.

Your nipples harden, drawing both his eye, and his mouth as you hurry to comply. He bites, pulling a gasp from your lips. His tongue quickly soothes it though, this is his pattern, an addictive balance of pain and pleasure. First one breast, then the other gets his attention, but only briefly, his desire burns too brightly.

You only manage to pull his face up to yours before his cock finally slips into your wet heat, feeding a gasp directly into his mouth when you take his kiss with a force to rival his own.

The size of him always shocks you into silence. He isn’t the first man to have you this way, your chastity had been gone long before you came into his service; you were glad of it to feel the way he molded you to accept him though. Now, and every time he’s been inside you.

His stroke is brutal, it’s hard, and rough and all but moves you higher onto his mat. It’s perfect.

Your knees hitch high onto his hips, just as he raises one knee to press against the back of your thigh for purchase and it pays off because he finds the spot that makes you keen.

He lets out a breathy laugh, relishing the state of you and the euphoria of your climax is far too close to feel any shame. Instead your cunt floods him, the slip of him moving so noisy and vulgar and welcome and blissful it pushes you closer still.

“More, please—“ you moan out the words, the first words you’ve spoken to him since he’d returned from a day of violence and he corrects you even now.

“More what,” he grunts, anger and ecstasy shining on his visage, “speak correctly, girl.” His voice is clipped, his movements faltering and you know he’s close.

“More please, Dominus.” They’re a whimper, and he responds to them just how you hoped he might. He moves quickly and for a moment you can see how he’s earned his reputation, agile and smooth and within a moment he sits back on his haunches, pulling your hips up to meet his thrusts.

You don’t know whether to scream, or weep, either way you thank the Gods for putting you in this man’s way. The pleasure is peppered with pain where his fingers dig into the meat of your thighs, and you know you will feel the ache of holding them open tomorrow, but it’s so hard to care when it feels so good.

The precipice looms, the shadow of the climax clouding anything and everything and when you reach down towards where you’re spread wide, it only takes a couple of quick, wet circles at your clit to float away.

He groans, hips stuttering and you know you’ve taken him over the edge with you, you can feel the evidence of it painting your insides. His eyes glaze over as he watches himself fill you to the brim, slack-jaw and drunk on his orgasm and your flesh on display for him.

“I expect you to remain full of my gift-“ his tone is filthy, lust and victory of a different kind on his features as he grinds himself deeper, “until I take you again.” He hisses the last few words out, pulling his softening cock out to inspect his mess. “Am I understood?”

“Yes Dominus.” The words are sweet as summer fruit on your tongue, eager to please him.

He smiles, but it’s predatory and it makes you clench around nothing, your body betraying your words when you feel his spend dripping out in front of his eyes.

He tsks, pushing it back in with thick fingers.

“You are well aware I don’t tolerate such insolence.” His eyes narrow, but his mood is still playful, removing his fingers from your cunt, only to stick them in your mouth. “Now, get some rest. I expect you up at first light.” He speaks with absolute authority as you suck his fingers clean, and nod.

------

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#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #marcus acacius #Marcus acacias x reader #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #marcus x reader

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rafesgreasycurtainbangs · 1 month ago

Note

the pogues throwing baby girl cameron a welcome home party when you first come home to the hospital because they’ve always been your family; and without them you wouldn’t have met rafe 🥹

༄｡° welcome to the family, jojo - rafe cameron

series masterlist

The sun hung low over the Outer Banks, casting a warm golden glow across the sandy shores of Figure Eight. The air buzzed with excitement, the kind that only comes when something truly special is about to happen. Today was that day—the day you and Rafe Cameron were bringing your newborn daughter, Josephine—named after your late grandmother—home from the hospital. But it wasn’t just a quiet homecoming. No, the Pogues—your wild, loyal, chaotic family—had other plans. They’d insisted on throwing a welcome home party, because to them, this wasn’t just about celebrating Jojo’s arrival. It was about celebrating you, Rafe, and the unlikely, beautiful journey that had brought you all together.

The driveway of Tanneyhill was a sight to behold as you pulled up in Rafe’s truck, Jojo nestled safely in her car seat behind you. Streamers in soft pink and white fluttered from the porch railings, tied up with the kind of haphazard care that screamed JJ’s handiwork. A hand-painted sign hung crookedly over the front door: “Welcome Home, Jojo!” The letters were uneven, and there was a smudge of paint that looked suspiciously like Pope had tried to fix it while Kiara argued for artistic flair. Balloons bobbed in the breeze, some already drifting off toward the marsh, and the faint hum of chatter drifted from the backyard, where the real party was clearly unfolding.

Rafe glanced over at you, his hand resting on your knee as he parked. “You sure you’re up for this? We could tell ‘em to scram if you’re too tired.” His voice was gruff, protective, but you could see the flicker of amusement in his blue eyes. He knew the Pogues were non-negotiable—they’d been your family long before he’d stumbled into your life, and without them, he wouldn’t have you. You wouldn’t have her.

You smiled, tired but glowing, and squeezed his hand. “No way. They’ve been planning this for weeks. Besides, Jojo deserves to meet her crazy uncles and aunts.” Rafe chuckled, shaking his head as he climbed out to grab the car seat, his movements gentle and deliberate, like he was still getting used to the idea of being a dad.

The moment you stepped into the backyard, a cheer erupted. JJ was the loudest, of course, letting out a whoop as he bounded over, a beer in one hand and a tiny pink party hat perched crookedly on his head. “There she is! Little Jojo—and the prettiest Cameron yet, no offense, Rafe!” He clapped Rafe on the shoulder, earning a mock glare, before leaning down to peek at the baby. “Dude, she’s perfect. Look at those cheeks. You sure she’s yours?”

“Watch it, Maybank,” Rafe shot back, but there was no venom in it—just the easy banter that had become their norm over the years. You laughed, feeling a warmth settle in your chest as JJ stepped aside to let the others swarm in.

Kiara was next, her arms full of a handmade quilt she’d clearly spent hours on, the fabric a patchwork of soft pastels and little sea turtle patterns. “For Jojo’s crib,” she said, pressing it into your hands with a grin. “Figured she should have something from the Cut to remind her where her mom’s roots are.” Her eyes softened as she looked at you. “You look amazing, by the way. How do you feel?”

“Exhausted,” you admitted, “but happy. Really happy.” She hugged you tight, careful not to jostle Jojo, and you could feel the love radiating off her—the same love that had carried you through every storm the OBX had thrown your way.

Pope approached more cautiously, holding a tiny onesie with “Future Rocket Scientist” printed across the front in bold letters. “Had to fight JJ to keep him from writing ‘Future Beer Pong Champ’ on it,” he said with a grin, handing it over.

John B and Sarah were already by the fire pit, laughing as they tried to set up a makeshift banner that kept flapping in the wind. Sarah’s blonde hair was tangled from the breeze, her eyes bright with excitement as she jogged over first. “Jojo’s gorgeous,” she cooed, leaning in to admire her niece. “I’m calling dibs on babysitting first. Sorry, everyone else.” She shot a teasing look at the group, then turned to you. “You know, I still can’t believe my brother’s a dad. But seeing him with you? With her? It’s like he was always meant to be.”

John B followed, grinning wide as he clapped Rafe on the back. “She’s a beauty, man. Takes after her mom, clearly.” He winked at you, then stepped back to let Sarah fuss over Jojo a little more.

You glanced at Rafe, who was holding the car seat like it was made of glass, his jaw tight with that mix of pride and nerves you’d come to adore. “Yeah,” you said softly. “He was.”

The party unfolded like all Pogue gatherings did—chaotic, loud, and brimming with heart. JJ insisted on a “toast” with root beer, raising his bottle high as the others gathered around the fire pit. “To Jojo,” he declared, “may she inherit her mom’s 'badassery', her dad’s… uh, let’s call it determination, and the Pogues’ impeccable taste in chaos. Welcome home, kid!” The group cheered, clinking bottles and cans, and you couldn’t help but laugh as Rafe rolled his eyes, pulling you closer to his side.

Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the sky turned a deep indigo, the mood softened. The crackle of the fire blended with the distant crash of waves, and Sarah and Kiara were taking turns holding Jojo, cooing over her tiny fingers, while Pope and JJ debated the best way to roast marshmallows without setting something on fire. Rafe sat beside you on a blanket, his arm around your shoulders, watching it all unfold with a quiet contentment you hadn’t seen in him before.

“You know,” you murmured, leaning into him, “if it weren’t for them, we wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t have met you that summer at the Wreck. Wouldn’t have gotten dragged into that mess with the gold. Wouldn’t have fallen for the kook prince who turned out to be more than just a pretty face.”

He smirked, brushing a kiss against your temple. “And I wouldn’t have realized the Pogues weren’t all bad. Just mostly bad.” You elbowed him playfully, and he laughed, the sound low and warm. “Seriously, though. They’re your family. And now they’re Jojo’s too. I’m good with that.”

As the stars began to peek out overhead, you looked around at the scene—the Pogues, Jojo, Rafe—and felt a swell of gratitude. This was home, messy and imperfect and full of love. Jojo’s first day back wasn’t just a welcome. It was a promise—of a life surrounded by the people who’d shaped you, who’d brought you to this moment, and who’d be there for every moment to come.

©RAFESGREASYCURTAINBANGS ⋆˙⟡ est. 2025

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starmapz · 5 months ago

Text

what you know - ch5: hero || r. sukuna

❦ ryomen sukuna x f!reader [college au] [ongoing series]

❝ you've heard his reputation and you've seen first-hand the way he's late to class if he even bothers to show up. paired with him for the most important project of the year, you choose to give him the benefit of the doubt- but maybe that's more than he deserves when your perfect grades depend on him, or maybe there's more to the aloof and irritable sukuna than meets the eye. ❞

❦ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. use of cannabis. use of nicotine/cigarettes. angst. hurt/no comfort. hurt/comfort. implied injury. family trauma. mutual pining. smut. slow burn. anxiety. panic (attacks). mentions of difficulty eating. vomit. tags will be updated as series continues.

❦ additional tags ; college parties and themes. sukuna ooc warning as this is a realistic take on modern sukuna. reader is fairly preppy and implied to be smaller than sukuna, but he's 6"11.

❦ words ; 12.2k.

main masterlist || series masterlist || previous chapter || next chapter

[email protected] - Tuesday, 10:44 PM Have lunch with us tomorrow!

[email protected] - Tuesday, 10:59 PM am i allowed to say no

[email protected] - Tuesday, 11:03 PM Nope! :)

[email protected] - Tuesday, 11:05 PM lucky me

If there’s one thing you can say about your friendship with Sukuna, it’s that he’s a lot funnier than all the rumors surrounding him give him credit for.

That, and that you’ve gotten a lot better at checking your email.

Pulling into the parking lot nearest to the campus library, you put the car in park and turn to the passenger’s seat to grab your bag. When you turn back, a startlingly tall figure is trudging through the snow towards you, salmon hair poking out from his hood standing as a dead giveaway as to who it is.

Rolling down your window, you call out to him. “Sukuna?”

He jogs towards you at the sound of your voice, resting his forearms on the edge of your car where the window is lowered. A paper cup adorned in a local coffee shop logo in each of his hands grabs your attention as he dips his head into your car and, more importantly, right into your personal space. Your heart races at the close proximity, keeping your attention on the cups in his hands in an effort to keep your thoughts in order.

“Shit, it’s cold,” he grumbles. “I swear it was just fall.”

Don’t say it, don't say it, don't say it- “You could always light yourself on fire again.”

Sukuna’s face deadpans. “Play your games, brat. I’m more than happy to have your drink,” he sneers, ducking his head back out of his window and into the cold as he attempts to turn away.

“Wait wait wait!” You giggle, reaching out to tug him back into the window as you pull on his coat sleeve. He scowls at you, letting you pull him back into the heat of your car despite his grumpy demeanor.

“D’you want your drink or not?” He grumbles, holding one of the cups out a bit further.

Curiously, you take it from him, smiling as it warms your hands. Bringing the cup up to your lips, you cautiously take a sip, your tongue swiping your lips when you pull it back to look at it with a crease between your brow.

“How’d you know my exact order?” You ask, wracking your brain for if you had told him at some point.

“I’m just that good,” he smirks, taking a sip of his own drink that smells like the most caffeinated black coffee you’ve ever bore witness to.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously at him, but you’re not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, and Sukuna clearly isn’t about to let you in on his secret. With a soft sigh, you resign yourself to not knowing.

“Thanks, Kuna.”

He grunts in reply, taking another sip of his overpoweringly aromatic coffee.

“Are you gonna come study?” You query as you set your drink down in a cup holder to zip up your coat and pull your backpack up over your shoulder. Sukuna backs away from the door as you get out of your car and grab your drink.

“Nah, gotta turn in a paper.”

“See you at lunch, then?” You tilt your head to get a better view of Sukuna towering over you.

He grimaces, a muscle in his jaw tensing. “Suppose so.”

“Don’t sound so excited,” you tease.

“Can’t say I’m lookin’ forward to getting torn apart by your friends.” He takes a sip of his coffee, tucking his other hand into his pocket to fiddle with his lighter, though he’s careful not to start a fire this time.

“I’ll talk to them. It won’t be that bad,” you promise, giving him your best reassuring smile.

Sukuna pauses to examine your expression, his gaze flickering between your eyes and down to your smile. He knows you well enough to spot the crack in your facade, the barely-there flash of doubt in your eyes that tells him that your friends won’t forgive him so easily, but he owes you regardless, so he doesn’t have much of a choice at the end of the day but to trust you.

And trust you, he does. He’s not sure what it is about your calming presence and sunny demeanor, but you seem to pull the best from him and even in the turmoil that his life has become, he finds himself seeking that familiar warmth.

It’s for that reason that he’ll bear whatever it is that your friends deem a necessary punishment for him, even if it irks him.

He hums in reply, glancing down at his watch as he sets the thought aside. “Gotta go. Later,” he says abruptly as he turns to leave in usual Sukuna fashion.

“See you later, thanks for the drink!”

He casts a glance over his shoulder at you with a smirk before throwing his hood up over his head and trudging off into the snow. You follow suit, pulling your hood up with a shiver as the wind whips around you, reminding you just what season it is. Tucking your hands into your pockets, you jog towards the library and barge through the doors with as much poise as you can muster given the cold you’ve just run from.

Shoko’s head lifts from her book as you approach the table where she and Kento are hunched over their textbooks while Haibara is typing away on his laptop. With a huff, you take a seat across from Shoko and beside Kento.

“I can’t believe it got this cold and snowy so quickly,” you whisper, shivering as you toss your coat over the back of the chair.

“Welcome to winter,” Shoko sighs, fiddling with a coffee cup that matches your own.

“Oh!” Haibara looks up from his laptop with a pleased expression. “Good, you did get your drink!”

With a tilt of your head, you hold the paper cup out in front of you, glancing around the table as you realize all three of them have matching cups to yours.

“Yeah, um, Sukuna brought it for me,” you smile, bringing the cup towards your chest as if the thought makes you starstruck. Maybe it does, just a bit.

“I ran into him at the cafe. He actually came up and said hi, would you believe that? I mean, he just wanted your order, but I thought it was pretty nice for him.” Haibara beams, leaning back in his chair with a bright smile that you share. Kento and Shoko exchange a less enthusiastic glance, privy to information Haibara doesn’t have on your former project partner.

“That explains how he got my order right,” you giggle to yourself, pleased when Haibara laughs along with you. Maybe it’ll be good to have him at your side for lunch today to break the tension between Sukuna and your friends. “Oh yeah, he’s gonna join us for lunch.”

With Haibara sitting at the table, Kento and Shoko keep their mouths shut, but their displeasure doesn’t need to be voiced based on the frowns you receive.

“Can we talk, actually?” Shoko speaks up, pushing herself up from the table.

Your heart drops, but you nod, gingerly following as she leads you into the hall outside the library. It’s dead quiet, even more so than the library itself which was filled with the sounds of paper turning and pens scratching. Now, the silence seems to close in on you as your closest friend turns to you with an exasperated sigh.

“Listen girl, you know I love you.”

“That’s just about the worst start to this I could have hoped for,” you joke with a nervous laugh in hopes of lightening the mood.

Shoko smiles. “I promise it’s not that bad. I’m just worried and I won’t sit by with Kento and watch while Sukuna breaks your heart. Once is a mistake, but twice?”

The guilty look on your face causes her to sigh again, but before you can give her a better explanation, she continues.

“You’re too forgiving for your own good sometimes and I know you didn’t want to mention the kids to Kento, but can you at least tell me what his excuse was? I just want to make sure he isn’t taking advantage of you.”

You chew on your lip, knowing your explanation won’t help Sukuna’s case. “Well, he hasn’t exactly told me, but-”

“He hasn’t told you?” She parrots with a raised brow, rubbing her temple.

“Wait, wait, just listen!” You plead, grabbing her shoulders. “He told me there was an emergency with the kids and he doesn’t want me involved in it. I told him this is his last chance and he’s trying, Sho.”

She grimaces, the gears turning in her mind as she weighs her opinions on him based only on what you’ve told her. “You better have meant it when you told him this is his last chance,” she crosses her arms over her chest. “I know he’s got a lot on his plate but that doesn’t give him any excuse to treat you like you’re disposable.”

“I won’t let him,” you promise. “And he won’t,” you assure her. He hasn’t gained the entirety of your trust back, but you can see that he’s putting in a notable effort to earn it and you want so badly to believe that the Sukuna you’re getting to know will stick around.

In all honesty, you think the begrudgingly kind and thoughtful version of him you’re getting to know is the real Sukuna, beneath the layers of grumpiness and stress and anger that go hand-in-hand with that warmth that he seldom shows around others. Hardened by a life that’s been nothing but tough on him, you’re privy to another side of him. One that has a good time teasing and making jokes, who enjoys music, movies, and video games and has a love for art. Sure, he’s still got an attitude and a penchant for being easily annoyed (and annoying), but behind all those walls is a person that anyone would be happy to spend time with.

He just needs a little bit of help and some rest to show that side of himself, help that he has a hard time accepting over his pride.

With a deep sigh, Shoko resigns to your beseeching. “You really like him, huh?”

Your cheeks warm, unable to hide the smile that finds its way to your lips, although you don’t respond. She has her answer in the form of your giddy smile as you shuffle from one foot to the other.

“I’ve never seen you like this before. The heart wants what it wants, I guess.”

“So you’ll give him a chance at lunch today?” You plead, squeezing her shoulders lightly.

She takes a moment to consider your words before dramatically rolling her eyes as she pulls you in for a hug. “One wrong move and I’m whooping his ass.”

“I won’t stop you, promise.”

She pulls back and begins heading back to the library. “He’s been helping you with History, right? Can we go over that? I’m so behind,” she whispers as she crosses into the library. The sound of pages turning and pencils scribbling is a relief in comparison to the silence of the empty reading week halls.

“Sounds good!”

–

With a shiver, you brush the snow from your jacket as you make your way into the lunch hall, unzipping it as you’re met with warm air. There’s a few more students around than there has been the last few days, likely the result of the power going out in some of the dorms from the whispers you’d been hearing.

Making your way to your usual table, you pull out some leftovers from a couple of nights ago and make your way to the microwave.

When you return to your seat, the table has gained an air of awkwardness that you suppose you were expecting, and Sukuna is seated to the right of your chair. Haibara seems to be doing what he can to mediate the table and Shoko’s half-hearted replies are better than nothing, at the very least. Kento seems less than pleased, but he’s entertaining Haibara if nothing else.

“Hey!” You beam at Sukuna. His gaze flickers up to you and he nods in reply. The rest of the table seems to relax at your arrival, but the tension remains palpable. Tough crowd.

Taking a seat beside Sukuna, you turn to him as Shoko and Haibara talk about something they watched the night before, entertaining Kento with the drama of it all. “How did turning in your paper go?” You ask the tattooed man who’s leaning against his knuckles, propped up by his elbow on the table.

He yawns before he replies. “Fine. Should get a good grade,” he shrugs nonchalantly.

“I’m glad,” you smile, taking a bite of your lunch. “Did you bring anything to eat?”

“Yeah, leftovers from last night.” With a grunt, he leans down to his bag as though it took a nominal amount of effort, pulling a container from his bag. Setting the container down, he sighs heavily.

With a sympathetic smile, you lower your voice. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, rubbing a hand over his face as he glances around the table to make sure no one’s listening. “Cho’s been having nightmares and it’s catchin’ up with me.”

“Aww,” you pout. “Poor kid.”

“He’ll be alright,” Sukuna assures you, or at least you think he’s assuring you. “They both will.”

You purse your lips, examining the distance in his sunken eyes. You may be sitting beside him, but there’s a strange feeling that you’re watching him from outside, as though there’s a barrier of glass between you. Before you can question him any further, he changes the subject.

“How’s studying for History goin’?” He casts a glance at Shoko, just long enough to catch her eye and invite her into the conversation. It’s small, but it is a noticeable effort from Sukuna to include her.

“We were just going through it, actually. I feel way better about that final already,” you smile, eyes bright as you exchange a glance with Shoko.

Her cautious gaze softens and she nods in agreement. “Yeah. Thanks for the help.”

“Mm.” Sukuna hums, turning towards you with a smirk. “So if I ask about the Berlin Blockade-”

“Oh no,” you groan.

“- you can tell me how many air corridors the Soviets granted for cargo and trades and where they were granted to?”

Sukuna’s pretty sure he sees your eyes glaze over in dread and confusion from just one question, as though your confidence has fizzled out. He chuckles, amused.

“One question at a time. D’ya remember how many air corridors there were?”

You sigh. “This isn’t what I was hoping for when I invited you for lunch,” you grumble as you pull your history textbook out. “Three. There were three.”

“Good. Where were they granted to?”

“Um…” you take a deep breath, wracking your brain for information. “Frankfurt.”

“Mhm.”

“Hamburg.”

“Good.”

You chew on your lip, peering over at him with a blank stare that tells him you haven’t the faintest clue.

“Open your textbook,” he instructs.

You flip to the chapter about the Cold War, searching for information about the Berlin Blockade. Your eyes scan the pages and eventually come across all three locations. “Bückeberg.”

“Good. Who was the foreign minister at the time?”

The look you shoot Sukuna is too cute. You look completely and utterly lost, immediately searching your textbook. “Vyacheslav Molotov,” you reply after a moment, pointing at a black and gray photo of a man.

“Yes,” Sukuna agrees, reaching for your hand. His fingers are rough and calloused when he wraps them around yours, moving your hand an inch to the left to a different photo. “But you pointed at Stalin.”

“O- oh.” You tear your gaze from his much larger hand wrapped around yours to the two photos, using every shred of willpower you can muster to commit the photos to memory. Whether it’s because you’re burnt out on studying, or because the size of Sukuna’s hand is sending your mind reeling to places you’re not willing to admit aloud, your heart is pounding and you can only pray Sukuna’s fingers aren’t low enough on your wrist to feel your pulse. “My bad,” you barely manage to whisper.

Sukuna pulls his hand back, laying it next to yours on the table. “You were close,” he shrugs, not thinking much of it.

With a sharp intake of breath to clear your head, you pull your notebook aside and write down the answers you missed. “I should know this by now,” you mutter more to yourself than anyone else. Barely audibly, you tack on, “we’ve studied so much.”

Sukuna arches a brow, thoughtfully looking down at you. “It’s not a big deal. You actually know the history itself well, you’re just bad with names, dates, and faces.”

With pursed lips, you give him your attention, considering his words for a moment.

“What’s the reason for the Berlin Blockade?” He quizzes.

“To weaken Germany,” you reply without a moment’s thought.

He smirks, nudging your shoulder and keeping in close proximity with you. “See, you’re fine. That’s why I’ve been quizzin’ you on the more important shit.”

“I guess you’re right. Won’t there be a lot of names on the test though?”

“Nah. It’s like a seventy-thirty split,” he shrugs.

“Thirty’s a lot,” you mumble, your face falling at the thought of getting a seventy, and that’s only if you get a perfect score across every other question.

“Seventy is a lot,” he corrects, a playful smirk slathered across his lips. “Or are you a princess about your grades?” He teases as his lips turn up into a grin.

You force a smile, entertaining his teasing. “I know you’re right, but-” you pause, looking up into those striking crimson irises. He’s so close to you and regards you with so much mirth that your breath unintentionally hitches in your throat. “- um,” you continue shakily, “I could lose my scholarship if my grades aren’t good enough.”

Sukuna’s eyes briefly widen. “You’re on a scholarship?”

“Yeah, I need higher than a seventy on this final.”

He lets out a long breath through his nose. “Alright then, princess. We’ll aim higher.”

Did your mouth just go dry from one word? God are you really in that deep?

“Thanks, Kuna.” You nudge him back, earning you another entirely too handsome grin.

“Mm.” His grin falters at the nickname, but he forces down his disdain for it.

You’re so caught up in your conversation with Sukuna, that you don’t see Haibara kick Kento and Shoko from under the table and direct their attention to your interactions with Sukuna. Even stoic Kento who was beyond pissed with Sukuna can’t deny that the sight could weaken even the hardest resolve against the man.

–

“I don’t WANNA!”

You lower your fist from Sukuna’s door the following night, pausing at the chaos from within his apartment. The anger and frustration just beyond the door is practically bursting out into the hall and you’re sure the moment it opens, it’ll metaphorically slap you in the face. Taking in a sharp breath, you raise your hand again.

“I won’t ask again,” comes Sukuna’s raised voice, straining to keep his anger down.

… And now you can hear sobbing.

You softly tap your knuckles against the door, half expecting to need to wait for someone to let you in but Sukuna swings the door open immediately. It slams shut behind you once you’ve cleared the entryway and the scene inside is equally as ugly as it sounds.

Choso is nowhere to be seen, Yuji is in tears and Sukuna is about to blow a gasket.

Oh boy.

“What’s- um-” You pause, debating whether you should even ask. “- Going on?” You question mousily.

“Go on brat, what’s going on?” Sukuna hisses, his chest rising and falling as fury courses through his veins.

Yuji’s too busy sobbing to reply, shaking his head adamantly as he wipes at his face, snot running down his chin.

“Fucking christ,” Sukuna mutters, exasperated. He runs a hand through his pink hair, turning on his heel away from the scene in an effort to keep calm. Whatever patience he’d had for this had run dry during their walk home from school and with the mess his life had become, he was already worn extremely thin.

As Yuji continues to bawl and Sukuna leans over the kitchen counter gathering himself, you decide to step in.

You make your way across the living room to Yuji, kneeling down in front of him. “Hey, sweetheart.” Your voice is gentle and you offer a sympathetic smile. “Everything’s alright, don’t cry,” you soothe as you reach out and gently rub the sides of his arms. “Do you want a hug?”

Yuji nods adamantly, hiccuping through the tears as he reaches out for you. You pull him in for a tight hug, rubbing his back reassuringly. Sure to keep your voice soft and gentle, you give him a moment before speaking up.

“What happened, Yu?”

“K-Kuna’s-” sniffle. “- he’s m-making me get a-” Yuji’s voice breaks as the tears set in again. “A-” hiccup. “- needleeeeee.” He sobs into your shoulder, burying his face into your neck. You let out a breath at the realization that it’s just an argument that’s been blown completely out of proportion. Life was so much easier when the hardest thing you had to endure was vaccinations.

“I’m sorry honey,” you coo, continuing to rub his back. You let him sob into your shoulder before pulling back to look at him. At the sight of your face, so gentle and calm, he starts to sniffle more and less tears flow down his cheeks. “There you go,” you smile, noticing now that there’s a very crumpled piece of paper in his hand.

Yuji wipes his face on his arm, his breath coming in short gasps as he slowly calms down.

“Can I see that?” You ask, holding your hand out.

“No,” he whines, holding it behind his back.

“Alright,” you smile again, deciding it’s best to reason with him.

You cast a glance back to Sukuna. His palms are splayed on the counter as he leans his weight over the surface, staring down at it. All of his muscles are tense as his back rises and falls steadily with each breath he uses to calm his own anger. They really are two sides of the same coin.

“Is your school doing vaccinations?”

Yuji nods.

“Is that your permission form?”

He shakes his head.

“Are you lying?”

He hesitates before nodding. You have to stifle a laugh at his completely shameless lie, your smile lopsided.

“Can we talk it through?” You ask, sitting cross-legged before Yuji.

He blinks a few times as he considers your question before plopping himself down on the floor in front of you. He glances down at the way you’re seated, following suit and setting his permission form juuust out of reach. Sneaky kid.

“Are you scared of needles?”

Yuji’s silent, thinking for a moment before he decidedly nods.

“Okay, that’s normal. Are you afraid it’ll hurt?” You query, tilting your head at him.

“It will,” he replies with an edge of certainty, sniffling.

“Maybe for a moment, but do you know what the needle’s for?”

“Um-” he wipes under his eyes, his face scrunching up in deep thought. “- no.”

“It’s so that you don’t get sick. Do you remember being sick the other week, sweetheart?”

“... yeah.” He continues to sniffle and wipe at his face, looking up at you between each movement as he waits for you to continue.

“Well, there’s sicknesses that are a lot worse than that, and your brother doesn’t want you to get them,” you explain, glancing back at the sound of Sukuna shuffling. He pushes himself up from the counter, listening as intently as Yuji is as he makes his way a short distance behind you. His disgruntled expression trains on the sight of you sitting alongside his little brother, but he’s silent. “Don’t you think it’s worth it to get poked for a moment and not get one of those sicknesses?”

Yuji’s gaze flickers between you and his older brother towering over both of you as he thinks about it. You give him all the time he needs, even as Sukuna’s foot begins tapping impatiently. He’s an adult, he can wait. “I guess,” Yuji finally agrees, averting his gaze.

“Do you think you can be brave for me and get a needle, then?” You ask, your gentle smile remaining in place the whole time.

It takes a moment, but Yuji nods.

“Can I have that paper, Yu?”

He gingerly reaches behind him and passes you the crumpled paper. Tilting your head up to Sukuna, you pass it up to him. He walks over to the table, signs it, and returns it to Yuji.

“You better give this to your teacher,” he growls as he hands it back to Yuji. The little boy frowns, staring down at the ground in shame as he sniffles. Tears threaten his eyes again and you sigh.

“Sukuna, please,” your tone is soft with him as well, pleading for understanding between the two.

A muscle in his jaw tightens as his frustrated gaze zeros in on you, but he second-guesses whatever snappy words are about to spill from his lips, choosing instead to keep his mouth shut. His lips press into a thin line, furiously glaring at you and Yuji.

“Can you promise your brother, sweetheart?”

