#someone save this man from his pining (its mutual)

[ilovehimbos]

aw hell nah bros pining ass is so lame

my gift for the lovely @cinnamonrollsledge for the summer exchange ! someone save this man from his pining (its mutual)

[syoddeye]

kinktober - day 07 - virgin

gaz x f!reader | 2.3k words cw: gaz pov, some manipulation/kyle isn’t the most well meaning man in this, implied pining lol, mutual masturbation, piv sex summary: kyle's lifelong best friend happens to mention she's a virgin. it's a good thing he's a gentleman. sort of. a/n: i intended to stick to my wc but then the voices (kyle) kept talking banner by @/cafekitsune | kinktober list

Her bra hooks the back of her desk chair—lucky shot.

Kyle’s on a lucky streak, seems like. First, securing leave. A feat in and of itself. Second, successfully talking his way into staying at his best girl’s place. Third, though perhaps the most engineered, getting her not-quite-boyfriend to leave. 

She was upset, of course. Cried into his shoulder for two days. She didn’t understand why Whatshisface had left so abruptly and stopped returning her messages. She bemoaned her return to sudden singleness and the barely-off-the-ground relationship. Kyle amused her. Comforted her. Assured her there was nothing she was missing out on.

(A leading statement. Makes targets keen to correct. She, being no different, immediately said—)

“Yes there is!”

“Doubt it. Matthew didn’t seem like one to carry particularly stimulating conversations.”

“His name was Michael, and let’s just say, I might as well convert and join a convent.”

Hook. “What do you mean by that?”

Line. Wiggling. “I just…I mean I’ve never…”

Come on. “Never what?”

“Fucked. Okay? I’ve never fucked someone.” 

Sinker.

He thanked himself for acing every RTI course he’d taken, what with the journey his insides took at such an admission. Never in a million years did he think he’d get so lucky. He had wondered if he’d lost his chance ages prior, a lifetime ago. 

And she said it all self-deprecatingly. She laughed at herself. But he watched her face fall. 

Then, rise, tentatively, with his offer.

“Say the word, and I’ll save you from the sisters.”

Which led him here, her bra settling against a piece of furniture, a pair of fantastic tits spilling damn near his face.

Kyle lowers and buries his face into the cradle of her neck and shoulder. A moan slips from her mouth as he presses a kiss there, stubble rasping her skin. He grunts, teeth scraping and hands shoving up to palm at her chest. Thumbs swiping over her nipples, feeling them harden further.

Her honeyed voice in his ear, gasping softly. “Ah, Kyle.”

Kyle grins against her neck. So sensitive, so responsive. He cannot wait to hear what sort of sounds he’ll pry out of her.

He pulls back, meeting her half-lidded gaze with his own. Anticipating coiling in his stomach as his hands smooth up her thighs, then tuck under the waistband of her panties. Seeing no obvious distress or discomfort, he tugs them down, teeth resting on his bottom lip at the unveiling of her body. He groans at the sight of her coarse curls, he loves a woman with a bush, but his lips part at the sight of her pussy. It’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Another time, further down the road—he’ll ask her for a picture. Just for him.

“Won’t it be awkward?” She had asked. 

“We’ve known each other since we could walk. What could be more natural?” He’d answered.

Kyle swallows thickly, coaxing her legs open through their squirming. Eating her up with just his eyes, stuck to the wet seam of her cunt. 

He briefly considers diving right in, burying his mouth and nose until he suffocates, but he wants her worked up. Aching for it. So his eyes flick back to her tits, and his hands follow. He watches intently as he toys with her nipples, pinching and rolling them between his thumbs and forefingers. He doesn’t miss a single twinge of her brow or inhalation. She’s good for him the whole time, hands stuck at her sides. She’s already clutching the sheets like a lifeline. 

Soon enough, her mouth’s caught in a perpetual gasp, and he sinks back down to capture it in a languid kiss. He allows her to take the lead, rewarding her eagerness by letting her dictate its duration, and his chest cracks at the soft sigh she gives him in turn. With her thoroughly relaxed, he experimentally rocks his hips, letting his clothed tip gingerly bump against her clit. The fingers on his back muscles tense and dig in, but the little shiver he feels pass through her chest into his makes him smile into her mouth.

He withdraws, tongue passing over his lips as he reclines. Breathing heavily, he tilts his head, palming his cock.

“Touch yourself. Show me how you like it.”

“Kyle,” she pouts. “That’s not—can’t you just…?”

“No can do, babe. Don’t want to make a mess of this, ‘least not yet,” he smirks, ignoring the small smack she delivers to his knee. “I want to see what you do. Everyone’s different.”

“Don’t remind me of how many people you’ve slept with.”

Attitude is a defense mechanism. A cute defense mechanism but a barrier all the same. He pulls further back, delighting in the deepening of her frown. She needs to learn.

“And you don’t give me that lip. Touch yourself. I know you know how. No way you’ve neglected that pretty pussy for so long.”

She huffs and complains a minute more but rewards his patience. One hand snakes down and tentatively rubs her clit, movements stiff, still shy, and tucks a finger into her hole. It’s adorable, the shallow plunge. It’s a miracle she’s ever gotten off before, what with how unsatisfying it looks compared to what Kyle knows he can give her. Will give her.

His focus shifts back to her face as he slowly discards his pants, needing to free his cock with the sounds her finger makes in her hole. He watches her eyes widen as it bobs free, tracking every move as he maneuvers atop the bed, stripping them off entirely.

“Like what you see, babe?”

“Y-Yeah.” The way she lifts her gaze seems mechanical.

Already leaking, his cock twitches in his palm on an upstroke. He hasn’t slept with a virgin in so long—he’d forgotten what that meld of hunger and curiosity looks like. She doesn’t look away at the slick sound of his pre spreading over his head under his thumb, nor when there’s an audible, wet suction around her finger. She bites her lip, eyes watering. Sweet thing. So close to grasping what she’s been missing.

“Add another.” She hesitates but complies, and he nearly comes watching the pinch of her face as she dips a second finger into pussy. “Ah, no. Keep looking at me, angel. That’s right. Focus on the feeling.”

And like that, slow and steady, he talks her into a third.

“It hurts.” she whines, despite the weak buck of her hips into her hand.

If you think that hurts sits on the curl of his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth. The backs of his fingers are drenched in precome. More than once, he’s had to pause. “I know, but it’ll ease up. I’m bigger than two of your fingers.”

“Then why don’t you,” she gasps, eyes briefly fluttering shut. “Why don’t you use yours?”

He’d like to. Truly. The thought makes him dizzy. But that would require him to be a better man than he is, if only she’d brought this up four, five years earlier. His fingers can go another day.

“Because,” his jaw works. He’s well aware of the knife’s edge he walks. Everything he says before he’s inside her is a coin flip. “I don’t want my fingers to be the first part of me inside you, babe.”

Her eyes widen a fraction, and to his relief, she moans. “Fuck, Kyle, that’s…That’s so…”

“I know.” He grins. 

She ends up stuffing her pussy with four fingers, the last digit tucks in without his urging. He stops her after her breath hitches. She pouts again.

“Shouldn’t I come first? Before–?”

“You’re wet enough, believe me,” He teases. It’s a little mean, but he’s impatient. He’s never been able to maintain the same stillness his job requires out of the field. “I think you’re ready. Feel ready?”

Kyle barely kills a smug smile as she firmly presses her lips together before finally eking out a yes, steady but thin. Her shoulders are loose, but her slick fingers curl nervously over her belly like she’s trying to hold herself together. Her eyes flicker with something she’s trying hard not to show, something just beneath the surface, but she keeps her face neutral.

The sense of satisfaction is a small thrill. Not from her answer but from knowing he’s got her this far.

He chucks her chin as it dips, lowering his own to keep their eyes level. “You know I’ll be gentle, right? As much as I can? You trust me, don’t you?” He makes a show of opening and rolling on the condom. It’s a small travesty, but he’ll get her on the pill soon enough. If anything, it makes her less likely to back out.

As she nods, he lays her back. Listens to her intently. “I know, I know.” She mumbles, but her eyes snap to his cock, its weight resting in the crease of her thigh. 

“Don’t worry, relax.” he whispers, brushing his lips against hers, then pressing into a kiss. He takes advantage of a gasp to deepen it, moving his hips and adjusting his cock to let it slip over her folds. He groans, nudging her clit with its head. She’s soaking, radiating pure heat. 

This is the part where he should reassure her, say “If it hurts too much, or if you want me to stop, tell me.” He doesn’t. He’s gone years thinking this was out of reach. Impossible. ‘Natural’, he told her. Same as ‘inevitable’, he thinks.

Bracing himself on one arm, he guides his cock to her hole, eyes drilling into where his tip disappears. Just a hint, enough to make sweat break out along his neck. Warmth flows from her sex, as inviting as a hearth. Notched, he starts to push in, fingers leaving his length to return to her clit. Standby mode for when—

“Shh, you’re alright,” it’s automatic when a pitiful whine escapes. He looks from her wide eyes to the crease between her brows and parted lips. “Fuck, it’s so good, babe. You’re alright.” He kisses her chin and jaw, the corners of her open maw, as another uncertain, wavering noise strikes high from her throat.

He pauses to kiss her deeply again, swallowing a few more gasps as he lets her adjust a bit. He toys with her clit, continuing his push. Her nails bite into his shoulders, and she whimpers a weak apology against his mouth that makes his chest ache and restraint slip. He burrows in a few inches all at once.

His sudden burst punches a loud, surprised sound out of her, one that puffs right past his ear. She pants against the shell, muttering over and over as she adjusts around him.

“Ohgodohgodohgod—“

He quiets her with more kisses, eventually getting her to take it down an octave and use her words.

His arm burns from flexing, muscles working to keep him partly hovering above her, sweat dripping from his brow. She’s so unbelievably tight, wet, and molten around his cock. It’s everything he’s wanted and more. A slice of heaven gifted to him, made for just him. No one else. She might go on to sleep with other people—hopefully not, if he plays this right—but he’s the one she will remember.

“Kyle…S’big,” she slurs, lips moving against his cheek. 

“You’re alright,” he repeats with a chuckle, a sample of the loud, mad laugh he feels tickling his throat. Triumphant. “Talk to me. How else do you feel?”

“It didn’t—It’s…weird?” She echoes a delirious giggle, twinging when he shifts his weight. She doesn’t look too sure. “But…”

“But what?”

“Can you keep touching…y-yeah, like that.”

He smirks, kisses her, and hastens the circles on her clit. He decides he can grind for a bit and find every last inch he can claim. Slowly but surely, her breathing levels and her cunt gives up territory. Lets him in until his balls are flush with the cushion of her ass. 

“There we go, look at that.” He pulls back slightly to admire where he ends, and she begins, the smell of sex and sweat dizzying. “No convent for you.”

She lets out a shaky breath, one hand letting go of him to scrub over her eyes in giddy disbelief. “Thank God.”

“Thank me.”

That gets him a swat, but the hand that strikes scrambles around his arm when he pulls out and snaps back in. Beyond that, there’s not much talking. Not much thinking, either. Rapture gradually twists her face, and he practically watches any traces of her earlier shyness and embarrassment fly out the window.

A frisson runs down her spine, a sharp, electric shudder that tells him he’s found the right spot. He adjusts accordingly, setting course to hit with each thrust, and rubs her clit in tandem. Her knees knock against his sides, pressing, mirroring her cunt’s clenching and fluttering. 

“‘M close, Kyle, I’m close—”

“I know, can feel it. You’re strangling me, shit, you feel good—come on, angel.”

Every roll of his hips makes her moan and gasp, the sounds climbing higher and higher. His shoulders are numb where her nails hold on like the pain’s settled beneath the surface or fled from pleasure. When her legs dig into his side and hold, he drops closer again, speeding up his fingers to draw her even tighter around his cock.

His name leaves her mouth broken over the sharp edge of a wail as she comes hard, body spasming beneath him, squeezing the life out of him. She goes lax after a moment, save for her hands, still holding on with a feather-light strength. Her teary eyes crack open and dart across what must be an ugly look of conquest on his face. He wonders in the seconds before he fills the condom if she sees the devotion there, too, or if it’s eclipsed by all his coveting.

After, she thanks him with a kiss so tender, his cock stirs. Laying face to face, entangled and intertwined, she feels it against her thigh and laughs tiredly.

“You joking? You’re insatiable.”

Kyle stares hard, chest heaving at the fleeting but vivid image of her on her knees floating through his head. 

“You have no idea.”

[pressureplus]

HEYA HELLO HI

first, i want to genuinely thank you guys for the account's existence and your hard work. reading through the posts is often the highlight of my bleak days, and im immensely grateful for you providing those moments of joy :]

SECOND UH ID LIKE TO ORDER A SPECIFIC KINDA HEADCANONS LIST IF NO ONE MINDS AND IT HASN'T BEEN WRITTEN ALREADY ALRIGHT YEAH

a nonbinary reader who is pretty similar to Seb's stubborn, independent and sassy persona but WOMP WOMP, they're suddenly head over heels for him. NEITHER WANTS TO ACKNOWLEDGE THE FEELINGS (aka "HE'S FUCKING MARRIED, IT'S NOT MUTUAL AND IM BUSY WITH NOT DYING, BUT I CANT GET HIM OUT OF MY HEAD" & "I HAVE A WIFE AND THEY'RE JUST SOME EXPENDABLE BASTARD, GET OVER IT, SOLACE"). the distracting, unnecessary, painful pining. how do both cope and who's gonna break first? and most importantly, is either gonna throw their ego and rationality out the window to confess despite the fear of looking pathetic?

oooof i hope it's not too much and it's not breaking any rules. thank you in advance if you find it interesting enough for writing! :D

Awww, thanks so much! Although I should make it very clear the wife in question will remain vague and is NOT BASED ON ANYONE! Thanks for the request ❤️

♡Married! Sebastian Solace x NB! Similar! Reader Headcannons♡

Warnings: Sebastian is Married and Y/N is technically an Affair Partner

◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟◞꒷◟ ͜ ͜ ◞ྀི◟୨୧◞ྀི◟ ͜ ͜ ◞꒷◟

He had found you interesting from the moment you opened your mouth and got sassy with him, mostly because most people don't have the balls to do it

Despite finding this slightly irritating, he also found it refreshing, so he didn't immediately shoot you if only for his own entertainment

A terrible mistake he'd soon find out

He developed some definitely unhealthy feelings the first time one of your comebacks had an almost flirtatious undertone

It was an accident on your part, but it got him thinking

He was a married man fawning quietly over you, how awful is that?

I mean of course he’s flashed the wedding band, and of course he's mentioned his wife when others flirt with him, but that doesn't change his feelings

If you flirted with him, would he really reject you?

Could he?

He hadn't known the touch of his wife in years, the softness of her hands, the warmth of her kisses

After everything that's happened he couldn't even remember her name. He should be able to remember his wifes name right?

Does he really even care about her? Does he love her now? Did he love her then?

It comes with an odd sense of guilt he doesn't like to look at. Especially when you do something that makes his heart flutter.

You, on the other hand, probably didn't develop any real feelings until he actually saved your ass.

You'd been running for your life and he’d snatched you up and into the vents, tossing you easily into his shop and shutting it behind you

His gaze transfixed on said vent, a hand on his gun. Something about him choosing to save your life while also putting up with your attitude was a little attractive…

Okay, insanely attractive

Sure, Sebastian’s guilt for being attracted to you is bad, but so is yours

You’re attracted to a married man who has absolutely gushed about his wife in front of you before. Even if it was only because someone tried to get a little flirty, what does that matter?

Honestly the mutual attraction makes it hard for you both to focus

Everything about that man is intoxicating, his smile, his laugh, his attitude. Can you really be judged for this?

Neither of you can focus on anything but each other whenever you’re both in a room.

It’s led to Sebastian getting surprised whenever another person buys something off him because he had no idea anyone else was in here

Its also led to you freaking out whenever one of the other expendable touches your shoulder without you having realized anyone was standing behind you

You hide it well…at least you hope you do?

The longing glances and quiet staring on both sides is unbearable though

Especially considering you’re both making those dolly eyes at each other, batting lashes and daydreaming

It’s cute but it’s also incredibly wrong of you two and you’re painfully aware of it

No amount of sharing food and acting like it’s not a date will make it less of a date

He’s already long since decided that he’s going to offer you come with him so you both can leave together

And though neither of you will have the heart to confess for quite a while, I think he’d do it on your way out. Something about you almost dying when you both escape makes him desperate to tell you how he really feels

When that ‘I think I’m in love with you’ slips out while he’s bandaging your arm that’s been cut by glass, how can you refuse?

Especially when you’re in love with him too?

He’ll toss that ring into the ocean once you reach the surface, his wife never loved him like you did anyway

[frvnkcastles]

WANT YOU SO BAD ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: You’re Matt’s best friend and you don’t much care for how Frank treats him — but you do end up caring for the man himself.

Warnings: Language, mentions of wounds, mutual pining

Word count: 1.8k

Author’s note: Ohmygod this request is literally 8 months old, I feel so bad it took me so long but here it finally is. Anon, if you see this, I hope you enjoy it, I’m thinking of you today <3

It was no easy feat being best friends with a vigilante — as much had been proven to you ever since you had bonded with Matt Murdock. You were constantly worried about him and for someone who had no prior experience, you sure found yourself doing a lot of stitching and nursing. Sometimes you wondered what it would be like to only know the lawyer side of him, but since he had saved your life as Daredevil and you had pieced his identity together all on your own, there was no changing the facts of your friendship. And those were 1) you were scared he was gonna get himself killed one day, and 2) you were going to do all you could to protect him, just like he protected you.

So, when a certain second vigilante made his debut in your city and Matt found himself in trouble yet again, you made the big bad Punisher someone you kept your eye on — for Matt’s sake, of course.

You weren’t in their little group, so you didn’t cross paths with him too quickly, and you doubted Matt would have introduced you to him. But as fate would have it, you and Frank frequented the same diner near your apartment, and on a Saturday night just like any other, you found the man sipping coffee in the corner booth of your favorite place to get French fries.

You placed your order and then, defiantly as ever, strutted your way to Frank and sat down across from him with a stern stare etched onto your face. His own expression spoke in volumes — who the Hell were you to invade his personal space and alone time? Still, he didn’t say anything, only stared back at you, trying to figure out why you looked so familiar. Had he killed someone close to you?

”You don’t know me, but I know you”, you started, inhaling and exhaling heavily to keep your anger at bay. ”You shot my best friend in the head, you asshole”, you seethed, keeping your voice quiet to avoid other patrons overhearing you, but it was still obvious you were pissed at him.

At that, Frank chuckled. ”You’re Red’s friend”, he put two and two together, and as he reached for his coffee mug again, you snatched it away from him, evoking a frustrated glare from him.

”Damn right I am. He’s just trying to protect the people in this city. He did nothing to deserve your… your shitstorm”, you ranted, pointing a blaming finger right at his chest. He lowered his eyes to your hand, but eventually looked right back up at you, leaning in to close the distance and whisper his counter-argument over the table.

”Yeah? Tell your friend he’s a fuckin’ coward. The criminals in this city… they don’t deserve a second chance. He ain’t makin’ any difference. I put a stop to ’em”, he growled, his eyes a bottomless pit as you made contact with them, and something about the sincere fury in them made you swallow. You were angry, but so was he, that much was obvious.

Before you could say anything more, the lady working at the diner brought your bag of food over to you, and gave you a reason to leave Frank alone. As you got up, you clenched your jaw and gave him one last look.

”I’ve got my eye on you”, you warned him, and as you walked away, Frank couldn’t help but chuckle. You were a force, and as much as he tried to resist, he felt drawn to that.

The next time you and Frank were in the same orbit, you were having a night out with your two best friends. It wasn’t the classiest bar, and maybe that was why it had attracted lowlifes to its pool table, but the drinks they served were cheap and the music they played good enough to dance to — that was why you were there, and that was exactly what you told him when he found you by the counter.

”This place ain’t safe”, he spoke quietly by your ear, trying to warn you, but you were feeling stubborn and a little drunk, so his attempt to get you out didn’t go too well.

”Screw you, who are you to tell me I can’t enjoy a night out?” you spat at him, loud enough for the gang members by the pool table to turn their attention to you. You were nobody to them, but Frank? He was far too easily recognized, and before you realized it, a full-blown gunfight had broken out.

Frank hauled you over the bar counter and you crouched onto the floor to shield yourself from the gunfire. Screams filled the night as people ran out of the bar, but Frank ran towards the danger, reminding you all too much of Matt. But when you peeked over the counter, you saw him in all his glory, and in that moment, he wasn’t like your best friend at all. Whereas Matt was graceful and precise in his movements, Frank was brute power, using his fists when guns didn’t do the trick. Blood coated his knuckles and he didn’t stop even when the men were down — only when they lay dead and he could catch his breath over their bodies.

You stood up and stared at him in some kind of wonder and amazement, but the words that tumbled out of your mouth were far from appreciative. ”Way to ruin girls’ night”, you scoffed, and rolling his eyes, Frank looked you over to make sure you were okay.

”They get you?” he rasped, and shaking your head, you smoothed your hands over your dress.

”I’m good.”

Nodding, Frank wiped his hands against his jeans and then offered one to you. ”Aight. I’m walkin’ you home. Don’t even try and protest, sweetheart.”

Reluctantly, you took his hand. ”I’m not your sweetheart”, you muttered under your breath, but he heard it, anyway, and it made him crack half a smile.

For such a big city, your circles seemed to be quite small. You ran into each other almost habitually after that, and without fail you managed to lecture him about treating Matt better and he argued back. But in between those little spats, you had both developed a liking to seeing each other, even if neither of you would admit it. Still, you couldn’t stop thinking about him, and you were doing a hell of a job distracting him from his mission, just by being you.

Undoubtedly, you had gotten under his skin, because not much time had gone by when he was actually working with Matt, not against him. Of course, you only learned about this when the two men appeared at your doorstep in the middle of the night.

You opened the door only to find Matt struggling to support Frank’s weight on him, a pool of blood soaking through the latter’s shirt. ”What the fuck?” you breathed out, stepping aside to let them in, and Matt didn’t waste any time in getting Frank to your couch.

”He took a knife for me”, Matt explained vaguely before turning to you and placing a hand on your shoulder. ”I need to go back out and make sure they didn’t follow us here. Can you handle him?” he asked you with genuine concern behind his words, but you didn’t hesitate.

”Yeah, I got this. Go, get out of here”, you urged him, and with that, he fled the apartment and left you alone with a groaning Frank. You glanced at him before heading for the bathroom where you quickly grabbed your first-aid kit and then stepped back into the living room where you crouched in front of him.

”I can do it myself”, Frank tried, but you slapped his hand away and gave him a glare.

”I got it. Take your shirt off”, you commanded, and for a second, Frank simply looked at you, but eventually caved in. With a huff, he struggled to get his shirt off but soon enough it was tossed onto the floor and you could get a good look at the gash on his abdomen. ”Okay. Definitely needs stitches but you’ll live”, you assessed the situation before taking out the disinfectant and getting to work.

You were both silent for a moment, with you focusing on Frank and Frank looking around the apartment, taking in all the details. It was so you. You had turned the place into a home, something he hadn’t been in for a long time, and against his better judgment, he relaxed. With you, he felt safe, like he could breathe again.

”So, you were protecting him, huh?” you asked finally, not looking up from the wound but the teasing tone in your voice was obvious.

Frank snorted. ”It ain’t that deep. You look after the people on your team, ’s all. I wasn’t gonna be outnumbered like that”, he explained it away, and now, it was your turn to chuckle.

”You sure you didn’t get attached? Maybe it started out as a rivalry, but then you realized he wasn’t so bad, after all. In fact, he’s kind of nice. Just what you needed. And now you can’t imagine being without him”, you theorized, right as you completed the final stitch.

”We still talkin’ about Red?” Frank asked in that deep voice of his, and your heart skipped a beat. You looked up at him, your eyes locked on each other, and suddenly you were painfully aware of his shirtless state. It was truly a sight to behold — he was sculpted like an artist’s handiwork, and now, with your neatly applied stitches on him, maybe he was.

”I’m done now”, you evaded the question while reaching for his shirt and handing it back over to him. Frank shrugged it back on, and you made a move to get up from the floor, but he stopped you with a gentle hand on your wrist.

”I did get attached”, he admitted quietly, avoiding your eyes for a beat before looking right into your soul and tilting his head at you. You were situated right between his knees, resting on top of your own, and it gave him the perfect angle to lean down and seal the distance between your lips. His landed on yours like a magnet was pulling them together, soft and sweet, not at all as rough or intimidating as he was. With you, he was gentle and tender, and your heart fluttered when he pulled away.

”Red’s gonna be so mad”, he whispered, and you couldn’t help but giggle, both of you chuckling before he kissed you again, a little more determined and heavy this time. Your eyes closed and you brought both hands to his face, cradling him and holding him close to you, all the while you breathed each other in.

”I guess he’s just gonna have to deal with it.”

[deancasbigbang]

Title: This Impossible Happiness

Author: FriendofCarlotta

Artist: sidewinder

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Dean/Cas

Length: 50467

Warnings: undefined

Tags: Alternate Universes, Multiple Versions of Dean and Cas, Post-Canon, Canon Compliant, Post The Winchesters 1x13, Second Chances, Getting Together, Getting Back Together, Mutual Pining

Posting Date: October 22, 2024

Summary: In one universe, Dean Winchester is pushing thirty. He’s just danced at his little brother’s wedding, he likes his job at the garage, and he goes on the occasional hunt with friends and family. He’s also desperately lonely for someone to share his life with. One day, he finds a mysterious package outside his door. It contains a news clipping about an urban legend that just might be real, and a book by Professor Castiel Novak, who happens to specialize in that same urban legend. In another universe, Castiel Novak’s roadside motel is slowly dying, its business hollowed out by the interstate system. Dean Winchester, the man who asked him to run away together years ago, is only a painful regret these days. Until the day a mysterious letter Castiel doesn’t remember writing brings Dean back to his doorstep. Out there in the multiverse, a man and an angel look for each other in all the wrong places. In the meantime, they might as well help a few other versions of themselves figure things out.

Excerpt: The motel is where the memory of Castiel’s father is still alive, in the memorabilia stuffed tightly into Carver Edlund’s Chamber of Horrors — the roadside attraction housed in the small building next door to the Scenic View. It’s nothing but a single room stuffed full of objects that belonged to his father, along with a few life-size recreations of monsters from his books. But it still attracts visitors from time to time, thanks to a single billboard on the interstate.    The motel is also where Castiel’s memories of a different man live. And, though Castiel doesn’t like to admit it to himself, those are the memories he clings to the hardest.    The summer Castiel turned twenty-five — nearly five years ago now — a drifter washed up at the Scenic View. He’d been traveling the country doing odd jobs for over a year, and he happened to be a big fan of Carver Edlund’s novels.    Even all these years later, whenever Castiel dusts the display of his father’s old typewriter inside the Chamber of Horrors, he can still hear Dean exclaim over it, his voice bright and sugar-sweet with delight. Whenever Castiel freshens the paint on the monster replicas, he can still see the childlike glee on Dean’s face when Castiel encouraged him to touch the scarred face of Hatchet Man or the Wraith’s wicked spike.    The ghost of Dean’s memory is why Castiel always lingers a little longer than he needs to over the daily cleaning and upkeep of the Chamber of Horrors. It’s also why he saves one of the motel rooms for last — after both the Chamber and all the other rooms have been seen to.    Room 8 was Dean’s room. It was here that the two of them became intimate for the first time, on the fourth night of Dean’s stay. As Castiel approaches the door, he pauses — as he always does — with his hand on the doorknob. He remembers how Dean was still nearly a stranger then. A mysterious being of light and laughter who’d come into Castiel’s drab, dreary life to make him forget all about how he’d left college to care for his father through the long illness that eventually took his life.    Castiel had wanted him so very much. Every time Dean glanced at him from under his eyelashes or made a flirtation so subtle that it could plausibly be denied, Castiel refused to let himself respond, to believe that someone so lovely could ever want him. And yet, Dean must have read Castiel’s yearning in his eyes, because on that fourth night, shy glances and blushing remarks became an arm slung over his shoulder and the tip of a nose, nudging bashfully against Castiel’s stubbled cheek.   It’s pathetic how well Castiel still remembers the details of that night and every night that followed. It’s even more pathetic how, every time Castiel turns the knob of Room 8, he half-hopes to find Dean waiting for him inside, sprawled decadent and freckled atop the covers.

DCBB 2024 Posting Schedule

[nicoline1998enilocin]

Discovering Our Love

PAIRING || Tony Stark x Avenger!Fem!Reader

WORDCOUNT || 11.5K

SUMMARY || When Tony throws a party after an extended, challenging mission to celebrate its success, you and the other Avengers get wrapped up in a game of truth or dare, which turns out to be the start of the most fantastic love story you’ve ever witnessed: you and Tony. When you’ve gone without warning the next day, Tony can’t help but get distracted every time he thinks about you, the thought of you and your first kiss still fresh in his mind.

RATING || Explicit (E)

TAGS || Use of Y/N and an ungodly amount of nicknames. Avenger!Reader. Alcohol consumption. Friends to lovers. Idiots in love. Mutual pining. Kissing as a dare. Angst. Reader is described as tattooed and pierced. Explicit sexual content.

SMUT || Praise/Praise kink. Dirty talk. Oral (M receiving). Unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!). Creampie. Aftercare.

A/N || This was supposed to be a short drabble, and well… here we are! I hope you will all enjoy the combination of the five amazing drabbles worked into this story, as I really had fun writing it. I want to thank @ccbsrmsf1 for helping me out during the writing of this story; without your support, this never would have turned out the way it has now, and I love you! 🤍

A/N 2.0 || These drabbles are included in the story: Drabble #1 - Drabble #2 - Drabble #3 - Drabble #4 - Drabble #5

EVENTS @fandom-free-bingo Book Night || Singing karaoke together @fandom-free-bingo Pride || Kissing as a dare + Falling over @fandom-free-bingo Wild || Romantic and platonic @julybreakbingo Post-JBB || “You could-” “Do not suggest I sit in your lap.” + Terms of endearment that may sound silly and/or ridiculous to others + Caught in the act + “Take my hand.” + Holding hands underneath the table + “Never figured you for a cuddler.” + Kissing someone on the head/cheek before leaving @tonystarkbingo #8005 || Friends to lovers

GIF: @ccbsrmsf1 || Other graphics are made by @nicoline1998enilocin

Main Masterlist || Tony Stark || Summer of Drabbles

The night has fallen long ago over New York City and Avengers Tower; the stars illuminate the sky above you beautifully as you and the Avengers enjoy the afterparty of one of Tony's (in)famous parties following a long and challenging mission. Everyone has been enjoying their fair share of booze and snacks the entire evening, making the atmosphere relaxed and happy as everyone can let loose for a night without thinking about saving the world.

Everyone is seated in a circle, taking up large lounge benches or seats on the rooftop terrace, and you're sharing a seat with the man you've been crushing on for years: Tony Stark. His arm is draped across the back of the seat, his fingertips tracing small patterns on your bare shoulder, his other hand gently cupping a glass of whiskey as he looks around the rooftop.

Meanwhile, you're clutching your bottle of beer tightly with your hands, making eye contact with Natasha as she talks with Bruce while occasionally glancing over at you and Tony. The only one who knows about your crush on the man next to you is her, as she's been your best friend since childhood, and the two of you have been sharing everything for as long as you can remember.

As you take a sip of your drink, Tony looks over at you, his gaze slowly wandering over your soft smile and beautiful features. A blush creeps on his cheeks as he thinks about the fact that he's been madly in love with you ever since he caught you in his lab due to your clumsiness, and feeling you in his arms feels nothing short of right.

"Pookie, can you hand me a cup from the cabinet? If you can't reach it, there's a stool there as well," Tony says, and you chuckle at the nickname he has given you this time. It has become a habit for the two of you to use terms of endearment that may sound silly or ridiculous to others, but for you two, it's become a game to come up with the oddest nicknames.

"Coming right up, Honeybear," you say, making him laugh hard as his heart warms at the nickname. This morning, you volunteered to help him out in his lab, as all the other Avengers are gone for a mission, and you came back from one last night, giving you two all the time in the world together. At first, you try to reach it as you're standing on your tiptoes, but you can't quite seem to reach as you huff at the shortcoming.

Then, you spot Tony's stepstool and position it by the counter of his kitchen. This time, you're successful, but as you want to back down, one of the legs snaps off, and you're flying back with a shriek, your eyes closed, as you're waiting for the impact of the hard, concrete floor to hit. It never comes, though, as a pair of strong arms catches you while the cup shatters into a million pieces on the floor.

"Careful there, Bambi," Tony says softly with bright red cheeks as he looks at you, the shock still visible on your face. The light of his lab illuminates your features in a way that makes you look like an angel, and he can't help but notice how good it feels to have you in his arms, how it feels like you belong there. Most of all, he's in love. He's undeniably in love with you and knows he wants to be yours for the rest of your lives together.

As Tony is lost in his thoughts as he looks at the soft slopes of your cheekbones and your plump, pink lips, he is caught off-guard by you turning your head to look at him. As you do, he scoffs quickly as he tries to hide his burning cheeks to no avail, as it is clear to everyone at the party what's going through his mind. Everyone but you, that is.

You feel your cheeks heating, and you shift in your seat, the feeling of Tony's long fingers against your shoulder leaving a trail of goosebumps. There is nothing but silence among the Avengers as they look at how you both are acting right now, knowing damn well what's going on in both your heads. Then, Thor thankfully decides to break the silence by starting another story about something that happened on Asgard with Heimdall, and you're thankful that the attention has shifted away from you and Tony for now.

As you try to listen to Thor telling his story, you can't help but let your thoughts wander as well, and the subject of them is the moment you realize you have fallen in love with Tony and fell hard.

"Tony, come on! It's our song!" you shout as you hear the starting notes of 'Don't Go Breaking My Heart' in the karaoke bar you, Tony, and the other Avengers are at for the night, a bright smile on your face as you hear the song you and Tony always sing when you're singing karaoke together.

"Okay, I'm on my way! I'm not the fastest anymore," Tony fake complains, making you roll your eyes as you tug on his arm. The enthusiasm definitely rubs off on him. As you approach the stage first, you grab two microphones before getting into place and singing the first words of the song. While Tony usually doesn't like to sing in front of crowds like this one, he happily makes an exception for you, as he knows how happy it makes you.

The entire time, you find yourself dancing all over the stage, only having eyes for the man you're singing with. The song adds to the atmosphere, and when you grab Tony's hand to dance with you, a jolt of electricity goes through your entire body. Then, it all clicks in your brain. Over the last few months, you have been falling more and more for the man who's been your partner in crime, and it's not just a simple friendship. No, you're in love with Tony, and the realization makes you look at him in a different light, as you can't wait to grow old with him.

You're snapped out of your thoughts as you see Natasha standing up to grab a drink. She motions for you to follow her, and you do after excusing yourself from Tony, who smiles in understanding. He takes a moment to admire the way your dress hugs all your curves just right, and this time, it's his turn to shift his position now, needing to get more comfortable after the sight he just had.

"Two beers, please," Natasha says when she's at the bar, and then she immediately directs her attention to you.

"So, how are you enjoying your evening? You and Tony are nice and cuddly on the loveseat, huh?" she asks teasingly, which makes you flustered beyond belief, and you shake your head in disbelief. She may be your best friend, but she'd be crazy to think there might be anything going on between you two. He might be nice to you and a good friend, but that's all.

"It's fine, Nat," you say shortly, and she smirks as he shakes your head.

"So you're telling me you're not enjoying yourself at all with the man you're in love with?" she asks with a raised brow. Her smirk is unwavering as she looks at you with an almost piercing gaze.

"Let's not do this now, okay? I'm just going to enjoy my evening without feeling sad that he doesn't love me back, and probably never will, either," you tell her in a defeated voice, your gaze focused somewhere on the bar instead of at your best friend. She squeezes your hand softly after encompassing it, letting you know it will all be okay.

"I love you, Detka. Never forget that," she tells you, and you nod in response, a smile now gracing your features. If there's one person who can always make you feel better, it's her, and you're grateful to be able to call you her best friend, as there's no one else in the world you trust more than her. Well, except Tony.

After grabbing your beers, it's time for you and Natasha to head back to the group, where Tony is already awaiting your arrival. He misses having you by his side, as he feels an emptiness in his soul without you - like a piece of him is missing when you're not there. Luckily, you're already back, flashing a smile as you approach him.

"Hmm, is there still room for me on the seat, or shall I sit somewhere else, Smartie?" you joke, and Tony makes a bit of a scene as he scoots closer to you, his following words already on his tongue.

"Well, you could-" Tony starts, but you're quick to interrupt him, already knowing where he's going with it.

"Do not suggest I sit in your lap!" you say, a deep red blush covering your cheeks. It's become almost standard for him to suggest it, and even though you'd love nothing more than to take him up on his offer, you'd much rather do it when there's no one around to watch, and the thought alone has your thighs squeezing together for some relief.

"I wasn't, but if you're offering…" he jokes, but you shake your head as you get comfortable next to him, but this time he pulls you against his side to get comfortable while your head rests on his shoulder.

"I never figured you for a cuddler, Stark," Natasha says with a wink, even though it's well-known you two often cuddle up together during movie nights. It's not uncommon for you to fall asleep in his hold during said nights, leading to him carrying you to your bedroom and tucking you into bed. The way Tony's arm is wrapped around you makes you feel very safe; his warmth makes you feel even more comfortable now.

"It's hard not to be when I have my Cupcake by my side," he says before turning his head and placing a soft kiss on your hair. As he does, you and Natasha exchange looks for a moment, and a shy smile brightens your features as you cuddle even closer to Tony, which he happily welcomes. You two stay exactly like this for a while until Clint suddenly jumps out of his chair with an idea, and you immediately sit upright at the sudden movement.

"How about we play some Truth or Dare?" he says excitedly, and it's clear he's already had a few too many drinks - though, at this point, that's the case for most people. Not you, though, as you don't like to overdo it, and Tony has significantly dialed down the drinking after he hit a very low point in his life a few years back. Thankfully, you were there for him through it all, and he owes you his life.

Steve and Bucky nod, even though they're not sure how to play, and the other Avengers are cheering in excitement at the thought of what's about to come. Immediately, Natasha raises her hand as she wants to go first, and you can see the glimmer of mischief in her green eyes as she gets comfortable in her seat.

"Y/N," she says lowly, the corner of her mouth tugging up as she looks right at you. Your fingers are clutching your beer bottle again, and you feel Tony's fingers dig softly into your side as he hears your name. Between the options' truth' or 'dare,' you always tend to go the same route.

"Dare," you say confidently, precisely what your best friend had anticipated.

"I dare you and Tony to kiss," she says lightly as if she's discussing the weather with you. As the words sink in with you and Tony, the butterflies in your stomach go wild at the thought of feeling his lips on yours, the way his facial hair will scrape against your soft skin, and how his hands will feel perfectly on your body as you get lost in one another.

Before you realize what's going on, Tony is already on his feet with a large smile. His hand is extended towards you, and his eyes let you know he's excited about the thought of what's about to happen. As you look at Tony, you feel a surge of warmth and excitement flowing through your entire body. When you grab his hand, he swiftly pulls you up so that you're in front of him.

"Are you ready, Silly Goose?" Tony asks, and the nickname makes you chuckle as you nod. Everyone's eyes are on the two of you, while you and Tony only have eyes for one another as if you're in a bubble that you never want to leave.

"I'm ready, Frilly Moose," you answer with a completely straight face, and Tony can't help but step back to laugh out loud. It's a deep, rumbling belly laugh with you smiling right along with him while all the others look at you both as if they've seen a ghost.

Then, without warning, Tony straightens up before stepping towards you, his hands gently cupping your face as he leans in to kiss you. It's soft and sweet at first as if he doesn't want to take it too far, but when you step closer, you open your mouth to allow him to explore your mouth, just as you'll do with his. As you feel his tongue slip past your lips, a soft moan escapes, and Tony quickly swallows it as he takes his time with you.

It feels like it's lasting for an eternity, yet mere seconds simultaneously. Everything around you has completely disappeared as you lace your hands in his hair, and it's like your souls are connecting, forming an unbreakable bond between you both. When you pull away, Tony follows your lips, placing a few more pecks before finally allowing you to pull away.

As you look into his eyes, it's like a beast has been unleashed inside of him, and you're looking forward to seeing it come to the surface, but for now, it would have to wait. As you take a moment to catch your breath, your mind catches up with what's been happening, and you both blush like crazy. You've finally kissed the man you have been in love with for years, and it felt amazing.

"I- I don't think you were supposed to kiss me like that," you say softly, making Tony grin widely as he tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

"You kissed me back, Lovebug, so don't act like it was all me," he says in a playful tone, intensifying the heat in your entire body. The rest of the evening is going by in a blur, as you and Tony mainly have eyes for one another. While you two don't share any more kisses after this one, you're constantly touching each other and giving each other loving glances as you two bask in the glory of your kiss.

Once the party ends, Tony offers to bring you to your room, and you happily accept. As you're standing in front of your door, you're suddenly unsure what to say because you don't want the evening to end, especially after what happened between you.

"I—uhm…" you start, shyness taking over your entire being as you try to think of the right thing to say. It's challenging when he's so close that his cologne is taking over your senses, and his body heat radiates onto your skin.

"It's okay, Honeybuns," he whispers, tucking a piece of loose hair behind your ear, making your cheeks burn hotter. Instead of saying anything, you get onto your tiptoes to kiss his cheek softly, the stubble being an odd contrast to the softness of his skin. This time, as you look into his dark brown eyes, it's his turn to blush like crazy, his fingers gliding over the spot where you kissed him mere seconds ago.

"Goodnight, Tony," you say before turning around and opening the door to your bedroom, slipping inside as you need to get ready for some much-needed sleep. Even though you're in your room now, Tony cannot get himself to move quite yet, as it's like he's nailed to the floor while the evening's events rerun through his mind.

When he eventually does manage to get himself into his bed, he can't stop thinking about you, but what he doesn't know is that you can't stop thinking about him either and how amazing it felt to have kissed the man you've been in love with for the past few years.

It's been a short two hours of sleep for you when you're suddenly woken up to go on an emergency mission together with Natasha, and before you know it, you're in your tactical gear as you quickly put your hair up while on your way to the Quinjet. As you do, she brings you up to speed about what's supposed to happen - gathering information from an old but still intact HYDRA base.

"I'm gonna need you to take watch close by, as I could use your sniper abilities," Natasha says, and you nod. Your specialty is sniping, and you're pretty good during hand-to-hand combat, though you're more valuable regarding your spying and sniper skills. Natasha may be the better spy of the two of you; you're the one with a more versatile array of combat overall.

"Sounds good to me," you say as you're getting comfortable on the Jet, a determined look on your face as you prepare to fly. Then, the thought of not saying goodbye to Tony before your mission suddenly pops into your head, and the determination makes way for a wave of sadness. However, you quickly shove the thought aside, as you now have a mission to focus on.

A few hours later, it's Tony's turn to wake up to the sunlight streaming into his penthouse, his bed awfully empty as he's all alone. The first thought that slips into his head is you, and a smile immediately spreads across his face as he lets himself get lost in the daydream of kissing you on the beach. While he turns around to get more comfortable, he can't stop thinking about you, and even though he doesn't know it yet, you will be on his mind more and more the longer you're gone.

While Tony is still blissfully unaware of your absence, you and Natasha are already hard at work on your mission, which, at this point, mainly involves planning how to get into the building without being seen. However, this is quite a big ask of your mind right now, as it keeps wandering to Tony, which doesn't go unnoticed by your best friend.

"A penny for your thoughts, Detka?" Natasha asks, and you're snapped out of your thoughts as you look at her with a shocked expression. She can't help but chuckle as a deep, burning blush spreads over your cheeks and down your neck as you realize you've been caught.

"I—ugh!" you exclaim, falling back in your chair with a groan. Your eyes are closed as you rub your temples, wanting your mind to focus on the task at hand. Natasha looks at you with empathy, her mouth curled up in a sympathetic smile as she puts her hand on your bicep, rubbing soothing circles.

"If you want to take a break, it's okay. We can go over this later if that's what you want. I can tell there's something or someone else on your mind, and I think it's good to talk about it so you can get it out of your system," she says gently, slowing your heart rate. She has always had a calming effect on you, and you're more grateful now than ever for that.

"Thank you," you whisper before getting up and walking to the kitchen in the small safehouse you two are calling home for the next week. You make two cups of tea there while Natasha gets comfortable on the couch, ready for some much-needed girl talk.

"Now, spill!" she says as soon as you put down the mugs, and you can't help but laugh.

"Can I at least sit down first?" you ask, which makes her sigh impatiently, which only makes you shake your head with a smile. You love her to death, but when she gets like this, you sometimes wonder where the patient, tactical spy that was here not too long ago is. You wouldn't want it any other way, though, because you love her exactly the way she is.

"So?" The question hangs in the air as you try to figure out what to tell her. Or, more specifically, how to tell her that Tony has been on your mind almost constantly from the moment you said goodbye to him less than 24 hours ago. The kiss is still fresh in your mind, as it is what occupies your mind almost constantly.

"I'm madly in love, Nat; what else is there to say? I kissed Tony, and it felt fucking amazing, but now I'm already away from him, and we haven't even had the time to talk about it! Hell, I didn't even get to say goodbye to him for crying out loud!" Your voice starts trembling at the thought of leaving without so much as a goodbye, and your heart aches as you think about how it must be for him.

Less than 24 hours ago, your lips were locked in a soft but fantastic kiss, and now you're in the middle of nowhere with your best friend as you're supposed to be planning on how to get into the HYDRA base and get the information you need. As if that's not bad enough, you also are in a place where there's practically no reception, meaning there's no way for you two to reach one another.

"He's constantly on my mind; he's all I can think about when I go to bed, when I wake up, and every minute in between. But the fact that I can't talk to him bothers me most," you tell her, and a wave of sadness takes over your body as the thought sinks in. Your hands are clutched onto your mug to warm your hands, but to no avail - the ache in your heart only intensifies with every passing second.

Back at the Avengers Compound, Tony is about to find out about your absence as well, and it's about to hit him harder than he ever would have thought. All he wants is to hear your voice and touch your warm, soft skin with his fingers, making you giggle at the feeling of them tracing abstract figures.

"Has anyone seen Y/N by any chance?" Tony asks as he walks into the kitchen, where the Avengers - apart from you and Natasha - are seated to eat dinner together. Steve then informs him that you're on a mission, and his heart feels like it's dropping into his stomach.

"A- a mission? How long?" he asks softly, and Steve sends him an apologetic look as he lets Tony know you're gone for a week with Natasha. Without saying another word, he turns to go to his lab, where he has the most privacy. He can't stand to be around anyone right now, not when it felt like his soul was ripped apart with the news of your absence.

Once there, he lets himself fall into his rolling chair, a deep sigh escaping his chest as he shuts his eyes for a moment, letting his thoughts wander to you. As he does, he tries his hardest not to cry from the disappointment, as he hopes to finally be able to talk to you and get one of his favorite hugs from you after the long, tiring day he had. Instead, he's alone in his lab, thinking about the woman he loves but who's on the other side of the country.

Then, he gets an idea, and he could smack himself for not thinking of this sooner; he grabs his phone out of his pocket before quickly going to your contact, where he takes a moment to look at the photo he saved with it. Each time one of you calls the other, you'll see a happy, smiling selfie that was taken during the summer when all the Avengers went to the beach, which is a day he'll never forget.

His finger briefly hovers over the call button as he smiles to himself, wanting to savor the memory for a few more moments until it's time to put the phone against his ear. Each time he hears the dial tone, his heart starts beating faster, hoping he will hear your voice as soon as you pick up his call. It never comes, though, as it is quickly cut off before going to voicemail.

"Hi, you have reached my voicemail. Please leave a message, and I will try to call you back as soon as I can!"

The moment Tony hears your cheery voice, he lets the tears free. He can't even talk to the person he wants to talk to more than anyone, which breaks his heart. While he understands you're on a mission, it still hurts to be unable to talk, and he's just about to throw his phone against a wall when he hears the beep, letting him know he can leave a message.

"Hi, Sunflower," he starts off, his voice breaking as the nickname slips off his lips, tears flowing down his cheeks. He didn't realize your absence would hit him this hard, but it does, and he's unsure what to do with himself right now. He's no stranger to showing emotions, but without you there, he finds it difficult to control them.

"I- I wanted to tell you I really miss you! It's been a horrible day here at work, and I was hoping to get one of your hugs, but you're gone for a week, so… yeah! Uhm… I-I hope your mission goes well-" A sob tears through his body as he tries to get out the next words.

"Fuck! Uhm- I miss you, like I said, and please, come back in one piece, okay? I'll think about you when you're gone- it's all I've been doing, actually," he says with a chuckle as he wipes his tears away.

"Well, I'll see you soon. Stay safe out there, please. Bye," he quickly says before ending the call and throwing his phone onto the table, unable to hold that stupid thing any longer. For a moment, the thought of falling back into the habit of drinking himself to sleep as he wants to forget everything crosses his mind, but then he thinks about you again and decides against it. Instead, he asks JARVIS to bring Bruce - his best friend - to the lab.