He’s still quietly sniffling as he nods, unable to look either of you in the eye. You let out a soft sigh, rubbing at the crease between your brows. At least they’d come to some kind of peace, even if Sukuna is audibly huffing behind you while Yuji sniffles.

Pushing yourself to your feet, you offer a hand to Yuji, who takes it and lets you drag (yes, drag) him back up to his feet, quietly fiddling with the hem of his Sonic the Hedgehog shirt.

With a glance at Sukuna, clad in a plain white V-neck and sweatpants, you catch a glimpse of his tattoos and an idea pops into your mind. “You know, Yuji, your brother is super brave.”

The little boy’s head tilts in a silent question, just as Sukuna is looking at you with arms crossed over his chest. You take a step towards the older of the two brothers, avoiding his gaze to conceal your racing heart. Gingerly, you reach for his wrist and tug lightly on it. His lip twitches in a frown as he stays soundly in place, relenting finally when you tilt your head.

Fuck, it’s cute when you do that.

He lets you pull his wrist down towards Yuji, his expression unchanging as you point out his tattoos. “Your brother got thousands of needles for his tattoos, did you know that?” Your thumb rubs circles into Sukuna’s skin and he wonders if you know you’re doing it at all, his full attention trained on the action. Whether consciously or not, you seem to be trying to soothe him, and the fact that it’s working only further complicates the feelings bubbling in Sukuna’s chest.

Yuji peers up nervously with reddened eyes and puffy cheeks at his older brother. “Really?” He rasps quietly, his voice strained from crying.

“That’s right,” you grin. “Can you be brave like your brother?”

Yuji reaches out and presses a finger to Sukuna’s wrist, as if feeling for raised skin, only to find it’s smooth. “Like Kuna,” he nods in agreement, showing you the saddest smile you’ve ever seen through his tear-stained face.

“Like Kuna,” you agree, rustling the little boy’s salmon hair. He smiles more happily now, running off with his permission slip to slide it into his backpack.

Sukuna lets out a long breath as you drop his wrist. “Fuck,” he mutters.

“Need to cry it out in my arms, too?” You tease with a grin.

“Don’t push your luck, woman.” Even as he rolls his eyes at you, you catch the short exhale of breath from his nose reminiscent of a laugh.

“The offer stands,” you shrug cheekily, heading over to the table to set your bag down. You pull your history textbook out, alongside your notebook and some cue cards you prepared after submitting your paper last night. You skimmed through your textbook to put together cue cards with names, dates, and locations and their relations to historic events after Sukuna had pointed out that you seem to have the rest of the subject down.

Setting everything across the table, you peer over your shoulder at Sukuna’s distant gaze. You’ve seen this expression on him before, a forlorn glaze over his eyes as though he’s not present, completely lost in thought.

“Are you okay?”

Sukuna blinks twice, coming back to the present. A knot forms between his brows, as though he’s offended you might suggest he isn’t. “‘M fine.”

He’s lying, but you have no right to the truth, so you accept it with a nod.

No longer distracted, he runs a hand through his spiked hair, pushing a few loose strands back off of his forehead. His attention returns fully to you, though with a glance down at your white blouse, he wrinkles his nose.

“What?” You ask, looking down only to find yourself mirroring his expression. “Oh.”

Your blouse is a downright mess of snot and tears and while the tears will dry… well the same can’t be said for the snot. You frown, heading to the sink to wet a washcloth.

“Don’t bother,” Sukuna grumbles, striding into a room down the hall that you assume is his. He re-emerges a moment later with the first shirt he could find that doesn’t have the sleeves cut off. You reach out for the material as he tosses it to you.

“Thanks,” you smile, a faint heat rising to your cheeks at the prospect of wearing his shirt. Ducking away quickly to the washroom, you pull your blouse over your head and replace it with the black T-shirt, looking down at the material flowing over your body and thighs. You can’t help but giggle at the sight while Sukuna’s scent invades your senses, a comforting smokey and woodsy smell that makes you dizzy.

Straightening the shirt over your body, you nod to yourself in the mirror before re-emerging into the main living space. You can make out Sukuna’s form leaning over the balcony railing with no jacket on, even in the freezing weather. He catches a glimpse of you from the corner of his eye, taking a long final drag from his cigarette before he stubs it out in an ashtray and steps back inside.

“I think it’s a little big on me,” you giggle in reference to the shirt, cheeks remaining warm as you gingerly link your hands behind your back, rocking forward and back on your heel.

The tattooed man’s eyes trail the length of your body, the red of his irises disappearing as he does so. You cross your arms over yourself, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his sharp gaze.

He clears his throat, running his tongue over his lower lip. “Yeah, well. I’m six foot eleven, and you’re fuckin’ short.” He averts his gaze, willing his dick not to react right now. He’s already well aware of his attraction to you, and he’s sure that if he just found the time to get laid he could bury that feeling. What’s more important is that he considers you to be someone genuinely important in his life, regardless of the fact that he can’t give you a label. He’s not about to jeopardize whatever he has with you because of how hot you are and how much his dick is well aware of it.

He’s seen the looks you give him, too. Every hitch of your breath, every nervous glance away from him. He knows there’s a mutual attraction between you, but it’s one that no matter how much his sex drive seems to disagree, he knows he can’t pursue. There’s more to your connection than sex, and one night isn’t worth the effort he’s put into fixing things with you.

He can’t put a name to that connection, but he values it regardless.

“Type… O Negative?” You interrupt Sukuna’s thoughts, reading the bold green logo on the shirt as your eyes trace the heart monitor logo in matching green beneath the text. Most of the band shirts he wears have logos with the most bizarre font they’re nearly unreadable, so you can’t help but wonder if this is even a band at all. Meeting his gaze again, you tilt your head.

Sukuna’s cock twitches in his sweats. Shit, he should have worn jeans. He coughs into his elbow, leaning back against the table in an effort to hide his growing need. “They’re a band.”

“Oh, cool!” You smile, your eyes crinkling at the corners.

Getting up suddenly, Sukuna mutters something about needing to get ready for work and saunters off, leaving you standing by the table alone. You shrug it off, attempting to roll up the sleeves of the shirt and tuck it into the waistband of your leggings as best as you can in the hopes of making yourself look less like you’re in pajamas. Once you’re satisfied with the best look you think you can pull off, you take a seat at the table and begin putting together your cue cards.

Throwing yourself into your studies, you begin going through your cue cards in silence until Sukuna returns a short while later. The locks over his forehead are damp and he’s in a clean set of navy coveralls when he sits at the table beside you.

“What leaders made an effort to end the Cold War?” He quizzes, leaning over the table without so much as a glance at your cue cards.

“Reagan!”

“And?”

“Um- Gorbachev…?”

“Atta girl,” Sukuna smirks, giving your shoulder a light shove as your eyes light up, cheeks noticeably warm.

“Thank god I’m getting somewhere with all this studying,” you chuckle to yourself, straightening your cue cards. “I’m so burnt out on schoolwork,” you sigh, dropping the cards to the table.

“Why not take a break then?” Sukuna asks through a yawn.

“I can’t,” you frown, offering no further explanation. His brow arches questioningly. “I still need your help.”

His eyes flicker between yours, before dropping to your cue cards. “No ya don’t. You know the material and you’ve got cue cards for the shit you don’t remember. You’re set.”

You follow his gaze to the colorful cards with your handwriting scrawled over them in black ink. “You think so?”

“‘Course. You’re smarter than I am.”

The burly man leans forward over the table on his palm, yawning as silence sets in while you glance over your study materials. It doesn’t take long before you realize he’s in a trance, staring blankly straight ahead with a familiar distant expression.

Frowning, you have to resist the urge to reach out and pull him towards you. Maybe it’s because you’ve spent so much time with his brothers, but something about the idea of pulling him into a comforting hug feels right.

As though your body is actively working against you, your hand instinctively reaches for him. Sukuna’s gaze reflexively locks onto your hand that rests on his bicep, rubbing his tensed arm. A muscle works in his jaw as his irises flit up to you, something unreadable gleaming in his intense stare.

At the realization that you did reach out after all, you hesitantly pull back, somewhat surprised he didn’t smack your hand away in irritation. “Sorry, I…” But you have no excuse, so you trail off, awaiting his reaction.

Sukuna makes a show out of rolling his eyes, using his free hand to pull your hand back down to his bicep before leaning forward over the table and resting his chin over his elbow. He yawns again, his muscles slowly relaxing beneath your hand. You smile softly as Sukuna accepts your comfort, accepts you, and simply enjoy the comfortable silence while you use your spare hand to go through your cue cards.

His eyes are heavy as he stares blankly out the window opposite the table, the lull of sleep threatening to pull him under. As much as Sukuna hates to admit it, there’s little more tempting as of late than simply sleeping through his problems, and his mind goes blank as he eventually gives in to the temptation.

Sukuna’s breathing steadies beneath your hand, and you count your blessings that you’ve watched the kids during this shift before and you know that he has twenty minutes before he needs to leave. It might be the first time you’ve seen Sukuna completely relaxed, his jaw slack and shoulders loose. Pink strands of hair fall over his forehead, his lips only slightly parted as he breathes softly.

You gently rub circles into his arm, smiling softly at just how comfortable he’s grown with you. It touches you to see him able to simply be around you in such a way. Although you’d be lying to say you don’t want more than what you have with him, you’re grateful you have anything at all given his icy disposition. You’ve come a long way from the one-word answers and constant frustration.

Even if it’s always under the guise of an equivalent exchange, you’re glad he allows you to help him. Ever since you’ve been watching his little brothers more, he doesn’t seem as tired all the time (not that this particular moment proves that point), and you’re seeing more and more glimpses of the side of him most don’t get to see.

Your heart does a flip as his muscles twitch in his sleep beneath your fingers. He’s always trusted you on a relatively surface-level given that he lets you watch his brothers, but falling asleep under your touch is a surprising level of intimacy and reliance.

It’s a shame that twenty minutes passes so fast as you squeeze his arm in an effort to wake him.

“Stop,” he grumbles, swatting your hand away. Well, the peace can’t last forever you suppose. You give him another shake, which he certainly doesn’t appreciate. “What’d I just fuckin’ say?”

“You have work soon, Sukuna,” you giggle, giving him another shove. He cracks an eye open, his brow pulled down in a grumpy frown. He lifts his head slowly, squinting groggily at you with the imprint of the fabric of his coveralls on his cheek. You have to suppress another giggle at the disheveled glower being thrown at you.

“Fuck me,” he grumbles, rolling his shoulders before he pushes himself up from the table. He pushes his hair from his forehead and saunters around the apartment as he gathers what he needs before throwing on his coat.

“Oh, hey, where’s Choso?” You query as Sukuna fiddles with his keys.

He shrugs. “In his room, probably. He doesn’t like when Yuji cries.”

That makes sense from what you know of the middle sibling.

“Oh. He has homework due, can you make sure he does it?” Sukuna asks as he opens the front door. You nod. “I owe you one.”

Never a thank you with Sukuna, always him owing you.

“See you later, Kuna!”

The door shuts behind him and you let out a sigh, going to check on the two young boys. You knock on the door that’s slightly ajar, poking your head into their room when Yuji tells you to come in. There’s a mess of colored threads, strings, and beads strewn over a desk that they’re both crowded around, while Choso’s homework is buried beneath the mess of craft supplies.

Yuji hops off the chair and opens the door wider for you. Grinning, you let him tug you over to their table. Standing behind them both, you peer at what looks like a pile of (attempted) bead lizards with feet that don’t quite make sense.

“How are you both doing?” You figure after the tension when you walked into the apartment, they could probably use the opportunity to do a mental check-in with you. It’s not like Sukuna would be up for it, so you may as well try with his brothers.

“I’m sorry,” Yuji says as he fiddles with thread, not looking up from the very important lopsided lizard in his tiny hands. His tongue pokes out from the side of his mouth as he focuses on his craft.

“I know Yu, Kuna just has a lot going on right now. It’s okay,” you rub his back gently before turning your attention to his brother, “Choso?”

The dark-haired brother chews on his lip as he slides beads onto a thread. “I’m okay. I don’t like when they fight.” Deep in thought, his movements pause before he pulls two threads tight to keep the beads from falling off and sets a purple lizard head on the desk. “Um- I found this.”

He shoves some stray threads aside and hands you a familiar corner of paper addressed to his older brother adorned with a law firm logo. “I saw this,” you tell Choso, rounding the table to his side in an attempt to keep his brother from being involved. It’s not like he’s old enough to understand either way. “Do you know anything about it?”

He shakes his head.

“Me either,” you tell him. “If your brother wants to tell me, then he will. I’m sure everything’s okay,” you reassure despite not being so sure yourself. Sukuna is strong-willed, smart, and beyond capable. Most could never manage what he’s pulling off, but a lawsuit is another issue entirely. Sukuna’s got a mouth on him and a penchant for fighting if the rumors are true, so you can only imagine what trouble he’s gotten himself into.

Choso picks his lizard back up, sliding three purple beads onto one side of the string. “Okay.” He threads the other side back through the beads and pulls the string tight to keep them in place. “I trust you.”

You smile, ruffling his hair. “Do you need help with the feet?” You ask with a glance at the lizards with lopsided and mismatched feet.

“Please!”

“Yes!”

You can worry about Choso’s homework in a bit. For now, you think both kids could use some time relaxing and doing some crafts as you pull up a chair.

–

Sukuna drags a hand down his face as he enters his apartment to the sound of two kids who are still very awake. Excited screams fill the apartment, alongside your saccharine voice that he can only assume is attempting to corral the kids based on your stern tone.

Dropping his keys on the table at the door, he kicks his boots to the side and shrugs his coat off, ready for a shower and dead silence alone in his room more than anything. He trudges tiredly towards the washroom, his lips twitching into a frown as Yuji goes bolting past him, followed closely by Choso.

“Go to bed, brats!” He hisses, his voice gruff with irritation as he makes his way to the washroom.

You barely manage to see the door closing behind your friend as you trail after the two boys, who’ve been balls of energy all night since Choso finished his homework. It’s sweet, of course, but your burnt out mind wasn’t prepared for them to have this much energy when you agreed to watch them.

As both boys turn and come barreling past you, you barely manage to catch Yuji and hoist him up into your arms, effectively stopping their game of tag.

“Nooooooooo!!” Yuji cries out between excited giggles. Choso skids to a halt in front of you with a disappointed frown.

“Come on, kiddos. You have school tomorrow, it’s bedtime.”

You’re met with a chorus of whines and sighs as you carry Yuji to their room. Choso trails close behind, pouting as you instruct them to get ready for bed. You help Yuji with pulling his hoodie over his head and choosing a pair of pajamas before giving them time to finish getting ready.

Yuji bursts from the door in a fit of giggles, running towards the cracked door of Sukuna’s room. “Yuji, come on it’s bedti-” you call after him as you follow him through the cracked door, eyes widening at the sight of Sukuna shirtless, his hair damp and hanging over his forehead. He must have finished his shower while you were trying to get his brothers to calm down. He shoots both of you an irritated snarl, his lip curled in frustration. “Sorry!” You squeak out, corralling Yuji out the door before Sukuna can bark out an order to get out of his room.

Your heart pounds, mind distant as you manage to get both kids into bed and read them Green Eggs and Ham. Once they’ve settled and you’re certain they’ll get some rest, you’re able to leave their room with a sigh, heading back to the main living space of the apartment, but Sukuna doesn’t seem to have made his way out of his room yet.

He doesn’t seem to be in the greatest mood and you consider taking your leave without a word, but figure that’s probably more rude than simply knocking on his door. Deciding to do exactly that, you make your way over to his bedroom and lightly tap his door with your knuckles.

“Come in.”

You push the door open, standing stiffly just within the frame. His room is decorated fairly dark with blacks, grays, and reds, only the dim light of a single lamp illuminating the room enough to be seen. There’s a desk pushed to one end of the room covered in workout gear, books, and various art supplies and a pile of clothes tossed over the desk chair, while his wardrobe off to the right is covered in hygiene supplies with only a single photo that you can’t make out in the relative dark. The light from his bedside lamp hardly illuminates the posters and art on his walls, which seem to be a variety of band posters, horror film posters, and his own art. There’s a drafting table opposite his wardrobe absolutely plastered in art supplies as well, with charcoal smeared over the wood.

“You just gonna stand there lookin’ like a fish outta water?” Sukuna asks from where he’s leaning against the headboard of his bed in the center of the room. His nose is buried in his laptop, the dull glow lighting up his features. Crimson irises gleam like deep drops of blood as you round the room, taking a look around as you realize he is genuinely inviting you in. As you step towards his wardrobe, your eyes train on the photo that you can now make out in the dim light.

There’s an older man with hair that matches Yuji and Sukuna’s standing to one side of the photo. Toddler Yuji is sound asleep with his head on the man’s shoulder, with Choso in the center in a graduation cap. You assume it must be an elementary school graduation or something of the sort. Sukuna stands much taller than everyone else in the photo at the back with a mild expression. He’s noticeably taller, with no facial tattoos although you can faintly make out his neck tattoos.

In the corner of the image, there’s a piece missing, and you can see that at one point there was a woman in the side of the photo, her dress visible behind Choso. Her face has been cut out of the photo and you can’t make out a single feature aside from the end of her hair. It looks fairly similar to Choso’s, long and dark. You figure this must be their parents, and Sukuna isn’t fond of his mother.

“He was a lot better with them.” You glance back at Sukuna as he shuts his laptop, setting it on his bedside table. It’s then that you realize he’s still shirtless, your gaze falling way too obviously down to his sculpted abdomen. He looks like a goddamn sculpture by Michaelangelo himself, made by a god in his craft. The peaks and valleys of his abs could make even the strongest person’s mouth water and you would be lying if you said it wasn’t a great effort to tear your gaze from his abs. Now’s not the time. Swallowing hard, you find his eyes.

Sukuna would usually smirk, finding amusement in your inability to keep your eyes on his face, but the can of worms he’s just opened isn’t one he approaches lightly. He’s willingly offering up a piece of his vulnerability to you, leaving the ball in your court.

“That’s your dad?” You ask, turning to look at the photo again.

“Mhm. He put in a lotta when their mom left to work in another country.”

“Their mom? You’re half-brothers, then?” You carefully approach the bed, taking a seat gingerly at the side.

“Yeah. Our dad sure knew how to pick ‘em.” There’s a story there for sure, but he’s already moving on before you can pry. “He knew how to handle the brats. They were happy.”

You slide further onto the bed, leaning against the headboard beside him. “They’re happy with you too, Sukuna.”

His eyes slowly slide down from the ceiling to meet your gaze. He contemplates your words for a moment, a forlorn sigh parting his lips. “It ain’t the same.”

You shuffle to face him, sitting cross-legged as you will your eyes to stay on his face. “Sukuna, you’re good with them. You care and you’re trying, that’s what matters.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Good with them, my ass.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “You saw what happened earlier. Choso was afraid of me n’ Yuji was cryin’.” He drags his hand down his face. “Shit’s a disaster here. I’m never even home to look after ‘em.”

You blink as he airs his grievances with the world, with himself. “You’re joking, right?”

Sukuna’s head lolls dramatically towards you, face tense with frustration. “Do I look like I am, princess?”

A shiver runs up your spine but you keep your eyes (and mind) straight on his face. “Seriously, you are good with them. You’re allowed to be frustrated, just like Yuji’s allowed to be afraid. He’s a kid, he’s gonna make a big deal out of little things.” You offer a sympathetic smile. “And Choso’s not afraid of you. He’s worried about you.”

“Worried about what?” Sukuna’s face scrunches in confusion. “The fuck is a twelve-year-old doin’ worrying about me?”

You giggle at his brutish expression, diffusing his frustration. He blows a breath out through his lips, running a hand through his hair that’s gradually drying as you speak. The silence that envelops the both of you is calm, the lamp providing an air of warmth as you work through Sukuna’s worries. The soft orange glow of the bulb illuminates his features in such a handsome manner that it’s hard to sit next to him without stray thoughts.

“Choso may only be twelve, but he’s smart. He knows something’s off. We both do.”

His eyes shoot up, his stare intensifying. “Nothing’s off,” he growls sternly, as if trying to convince himself.

“So Yuji gets his lying habits from you, huh?” You tease, keeping your voice soft as you prod at his thigh.

“I’m not lying, fuck off with that,” he grouses, swatting your hand away. You quietly giggle to yourself again, paying no mind to his pointed stare.

“Was your dad this stubborn too?”

You’re not shocked that Sukuna’s response to your teasing is to roll his eyes, but he still entertains a response. “No. He was a teacher, he had the patience of a god.”

“That’s right, he was a history teacher, wasn’t he?”

“Mm.”

“Was he an artist too?”

“No. That’s all me.”

You slide up the bed, inching somewhat closer to him again as you lean back against the headrest, looking around the room at the art above his drafting table. “You’re a great artist, Kuna.”

He hums, following your gaze to the wall where he’s plastered anatomy practice and art of faceless figures. He doesn’t get much time to work on any art these days, but given the opportunity, he would certainly do it more.

His gaze drifts to your face, so calm and inquisitive in spite of his frosty and rough edges. You hardly seem bothered by anything he throws your way, accepting his relative rudeness in stride and he’s not sure he deserves that kindness. No, he knows he doesn’t. Still, sitting here with you, bathed in the soft light of his lamp, he finds himself seeking the comfort of your voice, so soft and understanding as you offer him genuine advice and listen to his gripes without belittling him.

You come from a world so obviously different from his, yet you never seem to see him as anything less than what he is. Hell, you see him as something more than he sees in himself, as much as he hates to admit it. Maybe that’s why he finds himself drawn to you. Maybe that’s why your absence caused him so much trouble.

In truth, he’s not so sure anymore.

There’s a lot he’s not so sure about anymore.

He basks in the silence, sighing deeply as he slumps further back against the headboard. “I think they might be better off in the hands of someone else.”

Your eyes widen, your head whipping over to stare at him. “What? You don’t seriously think that.”

“Do I sound like I’m making a fuckin’ joke?” He huffs, his jaw tense.

“Sukuna, you’re literally their hero. They look up to you more than you could ever imagine.”

He blanches, all signs of irritation dropped as his brow twitches and lips part. The expression on his face is unreadable, a mix of emotions that aren’t familiar on his chiselled features. With a sharp intake of breath, he shuts his eyes, rubbing his hands over his face.

“Kuna?”

“Gimme a moment, fuck.” His voice is muffled through his hands, remaining frozen as he lets out a long sigh. When he drops his hands from his face, he stares down at his lap with that same distant and solemn expression from earlier. You let the silence be at his request, giving him a chance to work through his jumbled thoughts.

Breathing in through his nose, he lets out a breath through pursed lips, his hand reaching for your leg as he squeezes the plush of your thigh. His jaw clenches as he clings to you like a lifeline, the only thing able to ground him and keep him from the thoughts that have been causing him to go through three times his usual dose of nicotine.

And fuck, he cannot afford to keep going through cigarettes at that rate.

Your mind is doing circles at the feeling of his touch on your leg of all places, the heat of his skin warming your leggings.

Blinking, you tilt your head to get a better view of him. “Where’s this all coming from anyway? What happened to the cocky asshole I met a couple of months ago?”

That seems to bring him back as he scowls at you, deflecting your question. “Really runnin’ your mouth for someone whose dinner came from my fridge.”

“Hey! I consider that payment for watching your brothers. Besides, my cooking is great. You should be happy I made you leftovers,” you pout.

He smirks, playfully squeezing your thigh and sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. You swallow to keep yourself from having a noticeable reaction, keeping your attention on a non-descript area of the wall. “Who’s the cocky one now, princess?”

Even with his hand heavy on your thigh, his teasing is so normal that it almost makes you forget that the heat between your legs is begging for friction that you can’t chase because he would feel your thighs clench.

“What can I say? My cooking’s that good.”

“Your cooking ends up on my fucking floor most of the time.”

“The bread crumbs were one time, Sukuna,” you whine, playfully shaking your head.

“From you, maybe. Choso tried to copy your mac and cheese and even convinced my dumb ass he knew how to do it.” Sukuna scoffs, tilting his head towards you. The warmth of his breath fans your neck as he leans in. “D’you know what happened?” He asks, his voice lowered enough to make your heart flutter.

You wince. “Bread crumbs on the floor.”

“Bread crumbs on the fuckin’ floor.”

You bring a hand up to your face, giggling. To your surprise, Sukuna’s chest jolts in a single sputtered laugh, until he’s actually chuckling along with you. Not a smug laugh, not making fun of something, your laughter is contagious and his is genuine.

Comfortable silence finds you, simply enjoying one another’s company. The dull light in his lamp flickers, pulling both of your attention to the bulb on its last legs. Your eyes trail the length of his silhouette, admiring the way his tattoos frame his face. The dark contrast of the solid ink makes the crimson of his irises pop, giving his already sharp features a more deadly appearance.

Everything about him seems to signify a lethal edge; between the way he carries himself, shutting the world out and fending only for himself and his brothers, and his inclination towards frustration. Yet, every so often, you see another side to him, a side where the edges are softer and he seems more himself.

That’s not to say those rougher edges aren’t still there, but the calmer side of him rounds him out and makes his snark more endearing.

Sukuna’s the first to turn back from the lamp, gaze flickering between your eyes. His chest rises and falls, the quiet sounds of his breath punctuating the otherwise silent room.

Sukuna can hear your breath hitch when you realize he’s staring, using the opportunity to squeeze your thigh. It pulls a strangled gasp from deep in your chest and your eyes widen. He can’t help himself, the way your body reacts to him is like a narcotic, and he can’t help but want more.

There’s never been a moment since you met that Sukuna hasn’t known you find him attractive. It’s why he enjoys pushing your buttons so much, but when you slipped so easily alongside him in his personal life, you became something more than a quick fuck. Someone to keep around. Someone who betters him.

In the dim glow of his lamp, laid out on his bed with his palm splayed over your thigh like it belongs there, something deeper stirs within him. Lust, surely. Only lust. You’re in his goddamn shirt, and he’s hungry. He’s starved for the feeling of bare skin slapping against his own, and you’re so damn gorgeous, like a cloud to any amount of judgment he can manage.

And you’re no better. You’ve been biting your lip until it’s raw as you resist the urge to clench your thighs since he invited you in. Sukuna’s not a traditional man, in all of your daydreams and fantasies, you had never imagined him treating you to dinner and romantically confessing. You never had broad expectations for anything extravagant from him.

That’s not what you want from him. You just want him as he is. You want him to let you in, to let you help him find himself and find happiness.

The air around you is charged, crackling with anticipation as his barriers begin to degrade and you let out a shaky breath. The world seems to hold its breath around you, the bustling city so quiet you could hear a pin drop as its noise fades into the background.

Sukuna’s tongue swipes over his lower lip, all reason thrown to the wolves as he leans over you and presses his lips to yours.

His lips are commanding, guiding you towards one thing and one thing only: pleasure. He moves his body over top of yours, caging you beneath his muscular build. You’re so small under him and the control he exerts over you is exhilarating.

The kiss is sloppy, filled with desperation as he settles himself over you, letting his hands roam your body. You’re pliant beneath him, thrilling in the way his hands slide down your waist to your hips. His grip tightens, fingers holding you in-place almost bruisingly. Your pussy throbs, clenching around nothing as slick pools between your thighs.

Consequences be damned, you’re both addicted to the taste and feel of one another.

Sukuna softly bites your lower lip, pulling a whimper from deep in your throat. He smirks against your lips, pressing his hardened bulge against your core. He swallows your gasp, running his tongue along your lower lip as he seeks entrance. You grant him what he’s looking for, drunk on his taste, minty with a hint of smoke.

Sliding your hands up his tense arms, you find purchase in gripping his shoulders as your head spins. He rolls his hips again, revelling in the feel of your nails digging into his bare skin. Getting your bearings, you allow your hands to explore the expanse of his chest, roaming down the high peaks and deep valleys of his extremely pronounced abs. You pause at his waistband, unable to help your smirk as he groans, his abdomen tensing under your touch.

He’s desperate for more, pressing you further into the bed as his lips explore your jaw, dipping his head into your neck to suck and nip at the sensitive skin. You tilt your head to grant him easier access, jaw slack and eyes glazed. His breath noticeably quickens when your fingers dip beneath his waistband, but you pause there.

You pull back suddenly, pushing hard against his chest as you practically have to peel him off of you.

“What’re-”

You slap a palm over his mouth, muffling the rest of his question until he can hear why you’ve paused. The sound of sock-clad footsteps on hardwood catches his attention and he quickly pulls away, putting enough distance between you to imply innocence. Sukuna pulls a pillow out from behind him, grunting as he sets it on his lap and leans his head back against the headboard.

Shortly after, the doorknob clicks and cracks open, a pair of golden-brown eyes peering into the room. Reddened and filled with tears, your mind sobers quickly as you hop off the bed and jog over to Choso to kneel before him.

“Hey, what’s going on?” You ask, taking in a breath to keep from panting.

“I had a nightmare.”

Ah. Sukuna had mentioned Choso had been having a lot of nightmares lately and it seemed to be keeping him up. You wonder if it’s related to his concerns regarding his older brother and the lawsuit. He may be young, but he seems to have a general understanding of the gravity of getting lawyers involved in situations.

Knowing what you know now about Sukuna’s family, you wonder if he’s been around lawyers before, given their father’s passing. Then there’s the question of Choso and Yuji’s mother, who’s clearly not in the picture anymore.

Quite literally.

You cast another glance back at Sukuna, whose chest is rising and falling heavily as he stares at the ceiling.

“That’s okay sweetheart, do you want me to come talk to you for a bit?”

Choso glances briefly at his brother before nodding. Smiling softly at him, you usher him out of the room and shut the door behind you, trailing after Sukuna’s little brother. He leads the way to his room, sitting on his bed.

Kneeling at the side of his bed, you keep your voice to a whisper to avoid waking his brother. “Did you want to talk about it, Cho?”

He considers this option for a moment, staring at his hands in his lap before shaking his head.

“That’s alright.” You smile reassuringly. “Your brother mentioned this has been happening a lot lately. I just want you to know you can talk to me if you need.”

Choso hesitates, staring down at his hands in his lap again, before shaking his head.

“That’s fine too. Do you want me to-”

“Chocho?” Yuji’s groggy voice sounds as he flips in his bed against the opposite wall, calling out your name as well.

“Go back to sleep, Yu. Your brother just had a nightmare,” you smile softly in the darkness of the room, your face illuminated only by a nightlight on the wall. You turn back to Choso. “Do you want me to read something until you fall back to sleep? I won’t let any monsters get you,” you reassure him with a grin.