"What's goin' on? I came as quickly as I could," Bruce pants, clearly out of breath from the sprinting to the lab. He briefly eyes Tony, and worry immediately settles in his stomach as he crouches in front of him.

"Hey, I'm here. You're gonna be okay," he tells Tony, who can't take it anymore. Sobs wreaks havoc in his body as he tries to fight the urge to do something he'll regret - especially when he thinks about how upset you would be if he did. He has worked hard over the past few years to get to the point where he is now, and he wants nothing more than to show you that he has done something to make you proud of him.

Bruce pulls Tony into a much-needed hug, and even though you're not giving it, he still appreciates his best friend being there for him, no questions asked. While Tony told him about his crush on you, he didn't go into the extent of his crush - or love, more specifically. He never would have thought he'd be this distraught over anyone going on a mission, but when all he needs is you, to hear you say that he's going to be okay and that you're there for him as you pull him into a comforting hug, he can't help but have a breakdown.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the country, you're completely unaware of what's going on at the Compound, and you won't be able to listen to his voicemail for a few more days until you're at a spot with enough reception. The entire time, Tony is worried sick as the hours tick by slowly, his mind constantly wandering to you and your safety.

Now, it's nearly three days since Tony left the voicemail, and you have some time to take it slow. This allows you to check any missed messages and calls, most of which aren't that important and can easily wait a few more days. Then, you see Tony's voicemail, and your heart skips as you press the button to listen to what he sent you. When you hear his voice, your heart feels like it shattered into a million pieces, and tears are brimming on your waterline.

"Hi, Sunflower." As soon as you hear the nickname, you get a huge smile on your face, even though you can hear that it took Tony a lot of energy to not burst into tears as he said it. Natasha looks at you and can tell that whatever you're listening to is not fun. Without saying anything, she pulls you into a hug while you keep listening to the voicemail, your heart being ripped apart with every second.

"I—I need to call him!" you tell Nat when his last words play on your phone. When you press the button to call him, your phone immediately tells you that the call isn't going through, which frustrates you to no end.

"Jesus, fuck! Why can't I just fucking call him?!" you huff in frustration, the bars on the top of your screen letting you know that your service is gone again. It must have been too good to be true, but at least you got to hear his voice for a few moments. The following few days, your mind wandered to the voicemail, making it difficult for you to focus sometimes, and you're glad the most important part of the mission was already done.

On the last night in the safe house, you and Natasha have a typical girls' night to get your mind off everything for a moment as you both pack some face masks, fluffy socks, and pajamas to wind down, and it's just like when you were growing up. This time, instead of talking about Tony, you ask her about her crush on Bruce, which makes her cheeks almost the same shade as her hair, and she blushes like crazy.

"So… How's Bruce?" you ask with a raised brow as you're sitting on the couch with a glass of wine in your hand - thankfully, the safehouses are always stocked with plenty of food and drinks. Natasha lifts hers as she avoids your gaze, which is not something she usually does, and it makes you very suspicious.

"What happened, Moy Petarda? Tell me everything!" you say as you lean forward, the wine almost spilling out of your glass as your eyes grow wide with excitement about what she will tell you.

"We- uhm- We may or may not have slept together after the party last week," she admits with a broad smile, and you squeal in excitement at her confession. She and Bruce have been pining after one another for as long as you can remember, and hearing about this is a nice distraction from your thoughts about Tony for now. As the night goes on, he pops into your mind, and you and Natasha drop his name occasionally, but it is mostly about her this time.

The next day, you feel a sense of relief in your entire body when you're back in the Quinjet, knowing you're finally going home to see Tony - and the rest of the Avengers - again. While Natasha is in the back, changing from her tac gear into some leggings and an oversized hoodie, you're supposed to pilot for the next few hours.

"I'm back. Do you want to get changed as well? And maybe make a phone call to the Tower?" she asks with a raised brow and a smirk, making you smile as you nod. You told her that when you're on the way back, you wanted to call Tony to let him know you're coming home and hear his voicemail, but you couldn't answer him sooner.

Within no time, you're also changed into a pair of leggings, a sports bra, and one of Tony's MIT hoodies, which you stole from him a while ago after you got cold in his lab. He never asked for it back since he loves the way it looks on you, and you're happy to wear it, as he has worn it to perfection. Then, it's time for your phone call.

Instead of calling the way you normally would, you decide to FaceTime him, as you really need to see his face after your mission. Back at the Compound, Tony is working in his lab when his ringtone fills the silence, and he quickly grabs his phone. Seeing your name on the screen makes him smile wide.

"Sugarcube! You're alive!" he says, and you immediately laugh loudly at the nickname, which makes the butterflies in his stomach go wild as the sound fills his lab.

"How're you, Tony? I heard your voicemail a few days ago, but I couldn't call or text you because we were so remote. I tried multiple times, but none of it went through," you tell him, and you see a wave of sadness come over his face.

"Honestly? I haven't been doing so well without you here. When I learned you were gone for a mission, I didn't really take it that well," he says with a sigh, and it's only now that you notice the dark circles and bags under his eyes, letting you know he hasn't slept much.

"Thankfully, Bruce was here for me; he kept me sane. And he gave me plenty of coffee as well," Tony says, making you smile at the thought that even though you weren't there, he still had someone to lean on in the meantime.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you, Petal, but I want you to know I'm proud of you for getting through it. I'm sure it must have been hell for you," you tell him, and he blushes at the praise he's receiving from you. He always enjoys being praised, but hearing it from you suddenly makes him feel something entirely different, which he stores away for now, as he wants to explore it with you eventually.

"It's okay. I'm glad to know you're alive and well, though. I missed having you around," he says, and you smile at his words. You missed being there, too, as it's never the same without Tony when you're anywhere but at the Compound.

"I can't wait to see you again soon, Sugarplum. We should land in about 5,5 to 6 hours, so I'm expecting to see you there," you say, and he agrees. Then, you two say your goodbyes after he tells you he'll be waiting by the hangar. You'll be looking forward to it the entire time you're in the air, and your heart is warming at the thought of seeing him again.

The rest of the flight goes by without a hitch, and—just like you asked—Tony is waiting for you at the opening of the hangar, ready to welcome you home after he couldn't stop thinking about you for the past week. The dark circles under his eyes have intensified with his lack of sleep. He's been practically living on two hours of sleep a night and endless cups of coffee, which has your heart sinking into your stomach at the sight.

"Hi, Sweetpea," you say as you reach Tony, who gives you a small smile and looks at you in his hoodie.

"Welcome back," he says, pulling you in for a hug without saying anything else. Your presence is everything he needs and more at this moment. He nuzzles his face into your hair, the softness of it calming his mind as your hands trace abstract figures over his back. Neither of you knows how long it lasts, but you enjoy every second.

"I have to go and shower, Tony. When I'm done, can I visit you in your lab?"

He looks at you with an adoring look, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he does. Your cheeks heat at how he's looking at you, but you're also enjoying the butterflies in your stomach going wild under his gaze.

"I'm looking forward to it," he whispers as his fingertips glide over your cheek, where he desperately wants to place a kiss. However, he'd have to wait for that because little does he know you'll be kissing him soon enough. Once you're back in your room, you take your time to wash away all the dirt that was left from the mission, making yourself presentable for the man you love.

And then, it's finally time to see him, so you can finally talk about the kiss you two shared a week ago, which has turned your lives around in a way you could have only ever dreamt of. As you're slipping into one of Tony's shirts and a pair of leggings, you think about the moment you shared, and you feel the excitement coursing through your veins, hoping you'll finally kiss him again.

Your knuckles softly knock on the glass leading to his lab, and Tony turns around from his place at the kitchen counter, two cups in his hands as he does. Perfect timing.

"I made your favorite, Bubblegum," he says, and you raise your brow at the nickname, trying not to laugh at it. It sounds like he just made you bubblegum tea instead of using it as a nickname. You can't fight the smile wanting to escape, though, and you shake your head as you take the cup with a small 'thank you.'

"Would you believe me if I said you have been on my mind almost every second of every day when you were away?" Tony starts the conversation, and your interest is piqued. He has also been taking over your mind; you're not afraid to admit it.

"I most definitely would. But you have been on my mind a lot as well," you confess, which has him looking at you with an interested gaze.

"Oh?"

"Did you ever think about that drunken kiss we shared?" you ask in a wave of boldness, unable to wait any longer to talk about it. The question hangs in the air as Tony's eyes widen in surprise, and you pull your lip between your teeth in anticipation of his answer. To be truthful, it was all he could think about when you were gone, even going so far as pleasuring himself to the thought of kissing you, but that would be a secret he'd never share with anyone.

"Oh my god, yes! I've been waiting for that kiss from the moment I laid my eyes on you," he says with a breathy laugh, which has your eyebrows practically in your hair at the confession. Combined with that, there's some confusion, as you need clarification on what he's talking about. While you have a suspicion, you're also hesitant about thinking he might feel the same way you do about him.

While you're still standing at the counter, Tony puts his mug on one of the tables in his lab before walking over to you, caging you between his arms as a soft gasp escapes your lips. When he's this close, your height difference is obvious, and you're squeezing your thighs together for the slightest bit of friction as your panties are ruined from this simple move.

"Tony-" It's all you can say because other than that, practically every single thought has left your brain at the closeness of his face to yours. His breath is ghosting over his lips as he talks; his eyes are looking directly into your soul at this point, and you could melt into a puddle of goo right then and there if it weren't for the fact that you're still holding a cup of hot tea.

"I've been waiting for that kiss because I love you, Silly. I love you in a romantic and platonic way - like friends love one another - but also like lovers. You have been taking over my mind for the better part of the past few years, and ever since we kissed, since I had a taste of heaven, it's been all-consuming. I love you, Y/N, and I want you to know it. For years, I've been afraid to tell you, afraid it would ruin what we have, but I'm sick of tucking my feelings away."

"And ever since that kiss, there's nothing else I've wanted more than to kiss you again. To feel your lips on mine and your body pressed against me. Your hands laced in my hair as our tongues fight for dominance, and most of all, I want to hear those sweet, soft sounds you make," he tells you, and it takes a moment for you to comprehend what he told you. The fact that he confessed his undying love.

The next few moments go so fast that you're not sure how they happened because one moment, you were holding your tea as you looked at the man you love, and the next, your hands are laced in his hair as his mouth is capturing yours again, the kiss being everything you've been dreaming of and more, as well. His hands squeeze your hips as his cock rapidly grows hard in his pants, the need for you taking over his entire brain and functioning.

As you tilt your head a little, a soft moan escapes your lips, and Tony can't help but smile into the kiss at the sweet sound. The moment feels like it's lasting forever, and you're panting when you need to pull away for air. Your eyes are half-lidded as you look up at him, a dopey smile on your lips as you admire his beauty for a moment.

"I- uhm-" you say, a giggle escaping as you gather your thoughts.

"I love you too, Tony, like a friend and a lover," you tell him, and the deep laugh from Tony has the butterflies in your stomach going wild. You pull him closer this time, your hands cupping his cheeks as you close the gap, needing to feel his lips on yours again, even if it's just for a moment. When he pulls away, he finally gathers the courage to ask you something on his mind for a long time, but he never dared to ask.

"Go on a date with me, Pookiebear. I want to show you how a true gentleman can take care of you, and after… well, I guess we'll see what happens," he says with a wink, which sets your cheeks on fire. You nod, pulling your lip between your teeth as you try not to smile like a teenage girl who'd just been kissed by the boy she's been crushing on.

Then, just as you're about to say something, you hear a whirring noise behind Tony, which piques your interest. You peek your head around his broad back, and that's where you see one of his robots, Dum-E, making his way toward you with a small bouquet of red roses, and your heart melts at the sight.

"Thank you, Dum-E. These roses are beautiful," you say as you take them from him, and Tony shakes his head with a smile. His robot's timing is entirely off, but the thought behind it counts. After a few more moments, you have to go to the debriefing of the mission, but you're happily taking both the roses and the tea with you, but not before asking for more kisses with a broad smile.

"I can't wait to pick you up tonight, Dollface. It will be the best night of our lives," he says as he watches you go, a small wave coming from you through the large windows by the staircase that leads you away from Tony. On your way to the briefing room, you run into Natasha, eyeing your roses with a curious look.

"You just kiss a guy, and he gifts you roses, and I sleep with someone and not even so much as a single flower? I need to up my standards when it comes to men!" she jokes, making you laugh heartily as she does. You know Bruce knows how to treat a woman, and you don't doubt he's treating her like the queen she is.

"Well, I guess I'm just lucky like that," you say with a wink, which isn't untrue with a man like Tony. However, neither of you knows that Tony and Bruce have been planning a surprise for the two of you tonight, and they're looking forward to your reactions when it's time to see what you think.

The debriefing you two are attending with Steve - he has been holding down the fort from the Compound while you were in the field - is finished perfectly on time for you to get ready for your date with Tony. You're getting nervous and impatient, constantly checking the clock to see if it's time to go out for dinner. When it's nearing 7 PM, you're becoming excited as you wait for the elevator to come and pick you up.

You decide to put on a sleek, deep red gown that perfectly shows your curves. Your hair and makeup are kept simple so as not to take away from your natural beauty combined with the outfit. When the elevator doors open, you're standing eye to eye with Natasha, who has also prepared for the surprise Bruce and Tony prepared, though neither of you knows it yet.

"You look stunning tonight, Petarda," you say as you admire Natasha's outfit. A black velvet dress reaches the floor, her hair is put up in a simple ponytail that has her natural waves showing, and her makeup is done so that her features are accentuated beautifully, making her look like a goddess. You're sure Bruce won't be able to stop looking at her for the entirety they're going on their date.

"So do you, Detka; Tony is fortunate to be going out with you when you're looking like that," she says as she rests her hand on your arm, reassuring you. If you two growing up together has taught her anything, you can always use extra support when nerves are swirling through your body, and you're more grateful than ever to be by the side of the famous Black Widow.

"Thank you," you whisper, a blush warming your cheeks at her compliment. Then, the elevator stops and opens, revealing that Tony and Bruce are already waiting for you both to arrive, and they're not disappointed when they look over to the two of you. To them, it seems like two angels are walking on earth, and they're both going out with them for the night, making it one never to forget.

As you and Natasha walk over to your dates, they have to take a moment to pick their jaws up from the floor, as they have dropped from the moment the doors open.

"I- You- Fucking wow," Tony stammers as he lays his hand on your lower back, the warmth of his hand radiating onto your skin, which is showing through the low-cut back of the dress you're wearing. A soft kiss on your temple follows it, and Bruce and Natasha share a loving kiss, which sets their cheeks on fire, making them look adorable.

"Are you two ready?" Bruce asks when he finally manages to pull himself away from his date, and you're giving him a confused look at his choice of words.

"We have prepared a double date for tonight, Sweet Apple," Tony tells you, which has you smiling broadly and going on a date with your best friend and two handsome men. You would be insane to say no to that. Shortly after, you're all getting into the limousine Tony has brought out for the night, Happy being the driver of your night.

Once seated in the limousine, Tony immediately opens a bottle of the most expensive champagne he could get, handing everyone a glass before lifting his, toasting to a fun night with friends. The laughter that can be heard the entire ride fills your heart with warmth and love as these people make it memorable beyond words.

"Take my hand, Babydoll," Tony says as you've arrived at the restaurant, where - to no one's surprise - paparazzi are taking photos everywhere. It's a hotspot for celebrities and other wealthy or well-known people, meaning it is constantly crawling with cameras and flashing lights. Then, as all four of you are ready, Tony laces his fingers with yours, holding your hand as he guides you inside.

Dinner is spent in a private room, where you, Tony, Bruce, and Natasha can have some privacy while you enjoy your night out. Between the delicious food, plenty of laughter, and sweet moments with Tony as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, you're also holding hands underneath the table, which calms your nerves during the evening.

Bruce and Natasha also share sweet moments, such as kisses, feeding each other bites of their food, and having a good time overall, which makes you happy to see. If there's anyone who deserves to find love, it's Natasha, especially seeing how her life hasn't always been the easiest. Seeing her this happy and comfortable makes you feel proud of her, and you couldn't be happier to call you her best friend.

After dinner, when you're back at Avengers Tower, Bruce and Natasha quickly say their goodbyes before slipping away to his room, undoubtedly finishing the night off with fireworks, and you are hoping to do the same after the night you shared with Tony.

"Did you have fun tonight?" Tony asks as you're standing in the elevator that leads up to his penthouse, his body caging in yours as you're gently pushed against the wall with his face mere inches from yours. His breath ghosts over your lips as the question hangs in the air, and you nod, though you'd much rather kiss him than answer him with words right now.

Your hands glide into his hair as you pull him closer; the gap between you two now disappears as your mouth is locked with his in a hot, passionate kiss. Tony's fingers dig into your hips as the kiss becomes all-consuming in the best way possible, a fire inside your body roaring higher with every passing second. Until the elevator bell rings, letting you know you've arrived at Tony's penthouse.

With a chuckle, Tony pulls back, his forehead resting against yours. The moment has changed from a heated one to a funny, sweet one, and you both laugh while getting out of the elevator and into his large penthouse. You're trying to look at everything all at once, as you have never been here before, which is quite surprising when you think about it, but that would have to be a train of thought for another day.

"Would you like another drink?" Tony asks, but you shake your head. You only want him now, and you're not planning to wait any longer than you must. Based on the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, Tony has the same thought and doesn't want to wait, instead showing you the way to his large bedroom. There are floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the Manhattan skyline, showing New York City from a viewpoint you've rarely seen before.

"It's so beautiful," you say to Tony, who couldn't agree more. But he isn't talking about the view, of course.

His hands are on your waist as he stands behind you, your eyes slipping shut at the feeling of his large body against yours. Tony's lips place soft kisses on your head as you enjoy the closeness, but you want more. You want Tony. In a moment of boldness, you turn around as you step back enough to sink onto your knees, the carpet under your knees making it more comfortable. But it's not good enough for Tony.

"Here, put this under your knees, Cupcake," Tony says as he grabs a throw pillow, handing it to you as you try your hardest not to laugh. One moment, you were on your way to open his pants and suck his soul from his body, and now you're being offered a pillow to put under your knees, as he doesn't want you to sit on the floor like this. Tony is nothing if not a gentleman, and it only makes you love him more.

Once the pillow has found its place and you're comfortable, you reach for his belt, unbuckling it easily before popping the button and lowering the zipper. Then, you pull down his pants to reveal a glorious sight: Tony's cock is already half hard, the blue veins adorning it making it look delicious as they lead to the soft, pink tip that has you wanting to wrap your lips around it, needing a taste of him. On top of that, the length already has your mouth watering, and it's not even at its full potential yet, but what's grabbing your interest most of all is the thickness of it.

"Y-you're so… big," you tell him from your spot on the floor, and Tony can feel his cheeks heating as he blushes profusely at the compliment. Your hand can barely fit around it as you touch it for the first time, and a moan bubbles up at the feeling of his velvet skin, which is a stark contrast to the way his cock slowly firms up to total hardness under your touch.

"Hmm, you feel so good," Tony groans as he pulls up his dress shirt, giving him the perfect look at what you're doing. Your fingers gently work his cock from root to tip, as if you're trying to acquaint yourself with every inch of it, wanting to commit it to memory before wrapping your lips around his tip. When you do that,  a whole new world opens for you and Tony, a feeling of euphoria running through your entire body as you do.

A deep groan rolls off his tongue as you slowly work more of him into your mouth, your thighs clenching as you do to give yourself some much-needed relief as well. The way you fit around him, the warmth of your mouth, has him on the edge sooner than he'd like. His hand gently guides you off his cock, and you pout when he slips from your mouth, a disappointed look on your features as you look up at him.

"Don't you dare use that pout on me, Missy, because you're not gonna know what hit you if you do," he says in a warning tone, and you're suddenly very eager to find out what'll happen if you do, but you're also too horny to worry about it for too long. It would have to wait for another moment, as you're more than happy to be filled with his cock in any of the holes he pleases to use tonight.

It doesn't take long for you and Tony to shed every last layer of clothing aside from your lingerie, and he's having a field day with every bit of clothing that falls from your body. With every inch of skin he reveals, he finds more tattoos that amaze him than the last. From simple flowers to larger, intricate patterns, it's all adorning your skin, and Tony feels nothing short of fortunate to be able to see them, as you usually hide them for professional reasons.

"I didn't think you could be more beautiful, but fuck, seeing all this artwork on your soft skin only makes you look like more of a work of art in my eyes, Gorgeous," Tony whispers as his fingers glide over the phoenix that reaches from your ribs and side down to your upper thigh, covering most of the skin with its feathers.

"If you like my tattoos this much, I can't wait to see your reaction when you find out another special secret, Tony," you say as you sit on Tony's lap, his back pressed against the headboard of the bed. You lean forward to mark small markings on his neck and shoulder and nibble on his earlobe.

"Hmm, I can't wait to see what it is," he says, and you smile against his jaw, the scruff of his facial hair tickling you as you place a few kisses there. When you pull back, you wiggle your brows in excitement and tease him a little, wanting to stretch the moment for as long as possible.

"If you remove my bra, you'll see what it is soon enough, Handsome," you whisper, and he doesn't need to be told twice. Within mere seconds, the fabric has been removed, and Tony's jaw is again on the floor as he tries to comprehend what he sees. As soon as his gaze falls on the small, silver rings adorning your nipples, his cock twitches underneath you, almost at the point of orgasm without needing stimulation as his mind goes wild at the sight.

But that's not all. You also have a small tattoo of Tony's helmet on your side, which was hidden by the band of your bra before. It's a full-color version of his helmet, surrounded by your favorite flowers. You got it a while ago as a joke after you lost a bet with Natasha, never really thinking he would see it, but now that he does, he can't stop smiling at the sight.

"Is that-" "Yes."

"I can't believe you have my helmet tattooed on your body, Firecracker! God, I didn't know you could get any more beautiful and special and amazing, but you just did, and fuck, I'm even more in love with you now!" he exclaims as he pulls you close, making you laugh heartily. For a moment, you were scared about what he would possibly think of it, but his reaction is even better than you could have hoped for, and you now realize you never should have been afraid to begin with.

Then, without warning, Tony flips you onto your back before pushing your panties aside, not wanting to wait any longer to be buried inside you. The stretch of Tony's long, thick cock is more than you have ever felt before, and even if he isn't fully inside you yet, it feels like you're already stuffed to the brim as your moans become nearly uncontrollable, your mind going blank and fuzzy with every passing second.

"So tight, Babygirl, feels so fucking good," Tony whispers in your ear as he slowly starts thrusting in and out of you, stretching you with the patience of a saint. Your back arches into him repeatedly, and the feeling of his chest against yours has you moaning softly, the closeness being something you're craving more with every thrust. Then, Tony reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours as he places it above your head.

His lips capture yours as he finally bottoms out after taking his time stretching you. The warmth of his body and the soft hum of his arc reactor is a beautiful addition to the moment, making it even more intimate. He noses softly along your jaw as he lets his cock settle inside you for a while longer, your pussy still holding him with a tight grip.

"Hmmm, I'm so lucky to have fallen in love with you, Y/N," Tony whispers as his face is inches from yours. His eyes are focused on yours, and a smile tugs at the corners of his lips at his confession. It feels nothing short of right to confess your love for one another at every chance, as you've already dreamed of doing it for years.

"I love you too, Tony, now please make love to me; you're driving me crazy if you don't move soon," you plead with him, and he gives in to your pleas. The first stroke has you clenching around him again, and a breathy chuckle slips from his lips this time.

"If you want me to make love, you have to relax a bit, Little Mouse," he says, and you giggle at the nickname. It feels so out of place, yet so right at the same time, and it has precisely the required effect; you're relaxing, and he takes his time to make love to you. Seconds feel like hours as your breaths mingle and your pussy is taking him over and over again as if it's a dance that has your bodies moving in a beautiful rhythm.

Your free hand roams over his broad back, your nails digging into the scarred skin as the pleasure builds inside you, and he groans at the feeling as it adds to his pleasure as well. You're squeezing him as he is on the edge, too, wanting nothing more than to fall over the edge together.

"I-I'm close, Sweet Girl," Tony grunts as you dig your nails into a delightful spot for him, and your moans are also becoming more irregular as you're on the brink of your orgasm, needing a few more strokes in the right spot to get you there. Sweat adorns your body when Tony does precisely that, and you squeeze his cock like a vice as you cum with a shout of his name, your back arching into him as your gaze is focused on him.

"Fucking fuck! Oh, you feel so- fuck- amazing," Tony exclaims as his orgasm washes over him, his balls emptying deep inside you with a few last sloppy strokes. Your first time with Tony was nothing short of amazing, and after a soft whine, as he pulled out, you showed a broad smile at the thought of everything that just happened.