Choso nods slowly.

“Great, what book?”

Choso peers over at the bookshelf, kicking his feet as he skims the titles on each spine. “I’ve already read all of these.”

Frowning, you tap your fingers on your thigh in thought. That had never stopped him from requesting Bridge to Terabithia before, but you suppose that’s neither here nor there at the moment.

What is with his taste in movies and books, why does he like the most heart wrenching titles?

“I could tell you a story,” you decide. Choso’s demeanor picks up as he nods eagerly, getting back in bed. You glance back at Yuji, who’s still quietly watching you. You suppose telling them a story won’t hurt. Pulling up a chair, you take a seat between the beds. “Once upon a time, there was a lovely princess. But she had an enchantment upon her of a fearful sort. Which would only be broken by love's first kiss. She was locked away in a castle, guarded by a terrible fire breathing dragon.”

You do your best to focus on your story-telling, although sitting in the dark waiting for the kids to fall asleep as you try to recall the story, something stirs in the back of your mind.

Something dread-inducing and sobering.

You would be lying if you said you hadn’t imagined your first kiss with Sukuna, dreamt of it in the back of your mind and forcibly pushed it down. It only made sense that Sukuna’s flirting was mainly out of jest and teasing, so you had swallowed your feelings and been what Sukuna needed the most. A friend.

Now with the time to think clearly, it occurs to you that there was no spark, no fireworks, and no romance behind the way you kissed. Neither of you had been chasing anything beyond surface-level lust, and you’re just as guilty as he is.

It’s painful to think that the image you’d had in the back of your mind for so long isn’t the reality, but that’s life, isn’t it? You may get another side of Sukuna that most don’t, but at the end of the day, you suppose that doesn’t mean he shares the feelings you caught for him. You had every opportunity to clarify what you wanted from him, but instead you slipped your fingers under his waistband.

Fuck.

Your heart clenches, your chest tightening at the realization that your friendship with Sukuna could very easily hang by a thread because you both got caught up in one another.

“The ogre and the donkey travel to…” you trail off at the realization that both kids are sound asleep, slipping out of the room with a pit of dread in your stomach.

With a sharp intake of air, you let out a breath and quietly open Sukuna’s room door.

“Hey…”

“Hey.” Sukuna hasn’t moved since you left the room.

Silence punctuates the air, the tension palpable and just as uncomfortable as you could have predicted. The friendship with Sukuna that you had worked so hard to nurture seems to hang precariously in the balance of discomfort and regret.

“Was that story fuckin’ Shrek?” Sukuna asks with narrowed eyes. It does little to quell the unease hanging low over your heads.

You laugh nervously. “Yeah. I didn’t know what story to tell.”

“Do you have the fuckin’ opening memorized?”

“I guess so,” you chuckle again, unable to meet his gaze. The silence spreads once again. “Um- I should go.”

Sukuna doesn’t know what to say. He shouldn’t have kissed you. He shouldn’t have grinded on you.

He doesn’t want to complicate something he doesn’t quite understand himself.

So why the hell does his stomach drop when those words leave your lips? Lips that were on his barely a half hour ago.

The uncertainty of where you sit with one another lies in the distance between you both. It settles like dust over a table left untouched for many years, yet it accumulated in only a few minutes. You want to reach out and find the answers you’re looking for, but you don’t have words.

What the hell are you supposed to say? You’ve hopelessly fallen for him and you don’t want whatever it is you have to end, even at the cost of unrequited feelings? No, Sukuna would push you away.

Sukuna doesn’t even attempt to clear the dust, he can only stare, wondering what’s going through your mind, because what’s going through his makes no sense to him.

Whatever it is that he’s feeling now, it’s a jumbled mess. It’s not the same distress he felt at the thought of you presenting alone and it’s not the lust he’d chased that left him with a painful erection.

Whatever he feels, it’s some sort of warning. Like an omen that he’s somehow fucked things up again with you, tearing a rift through the friendship that even he has worked hard to mend. He wonders if one heated kiss is enough to dissolve the effort he’d put into everything, if this changes what you had for good.

So why the hell are the next words to part his lips “yeah. See ya.”?

Watching you slip away, listening to you pack your belongings in a hurry and slip out the door without even a goodbye, Sukuna grits his teeth and slams his head back against the headboard. If the ground split open and swallowed him whole right now, he thinks he would prefer that to the sound of the front door shutting.

Fuck. Fuck, he did it again.

How many times would you let him fuck up your friendship before you deemed him not worth the time of day?

Shit, he hopes you’ll let him make it up to you once more, even if he’s not sure he deserves it.

What the hell was he thinking, anyway? Or, more likely, not thinking? Was he so driven by a need to wet his dick that he seeked out the one person he couldn’t bear to watch walk away from him?

Why is it that he can’t keep his mind clear when it comes to you?

Sukuna rubs his hands over his face. “Fuck.” Should he chase after you? No, no. He can’t have you thinking there’s any meaning behind his actions beyond whatever it was you already had.

And even he knows how fucked up of a thought that is, one that sits in the pit of his stomach like sour bile. He grimaces, blinking at the foreign feeling of guilt wrapping its ugly fingers tightly around him.

He pulls out his laptop, opening the email chain you’ve been using since the two of you met, but his fingers pause over the keyboard. What the hell is he supposed to say? ‘Sorry for kissing you’? ‘Sorry for thinking with my dick instead of my head’?

“Fuck,” he hisses, louder this time. Tossing his laptop on his bed, he trudges out into the living room, grabbing the broken cap of his lighter and its base from his coat pocket, and what’s left of his pack of cigarettes before standing out in the cold night air in only his sweatpants.

The nicotine hardly seems to make a dent in the toiling emotions tightening his chest and hollowing his stomach. He’s smoked his way through so many packs lately that the dent on his wallet and his reliance on the drug only seems to be growing, yet another pile of problems to add onto his list.

You’re the only thing that seems to quell his narcotic addiction, but you’ve got to be some sort of drug yourself with the way Sukuna behaves like a braindead dumbass around you.

Staring at the ember at the end of the cigarette in his hand, he sighs, leaning forward on the railing of the balcony. The cold doesn’t seem to touch him, like he’s numb to the world beyond his own issues.

Sukuna is a truly fucked man.

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❦ a/n ; poor sukuna and reader do nawwwt know how to make things easy on themselves 🙂‍↔️ thank you all so much for reading and for all the love and kind comments and asks, they seriously make my day and i'm so happy to chat with yall and hear your thoughts. shoutout as well to my reader who suggested a type o negative shirt cameo, this one's for you <33 reader is stronger than i am for not leaping on sukuna when he invited her into his room shirtless tbh. i am weak for him ANYWHO thaaank you as always and i hope you're all doing well <33

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writing & format © starmapz. art © 3-aem. dividers © adornedwithlight & cafekitsune

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captain-huggy-bear · 3 months ago

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In The Firing Line

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Lil' bit of hurt/comfort, lil' bit of angst, lil' bit of panic

Summary: You break up a fight at your school getting hurt in the process. There's only one person you want to call in that situation.

Notes: I have in fact been punched in the line of duty as a teacher and while it's not common it is truly a scary experience and I very much wish I had a Quinn to pick up the pieces when those things happen.

Another kinda angsty one? I keep putting the reader through some stuff in this series, I promise teaching is not always this eventful...please don't be scared of it <3

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

There are some dangers to your job, hazards you might say...while generally speaking teaching is a safe profession except for your stress levels, the reality is you're dealing with human beings who aren't yet capable of fully regulating their emotions and thinking through their actions. So things happen...like fights...and fights are...unfortunately something you can't just ignore as a teacher. They are in fact something you have to actively deal with.

There's a deep seated desire not to get involved, a sense of self preservation that says don't stand in between two teenage boys who are going at each other. That unfortunately is overridden by two things: 1) The duty of care you have to keep your students safe and stop them hurting themselves or others and 2) Your genuine desire to not see any of your students hurt.

At this point in your career you work off of instinct. The moment Carl throws a punch at Gabriel, while you're in the middle of teaching mind you, you're ushering every other student out of your classroom with directions to find another teacher. That leaves you with 2 teenage boys flipping tables and intent on pummelling each other. Really, you'll later find out the fight is over something silly, Gabriel had talked to the girl that Carl liked, Carl had been told that Gabriel was flirting with her and talking shit about Carl. He wasn't. Later they'll both apologise to you profusely and their sets of parents will come in and apologise to you too, but in that moment? Your only concern is stopping the fight from progressing any further and stopping blood from being spilled.

Perhaps it's misguided, but in your experience getting in the middle works. Often students stop, pulling their punches out of fear of hitting an adult, like a sort of reset button. The fact that you're there usually does the trick. So that's exactly what you do, you wedge your significantly smaller self between two teenage boys who stand well over 6ft tall, one of whom is on the boxing team and the other on basketball team. You think this is a good idea, spoiler alert, it is most certainly not.

You misjudge this, it's almost like slow motion the way that Carl's fist comes towards you, his eyes seeming to widen as he processes that you're now in the way and in the line of fire. You have just enough time and thought to turn your back to him so that he doesn't hit you anywhere soft and vulnerable.

But, fuck does it hurt to have a junior boxing champ throw a solid punch straight at your shoulder blade. You jolt straight into Gabriel who breaks your potential fall and both boys fall dead silent, fight ended as quickly as it had began. Whatever haze of red had come over them completely diffused. All you can hear is a series of swear words followed by the sounds of some of your colleagues coming in to take both boys away.

You're dimly aware of one of the English teachers wrapping an arm around you and carting you down the corridor towards the staff room, of being sat in a comfortable chair and handed a warm drink that you have little desire to sip at.

"I think she's in shock..."

"She can't teach like this, can you talk to Lisa about covering her lessons for the day?"

"Should we phone someone?"

The conversation happening near you is practically underwater, dull sounding. You register it but you don't really hear it, words that go in one ear and out the other like water off a duck's back.

Your gaze fixes on your principle who crouches in front of you with a soft smile, "Y/N, do you want to phone someone? Get them to take you home, we're going to give you the rest of the day off, okay?"

You nod more out of instinct than anything else, you feel like you're underwater or not in your own body. Adrenaline still pulsing through your system, shock having hit you so hard that you don't feel real. You feel floaty, not really present.

When you're left alone, an empty staff room, you reach for your phone. You unlock it on autopilot, find the contact without really thinking and listen to it ring, once, twice before being picked up on the third ring. Reliable and steadfast as always, he never fails to answer the phone to you.

"Hey, baby, you okay?" Quinn's voice is soft, sweet but curious with an undercurrent of worry because you almost never phone him while you're at school. It's that that seems to break you, seems to dissolve the numb shock and bring forth the waterworks.

"No..." You can't help it, you're sobbing in an instant, breathing rapidly as the shock gives way to panic, like Quinn's voice broke the dam that had been holding your emotions in check. "I-I-I..."

"Breathe, baby! Hey, hey, breathe...you're okay, what happened?" You try to follow his instructions, but your breathing is still sharp, short, stunted. Every breath cutting itself off by the next. Each sob interrupting your words and your attempts to get a full breath in.

"Baby, listen to me, okay?" You try to tune into Quinn's voice, the steady stableness of it, the way he tries to keep it as even as possible, "Breathe with me, okay? Breathe in..." You listen to him as he instructs you on how to breathe, breathing in when says and out when he says until your own breathing is back to a point where you can at least talk, still the tears don't disappear.

It's like your body has finally realised it was in danger, like it's finally realised what happened. You're just thankful that the room is empty, that everyone else is teaching right now because you can't help but feel embarrassed as you cry over the phone to your boyfriend over something that feels silly in your mind. It was just a punch and it wasn't even intended for you, you probably won't even bruise....

"What happened, baby?"

"I...I tried t-to break up a fight..." Your shoulder aches now that some of the panic has worn off, right in the shoulder blade. A reminder of the fact you've been punched by a junior boxing champ.

"Are you okay? Did you get hurt?" You can tell he's worried, the stability of his voice disappearing in favour of concern but you stay silent...you don't want to make him worry... "Sweetheart...?"

"I...I got punched in the shoulder...I'm okay...I...I think." You don't want him to worry more than he already has, you know what Quinn is like...if he could wrap you in bubble wrap and keep you with him all the time he would. You know he supports you having your own life, own career, but he also hates you being unsafe in any way. You don't want him to worry especially when he's not around, the idea that he might worry when he's away on a roadie kills you inside.

"Has anyone had a look at you?"

"No...they want me to go home though..." Not like you have a proper nurse in school anyway, besides, you're certain you're just going to ache. You doubt there's any lasting damage.

"Okay, okay, give me 20 minutes? I'll get Petey to drop me off and I'll drive you home."

"You don't have to, Quinn..." You don't like feeling like a burden and that's how you feel right now. Quinn shouldn't be spending his day off picking you up from work and looking after you. He should be relaxing, enjoying the little free time he gets between games and practices, resting his own injuries like his hand that's still braced.

"Baby, respectfully, shut up. I'm going to get you, you aren't driving home, and we're going to spend the afternoon cuddling, okay?" You can't help but smile, wiping some of the tears that have tracked over your cheeks away, the salty taste on your tongue from where a few drops had hit your mouth.

"Okay...I love you."

"I love you too. Get your stuff ready and stop feeling like a burden. You're not. I love you, so I want to help you." You can't help but huff out a laugh at him calling you out for the thoughts you don't voice, because of course Quinn would know what you were thinking, of course he'd know you were feeling like a burden already.

"You know me too well." You roll your eyes, easing yourself up from the seat you'd been placed in earlier and making your way to the door knowing you need to venture to your room to grab your things. A little bit anxious about it, but knowing the students in question were likely already in isolation or the principle's office or been sent home after everything. Even though you know without a doubt Carl and Gabriel never intended for you to get hurt.

"That's my job, sweetheart."

"We've had this discussion before, your job is to hit a piece of vulcanised rubber around on the ice." Quinn's pretty certain you sassing him is a good sign that you're getting over the shock of being punched on the job, a good enough sign that he can't stop the laugh that comes out because at least you're okay.

"That's my paying job, not my proper job. My proper job is to look after you, baby."

"Mmm, do you want an ID badge for that?" Your classroom is empty when you get to it, students having been taken somewhere else for the period, most likely to the gym. It makes it easier for you to start grabbing your things without a million and one eyes on you.

"Yes please, and a lanyard."

"I'll get that printed for you right away," You're putting your work laptop away, grabbing your water bottle, phone balanced between your ear and your shoulder. Quinn finding away to calm you without even being in the room was something you were thankful for, while that well of anxiety still sat deep in your chest, you felt at least functional in that moment. More functional than when it first happened at least.

There's a beat of silence, where Quinn is unsure if he actually wants to come off the phone. Hearing you reassures him you're okay, not perfect, but okay...but he knows that to get Petey to pick him up he needs to actually say goodbye to you. A dilemma if he ever saw one.

"I'll see you soon?"

"See you soon...thank you, Quinny," You mean it, you always mean it. For a man who is so busy, so stressed all the time, he truly never failed to be there for you. You never thought twice about phoning him because you knew he'd pick up, knew he'd help no matter the situation, even if he wasn't around he'd find someone who could help. It was his reliability that always had you reaching for his number, even when past boyfriends had been last person you might have called. Quinn was always steady, always there, always on hand.

"Anytime, baby."

You're waiting in the car park when Petey's car drives up next to you, the window rolled down for the blonde man to give you a sympathetic smile.

"Hey, Petey..." You give him your best attempt at a smile but you know it's a weak one, his features scrunching in sympathy. You can see Quinn in the passenger seat, hoodie on, beanie over his hair.

"Hey, Y/N, you okay?"

"I will be..." You answer as Quinn gets out of Petey's car, your smile starting to turn more genuine when Petey throws a bar of chocolate at you out the window. Not even just any chocolate, but the good stuff, European chocolate.

"Feel better soon, okay?"

"Thank you, Petey." You stand back as Quinn thanks Elias for the ride, tapping on the roof of the car as a sign it's okay for him to leave and you grasp the bar of chocolate tightly, feeling emotional over the thoughtful gesture.

That emotion spills over with one look from Quinn, tears starting to silently stream down your face as he pulls you into his warm arms. You feel so utterly safe the moment he does, your face pressing into his hoodie and just breathing in the scent of his cologne, the sea salt smell of his old spice deodorant. He practically traps you in his arms, trying to give you a sense of security and safety by wrapping you up tight, one hand coming to comb through the ends of your hair, the other stroking down your back in slow motions.

Quinn presses a kiss to your hair as he rocks you side to side, feeling the way your body shakes in his arms, the residual adrenaline left over from the whole affair coursing through your body. He knows better than most how your body responds after taking a hit, he's felt it time and time again on the ice, but the adrenaline usually gets worn off in play for him. For you? This is unfamiliar territory, unexpected and with no way to get all that adrenaline rush out of your system.

"I've got you, sweet girl...let it out, you're okay..." If there's one thing Quinn will always do, has always done, it's make sure you understand you can rely on him. That you don't need to hold back any of the ugly parts, the difficult parts, the raw parts, out of fear of being a burden. He doesn't care that his day is being spent stood in a school parking lot holding you while you cry, in fact he prefers it to the alternative, you pretending nothing happened, not telling him, crying on your own somewhere...

"Wanna go home, baby?" You nod into his chest, arms so tight around his waist that he almost worries he might not be able to breathe if you just squeeze a tad tighter. "Keys in your pocket?" You nod again and he slips his hand into your pocket, then the other one, fishing out your car keys.

The walk to your car is hindered by your refusal to come out from your spot hiding in his chest, you walk backwards while he walks forward. A strange sort of dance that shows just how much you trust him not to let you fall over.

It's obvious when he gets you to your car that you don't want to let go of him, that you feel safe surrounded by him in every sense of the word. Surrounded by his arms, surrounded by his hoodie, by his scent. But, Quinn is good at compromise, at finding solutions to problems, seeing the gaps in the defence and making a solid play.

"You want to wear my hoodie for the ride?" Your nod is all he gets and he's quick to strip himself of the oversized hoodie, pulling it over the top of your head and helping you work your arms into it. It's large on him and large on you, sleeves long enough to cover your hands, fabric billowing in a way that makes him think he could probably slip in there with you if he tried hard enough. He helps you pull the hood up and over your head, watching as you burying your face into the neck, breathing in the familiar smell of his cologne.

It's like hugging him when you can't and it helps you feel that comfort still when he can't hold you because he has to drive. You still feel surrounded by him, his body heat having infused the fabric, his scent in the cotton, the sheer size of the hoodie comforting you. It brings you security that you need right now.

"Better, baby?"

"Mmhm." You hum from within the hood, eyes wide and soft and it makes Quinn's heart ache a little to see you like this, so withdrawn, so needy because of something that shouldn't have happened in the first place. There's part of Quinn that wants you to stop working altogether, wants to just pay for you to put your feet up, relax and enjoy your hobbies but he knows you love your job despite the issues. He knows he could no more ask that of you than you could ask him to stop playing hockey because of the dangers associated with his career.

"Okay, let's get you home, yeah? Then I'm going to check you for a bruise, okay?"

Quinn's gentle with you as he opens the car door and helps you in, doing your seatbelt up for you and making sure you're as comfortable as possible for the ride. Your music plays the moment he starts the engine and you smile just a little when you watch him have to adjust the driver's seat, complaining that your legs are far too short.

That smile eases some of his worry but you can see his concern in the way his fingers alternate between tapping the steering wheel and gripping it tight between his palms, tight enough that his knuckles go white each time. Every now and then he reassures himself that you're okay by reaching a hand out for your thigh, palm squeezing the plush flesh once, twice, before returning back to the steering wheel.

You don't say much on the way into the apartment, just let him reach his hand back for yours, gripping it tightly with your smaller hand and letting him guide you through the apartment building hallways and through your front door. You let him guide you all the way to the bathroom until he has you in front of him under the bright florescent lights. Quinn's large palms run up and down the tops of your arms in gentle strokes as you peer at him from beneath his hood, still buried deep, breathing in his familiar smell.

"Let's take a look at you, baby, okay?" You nod and help him as he lifts the hoodie up and over your head, turning you around until your back is facing him. It's intimate but rather clinical, not the sort of undressing you might usually experience with Quinn and you appreciate that. You appreciate that he can see you undressed for practical reasons, genuine reasons without making it sexual or strange, you appreciate that Quinn's concern right now is making sure you're okay not the fact he can see your bra.

You can feel his hands glide over the skin of your back and shoulders, assessing, the careful way he looks you over as if a single touch might cause you more unnecessary pain.

"Has it bruised?" Your voice is rough from the crying and the period of silence you'd entered into and Quinn takes it as a good sign that you're starting to talk to him again.

"Yeah, baby, practically black and blue...the kid a boxing champ or something?" He means it as a joke, but the irony is that he's not wrong.

"Yeah, he was actually..."

"Shit, baby...stay here, 'm going to get some ice and paracetamol for that bruise, okay?" You let him go but the moment he's gone you're looking in the mirror, twisting your head round as far as possible to see what the damage it.

Quinn's not wrong, you're legitimately black and blue, your shoulder has a nice fist sized bruise that is already turning various shades of blue and purple, blood pooling under the skin. It explains why each roll of your shoulder aches like nothing else.

"Here, baby," Quinn returns to the bathroom with a tea towel filled with ice, pressing it against the bruise and holding it there. It's cold, uncomfortably so, causing you to hiss.

"s cold..." you mumble frowning at him in the mirror and Quinn gives you a sympathetic look and a quick, commiserating kiss to the top of your shoulder.

"I know, but it'll bring the swelling down, just a few minutes for me, baby?"

"Okay...a few minutes" You agree watching him tend to you in the mirror, downing the paracetamol he brought back for you from the first aid drawer he keeps in the kitchen. Quinn's attentive, even as he holds the ice filled towel to your skin he checks every now and then that he's not giving you freezer burn, that it's helping reduce the swelling and not actually hurting you more.

"Atta, girl," Quinn's free hand cups the back of your neck, thumb rubbing back and forth soothingly, every now and then digging in to a sore spot to distract you from the uncomfortable cold sensation against your shoulder blade.

"Can we cuddle now?" You're patient for the first few minutes but that starts to wain as the cold becomes almost painful against your skin.

"Yeah, sweet girl, we can cuddle now...think you've earned it," Quinn throws the melting ice into the bathroom sink, hand trailing down to grip yours to tug you back to the bedroom.

He helps you change into comfy clothes before tugging you down into the bedcovers with him. You breathe a sigh of relief as you curl into his side, face pressed into the warm crook of his neck, leg slung over his waist. Quinn rests a hand on your thigh, pulling your leg tighter against him while his other hand finds its way into your hair, scratching gently across your scalp.

"You tired, baby?" You can't help but close your eyes at the way Quinn's fingers curl in your hair and run through each strand, burrowing as deep into his neck as you can as he pulls the covers up and over the top of the two of you to create a cosy little nest of warmth.

"Yeah...really tired..."

"Eventful day, huh?" You nod into his neck in agreement, feeling like your body has been through the mental and emotional wringer. There's the physical discomfort of being punched obviously, but the bigger issue is how emotionally exhausted you feel. Your nervous system having been put through fight or flight, only to have to come crashing down from that adrenaline high.

"You can sleep, baby, it's okay, I'll be here when you wake up..."

"You promise?"

"I promise, 'm not going anywhere." It's his reassurance, the firm but gentle hold on you that helps you fall asleep because you trust him, you believe him. You know that if Quinn says he'll be there when you wake up, then he'll be there.

#teacher reader x quinn #huggy bear writes #quinn hughes/reader #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes #nhl imagine #nhl x reader

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godricgryffinsnore · 19 days ago

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Felix Felicis & Far Too Many Kisses ♡ : A Harry Potter Fan Fiction.

pairing : Harry Potter x female!reader

summary : When Harry takes a dose of Felix Felicis, everything goes too right—including his relentless affection for the reader. With way too many kisses and a chaotic amount of charm, she’s left to handle a very lucky (and very annoying) boyfriend, all while trying not to fall even harder for him. Fluffy, funny, and filled with mischief.

warnings : Excessive fluff, Mild kissing (lots of it, actually), Light teasing/banter, Overwhelming amounts of Harry being too charming, Slight secondhand embarrassment, Golden Trio chaos. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3. This is a drabble, i.e, an extremely short fiction.

word count : 0.6k

main master list <3

banners : @dollywons and @roseschoices

The day began with golden sunlight and a suspicious grin.

Harry Potter had taken Felix Felicis.

And you—you had made the fatal error of meeting him in the corridor between Transfiguration and Charms, where his lips were already pursed like he was about to give you a blessing. Or a headache. Or both.

“Darling,” he said, in that suspiciously sweet tone that usually preceded chaos, “Did you know the stars aligned today just for your smile?”

You blinked. “Harry. Did you take Felix?”

He grinned wider. “Maybe a little.”

“Oh, Merlin save me.”

You turned, ready to walk away before he could stick his luck to you like a stubborn spell—but you weren’t fast enough. He caught your wrist with that maddeningly boyish charm twinkling in his eyes.

“Wait, wait, just one kiss for luck!”

“That’s not how that works.”

“It is today.”

Before you could retort, he leaned in, kissed your cheek, and then your nose, then your forehead, and finally your lips in a series of rapid-fire affections that left you sputtering.

“Harry!”

“I’m in love with the sound of you being flustered,” he murmured dramatically. “It’s almost as good as flying.”

“Honestly,” you muttered, cheeks on fire, “someone take this potion out of his system before I hex him into next week.”

── .✦

Later, in the Gryffindor Common Room…

Ron was trying not to laugh. It wasn’t working.

“Mate, you’re glowing,” he said through snorts. “He actually sparkled when he walked in, didn’t he, Hermione?”

Hermione, nose deep in Hogwarts: A History (abridged edition), huffed. “Felix Felicis does not cause bioluminescence, Ronald. That’s the charm of confidence radiating. Honestly.”

“Radiating like the bloody sun,” you grumbled, curled up in a red armchair while Harry attempted to fit next to you. You nudged him off. “Go be lucky somewhere else!”

But he only laughed, delight curling like sunlight on his tongue.

“You love me.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“You adore me.”

You pointed a finger at him. “Harry James Potter, if you kiss me one more time—”

He kissed you.

Again.

Right in front of Ron and Hermione.

It was warm and sweet, like honey dripping off late-summer bread, and he smiled so dreamily when he pulled away you almost forgot to be mad. Almost.

“Harry,” Hermione warned, “If you keep acting like this, Professor Slughorn will find out you’ve taken the potion.”

“I want him to find out,” Harry declared with a noble puff of his chest. “I’ll tell the whole castle I’m lucky and in love.”

Ron tossed a pillow at him. “Please don’t. Some of us are trying to keep our dinners down.”

── .✦

Much Later, as the sun set over the Astronomy Tower…

You finally dragged him up and out of the castle, hoping the fresh air would cool the golden madness burning in his veins. Instead, he spun you under starlight like the universe belonged to him and he was showing you your kingdom.

“Isn’t it glorious?” he whispered, staring at the sky like it owed him a favour.

“You’ve kissed me twenty-seven times today,” you said, arms folded. “Twenty-seven, Harry. I’ve counted.”

“I’m trying to break a record.”

You glared.

He leaned in with that dopey, dazzling grin. “Twenty-eight?”

You sighed. But there was no malice in it—just fondness blooming, soft and reluctant, like petals in springtime.

“You’re insufferable.”

“I’m insufferably in love with you.”

He kissed you.

Twenty-eighth time.

You melted, just a little.

Fine. Maybe lucky potion Harry wasn’t that bad.

But Merlin help you if he ever took another dose.

── .✦

Bonus:

The next morning, Harry trudged into the common room looking like a damp sock. The luck had run out. The confidence was gone.

You smiled sweetly.

He blinked at you. “What… did I do yesterday?”

You raised your brow. “You kissed me twenty-eight times, compared my eyes to starlight, and tried to serenade me with a broomstick as a guitar. Twice.”

He groaned into his hands. “Kill me.”

You leaned in.

“Kiss me first.”

His head snapped up, wide-eyed.

“…Really?”

You smirked. “This one doesn’t count. You’re not lucky today.”

“Oh,” he whispered, pulling you in. “I am, actually. I’ve got you.”

And for once, no potion was needed.

#𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝 𓆟 della 𝄞#fluff #harry potter #harry potter x y/n #harry potter x you #harry potter x reader #harry potter fan fiction #harry potter imagine #harry potter x fem!reader #drabble

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sithfox · 10 months ago

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Today's snippet is from Setting Fires to Keep You Warm, part 2 (current outline has it at nine parts total). It's a few months after Fox first arrives on Coruscant.

It would be great, Fox thinks tiredly, if these damn assassins would just get the hint. He pops up from his hiding spot behind Amidala's secretary's desk and nails three goons in a row before dropping back down behind the sturdy furniture. At least he had been here checking in with the Senator's team about her upcoming travel plans when they decided to attack: preventing a kidnapping is much easier than rescuing someone.

The woman beside him is fiddling with something electronic, teeth bared as she twists two wires together and whips it at the crowd at the door. One of Amidala's handmaidens, her hood has fallen and exposed her blonde hair in disarray from Fox tackling her down behind the desk. There's a loud bang and several shrieks of pain and she smirks, pleased with herself. Fox risks a glance past their shelter and is impressed despite himself—only two of the ten mercenaries are left standing, both much more heavily armored than their colleagues. Probably the ringleaders, then. He takes a split second to run through his options and decides to trust his instincts. "Cover me," he tells the handmaiden, then rolls out from behind their shelter and throws himself towards his remaining foes.