"Shall we take a bath together?" Tony asks after he manages to catch his breath again. You nod before pulling him close, capturing his lips in a passionate, loving kiss that sends your heart into overdrive from excitement. Then, Tony quickly runs a bath before grabbing some fruit from his fridge - the sight of him walking around butt naked has you giggling like a teenager again, and Tony can't help but smile at you.

The bath water perfectly soothes your sore muscles, and the scent of roses surrounds you as Tony joins you in the bath. The foam makes way for his body as he gets comfortable across from you. As you two share a bowl of watermelon pieces in silence, you can't stop smiling as your dream has come true. You've slept with the man of your dreams, and he's a true gentleman as he massages your sore legs.

"I love you, Y/N," Tony tells you as he works his magic on your calves.

"Being with you makes me feel happier than I have in a long time, and I realize that I have something worth living for and someone worth coming home to. That being said, what would you think of officially becoming my girlfriend? I should let you know; it does mean I won't let you go, ever," he quips, making you laugh heartily at his words. Being Tony's girlfriend sounds like heaven; you can't wait to tell everyone about it.

"I would love nothing more, Boyfriend," you say with a wink, and Tony smiles from ear to ear, the twinkle in his eyes giving away his excitement at the new nickname. That night, you sleep over at his penthouse, both still bare as you fall asleep in his arms. It's some of the best sleep you've had in a long time, and you're already looking forward to more of these same nights together.

The following morning, you're being woken by a combination of soft kisses all over your bare skin and the sun illuminating your boyfriend's bedroom in a golden hue, and you couldn't possibly think of a better way to start your day. A soft hum escapes as you turn onto your back, and Tony smiles as his lips keep tracing a path over your smooth skin down to his ultimate goal.

"Good morning, Angel," he whispers as he reaches your belly button, his eyes looking up to meet yours with a gaze that sets your insides on fire in the best way possible. Eventually, after he is done with his teasing, he buries his face between your thighs, giving you the perfect start of the day by gifting you a mind-blowing orgasm, and you haven't even had breakfast yet.

"Hmmm, this is a good way to wake up," you murmur after he crawls back up, capturing your lips with his as you taste your arousal on his lips and tongue. Then, it's finally time to get up and grab some breakfast. You put on one of Tony's oversized dress shirts, which is long enough to cover everything it needs to, and Tony is dressed in nothing but a pair of tight sweatpants as you two go down to have breakfast together.

As you're in the communal kitchen, you're sitting on the counter, swinging your legs back and forth as you watch Tony make some delicious pancakes - just like he has done countless times before for you. While they're usually reserved for when you come back from a mission, he decided to make them now as well, all while he keeps stealing more kisses from you.

Once the entire stack is finished, he comes to stand between your legs, and you wrap them around his waist, pulling yourself to the edge as his fingers dig into your thighs at the closeness of your body to his. Your hands are laced in his hair while your lips are locked in a passionate kiss, and you overlook that you now have an audience. Only when Natasha clears her throat do you pull away and look at the Avengers with a deep red blush on your cheeks, which Tony matches.

"Mornin', Lovebirds," she says with a wink before grabbing herself some breakfast, and you burst out into a fit of laughter at the fact that you've been caught in the act of kissing your boyfriend in front of everyone. However, over time, they definitely will get used to the level of PDA you and Tony share, quickly becoming the new normal.

It was only a matter of months before Tony proposed to you, and within a year of you and Tony becoming official, you're also officially Mrs. Stark. At first, you couldn't stop addressing each other as your fiancé/fiancée after his proposal, but when you married, you'd happily tell everyone you knew that Tony was your husband. To top it all off, you can now give each other the perfect nicknames - the tradition of giving each other silly and weird nicknames has continued through it all - as you're expecting your first baby.

"Hi, Daddy," you whisper to Tony as he caresses your belly, which has grown exponentially since you learned about the little one growing there.

"Good morning, Mommy. I can't wait for this little nugget in here to call you Mommy as well," Tony says, and you smile as you rub your belly alongside him. You can't wait for that moment to be here, either, but first, you're going to enjoy every second you can of them being small, as they only stay that way for a short period.

"I love you, Tony; I can't imagine my life without you, and I have to say, I've never been more grateful for a game of Truth or Dare in my life," you say, referencing the moment that started it all. Not many moments will top that night, but you definitely owe it all to Natasha, who has been by your side and couldn't be prouder of you and your husband.

[bakughosts]

how real hunger has a real taste

Trigun Stampede ✮ Wolfwood/f!Reader, 18k. Also on AO3!

You want everything. You want the real and the not, who he is and what he sells people. You want to run your thumb across his jaw without the expectation of anything else afterwards. A touch for the sake of a touch. You’re struggling with understanding whether these thoughts are because of who he is or because he’s the closest thing you’ve had to an object of affection since—ever. Maybe if you closed your eyes, it wouldn’t matter if it was him or someone else. (It matters. And then he inevitably betrays you.)

notes: mutual pining, angst, wolfwood in early twenties but looks older & reader implied to be in mid-to-late twenties, a little praise kink for the both of you, love confessions (but who knows if they're real? definitely not you), spoilers for all of trigun stampede s1 (HEAVILY canon reliant so it probably won't make sense if you haven’t seen it; if you don't have the time etc. and still want to read this, reading on from 'before julai' should be just un-confusing enough to work for you hopefully???)

The Fall of JuLai

It’s not like Nick thinks he’s a good person by any means. 

He delivered Vash to JuLai Tower like he was supposed to, and even though he begrudgingly likes the guy, Nick knows that he doesn’t stand a chance against his brother. His ‘do no harm’ bullshit is gonna put paid to that. Meryl and Roberto are there, too, because they're nosy and got swept up in all the things happening on this hellish planet that Nick has too much to do with. You’re there for the same reason—and when you had your chance to leave, to get out of the city safely, you didn’t. Because you’re entirely too idealistic and you’re delusional enough to believe that Vash can save the world.

The streets of JuLai are crawling with vines and blooming flora, petals and leaves black as the heart of a killer. Fluorescent blue pestles illuminate ruined homes, collapsed buildings, bodies. Some moving, some not. 

People are crying out, begging for help—from others, from God, which is funny considering Nick has known since long before he signed his pastoral contract that there’s no way any God could’ve seen this planet and not been disgusted enough to destroy it.

Navigating the streets is easier now that there aren’t guards shooting at him every five minutes. He ignores the people around him—the moving ones and the motionless ones. Kicks rubble as he walks much too slowly towards the exit of the crumbling city. The cigarette that he bummed off of Roberto is mintier than the Skulls he usually smokes. He didn’t know you could get menthols these days. The taste is unpleasant. Explains why the old man always smelled a little like toothpaste under all that stale tobacco.

Roberto’s dead now. His blood is still drying on the floor of the elevator where his life abruptly ended. These people are going to die if they haven’t already. Meryl is going to die. Vash is going to die. You are going to die.

So no, Nick doesn’t think he’s a good person. He never has.

But his freedom is his own. The orphanage is safe. His family—whatever remnants are left, without Livio—are all safe. That’s what being the bad guy gets you, because no one gives a rat’s ass about how good you are. No one cares about anything but themselves. No one was gonna give Nick his freedom, give the orphanage its safety. Not without something in return.

He’s moving so goddamn slow that you wouldn’t expect him to have just given up everything—to have betrayed the only people that were kind to him, that cared about him when he saw his brother die, when his childhood home was almost obliterated. If he doesn’t start running, he’s gonna go down with this city, and all of it will have been for nothing.

He can’t stop thinking about the look on your face when you realized what he’d done.

Meryl’s nattering is something he hardly remembers, something about him being unbelievable, I thought better of you, why isn’t everyone a goody-fuckin’-two-shoes like me, but every time he blinks, he can see you in perfect resolution, like there’s a screen on the back of his eyelids replaying his worst memories.

You hadn’t even said anything. That was the worst part.

The street beneath his feet shudders, the entire city groaning, the metal hull on which it stands screaming out in protest. Nick stops. He stops moving, all because he can’t get you out of his goddamn head, like you’re some sort of worm that’s crawled its way in there, all cozy and nested where he wants you least.

Knives is gonna tear you apart. You and the bratty reporter. You’re strong—you’ve shown that to him in your travels, that you’re not one to back down from a good fight, and he liked seeing a gun in your hand, fire in your eyes, blood on your teeth—but Knives is on a whole other level. Even Nick couldn’t take him out, and he’s a freak of nature thanks to all the shit Conrad did to him. 

He and Vash moved a fifteen-ton ion cannon with their bare hands because they were built to, and you’re up there in that tower all soft and kind and human . 

“Fuck.” His cigarette burns down to the filter, the taste more like plastic than mint. His cross is heavy, shoulder protesting the one-handed hold with which he carries it. He’s not going back there. He did all this for a reason. He saved his own hide because he’s a bad person and that’s what bad people do. You shouldn’t have expected more from him. 

Even though you did. Even though sometimes you looked at him and he really thought—and don’t get him wrong, it’s because you’re delusional—that you might’ve actually believed he could be a better person.

“Fuck.”

He’s back in the building before the butt of his cigarette has a chance to hit the ground.

Following Meryl seems to be a bad idea, but you do it anyway. Even as she calls after Vash, climbing through the broken window of JuLai Tower’s penthouse office, even as you hear the sound of metal hitting metal, knives and bullets clashing in violent bursts of embers, even with Doctor Conrad behind you—a man who, not even fifteen minutes ago, you would have ripped apart with your bare hands—you keep going.

What else are you going to do? What else is left?

There’s the gleam of silver, the sound of something very sharp slicing the very air, and before you’re able to get outside, Meryl is thrown across the roof of the tower, the dome of the office collapsing inwards. Glass tumbles down on your shoulders and you have to move—that’s all you’ve ever known. Just keep moving.

You’re out of the window frame and running towards her in an instant, lungs burning, but Meryl is still rolling, still sliding towards the downturned side of the roof edge, and you’re going to lose her, you realize—she’s going to fall.

Maybe you call out to her—you’re not sure. Your throat is raw already from yelling, your bones aching from the multiple injuries you’ve sustained. You’ll die here too, most likely.

The realization feels peaceful in a very empty way.

But before it can settle in, you see a familiar figure—a dark suit, a too-large gun in the shape of a cross, and Meryl is yelling, “Undertaker?” and Nick is there and you hate him for coming back.

When you reach them, he barely looks you in the eye. Just motions to his shoulders, asks, “Think you can hold on?”

You don’t want this man to be your salvation. You don’t want him to have anything he can possibly use to redeem himself. But you’re not going to die because of your pride. You let him turn and kneel before you, and your arms are around his neck and he’s got his gun in one arm and Meryl in the other and you’re flying—

Honest to god flying through the air, falling far off the top of the tower and then further, jumping from rooftop to rooftop, Nick taking the brunt of each fall. You have to close your eyes or you’re going to throw up, and your legs are wrapped so tightly around his waist that you think you could cut him in half, and he smells like Roberto’s menthol cigarettes—and you knew something was different about him, that he was inhumanly strong, but the way he waltzes through the city from rooftop to rooftop while carrying a couple hundred pounds of extra weight is simply incomprehensible.

Things don’t feel real because there’s no way this could be really happening. You feel the wind against your face, the dulled impact of Nick’s feet hitting hard concrete and metal, and you can hear his labored breathing, hear Meryl scream for him to hold her tighter or she’s gonna fall, hear the gunshots of soldiers on ground level who have still, for some reason, decided that you are the enemy they should be after and not the miles-tall Plant aberration that’s growing out of JuLai Tower.

You can’t open your eyes even when Nick stops moving, when you’re far outside of the city. Even when his gun is on the ground, when he’s put down Meryl and lowered himself so your knees are on the desert floor. Prying your arms from around his neck would feel the same as dying.

Gently, Nick does this for you—moves your arms, but not off of him completely. Enough that he can turn so you’re both kneeling and facing each other, and only then do you open your eyes. He lost his sunglasses at some point during the escape. JuLai is a mess of pulsing blue behind him. He says your name very, very quietly. Your hands are curled at the back of his neck, fingers carding through the hair at his nape because at this point it’s instinct. His eyes are so dark they look black, and there’s blood smudged on his cheek, and your first instinct is to wipe it away for him—to remove any sign of hurt, any sign of injury. 

But Vash is gone, and Nick's the one that made sure it happened. 

You push away from him so quickly that you fall on your ass, sand dusted in a cloud around you. Maybe he was going to say something, some other half-assed excuse, but the hull of the ship that JuLai grows from groans loud, its metal body screaming for help into the desert night as if it’s not far past the point of salvation. The roots that pulse from the city begin to recede, crawling back through the holes they’ve made in infrastructure, curling back up to the top of the tower.

Much more quietly than it should, the largest city on the planet creaks, falls, and goes completely dark.

Before JuLai

Nothing annoys Nick more than routine gun maintenance, and the fight on the Sandsteamer had really done a number on the Punisher.

He always hated the way the doctor called him that—this is your duty, Punisher, this is what I created you for—as if he was nothing but an extension of his weapon. Though that’s all he’s really supposed to be. An executioner, an undertaker, a priest. A sentient trigger.

He doesn’t let things like that get to him. Seeing his brother as what he’d become, seeing him kill himself to escape the life he was living because he wanted to be just like Nick—

None of it gets to him. He doesn’t let it. He doesn’t care.

You sit down next to him when he’s in the middle of oiling one of the crossgun’s many chambers, kicking up sand in your wake. He probably shouldn’t have decided to sit out here to clean his gun, but where else is he gonna do it? In the car? Everything on the planet is covered in sand. He’ll have to deal with it. Still, he gives you a nasty side-eye for putting him back about three minutes of work.

“Am I interrupting? Sorry,” you say, and he can tell you’re not. “Thought you were gonna help us set up camp.”

“I’m busy.”

“You can get hot and heavy with your cross later. Meryl needs help getting a fire started.”

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t want to. The cloth he uses to clean the chambers is black with grease and he wonders when he’ll have to tear a piece of his shirt off to replace it with and he wonders if you got hurt earlier keeping the Bad Lads Gang off the reporter duo and he wonders what he could possibly do to get you to quit staring at him. His collar feels too tight even though the buttons start four inches down his chest. “Get Blondie to do it.”

At the top of the dune closest to camp, Nick has an excellent view of the stretch of absolutely fucking nothing that surrounds you all. Vash said his home was near here—needed to get his prosthetic arm fixed up by the people that built it. He probably isn’t in good shape to help anyone do anything. You both know that.

The wind pushes the dunes further out, transforming the desert into a rippling, golden sea. The sun is about to set, the sand already cast a shade of light pink by oncoming dusk. You’re silent for long enough that Nick is forced to look at you, which he doesn’t do often because it always makes him feel a bit hot under the collar, a bit hunted. He can’t explain it. Sure as hell doesn’t like it, though.

You’re not even paying attention to him. Instead, you take in the wide open desert as if it’s the first time you’re seeing it, and the sun touches your face soft like a lover and—there’s a pang of something in his stomach. Like jealousy. 

He can’t escape you. It isn’t like the others don’t try with him—he has to deal with Vash, who thinks he can befriend the entire fucking planet and bombards Nick with friendly remarks that he’s dying to see turn into banter; Meryl, who isn’t interested in him as more than a journalistic pursuit but still asks some very pointed questions; Roberto, who offers him a smoke every now and then and thanks him for doing shit that he didn’t do for anyone but himself in the first place.

And then he has to deal with you, too, but you approach him in a different way. A way he isn’t used to—not that he’s used to any of it—but that he can stomach. You’re open with him, but you don’t inundate him with things he doesn’t care about. You ask questions when they’re necessary. You give him disapproving looks when he runs his mouth a bit too much and much more pleased looks when he lets Vash wax poetic about saving the universe from evil. He finds himself shutting up sometimes just to see it—the slight curve of your lips, fond exasperation at Vash’s unyielding hope, a silent thank you in the pointed look you send his way.

“You grew up there?” you ask. “At that orphanage?”

You’ve decided, it seems, that these questions are necessary. He’d talked about the orphanage at some point in front of you, so he’s not exactly surprised that you know about it. Still, he’s in a shitty mood and he doesn’t want to talk about this with anyone. Especially you, even though most days you’re the person he’d be most willing to tell. “I never liked twenty questions. Too much talking involved.”

“I already know the answer,” you say.

“Then you shouldn’t have asked the question. That’s not how you win.”

“I’m trying to—I don’t know. Is it so ridiculous for me to ask you something personal every once in a while?”

He scoffs. “You’ve got more questions than bullets. And you fire them quicker, too.”

You fix him with a look, and he can only hold your eyes for a moment before looking back at his gun. Too much shit to do to get distracted, anyways. 

“How long have we been traveling together?”

“I dunno,” he says. “Couple months. Why?”

You shrug, and he can see it in his peripherals. You move fluidly, in a way he catches himself noticing too often. “Are you gonna tell any of us something real about yourself?”

“You should talk to Meryl,” he says. “I’m sure she could find you some kind of job in investigative journalism. Or maybe you could do some cam work, since you’re so far up my ass.”

“Fuck off, Wolfwood,” you say, but he can see the edge of your grin, hear the mirth in your voice. Something he likes about you: his attitude doesn’t piss you off. You take it in stride and on occasion, give it back. 

“I was here first,” he reminds you. “You should be the one doing the fucking off.”

You don’t fuck off. You sit next to him and things feel heavy but no heavier than they always do. 

He wants to hear you say his first name—a misplaced thought that he shouldn’t have had, like finding a coin in your pocket after it's already been through the dryer. (He’d kill to find a town with a laundromat, but they’re few and far between.) Wolfwood is so impersonal, what everyone he’s ever traveled with has called him. Punisher is out of the question. Nicholas he likes even less, somehow, because it feels like a name that was taken from him when he was too young to ask for it back. But thinking about the idea of you saying fuck off, Nick, or Nico, or whatever the hell you want to call him and trying badly to hide that little smile from him has his heart racing a thousand miles a minute. He looks at you and realizes what a bad idea it is because once he starts, he can't stop.

You frown—ruminative. Something’s on your mind. Something he’s worried you might try to tell him. “Are you ever, maybe…” you begin. Your words are quiet, measured. “Would you ever tell me something real?”

Nick’s hands are too clammy to keep working on the intricate parts of his gun. You’re setting him back even more. He hates it when you ask questions like this. He hates it when you mention the thing that sits between the two of you, the quiet understanding that even though you’d been a gun-for-hire traipsing around the planet and Nick had been tortured until his fucking eyes bled, you can somehow understand each other. He wants to knock you down a peg. To get you to leave him alone before he says something he’ll regret telling you. “I don’t know how you got the idea that you’re special,” he says, and the air in his lungs feels like too much for his body to hold, “but you’re not.”

You stare at him, hurt slowly curling your lips downwards. He shrugs his shoulders as if this isn’t how he wanted you to react and goes back to cleaning his gun. Tries to let himself breathe. It’s difficult. His big fucking mouth is gonna get him in trouble again if you don’t say something soon, or slap him, or leave, or—something. Nick doesn’t apologize for things. Never finds himself wanting to like he does right now.

“Forget it,” you say, standing to leave. “You—fuck. No, forget it.” 

You won’t look at him and he hates that you won’t. Some days it’s all he wants.

Traveling with Wolfwood is torture when he’s in a bad mood. He’s barely spoken to you since your conversation a few days ago—hasn’t even looked at you. That sucks for multiple reasons, but partially because today it’s you, him, and Vash in the backseat of the car, Roberto in the passenger (as always), and Meryl driving. 

You like Meryl—she’s sweet, and she has a lot of grit—but you don’t like the way she drives. The three of you slide all over the backseat like butter across a hot pan, your seat belts barely holding you in place each time she takes a hard turn—you’re in a desert, for Christ’s sake, and your destination is a straight line away from you, so you have no idea why she has to steer somewhere new every thirty seconds.

Vash had (without Meryl noticing, which would save everyone an earful) arranged the order of seating so you wouldn’t get crushed between him and Wolfwood, and took the driver’s-side seat so his prosthetic wouldn’t smack into whoever sat to his left and leave them with some nasty bruises.

Every two minutes your entire body slams into Wolfwood’s side, and he was already in a sour mood—by the time you reach the town you’ll be staying in for the night, he’s steaming, practically shoving Vash out of the car so he can leave the enclosed space he’s been forced to share with you.

Sometimes—or maybe more than sometimes, because you think about it often—you want to tell Wolfwood how childish he can be. You want to tell him that there’s more to life than smoking and sulking. But you prefer him when he isn’t giving you the cold shoulder, so you keep it to yourself.

The motel you find is cheap and clean. Well—clean might be a strong word, but at least it isn’t bug-infested like the last place you stayed, so everyone agrees to stay in town an extra day in order to rest. 

You all have lunch together (where Wolfwood ignores you), play games of pool in the motel lobby (where Wolfwood decides to go back to his room when you and him are finally up against each other), and even share a few drinks at the town’s bar after the sun sets (where Wolfwood flirts with any person that even so much as glances his way all night).

It’s not like you want to watch him shoot whiskey, head back and the long line of his throat exposed. It’s not like you want to hear the depth of his voice, its seductive edge, when he gets the bartender wrapped around his finger in under a minute flat. There’s just nowhere else to look, nothing else to listen to. The bartender leans in, smiling softly, as Wolfwood tells her something secret that has her face dusted a pretty pink. 

There’s a hand in front of you, snapping, and Meryl is asking you, “Are you even paying attention to me?”

“Yes,” you lie, “of course I am.”

She rolls her eyes. “What’d I just say?”

You genuinely have no idea. You didn’t even realize that Vash and Roberto had left the table, both fully concentrated on a game of darts across the bar.

“Yeah, thought so. Look—can you do something about it?”

“I still don’t know what you were talking about—”

“New subject. Keep up,” she says. “Can you and the Undertaker stop fighting? His moods drive me up the wall.”

Your eyes narrow. She’s doing that Meryl-thing where she asks you a question about something you’ve never established because she wants you to confirm whether or not it’s true. The amount of times Vash has been caught out by this technique is comical. 

“We’re not fighting,” you say. Fighting implies more than lukewarm camaraderie and routine disgruntlement. Fighting implies caring enough about each other to fight about something.

“Uh-huh,” she says, and you both watch as Wolfwood looks at the bartender and grins, all pretty white teeth, before glancing back at the table where you and Meryl sit. “So he’s doing this to, what, make me jealous?”

“I’m not jealous,” you say, and the speed with which the words leave your lips has already damned you. “And he’s not—it’s not for me. It’s—he’s just being Wolfwood. What else do you expect? He likes the attention.”

Meryl only looks smug when she gets someone to say something she wants them to say, and she looks very, very smug. 

“We’re staying here extra time to rest,” you tell her, “not to—do whatever he’s doing. I’m not jealous, I’m annoyed. If I have to cover his ass in a firefight because he spent his spare time with some—some random, then I’m gonna be pissed.”

“Some random,” Meryl parrots, using her fingers to put quotes around the word. “Would you rather it not be someone random, then?”

You stand too quickly, the booze going to your head. You haven’t had that much to drink, you don’t think, but you sway a little on your feet. “I’m not going to be the one that lets down the team,” you tell her. “So I’m gonna get some sleep. For the team.”

Meryl hmms, amused, playing at believing you. “Go get some sleep for the team. We all appreciate your sacrifices.”

You laugh, and though you can only see him from your peripherals, you think you see Wolfwood’s head turn just a little. Probably looking for back-ups in case the bartender loses interest.

The walk to the motel is brisk and cold with the sun finally in bed for the night, and you hate the way you think about the slope of Wolfwood’s throat and the points of his canines when he grins and the darkness of his eyes peering over the rim of his sunglasses when he glanced back towards you—

You sigh, stopping outside your door and pushing your thumb and middle finger against your closed eyes, as if you can massage the images out of your sight permanently.

You can’t. No matter how hard you try. And you know why—really, it isn’t even buried that deep down. You like his cocky grin and dry sense of humor and the way his inky hair falls soft across his forehead. You like the way his hands look when he cleans his gun, long and pretty fingers removing and reloading clips of bullets that he clicks into place one-by-one with his thumb, quick and confident. You like talking to him in the middle of the night when you camp out in the desert and everyone else is asleep, and even though you’re both in your sleeping bags, you look up at the same stars and tell each other about your worst fights or about the people you used to know, and sometimes he makes you laugh so hard that you have to cover your mouth in fear of waking everyone else.

Sometimes, you think that—maybe he feels something like that too. Maybe there are things he likes about you that he keeps to himself, little secrets lined up like cigarettes in a pack. But he keeps you at arm’s length and it kills you. No matter how much he gives you, it’s never enough, and he knows it. You know a lot about him, but you don’t know him.