#the handmaiden is eritaé ❤️#in this fic the OG handmaidens are still in Padmé's employ in various positions #Eritaé is her tech expert/IT gal/slicer #eritaé #commander fox #series: setting fires to keep you warm #naboo royal handmaidens #fic snippet

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bellaxgiornata · 3 months ago

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The Devil at Your Window |10: Blood & Honesty|

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader Word count: 4.3k [Series Masterlist]

Warnings/Tags: 18+; fluff, flirting, sexual tension, light angst, pining, eventual smut, identity reveal, and lots of black suit Matty

a/n: So...I've been gone for a bit, but now I'm back after that unexpected hiatus. This is the installment that I have been wanting to scream about because of where things are about to eventually go.... Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

Tag list: @danzer8705 @darkened-writer @keepingitlokiii @kezibear @dorothleah @sarahskywalker-amidala @1988-fiend @haruari @millennial-birkin @marveious @sunflower-tia @fizanotfeeza @cloudroomblog @babygirlmurdock @writtenbyred @idontevenknow1359 @scriptedmoon @sarraa-26 @barnes21cz @loves0phelia @3sriracha @kmc1989 @midnightramble @marissamejia19 @ardent-crow @ujws5 @livvyliv15 @sweety18 @energerstar @steve-chandler @librarygremin @wanda-maxamommy

It was a surprisingly warm night tonight. Spring had finally drawn nearer to Hell's Kitchen with the way the evening chill had begun to lack its usual bite. As Matt limped his way across the rooftop, sweat dampened the fabric of the mask as it clung to his forehead. His shirt was torn and his torso bleeding after the knife-wielding criminal he'd just fought now sat handcuffed in the back of a police car. He was tired and ready to end the evening, but somehow his feet had taken him to your building. It was a place he’d been avoiding ever since what had happened the last time he’d tried to stop by your apartment just about a week ago.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d ended up on your rooftop again tonight, or what had even compelled him to carefully lower himself down the side of the building towards your fire escape. Though he’d been hesitant to throw his senses into your apartment tonight, nervous of a repeat situation. But you were in fact asleep this time. He could hear your even breaths and your steady heartbeat coming from your bedroom as confirmation.

With a faint sigh of relief, Matt focused on your fire escape next. Easily enough, he caught the usual scent of food that meant you were still loyally keeping the Devil’s Pantry just outside your window for him even though he hadn't taken anything out of it in two weeks. A tinge of guilt hit him at that realization. He’d been avoiding your place, but you’d still been thinking about him. Despite his absence, you'd still been worried about him staying fed and hydrated.

Crossing the two small steps towards the bin, Matt crouched down and removed the lid with a wince, the cuts on his torso stinging at the movement. If he was here, he figured he should probably leave some sign of it. Some sign acknowledging that he still appreciated you leaving this out for him–like actually taking something out of it.

Reaching a hand inside the container, Matt grabbed a bottle of water. He pulled it out and twisted off the lid before drinking half the bottle down in a matter of a few deep gulps. Feeling a little more refreshed, he found himself grateful that you were still this thoughtful despite the silence on his end of this unusual friendship. Though Matt had convinced himself that you most likely didn't mind that he had stopped barging in on you all of the time. You were seeing that guy now. You had other things going on to occupy your thoughts and your time. The Devil’s Pantry only remained on your fire escape because you appreciated what the Devil did for the Kitchen. That was the only reason.

Setting the partially drunk water bottle down beside his feet, Matt reached a hand back into the container. He’d been going to grab a protein bar, but his gloved hand hit something flimsy, the sound of paper rustling meeting his ears. He froze, a frown settling on his lips. Had you left him a note again?

Withdrawing his hand from the bin, he worked on removing his glove before setting it on the fire escape beside his feet. With his other hand, he reached back inside the bin to pull the slip of paper out. His ungloved fingers ran over the top of your note and the unmistakable indentations of a pen met his fingertips. You had in fact left him a note, but one so short that he didn’t need to repeatedly trace his fingers over it to make sense of it this time.

I miss you, Devil.

The frown deepened on Matt’s mouth, his lips twisting in confusion. What had you meant by that? Did you really miss his unannounced visits? Didn't you have that guy to occupy your time with now? Weren't you appreciative that he was leaving you alone and giving you your privacy?

Maybe you missed the jokes between you both–Matt certainly did. You were always so funny. And he hated to admit it, but if there really was some sort of friendship that had formed between the pair of you, communication was required to maintain it. Which meant checking in with each other. Talking. But how was he supposed to stand in your apartment and hold a conversation with you after how he'd eavesdropped–despite his best attempts not to–on such a personal moment of yours that he'd then shamefully taken far too much pleasure in the last time he’d stopped by?

His fingers ran over the little note again, his focus on the soft lines and gentle curves of your handwriting. As he read it once more, the steady sound of your heartbeat in his ears, he heard the words as if you’d spoken them in his ear.

I miss you, Devil.

His attention shifting from the note in his hand, he focused on your bedroom window next to the fire escape. A frown tugged at his lips as he continued to listen to your even breaths.

“I miss you, too, angel,” he whispered.

Partially distracted, you tried to focus on putting away the load of clean dishes that had recently finished washing in your dishwasher. For the entirety of the night all you’d been able to think about was the new mistake you'd managed to make earlier at work. While truthfully it hadn't been that big of a deal, your least favorite co-worker had made sure to take every opportunity to torment you about it today. And that had only made things worse.

Simply put, today had been a bad day for you. It also didn't help that it had been over two weeks since you'd last seen the Devil. And you knew he'd finally stopped by your apartment three nights ago to grab some water and snacks out of your Devil’s Pantry because a few items had finally been removed after the past couple of weeks of it remaining untouched. So you knew he'd read the note you'd left for him. But you still hadn't seen him since, and at this point you were convinced that he really was done with you.

So you'd come home miserable tonight and had immediately gone into a stress-induced cleaning frenzy. You'd folded the laundry that had once more piled up in your bedroom after throwing another load into the wash in the building's laundry facility downstairs. You'd not only scrubbed your bathroom sparkling clean, but you'd even dusted and swept the whole apartment. Afterwards, still trying hard not to think about your disappointment at never seeing the Devil again, you'd methodically organized the clothes in your closet by color. You'd only paused long enough to throw together the saddest salad, too morose to actually cook tonight, before moving on to emptying your dishwasher.

You wondered if your note had been the final nail in the coffin for the Devil and your friendship. Because he had eventually come back just once after you'd made the mistake of toying with his jealousy. That had to mean something, right? But then why had admitting you missed him made him disappear again? You figured he'd want to know you'd been thinking about him if he was jealous.

Maybe you should have written him a longer note. A note that told him you'd ended things with Dylan a long time ago. That you sat in wait for him pathetically every night just for a glimpse of him outside your window. That you couldn't stop thinking about him. That you wanted him.

But you'd once again lost the opportunity to tell him how you felt. And now you'd never have the chance.

With a heavy heart, you set the two glasses you were holding up on the cabinet shelf. Turning back towards your half-empty dishwasher, you headed back over and bent down to pull out one of your larger knives from the top rack. But as you stood back up, a voice to your left startled you so much that you jumped on the spot.

“You still kept it unlocked.”

Head darting over your shoulder, your eyes widened in shock when you saw the Devil standing just beyond your kitchen in his black, form fitting suit. Mouth falling open in surprise, you couldn't believe he'd actually come back. You'd been positive he was gone from your life forever.

“You–you’re here,” you stammered a little breathlessly. “I–ah!”

A sharp stinging burned its way up your arm just as the Devil’s head tilted to the side. Before you could even register another thought beyond pain, his lips had set into a firm line as he darted across the room straight towards you. You’d caught the soft, panicked curse he'd muttered under his breath as he hurried to your side.

Glancing down at where the pain was focused on your arm, you gasped at the sight. Blood was seeping out of a cut along the top of your forearm. Judging from the red on the edge of the knife in your other hand, you must've accidentally cut yourself when you'd startled and then been too shocked at the sight of the black-clad Devil to immediately realize you'd even been hurt.

Black gloved hands were on you immediately. One of the Devil’s hands gently grasped your injured arm while the other carefully retrieved the knife from your other hand. He was silent as he set the knife down on the counter behind himself before he returned his attention to your injury. Delicately twisting your wrist back and forth in his hold, his masked face focused on your cut as he examined it.

“You're lucky,” his gravelly voice said. “Doesn't sound like a deep cut.”

Face screwing up at the comment, your eyes darted up to his masked one. Curiously you watched him through narrowed eyes as he stood there still tenderly grasping your arm in his hand and examining the damage you’d accidentally done with your knife. What did he mean by it not sounding like a deep cut? Didn’t he mean that it didn’t look like a deep cut? Had he just misspoken? As much as you’d been tempted to ask for clarification, after going weeks without seeing him you weren’t feeling inclined to take the risk of asking and touching on something personal that would send him running away from you again.

“I should clean this,” he murmured, still focused on your arm. “Don’t need you getting an infection. You’ll certainly need a bandage, but it doesn’t seem deep enough to need stitches.”

His face finally rose, his eyes behind the mask seeming to fix on you now. You could feel your heart pounding a little harder beneath his mysterious covered gaze; it had been so long since you’d last felt the weight of it on you.

“Where’s your first aid kit?” he asked.

Blinking rapidly, you tried to focus on the answer to his question and not the fact that he was here and that you’d also just accidentally sliced yourself with a knife. It didn’t help that his gloved hand was still so carefully holding your wrist.

“It’s–it’s in the bathroom,” you answered, voice still coming out a little breathless. “Under the vanity.”

His head cocked curiously to the side. “There a towel I can use to clean this in there, too?” he asked next.

You nodded, still partially in a daze. “Mhmm,” you hummed back.

He released your hand, his head gesturing behind himself to your couch. “Sit,” he ordered. “I'll be right back.”

The Devil turned, striding his way across your apartment and towards the bathroom with an urgency in his steps. He moved without making much sound as you stared after his retreating form. You genuinely wondered how he did that. He really was just like a cat.

Still in shock that he was even here, you maneuvered around the kitchen counter and headed over towards your couch. As you settled down onto the cushions, you glanced over at the short hallway he’d disappeared down and held your bleeding arm upright. Curiously you noted he hadn't even bothered turning on the bathroom light in his haste so that he could see what he was doing. But by the time you’d had that thought, he was already making his way back out of your bathroom, clearly having found what he wanted as he brought the items over.

The Devil sat on the couch beside you before reaching over towards your coffee table to set down the first aid kit and the damp towel. In silence you watched as he began peeling his gloves off of his hands one at a time, the innocent gesture somehow seeming to cause your blood to heat. You swore you could feel his own body heat radiating off of him from where he sat so close beside you removing each glove, your eyes focused on the deft movements of his fingers.

It didn’t help that you were far too aware of how close his large thigh was to your leg right now. You couldn’t resist glancing down at it, staring at how easily it filled out the black pants he wore. Curiously you wondered if you’d even be able to fit both of your hands around the circumference of his thigh with how thick and muscular it was. Swallowing thickly, you felt your body warm a bit further, your mind going to places it shouldn’t have been going right now. Like sitting on his lap.

Your attention had been so focused on his leg in his tight pants that when he turned back towards you, you visibly startled on the couch. The Devil paused with the damp towel in his hand as he stared back at you, clearly having caught the way you’d jumped. The corner of his lip twitched, almost as if he’d wanted to smile, but then his expression quickly returned serious.

“Give me your arm,” he ordered.

Gnawing on your bottom lip, you awkwardly held it out towards his awaiting hand. Gingerly his fingers wrapped around your wrist, drawing it further towards himself as his masked face once more focused on your cut. His other hand began lightly washing the blood that had coated your forearm with the towel, goosebumps beginning to dot your skin under his attention.

The Devil had never quite touched you like this before when he’d visited you in the past. The hold he had on your wrist was delicate despite the roughness of his fingers. There was also care in the way he was methodically cleaning your small wound, almost as if he’d done this before on someone besides himself. You found yourself wondering about that for a minute, curious as to who it would’ve been that this man had often tended to like this.

“Keep this right here,” he told you. “I’m not done yet.”

With the blood cleaned from your arm, the Devil momentarily released it from his hold before he leaned over towards your coffee table, setting down the damp rag. Opening your first aid kit, his hands reached inside and his fingers fumbled around, shuffling items out of his way as he searched for what he wanted. Eventually you saw him grab a cotton ball and that tube of Neosporin you’d used on the injury for his ass a few weeks ago. The sight of it immediately reminded you of that night and how you’d messed up, and the sudden urge to rectify that situation before he disappeared on you again hit you hard as you watched him smear the ointment on a cotton ball.

You cleared your throat as he once more grabbed your wrist with his hand, his other one gently dabbing the ointment over your cut. Wincing slightly as he worked, you tried to find a way to begin the discussion you wanted to have. With how quiet the Devil currently was this evening, it didn't seem like he’d be sticking around for conversation much longer after he finished bandaging your arm.

“So uh–”

“I’m sorry for this,” he murmured, cutting you off.

Brows drawing together at his unexpected apology, you watched him in confusion as he reached over and set the cotton ball down on your coffee table. Briefly he released your wrist again, his hands searching for the correct size bandage in your kit.

“What do you mean?” you asked him. “It’s not like you stabbed me. Pretty sure I was the one holding the knife, Devil.”

“I shouldn’t have just barged in,” he replied, picking up the bandage he wanted and beginning to open the package. “I scared you. Should’ve known you were holding a knife.”

Your head tilted curiously to the side, your brows still knitted together. One of these days you were determined to figure out what he meant by all these odd things he said. Assuming, of course, he kept coming back long enough.

“It was an accident,” you reminded him. “You don’t have to apologize for an accident.”

He emitted a single grunt in response as his warm fingers once more encircled your wrist. His other hand very carefully laid out the bandage over your forearm before his fingertips gently smoothed it down over your skin. Eyelids fluttering beneath the tender, light touch, you once more felt your pulse accelerate. But when he spoke again, you felt a sinking feeling in your stomach.

“There,” he said, placing your arm back into your lap. “I’d keep it from getting wet in the shower for a day, but otherwise you should be alright.”

“Thanks,” you replied, scared he was about to bolt any second now that he'd finished his task. “I suppose of the two of us, you would be the one to know about healing knife wounds.”

This time, the corner of his mouth did pull up into a faint smile. The sight of it gave you the sudden courage to speak before you could stop yourself–or before he left.

“Did you read my note?” you blurted.

He’d been reaching back out towards your coffee table for his gloves, but at your question he’d paused with his hand outstretched above it. You saw the muscle twitch in his cheek before he continued retrieving his gloves from off the table. Nervous sweat pricked at your palms as you waited for his response.

“Yes,” he answered a little stiffly. “I did.”

Terrified of how to broach the topic, you just continued barreling forward, trying to choose honesty. After all, you either scared him away or you didn’t at this point. You were hoping the truth–or at least some of it–might keep him returning to your window.

“You’d disappeared for a while,” you cautiously pointed out. “I…missed you.”

“Figured you'd been busy,” he stated simply. “Didn't want to bother you.”

“Busy?” you asked, pulling a face. “Busy with what?”

“Your new boyfriend,” the Devil answered.

The way he'd said the word ‘boyfriend’ with such obvious distaste had been all the verbal confirmation you needed. Beside you, he'd begun pulling his gloves back on. You figured it was now or never to have this conversation with him.

“He was never my boyfriend, Devil,” you told him. “We never made it past that second date. I ended things before they'd really even started. The day after your last visit, actually.”

The Devil's hands hesitated as he'd been fastening his last glove on. His body stiffened beside you on the couch, his masked face almost determinedly focused away from you.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “I thought you liked him?”

Feeling an embarrassed flush spreading its way up your neck, you glanced down at your own hands. “When I told you about that kiss, I wasn't entirely honest with you,” you began carefully. “It wasn't like any other kiss I'd had before because it was devoid of anything in it. There wasn't any spark, I mean.”

Your hands began fidgeting faster with the hem of your shirt. Trying to admit your attraction to him was more terrifying than you anticipated it to be, especially because he was now sitting quietly beside you. His silence was somehow making him even more intimidating.

“And I felt that with someone else,” you continued slowly. “So I didn't want to keep dragging Dylan along when I knew that it wasn't going to work out,” you confessed. “Because I–” you sucked in a sharp breath, wincing as the words came out in a rush, “–have been attracted to you for a really long time now. Pretty much since you fell on my fire escape.”

Exhaling the breath, you bit your lip and glanced over at the Devil from the corner of your eye. He'd gone completely immobile on your couch now. You weren't entirely sure if he was about to confess his own attraction or run for your window with how still he’d grown, and that had your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.

“Can you please say something before I puke?” you asked awkwardly. “The lack of words coming out of your mouth is making me nervous.”

The Devil’s head swung in your direction, your pulse somehow increasing further at the abrupt gesture. Fingers still toying with the hem of your shirt, you felt your breath come in faster.

“This can't be what you want it to be,” he stated. “We're just friends. That’s it.”

“Okay,” you replied slowly, still refusing to meet his gaze. “But can you be honest? Those two times in my apartment–you know which ones. We almost kissed, didn't we? I'm not crazy, am I?”

The Devil abruptly rose to his feet at your questions. He began to hurriedly skirt around your coffee table and you knew exactly where he was headed. He was running away. Leaving. Panicked, you rose from the couch, determined to finish this conversation.

“There was something there,” you continued, chasing after him. “Don’t tell me you didn’t notice it.”

“It's just attraction,” he told you, shaking his head as he walked. “That's all that was. I don't want you mistaking it for anything else.”

Brows drawing together in confusion, you halted in place, staring at his retreating form as it continued towards your window. Trying to ignore the way your stomach had fluttered at his admission to being attracted to you, you knew you needed to think fast if there was ever a hope of him returning to your apartment. And after two weeks without a sighting of him, you desperately wanted him to come back. So much so that you stupidly spoke without thinking.

“Who says it has to be more than that?” you blurted out.

The Devil stopped in his tracks, his masked face shifting over his shoulder back towards you. Swallowing hard, you wondered what the hell had compelled you to say that and internally you blamed that tight black suit. But you quickly latched onto that idea since it had actually caused him to stop his retreat.

“I'm attracted to you, too,” you admitted awkwardly, the words falling out of you without much forethought. “Why does it have to be anything more than that? Anything more than…friends who are attracted to each other?”

His head tilted to the side, his mouth a straight, hard line as he stared back at you beneath his mask. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you felt a flutter of nerves in your stomach at his pause.

“Because I know that's what you want,” he finally answered. “Something more. And I'm not about to become your boyfriend. It wouldn’t work. I don't do relationships.”

You shrugged, shaking your head at him. “With respect, Devil, don't tell me you know what I want,” you shot back. “Because I can still be your friend who is sometimes…more than that. Right? I mean I'm–I'm open to it if you are. I know what I felt those two times when you were here. Don’t tell me you didn’t feel it, too.”

His hands curled into fists at his sides, your eyes drawn down at the movement. Briefly you wondered what that was about before he spoke again, your attention returning to his masked face.

“I don't think what you're suggesting is a good idea,” he warned you, voice dropping to something lower. “You don't even know me.”

“I know you well enough, Devil,” you countered.

He gave a grunt in response, his head darting forward as he once more focused on your window. You felt your entire body deflate as he continued towards it, throwing it open wide before he climbed through it. When he was standing on your fire escape, you watched helplessly as he reached up and grabbed a hold of the window. There was a stern set to his lips that had you worried this could truly be what scared him away once and for all.

“Goodnight, angel,” he stated.

Shoulders dropping in defeat, you watched as he slammed the window shut before he turned and tossed himself over your fire escape. He was gone before you’d even known how to recover from the situation.

With a sigh you turned around, dejectedly making your way back to your couch. Sinking into the cushions and burying your face in your hands, you wondered how you kept managing to mess things up with him. Why the hell had you gone and just offered to be the Devil’s friend with benefits tonight? Especially since you knew you had actual feelings forming for him and wanted more than just something physical–no matter how much you really wanted that, too. Clearly he wanted to keep things strictly friendly, but now you really had gone and made a mess of things. All you could do was find hope in the fact that he’d said ‘goodnight’ and not ‘goodbye’ this time.

#matt murdock x reader #matt murdock x you #matt murdock #daredevil

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golden-cherry · 1 year ago

Text

deal - cl16 (27/?)

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x Reader

Series Summary: Your whole life has gone to shit. Your boyfriend broke up with you, you just lost your job and the Monegasque, who suddenly stands in your doorway, claims that it’s his apartment.

Chapter Summary: Cuddles and snuggles with friends are totally normal. But sleeping on top of each other?

Warnings: fluff, tiny bit of angst

Word Count: 3.2k

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A/N: if seems very rushed, I'm deeply sorry. I just didn't know how to write this chapter. feedback is appreciated (as always, please and thank you!)

As a cold gust of wind blows around your heads, you snuggle a little closer to Charles.

"Are you cold?" he whispers into your hair and strokes your spine with his fingertips, giving you goose bumps. Something he uses as a reason to tighten his arms around you.

The fire in front of you is almost out, with only a few logs crackling in the bowl in front of you, providing the last bit of warmth in the dark December night. The thin blanket wrapped around you doesn't do much to keep out the cold wind. As you start to shiver, Charles pushes you off his lap.

"I'll add some more wood. Hopefully you'll be a bit warmer then," he smiles gently and gets up from the couch.

"It's okay," you reply and start to fold the blanket in your lap. "It's already late. We can just go home."

But your roommate shakes his head. "We can still stay here."

"But -"

"I still want to stay here." His tone sounds almost desperate. "Please."

When you look into his eyes, there's a warm sparkle in them. And when he smiles, the sweet dimples bore into his cheeks, and you can do nothing but return his smile. "Let's go then. It's freezing."

You watch him take some logs from the corner by the patio door and place them in the almost burnt-out fire bowl. While you stretch out on the sofa cushions and snuggle back into the blanket, he lights a new fire. The light from the flames illuminates his face and gives it a golden glow.

You rest your head in your hand. "I didn't know you were so good at starting a fire."

Charles, kneeling on the other side of the fire bowl, can't help but grin. His gaze flickers from the flames in front of him to you. "There are a few things I'm good at that you don't know about." He licks his lips once before straightening up and taking the few steps to the couch. His eyes move from your face to your covered body. "Is there room for me too?"

You raise your eyebrows before pulling your knees up a little so he can sit at the other end of the couch. "Here you go."

Charles rolls his eyes. "Nuh-uh." Before you know it, he slides his arms under your body and lifts you off the couch - without much effort. "We'll share the space. It's fair." He sets you on your feet and pushes the blanket into your hand, then stretches out on the sofa so quickly that you can't protest. He clasps his hands behind his head and grins at you.

You, on the other hand, cross your arms in front of your chest. "I think we have different definitions of 'sharing'." As he slips an inch, you have to suppress a smile. "And apparently also of 'fair'."

"I think it's very fair," he defends himself, dropping one arm to his side so that it's between his body and the backrest. "I'm lying on the couch and you're lying on top of me." He shrugs, as if it's no big deal that he wants you to lie with your body on top of his. "Come on. I thought you were cold. And standing around isn't going to help you warm up."

You step from one foot to the other. "You sure?"

Charles rests his head on the armrest of the couch before spreading his arms out. "Come on. We sleep in a bed at home. There's not much difference here."

Not much difference.

You feel your heart pounding. "There's a big difference between lying on top of each other and lying next to each other."

Charles sighs loudly before sitting up and reaching for your hand. You can't resist as he pulls you towards him with all his strength, almost causing you to trip over your own feet. The blanket falls to the floor and thank God you can support yourself with your free hand, otherwise you would have landed on his face.

"Charles!"

Your friend wraps his arm around you so that you don't slip off him or land on the edge of the sofa. His cold fingers slide under your sweater and find their firm place at your side, while his free hand lifts the blanket from the floor and spreads it over the both of you. You have no choice but to lay your head on his chest and snuggle up to him.

"It's not so bad, is it?" he murmurs into your hairline and kisses the top of your head, making your heart beat faster. You just hope he can't feel it.

"For being so muscular, you're pretty comfortable," you confess, playing with his fingers as they continue to hold your hand. "Not as comfortable as the couch, but I'm not complaining."

You feel Charles' body shake beneath you. He laughs. "I can lie on top of you if you want." His fingertips slide further from your side and almost slide under your body. He presses you tightly against him. "Then I'd crush you. But maybe that wouldn't be so bad. The closer, the warmer."

You feel the blood rush to your cheeks and press your face into his chest.

You're a little surprised that Charles turned the last remnant of his two-year relationship into ashes a few hours ago and is now making these kinds of comments. He even cried. But maybe that's what he needs. A friendship that goes deeper than shallow conversations and coffee dates.

Maybe he needs the closeness, emotionally and physically. Something he can hold on to when the roof falls on his head. Someone who pushes him to be better, but also brings him back down to earth when he takes off.

You want to be that person for him. Even if it costs you your heart.

You watch as the individual logs begin to burn. Charles' chest rises and falls beneath you and you feel his warm breath on your forehead as the fire crackles in front of you. Charles' hands change positions; the one that was holding your own a moment ago slides under your sweater to gently stroke your spine, while the other finds its way to your head. With warm fingertips, he brushes some of the hair from your face before he starts scratching your head.

"Do you want me to fall asleep?" you murmur against his shirt-clad chest.

"Would that be so bad?" You feel his lips move against the top of your head. Before you know it, you feel them on your forehead as he breathes a soft kiss on your cool skin.

"Uh-huh."

"Why? I thought I was comfortable?" His voice is barely louder than a whisper.

You curl your fingers into his sweater. "Pretty much. You're pretty comfortable," you repeat to yourself. "My bed at home is more comfortable, though."

"Then I'm sorry."

You twist your neck a little to look at him. You raise an eyebrow in confusion. "Sorry for what?"

He strokes your cheek once with his thumb. "That you have to make do with me." His warm breath caresses your face and although you are literally lying on top of him, you only now realize how close you are.

You smile tiredly. "Don't worry," you push yourself up a little and press your forehead against his cheek; his beard scratches gently against your skin. "My bed may be comfortable, but you're still my favorite."

Charles' lips kiss the tip of your nose before he kisses your forehead once more. "You're my favorite too, mon amour." His long arms wrap around your body under the covers, holding you close as the rise and fall of his chest lulls you to sleep.

You dream of peonies, pasta, red cars and lightning and warm lips on yours. Of strong arms that wrap around you, a body that lies on top of yours. You dream of Charles, his smile and the warmth he radiates. And only when his body moves beneath you do you slowly wake up from your dreams.

"Sleep well?" Charles' voice is raspy and deep in your ear as you squirm a little in his arms.

You exhale deeply, but keep your eyes closed. "Uh-huh."

Charles laughs softly and your head bobs on his chest. "So I was more comfortable than I expected."

Slowly, you open your eyes. The fire bowl has burnt out, there are only ashes in it and the only things that light up the night are the moon and the stars in the sky above you and a small lamp that shines a soft cone of light on you from the living room. "How long have I been asleep?" You rub your eyes sleepily.

"A few hours. But don't worry, as far as I know you weren't drooling," he jokes, but that doesn't stop you from jumping off the couch as if bitten by a tarantula.

"I'm sorry," you apologize, running your fingers through your hair, "I didn't mean to use you as a personal pillow."

"It's okay," he replies with a smile and scratches his beard. "I was going for it with the cuddling and the tickling, after all." He shrugs his shoulders. "I'm quite irresistible."

An image of him on top of you flickers in your mind's eye. How true.

"I'm sorry though." You grab Charles's legs and lift them up so you can sit on the couch next to him. His calves rest on your lap. "Your back must be incredibly sore."

He waves his hand. "This couch is still better than the one in our old apartment. It really was a horror." He leans back a little, stretches his back over the armrest and you can both hear the crack of individual vertebrae in his back. When you look at him with a raised eyebrow, he grins. "Oops."

"Come on." You push his legs off you and stand up. "Let's go home. There's a super comfy bed waiting for us. And there's enough room so we don't have to sleep on top of each other." You hold out your hand to him to pull him off the couch.

He puts his hand in yours, but instead of you pulling him up, he pulls you back towards him so that you end up on his lap. "Then let's stay here. On this couch. It's not as comfortable as our bed, but at least I'll have you lying on top of me." His grin is so wide that it almost reaches his ears.

You roll your eyes in mock annoyance. You try to suppress the fact that your hands start to sweat and a warm shiver runs down your spine. "You're impossible."

"I thought I was irresistible?" he asks, leaning forward.

You hold your breath. "You said that, not me. And you're talking a lot of nonsense."

Charles lifts his hand and places it against your cheek, letting it wander until his fingers find your neck and his thumb lifts your chin. His mouth opens and his tongue glides over his full lips. "True. But when I say you're the most important person in my life, that's not nonsense."

You place your hand on his. "Then what is it?"

"The truth." He smiles lovingly. "You are - the light in my darkness, the fire in my veins, the music in my heart. I never expected that you could grow so fond of someone in such a short time. And then you came along." He hesitantly removes his hand from your cheek and the warmth it had radiated disappears. "You're my best friend."

Never in your life have you wanted to scream as loudly as you do at this moment. And you want to scream at the man in front of you, tell him that you want to be more to him than his best friend, that you want to kiss him, that you want to be his. And that you can hardly stand it when he's not with you.

And you want to scream at yourself, smack yourself, because you're trying to convince yourself that a friendship is enough, even though your heart is telling you that it's the last thing you want from him. You want to grab yourself by the shoulders and shake you until you come to your senses.

You are Charles' friend. His best friend. And even if actions speak louder than words, his words were unmistakable.

You smile at him. "I wouldn't want to be anything else either."

While Charles pushes the sofa back into place, you clear away the rest. You fold up the blanket and put it on the back of the sofa in the living room and the empty Coke cans end up in the garbage can in the kitchen. There's no sign of Joris, but his bedroom door is closed and there's not a sound to be heard. The apartment is dead quiet until Charles joins you in the kitchen.

"Last time we were here, we had a fight afterwards, remember?" he asks, leaning against the doorframe.

You turn to him and take a look at the kitchen island, where nothing is lying around except for a large wooden board. You chew the inside of your cheek. "I hate to remember that."

Your flatmate tilts his head. "The phone call or the argument?"

"The fight."

Charles pushes me away from the doorframe and stands opposite you at the kitchen island. "I'd like to apologize again. I went one step too far. And we haven't even known each other for twenty-four hours."

"Charles..."

"No, listen to me." He circles the counter until he stands in front of you and takes your hands in his. They're soft and warm. "I crossed a line that day and you were right to be angry with me. I just want to say again that I definitely don't want to do that again. The fighting I mean." He smiles. "I'd defend you to Raphael any time of day or night."

You purse your lips. "Then it's a good thing we can leave him behind. Just like Annika."

He lifts your hands and presses a fleeting kiss to your knuckles. "And I couldn't have done it without you."

The drive home isn't far, thank God, and as Charles parks his brother's car in the underground garage, you're overcome with tiredness again. You would have preferred to stay in the car, recline your seat and close your eyes. But Charles's hand on your thigh pulls you back into the world of the living.

"We're here, sleepyhead. Come on, there's a warm bed waiting for you upstairs that can hardly wait for you to snuggle up in."

"I can hardly wait either," you smile as you unbuckle your seatbelt and follow your roommate to the elevator. The light inside is bright and far too harsh for your tired eyes, so you close them and lean your head against the elevator wall. "I'm so tired."

"But you slept."

You open your eyes and look at your friend. "What's up with you? Aren't you tired too?"

He shrugs his shoulders. "Do I look that exhausted?" He runs a hand through his hair. "I slept a bit too, don't worry. You lying on top of me wasn't just comfortable for you."

You try not to think too much about his comment as you get ready for bed and then lie down in your long-awaited bed. You plug your phone into the charging cable and see an Instagram notification pop up.

You have to smile.

liked by pierregasly and others tagged: yourusername francisca.cgomes: favorite cardigan, favorite person

"What's up?" asks Charles, who closes the door behind him.

You try not to stare at his naked torso, which, thank heavens, you manage to do. "Here, Kika's following me on Instagram now." You hold your phone out to him briefly so he can see her post. "I'll just follow her back."

"Can I follow you now too?" he asks as he lies down in bed next to you, phone in hand.

You look at him in confusion. "You're already following me."

Charles laughs as if you've told a joke. "That's right. But this is my private account. I'd like to follow you on my official account, if that's okay with you."

"It's okay with me," you reply, "but are you sure? After all, Kika has tagged me in her pictures. And if they go to my profile, they'll see that you're following me too, won't they?"

You don't really want to rub his caring in, but it was his idea to take Kika and Pierre furniture shopping. And to drive through Monaco in your old Renault. The fact that he wants to follow you - quite publicly and for everyone to see - on Instagram goes against everything he's done for your safety.

"They will. But we're friends, after all, and I won't be able to keep you out of the spotlight forever."

"All right." A moment later, another notification pops up. You quickly accept his request and follow him back before looking at the last picture he posted. You grin at him. "Cool picture, who took that?"

Playfully clueless, he shrugs his shoulders before snuggling into the pillow. "My best friend."

As you put your phone away, he switches off the bedside lamp and darkness and silence fill the room. You feel his warmth under the covers and you want to scoot the few inches over to him and press yourself against him until you're engulfed by his warmth.

"Would it be weird if we cuddled?" His voice sounds hesitant, as if he was struggling to ask you that. When you don't answer, Charles quickly backpedals. "I'm sorry. I know we're just friends, but - I don't know - when you're there, I feel like I'm at home. And it calms me down when you're with me. I'm sorry, that all sounds totally selfish."

You reach under the blanket for his hand. He squeezes it twice. "Friends can cuddle too, I think. I mean, without ulterior motives."

"Good," he murmurs and his arm wraps around your middle to pull you closer. He drapes your leg over his hip and your hand rests on his chest. "Is that okay with you?" His fingertips dance on your bare skin under your sleep shirt.

You press your face into his neck and breathe in deeply. As you exhale and your hot breath brushes over the soft skin of his neck, he pushes your leg down a little further, tangling your limbs together. "If that's what it is for you."

"It is." Charles presses one last kiss to your forehead before resting his cheek against the top of your head again. "And now we need to sleep. Tomorrow is going to be a busy day. I don't think my mother can wait to get to know you better."

"Do you think she'll like me?" you ask softly into the darkness.

Charles' skin is warm and soft against yours as he presses you against him and your shirt slides up a little. "I think that anyone who gets to know you better will fall head over heels in love with you. Whether they want to or not."

Charles Instagram post

liked by francisca.cgomes, pierregasly and others charles_leclerc: aux nouveaux départs posted three days ago

#charles leclerc #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc prompt #charles leclerc blurb #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc cute #charles leclerc fanfiction #charles leclerc x yn #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x female oc #f1 smut #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic

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godmadeaterribleerror · 28 days ago

Text

Chapter 4 - Release

Main Masterlist - Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), angst, very light fluff, mutual pining, smut (oral both receiving, fingering, thigh riding), time loop!

Summary/Warnings: A lot of truths are revealed. Usual Warnings.

Author's Note: I love making up spn lore. The whole thing is made up anyway. I'm thriving.

Word Count: 6.9k

Chapter 3 - Read on A03!

You’ll have to learn how to entertain yourself.

Some part of you feels like it’s slowly and dreadfully withering away, but you’re here and never leaving, so you might as well make the most of it.

Lying on the sheetless bed, staring at the ceiling, hearing Dean swear from down the hall.

You’ll just have to entertain yourself.

“Son of a-“

You’re out of the bed in a minute. Running down the hall because fuck this, if you’re going to be here you might as well make the most of it, if you’re stuck listening to Dean say everything you’ve ever wanted him to in all the worst ways, you might has well make the fucking most of it.

You skid to a stop in the kitchen—narrowly avoiding the counter—and Dean stands a little taller, his gaze shooting between you and the mess on the floor as his hand goes behind his back.

“Morning, sunshine, what are you-“

No more waiting. It won’t matter in the end, and you have to entertain yourself, so any pointless dance around it would be like playing a game you already know you’d win.

You’d much rather have the prize. No matter how quickly it’s snatched from your hands, you really want the prize.

So you slam your lips into Dean’s, yanking him down by his shirt, and everything drains into Dean. Warm and firm against you, taking only a second to get on board with what’s happening and kiss you back. A rough, hot kiss that might have scarred you—teeth and spit, Dean cradling your face between his hands with a starkly different care, but still groaning down your throat and walking you backwards until you’re pinned to the wall—if you didn’t know the burn would be soothed by morning.

It’s why, when he pulls back with ragged breaths and a hooded gaze, stroking his thumb over your cheekbone and the priceless look all over his pretty features, you know what’s coming.

And you don’t care.

“I love you.” He whispers, and the light goes off.

But you’re still rolling.

“I know.” You start to fumble with his pants, his erection already pressed right to your hips, and you have all the time in the world, but you still don’t want to lose this. “God, Dean, I love you too, but if you don’t- shit-“

You try to fall to your knees before him, to ward off the cut of the cameras just a little longer, but Dean catches your wrist, pulling you back to your feet.

“You feeling okay, baby? I mean, I don’t wanna cut you off from, you know.” He nods down between your bodies. “But you’re getting a little, uh, touchy and frantic, and you don’t want to-“

“I want to.” Your words are quick. Desperate. You want to more than anything, because if you don’t, he’ll disappear. “It’s just been a long few weeks, Dean, and I- I really want to touch you.”

Dean nods, pressing a kiss to the inside of your wrist and murmuring against your skin. “How about if I touch you?”

His eyes are dark, filled with a promise you’d really like to see him keep, and hungry.

There’s really no point to denying him.

You nod, and Dean’s on you before you can even steady yourself against the wall.

Kissing a sloppy, open-mouthed line down your neck and over your shoulder, leaving small bite marks and bruises as he tugs your shirt up and your shorts down, and his hands are big and rough and everywhere, setting fire over your skin as he rolls your nipple between his fingers and goes down further-

If the fate you’re cursed to is Dean, eating you out like it’s all he’s ever been meant to do, over and over until your legs are shaking and you’re only sobbing his name as you cum on his face, you might be able to make your peace with that.

You’ll certainly never find it in yourself not to smile as him when he’s done, looking up at you with a wide grin and pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. You let your hand run through his hair, and it won’t matter, but you say it anyway.

“I really do love you, Dean.”

“I know.” He winks at you, running two fingers between the folds of your pussy with a smug grin, and pushes to his feet with that same hand still lingering on your hip. “C’mon, baby, let’s get you to a bed.”

You won’t be getting to a bed.

Because you nod, let Dean guide you down the hallway and fold his body over yours to shield your body from possible eyes, and lean into his shoulder with a sigh as you feel it coming.

Everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

You’re going to fucking entertain yourself.

This time, you go through the motions until you get to the library. Until you’re curled in your chair across from Dean, and he’s getting ready to grumble about the suit from the city.

“You still seeing that guy from the city?”

You look up at him with a hum and raised brows, and he sighs.

“The suit and tie asshole, from the bar last month.” Dean mutters, and your heart is supposed to tighten and feel like stone here, but it won’t. You won’t let it. “Sam said you were out with him last week.”

“I was.” You shrug, and look over to see Dean scowling at his book. “What are you going to do about it?”

That gets him to look up, wide-eyed and shocked. “I- uh-“

“If you’re so interested in who I’m fucking.” You set down your own book, and move to your feet, walking across the room until you’re standing between Dean’s legs. “Why don’t you put your money where your mouth is, and just fucking say it.”

Dean’s eyes narrow on yours, and you don’t think he’s realized that he’s holding you near him by your hips.

“I don’t care who you fuck.” He grunts, and you give him a flat look.

“Then why’d you ask?”

“To make sure you’re being safe-“

“Why do you care if I’m safe?”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I care-“

“That’s not answering my question, Dean-“

“It’s a goddamn stupid question, of course I care that you’re safe-“

“Why?”

“Because I care about you-“

“Why do you care about me?”

“Because I- Goddamnit, sweetheart, just drop it, I won’t ask about the douchebag again-“

“Why is he a douchebag-“

“Because he’s fucking you-“

“Why do you care who’s fucking me-“

“Because it should be me!” Dean’s shout echoes through the library, and he drops his brow to your stomach as he squeezes your thigh. “Shit, I- I know it’s not my right or whatever, you’re your own woman and all that, but I should be fucking you. He doesn’t love you. I love you.”

The light goes off.

And everything keeps rolling as you fall to your knees, give Dean a small smile, and pull his half-hard dick from his jeans.

You take your time, because the slower you are the longer this lasts, and the more you get to watch Dean fall apart for you. Throwing his head back as you pump his cock with one hand, groaning your name as you swirl your tongue around the head of him, hissing and grunting and fisting a hand in your hair as you take him into your mouth and suck him off like it’s all you’ve ever wanted to do.

In a few ways, it is.

And you can do this forever, too. Even if you get sick of the fullness of Dean in your mouth, and the salty and purely Dean taste of him on your tongue, you’ll never get sick of him watching you like you’re priceless as you pull away from him. Of his thumb swiping the cum drooling down your chin and feeding it too you with slow grin, and then leaning down with a chuckle to pull you into his lap.

The kiss is long and soft and slow. All affection. All love.

Everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

This time, you just call for him before he can drop the frying pan, pulling off your shorts and spreading your legs in a silent invitation.

“Hey,” Dean calls your name from outside, and he sounds a little worried.

You’ll make it up to him

“What’s- Son of a bitch.”

Dean looks between you and your pussy, already clenching around nothing from his attention, and swallows.

“You, uh- I’m not-“

“Dean.” You whisper, giving him your best doe-eyes. “Please.”

He swallows. “Are you-“

“Please.” You let your hand fall to your clit, rubbing slow circles until your words turn to a moan. “Dean.”

“Jesus- You’re- You’re so fucking pretty, but-“

You whine, and that seems to do it.

“You want me, sweetheart?” Dean’s voice is barely a rasp, and you nod desperately. “That bad, huh-“

“Dean-“

“Keep touching yourself, babygirl. I’m here.”

Dean moves right to the edge of the bed, and resting one hand on your knee to push your legs further apart, and starts to stroke himself to the sight of you.

You hope it’s a good one. Tangled in the sheets, your eyes glossy and not red with exhaustion, your skin flushed and all of it appealing to him.

Based on how Dean’s groaning your name and squeezing your thigh, how his pace had hit a blur of his hand as he doubles over your body and watches you with a starved expression, you think it might be.

He cums over your stomach, painting your skin hot and white, right as you hit your own peak with a breath of his name, and falls over you for a long, deep kiss that presses you into the mattress.

“I love you.” He mutters in your ear, sweeping your hair off your brow, the priceless look bright in his eyes. “Gotta clean you up, baby, I’ll be right back.”

You sigh as the light goes off, Dean pushes himself off the bed, and everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

Dean loves movies. It’s not hard to coax him into the Dean cave and watch a million of them with your head on his shoulder, letting your original plan slide right by in the feeling of Dean, around you and warm and strong and safe.

He’s slung his arm around you at some point, his thumb tracing small, slow circles on your upper arm, and you can hear his heartbeat.

It’s always the same rhythm, every time, without fail. The same pound, and then he’ll breathe in a slow rise of his chest, and you’ll allow yourself to curl a little further into his side. Your head rolling until it’s buried in his chest, and your arms somehow finding their way around his torso, and this was supposed to be about something else, but Dean smells like whiskey and evergreen, and-

“I love you.”

Dean’s voice is just a grunt in your ear, and you’re not sure he thought you’d hear it. His eyes even widen when you roll over to look at him, his mouth parting as you scan over his handsome, almost nervous face, and he thinks you don’t love him back. So many times you’ve never said it back, but he’s so pretty in the low light of the TV, and this might not be real, but Dean still feels more certain than anything you’ve ever known.

You don’t think there’s a world where you don’t love him.

Where this loop plays over and over, but starts much, much longer ago, and you don’t fall for Dean over and over. Where you’re trapped on that hunt where you met him, and he doesn’t walk into the house, and you’re not gone. Something in your will always body rearrange to fit Dean perfectly—just as he’s holding you so well now, as if wrapped around him is where you’re meant to be—and you’ll always love him.

In real life, you’d tried to shoot him. He’d burst through the door and narrowly avoided a bullet to the brain, then he’d roared a curse, and you’d fallen in love.

For a brief second, as you watch in him the dark, it passes through your head that the real Dean—the one not stuck in this loop, putting on this show, tormenting you like a puppet for an unknowable reason—really might not love you at all. And if he does, did, could’ve if you’d stayed out there instead of getting lost to whatever this is, you don’t think it was the same blow of lighting up his spine.

You’re lucky that this Dean loves you. It’s going to keep making you wilt, every time he says it, and that light goes off, and you know this will be gone in the morning.

But you still have him, now, before it all fades.

So you wrap your arm around his neck, pull him down into deep kiss, and let it carry you away. Dean twists you in his arms and pulls you onto his lap until you’re straddling his thigh, and you have this.

Pure, high pleasure as you grind onto Dean’s leg, his hands wandering over your chest and playing with your breasts—thigh squeeze, sunlight and sparks and open wound—the priceless look all over his face as you moan his name. He starts to suck and mark at your neck, and it’ll be gone by morning, but fuck, you don’t care because he’s shoved one hand down your short to rub circles around your clit, and-

You cum with a gasp, fall over Dean’s chest, and his chuckle rolls through your whole body.

“Son of a bitch, that was hot.”  

Yeah.” You nod in a tired daze, and press a kiss to his jaw. “I love you too, Dean. Just so you know.”

“That’s good.” He mutters, combing his fingers through your hair, and it’s starting to creep in.

You’d really like to stay here—warm and molded into Dean, cared for and still riding your high—but it’s not really up to you anymore. Most things aren’t.

“Do we, uh.” Dean swallows, and your hands fist in his shirt. Just to hold on a little longer. “It’s a dumb question, and you know I don’t really do this, but I like doin’ it for you, so do you wanna- Shit-“

“Are you asking me to go steady, Dean Winchester?” You smile into his shirt, and just a little longer. Whatever is doing this to you, you just want a little longer. “You got a crush on me?”

He scoffs, tugging on your hair until you meet his eyes. They’re darkened and hungry, but mostly full of love. You can really see it, now that you’re looking, and you’d like to think that the real Dean has looked at you like this before too, but you don’t really know anything anymore.

“If you’re gonna make fun of me-“

“You like it when I make fun of you.” You whisper, letting your lips brush over his as you speak. “I’d say you love it.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“Say it, Dean.”

“I already have-“

“No,” you shake your head, and it’s so close but you need just a little more. “Ask me out. Say you want me-“

“You know I want you-“

“Dean,” you roll your hips down, right over his bulge, and he grunts, his hands on your hips tightening.

“You’re a piece of work, babygirl.” He mutters, shaking his head. “No one else I’d want to be my- Shit, it sounds so stupid-“

“I-“

"Girlfriend.” He blurts the word like it’s been caught in his throat, and you relax in his arms as the darkness starts to wash up.

You don’t get to say it back, and the anxious, tight look on Dean’s face might haunt you forever.

Even if he’s going with this loop, you hope he knows that you would’ve said yes. You always would say yes, if it was Dean asking.

And everything fades black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

Dean’s never been to the grocery store before. Not in the loop. So when Dean says Sammy, you goin’ out to get food later, and Sam responds I need to clean up, dude, I just ran ten miles, you cut the beast off at the head and tell Dean that he’s going shopping, with you.

You make it into the car.

“Sam put pumpkin pie on the list,” you hum, letting yourself giggle at the frown on Dean’s face. “Don’t worry, buddy, we’ll get you cherry.”

He pulls over. Suddenly, with his whole body tensed, and his eyes sharp on yours.

“I am not your buddy.” Dean’s voice is barely a growl as something seems to snap in him, and you let him haul you over his body and kiss you stupid, raking your nails over his chest and shoulders.

“Dean-“

“Tell me you want this.” He grunts, resting his fingers on the band of your jeans. “I love you, but you gotta-“

“I want this.” You gasp, pulling him back into another violent kiss. “I love you too, Dean, god, I need this-“

You cum over his fingers this time. Drenching his pants and taking ragged breaths as your brows press together, and Dean watches you come down with the priceless expression all over his face.

“Son of a bitch, that was hot.” He mutters, and you sigh. “If you really love me back-“

“I do-“

“I know baby, but-“ Dean shrugs, watching you carefully. “Why haven’t we done this before?”

You’re going to cry. It’s moving in, but it’s not fast enough to stop the first tears for falling as you shake your head, and cling to Dean like somehow, this time, you can keep him.

“I don’t know.” You whisper. “I really don’t know.”

Everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

Dean makes it out of the car this time. It’s different, doing this without Cas, but you still end up in the bathroom. Sitting up on the sink as Dean fingers your cunt, gasping his name into his shoulder when he squeezes your thigh, managing to gain enough control after you finish to fall to your knees before him and take his cock in your mouth.

“Shit- Baby- Need to know where-“

You swallow this time. And there’s the priceless look, and maybe one day you’ll die here. With Dean watching you so reverently, his hand brushing over your face like you’re delicate and worth keeping together.

“Son of a bitch, babygirl, that’s-“

“Yeah.” You smile up at him, your voice a soft breath as Dean helps you to your feet. “I love you.”

He kisses you, long and deep, and you know he can taste himself on your tongue, and when he groans your knees almost give out.

Dean catches you.

He’d always catch you, in here or out there. And you love him always and anywhere, but you still miss the him out there-

“I love you too,” he mutters against your lips, and you smile.

This really hurts, but you smile. For Dean.

And everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

In the bar, between Dean’s legs, his hands cupping your face as he grins drunkenly up at you.

“Shit, you’re so fuckin’ pretty-“

You smile, running your hands through his hair as you pay his tab. Touching him makes this easier. Letting his hand squeeze your thigh, letting the wound open once more, not bothering to brace yourself for what’s inevitable. “Let’s go home, Dean-“

“Already home,” he mutters. “Got you. Need you. That was- son of a bitch, is the room spinning for you too?“

“No, I’m not drunk.”

“Huh. ‘M not either, baby.”

“Sure, buddy-“

He slams you into the wall, and you’re not his buddy. He loves you.

You end up sprawled over the backseat of the impala, your legs hooked around Dean’s neck and his face buried deep between your thighs.

There’s really no better sight to have imprinted on your brain that this one.

Everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

You linger in bed this loop, because it doesn’t matter. None of this matters. You can touch Dean and hear him say he loves you a million times, but it’s never real and never permanent and it doesn’t fucking matter.

No sheets on your bed, every morning. Stare at the ceiling like an angel might burst down from the sky to save you, but they won’t. Angels don’t even like you, and they certainly can’t be fucked to drag you from whatever odd, strange hell you’ve caught yourself in.

It takes a second to hear it. The silence.

No clatter of Dean’s bacon and eggs on the floor. No son of a bitch echoing down the hall in a herald that you have to go make sure the amazing dumbass ices his hand.

Nothing at all.

Something is wrong.

You’re out of the bed in a second. Sprinting down the hall until the wind is whistling and everything is almost a blur, bracing yourself to slam into the doorway or counter, because you don’t care what bruises mark your body—they’ll be gone by morning anyway—you just need to make sure Dean’s okay-

You run headfirst into something thick and warm, and you recognize it as Dean before you even fully know what’s happening.

His arms around you, holding your steady and firm to his chest, and you’re in the hallway. You shouldn’t be in the hallway. Dean never leaves the kitchen on his own, you have to run through some lines or call him out first-

He grunts your name, and when you meet his gaze, he looks… Different.

For the past hundreds of loops, his hair has been still mussed from sleep, and there’s been a slight pout to his lips from just waking up, but he’s never looked tired. Dean’s eyes have always had a slight spark to them in the morning, because he loves his kitchen, and he loves his bacon, and he loves you.

Dean—at least in here—has always lit up when you see him because he loves you.

And this Dean’s spark is different. Brighter, and longer, and made of less morning, sunshine, and more… relief.

There are bags under this Dean’s eyes, and his hair is more dirtied than messy, and he’s not wearing his hot dog pants. He’s wearing muddied jeans and flannel, his hunting flannel, the green one that he thinks is lucky, and fuck-

That’s relief in his eyes. Exhausted, punishing relief all over his face, and you could swear the priceless look was there too, but it’s buried so deep under the relief that you can’t really tell.

Dean hands have cupped your face as he seems to examine you, and you slowly pry one off. The one he’s burned, every morning, where a long, thin mark should be seared into his palm.

It’s there, but it’s white. Faded and slightly raised.

As if it’s already, mostly, healed.

“Dean,” you whisper, looking back to him with wide eyes. “What’s- What happened?”

He swallows, still not stepping back from you. “It’s- shit. I’ve never done this side of it, shoulda sent Sammy in-“

“Dean-“

“This isn’t real.” He gestures around your bodies, the weight on his face seeming to slump into his shoulders. “I mean, I don’t know why this is what you’re seeing, and I know it’s probably all your dreams or whatever, but it’s not real, sweetheart.”

You think you feel your heart turn to stone. Of course it’s not real. You’ve been so sure it wasn’t real. You’ve known, from the very start, that you might love Dean in every possible world, but he doesn’t love you. That’s just how this goes.

It still fucking hurts.

And you think, maybe with time, your heart will thaw from only a stone weight in your chest.

But it will be time that passes, and doesn’t loop. Time where Dean never loves you again, and you just have to keep going in a world where Dean never loved you at all.

Oh.

There it is.

“Djinn?” You whisper, and Dean nods.

“Yeah. It’s, uh, what do you last remember?”

You let out a long breath, and drop your head to his chest. It’s been a long time since that first loop, but you know he never said it. When you went through this the first time, the first real time, Dean came home drunk, you put him to bed, and he passed out.

That was it.

Everything else is covered in a thick veil of fog that hurts to push aside, so your just shake your head. Still against Dean’s chest.

He hasn’t pushed you away.

He probably just feels bad.

“I- You went out.” You mumble, keeping your eyes squeezed shut. “Called me drunk, and I sent Cas to get you. Then I helped you get into bed, and-“

You cut yourself with a shaking breath, and Dean squeezes his arms around you.

It’s just sympathy.

None of this was real.

“What day is it?” Your question is barely audible against Dean’s chest, but he still manages to make it out.

“Monday.” His voice is low. Careful. Like he might scare you off. “I, uh, that all happened on Friday, sweetheart. Saturday we went out to hunt some new type of djinn Sammy had tracked down, Sunday we- I-“ He clears his throat, his grip tightening slightly. “You got lost. Sunday night. Sons of bitches took you, and I wasn’t fast enough to stop them, and you’ve been in here since. ’S Monday afternoon. Or morning. Brunch time.”

It’s Monday.

You got taken Sunday night, and it’s only Monday. It feels like you’ve been here a million years, but really it’s barely been twelve hours, maybe a little more.

And you did live this once, but time kept moving, and Dean didn’t love you.

You push off Dean’s chest with a shaking breath, and his hands stay on your shoulders. Keeping you steady as you stare at the floor.

“I- uh-“ You shake your head, taking a long, slow breath. “My gun is in my room-“

“No!” Dean grabs your wrist, his words echoing down the bunker halls, and you stare at each other for a long second before he coughs, and his voice drops back down. “I mean, uh, that’s not gonna work. Whole new Djinn thing, right? You don’t kill you, you gotta kill some poor sucker in the dream.”

You swallow, your voice growing small. “What?”

“Sam says that this douchebag’s evolved. I don’t know if you remember, but we’ve been calling them groundhogs, cause they set you in a loop. And, uh,” he glances back around the hallway, a slight frown on his face. “You have to kill the reset point in the loop. It’ll be a person, but not you, cause apparently people try to kill themselves in these loops all the time, and the Djinn needs to keep you down until he’s done feeding.”

All of a sudden, you’re really fucking sick of finding out the truth. The truth isn’t freeing, it’s just turning your already stone heart to fucking lead, because it’s really that simple. That torturously, horribly fucking simple.

You have to kill your reset point. Dean loves you in here, and you hate this, but you’ve never even thought to hurt him, because you love him. All the time.

The Djinn could see that, no matter how deep you’d buried it.

And this is going to fucking suck.

“Dean.” You grab his face between your hands, and you’re not sure this will work, but you can’t kill the real Dean. You don’t think it will kill him in real life, but now that you’re really looking at it, this Dean is a little sharper around the edges, and this Dean will remember. He’ll feel it. You’ve felt the Djinn Dean’s hands on your skin, and slam of your body into the wall, and the cold of the ice when you’ve pressed it to his palm.

This is already complicated.

You can’t make it worse.

“I need you to say you love me.”

Dean blinks at you, his whole face going red. “I- uh- I don’t-“

“I know you don’t.” You cut him off quick—you really don’t want to hear that right now—and your voice grows desperate. “But I-“

“No, I don’t- That’s not what I-“

“Dean. Please just say it, say you love me-“

“I can’t-“

“Please- I know you don’t love me, I promise, but-“

“I love you!” Dean grabs your face between his hands, his voice rough and moving through your whole body as the light goes off. “I love you, but you need to calm the hell down and listen, alright?”

You let out a long breath, and nod. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters.

“Thank you,” you whisper, Dean’s eyes widen as it starts to sweep in, and everything fades to black.

——————

You’ve been here before.

One last time, something clatters down the hall, and you stare at the ceiling as you pull yourself together.

It’ll be okay. You’re going to be okay.

“Son of a bitch!”

You have to make it fast. This won’t work if you look at him, or draw it out, or think about it too hard. Your gun is on your bedside table. Dean’s down the hall.

You need to be free.

You can do this.

When you make it to the kitchen, Dean’s kneeling on the floor.

He grins when he sees you.

Your heart isn’t stone. It’s a million, tiny, fractured pieces.

“Hey,” Dean says your name with a bright, wide smile, and you have to do this. “I’ve been, uh, can we talk? I gotta tell you something.”

He’s going to say it now. The Djinn must know what you’re about to do, and it’s trying to stop you, but you can’t move because Dean looks so happy, and he loves you in here, and he-

“I, uh, I know it’s kinda out of nowhere, but I-“

The shot echoes through the bunker, and you keep your eyes closed and cover your ears as you wait. You can’t look, can’t breathe, can’t hear Dean slowly die from the bullet wound you put in his body, and fuck, there’s no light turning off so what if this didn’t work, what if you just killed the love of your life and now you’re trapped in here forever, because nothing’s fading to black and you can feel him grabbing at your ankles, and fuck-

——————

Dean’s shouting your name. His voice is rough with strain and not sleep, and you’ve never been here before.

Blinking your eyes open to a gray, concrete basement or warehouse or somewhere new, Dean hold you around your stomach as you slump down over him, and you’re free.

Dean doesn’t love you anymore—in a lot of ways, he never did—but you’re free.

“Son of bitch, sweetheart, I’ve got you, you’re okay, just hold on for me- Sam!” Dean shouts over his shoulder as you wrap your arms around his neck, and you’re so tired. Your limbs feel like putty, and your head is fogged, and you remember everything, so your heart is still stone.

Sleep sounds nice.

Sleep sounds really fucking nice, because if you think about it, you haven’t actually slept since you entered the loop.

Yeah.

Sleep.

Your eyes have barely started to droop when Dean grabs your face, shaking your body carefully against his.

“No, fucking- Shit, you gotta stay awake-“ He snaps your name, and it sounds like an order, but you can’t even really move. “Need you to keep your eyes open, just- Sam! Get in here, I’ve got her-“

“I’m fighting the Djinn, Dean!” You can hear Sam’s voice somewhere in the distance, but it’s fuzzy. Everything is fuzzy. “Just get her to the car-“

Dean nods to himself, hooking your knees under his arm and hauling you up with a grunt.

The sound you make is almost a whine, but you’re so tired. “Dean-“

“I know,” he mutters your name, and you might be getting delirious, because you could swear he’s pressing a kiss to your brow. “Hold on, baby, I’ve got you. Just, stay awake for me, please-“

He sounds like he’s begging, and it’s stinging around your whole body. The stone around your heart is dissolving too fast, but it’s leaving you raw and painful, and you’d really like to make this easier for Dean, to stay awake because he asked you to, but you’re so tired.

He called you baby. Outside of the loop, Dean called your baby.

That feels like a good way to go.

And this time, when everything drifts away, it’s not because a light went off.

It’s just flickering. Waning and holding on, letting you rest but clinging to Dean’s voice, saying words you don’t recognize, but still understand.

You’ll be alright.

Everything fades to black, and you’re free.

——————

“Is she gonna be alright?”

Something leaves your brow. “Physically, she will be fine.”

“Physically?” That’s a third voice. The first was Dean—you’d know his voice anywhere, including half-conscious—the second voice was deep and careful, and this one is wired and nervous. “What’d you mean physically, Cas?”

The second voice—Cas, which feels obvious now—sighs. “Djinn can be, as I’m sure you are aware, quite mentally draining. She made need space or support from us, depending on what she endured. Dean, I do not know what you saw of her dream-”

“She was in the bunker.” Dean grunts, and you can picture him glowering at the road. “She’ll be okay.”

“I would not make assumptions. If the groundhog put her through more than, say, ten loops-“

“She’d probably lose her mind.” Sam finishes, letting out a slow breath. “Dean, she might need us, and you can’t have just seen the bunker-“

“Sam. Drop it.”

“I’m just saying, I’ve done the time loop thing and it’s hard-“

“And I’m saying fuckin’ drop it. She’ll be okay. She- Shit, Sam, she has to be okay, so just goddamn drop it.”

There’s a long silence, the only sound the rumble of the engine, and Sam clears his throat.

“You never had that talk with her, did you.”