So when he flirted with the bartender, it wasn’t him trying to make you jealous. Because making you jealous implies that he wants something from you. 

Maybe he just wants to fuck you. That’s another fairly viable option, but not your favorite. It’s not like you’re asking him to profess his undying love—that doesn’t exist out here. You meet people and you form tenuous connections and you enjoy the time you have until it inevitably finds its end. Law of the wasteland. 

You just want something a little more real. You want him to like things about you the way you like things about him.

If it’s a physical connection he’s looking for, he can find it with the bartender once her shift is over. You’re in travel clothes still, cargo pants and the most worn shirt you own, and you’re covered in desert grit besides. The bartender is clean and pretty and much more accessible.

He can do whatever he wants. He just lost someone. Even if you were on the other side of the Sandsteamer, you’re positive you could've heard Wolfwood cry out when Livio’s body tipped over the side of the ship and melted into the sea of sand below. Maybe fucking away the pain is what he wants to do. And that’s fine.

When you get to the door of your room, you hear hurried footsteps and your hand is on your hip, finger already ghosting the trigger of your holstered pistol—but it’s him. Not enough for him to plague your thoughts, apparently. He had to follow you back to the motel and remind you that you aren’t going to be able to escape him for the foreseeable future.

“Why’d you leave?” he asks. Blunt, for him. You wonder how much whiskey he’s had. There’s a cigarette in his mouth and the smell of tobacco overwhelms you, makes you want one yourself. Smoking’s an expensive habit.

“Got tired,” you say. You’re pretty sure he knows you’re lying. It’s hard for you to not speak out of bitterness after you've had a little too much to drink. “I didn’t think you’d care that I left.” 

You don’t know how to define what you feel for him. It’s a soft spot, maybe. You like the way he looks at you. You like the way he seems to enjoy you looking at him. Maybe you’re both vain. Maybe you’re both lonely. Whatever it is, it’s been going on for too long and you’re tired of the uncertainty. 

“Nightcap?” he asks. You hadn’t noticed the bottle in his hand, some unlabeled, murky brown liquid.

“Have one with Vash.”

“I don’t want one with him.”

“What do you want, Wolfwood?”

He meets you at the door, and sometimes you forget how tall he is. But not right now. His hand covers yours on the door handle, cigarette between two fingers, and he’s standing closer to you than he ever has outside of a fight. Nothing you’ve felt has been as warm as his skin against yours. The ash that falls on your hand burns a little. “I want to have a drink with you,” he says. “And I want to tell you something real.”

“You’re drunk,” you tell him. His palm is softer than you expected it to be. “But I’ll humor you.”

When he grins, there’s something animal to it—something on the wrong side of feral. He pushes your door open and you follow him inside, sealing your fate for the evening.

There are no chairs in your room, so the both of you sit on the floor, backs against the foot of the twin-sized bed. There are no glasses either, so you both take turns with the bottle, choking a little after each sip. Whatever’s in there could level even the rowdiest bars in November, where you’ve seen more bourbon consumed in one night by your then-traveling companions than you’ve seen altogether in one location since.

“This your way of apologizing to me?” you ask.

He laughs a little then takes a long swig of liquor, inhales sharply through his teeth as the liquid burns down his throat. “I owe my fair share of apologies. What am I sorry for, exactly?”

What are you going to say to that? He hurt your feelings? He didn’t call you special, like some sort of child that needs the recognition, the assurance? He gave you the cold shoulder for a couple days? The way he’d laugh himself to death would definitely bruise your ego more than you can handle. “Tell me what you want to tell me or get out.”

“Don’t sound too eager,” he says. He hands you the bottle, whittling down his cigarette. The smoke that escapes his lips seems to sit between you instead of floating upwards and dispersing. Everything is hazy, soft-edged. “What do you wanna know?”

You wonder if you’ll only get one question, or if he’ll have patience for more. You wonder what the hell you’re even doing here, sitting on the floor with him, making progressively worse decisions. “Who was he to you?” you settle on. “The person that attacked us on the Sandsteamer?”

“No foreplay, huh? Getting right to the main event?”

You try to hide the choking noise that wants to escape you by taking a sip of the booze, but this makes you choke harder, and you have to cough for a few moments before you can even begin to consider a response that doesn’t bring your mind closer to Wolfwood and foreplay. Once you’re able to breathe again, you manage to say, “You were the one that said you wanted to tell me something real.”

He pulls one knee up, leaning forward to rest his elbow on it, and you watch as he cracks his knuckles slow and loud. Not a threat—a nervous tic. You’ve seen him do it after confrontations with Vash, after Meryl asks a question that hits too close to home. “He was, uh… someone I knew when I was a kid. Someone I was supposed to take care of. But I didn’t do a very good job.”

You’re sure he’s also thinking about Livio falling hundreds of feet to the planet’s surface, the sound of the gunshot when he killed himself, Wolfwood calling his name, crying out as he watched this person that he was supposed to take care of meet an untimely and awful end.

Guilt is something that everyone on Gunsmoke is familiar with. Its constant presence doesn’t make it any lighter to carry, any easier to share. Wolfwood bears far more than the cross on his back. The look on his face tells you he already knows where your mind is going and that he doesn’t want to talk about it. He holds out his cigarette to you in lieu of speaking.

You accept what he offers. Close your lips around the filter, try not to think about his lips touching the same place, about the nicotine you could probably taste on him. The drag you take doesn’t feel deep enough. 

“Your turn now,” he says, his deep voice almost too loud in the small room. “I want something real.”

You clear your throat, hand the cigarette back. “I give you real things all the time. You just never reciprocate.”

“My stuff comes with a price. Not my fault you give yours out for free.” Without his sunglasses, his stare is piercing. It makes you feel warm all over. 

Your fingers brush his as you both reach for the neck of the bottle, and neither of you move away. As if the liquor is a safe-ground where contact is okay. It doesn’t have to be questioned, because there’s reasonable doubt when it comes to either of you wanting to touch the other. The problem is that you’ve never wanted so badly to touch someone before now. 

“Tell me something,” he says.

“I want you to kiss me.”

His brows raise, shocked by your boldness maybe, but the cigarette is already out of his mouth and he’s flattening it against the floorboards beside him. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip and you need to know what he would feel like against you more than you need to breathe. “Yeah? You want that?”

You nod and everything else is forgotten. The liquor is pushed aside, his body flush against yours, his big hand cupping your jaw, and—how long has it been since you’ve been touched like this? 

His lips find yours too easily, the first kisses slow, exploratory, but he’s impatient—this shouldn’t surprise you. His tongue slides against yours, permission for more granted without the question ever being asked. You want him messy—you want him warm and whole and unrestrained. Every slide of his skin against yours feels electric, sparks flaring and wires buzzing. 

“This good?” he asks—as if he’s worried, as if this isn’t what you’ve wanted for weeks .

You can only hum in response, pulling him back to you by the lapel of his blazer—his dumb fucking blazer that he fills out so perfectly, all wide shoulders and strong arms and—it needs to come off. 

Pushing it down his arms yields little in terms of results, but he takes over for you, carelessly tossing it across the room before returning to the kiss, allowing your hands to run across his chest, up to his muscled shoulders, twining your fingers in his soft hair.

He doesn’t push—just takes what you give him, which means you have to give him more, breaking the kiss and hooking your leg over his lap to straddle him. 

“Fuck, okay,” he says, more to himself than you. His hands find your hips and squeeze, eyes locked on the touch, pulling you closer to him. Through his slacks, you can already feel how painfully hard he is for you. “Okay,” he repeats.

His uncertainty begins to worry you. You tilt his head up carefully, forefinger crooked under his chin. His stubble is rough against your hand and you can’t help smoothing your thumb across the cut of his jaw. “Wolfwood—you know we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“Are you—? Of course I want to,” he says, incredulous even though only a moment ago he looked absolutely at a loss for what to do with you. His hands move past the boundary of your shirt, warm palms against your sides, fingers digging into your skin a little desperately. “Fuck, baby, of course I want to.”

“But there’s something on your mind.”

From the way he pauses, you gather that there’s more than just one thing on his mind. He looks conflicted. His hands are still warm against you, and he squeezes your sides once again, warmly, before responding. “Use my name.”

“Okay,” you say, soft. You move your hands to the back of his neck, carding your fingers through his hair. It feels so good to touch someone after so long—but it also feels so good to touch him, specifically, after wondering what it would be like for all those months. “I can do that.”

“Nick.”

Something about the way he tells you this makes you laugh. “Do you think I didn’t know your name?”

He looks up at you, unimpressed. Even if you’re joking, he doesn’t like to be made a fool. “Didn’t want you to call me Nicholas.”

“Okay,” you concede, leaning closer to him. You won’t ask the reason because you’re sure it’s locked behind at least six boundaries you aren’t allowed to push. Into his ear, you whisper, “Is there anything else you want, Nick?”

You can feel his cock twitch against you, and he tries and fails to bite back a groan, exhaling hard, his lips ghosting your neck, the curve of your jaw. “Can you, uh—I just need to know that you… want this. You’ve gotta tell me. Keep telling me.”

Seeing him vulnerable is something you’re not used to. You get the sense that he’s not entirely comfortable with it either. He kisses your shoulder, bites softly at the junction of your neck, intent on not looking at you, you think, before you answer. 

“I’ve wanted this for a while,” you tell him, because it’s easier for you, too, when you don’t have to look at him as you say these things. “I’ve wanted—I want you.”

Before you can say more he takes your chin in his hand, pulls your mouth to his and kisses you hard, his teeth knocking against yours, and stands—stands while you’re in his lap, inhuman strength displayed in such a careless action. Your arms tighten around his shoulders, but his hands are on the underside of your thighs, holding you as if you’re lighter than air. He takes you to the bed and your back hits the mattress, a little dust springing up from the threadbare comforter. 

Looking at him above you is a religious experience. His eyes are black, clouded with lust, lips kiss-reddened, face flushed.

There’s an unparalleled need in his expression, his movements. He pulls your cargos off impressively fast, his knees hitting the wood floor hard enough that the impact rings through your bones as well as his. You’re wearing boxer briefs, you realize, because underwear is at a premium out here in the desert, and they’re fine but they don’t exactly make you feel sexy. Your face flushes a little, suddenly so worried about what he thinks of you, what parts of you appeal to him. “Nick—”

“What do you need, pretty girl?” He kisses the inside of your thigh after asking you this, eyes never leaving yours.

Christ—the pet name alone could kill you, but the look on his face is worse. Desperation doesn’t even begin to cover it.

His long fingers dip into the top of your briefs, and suddenly whatever you’re wearing doesn’t feel all that important. “I’m gonna take these off. That okay?”

You nod because you’ve been rendered unable to speak and he takes care of everything for you. He returns as soon as he’s physically able, kissing the inside of each thigh with a reverence you wouldn’t have ever expected to see from him. It draws a sigh from you, and it’s so nice to be touched, to feel Nick’s skin against yours, to feel the heat of his breath between your thighs.

The second his tongue is against you he groans, vibrations running straight through your body. “All for me, huh?” he asks, half-lidded eyes meeting yours, and you miss the heat of his mouth already. “I’m gonna make you feel so good. So good, I promise.” 

He kisses the inside of your leg once more and wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed, closer to him, and he eats you out like a man starved—there’s some sort of technique to it, but it’s lost in the fervor of his movements, in the desperation of his mouth, in the depth of the noises he makes, like he’s been waiting for this for months and now doesn’t know what to do with all the pent up want inside of him.

You tell him he’s doing so good, so perfect, treating me so well, and the encouragement spurs him on, but when he’s opening you up with his long, pretty fingers, when he curls them inside of you just right, your words lose their shape. 

You’re at the edge before you realized you were approaching it, and Nick doesn’t stop his movements. He’s intent on getting you off, tongue moving in rhythm and fingers hitting the perfect spot, his other hand gripping your thigh hard enough to bruise. There’s nothing you want more right now than for him to mark you, to stake some sort of claim on you. To want you for more than just this. 

On instinct, your fingers curl into his hair, guiding him to where you need him—and a second too late you worry that it’s too much, that he won’t like it, but when your grip loosens and you begin to pull away, he grabs your wrist and places your hand back on his head, urging you to take what you need.

And you do—his soft hair thick between your fingers, your grip tightening as you pull him into perfect position, as he lets out a half-broken noise against you, grip tightening painfully on your thigh. His fingers reach a feverish speed and that’s all it takes—you cum hard against his face, your legs tensing around his head, and he couldn’t pull away if he tried. 

But he doesn’t—he works you through your orgasm until you’re oversensitive, until you’re tugging at his hair to get him to stop, until words come back to you and all you can say is please, please, Nick, please.

When he finally relents, he’s breathless, his mouth and chin shimmering and slick. He wipes his face off on the inside of your thigh, which instinctually you want to give him shit for, but immediately after he licks up the mess, placing a kiss to your sensitive skin when he’s finished. “Was that good, baby?” he asks, his breaths heavy, arms still loosely wrapped around your thighs.

He can’t possibly be serious. Yes, it was good. You don’t think anyone will ever be able to follow that up, and all he’s done so far is eat you out.

His face lights up wickedly, and—you said that out loud, you realize, without meaning to. You can’t find it within yourself to care. It would be embarrassing if it wasn’t so wholly true. “So far, huh?” he asks. “Think you can take more?”

You tug at his shoulder because you want him close—you want to kiss him again, because you’ve gone so long not kissing him that even now, only five minutes feels like too long without. He follows your commands with no complaint, a knee up on the bed, leaning over you to kiss you and you can taste yourself on him, on his swollen lips and the wet slide of his tongue.

“Nick,” you say when he gives you a moment to breathe, and—you had an idea of what you were going to say, but you can’t fully reach it. Any time you’ve slept with someone, it’s been quick and perfunctory. Either you ask them to fuck you or they do the same, and that’s that. But this is so different. You want him to fuck you more than anything, but telling him that you want him to fuck you feels too small for what you actually want from him. 

You want everything. You want the real and the not, who he is and what he sells people. You want him to kiss you when you’re not in a bed in a cheap motel, and you want to sleep next to him, and you want to run your thumb across the stubble on his face without the expectation of anything else afterwards. A touch for the sake of a touch.

You’re struggling with understanding whether these thoughts are because of who he is or because he’s the closest thing you’ve had to an object of affection since—ever. You want him to touch you again. Maybe if you closed your eyes, it wouldn’t matter if it was him or someone else.

“I know,” he says, and he doesn’t because he can’t, because everything that’s going through your head isn’t allowed because that’s not how the world works. Because you think even if you closed your eyes, he’d be the only thing in your head, just his name on a loop and the sounds he makes behind it. He kisses the corner of your mouth and you wish you were in a different reality entirely. “Give me—five minutes, and I’ll be good.”

So he knows what you’re asking for. And he can’t give it to you right now. “Did you already—?”

He stops you before you get further. “It’s—I, uh. Fuck.” His olive skin hides any blush that’s not very deep, but there’s pink staining his cheeks, painting the tips of his ears. “Yeah. You just—yeah.”

“Oh my god.”

“Look, if you’re gonna have an attitude about it—”

“I want you so badly,” you say, and nothing has ever been more true. You’re kissing him before you can stop yourself and you’d thought five minutes was a generous estimate, but that’s really all it takes, his body pinning you to the bed, your hips moving beneath him, your hands running up his back and fisting in his hair. You pull at his shirt, barely buttoned now. “Take it off?”

It didn’t even need to be a question. He stands and his shirt is on the floor in seconds, his slacks following quickly behind. His skin glows in the low light, dark hairs peppering his chest and trailing lower, and you can’t stop yourself from reaching out, running a hand up his stomach, feeling the indents of long-healed scars and the coarseness of his hair. When he breathes out, it’s shaky, poorly controlled. He, too, is wearing boxer briefs, and even though this is normal because they're best for the heat, you somehow feel less self-conscious about anything from earlier. He’s hard again, the boxers stained dark because he came while eating you out which you wouldn’t have believed possible before right now and he’s so disgustingly sexy without even trying that you need him to fuck you right now, actually.

You’d been too enraptured watching him to undress, and his patience is short. Your shirt is pulled up over your head and quick work is made of your bra, and Nick’s breath comes out a little less steady when he palms your breasts, when one hand runs up your sternum, up the column of your throat, before tilting your head up for a surprisingly soft kiss.

He smacks the side of your ass lightly, herding you up the mattress, laying you out fully. When he’s fully undressed, when he’s completely yours to admire, you can’t take your eyes off the precum rolling down the tip of his cock, down the incredibly pretty length of him.

The things you would do to this man if you had time—which you do, but it really seems like you don’t, the pent up energy making you both hazy, rushing you towards what you need. With him on top of you there’s barely any room to move, the twin not built to hold a man as large as Nick, let alone a second person. 

He kisses down the length of your neck and your eyes flutter closed. You tell him how pretty he is, how badly you want him, and his hands squeeze your hips in response, pulling your body so, so close to his. He’s hard against your thigh and you need him right now—you could die tomorrow and be happy if you could just have him inside you this instant. He sucks a bruise into the skin right above your collarbone, and you’re too far gone to worry about whether or not your traveling clothes will cover it tomorrow. “This okay?” he asks, moving a hand between the two of you to position himself at your entrance and ever so slightly push.

“You don’t ever have to ask,” you tell him, voice almost too breathy to be heard, because you would have him whenever, wherever—whatever he wanted. 

Slowly, he thrusts inside, and each inch has your legs clenching tighter around him, your nails digging into his perfect shoulders, most assuredly leaving marks. When he bottoms out you basically whimper—it’s embarrassing, the sounds he’s coaxing from you. 

But you can’t help it—he’s so deep you can barely breathe, and his face is buried into the curve of your neck, moans muffled by your skin, teeth digging into your shoulder.

“Kiss me,” you manage to stutter out, the pace he sets slow and deep, and you want him closer, somehow, as if you could have him living in your skin and it wouldn’t be deep enough. 

He does what you ask, hips snapping to yours, the old mattress squeaking in protest beneath you. The kisses are sloppy, wet, at some points your tongues simply pressed together. He pants something against your mouth—your name, you think, though it’s too quiet for you to know for sure—and with each kiss his thrusts get sharper, deeper, hitting spots you didn’t even know existed. 

Your vision spirals at the edges, white and black stars sparkling in your peripherals. And in the center, Nick: pupils blown, lips a perfect pink, cheeks reddened, and his eyes always, always meeting yours when they can, as if it’s essential whenever your lips aren’t slick against his, like he wants to be connected to you in every way possible.

“Want you to cum again,” he murmurs. “You can do that for me, right?”

All you have to do is hum an affirmative and his hand is between your bodies, thumb honing in on your clit and rubbing tight circles, his pace measured and even and so, so deep, and the closer you get the harder it is to keep your eyes open, to stop yourself from curling into him.

His forehead is flush against yours, his explicit groans all breaths against your mouth. “Look at me, pretty girl,” he says. “I wanna see you.”

You moan his name like a prayer, your eyes opening, still so close to him and he’s beautiful—sweat dripping down his forehead, face so open and earnest, as if this is the closest he’s ever come to being completely vulnerable with you.

It only takes a few more thrusts, his cock curved in the perfect way to hit the right spot inside of you, and you’re coming apart, arms wrapping around his neck and fingers gripping his hair and his name on your lips over and over, because he’s the one that did this and you want him to know that you’re only thinking of him. 

Your vision is blank, head hazy. It takes a long moment for you to feel like you’re a part of your body again, Nick still fucking into you, thrusts becoming sloppy, his hands gripping your hips, fingers digging in so hard you’d be surprised if they weren’t meeting bone. He mumbles something into your neck that you can’t hear, and you can feel his muscles tense, and you say please don’t pull out and he’s cumming inside you while holding your hips flush to his, and he keeps saying things to you like he can’t stop himself. When your senses return to you, you realize he’s saying so good, baby, knew you’d take me so good—and then, out of nowhere, “Love you. Fuck, I love you.”

After a moment, Nick pulls out, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. He lays his head against your chest, one hand curled into your hair, the other gently tracing your side.

You can feel the exact moment that he realizes what he said. 

His entire body tenses, his hand stills, and it reminds you of the way a prey animal locks up when it knows it’s been spotted. When panic fills it so intensely that all bodily autonomy is removed.

What he said isn’t true, obviously. The words barely faze you. There are people in some towns that you can pay to sit in a room with you and tell you how much they love you, that they would do anything for you, that they would die for you. There are so few people scattered across the desert. If you’re a lonely traveler passing through, or even someone city-based but just as alone, being able to say you love someone and hear it back is intoxicating. The chances of anyone saying it to you organically are essentially non-existent. 

It’s certainly not something you’d have expected someone like Nick to be into, but who are you to shame him for the things he likes? He wants praise, he wants to feel wanted, he wants to tell someone that he loves them—there are much crazier things he could like. You’re fine with this.

What you’re not as fine with is the strained look on his face when he pushes himself up on his elbows, the way his words tumble out so quickly when he says, “I didn’t mean that.”

“It’s okay,” you say, but a stupid part of you stings in the face of such an emphatic rejection of any feelings he could have for you. “I know.”

Connections on Gunsmoke are forged fast and broken bullet-quick. You could meet someone and travel with them for a week and convince yourself you were in love with them because they’re the only person you talk to, the only person to offer you kind touches and pretty words. But those connections aren’t real. They don’t have weight to them, a foundation to stand on.

You and Nick don’t really know each other, despite the nights you’ve spent talking. Despite the ways he’s made you laugh and the ways you’ve made him smile genuinely—even if it’s a small ghost of a thing that doesn’t often grace his handsome face. Logically, he doesn’t love you. You don’t love him. There’s not even a fraction of you that’s tempted to say it because you know it’s not true. 

And yet, a small part of you yearns to have something like that—to have Nick tell you he loves you and mean it, and for you to love him back.

His face is red despite the aplomb with which you handled everything. He doesn’t quite look you in the eyes. “I’m, uh… Damn. I’m sorry.”

“For what?” You still like him being close to you. You like the way he touches you, the way he looks at you. You don’t want this to ruin the chance of getting to do this again.

“That was—a lot.”

You run the back of your knuckles across his stubbled jaw, pull him towards you with a hand on the back of his head. He follows without any complaint, even kisses you back when you lean up to kiss him, which really was a gamble because some people don’t like any kind of affection once the sex is over. “You can tell me you love me if that’s what you like,” you murmur against his lips. “I can say it too, if you want.”

He breathes in deep—his exhale almost sounds like a sigh, as if he’s about to deliver bad news but has to gear up for it first.

“If you want to do this again,” you say, pulling back to look him in the eyes—to make sure he knows you’re serious. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so presumptuous. “If you don’t, we can go back to how it was before. That would be okay.”

“I want this,” he tells you, eyes flicking to your lips for an instant. “I mean—I want to do this again.”

Smiling at him is easy. Identifying the warmth you feel in your chest is harder.

He kisses you and you sink into the comfort of him, his easy grins and soft moans and light touches. He only stops to ask you very quietly if he should be worried about finishing inside of you, but years of radiation exposure from the dual suns have taken care of any risks there. In turn, you ask him to stay the night. The questions both somehow feel extremely intimate even though they’re normal questions to ask someone you’ve just slept with. He doesn’t hesitate to say yes, and you think—maybe this will end well. Maybe it’ll be exactly what you need for the limited amount of time you have it. 

When he falls asleep, he has one hand on the back of your head, holding you to his chest, and the other in yours, your fingers loosely intertwined. It’s sweet in a way you’ve never experienced.

Maybe this will end well, but you’re almost entirely sure it won’t.

For the next three days of travel to Ship Three—or Home, as Blondie calls it, which is a stupid name—Nick feels like he’s dying. He chain-smokes faster than normal, burning through a pack every couple hours. It’s like his skin is being express-washed with sandpaper and bleach. He wants to touch you so badly it burns.

And you just sit there all pretty, in the back seat next to him and in front of the campfire and on the car’s hood when you have to pull over because Roberto gets too sick from the driving and the alcohol. You sew up the bullet holes in his blazer because of course you’d do that for him, and you laugh at Vash’s jokes and talk to Meryl about the time you both spent in November and you look at Nick and smile like it’s nothing—like your eyes on him don’t drive him insane. 

He gets lucky on your final night of travel, everyone asleep except the two of you, and he takes his time kissing you against the side of the equipment trailer, the car shielding the two of you from your snoring companions.

He’s not gonna ask you to say you love him—when you told him you’d say it if he wanted you to, it felt like there was a bug crawling around in his stomach, an unnameable feeling that he didn’t ever want to experience again.

Saying he loved you in the first place was embarrassing as hell for multiple reasons. First off, he’s pretty sure he doesn’t. Secondly, it was his goal when he approached you that night to play it cool, and he ended up finishing before he’d even started because of how good you tasted, how much he liked the way you pulled his hair, how pretty you sounded saying his name—and then on top of that, you let him cum inside you and you felt so good, so fucking right, and he spilled those words because in that moment, he loved you like absolutely nothing else.