“Sam-“

“I’m not saying you should do it, I’m just saying if she needs us-“

“She will.” Cas jumps in, still somewhere near you in what can only be the back of the Impala. “And if this talk contains what I am guessing, I think there can only be benefit to it-“

“Really, Cas? You’re getting in on Sam’s feeling bullshit too-“

“It is not bullshit. And I- She will be receptive-“

“I don’t care.” Dean snaps, and you think you can hear the thud of his fist on the wheel. “And I swear to fucking Christ, if you two don’t drop it now, I’m pulling over and leaving you on the side of the goddamn road. Got it?”

There are mumbled agreements, the hand—Cas’ hand—presses to your brow as he lets out a long sigh, and sleep overtakes you once more.

——————

You’ve been-

No.

This is your mattress, and there are no sheets on your bed, and no-

You shoot up with open, frantic eyes and a strangled gasp, and someone shouts your name.

Dean.

Dean shouts your name.

“Shit, it’s alright, you’re safe, you’re home-“

You shake your head, even as you see him at the foot of your bed. You don’t trust it. You don’t trust that it’s real.

“No- Dean, I- My sheets, where are my sheets-“

“In the wash.” He answers in half a second, his voice firm and low, and his hand moves to your thigh.

The other thigh. His touch is carving over a new wound for the sunlight to pour into, but you’ve been here before-

“I told you on Saturday,” he mutters your name, holding your gaze. “You got drunk on Cas’ absinthe, Thursday night. Threw up on Sammy, and I put you to bed. Got you changed, too, but I didn’t look at, uh- The goods. At all. Swear.“

His eyes dart down to your breasts, and you realize that you’ve been changed out of your hunting clothes, and into one of Dean’s shirts.

“Dean-“

“Had Cas change you this time.” He adds, his voice quick. “He thought you should go in my room, but I- That woulda been a weird place to do this, and I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything-“

“Dean-“

“Just, shit- Please just let me talk, sweetheart, I gotta-“ He runs a hand over his face, shaking his head. “Look, you know I’m not good at this, but I’m tryin’, and Sam’s been on my ass about it for months, and seeing you with that fucking douchebag while he fed off you, I’ve never been more scared in my damn life-“

“Dean, please-“

“And I, fuck, I just need to say it now, before I lose the nerve-“

“Don’t!” You almost scream the words, and Dean blinks at you. “I know what you’re going to say, Dean. Please don’t.”

“But, uh-“ He frowns. “You made me say it, in there-“

You sigh, your eyes dropping to your hands. “I know. I still- Just don’t say it. Please.”

There’s a second of heavy silence, and when Dean clears his throat, his voice is low. “What, uh- What was your reset point? When the groundhog had you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” You mumble, and Dean’s hands cover yours. Holding them firm, as if he’s afraid you’ll drift away.

“Is it-“ He swallows, squeezing your hands softly. “You know. What I’m thinkin’?”

You nod, the motion weak. “Probably.”

“Oh.” Another pause. You can hear your heart in your ears. “You had to uh- Kill me, then. Right.”

This time you don’t even bother to speak. You don’t think your voice would work anyway.

“And Cas said you were in there a while- Shit.” You can hear the moment he gets it. His voice drops, and he lets out a long, slow breath. “Can you look at me, sweetheart? Please?”

You force your eyes to drag up, back to his, and there’s the fucking priceless look.

It’s heavier, but it’s there.

And this has to just be another trick. Another way for the Djinn to keep you in its hold, because the first way failed. Dean doesn’t love you, in reality. He doesn’t think you’re priceless, so this is a trick-

“I’m gonna say it.” He grunts, and your gaze is almost trapped on him.

The priceless look—now, when you really examine it—looks heavier. More gray, like you’re priceless, but Dean’s worried he’s going to shatter you. It’s lined with rust and fear and desperation, but it’s still there. And it’s still Dean.

“I’ve gotta say it, baby.” He leans forward, and he still smells like evergreen, but now it’s also gunpowder and something earthier. Something really, purely Dean. “And I’m gonna stay here, with you, ‘till you believe it, alright?”

You shake your head, and he sighs.

“I- I need you believe it. You don’t have to say it back, but I need to say it now, before I pussy out, and you gotta know I mean it-“

“Dean-“

“I love you.” He murmurs your name, tracing a hand over your cheekbone, and you can feel all of it. Lightning and sunshine and fireworks over your skin, and no light is going off.

The cameras aren’t still rolling, but that’s because there are none. No script. No darkness. Nothing fading away.

And Dean’s not moving for more. It’s all still light, and nothings fading away.

“I mean it.” He mutters. “I love you. Have for a damn long time, but it’s never, I dunno, never known how to say it, but I love you. I really fucking love you.”

He’s never said it this much.

And it’s all still going.

“I love you too.” You whisper, the words alone a careful, desperate gamble. “So much, Dean.”

Something in his eyes sparks, and his voice becomes hoarse. “Really.”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” There’s a pause, then his face splits into a wide, happy, boyish grin. “That’s awesome.”

And you don’t have an idea of what to do. You’ve never been here, not really, and it could go wrong in a million ways with no do-overs. But Dean’s alive, and he says he loves you, and you really fucking believe him. He’s touching you in new ways, and looking at you like he’s as uncertain as you are, but wherever this goes, he’ll follow it. With you.

There’s no way to know where it will go.

You’d really like to find out. What it’s like loving Dean and saying aloud, without fear that anything will go away.

And it won’t.

Because could be permanent, as long as you make it so.

Dean loves you.

“Yeah.” You grin at him, and you hope he sees it on your face. That, at the end of it, Dean is more priceless than anything else in the world. “It is.”

End Note: It doesn't happen on the screen, but Cas did get more Oreos. Just so y'all know.

Thank you so much for reading!! I hoped you enjoyed the miniseries, and if you want more Dean/reader stuff I do have another, bigger series called Babylon the Great that's currently in progress, and updates every Thursday! Big thanks to the anon who requested this, I had a lot of fun with it!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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worlds-we-write · 13 days ago

Text

Sweet on You

Chapter 2 | Kneaded You

pairing: Jackson!joel miller x baker!reader

Summary: You wake up in Joel’s arms and spend the morning pretending it’s just another day — until it isn’t. The town is watching. Your past won’t stay quiet. And Joel? He’s done pretending he’s not all in.

WC: 6K

Rating: Explicit 18+ MDNI❗️

tags: Joel Miller x Reader, Jackson Era, Age Gap, Slow Burn, Soft Smut, Emotional Sex, Filthy Dirty Talk, Gentle Aftercare, Pillow Talk, Reader Has Trauma, Protective Joel, Possessive Joel, Mutual Pining, Cinnamon Roll Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Series Masterlist | My Masterlist

You wake up warm.

It takes a moment to register where you are. The bakery ceiling is still above you, golden light filtering through the frosted front windows. The fire in the corner oven has burned down to glowing coals, and the room smells like cinnamon and melted wax.

And Joel.

He’s wrapped around you like he belongs there.

One arm is slung across your waist, his hand splayed over your belly, the heat of his palm soaking straight through your skin. His chest is pressed to your back, solid and slow-breathing, and you can feel the soft drag of his beard against your shoulder every time he exhales.

You shift a little under the blanket, and his hold tightens — not enough to trap you, just… remind you. That he’s still here. That this isn’t a dream.

He lets out a low, sleepy groan and buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep, Southern drawl turned to gravel.

You smile before you even open your eyes. “You always wake up this warm?”

He grunts. “You always talk this much first thing?”

You snort softly and roll over in his arms, facing him now. He’s still half-asleep, his eyes barely open, hair tousled from the pillow, beard a little messy. The lines around his eyes are softer here, in the early light. Less weight. Less history. Just… Joel.

And he’s beautiful.

It hits you all at once — the intimacy of it. The closeness. The fact that you spent the night tangled up with Joel Miller, and now he’s looking at you like he doesn’t regret a damn second.

You feel your face heat.

Joel watches you carefully. “You okay?”

You nod. “Just… didn’t expect to wake up like this.”

He smirks a little, sleep still clinging to his expression. “Could get used to it.”

Your heart lurches.

You glance toward the window, trying to hide the way that single sentence makes your chest tighten. Outside, the snow has slowed, the sky turning that pale, post-storm blue that makes everything look quiet and untouched.

You try to keep your voice light. “Think the bread’s ready to bake.”

Joel kisses your shoulder once, then groans and flops onto his back. “Jesus. You’re already thinkin’ about work?”

“You’re in my bakery,” you tease.

He lifts an eyebrow without opening his eyes. “That mean you’re gonna feed me?”

You toss the blanket off with a laugh and stand, stretching. “Only if you behave.”

He grumbles something about “no promises” and watches you move toward the kitchen with that lazy, heavy-lidded look that makes your stomach flip.

You try to keep your hands busy. Pulling on your apron. Checking the dough. Avoiding the way his eyes trail down your legs when he thinks you’re not looking.

It’s domestic. Easy. Almost too easy.

And it scares the hell out of you.

Because you know the warmth won’t last forever. The snow will melt. The door will open. And someone will see.

But for now?

Joel is barefoot in your bakery, sitting at your prep table, watching you like you’re the softest thing he’s ever wanted to keep.

And you let him.

By the time the coffee is poured and the morning chill has eased, the bakery starts to feel alive again. Familiar. The hearth glows, the scent of warm yeast fills the room, and the dough you proofed yesterday is begging to be shaped.

You glance at Joel as you set your mug aside, rubbing your hands together. “I should get started on the bread.”

Joel, still perched on the prep table with bare feet and bed hair, raises a brow. “Want help?”

You blink. “You bake?”

“No,” he says flatly, then takes a slow sip of his coffee. “But I follow instructions. Real good, if you ask nice.”

You give him a look, half amused, half wary. “You planning to help me or distract me?”

He smirks, sliding off the table with a stretch that makes his henley ride up just enough to flash a strip of warm, tanned skin.

“Why not both?”

Your brain stutters for half a second — then you throw an apron at his chest.

“Wash your hands.”

He grins.

You both settle into a rhythm that surprises you. You show him how to flour the table, how to shape the loaves gently — “don’t punch it, Joel, this dough has feelings” — and he grunts like he’s trying not to smile the whole time. His hands are clumsy at first, but strong, and you catch yourself staring more than once as he rolls and folds with furrowed brows and that same intensity he brings to everything else.

“You’re good at this,” you murmur.

He shrugs. “Worked construction. Muscle memory.”

You bump his hip with yours. “Well now you’re building buns instead of walls.”

He lets out a low laugh, and your stomach flips.

Flour ends up on your cheek at some point — his doing. You retaliate by smudging it across his jaw. It turns playful fast, and for a minute you forget everything else. There’s just heat from the oven, flour in the air, and Joel’s hands brushing too close too often.

He grabs your wrist when you try to sneak more flour toward his shirt.

“Careful, darlin’,” he says, voice low and amused. “Keep testin’ me and next time I’ll have you bent over this table before the bread even rises.”

Your eyes widen.

He grins. Unapologetic.

And just like that, the room feels smaller. Hotter. Your breath stutters in your throat as his hand lingers a second longer than necessary.

But then he steps back, reaching for the towel to wipe his hands, like nothing just happened.

The teasing simmers under the surface the whole time as you both load the loaves into the oven. When he stands behind you to peek in over your shoulder, his chest brushes your back, and you don’t move away.

The silence that follows is thick but not uncomfortable.

It’s dangerous.

It’s comfortable.

And you don’t know which scares you more.

You stand by the bakery door, fully dressed, coat zipped, scarf wrapped, and stomach twisted in ways that have nothing to do with the cold. Outside, the storm has softened to flurries, the sky pale and bright over snow-packed paths. Jackson is waking up — shovels scraping, boots stomping, radios crackling.

You glance back over your shoulder.

Joel’s shrugging on his coat, still wearing the same jeans from last night, his henley sleeves pushed to his forearms, hair still damp from where you’d run your fingers through it that morning. He looks… content. Relaxed. Like a man who slept well and got fed twice — once with cinnamon rolls, once with your thighs.

You, on the other hand, feel like your chest might cave in.

“We could wait a little longer,” you murmur. “Let the paths clear. Avoid the morning rush.”

Joel looks up at you, squinting. “You mean avoid people.”

You say nothing.

He walks to the door, stands beside you. The warmth of him seeps through your coat before he even touches you.

“They’re gonna talk, Joel.”

He shrugs. “Let ‘em.”

You stare at the door handle, your throat tight.

“It’s not you they’ll talk about,” you whisper.

Joel turns to face you fully. “They say shit about you, they’re sayin’ it about me too. You think I give a fuck?”

You blink, lips parting — but he’s already reaching past you to open the door.

The cold hits you first.

Then the sound.

Shovels scraping pavement. Kids shouting in the distance. Two women chatting by the community center steps, one of them sipping from a thermos. They both turn when the bell above your door jingles.

And they stare.

Joel doesn’t notice — or pretends not to. He offers you his hand like it’s nothing, like it’s normal, like it’s something he’s done a hundred times.

You hesitate. Just for a second.

Then you take it.

You walk together, side by side, hand in hand, through the snow-packed path toward your apartment. And you feel everything.

Every eye on you. Every whispered laugh behind a glove-covered mouth. Every step that says, we saw them come out together. we know.

You keep your head down.

Joel doesn’t.

He nods at people who pass. Gives Tommy a chin lift from across the road. Doesn’t let go of your hand even once.

It should feel safe. And it does.

But you still feel the twist in your gut when you hear the whisper behind you — soft, but not soft enough:

“Heard she’s trouble. Can’t believe Joel’s messing with her.”

You freeze.

Joel stops too, glancing over. “What?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

But your face burns.

Joel studies you for a second. Then—without a word—he moves closer, slides his arm around your waist, and pulls you in tight as you walk.

“Let ‘em watch,” he mutters under his breath, jaw clenched. “They don’t know a fuckin’ thing.”

You want to believe that. You do.

But the knot in your stomach doesn’t ease.

Not yet.

Your apartment is small, quiet, and colder than you remember.

You step inside first, shoulders tense, unwrapping your scarf with fingers that still feel clumsy from the walk. Joel follows silently, boots crunching softly on the entryway mat, gaze flicking around the space like he’s reading something in the walls.

You watch him take it all in — the stack of folded laundry that never got put away, the cracked windowpane above the tiny table, the sagging couch cushion where you’ve slept more nights than not. It’s clean. It’s safe.

But it’s not homey.

Not like the bakery. Not like last night.

Joel shrugs off his coat, hangs it on the hook beside the door without being asked. He moves quietly, careful not to fill too much space. But even in silence, he’s present. Big and solid and warm in a way this apartment hasn’t been in months.

You fidget with your sleeves, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

“It’s… not much,” you say, voice low.

Joel looks at you. “It’s yours. That’s enough.”

You open your mouth — to say thank you, to make a joke, something — but he’s already moving, drawn toward the table by the window like gravity pulled him there.

The drawer beside it sticks — it always does — but he gives it one quick, practiced tug, and it pops open. He peers inside, pulls out a loose hinge and a screwdriver that’s been rattling around for weeks.

You watch, confused. “What are you—”

“Fixing this.” He holds up the drawer like it’s obvious. “Drives you crazy, doesn’t it?”

You blink. “How did you know it was broken?”

“Saw you skip over it when you opened the drawer.”

Joel shrugs, crouching down. “You did that thing people do when somethin’s broken — touch it like maybe it fixed itself, then move on fast like it pissed you off.”

He doesn’t say it in a judgmental way. Just observant. Quietly caring.

You lean against the doorway and watch him work, chest feeling tight for reasons you can’t name.

He gets it fixed in under five minutes. Slides the drawer in with a clean click.

“That’s better,” he mutters, wiping his hands on his jeans.

You smile softly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Didn’t mind.”

And that’s the thing with Joel. He doesn’t hover. Doesn’t ask if you need help, doesn’t wait for permission. He sees what’s wrong and handles it — like it’s second nature. Like showing up and doing something is the only way he knows how to say I care.

You realize, suddenly, that he hasn’t sat down.

So you point toward the couch. “You can, uh… make yourself comfortable.”

Joel raises a brow. “That an invitation?”

You feel your cheeks warm. “To sit. On the couch. Calm down, Miller.”

He smirks. But he sits.

And once he’s settled, he spreads out just slightly — arm across the back of the couch, one leg stretched forward. He doesn’t say it, but his whole body is open. Relaxed. Like he belongs there.

Like he wants to belong there.

You move toward the kitchen to boil water — out of habit, out of the need to do something with your hands. And when you glance back at him through the doorway, you find him watching you again.

Not like a man who’s bored. Not like a man waiting for something. But like someone memorizing a view he doesn’t want to lose.

And maybe, just maybe… like someone already picturing what this place would look like with his boots by the door.

Joel leaves just after noon.

Not because you ask him to, but because he knows you need space. He brushes your knuckles with his lips on the way out — nothing over the top, nothing for the street to see. Just a quiet promise.

“Radio me later,” he murmurs.

You nod, still standing in the doorway as he disappears down the snow-crusted path, his broad shoulders cutting through the cold like it doesn’t touch him.

The door clicks shut behind you, and the silence wraps around your apartment again — not harsh, but emptier than it was twenty minutes ago. You sit on the edge of your couch, staring at the half-empty mug Joel left on your table, steam still curling in lazy spirals.

You want to feel safe. You want to believe it. That this time, it’s different. That last night — this morning — changed things.

But your gut says otherwise.

And not five minutes later, your gut is proven right.

There’s a sound outside — the faint thump of heavy boots and the muffled chatter of patrol radios. You rise slowly and move toward the window, careful not to let your shadow fall too close.

And there he is.

Your ex.

Standing by the north gate checkpoint, bundled in his winter gear, laughing at something another scout says. He’s leaning against the post like he owns the place, like he hasn’t laid hands on you, like he still doesn’t see anything wrong.

And then, somehow, he sees you.

His eyes find your window like they’re drawn to it — like he knew you’d be watching.

You freeze.

He doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t wave.

Just watches.

There’s nothing dramatic about it. No yelling. No threats. But the silence hits harder. The lack of expression. Like he’s daring you to think he’s forgotten. Like last night was just a pause.

Your chest tightens.

Your fingers tremble where they grip the curtain.

You let it drop quickly and step back, pulse hammering in your ears.

He’s just standing there.

Doing nothing.

And it still feels like you’ve been slapped.

You sit on the edge of the bed, breathing shallow. You tell yourself he can’t do anything here. Not in Jackson. Not with Maria and the council and all these watchful eyes.

But he’s good at hiding it.

At seeming useful. Stable. Charming in that performative way that makes people say He’s not so bad, right?

And you? You’re the one who flinches.

You’re the one who looks scared in daylight.

And fear? Fear doesn’t sell well in Jackson.

Not unless it has proof.

You don’t call Joel right away.

You tell yourself you’re just calming down, letting the tight coil in your chest ease on its own. But you’ve been sitting at the table for twenty minutes now, staring at the same mug of lukewarm tea, jumping every time boots crunch outside your door.

You know it’s him.

He saw you.

And he’s waiting for you to feel it.

When you finally reach for the radio, your fingers hesitate on the button. But the sound of a shovel scraping across the road jolts you, and your breath shakes out in one long exhale.

“Joel?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

The answer crackles back almost immediately.

“Yeah. What’s wrong?”

You freeze.

You never said anything was wrong.

But he knows.

“Can you come back?” you ask softly.

Silence.

Then: “On my way.”

Ten minutes later, he’s at your door.

You open it before he knocks. His jaw is already tight.

He doesn’t say anything — just walks in like he knows where to go, like he doesn’t need an invitation. You close the door behind him, heart pounding.

He turns to face you.

“What happened?”

You hesitate.

Joel watches you for two full seconds, then exhales hard and scrubs a hand down his face.

“Was it him?” he asks. No softness. Just truth.

You nod.

Joel’s entire body shifts.

He moves slowly at first, like he’s trying to not pace. Like the tension in his shoulders is something he’s wrestling down with both hands.

“What did he do?” he grits out.

“Nothing,” you say quickly. “He didn’t touch me. He was just—watching.”

“From where?”

“The gate. Patrol duty.”

Joel lets out a humorless laugh. “Of course he’s still got access to a rifle.”

You flinch slightly.

He sees it. His jaw ticks.

Joel walks to the kitchen and leans on the counter like he needs to steady himself. Like if he doesn’t anchor his hands, they’ll end up doing something he can’t take back.

“You should tell Maria.”

“I know.”

“Now.”

You shake your head. “I can’t. Not yet.”

Joel stares at you, eyes dark. “Why?”

“Because if I say it out loud, it’ll become real. And I’m not ready for that. Not yet. I just… I needed you to know.”

Joel breathes hard through his nose. You can see the battle playing out behind his eyes — his need to fix it, to protect you, to make it stop.

And the part of him that knows he has to let you speak for yourself.

“I ain’t gonna sit here and do nothin’,” he says finally.

“I’m not asking you to do nothing.”

“Then what are you askin’?”

You meet his eyes, your voice soft. “I’m asking you to stay.”

Joel’s breath catches. The tension in his face shifts — not gone, but changed.

He nods once.

And then steps forward — one hand curling around your waist, the other sliding up to cup the back of your neck.

“I’ll stay,” he murmurs. “But if he touches you again, if he even looks at you wrong—I’m not goin’ to Maria. I’m goin’ to him. And I won’t be fuckin’ nice about it.”

Your throat tightens.

You lean into his chest, eyes shut, breathing him in. He holds you there, like his body is the only thing between you and the world.

And maybe it is.

Joel’s arms are steady around you. Warm. Wide. Big enough to feel like a shield.

You bury your face in his chest, just for a second. Just long enough to let your breathing slow, to let your muscles soften.

And then you whisper it — so quiet he almost misses it.

“I thought if I just kept my head down, he’d leave me alone.”

Joel’s hands don’t move. He just waits.

“That if I stayed quiet, stayed small, he’d get bored. Move on.”

Your voice cracks.

“But he didn’t. He just got better at hiding it.”

Joel’s fingers slide to the back of your neck, gentle and steady.

“I kept thinking maybe it wasn’t bad enough to tell anyone. That I’d sound crazy. That people wouldn’t believe me. And by the time I realized how deep I was in it… I didn’t know how to leave without looking like the one who caused it.”

You feel him inhale slowly. Deeply. Like it’s taking everything in him not to interrupt.

So you keep going.

“He’s good at pretending. You’ve seen it. Everyone thinks he’s stable. Helpful. One of the good ones. So I kept baking. Smiling. Working. Telling myself it wasn’t that bad.”

You finally look up at Joel, throat tight. “Isn’t that awful?”

He doesn’t speak right away. Just brushes your hair back from your forehead.

And when he does answer, his voice is hoarse.

“No. That’s survival.”

Your breath stutters.

Joel cups your cheek. His thumb brushes just under your eye, like he’s memorizing you in this moment — not afraid, not pretending, just here.

“You don’t gotta explain it. Not to me.”

You nod, but something else is still bubbling under your skin.

“I thought maybe last night would… fix something. That if I let someone good touch me, it would erase him.”

Joel’s expression hardens — not at you. At the idea.

“You think that’s why I was with you?” he says, voice low. “To fix you?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Maybe I hoped.”

He leans in, forehead resting against yours.

“I wasn’t fixin’ you,” he says. “I was touchin’ you because I wanted to. Because I want you.”

“Even with the mess?”

“Especially with the mess.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

Joel kisses your temple.

“You’re not too much,” he murmurs. “He just made you feel small so you’d forget how fuckin’ powerful you are.”

You don’t mean to cry. But it comes anyway — slow, hot tears slipping down your cheeks before you can stop them.

Joel doesn’t pull away.

He holds you tighter.

Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. Just stays.

And for the first time in a long, long time… you let someone hold the weight with you.

The bell over the bakery door jingles just after the last loaf comes out of the oven.

You expect a neighbor. Maybe one of the regulars. You don’t expect Maria.

She steps in with her usual quiet confidence — coat still dusted with snow, clipboard tucked under her arm, hair pulled back into a tight bun. She’s the kind of woman who always looks like she’s headed to fix something — and she probably is.

You wipe your hands on your apron and offer her a small smile. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Her tone is casual, but her eyes sweep the bakery with a purpose. She nods toward the counter. “Smells good in here. Joel been around again?”

Your stomach tightens, just a little. “He… stopped by this morning.”

Maria hums like she already knew that.

She moves toward the front window, glancing outside like she’s not here for anything in particular. “Busy morning?”

You shrug. “About the same. Bread’s selling fast. Guess people crave comfort when it’s cold.”

Maria looks at you then — really looks at you. Noticing the way your hands fidget with the corner of the dish towel, the way your shoulders are drawn a little tighter than usual.

She doesn’t call it out. Just sets her clipboard down on the counter and leans against it.

“Mind if I ask you something?”

You hesitate. “Sure.”

Her voice stays calm. Even.

“You doing okay?”

You blink. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” Her expression doesn’t change. “You know that’s what everyone says right before they stop being okay?”

You try to laugh, but it comes out thin. “I’m really fine.”

Maria nods slowly, like she’s letting you say that — even if she doesn’t believe it.

“I’m not here to pry,” she says gently. “But I notice things. And I listen when people talk. I also know Joel’s not exactly the type to get cozy unless there’s a reason.”

You look down at the counter.

She leans in slightly, her tone lowering.

“If there’s something going on — something you don’t feel safe talking about — I’m not just on the council, you know. I’m also a woman who’s been through her share of shit.”

You feel your throat tighten.

Maria doesn’t press. She just watches you with that quiet steadiness that makes you feel… seen.

“Joel’s a good man,” she says softly. “But good men can only do so much if they don’t know what they’re up against.”

You grip the edge of the counter.

Maria takes a breath. “If you ever want to talk — really talk — come find me. Doesn’t matter when. Doesn’t matter where.”

You nod, unable to speak.

She picks up her clipboard again, like the moment didn’t just shake something loose inside you.

“Oh,” she adds at the door, glancing back with a knowing look, “and if you’re baking cinnamon rolls again tomorrow… Joel’s not the only one in town who wants one.”

You let out a quiet laugh, just enough for your chest to loosen.

“Got it.”

Maria gives you a wink — then disappears into the snow.

The bakery is empty again.

The rush has passed, the bell above the door gone quiet, and the sun has started to dip low behind the snow-covered rooftops. You stand at the prep table, sleeves rolled to your elbows, hands deep in cinnamon-swirled dough.

It’s muscle memory by now — press, fold, tuck, roll. The rhythm of it soothes something inside you. Makes the ache behind your ribs a little quieter.

But today, it feels different.

You keep hearing Maria’s voice.

“I’m also a woman who’s been through her share of shit.”

You didn’t ask what she meant. You didn’t have to.

You think about the way she looked at you — not like she pitied you, but like she recognized you. Like she knew the weight you’ve been carrying because she’s carried it too.

The dough sticks to your fingers. You press harder than you need to.

You think about Joel.

About how easy it was to let him in, even though nothing about your life has ever made room for soft things. About how he didn’t flinch when you broke down, didn’t pull away when you confessed the worst parts of yourself.

He just held you.

Not like something fragile.

But like something worth holding.

You press the cinnamon roll into the tray and realize your eyes are burning.

You blink fast. Wipe your hands on your apron.

You’re not crying. Not really. Just tired.

But for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel alone in it.

You glance at the radio on the shelf. His voice lives there now. Comfort wrapped in static.

And for the first time all day… you think you might actually want to hear it.

The bakery is closed. The lights are low.

Your apartment is still and dim, glowing softly with lamplight. You sit curled under a blanket on the couch, knees pulled to your chest, the radio in your lap.

You’ve been holding it for ten minutes, thumb hovering over the button.

The cinnamon rolls are proofing in the kitchen — the last batch of the day — and your whole home smells like brown sugar and butter. But it’s not the dough that’s keeping you warm tonight.

It’s him.

It’s the memory of Joel’s arms. His voice. His hands. The way he looked at you when he said you weren’t too much. That low, steady promise wrapped in his Southern drawl: I want you. Especially with the mess.

You take a breath.

Then press the button.

“Joel? You awake?”

A pause. The static clicks. Then—

“Was waitin’ on you.”

His voice is quieter than usual. Rougher. But warm in a way that coats your chest.

You smile a little. “You were?”

“Thought maybe you needed some time. Figured you’d reach out when you were ready.”

You bite your lip. Your fingers tighten around the radio.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d still want to hear from me.”

Another pause.

“You serious?”

You close your eyes. “Just… everything felt different today. Out there. After this morning.”

“Yeah. It did.”

Silence stretches again, but not uncomfortably.

You let it settle between you like a blanket. Thick and soft and real.

“Joel?” “Mm?”

“Do you wanna come over?”

You don’t know if your voice sounds small or brave. Maybe both.

Joel doesn’t answer right away. You imagine him sitting in his living room, thumb rubbing across the speaker, brow furrowed like it always does when he’s thinking too hard.

“You sure?” he asks. “You want me there?”

You nod, then realize he can’t see you.

“Yeah. I think I do.”

A quiet breath. Then—

“Be there in ten.”

The line goes dead.

You set the radio down slowly and exhale — not shaky this time. Just relieved.

Ten minutes.

You don’t rush.

You brush your fingers through your hair, wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your sweater, and check the rolls in the kitchen like it’s a normal night.

But nothing about this feels normal.

And when the knock finally comes — soft, deliberate — your hands still for just a second.

Then you move.

And when you open the door, Joel is there.

Coat zipped, eyes soft, hands in his pockets.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just looks at you like he’s been waiting for this all day.

You step aside.

He walks in.

And something inside you finally unclenches.

Joel doesn’t ask questions when he steps inside your apartment.

He just shrugs off his coat, hangs it on the hook like he’s done it a hundred times before, and turns back to you — eyes flicking over your face like he’s checking for damage. You’re not sure what he finds there, but his expression softens, and his shoulders fall just enough to show he was holding tension too.

Neither of you speak. You don’t need to.

You just walk to him, barefoot and slow, and wrap your arms around his waist.

He pulls you in like it’s instinct — arms around your back, hands spreading wide like he’s trying to cover every inch of you. His nose presses to your hair. He breathes you in.

“You sure?” he murmurs against your temple.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I want you to stay.”

He leans back just enough to look at you.

“No rush. I can just hold you.”

You smile — soft, a little sad. “I want more than that.”

Joel’s eyes search yours. You see the way he hesitates — not because he doesn’t want it, but because he’s afraid to take. Afraid to push too far.

You take his hand. Guide him toward the bed.

The room is quiet.

Soft lamplight spills across the walls, catching on the loose strands of your hair and the edge of Joel’s stubble. You sit on the mattress first, knees bent, waiting.

He doesn’t undress quickly.

He moves slow. Reverent.

He pulls his henley over his head, folds it, sets it aside. Your eyes trail down his chest — all broad muscle, soft belly, scars that map out a life he never talks about. You reach for him as he steps closer, and he lets you.

You help each other undress — not rushed, not awkward. Just quiet. Hands tugging fabric gently over hips, brushing exposed skin. The only sound is your breathing, and the soft rustle of clothes hitting the floor.

When you’re bare in front of him, you hesitate. Instinct. Shame.

But Joel sees it.

He lifts your chin.

“Don’t do that,” he says softly. “Don’t hide from me.”

You nod.

Joel lays you back like you’re something fragile. But the way he looks at you? Like you’re his. Like he’s already gone too long without having you like this.

You’re bare under him, and still you shiver — not from the cold, but from the way he runs his hand down your side like he’s memorizing it.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and full of heat. “Spread out for me like this. You want it bad, don’t you?”

You nod, breathless.

“Say it.”

Your cheeks flush, but you whisper it anyway.

“I want it. I want you.”

He groans. “Yeah you do. Been wantin’ me since the second I walked through that fuckin’ door. Don’t think I didn’t see it.”

You bite your lip.

He lines himself up with your soaked entrance and slides in slow — painfully slow — until he’s buried deep, hips flush with yours. You cry out, back arching.

“Fuck, baby,” Joel grits out. “So fuckin’ tight. Feels like heaven.”

You’re gasping already, hands scrambling for something to hold. You end up with his arms, his back, your nails digging into muscle.

“You take me so well,” he says, dragging his hips back, then thrusting in again — deeper this time, making you whine. “So fuckin’ good for me. Like your pussy was made for me.”

You moan, legs falling open wider, desperate to feel all of him.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Let me in. Let me fuck you like you deserve.”

His rhythm is slow but heavy, dragging every inch of him along your walls, grinding deep at the end of every thrust. Every time he moves, it punches a sound out of you — soft, helpless, needy.

“This what you needed?” he growls. “A man who sees you? Who knows how to touch you right?”

You nod frantically, your voice barely working.

“Y-Yes—Joel—fuck—”

He leans down, lips brushing your jaw.

“You’re gonna cum for me, aren’t you?” he whispers. “Gonna soak my cock just like you soaked my fuckin’ face last night.”

You whimper.

“That pretty pussy’s flutterin’ already. She wants it.”

Your whole body shakes.

“You’re mine now, baby,” Joel growls, his voice getting rougher. “No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to hear you beg.”

“Joel—oh my god—”

He grins against your neck, sweat sliding down his temples.

“Not God, sweetheart,” he pants. “Just the man makin’ you cum.”

And you do — hard.

Your walls clench around him, legs locking tight, fingers digging into his shoulders as your orgasm rips through you with a sob. Joel groans, deep and low, hips stuttering as you squeeze him tight.

“Fuck, that’s it—fuckin’ milk me, baby—just like that—”

He fucks you through it, then thrusts deep one last time and spills inside you with a choked moan, his body shaking above yours.

He doesn’t pull out right away.

Doesn’t move much at all.

Just stays close, chest heaving, forehead pressed to yours.

And when he speaks again, it’s lower. Rougher. But softer, too.

“Ain’t ever lettin’ you go now,” he breathes. “You fuckin’ wreck me, sweetheart.”

You’re still gasping, your body trembling beneath him.

But you manage to whisper it back:

“Good.”

You’re both a mess.

Sweat-slick, limbs tangled, breath still shallow. Joel’s weight is still half on you, his face buried in your neck, one large hand curled around your thigh like he’s not ready to let go yet.

You feel his smile before you hear it.

“You okay, baby?”

You hum a little, still catching your breath. “Destroyed. Thoroughly. Thank you.”

He lets out a low chuckle — the kind that rumbles against your chest. Then he kisses your collarbone. Once. Twice. A third time, just because he can.

“You always talk that pretty when you’re ruined?”

You swat at his arm, half-hearted. “You always talk that dirty when you’re not inside me?”

He lifts his head, eyes dancing with mischief and heat and something softer underneath.

“Nah,” he says. “Only for you.”

You look away quickly, heart skipping — because fuck, that’s too much.

But Joel doesn’t let you shy away. He leans down and kisses your cheek, then your nose, then finally your mouth — slow and sweet and real.

“Didn’t know I’d like hearin’ you beg so much,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.

“Didn’t know I would beg.”

He grins. “That mouth says a lot of things, sweetheart. But it’s honest when I’ve got it moanin’.”

You groan, hiding your face in the pillow. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He laughs quietly and pulls you closer, spooning behind you, one arm draped over your waist.

“Nah,” he whispers into your hair. “Just full of you.”

You try to act annoyed — roll your eyes, mutter something about corny cowboys — but you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

And then it’s quiet again.

Not awkward. Not tense.

Just warm.

He draws small circles on your hip. Your foot tangles with his. You press your back into his chest like it’s second nature.

“You ever let anyone stay the night before?” Joel asks after a minute.

You shake your head slowly. “Not like this.”

He kisses the back of your neck.

“Good,” he says softly. “Don’t wanna share.”

You laugh again — quiet, sleepy. “Possessive much?”

Joel doesn’t answer.

He just holds you tighter.

You fall asleep tucked into Joel’s chest, his heartbeat steady against your back, his breath warm in your hair.

No nightmares come. No echoing footsteps or doors slamming behind your ribs. Just the weight of his arm around your waist and the slow, grounding rhythm of a man who doesn’t run.

And for the first time in a long, long time—you don’t feel like you have to, either.

AN: two words: soft filth. thank you for sticking around as joel continues to alternate between “slowest emotional burn of your life” and “talks you through an orgasm like it’s his religion.” stay tuned, and let me know if you want to be added to the taglist so you don’t miss the drama (or the smut). 💌

taglist for Sweet on You 🫶🏼: @suzysface @vikiii07 @chewie-bars @nrschuster30 @thecasualnope @lady-artemis27 @seraphimcollections @brittmb115 @leafs4life

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marvelstoriesepic · 2 months ago

Text

Like a Phoenix (epilogue)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 12.2k

Warnings: mentions of fire, dead parents, murder, death, ignorance, betrayal, sexism, arranged marriages; classism; feels; tension; suggestive themes; kissing

Author’s Note: Omg we have reached the end to this series. It makes me a little sad but I'm so satisfied I managed to complete this. And hell, I did not expect it to get so long. When I came up with the idea I was planning on making it a one-shot lol. Thank you so much for reading it this far! I hope you enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

Your journey goes on for another three and a half days. You walk through thickets and shadow-dappled glades as before, but time bends strangely now. It feels no longer like the lonely, endless trek it once was.

It does not feel like a road paved with dread and pain. It feels like something else entirely - something softer, warmer. Like the disentangling of the past and the mending of something broken.

Bucky is always close. Not just in the way he was before, walking beside you, always in your eye line - but in the way he feels close. The way his hand brushes against yours as you trek side by side, fingertips grazing, neither of you acknowledging it out loud, but neither of you pulling away. The way his gaze lingers so unashamed, unreadable, yet soft in a way you are not sure he quite realizes.

The nights are no longer cold.

The forest air is crisp and the earth unforgiving, but you haven’t felt cold since the first night you let yourself fall asleep curled against his chest.

His arms drape around you every night like they were made to hold you. He always mutters that he is not supposed to sleep, that he has to keep watch, and you know he has never been the kind of man to rest easily.

But then, minutes later, his breathing slows, deepens, his body molding against yours, his lips pressed into your hair as if the scent of you alone lulls him into slumber.

Sometimes, in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, he mumbles things into your skin - your name, half-formed words, things you wish you could catch before they are lost to the night.

He clings to you and buries himself in you like you are something to be sought out even in the darkness of his dreams. His hand finds the curve of your waist, fingers splay out over your ribs as if grounding himself, and he breathes you in.

He wakes in the mornings with a deep inhale, lips finding your shoulder before his mind even fully registers that he’s awake. And it is soft. It is slow. The kind of gentleness you never imagined a man like himself capable of.

But Bucky Barnes is a man of contradictions.

Just as he kisses you tenderly at dawn, he kisses you with reckless, insatiable hunger in the next breath.

One moment, you are walking beside him, mindlessly following the path, and the next, your back is flush against the bark of a tree, Bucky’s hands bracketing your face, his breath warm against your lips before he takes them in a kiss that leaves no room for air, no room for anything but him.

It’s fierce, consuming, his mouth slanting over yours, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a desire that sets your veins alight.

His hard thigh slots between your legs, pressing just enough to make your breath hitch.

His hands would dip to your neck, fingers tangling in your hair as he devours you, drawing out a sound from deep in your throat that you didn’t even realize you were capable of making.

His breath hot against your lips as he exhales a soft, gravelly curse.

But it never goes further than this.

No matter how heated, no matter how desperate, he always stops.

His hands never stray past the places he’s already touched, never cross the threshold into something that would tip you into the point of no return. Not yet.

He made his promise - to make it good for you, to wait for a better time.

And Bucky Barnes, after all, is a man who keeps his promises.

So he pulls back, even when his chest is heaving, even when his pupils are blown wide with want. Pressing his forehead against yours with a shuddering breath. He only drags his thumb across your swollen lips and smirks at the way you chase after him.

The fire at night is different now, too.

Before, you used to sit in front of it, staring into the flames with an open wound in your chest that you thought would stay hollow and bleeding for the rest of eternity.

Now, you still stare at the fire, but this time with a weight at your back - Bucky sitting behind you, his chest pressed against your spine, his arms wound around you in a tender hold. He rests his chin on your shoulder sometimes and murmurs against your skin - tired yet, sweetheart? - and you shiver at his lips on your neck and shake your head, because how could you ever be tired of this?

The fire crackles and it’s not the only source of warmth anymore. Bucky’s arms tighten. And the hollow place inside your chest is filling slowly, surely, with something meaningful, something fervent.

Something that feels a hell of a lot like him.

There is something different in the air now, too.

You don’t know if it’s the season shifting, the air growing a little warmer, fresher, or if it’s something in you that has changed.

Maybe it’s the way the wind no longer feels like it’s pushing against you but instead lifting you forward. Maybe it’s the way the sky looks a little wider, a little vaster like it belongs to you now.

For years, you lived with the certainty of a future that was never truly yours. A path laid out before you like a straight line - one that led directly to a fate you never wanted.

You were raised to believe that love was not yours to seek, that choices were not yours to make, that freedom was not something women like you could have. You would be given away, just as your mother was, just as so many others before you were. A transaction. A signature on a parchment, your body and soul the fine print of a deal you didn’t want. A deal between men who had never once asked what you wanted. Never cared about it.

Only to be a prize for a man who had done nothing to earn you but exist in the right family, with the right title, with the right wealth to buy your hand.

You tried to convince yourself that it was inevitable. That maybe you could learn to accept it.

But that never happened.

And when Lord Ward spoke these ugly words about marriage something inside you rose like a beast with bared teeth.

Never had you wanted to end up with the life of a wife to a man who would never know you. Who would never see you.

Would never kiss you like Bucky does - like he’s breathing you in, like he’s savoring something rare, something he will never find again.

Would never hold you like Bucky does - tight, protective, almost desperate, almost possessive. Terrified the world might steal you away from him.

Would never look at you like Bucky does - like you are something untamed, something wild, something so far from the obedient, well-mannered woman you were raised to be. But he relishes it. He does not try to fill that flame. He lets you burn.

And now, here you are.

Not in a castle or a palace, not in a cage refined by luxury, not dressed in stiff silks, not standing in front of an altar beside a man whose hands would never be gentle, whose eyes would never soften when he looked at you.

No, you are out in the wild, the scent of pine and earth and Bucky thick in your lungs, with tangled hair, dirt on your dress, and under your fingernails.

And you have never been lighter.

When you dreamed of freedom, you always pictured yourself alone.

The idea of escaping had always been something singular, something you would carve out with your own two hands, even if it left them bloodied and bruised. Never had you imagined that freedom might come with someone beside you. That it might come in the shape of a man whose past is war-torn, whose hands are rough with calluses and sins but who holds you like you are something sacred.

You don’t know what to call this. You don’t know if there is a name for the way his lips trace over the back of your neck in the early hours of the morning, for the way his voice goes warm and husky when he mutters your name. For the way he watches you - really watches you - like he is memorizing the way you move, the way you breathe.

You don’t know what to call the way he lets you take up space.

Lets you question him, tease him, push at the edges of his patience. Lets you be difficult and vulnerable and does not try to shape you into something easier to control.

There are no words big enough for it yet, no name that fits neatly into your mouth.

But whatever it is, you know you don’t want it to end.

Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not ever.

Bucky makes everything feel more.

The silence of the woods isn’t lonely with him there. The fire isn’t just warmth, it’s a place where you rest, where you curl into him and breathe in the scent of leather and steel and him until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

The simplest things are different now.

The air tastes sweeter, the wind feels wilder. Your chest feels lighter.

Your food tastes better, even if it’s nothing but charred meat and stolen apples because Bucky makes you laugh between bites. When he makes some dry, wicked comment that should not make your stomach jumble the way it does but you never put in much effort to stop it.

The night feels less like a thing to be wary of and more like a shroud that envelopes the two of you, keeping you hidden in a world of your own.

Your body feels different.

Because of the way he looks at you, the way his fingers graze your skin absentmindedly when he’s half-asleep, seeking you out even in his dreams.

Because of the way your blood sings when he pulls you into an unexpected kiss, when he presses you against a tree, or the ground and growls something against your lips that makes your knees weak.

Because of the way you feel in your own skin now - like it belongs to you, like your choices are finally your own.

And that’s what this is.

Choice.

For the first time in your life, no one is making it for you.

Not your father, not even your loving mother, not some nobleman with a name older than the stones of his estate, not an entire court that speaks of duty while drinking their wine.

You chose this.

You chose to run.

You chose to fight.

And now you are choosing him.

It is the thrill of being wanted - not as a bride, not as a duty, not as a treaty, but as a woman. As a person.

It is the way Bucky does not possess you - but he holds you like you are something worth keeping.

And you think, perhaps you might believe you are.

****

“Bucky!”

Two gleeful voices, high-pitched and brimming with joy, call his name in unison, and before you even register what is happening, two boys come hurtling toward the man beside you like arrows loosed from a bow.

Bucky barely has a moment to brace himself before they collide with him, small arms wrapping around his torso with so much force that he stumbles back a step.

A surprised chuckle rumbles from his chest as he catches them, his hands ruffling through unruly heads, squeezing them against him in a hug.

You don’t move.

You stay where you are, frozen, watching as something in Bucky softens. He crouches slightly, to be more level with the boys, shaking his head with mock exasperation, but his face is split in a smile that might just blind you.

“You’re back!” one of them exclaims, clinging to him.

“We missed you,” the smaller one adds, eyes wide and earnest.

“Steve said it could take longer and that we have to be patient, but we knew you’d come back soon,” the first one says, so proud of himself, his words spilling over each other in his excitement.

Your stomach tumbles - not unpleasantly, but in that strange, fluttering way that comes with being overwhelmed.

You knew Bucky had friends, knew that wherever he was taking you, you would not be walking into a place full of strangers to him.

But this is something else.

Because they love him.

And they are not the kind of people you imagined Bucky Barnes might surround himself with. These children adore him, are safe with him, and throw themselves into his arms without hesitation.

Your throat closes up as you shift, not knowing what to do with yourself.

Your nerves had not touched you this morning, as you lay in Bucky’s arms. Not when he murmured against your skin, lips pressing lazy kisses along your shoulder, voice slow and sleep-thick.

“Won’t be much longer now, darlin’.”

You hummed.

“Just a few more hours, and we’ll be there.”

You felt his smirk against your neck.

“You nervous?”

You thought about it. The idea of stepping into a new place, meeting new people who knew him, who might not trust you, might not like you. But it was hard to be nervous with the way Bucky was touching you, tracing patterns over your bare arm, kissing your hair, holding you close like there was nowhere else he would rather be.

“Tell me about them,” you whispered, half to distract yourself, half to just hear his voice a little longer before the day truly began.

And he had.

“Steve’s a pain in my ass. Got that whole ‘honor and duty’ thing goin’ for him. Thinks he’s gotta save everyone. Stubborn bastard.”

You had laughed at his crude language and he just kissed you some more, sporting a proud grin.

“Sam’s loud as hell. Talks too much. Thinks he’s funny.” He sighed dramatically, the vibration of it tickling against your ribs.

“Is he?”

Bucky exhaled sharply, and you realized it was almost a laugh.

“Sometimes,” he grunted out gruffly, but there was something fond in it. He placed a deliberate kiss just below your jaw. “But you better not tell him I said that.”

“He’s got a sister. Sara. She’ll probably try to feed you the second she lays her eyes on you. Got a good heart.”

“Noted,” you whispered, fighting a smile.

He brushed his nose against the curve of your cheek. “Natasha’s a little sharp. She’ll size you up, but don’t let it get to you. It’s just her way. She’s got a good read on people. But I got a feeling she’ll like you.”

He kissed you, slow, savoring the way your lips parted beneath his, the way you let him pull you closer.

“Bruce is quiet. One of the smartest people I know. You’d like him.”

His fingers traced unhurried circles against your waist, his touch warm and possessive without meaning to be.

“Peter,” he sighed. “Kid’s a menace. Talks too fast. Asks too many questions. Has no idea how to shut up.”

You smiled. “But you sound fond of him.”

Bucky groaned dramatically, letting his head softly fall onto your collarbone. “Damn kid grows on you.”

“Wanda’s a little different. Maybe a little odd. She’s got a heart bigger than she knows what to do with. M’ sure you’ll like her.”

He shifted, rolling onto his side so he could study you in the dim morning light.

“Vision’s…” he adds, shaking his head slightly. “Can’t really explain him. But he’s a good man.”

“And Tony’s an ass.”

“That’s it?” you laughed.

“That’s all you need to know.”

You traced the shape of his jaw with your fingertips. He leaned into you, eyes drooping. Your voice grew softer. “But he’s your friend.”

A pause. A sigh. “Yeah, I guess he is,” he admitted grudgingly.

Then you kissed him again and he certainly did not object.

It felt so intimate then, the way he spoke, the way he let you into something personal. His family. You hadn’t been nervous then. Not when he was so warm against you, not when he whispered promises of breakfast and stolen kisses and safe places against your skin.

But now, watching these two children light up at the sight of him, watching Bucky melt and soften, you start to feel the nerves.

The enormity of what you are stepping into.

You are not just entering a place.

You are stepping into his world.

These people are not just his friends. They seem to be his family.

And they seem to live a comfortable life, judging the clustered timber-and-stone houses before you. Slanted roofs are layered with thatch, their wooden beams weathered but sturdy.

A large two-story tavern sits at the heart of the settlement, its balcony draped with drying herbs and bundles of corn.

The earthy scent of bred and corn and ash and tilled soil all mingles in your nose. You breathe it in.

You watch a woman lean out of an open window, shaking dust from a rug.

A great tree stands a little off, roots twisting into the soil like fingers gripping the land, branches stretching, leaves flying in the light breeze. Wooden tables and benches sit unevenly on the dirt ground. A group of men sits hunched over one of those tables, mugs in hand, deep in conversation.

Horses are tied to a hitching post near a small stable, flicking their tails. Chickens peck at the dirt, completely unmoved by their surroundings.

Garlands of wildflowers and wheat hang from beams and doorways.

Nearby, a wooden stall displays golden rounds of bread stacked high, the crusts crips and sun-warmed.

This does, in no way, come close to how you have been raised and lived your whole life. Nothing like the sterile corridors of the palace, where voices were kept soft and every step was measured.

This place is unrefined, full of noise and movement, loud laughter, and unguarded conversations.

It’s the most beautiful thing you have ever seen.

“Who are you?”

The sharpness of the question snaps you from your swirling thoughts and drops you harshly into the present.

Your gaze turns down to meet dark and narrowed eyes. The kind of look you would expect from a man twice his age, not a boy of the age of perhaps 10.

There is suspicion in the hard set of his mouth, in the furrow of his brow. His thin shoulders are squared, his stance too defensive for someone so small. Too wary for someone so young.

He is looking at you like he is judging you. Assessing you. Ready to cast you out.

You don’t know what you expected from those little boys who nearly took out Bucky with a hug. Curiosity perhaps, maybe even excitement, because what child is not intrigued by someone new?

But this boy has learned caution young.

Bucky had not mentioned him, nor the other who is still clinging to Bucky’s side and watches with wide, observant eyes. They seem to be brothers.

You inhale and part your lips, ready to offer something - your name, perhaps, or some reassurance that you mean no harm - but Bucky steps in.

“Hey,” he chides, voice carrying a note of authority, but it is still easy. As though he expected this reaction. “C’mon now, AJ,” he says, ruffling dark strands. “That any way to treat a guest? Hm?”

The boy scowls, wriggling his head free of Bucky’s grip and standing a little straighter, eyes still on you.

“I have questions,” he insists, crossing his arms over his chest.

You blink.

This boy is so small, and yet so serious, staring you down like you are his enemy.

Bucky sighs dramatically beside you, shaking his head.

“You hear that, darlin?” He turns to you, blue eyes glinting. “Little punk thinks he runs the place.”

You smile amused and tilt your head slightly. “Does he?”

The little guy seems taken aback for a moment, like he hadn’t expected you to address him so directly, hadn’t expected you to engage instead of deflect.

But then he squares his shoulders again.

“I do when Steve isn’t here,” he informs you seriously, sharp eyes on you.

Bucky chuckles.

“So?” the boy presses. “Who are you?”

You take a breath in.

“She’s mine.”

The words, low and firm, come from Bucky.

You turn, startled, but Bucky is not looking at you. He is looking at the boy, at both of them, his expression unreadable. But his jaw is set.

“She’s with me,” he tells them.

But that makes the older boy before you narrow his eyes further.

“You brought her here?” he asks, and there is an accusation in it.

“I did,” Bucky confirms, voice turning a note harder. “And you’re gonna behave, alright?”

“Why?” the boy presses. “You don’t bring people here. Ever.”

That catches your attention. You glance back at Bucky, but he still doesn’t look at you.

He opens his mouth, about to crouch down to his eye level.

“Oh, mother of gods, James Buchanan Barnes, you did not!”

Your head snaps up at the harsh exclamation, dragging your attention to the woman storming toward you. She has fire in her eyes and disbelief clear in every step she takes. The fabric of her dark skirts rustle with the force of her marching steps, her expression caught somewhere between outrage, horror, and exasperation.

Bucky sighs beside you.

The woman sweeps her gaze over you, fast but uncomfortably precise, drinking in the tangled mess of your hair from wind and sleep, the dirt staining the folds of your gown, the frayed laces at your bodice. They hang limply around you.

Heat wanders along your skin, creeping up your neck. Your fingers jerk against your skirts.

You are painfully aware of how you must look. Not a princess. Not the picture of nobility. And it makes you feel exposed.

She then latches her burning eyes on Bucky, who for his part looks painfully unbothered by the way her glare could send him to his grave.

“The princess?” she hisses, incredulous, her voice barely contained. “Are you out of your mind?”

Bucky exhales softly. “Sara-”

“No, no,” she cuts him off, throwing a hand in the air. “Don’t you Sara me, James. What- What in the name of every god above and below were you thinking?” She jabs a finger at him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Do you have any idea what kind of mess this is?”

You recoil slightly.

Bucky doesn’t.

Sara exhales sharply and fixes her gaze on the two boys. “Aj, Cass,” he says, voice edged with maternal authority. “Inside.”

The younger boy scrambles away, while the older one hesitates. He looks at you. And you watch the realization of who you are dawn like a slow and creeping sunrise. Color drains from his face, only to be replaced by a deep, mortified flush. He hurries off after his brother.

A low whistle sounds out.

“Well damn,” follows a smooth, almost delighted drawl. “You kidnapped the princess? Man, that is a whole new level of crime - even for you.”

Your eyes shift toward the new voice.

A tall man steps up beside Sara, arms crossed over his chest, a wide, amused, and toothy smile on his face.

“You know,” he muses, glancing at you before looking back at Bucky, letting out a chuckle. “I figured you’d eventually get yourself into a mess you couldn’t talk your way out of, but this?” He gestures at you, at all of you. “This is next level, man. This ain’t just thieving a couple of horses or lifting some noble’s coin purse.”

“I didn’t kidnap her,” Bucky growls, exasperated.

“No?” The man lifts a dark eyebrow. “Then what is it I see before me? Huh? Certainly not the missing kingdom’s princess, looking all rugged and dirty, standing next to the only fool dumb enough to waltz into the palace and take her right from under their noses.”

“Sam,” Bucky warns.

Sam ignores him. “God, I can’t believe this. You kidnapped the princess.” His eyes practically dance with amusement. “Really, man?”

“Didn’t kidnap her,” Bucky repeats, tone and eyes dark.

Sam snorts. “Alright, then.” He shifts his attention to you now. You are only able to listen to whatever this is with wide eyes. “Your Highness. Blink twice if you need rescuing.”

You glance over at Bucky helplessly, but he only runs a hand down his face and shakes his head.

You straighten, eyes going back to Sam, composing yourself as best as you can despite the dirt on your skirts, despite the strange, unmoored feeling of being in this place, surrounded by these people.

“Sir, I-”

But Sam interrupts you, keening with laughter.

It’s full-bodied. He throws his head back, shoulders shaking, one hand gripping his ribs as if the sheer force of his amusement might crack them open.

You startle, staring.

“Oh, hell, yeah.” He wheezes through his laughter, eyes gleaming with delight. “D’you hear that, Barnes? Your girl called me sir.”

Bucky glares. It’s nothing short of murderous.

Sam laughs harder, nearly doubling over, slapping his thigh like this is the greatest moment of his life.

Bucky’s hands flex at his sides, fingers curling, and for a second, you wonder if he might actually lunge at the man.

“You wanna keep runnin’ your mouth, Wilson?”Bucky grounds out, voice flat, but there is something dangerous in it.

“I apologize for the trouble, your Highness,” Sara says, voice full of exasperation, though it is not directed at you. Her sharpest ire belongs to Bucky. She shoots him a look so blistering it could peel bark from a tree. But he only rolls his shoulders like a man unbothered. “You’re lucky she doesn’t look half-dead, Barnes.”

Bucky exhales through his nose. “She’s fine, Sara.”

“Fine?” she echoes, eyes flaring. Hands settle on her hips. “Fine is not what I’d call a girl dragged through the wilds, looking like she hasn’t had a proper meal in days.”

You wince, self-conscious.

She notices.

Her gaze softens. “My apologies, your Highness,” she says, sincerely, directed at you this time. “You must be exhausted. Have you eaten? Drunk anything? Lord above, Bucky, did you even let her rest properly?”

Bucky folds his arms over his chest with a huff. “She’s not a child, alright? She’s handled herself just fine.”

Sara glares him down.

You take a step forward before she can start another round of chastising him.

“You do not need to apologize,” you say softly. “I have been taken care of.”

You see Bucky smirk in your peripherals.

Sara pinches the bridge of her nose, exhaling long and slow, before turning back to you.

And this time, when she looks at you, there is no suspicion, no frustration.

Now, there is just worry.

Not the worry of someone who sees you as a liability, a mistake, a problem to be solved.

But the aching worry of someone who sees you as a person. As a girl who has run a long, long way from something big.

Shaking her head, she fixes her eyes back on Bucky. But they are softer. Her voice is calmer when she speaks again, but no less chastising. “The princess, Bucky? Of all the reckless, ill-thought-out things you’ve done-”

“Alright-”

“I chose to come with him.”

Bucky falls silent.

You don’t know why Bucky hadn’t explained this himself. That he didn’t force you into anything, or even kidnap you. Perhaps he still can’t believe that you said yes to him. Or he didn’t want to put those words into his mouth because they should be yours.

All eyes turn to you.

Sara’s brows lift slightly in surprise. Sam, who has been watching with a grin of pure entertainment, lets out a low whistle.

But it’s Bucky’s gaze you feel the most.

You sense the shift in him, the way his eyes find you with an intensity that has you clenching your fingers around the fabric of your gown.

“I wasn’t taken. Especially not by him,” you continue, gaze sweeping from Sam to Sara and back again. “I left of my own accord. It was my decision. And Bucky-” You glance at him for a brief moment, before setting your eyes forward again. “-he kept me safe.”

Sara exhales sharply, hands on her hips, lips pressing together in thought. She studies you, weighing your words against whatever she has imagined. You cannot make a lot of her expression, but there is respect in the way she looks at you.

Bucky doesn’t move, but you feel his gaze on you like a touch. Heavy and lingering.

Sara’s hand on her hips tighten. “That may be,” she allows, her voice slow. “But I find it hard to believe you were given many choices to begin with.”

“Sara,” Bucky warns. But his voice is thicker now.

Sam doesn’t relent on his toothy grin and Sara flicks him on the back of the head. “Alright, enough,” she says, then turns to you. “If you’re staying, we need to get you cleaned up and fed.” She eyes your dirt-streaked gown and your disordered hair, her concern slipping back in. “Gods, you must be exhausted.”

You stiffen.

Not at her words, but at the way something deep in your chest trembles in response.

Because, yes you are exhausted.

You have been for as long as you can remember. But never like this. Never in a way that feels earned.

This exhaustion is not the kind that comes from waiting - waiting for a decision to be made for you, waiting for a fate you have no hand in shaping.

It is the exhaustion of moving forward, step by step, of carving a path where there was none before.

It is real.

And for the first time, it does not feel like a burden.

You do not know how to say this. So you say nothing.

“Come inside. Eat something. Get some rest,” Sara offers gently.

Like she has already decided she will take care of you.

You have spent your entire life refusing. It is a habitat ingrained in the very marrow of your being. To be polite, but never imposing. To be gracious, but never in need.

But you are not in a palace now.

You are in a place where people say what they mean, where laughter is loud, where Bucky Barnes holds children to his chest and lets them believe he is something softer than the world has made him.

A place that is not yours, but could be.

You do not refuse.

Because you don’t want to.

Fingers graze the inside of your wrist, a feather-light touch. A question.

And you answer without words, letting your fingers brush his.

Bucky’s shoulders loosen. His jaw unclenches.

You smile up at him. He smiles down at you.

Sam is gaping.

****

You inhale the food as if you have not eaten in days - because, in a way, you haven’t. Not like this. Not like something that tastes like home, like care, like hands that have kneaded and stirred and seasoned with the intent of nourishing, not just sustaining.