He’s half-hard thinking about it, kissing you slow and deep because fuck, he loves the way you sigh into him when he kisses you like this, the way your hands grip the open sides of his shirt right below the collar as if you wouldn’t let him pull away if he tried. 

There’s not a second where he’s not tempted to mark you, to suck a deep bruise into your neck right below the jawline so everyone knows exactly what’s happening when they’re not looking. But he won’t. He won’t. He’ll be good. He’ll stop kissing you, he’ll ask if you want to lie with him for a little before you go to sleep, he’ll talk to you until you begin to nod off.

Let it never be said that Nicholas D. Wolfwood isn’t a paragon of restraint. He’s the king of it.

The only slight relief he gets is when you all arrive where Vash grew up, when you get to stay in rooms that are a little more private. When he can sleep next to you at night, sometimes after he fucks you as quiet as possible so no one but him gets to hear the noises you make and sometimes after he doesn’t. 

He thinks it should only be about the sex—that’s what everything else he’s ever done with someone has been about. But he gets possessive over your time. He likes to listen to your soft breathing as he falls asleep, likes to feel the weight of you against his chest. Likes when you wake up before him and trace the angles of his face and the planes of his chest with a feather-light touch until he’s up too, and he could never be mad about losing sleep over you.

And he’s a shitty person for doing this. For letting you sleep in his arms, for enjoying the way your hands feel on his skin. There’s so much you don’t know about him, but that doesn’t stop you from asking. He can’t tell you his actual age, he can’t tell you exactly what made him into the freak he is, he can’t explain to you why Livio was after Vash and how he was like a brother to Nick. He doesn’t want to disappoint you, doesn’t want you to pity him. And most importantly—

He can’t tell you what his mission is. The cost of his freedom. You’d never forgive him.

He tries not to lie to you. He avoids questions, omits information where he can. And he knows that this is essentially lying. It’s the same as a broken promise. He’s a hypocrite for calling out Vash’s lies while adding on to his own burning pyre.

This doesn’t stop him from wanting you. He takes back all the paragon shit—Nick has never been very good at denying himself what he wants.

It’s when you’re having breakfast with everyone on an unremarkable morning that Nick reaches his breaking point. Vash’s foster parents are keeping you all fed well, vegetables grown in actual gardens and meat cloned from animal cells on your plates every day.

Nick doesn’t eat breakfast—doesn’t need as much food as other people. He has his coffee like always, a cigarette soon to follow. He sits next to you because that’s his unspoken and permanent spot during meals and at the campfire and absolutely anywhere else. He leans back in his seat, sips from his mug, chimes in on the chatter when he has something to say. Everyone else is chowing down, and Vash says some stupid joke about forgetting what greens taste like when they’re not covered in sand, and you laugh—and something snaps in him.

Nothing big. It’s wishbone-small, the slightest crack. But it’s enough.

He drapes his arm across your seat, cups the back of your neck with his hand, strokes his thumb over the dip of your spine right below your hairline. You swallow hard and he can feel the vibration in his palm.

Everyone is silent. You turn to look at him slowly and he can feel the heat that crawls up your neck. He thought you might be mad—but your eyes are wide, mouth parted in surprise, as if you thought he wouldn’t want everyone to know you were his, as if he’d never claim you publicly.

He’d do a lot more to you publicly if you’d let him, but he doesn’t want to push his luck.

“What?” he asks, as if this is something perfectly normal for him to be doing. He looks between the four of you, and every single one of you is looking at him dumbstruck. “Guess staring problems are an epidemic.”

Vash’s face is a deep pink. He stutters out, “Wow, guys—congrats. Or, uh—I mean. That’s nice that you’re… that—”

“It’s just puppy love, kid, you don’t have to make it awkward,” Roberto says—and Nick barely stops himself from bodily flinching at that word. It shouldn’t be spoken in the context of the two of you so soon after his mistake. “Let the Undertaker have his moment in peace.”

Peace isn’t what Nick was aiming to achieve by touching you like this—but he still got what he wanted. You and Meryl are staring at each other, communicating in a series of complicated eyebrow maneuvers. Vash is looking anywhere but Nick. Roberto, somehow the voice of reason in all this, is already shoveling the rest of his breakfast into his mouth.

He’s itching for a cigarette. He slides his thumb over your soft skin once more, then stands, curling a finger under your chin to tilt your face up. You don’t protest as he leans down, as he kisses you softly and extremely chastely. It’s not like he doesn’t know that he’s pushing boundaries right now, that you might be pissed at him for this. He’s not gonna stick his tongue down your throat in front of everyone. But he couldn’t stop himself from having just one kiss. 

Whatever broke inside him couldn’t be patched up, and he just—he needed everyone to know what you were. That you were something. That he was the one that’d take care of you if you needed it, that he was the one you were sleeping next to every night, that he was yours.

“Nick…?” You don’t look angry with him. Just confused. Concerned, maybe.

“Gonna go out for a smoke.” He knows you don’t like him smoking next to you while you’re eating, or he’d already have a cigarette lit between his fingers. His thumb swipes across your lower lip because he has a hard time keeping his hands off you once they’re on. 

He turns from the table and heads towards the hallway—where he’ll be breaking out his smokes, because he’s not walking through the entire damn ship to have a cigarette if they haven’t complained about him smoking inside yet. 

Before he makes it to the door, he hears Meryl loudly whispering at you, questions pouring from her lips, and Roberto saying, “Christ, Newbie, let her breathe.”

Outside the mess hall, Nick turns to the wall of the hallway. Presses his forehead against the cool metal. He’s an idiot for doing things like this. For acting on impulse. For not being entirely honest with you.

Maybe if he could get his contract from the church, you’d understand. You’d see the clauses on there that he remembers watching Conrad write— if this contract is breached, the Hopeland Orphanage will be destroyed and the lives of every child that resides within will be forfeit. You’d see the thick black line at the bottom that he was forced to sign when he was too young to know what a signature was. Vash wanted to see his brother anyway. All he had to do was deliver the kid to Knives. It wouldn’t even be extra work on Nick’s part. 

But he knows you well enough now. Too well to ignore the fact that you don’t forgive easily.

And this still doesn’t stop him, because he’s an awful person. Blondie’s arm puts you back a few weeks—weeks spent gathering materials and waiting for the old scientist to finish his repairs. 

And even as you spend more and more time with him, holding his hand when you walk into the mess hall for breakfast, laying against his chest as you read old books from the ship’s small library, kissing him goodbye when you or he take turns helping out on scavenging trips, he doesn’t tell you the entire truth. 

Even as he finds such simple happiness in talking to you about your day, even as he finds some kind of divinity in the way you moan his name, in the way your nails scrape against his scalp when he fucks you—always face to face, because he loves the way you look at him, like he’s the only thing that exists to you—even then, he doesn’t give you the most delicate, secret parts of him.

Just once—just one time while he has you laid out beneath him, while he has you in his ear telling him what a good job he’s doing, he considers taking you up on what you’d proposed to him all those months ago. He thinks about what it would sound like if you told him you loved him, even if you didn’t mean it, and he cums so unexpectedly that his vision whites out, that he feels a tipsy sort of dizziness, that you ask him if everything is okay after.

You mess with his head. He doesn’t know whether he likes it or hates it. Doesn’t matter how he feels about it, really—wouldn’t stop it from happening every time you smile at him after you’ve been away from him for a little while, the first time you woke up in his arms and said morning, handsome and every time after that.

When Brad finally tells everyone that he’s almost done with Vash’s repairs, Nick is disappointed. He wants time. He’s only had a month of this. He wants all the time in the world and more because he’s greedy and needs every part of you.

Only a few days later, you’re in the mess hall for dinner and Wolfwood is coming back from helping Blondie scavenge around for old ship parts. There are specific metals the scientist needs for his final repairs, all located in burnt out scraps of fallen spaceships that litter the wasteland around Ship Three. He’s been gone for eight hours and it’s been too damn long with you out of his sight.

It’s later in the evening—most of the crew have cleared out, but stragglers sit at the tables around the edges of the room and chat tiredly. You’re already done with your meal and Nick is so ready to pick you up and carry you all the way back to his room and get you in his shower, because he can’t wait to touch you until after he’s clean, free of the sweat and sand that feel like a second skin at this point. 

Except you’re talking to some asshole with a lopsided smile on his face, obviously already half in love with you. The guy isn’t even your type. Too soft, baby-faced, completely untested by Gunsmoke and its inhabitants. He looks like he wouldn’t know how to shoot a gun if Nick put one in his hand with the safety off and positioned his finger on the trigger.

He leans the Punisher against whatever’s closest to him and its weight causes the metal table it falls against to scrape across the floor harshly. You turn to look at him and you smile so softly despite the loud noise, and maybe he’ll just hoist you out of your chair and carry you to his room right now even though you’d complain about him being rude to this wet rag that wants to fuck you.

You greet him when he sits in the chair next to you and he missed your voice so much. The guy you were talking to looks at Nick, brows raised, as if expecting—what, that you’d actually want this asshole? Over him?

Nick shoots the guy a withering glare, then puts his arm around your shoulders lazily, murmuring hey, pretty girl into your hair while this idiot keeps staring at him as if it could intimidate him into leaving.

“I’ve heard about you. The Undertaker, right?” the guy asks, holding his hand out, as if Nick would actually shake it. “I’m—”

“Leaving,” Nick says. “Unless you’re looking for a problem.”

You turn to look at him, his name a protest on your tongue, but the guy is already getting up, muttering to himself about Nick having awful manners. Doesn’t matter—he’d rather have every person on this ship hate him if it meant keeping you to himself.

“You can’t talk to people like that,” you say.

“I didn’t like the way he was looking at you.” He could see the hunger in that asshole’s eyes, no matter how well he was hiding it from you. “He wanted something that wasn’t his.”

“Nick…” You pull back a little further away from him to really look at him, and he curls his arm around your shoulder because he doesn’t want you further away. He wants you against the wall of his shower right now, and then maybe on the countertop next to the sink, and then preferably in his bed for the rest of the night. “Maybe… we should go somewhere more quiet. To talk.”

Dread settles into his stomach so quickly that it’s like being hit by a bullet to the gut—and Nick’s taken plenty of those over the years, but none have felt quite as cold and heavy as this. He refuses to panic right now. “To talk,” he repeats.

You must see it in his eyes—the fear. Your hand is on his cheek in an instant, and you kiss him so soft and chaste, exactly like the first time he kissed you in front of everyone, and he feels safer. His heart stops beating out of his chest, the dread in his stomach warms to a tepid anxiety. He’s beginning to like kisses like these. Still not as much as when he can really kiss you the way he wants, long and deep and thorough, but there’s something in the simplicity of them that pleases him. They’re a message more than anything. An assurance. You still like him. You still want him.

Regardless, he follows you to your room with a stone in his throat. He’s not a big talker. Not when it comes to serious stuff. And this feels serious. You start pacing and his pulse quickens again, a raging beat against his sternum, an echo that rattles around his head.

When you stop, it’s sudden enough to rock you in place a little, as if you didn’t realize you were going to cease moving before it happened. “Sometimes,” you say, not looking at him, “you say things.”

He waits, but you don’t continue. “I tend to do that.”

“Nick—unless I’m not understanding things right, we’re not… we’re not together.”

Refusing to panic seems to be something he’s no longer good at. “We’re not together,” he repeats, because he’s an idiot that can’t string two words together if you haven’t already said them.

“Okay, that’s—that’s what I thought. I didn’t think you… yeah.” You still won’t look at him. You’re picking at your cuticles so hard that there’s already a little blood on your fingers.

His immediate instinct is to stop you—to step forward and take your hands in his, to smooth his thumbs over the wounds you’ve given yourself. “Look at me.”

When you look at him, your eyes are full of an emotion that Nick can’t name. Not desire—but want, on a certain level. There’s something you want that he can’t give you.

And he knows what it is. He’s not an idiot. He knows that the way you smile at him isn’t the way you smile at someone you’re not together with. He knows you don’t give him those reassuring kisses because you don’t want to be together with him. You don’t ever press him about it because this kind of stuff doesn’t happen. People don’t connect like this. Whatever the two of you are doing—it’s fragile, and you’re ready for it to fall apart at a moment’s notice. He is, too.

If there wasn’t so much he wasn’t telling you, then—he doesn’t even want to think about it. Because maybe he’d like that too. Maybe he’d be able to give you parts of what you want, to be enough of what you need in order for you to be happy. 

You’d do it for him, no question. You already do it for him. 

“I’m not great at this,” he tells you. He’s not. He’s slept with a lot of people, but that’s easy on Gunsmoke. If you’re even a little good looking, half the planet wants you. But he hasn’t held anything more real than that, hasn’t felt the weight of it in his palm. “But I want… just you.”

You bite the inside of your lip, unsure—because what has he given you, really, beyond vague answers and truths that aren’t fully fleshed out? He can understand your hesitance. You’re so devastatingly beautiful and he wishes he wasn’t a piece of shit.

“Okay,” is your eventual response. 

He can tell that what he said wasn’t enough. But it’s all he can give you. It’s selfish of him to want reciprocation, he knows. “Do you…?” 

“Yes,” you say, but you look so sad and he keeps fucking up more and more. “Just you.”

He wishes he could see what kind of thoughts are running through your head—whether you hate him now, whether you’re okay with just this, whether he could ever make you forgive him for everything he’s about to do.

“Kiss me,” you tell him. “Please.”

How could he deny you that?

He doesn’t take you to his shower but you don’t seem to mind the grit and sweat of the desert on his skin—you’re pliant underneath him, you come apart on his hands, you kiss him like you mean it, and when he’s inside you and he whispers I love you, I love you, I love you into your skin, you don’t question whether it’s real or not and he doesn’t tell you.

You don’t say it back, but he didn’t ask you to.

After JuLai

There’s nowhere you can go but Home.

The entire coast of the Great Sand Ocean is covered in the debris of JuLai, and even then—no Sandsteamer is going to stop on a random stretch of coast to take you somewhere safe. If you can all make it to Home, Meryl can go north to November, Nick can go back to December, and you can figure out what you’re going to do since you didn’t have the good fortune to die.

So many people didn’t make it. You should be happy you’re still alive. But traveling with Nick makes you wish that someone else was here instead of you.

Vash is nowhere to be found. You don’t think he’s dead—because it’s him. Even with everything that happened to him in that tower, you have such a strong belief that he lived through Knives’s torture, through that bright pink light in the sky that exploded up into space, through the collapse of the world’s largest city.

Maybe that’s naive. But if you can go look for him after you get situated, that’s—something. You can do something and not feel so empty. Or you could follow Meryl to November, become a gun-for-hire like you’d been for so many years.

It’s a week's journey to Home on foot. You barely sleep. You and Meryl take turns keeping watch at night, always right beside each other, because there’s no way you could trust Nick to keep the two of you safe after everything.

But you can’t kick him out of your little group, either, because you’re without cover and without your weapon, lost somewhere in the escape, and Meryl’s Derringer only has three low-caliber shots before the bullets Roberto gave her are gone.

As much as you hate it, he’d be your only chance of survival if you got caught in a firefight out here.

Nick doesn’t seem willing to leave, either. He doesn’t speak to either of you—out of shame, you wonder, or because he simply doesn’t care?—but he nods when you say that Home should be your next destination, follows quietly when Meryl begins to lead the trek with her unflappable sense of direction, smokes cigarette after cigarette until his borrowed pack of menthols runs out and he gets twitchy, bouncing his leg whenever he sits down, toying with the buckles on the cover of his gun tirelessly.

The noise doesn’t bother you when you’re walking, but in the middle of the night, it sounds like a fucking alarm going off. And he doesn’t sleep—at least, you never see him unconscious during your trek, even though you know firsthand that he’s capable of sleeping—but obviously there’s a lot he hasn’t told you about himself.

The night before you get to Home, it’s too much for you—you’re about to wake Meryl for her watch, and you haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a week, and he’s flicking a buckle open and closed, and you find the half-finished pack of cigarettes in your pocket that, before everything, you’d been holding for him.

There are no campfires these nights. You don’t have the resources, and you sure as shit don’t want to be spotted by anyone that might be heading to JuLai to scavenge its corpse. In the shine of the five moons, you make your way over to him—he’s never too close, maybe because he’s trying to be conscientious. 

He looks up at you, surprised, and—he’s terrible enough to have something like hope on his face. It’s not a good look on him.

“Here,” you say, and you hold out the crumpled pack of cigarettes. He takes it from you slowly, like you’ll scare if he moves too quickly. “You need to stop fiddling with shit so I can get a good night’s sleep.”

“Thanks,” he says, but you’re already walking back towards Meryl, shaking her from sleep. 

The sound of his lighter clicking, the sound of him taking a deep drag and exhaling a long moment later—it’s so familiar. You’ve fallen asleep to that many nights over the past month or so, when Nick hadn’t been able to rest without a little nicotine to calm him down. He was always thinking hard when you were quiet in his arms, something in his eyes that spoke of conflict. You wonder now if he was thinking about the things he was keeping from you. The way he was about to betray you.

Meryl eyes the lit cigarette in Nick’s mouth when she wakes up, but she doesn’t look at you with any kind of judgment. She squeezes your hand and smiles at you, quietly says, “It’s okay. You need some rest.”

Maybe she’s talking about the noise that kept you awake every night—maybe she’s talking about something less tangible, an unrest that lives deep within you. You still don’t sleep well, and it’s his fault. Without the sound of the buckles clicking, you can hear him smoke, hear his deep breaths in the silence of the night. When you dream, it’s a hazy memory on loop, Nick holding you close and whispering things he didn’t mean.

Luida cries when you arrive and tell her what happened. You can’t blame her—you want to cry too. It’s all you’ve wanted to do for days. You just want to get to a room where you can be by yourself and finally, finally be allowed to feel.

Brad tells you that the room you’d stayed in is exactly how you left it, and you leave Meryl talking to the two of them, leave Nick leaning against the wall next to his gun, quietly smoking one of the last cigarettes from the pack you’d given him.

You get to your room, untouched to the point that it still smells a little like the body wash you used the last time you showered here, a little like stale smoke from when Nick would come to you at night because he basically refused to sleep if it wasn’t next to you, and you find that you can’t even do what you’ve wanted to do this whole time.

There are no tears. There’s no terrible cracking of the makeshift foundation you’d built to hold yourself up over the past few days. No collapse, no city falling dark. There’s nothing.

You shower and sit on the tiled floor, letting the spray hit your hair, your back, until the water goes lukewarm. Even after you’ve scrubbed every inch of your skin, you can still feel the desert on you, sand under your nails, baked into your hair, seared into your bones. You lay in your bed in clean clothes—truly clean clothes for the first time in more than a week, comfy pajama shorts and an actual sweater—and all you can do is stare at the ceiling, waiting to sleep, or to sink into the sheets and melt away, or to simply cease to exist.

He comes to your door in the middle of the night, knocks and waits outside, as if he couldn’t simply open the door himself. They don’t lock. People on this ship are respectful about privacy. There’s a large part of you that wants to leave him out there. He won’t come in if you don’t let him. You may not know a lot about him, but you’re at least sure of that. 

When you open the door, he’s flicking the butt of a finished cigarette to the ground. It bounces, crosses the threshold of your room. “Shit—didn’t mean to do that,” he says. I didn’t mean it, you hear. “Didn’t even think you’d see me, to be honest.”

“Do you need something, Wolfwood?” you ask. Whenever you’re not speaking your jaw is clenched so tightly that you can hear your molars grind against each other. He’s doing irreparable damage to your teeth. “Or are we done here?”

His face falls—not that it hadn’t been in a state that could be classified as ‘fallen’ before that—and he jams his hands in his pockets, swaying back on his heels, looking more above you than at you. The mask he wears to hide his thoughts from you doesn’t fit very well anymore. “I’m leaving,” he says. 

It’s what you wanted him to do, but it doesn’t stop you from inhaling sharp, from feeling a sudden pain against your ribs. 

“Thought I’d, uh…” He shakes his head. He’s replaced his sunglasses, or maybe he had them the whole time, and you can’t see his eyes in the hallway’s ambient night-time lighting. “Nah, never mind. Get some sleep. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

He turns to leave and the lapel of his jacket is suddenly in your hand, sandworn and stitched through. You sewed up the bullet hole that rests snug beneath your thumb. You ran your fingers over the skin of his chest not long after that, marveling at its smoothness, the lack of scars to follow the wound. You thought then: was he disappointed that he didn’t have any marks to show for the trauma he’d endured? Or did he prefer that—a blank canvas that let him pretend that everything he’d ever known hadn’t really happened?

You had eventually come to the conclusion that he didn’t care. His scars were littered across bone and organ, never to be shown to another person. The cross he bore was his own terrible burden to shoulder.

Back then, you had been okay with that. After everything that happened, you shouldn’t care. You should let him shoulder the weight. You should let him leave. 

There are more holes in the blazer now, wounds he picked up on the way to his betrayal. “Let me fix this for you.”

He says your name small, quiet, the same way he’d said it when JuLai was burning with life behind him, exploding in flowers and vines.

“Before you go,” you say. You have no idea what you’re doing. “I want to fix it before you go.”

He swallows, nods. You can tell he wishes he had a cigarette right now. “Alright. If you want."

It takes a moment for you to let go of him, as if he’d melt into sand once you let go, as if this is only an apparition before you and your grip is the only thing tying him to the physical realm. 

He doesn’t melt. He doesn’t fade away. He follows you into your room and shrugs off his blazer, offers it to you. 

You take it from him silently. The sewing kit you use is somewhere in your travel bag, right where you left it before you were stolen away to JuLai. The sooner it’s unearthed from your stockpiled life, the sooner he’ll be gone. You should get it. “What did you come here for?”

He leans back against the doorframe, arms crossed, fingers drumming against his side. After a moment he takes his sunglasses off, puts them down on the table at the end of your bed. Drags a hand down his face like he’s the most exhausted he’s ever been. “There’s not a lot I can give you. I don't have much.”

You weren’t asking him for anything. You bite your tongue when you go to remind him of this.

“But I have answers now. The ones you wanted. Before.” He clears his throat. “If you still want them.”

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. 

When you don’t stop him, he continues. “I had a contract.”

“A contract.”

“The people that drew it up weren’t above breaking a couple bones to get me to sign it. ‘Cause I’d just heal up, right?” He laughs, and it’s an awful, bitter noise. “I’d be back in one piece so they could break the same bones again.”

You’re quiet.

He holds out a crumpled piece of paper, obviously balled up at some point in time—at the top: Pastoral Contract. At the bottom: Nicholas D. Wolfwood in a series of childish curls and shaky lines. Nick had written the terms of his contract out in the careful cursive of someone still learning to use it. The word ‘receive’ is misspelled. “How old…?”

“Nine,” he says. “I’d just turned nine.”

The first thought that crosses your mind: how many people has he killed in his time as a pastor, and could he remember each one if he tried? “How long have you—”

“I’m twenty-two.”

You’re stunned into silence. There had been no question in your mind that Nick was older than you by at least four or five years. 

If things weren’t the way they were, he’d probably make a joke about looking good for his age. If things weren’t the way they were, you’d be examining how much his age matches up with the way he acts, his impulsiveness and brashness and possessiveness, the way he couldn’t even handle someone else looking at you.

But this is how things are, and you can only stare at him. “How.”

“Conrad created his perfect weapon. I paid a price.”

You sit on the floor. You’re not sure why. You just can’t be standing anymore. 

Nick looks at you for a moment, quiet—then slides down the doorframe, joining you. The room is small enough that there’s only a foot or so between you. His knees are bent, forearms resting across them, and he somehow looks small like this. Like there’s a weight compressing him, curling his edges closer to his center.

“You weren’t—when we… was it your first time?”

His eyes snap to yours and he’s incredulous, amused, unable to stop himself from laughing. “You didn’t defile my innocence, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Something about his smile makes you want to scream. He looks so soft when he’s not being entirely too serious, the kind of soft you can’t fully comprehend until it’s felt, like the leaves of lamb’s-ear you touched in Home’s gardens when Vash told you I have something to show you that you’re gonna love. Because you’ve always longed for softer things, for things that have no chance of survival in the desert. “How long have you… looked older?”

“Since I signed my contract.”

You try not to think about it and fail. How old did he look when he was nine? How old was he when the church he worked for sent him out on his first terrible assignments? You know what he’s done—you’d known the reputation of Nicholas the Punisher long before you met him—and though innocence isn’t something you find in spades on Gunsmoke, you can’t help but feel a gut-wrenching sadness because his had been ripped from him so early. When did he take his first life? When was the first time someone took advantage of him at such a young age without even realizing they were doing it?

Nick hates it when people pity him. He knows he was dealt shit cards—he didn’t hesitate to let you know that anytime he told you the smallest details about his childhood. Now you have the big details, and you’re positive he wants you to pity him even less. 

You toy with the collar of his jacket, resting atop your crossed legs, because you have to do something with your hands. You have to have somewhere to look other than him. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

“You really think that would’ve gone over well?”

How could he even be asking that question?

“Yeah, I do. You know how Vash is.” Was, your mind supplies. You’re so, so tired. “He would’ve understood. He would’ve gone with you anyway if he knew what you were being forced to do. He would’ve jumped at the opportunity to help you. He cared about you so much.”

He cared about all of you. And you’d all failed him. He was the only fully good person you’d ever met and you all failed him.

“He knew,” Nick says. “Before he got to Knives—we talked about it.”

You know without having to ask that Vash forgave him. He’d probably pieced it together already and forgiven Nick long before they even got to JuLai. There’s cotton in your throat, your tongue is a stone. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

A memory crosses your mind—sitting in the desert with him atop a sand dune, his gun laid out before him, telling you that you shouldn’t think you’re special.

If he’d told you everything, maybe you’d be sitting with him and Vash and Meryl and Roberto in a bar in JuLai, drinking to your victory. Maybe you’d be here with everyone, and Luida wouldn’t have let out that awful noise when you told her about Vash—a long, drawn-out note that she couldn’t hold inside, a keening that begged the question of why? and tapered off into silence. 

Maybe nothing would have changed at all.

“I don’t know,” he says. “I should have. I just—I didn’t want to disappoint you. I thought that if I didn’t give you all of me, then it’d be easier when we… when I did what I had to. When things were over.”

So he’d also known from the start that things wouldn’t end well.

“I would’ve done anything for you,” you tell him. It’s embarrassing to say out loud. You shouldn’t have said it in the first place—shouldn’t have even thought it. But you’re past keeping things from one another, it seems.

He stretches out his long legs, leans a little closer toward you. His hand reaches out towards you, an invitation to be taken or refused. “C’mere for a minute?”

You let him hold you. Your legs are across his lap, your body pressed into his chest, your arms curled around him so tight that it can’t be comfortable on his end. He has your head tucked beneath his chin, one hand on your hair and the other pulling you closer by the thigh, like he could crawl into your skin if he just had you close enough. 

“Was it easier?” you ask him.

“No,” he murmurs into your hair. “I think it made things worse.”

“How?”

“I didn’t want things to be over. Still don’t.” His hand tightens on your thigh, his entire body shifting to get you closer. “I know I’m selfish for that. You don’t have to tell me.”

Maybe you’re selfish, too. Maybe the words are softening the wall around your heart because if you were in his position, you probably would’ve done the same thing. You still can���t forgive him. “Nick,” you say. Pull back and look at him. 

“What do you need, sweet thing?” His voice is quiet when he asks this. It reminds you of the first time you kissed him—the first time he said those three heavy words to you, accidental whispers that held no meaning. 

“I want you to tell me you love me.” Even if it’s not real. Even if it’s just for right now. Even if it’s something he only murmurs into your skin when he’s between your thighs, when he makes you see the face of God in the way he touches you.

You expect him to kiss you. To start this final goodbye. But he doesn’t. He pulls you close to him again, lays his cheek against the top of your head. “‘Course I love you.” 

It’s nothing above a whisper. It’s a breath released into the air, something you wouldn’t hear if everything else wasn’t completely silent. But it makes you feel like crying and maybe you don’t hate him like you thought you did, but why shouldn’t you? All this wasteland has taught you to do is never trust people. Nick showed you exactly what Gunsmoke had already shown you a million times over. There’s not a person you know outside of Vash and Meryl that hasn’t betrayed you at least once. 

You’ve committed your fair share of betrayals, too. Law of the wasteland.

When you pull away from him, he looks a little panicked—but all you do is perch yourself on his lap, your knees boxing him in on either side, your face above his. “Could you ever mean it?”

He looks up at you blankly.

“If we stayed together. If we traveled. Or settled down, whatever,” you say. “Could you ever be able to say that and mean it?”

His brows scrunch, confusion painting his handsome face. “I mean it now,” he says, as if it’s obvious. 

And it’s like everything comes to a screeching halt inside you: all the hurt, all the exhaustion, all the emptiness. Emotions flood into the cavity of your chest so quickly that you’re drowning, your lungs full of too many things that aren’t air. 

Because this doesn’t happen. Not on Gunsmoke. Not to you.

“How do you know it’s real?”

“How would I know it’s not? Is there a checklist I should be consulting?”

You don’t know how to answer that because you feel like there should be a checklist, something that was left behind on the planets before Gunsmoke, burnt up in the crashes of the ships that populated the planet. Something you’ll never know the contents of—only that it existed.

“I know because it’s how I feel. Not gonna argue with myself on that,” Nick says, and maybe it’s that simple. He cups your face with a warm, careful hand and you melt into the contact. The first time you’d touched him like this, you worried that it might’ve been the contact alone that you liked. Not the person providing it.

But you know now that anyone else could touch you like this and you wouldn’t feel even a shadow of the way he makes you feel.

“You’re being awful quiet,” he says.

“You hurt me really badly, Nick.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

You think he is. You want to stay angry with him but he makes it hard. He made a mistake. He didn’t trust anyone enough to share his burdens. And could you blame him for that? You know firsthand how frightening it feels to trust someone. To want to.

“Would you want that? Us—together?” you ask.

“Yeah, I want that.” He laughs, as if any of this is remotely amusing. “Thought I made it clear.”

“You’d have to tell me everything,” you say. “Be honest about whatever I ask.”

“For you, anything,” he says, because he’s a corny idiot who likes his one-liners too much and it’s this stupid line above anything else that actually brings tears to your eyes, that makes you realize how badly you would’ve missed him if he’d left without saying goodbye, how much you want to keep him and how much you want him to keep you.

You still don’t know what to do, so instead you kiss him and he kisses you back and he feels exactly like he did the last time you’d been together like this. Things devolve quickly, as they often do between you. He pulls your hips against his to create friction and you missed him. It’s messy and his teeth find their way into the kisses a little too often and he can’t even stomach moving from the floor before he touches you, it seems, because he’s already pushing your sleep shorts to the side, feeling exactly how badly you want him. 

“Shit,” he breathes. “Shit, I’m sorry, baby. I can’t wait.”

He unzips his slacks and pulls them down along with his boxers, just enough for him to free his cock, and you inhale sharply when he pulls you further into his lap, ruts against you, coating himself in your slick wetness. The noise he makes is haunting, a little broken.

You cup his head with your hands, fingers twined into his hair, and kiss him hard, licking into his mouth, grinding against his pretty length. He makes sounds you want to lock up and keep under your bed. He says your name as if it’s the name of God. “Can’t wait,” he repeats. “Need you to take it. Be good and take it for me, pretty girl.”

He positions himself so you can sink down onto his length, shorts pushed to the side, strong hands guiding your hips slowly. It hurts a little more than usual, but everything is so rushed, so feral, that it doesn’t really bother you. The warmth of having him so close, the delicious stretch of him inside you, the way he groans when he bottoms out—it’s all worth the pain. 

It’s almost a disappointment when he goes still, when he waits for you to acclimate to his size. “Okay?” he manages to ask, because he always has to make sure you’re okay with things, even when he’s being reckless. 

You nod and you don’t even get a chance to move against him—his feet are planted on the floor, still in his dumb little loafers, and his hands hold you exactly where he needs you for him to thrust into you over and over again, root to tip, so fucking deep that you can feel him in your stomach. 

Your hands are pressed flat against the wall behind him, your face buried in the crook of his shoulder to muffle the noises you can’t keep yourself from making. He just feels so good—so perfect inside of you and against you, where he was made to be, and you tell him this because he needs to know.

His hand finds the small of your back and pushes you into an arch that has you seeing stars with every thrust. Not even pressing your mouth to his skin can quiet the moans he’s eliciting from you, so you bite down on the junction of his neck and shoulder and he whines, body tensing, arms circling your waist to pull you against him in a crushing embrace as he buries himself deep inside of you. He twitches hard, talking without a thought like he always does when he finishes, saying that he needs you, saying that you’re the only person that's ever made him feel like this, saying that you’re the only person he ever wants to do this with for the rest of his life.

After his body loosens up, after he pulls out and his breathing slows to something manageable, he says, “One of these days I’m gonna be able to last more than a minute. Just need you to stop feeling that perfect.”

You laugh—honest to God laugh, and you want him so badly and you’re still so turned on and he’s exactly what you’ve always wanted. “You think that’s ever gonna happen?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” he says. His teeth nip at your bottom lip, the ghost of a bite. A hallmark of want. “Are you gonna let me take care of you?”

Always. You’ll always let him take care of you.

He carries you to the bed and your shorts are gone, your sweater is gone, your sense of dignity is gone because you would give this man anything right now. He lays you out and takes his time pulling you apart, breaking you down with his tongue, his hands, his long, pretty fingers.

When he finally gets you off he keeps going, driving you to a point where you can’t handle any more and then pushing you through it, and when you reach your second peak, he laps up everything you give him, sighing soft against you.

He tries to wipe his face off like usual and you stop him, pull him to you, gaze at the shimmering mixture of your slick and his cum that covers the lower half of his face. You run the flat of your tongue up his chin and you could get drunk simply off the taste of the two of you together. His eyes are half-lidded when you pull away, and he whispers, “Christ, you’re perfect,” almost more to himself than you. When he kisses you, he holds you so close you can hardly breathe.

The after with him is always soft. He undresses himself because you’re undressed, then holds you gently, kisses your hair, tells you sweet things that he’d never say in public.

At least—that he wouldn’t before. Maybe things are different now.

You’ve been lying together, quiet, for a long while before he says, “I’m not gonna ask you to say it back.”

The air conditioning kicks on, a low drone that hums through the room like a distant insect swarm. You feel frozen, unsure what to do with your body.

“But do you think you ever could?”

You sit up because everything suddenly feels too heavy. Your face feels hot. You’ve never been good at thinking through your emotions because you haven’t had to. You’ve been a mercenary for a long time. You’ve killed a lot of people for a lot less than they were worth. You’ve traveled with so many companions over the years that you can’t remember all of their faces anymore. There’s never been anyone you’ve had to think over your feelings for—it’s been either like or dislike for so long that it feels like it’s all you know.

The things you feel for Nick, though—would they be classified as like? Or something more? He makes you laugh. He makes you so frustrated you could scream. He makes you want to travel to places you’ve already been just so you can see them together. He makes you want to cry, sometimes, because you’re scared of this, and you forgot what fear was much too long ago to feel comfortable with it now.

“How can I know?”

He looks a little hurt by this. He’s terrible at hiding his emotions even though he thinks he’s good at it.

“Genuinely, Nick. I haven’t… had anyone like you. I haven’t wanted to be with anyone like this. I haven’t cared about anyone like this.” You look at his jacket, discarded on the floor, still riddled with bullet holes that you were supposed to fix. “But how do I know if that’s enough?”

He sits too, takes your hands in his. He’s always so beautiful like this—when he’s taken off all the armor he shields himself with and lets you touch what’s underneath. “It’s enough for me.”

You look at your hands, fingers intertwined with his. “I could, I think.”

“Don’t want you to feel pressured,” he tells you. “Just—if it happens, you know, I’d appreciate it if you’d clue me in.”

“I can do that,” you say, and you can, because he doesn’t look disappointed that you didn’t do something you weren’t ready to do. He doesn’t look angry. He smiles at you, so warm and genuine that your heart feels like it’s cracking open, like everything inside you is spilling out. “I do. I already do.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I love you.” You cover your mouth with a hand after you say it, because it feels so heavy and damning. But it feels so right , too, and you don’t know what to do with that. How to fit the rightness into the way you’ve built your life on the foundation of so many wrongs. After a long moment where he waits for you to collect yourself, you’re able to lower your hand. “I love you,” you tell him. “I want it to be enough.”

“It is,” he says, thumb caressing the back of your hand. “It’ll always be enough.” 

You’ve never expected to get everything you want in life, and you most definitely won’t. But you can have this. This delicate thing that you’ve been building together, despite the missteps. Despite the fear. And it’ll be okay, because there’s no checklist. No requirements. You just love him, and he loves you back, and you're both allowed to decide what that means.

It’s enough. It’s more than enough.

[daisyvisions]

Demonstration - (l.sy)

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. Pairing: Lifeguard!Sangyeon x afab!reader

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. Summary: You do almost everything to get your hot lifeguard's attention. But what happens when he also shows interest?

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. Word Count: 2.9K

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. Warnings: Smut (18+, minors DNI), public sex (but no one’s around), mutual pining, dry humping, fingering, handjob, groping, allusions to sex at the end, pet name (sweetheart), mentions of drowning, a bad representation of CPR because I had to cut it short lol. Proofread once.

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. A/N: It’s been a while since I've done a Sangyeon fic, and it just so happens my brain has been plagued by lifeguard sangyeon for a while so… here 🤪 (might have a part 2! but more on the smutty scene because why the fuck not?)

‧⋆ ✧˚₊‧⋆. Network & Tag: @deoboyznet @winterchimez

You hated going to the beach.

The blazing heat of the sun scorching your skin, annoying children chasing each other around, the sand sneaking its way into your bathing suit uncomfortably, the list goes on.

But here you were, lying down on a beach towel under the shade of your umbrella, sporting the cutest two-piece bikini you’d never imagine wearing in your whole existence of living.

So, if you hated the beach so much… Why were you here again?

Oh yes! Trying to catch the attention of the hot lifeguard that saved your life the other week.

Was it desperate? Absolutely.

Did you really go out of your way to get the attention of a man? Of course!

Did you want to fuck him every time he’d glanced your way? Hell yeah!

Why wouldn’t you especially when the lifeguard in question made you melt into a puddle more than the radiating sun’s heat?

It was a fairly sunny day that time you went to the beach with your friend. The sun wasn’t too hot but it wasn’t too dark to go out either. You haven’t been out of the house in a while, plus it was starting to get stuffy inside so you thought a good breath of fresh air would do you good.

Your friend was busy playing beach volleyball with a bunch of other strangers as you waded in the somewhat shallow end of the ocean, trying to cool off and enjoy the calm waves moving you.

Because it had been years since you’ve gone to the beach, you didn’t anticipate how strong even the smallest of waves could be. So when the next wave came crashing into you as your back was turned, you immediately lost your balance.

You didn’t remember much but all you could remember was shouting for help and the next thing you know you feel someone performing CPR on you and immediately coughing out the ocean water.

“Hey, are you alright?” The deep voice asks you with concern.

As soon as you look at the person who saved your life, you’re too stunned to speak. All you could think about was how tanned and muscled this guy was.

Your cheeks start to blush when you get a better look at this guy’s face too. He looked like a Michelangelo sculpture that was brought to life. His strong jaw, his manly hands, and that nose…

Oh he was so hot.

“I-uh…” you couldn't find the words in you as his brown orbs looked deep into yours.

“It’s okay, I got you.” He reassures you as his hand rests on your lower back. “I’m Sangyeon.” He introduces himself. You give him your name and he replies with a gentle smile.

“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl” he replies. Your cheeks redden even more from the compliment.

You were so fucked after this.

And ever since he saved you that day, you kept on trying to remember the way his kissable lips felt on yours, the way he held you and made sure you were okay until you left the beach, and how his gaze on you made your knees buckle in place.

You wanted him. And you did everything you could to get his attention.

Asking him for help in carrying your stuff, teaching you how to surf, and “bumping” into him at the juice bar. Even going as far as asking for help to rub sunblock on your back. You remember the way you felt a pool of heat forming below as his hands delicately rubbed the sunblock on your exposed back, his hands lingering on your waist a little longer than normal, and his deep voice near your ear when he asked “Is this good?”

God you were so desperate.

But who wouldn’t be? Especially when you felt this spark between you aside from the raging physical attraction you had for him. You soon found out how good of a person he was from all the conversations you had with each other. How pure and genuine his soul was. He wasn’t just some hot lifeguard, but a man who genuinely enjoys helping others. You were starting to fall for him.

As soon as you saw him setting up his stuff at the lifeguard post, you immediately got up and adjusted your bikini and fixed your hair as you walked towards him. Your movements suddenly stop when you see another woman talking to him, his co-worker.

Her hand lingering on his bicep too long, the way he smiled at her, how she looked effortlessly beautiful especially with the wind blowing her hair. The way they hugged before she left to leave before swapping duties. Your insecurities quickly flooding inside you as you observed the two.

Who were you kidding? Sangyeon would never go for someone like you. Someone has handsome and genuine as he is? Not a chance.

You turned your heel and made your way back to your spot on the beach, immediately covering yourself with a large shirt and packing away your things. You didn't want to break down with all these strangers around and be reminded of what you just saw.

Sangyeon was about to climb up to his post when he saw you. As he was about to greet you and ask you how you were, you rushed past him, not paying attention to him in any sort of way. His happy demeanor dropped in seconds. You always say hello to him. It’s the one thing he always looks forward to every time you’re at the beach.

Did someone bother you while he was gone? He always made sure no creeps were walking towards you. Or did he do something to upset you yesterday? He was more worried about the latter.

Of course, he didn't want to bother you in that moment so he decided to just let you be and maybe ask how you are when he sees you again tomorrow.

Little did he know you wouldn’t be returning for a long while.

It had been a couple of weeks since you’ve made an appearance at the beach. Insecurities and anxieties getting the better of you that you just wanted to dig a hole and stay there til the big wave of embarrassment you felt remembering all the things you did to get Sangyeon’s attention washed away.

There were too many thoughts running on your mind tonight for some reason, so you decided to walk to the small beach spot near your house. This secluded spot was on the opposite end of the more populated area. You found yourself walking here at night often whenever you had too many troubling thoughts.

The sounds of crashing waves against the rocks were so calming. No person in sight to be found. The slight chill in the wind’s breeze blowing against your skin. How come you never go to this side of the beach during the day time?

You walked until you found a good spot to spread out your towel, opening your phone to play some relaxing music before lying down and looking up at the stars above. Just when you were about to close your eyes and enjoy the stillness of the moment, a deep voice startles you.

“I was starting to wonder if you got sick of me already.” You slightly gasp from the initial shock, but your cheeks start to blush as soon as you get up to see who it was.

“Sangyeon! Oh I- I didn’t know you’d be here” you nervously fiddle with your fingers, trying to avoid his gaze. Of all people that had to sneak up on you tonight, it just had to be him.

“Mind if I sit?” He takes a step forward, his feet at the edge of your towel.

“Uh- yeah. Sure..” You reply. You scoot over to make space before he sits beside you.

You instantly feel the warmth radiating from his body as his thigh nudges yours. The scent of his alluring cologne making its way to your lungs as you breathe in the ocean air. Thank god it was nighttime, otherwise the flaring blush on your cheeks and the redness of your ears would give away the effect he had on you.

There was an awkward silence between you two. What would you even say to him? You've never talked to him outside of the times you tried to get his attention. Before you opened your mouth to attempt to make conversation, he beat you to it.

“So… How are things? I haven’t seen you in a while.” he slightly turns his body to face you.

“Good.. Everything’s good..” You awkwardly reply. You wanted to cringe at the way you answered him, it’s small talk at its finest. He hums in response.

“You know… it’s not the same being on duty.” He suddenly blurts out.

“Oh? How come?” Your eyebrows slightly knit in confusion.

“Because I don’t get to talk to my favorite girl anymore” He sighs.

“Did she move away or something?” you ask, your heart slightly stinging at his words.

“No, uh-” He chuckles in between, finding your denseness very adorable. “She just ran off when I was about to go talk to her. I was actually gonna ask her out and everything too. But thank god I found her here on this side of the beach.” He looks straight into your eyes.

“Oh… OH! Me?” Your eyes widen. You couldn't believe what he just said. He called you his favorite girl too.

“Yes you!” He laughs and you smile with him. Suddenly his fingers intertwine with yours, slightly playing with them. He subtly moves his body closer to yours.

“You’re really beautiful, you know that?” His gaze doesn’t leave yours as he brushes a loose hair behind your ear. His eyes quickly glance at your lips, making the butterflies in your stomach flutter and twirl.

“Ever since I saved you that day, couldn’t stop thinking about you.” He admitted. “And every time since then I just couldn’t stay away…”

Sangyeon moves his fingers to your chin, slightly tilting your head to get a better look at you. He leans forward to try to kiss you, but you suddenly panic and stop him before he could even close the small gap between your lips and his.

“Actually! I wanted to ask you about that-”

“About what sweetheart?” His eyebrows slightly raise as he tilts his head.

“CPR. Yeah that. I was wondering like if you could teach me how? You know so that I can be prepared in case and save someone’s life just like you.” You ramble.

Sangyeon takes a moment to respond, the gears in his head turning before mischievously smirking at you.

“Sure, I’ll teach you now!” He replies. He shifts his body to a kneeling position.

“N-now?” You ask, wondering where this conversation is going.

“Yeah! C’mon. Lie down for me.” His hand slowly pressing on your shoulder as you lower yourself until your back hits the ground.

“Okay first thing you have to do is make sure that the victim lying down facing up, so you’ve got that covered.” He smiles at you, his hand resting on top of your stomach.

“Next, you have to check for any signs of breathing. If there is none, call for 911 and start placing both your hands on their chest, on top of the other.”

As soon as Sangyeon says this his hand slowly moves up to your chest, intentionally snaking them in-between your breasts making your breath hitch. You try to ignore the pooling heat forming between your legs.

“After, you’re gonna do thirty chest compressions, meaning pumping your hands on their chest.” Sangyeon gestures the motion. He slowly lowers his head, his face dangerously close to yours.

“Then tilt their head a bit, pinch their nose-” His face inching closer to yours, you can feel his breath fanning lightly on your lips. His lips lightly graze yours, making you gasp at how soft they feel.

“And perform mouth to mouth-”

“Sangyeon, I-” He smashes his lips against yours, making you whimper in desperation. This is so not happening right now. This must be dream.

Sangyeon kisses you like a man deprived of touch. He takes every chance he gets to remember the way your lips move with his perfectly. He shifts his position to hover above you. His hands grazing your waist before slipping them under your shirt, groaning in pleasure the moment his palms meet your naked chest.

You thank the universe for not wearing a bra tonight as his fingers flick and pinch your perked nipples. His lips never leave yours, desperately snaking his tongue inside your mouth as soon as your lips slightly part.

You place your hands on his strong chest, slightly pushing him away to catch your breath for a moment from all the kissing. Sangyeon’s lips start kissing your jaw and making its way to the most sensitive part of your neck.

“You don’t know how long I've been wanting this…” He mumbles. You let out a breathy moan as he rolls his hips into you, his hard length pressing rubbing against your throbbing core.

“Sangyeon-” you moan out his name as he grabs your hands and places them over your head. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as he continues to grind his hips. He holds your wrists with one hand as the other slips under your shorts, your hips jolt as he starts to skillfully rub your sensitive bud.

“So wet for me sweetheart. This because of me?” He whispers in your ear.

“Y-yes. Always for you…” You whine.

“I feel dirty every time I stare at you in your cute little bathing suits. You know that? Always getting me hard during my shift sweetheart.” He groans.

“Fuck- that time you asked me to rub sunscreen on your back, had to stop myself from pressing my cock against your ass.” He smirks before kissing your neck again, his fingers quickening the pace before inserting them in your wet entrance.

You let out a loud moan feeling his thick fingers fill you up.

“That’s it sweetheart, let those pretty sounds out. Been dying to know how you sound like-” He pumps his fingers into you faster, the squelching sound of your wet pussy ringing in your ear. He moans into your mouth as he kisses you again, rutting himself against your inner thigh.

The smell of his cologne lingering in your nose, the sounds of the waves crashing around you, the vibrations of his groans electrifying you within, his strong hands holding you down, you brain was starting to get foggy for the overwhelming sensations. The coil inside your abdomen tightening slowly.

“S-sangyeon- wanna touch you-” You mumble against his lips.

“Please do-” He lets go of your wrists. You hastily untie the drawstring of his shorts and slip your hand under the waistband. Sangyeon lets out a pornographic moan as soon as your soft hand grabs his cock. His oozing precum making it easy for you to fist his length up and down in a fast pace.

He curls his fingers inside, hitting that delicious spot inside you that you could never reach on your own. You continue to fist his cock vigorously, both of you moaning into each other’s mouths.

“I-I’m gonna-” You whine.

“That’s it. Cum on my fingers sweetheart. Wanna see your pretty face when you cum.” He adds a third finger inside you, stretching your walls even further. Your orgasm hits you right away after a few pumps of his fingers inside you.