The wooden bowl in your hands is warm, the simple stew inside thick and hearty, brimming with root vegetables and tender meat that falls apart on your tongue.

The broth is rich, salted just enough to bring out the depth of the flavors, but not so much that it overpowers the natural earthiness of the ingredients.

At the palace, everything had been delicate. Well-considered. Gilded dishes prepared for their beauty before their taste. Sauces too intricate, wines too aged, plates of food so finely arranged that they resembled paintings rather than meals. Adorned with edible gold and the finest spices from across the kingdom. They had been created for show, for excess, for appearances.

But this is food meant to fill you.

The bread that Sara placed beside your bowl is dense and still warm from the hearth, the crust slightly cracked from the heat, the inside soft as a cloud. You tear a piece away and dip it into the broth, watching as it soaks up and turns heavy in your hand before bringing it to your lips.

The taste spreads warmth through your bones.

There is no grace to your eating, no careful sips or polite nibbles. You do not have to sit straight-backed in an uncomfortable chair, do not have to mind the placement of your hands or the pace of your bites.

You simply eat.

And for the first time in your life, food does not feel like an obligation. It feels like comfort.

You sit at a wooden table. The texture of the wood is uneven beneath your fingertips, worn and etched with knife marks, scratches, faint grooves from elbows propped against it.

This cabin is small, but it breathes.

The walls are made of sturdy logs, darkened from years of firelight and time. The stone hearth is still slightly glowing with embers from where Sara had cooked, projecting shimmering golden light against the walls.

A simple woven rug lays before it, slightly askew, as if someone has kicked it on their way past.

It is nothing like the palace.

The palace had been marble and silk, cold stone and uncomfortably ringing echoes from footsteps. Walls that expanded too high, chandeliers so grand they could never be touched, windows so polished you could see your reflection clearer than you could see yourself. Every corner a testament to wealth, to power, to the careful orchestration of control.

But this is lived in.

This is home, even if it is not yours. Yet.

And you love it.

You love the way the cabin smells of woodsmoke and earth, of herbs hanging to dry, of something baked earlier in the day.

You love the way the chair beneath you creaks slightly when you shift, the way the light is softer here, golden rather than cold.

You love the way your own body feels here.

Because here you are not wearing a gown that feels like a costume, corseted and pinned and stitched into a silhouette.

Here, you are still wild from the road, still warm from Bucky’s touch, still catching your breath from all the ways your life has changed.

Your fingers tighten around the wooden spoon in your grasp, the thought of Bucky bringing something else entirely to the warmth inside you.

He left moments ago.

Not without touching you.

You stood beside the table when he stepped close, when he tilted your chin up with the barest press of his knuckles, his other hand warm at your waist.

“Eat, sweetheart.” His voice has been soft, softer than his usual rasp. “Take your time.”

He kissed you before you could reply.

Not deeply, not claiming or desperate, just so incredibly tender, something that felt like a promise. A press of his lips that lingered, that tasted like all the words he did not say.

His fingers brushed against your jaw so delicately as he pulled back, his breath warm when he whispered. “I’ll talk to the others. You eat somethin’ and get some rest, yeah? I won’t be long.”

And then you were alone.

And what feels like for the first time in your life, no one is watching you.

There are no guards, no courtiers, no looming figures waiting to tell you what you must do next.

You are alone.

And it is wonderful.

A slow breath fills your lungs. You let it out slowly, feeling your shoulders loosen, your limbs grow heavier with something softer than exhaustion.

“You must be starving.”

The voice - deep, smooth, touched with humor - startles you so thoroughly that your spoon slips from your grasp, clinking against the rim of the bowl before settling with a soft plop into what’s left of the broth.

You snap your head up, heart lurching, body still half-wired for a fight that is no longer necessary.

A man stands in the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest, framed by the golden light of the setting sun behind him.

He is tall. Not just in height, but in presence. His shoulders are square, built with strength, but there is something calm in the way he carries himself. His blond hair is slightly tousled from the breeze outside and his blue eyes scan you.

His expression is unreadable at first, gaze sweeping over you, taking in the way you hover over your food like it might be taken from you, the way your hands twitch before stilling, the way you study him as though he might be another threat.

He lets out a short, remorseful breath but smiles at you then. Warm. Open. Easy.

“Sorry,” he says, lifting a hand as if to show he means no harm. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself. You take him in for a little while longer.

“It’s okay,” you reassure. “You must be Steve.”

His expression shifts. His brows lift just slightly, eyes glinting with something wry and knowing, but also a kind of surprise. As if it isn’t normal that Bucky talks of him to people who don’t know him already.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you for a beat longer, like he is trying to place something about you.

Then he drops his head a fraction, a smile tugging at his lips. He glances around the cabin like this is a place he knows, a place that has always been home to him.

“Had to see for myself,” he starts, stepping closer, “what kind of thing Bucky’s gotten himself into this time.”

There is no accusation in it. No sharpness. Just a lightness, an understanding - something that makes you feel like this is not the first time he’s had to check in on Bucky’s reckless decisions.

“It was my decision,” you retort before he can go any further. “He did not take me. He did not force me. I chose this.”

You expect surprise. Like the others.

But Steve just nods. As if it makes sense. As if he might already have known that.

He chuckles, the sound low and genuine, before lowering himself into the seat across from you. The chair groans slightly under his weight, and for a moment he just studies you.

Not in the way people at the palace or castle did. Not with judgment, or scrutiny, or expectation.

Just curiosity.

“Bucky’s done some rash things before,” he then muses. “I had to make sure you aren’t one of them.”

It is said without malice. Just a simple, honest statement.

He doesn’t dance around it. Doesn’t pretend he wasn’t concerned. And strangely, that puts you more at ease.

You exhale, your fingers brushing the rim of your bowl.

“I appreciate the concern,” you say carefully. “But I meant it. This is my choice.”

Steve smiles.

Not a small smile. Not an uncertain or fake one. It is true.

“Then I guess that’s all I needed to hear.” He shifts, pushing his hands against the arms of the chair, preparing to stand. “I should let you rest.” He says it with a kind of old-fashioned politeness that reminds you of a man who has spent his whole life minding his manners. “Didn’t mean to intrude on your alone time, your Highness.”

But before he can rise, something in your stirs - curiosity, but something else, too.

“Wait.”

Steve pauses and raises a brow as he looks at you. But he eases back into his seat. Blue eyes flicker with interest.

“What did you mean?” you ask quietly.

Steve tilts his head. “About what?”

You hesitate, but the question is already lodged in your chest, needing release. “You said Bucky has done a few rash things before. What kind of things?”

A short laugh shakes the chest of the blond man. He leans back slightly, shaking his head and resting one ankle over his opposite knee. He crosses his arms over his chest and regards you with a look that is both amused and considering.

“You really wanna know?”

You nod.

His lips quirk and he lets out a slow breath, rolling his jaw, weighing whether he should actually tell you anything. He contemplates for a moment.

“Alright,” he relents. “I suppose I can tell you something.” He leans forward slightly, forearms braced against the edge of the table. His eyes glint with something that seems nostalgic, fond, but at the same time exasperated.

Then, he chuckles, obviously thinking of something. “Let me tell you about the time he stole a nobleman’s prized warhorse because some poor stable boy was about to be flogged over it.”

You blink, eyebrows shooting up, not even noticing that you are leaning in yourself. Watching him intently as he speaks.

“We had been passing through a town. Saw a stable hand, just a boy, barely a teenager being dragged out into the square because the noble, some smug son of a bitch-” he winces. “Pardon my language, your Highness.”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head.

“The noble he worked for claimed the kid had let his prized horse go missing,” Steve continues. “That boy was about to be publicly whipped.”

You frown, heart seizing.

“Buck broke into the nobleman’s stables,” he says with a disbelieving laugh, “stole the very horse they were fighting about, and rode it right through the center of town, causing a distraction long enough for the kid to escape.”

Your lips part.

Steve watches your reaction with a grin.

You don’t think you have ever been this invested in a story as of now.

“Of course, half the town guard ended up chasin’ him for miles,” he continues, amused smile on his face. “His plan, mind you, was to just return the damn horse the next day, all casual like nothing happened. Didn’t wanna keep it, he told me. Just wanted to prove a point.”

Steve’s gaze softens as he watches you take it in.

He leans back again then, palms planted on the table. “Well, the horse did send him flying straight into a pile of mud. So maybe that’s the true reason he wanted it gone.”

A laugh bursts from your lips.

Steve’s eyes are glinting. “Left him sitting there, covered in filth, swearing up and down that it wasn’t his fault.”

You press a hand to your mouth, shoulders shaking with laughter.

Steve seems even a little proud. Satisfied, with the way you are laughing so carefree. He lets a few beats pass.

Your ribs ache pleasantly.

It is rare, this kind of lightness, this kind of ease.

It is especially rare that you let yourself feel it. Let yourself sink into it. Relish it.

Suddenly, a shift in the air tugs at your awareness, a pull, like something in the room has changed shape without a sound.

Slowly, you turn your head toward the doorway.

And there he is.

Bucky leans against the frame, one shoulder pressed casually against the wood, arms crossed over his chest.

Candlelight catches on the lines of his face, casting a glow over the edges of his cheekbones.

He hasn’t said a word, hasn’t made a move to interrupt. He is just watching.

Watching you with something in his eyes that makes the giggles in your throat falter - not because they fades, but because they become something different.

He looks at you like he is seeing something he didn’t know he needed to witness.

Like he is listening to the sound of your joy and tucking it away somewhere safe.

It is in his eyes. This softness, something golden that flickers like a flame caught in the cradle of his chest.

His mouth is curved at the edges, not a smirk, not quite a grin. Just something fond, something private.

Your heartbeat slows into something deeper, warmer. A flush creeps up your neck that has nothing to do with laughter.

He has been standing there, silent and content, just watching you laugh so brightly with his best friend in a place he calls home.

“Bucky.” His name slips from your lips as you shift in your seat. “How long have you been standing there?”

Something shines in his gaze, something unreadable but vast. The space between you seems to hold more than just air.

His lips press together, holding back a chuckle. Pushing off the frame, he ambles toward you. “Long enough to wonder what kinda shit Steve’s tellin’ you ‘bout me.”

You try to suppress a smile, glancing over to the blond man, who only smirks, clearly enjoying this.

“He told me about you falling off a horse.”

Bucky lets out a groan, but his smile never wavers. He steps over to you unhurried, like he is savoring the moment, having all the time in the world.

He drags a hand down his face as he stops beside you, but the exasperation in his sigh is a lie - his smile still does not fully vanish.

His fingers find your shoulder as if drawn there naturally. His touch is light, absentminded. He rubs slow circles with his thumb before trailing down to your arm, his palm coming to rest warmly at the bend of your elbow. It sends something skittering down your spine.

Leaning back in his chair and folding his arms across his chest, the look on Steve’s face turns downright knowing.

Tilting his head, Bucky shoots the blond a look that lands somewhere between betrayed and amused.

“Really, punk?” he groans. “Coulda told her anythin’.”

Steve shrugs, unbothered and smirking. “She should know what she’s gotten herself into.”

Bucky scoffs.

Steve then pushes up from his seat, muscles in his arm bulging under his shirt. “I should leave you two to it,” he says but his gaze lingers on Bucky, before briefly switching between you two. His gaze is warm with something satisfied, something knowing, something relieved.

“Yeah, yeah, get outta here, Rogers.”

Steve smirks and turns toward the door, clapping a heavy hand against Bucky’s shoulder in passing. Before he steps out, he throws another look over his shoulder at you.

“It was good meeting you, your Highness,” he says, and though there is respect in his tone, there is something else. Something approving.

You nod, smiling warmly. “And you, sir.”

Steve chuckles. Bucky sighs.

Then he is gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

Bucky doesn’t say a word at first.

He only guides you up from your chair, touch warm at your arms, just enough to maneuver himself into the seat. He doesn’t sit a second before pulling you onto his lap with a kind of possessiveness that feels more like safety than restraint.

A hitch disrupts your breathing.

You sit sideways, his arms winding around your waist, drawing you close, settling you comfortably against him.

The moment feels intimate. It’s as if time and space have thickened since Steve left. It’s slower and it sinks into your bones, into the spaces between your ribs, something deeper pressing in. It feels delicate and releases a pleasant tingle along your skin.

Bucky looks at you.

His eyes are softer now, the smirk something half-forgotten in the face of whatever this moment is becoming. So focused, so without teasing. His gaze moves over your face, slow and searching, reading the shape of your expression, as if he is trying to pin down whatever thought lingers in your eyes before you can speak it aloud.

There is almost something like wonder in his eyes as if he is still not used to this - to have you here, in his arms, so close that the space between your breaths barely exists anymore.

You swallow, fingers twitching where they rest against his shoulders.

You feel him in your pulse, in the warmth of your spine where his arms brace you.

Softly, as if not to disturb the air too much, you speak up.

“I like him.”

Bucky’s smirk twitches wider, but it is gentler now. Not sharp. Not cocky. Just fond.

His nose skims along your temple, featherlight, and he exhales warmly against your skin.

He hums, low and gruff but amused like he already knew it before you said it.

He inhales, slow and deep, as if breathing you in, as if you are something he can’t quite get enough of.

“Knew you would.”

And then, so gently, his lips meet your cheek in a kiss. Soft and lingering, and you close your eyes for just a second, letting yourself fall into it. Letting yourself feel him.

You lean into him, the weight of your body pressing more fully into his, and it feels like home.

He hums against you again, pleased, the vibration making you shiver. He feels it.

His voice is lower when he speaks again, his breath warming your skin as he smooths his words there, slow and teasing but full of something truer beneath the surface.

“Still gonna have a word with him, though. Can’t have him fillin’ your head with stories ‘bout me I ain’t got a chance to defend myself against.” Something about the way he says it feels important.

You lift your head, enough to meet his eyes, your fingers tracing absently along the line of his collar, your touch light, thoughtful. The depth in his blues nearly makes you forget what you were about to say.

“I like knowing more,” you basically whisper, only for him.

Bucky’s smirk fades into something quieter, something that makes your stomach churn in a slow and uncomprehending way.

His hands tighten where they test on you, fingers tenderly digging into your waist.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. He is reading you, something in your face that you don’t even know you are giving away.

And Bucky kisses you.

Slow and meaningful.

Like he knows there is no need to rush, that he has all the time in the world. Certain of the fact that he’ll get to do this again. Again and again and again, as often as he wants, as often as you’ll let him.

And you will.

His lips move against yours, coaxing, claiming - but it doesn’t feel claimed. It feels given. Offered. Cherished.

He is taking his time learning you, savoring you, not because he is afraid this might be the last time, but because he knows it won’t be.

He kisses you with a softness that contradicts the strength in his hands, the way they hold you - sure, definite, fingers curling just enough to tell you he’s here, but not so tight that you ever feel caged.

His fingers slide against the fabric of your clothes, keeping you exactly where he wants you. Where you want to be. One of his thumbs brushes slow strokes at your ribs as if he can’t help but touch, as if he needs to keep that connection even as he has his mouth firmly planted on yours.

His tongue sweeps against yours, the heat of it making your stomach tighten, something deep inside you ignite and spread low in your belly.

And then, softly, from deep in his chest, he lets out a groan - so content, so relaxed. Right against your lips, against your skin, shuddering through you like the quietest kind of need. It’s him sinking into this moment just as much as you are. You feel it vibrate through him, through you, pooling somewhere deep and warm and thrilling.

By the time he pulls back, you are lightheaded.

He doesn’t go far. Doesn’t let you go. His forehead meets yours, and it feels like a moment held in stillness. His breath is warm. His lips are swollen.

“You eat enough?” His voice is husky.

You nod. Or maybe you think you do. You’re still dazed, still floating somewhere between his kiss, his scent, and his voice.

“You drink something?” he murmurs next, the concern filling up his tone so seamlessly. His fingers tighten slightly and then start to trace shapes along your back.

Another nod.

His lips curl, just slightly, like he is amused by how wrecked you already look from a single kiss.

“You wanna get some rest?”

He says it so sweetly, so soft and careful, already preparing to gather you into his arms and lay you down himself if you so much as waver.

You blink at him, at the softness in his voice, the way he is still so close, his lips just a breath away.

“Not just yet,” you whisper.

His lips curve fully this time, his breath escaping in a breathy chuckle, warm with affection. Dipping down again, he presses another kiss to your temple. Then, another just behind your ear. And one against your jaw. Unhurried.

You almost forget the question forming on your tongue, almost forget the reason you wanted to ask in the first place.

“What did the others say?” you ask quietly.

Bucky exhales through his nose, thumbs remaining to glide idle patterns over you.

He tilts his head, considering his words. “They had questions,” he answers, tone light, but there is something thoughtful in it. “They just wanna understand.”

His eyes are intense, gauging your reaction.

“They wanna meet you,” he goes on.

You exhale a breath, but it doesn’t seem enough to push some of your lingering nerves from your chest. You swallow hard, and he catches it. He sees the way you shift slightly in his lap, the way your hands tighten where they rest lightly against his chest.

“But I told ‘em they’re gonna have to wait,” he adds, his tone firm now like the matter’s already been settled. “They know what they need to know and you’ll talk to them when you’re ready.” His gaze holds steady. Unblinking and piercing. “Not while you’re still catchin’ your breath.”

A part of you wants to say that you’re fine.

To brush it off, to tell him you can handle a conversation right now, that you’ve been handling things your whole life.

But you don’t say it. Because it’s a lie. And Bucky would know.

You are tired. Your mind is still catching up with the reality of where you are and what you left behind and the unknown of what is ahead. And it is so much, so much more than you ever thought you’d allow yourself to have.

Bucky shifts, leaning in and smoothing his palm down your back in grounding strokes.

“We’ll figure everything out,” he assures you, voice sure, but gentle.

Your pulse picks up.

It’s not a grand declaration. Not a sweeping promise of a happy and prosperous future. But it comes from him. And he is genuine. Solid.

There seems to be no doubt in his mind that this is right for you.

He believes in this.

In you.

And then, he pulls you closer. His breath fans warm against your skin, you feel his chest move as he speaks his next words.

“You’re safe here, darlin’,” he whispers. A hand reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I promise.”

You believe him.

Maybe because of the way he says it so earnestly, unshakable, determined.

Maybe because of the way he holds you as if you mean more to him than anything else ever did.

Maybe because of the way his strong heartbeat beneath your palm is so reassuring, so passionate.

Maybe it’s just him.

After all, it has been him since the first moment your eyes found him. A man standing rigid and intimidating, his silhouette cut from the very shadows that enveloped him.

His gaze alone sent a tremor through you, those many weeks ago, in the tunnels of the palace, as if he already decided your worth before a word had even passed between you.

The hatred in his eyes had been undeniable, a roaring fire fed by years of betrayal and injustice, all hidden behind a mask of indifference.

But something else had lurked there. Something wounded, something searching, something that you would come to understand.

It has been him when you found out where his hatred was rooted.

Born from the sins of your father, in the broken promises of a ruler who swore loyalty to his men only to cast them aside when their usefulness was deemed expired.

A soldier betrayed, a man left with nothing but scars and grief and the knowledge that his devotion had been answered with silence.

Bucky Barnes has fought for your kingdom. Has bled for it. Has faced death for it. Has believed in it.

And in return, he has been given exile, stripped of his honor, and robbed of the people who mattered most - his mother and sister used as a leash to keep him compliant.

Your mother ensured their safety and sent them far away, but he still has to live with their absences, the uncertainty of how they are doing, and where they reside.

The anger that has festered in him was not misplaced. It was justified. You know that now.

And you know that if there is anyone who should reunite them with him, it is you. The idea has taken root inside of you, latching onto your ribs like vines, growing stronger with each passing day.

If your mother had the power to save Bucky’s family from your father's hands, then surely you can find the strength to bring them back. You don’t know where she sent them, where she thought they would be safest, but there has to be a way.

A letter, a name, a whisper of a clue waiting in the dark. You will find it. You will search every inch of this world if you must.

Because it is not just about justice. It is not just about redemption. It is about him.

The man who has been forced to protect a princess born from the same bloodline of a man who has stolen something irreparable from him. The man who once looked at you like you were the sum of every lie he has been told, the man who now watches you with something softer, something hopeful. The man who has kissed you like a promise, who has held you like you are something precious, something he wants to keep. The man who has chosen you when he has every reason not to.

Bucky Barnes deserves to see his family again. He deserves to know they are safe, that they live, that they are not lost to time and cruelty. And you will be the one to give that to him.

You are certain of that.

“Bucky.”

It’s barely a word, spoken so softly, but Bucky hears it.

His brow furrows ever so slightly at your tone, concern rushing through his eyes for a second, regarding you with attentiveness.

His hands continue their exploration, fingers smoothing over your waist, mapping your form.

“What is it, darlin’?” he asks patiently, nodding for you to go on.

You swallow, heart twisting as you gather your thoughts.

“I need to say this,” you start, but his brow only furrows deeper. His hands stop on your hips, waiting for you to continue. “I cannot express how sorry I am for what my father did to you.”

The blue of his eyes darkens. He parts his lips, ready to dismiss it, ready to push it aside like he has done with so many wounds inflicted upon him.

But you press on.

“I know I’m not him,” you continue, meeting his eyes. Voice a little frail, but remaining resolved. “And I know I cannot undo what he did - cannot rewrite the past or erase the pain he caused. But I hate that it happened. I hate that I was ignorant for so long, that I did not ask more questions when I should have.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches, muscles ticking beneath his skin and his gaze lowers.

His expression is unreadable at first, carefully guarded. Like a man who has spent a lifetime learning how to keep his pain behind locked doors. But you don’t want him to do that with you. Not anymore.

The fingers on his chest start to trace a careful path over his left shoulder. Even through the fabric of his shirt, you can feel the uneven texture of marred flesh, a reminder of the pain he had endured, a reminder of something he can’t escape. Your heart bleeds for him.

Bucky’s breath catches, shoulders tensing up slightly, but he doesn’t stop you. Just watches you, searching for something he won’t ever find. Disgust. Fear.

He exhales after a beat, something deep and profound, before reaching up to take your hand gently in his. His thumb brushes over your knuckles and he takes your hand off his shoulder to bring it to his lips, kissing your skin there tenderly.

His eyes find yours again, something shimmering in their depths. Something breaking and rebuilding all at once.

“You don’t owe me an apology, sweetheart,” he quietly says, his voice a thick rumble. “Not for him. Not for what you didn’t know.”

Your throat tightens.

“Still,” you whisper. “I’m so sorry, Buck.”

Bucky stiffens. Just slightly.

His fingers twitch where they hold onto yours and when you take a better look at him, you catch the faintest flush creeping up his neck, settling at the tips of his ears.

He blinks, then glances away for the briefest moment, trying to compose himself.

You bite back a smile.

He exhales a breath that is almost a laugh, but there is something softer underneath it. He turns your hand over in his and presses another kiss to the center of the back of your hand. You bite your lip.

“Buck?” he rasps out, clearing his throat. “Where’d you get that from?”

“Steve said it earlier. I liked it,” you declare, grinning softly.

There is a tug at the corner of his mouth, but the color on his face hasn’t entirely faded. If anything, it deepens when he meets your gaze again, something affectionate flashing in his stormy blue eyes, the simple act of you calling him that seems to have rattled him more than he might have expected.

“Yeah?” He lets out another breath, shaking his head like he can’t believe you, as if you managed to unearth something in him he long had buried deep. A kiss meets your nose.

“Yeah,” you whisper back.

It is a strange thing, this feeling inside of you.

Strange because it is so unfamiliar, but even more so because it does not frighten you. It is something so new, so boundless, and you feel like it should be more overwhelming than it is right now, should make you hesitate.

But it doesn’t. Not in this moment at least.

Rather, it embeds itself within your bones, your skin, and the spaces between your ribs, establishing a residence there as if it was destined to be.

It is not the fleeting kind of lightness that comes with bringing a forced discussion with some Lord to an end or the temporary relief of fulfilling an obligation.

This lightness is deeper, so warm and weighty, like the glow of the first morning sun spilling through trees and making the earth all shiny. It fills you up, but it does not press down on you. It lifts you. Like a breeze curling under the wings of a bird in flight.

The tight pull of breath always caught too high in your chest is getting released. You feel like you exist without effort, at least right now. No knots in your stomach waiting to tighten. Nothing to brace yourself against here in Bucky’s arms, here in Bucky’s lap. You are simply being hold, by this incredible man and the earth and you are finally light enough to notice.

You think, perhaps, that this is what contentment is supposed to feel like. Not the shallow kind you have convinced yourself you’ve had before, but real and true contentment. It is not desperate or fleeting. It is secure and whole. It lingers in spaces where doubt once lived, replacing it with something softer, something stronger.

And you want to get used to it.

Not just the feeling of Bucky’s warmth against you, his hands on your waist, his breath ghosting over your skin as he watches you with eyes that see more of you than anything ever has.

It is what comes with it - the stillness inside you, the feeling that, for the first time, you are exactly where you are supposed to be.

You never want to stop feeling like this.

There is no fear in that thought, no apprehension, no indecision. Only the truth as sure as the beat of your own heart. A truth that you do not need to run from. A truth you want to hold onto.

You have always felt so helpless, a pawn in a game played by men who viewed you as little more than a bargaining piece.

You had believed for so long, that your fate was sealed - to be given away to some lord, some stranger who would claim you as his possession, who would shape your life to fit his desires.

You never thought you had a choice.

But now, especially here with Bucky, freedom no longer feels like a foolish dream.

But you are not dreaming anymore.

You are no longer walking through marble halls and seeing a ghost in your reflection in the polished floors, your presence announced before you even entered a room.

You had been told your life that power is your birthright. That it is simply something you have because of your blood.

But you have never felt less powerful than when you sat on a throne, looking down at a world you were meant to govern someday but have never touched. Never walked through. Never lived in. A kingdom only yours by name but not by heart.

But here - in this place, this home that is not gilded but real - you feel power for the first time.

Not the kind that demands respect through titles and gold-threaded sashes. Not the kind that is wielded from a seat high above. Not the ornamental power of a princess, where everything was dictated to you, where your hands were kept clean while others did the work.

But the kind that is earned.

The kind that festers in your hands as you work alongside others, as you listen, as you see. The kind of power that does not isolate you, but makes you into something greater than yourself.

You are no longer watching the people you are supposed to rule from afar. You are among them. You are one of them. And that means you can help in ways you never could before.

Not by signing decrees in a gilded chamber, but by standing beside them, hearing their worries not through secondhand whispers but through their own voices, spoken under the same sky, breathed into the same air.

There is nothing grand about this worn-down cabin, its wooden beams creaking faintly due to the wind outside. But here are the walls close enough to feel like an embrace. The fire burns because someone built it, not because a low-respected servant lit it for them. The food is made with hands that know hunger, not by unseen kitchen staff preparing feasts for people who will never truly taste them.

For so long, your life has been a thing of ceremony, of distance.

You smiled in silence at elaborate gatherings while outside the palace gates, there were people who had nothing. You had been dressed in fabrics woven by hands you never saw, had eaten from plates polished by people who were invisible to you.

You were a symbol. A statue.

Here, you are a person.

You are listening. Learning. Understanding. With the will to help.

And you owe them.

You owe Bucky, who risked everything, who once had nothing by the hand of your own father, who still gave.

You owe Sara, who looked at you with concern instead of resentment.

You owe Sam, who teased and laughed when he had every reason to scorn you.

You owe Steve, who came looking for you to make sure you are here because you want to be.

You owe all of Bucky’s friends, who are willing to take you in.

You owe AJ and Cass and all the other children, who are young but already know the world better than you did when you were their age.

You owe the townsfolk, who live with a laugh in their breaths and callouses on their hands, who bake bread and spin needles and sell belongings to earn their living.

You have spent your life wearing a crown, but now you are learning what it means to deserve one.

It took ruin for you to find your purpose.

It took fire to finally wake you up, to finally make you see.

It took the scent of smoke in your lungs, the acrid sting of burning silk, the sight of your world collapsing in embers and ruin to strip you down to something exposed and wholehearted.

It took the echoes of screams, the witness of death, and the brutality of your so-called power stolen by force to finally open your eyes.

It took blood running in the luxurious corridors of your palace, seeping into the cracks of the very foundation that held up your name.

It took watching torches burning high in the night.

It took the fall of a kingdom - the death of a king whose sins caught up to him, a queen who had tried to shield her daughter from the truth but could not protect her from the consequences.

You had never fought for anything before. You had been raised to believe you wouldn’t have to, that battles were waged in war rooms with ink and parchment, that change was something slow and distant and impersonal.

But it never was. It never was supposed to be.

It was blood on marble floors. It was your parent's life’s taken in the dark. It was hands grabbing you, dragging you away from the only life you had ever known. It was hatred in Bucky’s eyes when he looked at you, sharpness in the way he treated you, old wounds bleeding into every moment, every breath between you.

Bucky Barnes had not wanted you. Had not wanted this burden, this reminder of the very throne that had once crushed him beneath his weight.

He had looked at you with cold indifference and that simmering loathing buried behind those storm-dark eyes, seeing nothing but the ghost of a man who stole his life.

But fate thrust you into his hands anyway.

It forced you into the shadows of his world, into the villages and the backroads, into the lives of the very people you had spent your whole life standing apart from. it stripped you of titles, luxury, of safety. Of all the things you took for granted.

You had spent your life being something beautiful, something untouchable. But beauty did not save you. Elegance did not keep you from falling. Manners did not stop the fire from devouring your home.

You had burned that night.

Not just your home. You. The girl who has never asked questions. The princess who has accepted the world as it was given to her. The daughter who has not known the sins of her father.

She has burned away, turned to ash with the palace that has stood for centuries.

Now, you are something else.

You are rage tempered into steel.

You are grief sharpened into resolve.

You are ashes turned into kindling, waiting to catch fire.

And you will rise.

Not as a queen draped in gold and jewels, sitting high on a throne of empty power. But as something stronger. As the force that destroys the old world and builds a new one from its remains.

Something built from the bones of the past, something shaped by loss and truth and the unrelenting fury of a fire that refuses to die.

You will wield it.

You will not let the past define you. You will not let their sins be yours. You will fight. For freedom. For justice.

For the people who took you in when they had every reason to turn you away.

For the mercenary who should have hated you forever but now watches you like you are something worth believing in.

You will be born anew from the ashes of what once was.

You will not let the flames consume you this time.

You will not be caged.

You will set the world alight.

You will rise.

Like a phoenix.

“She survived the war; many times over. And she still somehow looked like royalty.”

- Lalah Delia

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