Your brain fogs up for a moment as you catch your breath before coming back to earth. When you open your eyes to see Sangyeon you see him looking back at you sucking on his fingers as he savors the taste of you.

“Taste sweeter than I imagined.” He releases his fingers from his mouth with a pop. The sight almost making you wet again.

Sangyeon lends his hand to help you sit up from your position, your chest bumping into his in the process. Your eyes widen when you suddenly realize Sangyeon didn’t reach his high with you.

“Oh- you didn’t get to-”

“Don’t worry about me, okay? I can take care of it myself. Wanted to make you feel good.” He softly smiled while caressing your cheek. He was more interested in you reaching your high above anything else to be honest.

“But I want to…” You shyly look away as you admit this to him. “Been wanting to show how thankful I was for you saving my life…” You cheeks blush.

Sangyeon lets out a chuckle, his fingers holding your chin up to look at him.

“Is that so?” He smirks.

“Y-yeah.”

“If you insist.” He leans closer to your face. “As long as I get to come over your place and…” His other hand sliding between your legs, squeezing your inner thigh in the process.

“… You wear that cute little bikini you were wearing the last time I saw you. Deal?”

You smile at his suggestion as you graze your fingers delicately over his clothed erection, making him lightly gasp at your touch.

“Deal.”

[ddaz3d-and-cc0nfused]

So I saw that you were looking for Daryl Dixon requests & I am ALWAYS looking for some quality Daryl fics 😉. I was thinking about Daryl waking up his girl in the middle of the night for some sexy time because he just can’t get enough of her. Plus size Fem/she/her reader pretty please 🙏🏻

༉‧₊˚. 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 || 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧

― pairings: daryl dixon x plus size!reader

― era: season 10

― summary: daryl can't seem to act characteristically around you, and he can't get mad whenever you melt him into a puddle without even trying.

― warnings: established relationship, mentions of mutual pining, daryl is in love, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, penis in vagina sex, unprotected sex, soft sex, kind of needy sex, daryl dixon is needy, lowkey sub!daryl dixon but it's just because he's whipped, cumming inside.

― wc: 1010

⋆ a/n: this is the first request that i've been able to complete in a long time, and i'm not going to lie and say that it wasn't refreshing to make, especially since i'm not on a time crunch. i had a lot of fun writing this, thank you for your request!

masterlist | AO3

Daryl wouldn't say that he's an insatiable man, but when it came to you, he didn't know what he was. He wasn't like Merle, who was an addict, he wasn't Lori, the woman that constantly craved drama and someone to save her, he was just... well, he was him. He was the no-good redneck that shouldn't have survived, the one that had somehow made it to see many communities rise and fall. He thought that was it, that he was there to protect until he couldn't anymore, but then there was you.

He didn't know how or when it happened, but once he had seen you, it was like his whole world had totally spun off of its axis, like his heart had started beating again even though it had never stopped to begin with. After all of the loss, all of his sacrifices, he almost couldn't believe it. You approached him first; you made your interest for him known as you didn't hide your feelings for the estranged man.

He almost couldn't even believe you now as he spooned you from behind, a heavy arm rested over your fluffy chest. You muttered something in your sleep, your ass pressing up against the warmth radiating from behind you. He grunted, his forearm tightening against your stomach. Another thing that he loved about you, was not only your soul & heart, but your body as well. Now, Daryl isn't a shallow man, he isn't attracted to someone purely based off of their looks, he wouldn't be the man he is now if he did, but your body.. it drove him crazy. Everything about you did, to your hair, down to the curves of your waist, the bump of your hips, the ripples in your skin, your large stomach, he loved all of you and more.

So, that's why he was fighting himself as he grew hard against your bottom, his hands desperately trying to keep you still as you kept grinding against him. He knew he should let you sleep, but you were intoxicating, his senses were filled with your shampoo, his hands full of your soft skin, and he was only a man.

He called out your name softly into your ear, the scruff of his beard tickling the side of your jaw. You grumbled, your displeasured whine bleeding into a soft hum.

"What is it, D?" You mumbled softly, turning your head slightly so that your lips brushed up against each other's. "I— uhh." The slow movement of his hips was enough. "Oh, Dar. Take what you need from me." You cooed softly, pressing a full kiss to his lips before turning your head back around, getting comfortable as his large hand breached the hem of your pajama pants, then your underwear. You hissed slightly at the feeling of his calloused fingers caressing your outter lips, your breathing getting heavier as he began to work you open.

His fingers were so large, they could practically have you broken down into nothing as you desperately rode them, the man adding a second finger as he listened to your noises. The sounds you made were like a song that he would never get sick of listening to, like a cd that was constantly left on replay until it burned out. He curled his two fingers against your g-spot before adding a third and final one, his thumb practically covering your sensitive nub as you attempted to bury your face in your pillow.

"Daryl.. baby." You whined out, an arm reaching back so that they could tangle in his long hair. He grunted at your grip, a slight pressure pulling against his roots. He tucked his face into your neck, silently coaxing you towards your high as your moans reached a louder pitch. As you crashed, you convulsed around his fingers, clenching down in a feeble attempt to keep him from leaving you.

"Can I — Can I.." His words seemed to die out as they left his lips, the sound muffled due to his mouth being against your skin. You were needier than ever, reading his mind as you quickly shoved down your sleep shorts and underwear, the material straining against your large thighs as you propped your legs up. Daryl tugged his own garments down too, his heavy cock pressed up against your ass. "Put it in, Daryl. I need it, please." You whispered, but your request definitely didn't fall on deaf ears as he guided himself into your dripping heat, a large hand upping the back of your knee for stability.

His arm slipped under your waist, your upper torso pressing it into the bed as he gripped your full stomach harshly. He groaned at the feeling of your softness compared to the fact that you fit him so well, your tight heat practically strangling his dick as he desperately tried to keep himself from cumming too early.

"Yer so tight, I don' think I can last long." He groaned in shame, his hips grinding against yours pathetically. You breathed heavily at the minimal movement, the sensitivity of your inner walls offering you excess pleasure. "I don't — I don't mind." You turned your head so that you could look at him with slight difficulty. "You can use me, baby, I don't mind. I've already cum once, you know that's enough for me." You spoke against his lips as they grazed each other's. "I know ya don', but yer my girl, 'nd 'm supposed to take care of ya." You smiled softly, pecking his lips.

"If that's what you wanna do." Turning back around, he settled on short strokes, nothing too rough as he worked both of you into bliss gently, your walls feeling every veins and curve of his cock, practically memorizing them as your breathless noises combined together in a beautiful duet.

When he came, it was soft, a grunt falling out of his mouth and into muted air as you relaxed, the feeling of him surrounding you as you had begun to doze off in his warm embrace.

ೃ⁀➷ my lovely taglist!: @alina02 @louderfortheback @minervadashwood

[fumikomiyasaki]

💚 for Ellis and Fennec

💘 for Victoria and Yasuno

And ❤️ for any!

Kiss prompts

💚 true love's kiss / magic kiss / healed

A faint fog went through the woods as Ellis followed after a Silhoutte that looked like Ellis, deeper and deeper into the woods... having no doubt or hesitation to press on. He used his tiny knife to carve through the vines untill eventually he reached a small Rosefield... and in the middle of it, Ellis layed on the ground not moving an inch.

"Did the curse catch up to you... oh if only you listened to me..."

He tried to get her up to hold her in his arms yet her body felt so cold and weak...

"I was told the only hope of saving someone cursed was true love's kiss yet... am I worthy of her love... I have to try it."

The Young man kneeled down, gently pulling her close and pressed his lips against hers... tenderly and slowly before withdrawing... feeling suddenly her hand grip his.

"I knew it was you.... not that prince I was supposed to marry... I am glad you found me Fennec..."

"And I won't let you go... I won't let the kingdom force you into something you don't want... my princess..."

"CUT!"

What was supposed to look like a forrest was just a stage. In actuality Flynn invited them to play a part in a play they worked on for a while, Ellis as the fated princess and Fennec as her love interest, yet Flynn jumped up his chair and gave them some applause for the performance.

"Splendid, its wonderfull to have a true couple perform this act... yet I have two teensy more complains."

"What is it now?"

"Milady of Pink, you were wonderful, the little lost Lamb moreso needs to get a bit more passionate... You have so much love for her and yet you only seemed like you had half the interest in this play."

"Its hard when people watch."

Flynn put a hand on his shoulder and nodded.

"As long as you hold your lovely gem as precious to you outside of the play I am happy, just get this feeling onto the show."

A annoyed grunt came out of his mouth as Flynn left, Ellis giggled slightly holding Fennecs hand.

"I like your performance, and I do like feeling like a princess right now."

She turned around in her dress and Fennec suddenly smiled.

"If you wanna participate this I will do my best its just... hard for me to Emote well."

She took both his hands and smiled.

"How about you just blurt out the people watching and imagine it more as those times where we both just sat together alone and enjoyed the time... how about it?"

"I.... will try it."

And with her encouraging words, they had the play wrapped out far quicker than anticipated, Fennec feeling more ready for the final performance awaiting thme.

💘 fake relationship / mutual pining / dared to kiss

An annoyed sigh left Victoria as she saw who did enter the room of the current NRC party that was going on.

"Him again... I don't get how they even let him in."

Lilia who stood next to her chuckled a little.

"That you pay that much attention to him means you like him, huh ~ "

"Shut up, I do not... he is a nuisance to be watched out for, I just don't want him to make people uncomfortable again."

"I see... well then if you don't feel anything for him, you could probably kiss him and feel nothing right?"

"H-huh?!"

"I just joke with you... Loosen up a little Vic... you know the game Truth or Dare right? Take this as a Dare from me... if you wanna refrain so be it"

Victoria grunted in annoyance of this dare.

"Fine, I do it and prove you that I don't feel anything towards him."

She walked off and directly across the room to Yasuno.

"Hey beautif-"

Before he could say anything she dragged him down by his collar and placed a kiss on him, yet once she did she suddenly felt a comfy buzz on her lips... like she felt happy as he layed a hand on her head to hold her... suddenly having some kind of shock as she felt something inside her lips and withdrew. Her blushing heavily but looking mad.

"What the hell was that?!"

He smirked and pointed out his tongue. "Tongue piercing, thought you knew I had one."

"THIS ISN'T WHAT I MEAN WHY DID YOU PUT YOUR TONGUE IN?"

"Firstly my dear, you were the one who kissed me, you should have seen it coming."

"Urgh you are disgusting... I need to wash my lips."

He put an arm around her and leaned to meet her eyes.

"Or you could taint it more and do that later, if you oh so bad wanted to kiss me."

She quickly punched him in the face in annoyance and backed off from him.

"I only did it from a dare, don't feel to highly about it."

"Well... even if... you looked like you enjoyed it.~"

"SHUT UP."

With one swing he flew across the room thanks to her and she stomped out of the room, Lillia chuckling behind her.

❤️ first kiss / realization------ build up to this here

Fabio finally finished Osyrons chores and collapsed on the grass nearby the stables of the dorm Artemis yet still noticed him fall down and walked up to him.

"This man works you to the bone, you need to tell him you need more rest."

"B-but I am happy to help him... its also hard for me to tell him."

She sighed and leaned down over him, sitting next to him laying down, legs crossed.

"You are just too nice, Fabio... You need to watch out for yourself more... "

"I am sorry... but I d-do feel happy you take care of me..."

She nodded and leaned down her head to look into his eyes.

"You haven't forgotten you still owe me something?"

"Oh right... w-we wanted to kiss-"

"Just relax and let me handle it... no need to be nervous."

He gave a red nod... feeling his ears wag from the anticipation as she leaned down... it was a soft tender kiss on his lips... he felt her hand pressed a little on his chest to get grounded and put his hand on it as well to hold it, as if feeling his heartbeat flow through it... rapidly beating quicker as she withdrew and looked back at him with a smile.

"Um... Artemis... could you, m-maybe lay next to me... I wanna hold your hand... and r-relax before we walk on."

"Sure, I would be happy."

He wanted to calm his heartbeat yet it was still excited being next to her, even more as she slightly started to ruffle his hair and lookat him... he just felt the most happy he ever was... in this very moment.

[celestie0]

gojo satoru x reader | fake marriage au [18+]

in holy matriphony ch2. you may now kiss the bride!!

ᰔ pairing. fake marriage au - neighbor&realtor!gojo x nurse!reader (ft. choso x reader & suguru x reader)

ᰔ summary. gojo satoru is your extremely annoying next-door-neighbor who you're pretty sure is the most insufferable man you've ever met. given the fact that you exclusively work the night shift at a chaotic emergency dept, just got broken up with your boyfriend of seven years, n have been taking care of your sick mom ever since her multitude of diagnoses, yet somehow your neighbor is the main source of stress in your life should speak volumes. but when your mother's medical bills start to skyrocket more than you can manage, and you learn that said neighbor of yours has the best private health insurance in the country, you ask him to enter a matrimonial agreement with you for the spousal benefits all in the name of saving a few hundred thousand dollars. but you'll have to see if suffering cohabitation w him is worth any amount of money.

ᰔ genre/tags. fluff, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (sort of), annoyances to lovers (that's more like it), small town romance, fake marriage, next door neighbors, lots of bickering, suburban shenanigans, slow burn, mutual pining, mild love triangle(s), gojo likes to play house but you don't, hatred for the american healthcare system, gojo always forgets to mow the lawn, jealousy, an insane amount of profanity; btw gojo in this fic is in his mid 30s n reader is in her late 20s

ᰔ warnings. reader in this fic has a sick mother w alzheimer's & cancer so there is secondary medical angst!!

ᰔ chapter. 2/x (probably 10)

ᰔ words. 16.8k (i be yappin)

a/n. AHHH thanks very much for 2k followers!! yippeee :”) i had a lot of fun writing this chapter of ihm i feel like there’s a lot of silly but a lot of angsty too and i got to set up a lot of secondary plot lines in this chapter which was fun. i really hope you enjoy!! see ya at the bottom!!

nav. ch1 :: ch2 :: ch3 :: ch4 :: ch5 (pending)

“Can you chop down that stupid avocado tree of yours already? It keeps dropping its devilish spawn all over my herb garden.”

“Wow. Good afternoon to you too.”

Gojo scratches the back of his head from where he’s opened the front door of his house, standing in his pajamas and you briefly glance down at his bunny slippers before looking back up at him with a ridiculing face before pushing past him into his house.

Gojo’s house is almost the exact mirror of yours, as are most houses in the neighborhood, but it’s been a while since you’ve been inside of it and so you take an indulgent look. A cozy family room to the side, which you see he’s decorated with a coffee table and a loveseat, and the staircase is visible from the entrance. A modest dining table sits where the carpet turns into wood, and you’ve noticed he’s made the effort to place real hardwood on his floors contrary to the laminate in yours. Ok, show off. Your eyes take in the paintings on the wall, and you remember how his house almost looks fake, like in the way he sets up props in open houses he’s showing for clients, as if someone lives here and yet somehow there’s no real living proof of it.

And because it’s pretty much the exact same layout as your house, you know exactly where the pantry room is, and you grab a bunch of Doritos and Pocky from his secret snack drawer.

“Oh yes, go right ahead. Please,” he says sarcastically as he leans against a support pillar near the dining room and watches you stuff your face with his snacks.

“So,” you say, muffled, “did you grab the paperwork?”

“No, I didn’t.” He glances at his watch. “My friend’s a family law lawyer, and he’s gonna be here soon to help us out with the prenup.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh my god, you’re being serious about the prenup? You really think I’m trying to gold dig at the cobwebs of your bank account? How little self respect do you think I have?”

“...do you really want me to answer that questi–”

The doorbell ringing startles you, and you quickly wipe at your face to clear any crumbs before setting the wrappers in your hands onto a bookshelf as you watch Gojo head to the door and open it.

You hear another distinct masculine voice ring in the air as Gojo exchanges pleasantries with him in the form of a handshake and a familiar hug with a few pats on the back, and then the angle Gojo twists his body reveals the man standing outside the door. He’s a bit shorter than Gojo with a lean build, clad in a fiercely formal black suit and tie with polished shoes. His hair is well-kept, short and raven black, and his eyes are sunken with what you can only imagine is fatigue. And it’s kinda hot to you, unfortunately, after years of working the night shift, you’re starting to find dark circles under people’s eyes to be extremely attractive.

“Uh, y/n, this is my friend, Higurama. Hiromi Higurama,” Gojo says, gesturing between the two of you,  “and Hiromi, this is y/n. My obnoxious neighbor. Careful though, if you get too close she’ll bite off your fingers.”

“I’ll bite off a different appendage of yours if you don’t shut the fuck up,” you snarl at him, and Higurama takes a step inside the house to greet you with an outstretched hand. 

“Hi, it’s lovely to meet you,” he says, and you’re a little startled by the politeness, but aptly shake his hand and nod before squawking out a likewise!!

You look past Higurama at Gojo who’s got an eyebrow raised at you, and then your eyes are on Higurama again as you watch him set his briefcase down on the dining table. “Are we ready to discuss?” he asks, brown eyes darting between the two of you. You nod and take a seat across from him, and Gojo first grabs everyone some glasses of water before he takes a seat at the head.

“So,” Higurama starts, “I take it you two are madly in love and would like to enter a marital agreement to declare your affections for one another in the court of law under just circumstances?”

You blink at him. “Y-Yes. Very just circumstances. Nothing shady going on here, we are indeed very madly in love and would like to get married.”

“Why the fuck would you say it like that?” Gojo chirps in but not before sighing. 

“T-The way he asked was really nerve wracking!!” you counter. And then your eyes widen when you look at Higurama again, who has a slightly amused tug to his lips. “...oh, you already know this marriage is a fraud.”

“I was just testing you,” he casually says, “in case they mention any suspicions in court. Seems you should just let Satoru do the talking.”

You pout a little and sink further into your seat, then bring the glass of water up to your lips. 

“Well, in any case,” Higurama says, and then he goes on into the details of what to expect in the courtroom. He pulls out paperwork for the marriage license application and starts to walk the two of you through the prenuptial agreement. 

“It’s my understanding you’re both desiring a prenup for this marriage?” Hugurama asks, brow furrowed slightly as he rustles through the endless papers in front of him that he was drowning in.

You briefly glance at Gojo, who’s also looking through all the papers with a concentrated look on his face, his features tense and he’s slightly worrying his bottom lip through his teeth. He’s thinking way harder about this whole prenup thing than you would, and you realize he’s genuinely taking this very seriously. 

“Um, yes,” you acquiesce, suddenly feeling a little guilty. And you remember who’s the one in need of the favor here. “I’m okay with the prenup.”

Higurama tells you two about the implications of the prenup, what can and cannot be included under state laws, and stresses the importance of full financial disclosure and fairness in the agreement to ensure its enforceability in the event of a divorce. Basically, don’t fucking lie about anything or else you two could sue each other to hell for it should divorce occur. You both agree, and you’re feeling sick to your stomach with anticipation. 

“Alright,” Higurama interjects your thoughts, “I will begin to draft the document then. Let’s start with assets.”

Gojo drones on about his tangibles, intangibles, cash equivalents, stocks, yada yada and you open up with yours too, but you can barely hear anything you’re saying and you can hardly hear what anyone else is saying either because you’re just dreadfully awaiting for Higurama to finally bring up—

“How about debts?” he asks, mindlessly as he types away on his laptop, as if the question doesn’t make you want to throw up. 

Your breathing picks up in speed, and you’re nervously fidgeting your hands over the surface of the table. You glance over at Gojo again, this time startled to find his eyes are on you too. His gaze briefly flickers to the shuffling of your fingers, then it meets yours again as he tilts his head slightly in a silent ask of you good?

“Uh–” you start, when you feel Higurama’s eyes on you too now that the silence has stretched on for too long, “I’m…well, I’m in a bit of…debt. From nursing school, a little bit from undergrad still, actually…”

“Okay,” Higurama says, “how much would you approximate? I’ll need the official loan statements soon, though.”

“Well, I’m paying off slowly…but last month I have around seventy-thousand still to pay off.”

“Alright,” Higurama accepts, “and you, Satoru? Student loans?”

“Oh, I don’t have any,” he says, “I paid them off a while ago.”

You feel like you’re being opened apart at the seams, and suddenly feel ashamed.

“Alright, what about other debts? Credit card debts? Any loans to know about?”

You figured you just needed to rip the bandaid off.

“Um,” you say, “I’m about three hundred thousand dollars in medical debt from my mother’s treatment loans.”

The room goes quiet, there’s no more rustling of papers or the mechanical jumping of keys on a keyboard, hell, even the birds outside stopped chirping to display their disbelief. 

“Wha–” Gojo starts, like he can’t help it, before he catches himself out of politeness, but he’s still looking at you with concern and shock. “y/n…what happened?”

You look over at Higurama too, and he’s completely turned away from the document he was drafting on his laptop, full attention on you, and his brow is creased with the same amount of concern. And you feel like you’re in therapy. You also feel like you’re about to cry.

“Well…it’s just,” you start, throat feeling raw, “my mom couldn’t qualify for medical loans because of years of poor credit, and insufficient income, and her cancer treatments became really costly, and so–” you suck a breath in, because your voice cracks slightly at the end. You were not about to cry in front of them right now. “And so I decided to cosign on her loans so she could receive treatment, and stuff kept coming up, and I had to work reduced hours for a couple of years when she was first diagnosed, and…some payments got away from me, and so then…there was interest, and…it’s…I guess over five years, things just…accumulated.”

They both sit there in stunned silence, shifting uncomfortably in their seats, like they understand your situation is so fucked in its entirety that they can barely even bear to put themselves through the trouble of even imagining themselves in your shoes, let alone fathom that you’re living in them.

Higurama clears his throat and redirects his attention to the computer. “That’s… no problem for the prenup. Thank you for being honest.”

“Hey,” Gojo interjects, and his hand reaches out to lay over your fidgeting hands over the table. His eyes are serious. “Why didn’t you–” he starts, and his face softens slightly when you can’t help the small sheen of tears that reaches your eyes, “...why didn’t you say anything about this? I mean, anytime we’ve talked.”

It’s your turn to look at him with a tense expression, and you slowly withdraw your hands from the hold of his palm to place them in your lap under the table. “Uh, why would I share about my financial woes to my neighbor? Don’t most people just act like shit’s normal with their neighbors?”

“I guess, but I didn’t know it was that ba–”

Higurama’s phone starts to ring, and he glances at the Caller ID before sighing slightly. “Sorry, I have another client I need to see soon. We’ll have to wrap this up, but I’ll continue drafting this document. Please send me your relevant statements for any loans and–” he glances at you, “...associated debts.” He starts to gather his things at the table, then neatly tucks his papers into his briefcase before placing his laptop in there too. He reaches to shake Gojo’s hand first, then shakes yours, and holds onto your hand a second longer to gather your attention. His eyes are almost solemn.

“I truly hope your mother gets better soon,” he says to you, tone contrite. 

You slowly nod and thank him, and then Gojo goes to see him out the door.

The house feels quiet when Gojo closes the front entrance, and he stays facing the door for a few seconds before slowly turning around to face you, back leaning against it as he crosses his arms in front of his chest, and just when he opens his mouth to speak, you cut him off.

“I really–” you say, “...I really don’t want to talk about it.”

His face contorts into confusion, and it looks like he’s about to protest, but you allow yourself to show the slightest amount of the hurt and the worry on your face, and he realizes that means he shouldn’t try to push it.

“Okay,” he says, and quietly. 

Things are awkward in the air for a second, so you waltz over to the window and watch through it as Higurama gets into his car, some type of sleek old black Mercedes Benz but it’s polished to perfection, and you let out a content sigh.

“What?” Gojo asks you, tone a little short. 

“Ohhh, nothing,” you say, bringing your hands up to cup your cheeks to feel their warmth as you take in the image of Higurama’s slender legs in his business attire, “I just…” you sigh again, “I just loooove men in suits. I wish I knew more men that wore them often.”

A beat of silence. “Um. I wear them often?”

You turn on your heel to face him. “Yeah, but you wear them in, like, a slutty way. Higurama,” you say, pointing with your thumb facing the window, “wears them in the actually respectable workplace way. Hence why it’s hotter on him.”

He scoffs. “And yet you’re always staring at my ass from afar when I’m wearing my tailored trousers.” 

“I seriously wonder what it’s like to be so fucking delusional all the time,” you shake your head at him and he looks like he’s got a comeback on his tongue but you sshhhhhhhh him and walk back into the heart of the house. You look over your shoulder briefly, and see Gojo’s standing where you were standing at the window a few seconds ago, looking out onto the street, and he’s grumbling something under his breath you can’t quite hear. And then you hear the sound of Higurama’s car driving away. 

You circle around the dining table, and take a seat to look through the marriage paperwork Higurama left behind for the two of you to fill out.

“Bring the paperwork over to the kitchen island,” you hear Gojo say as he makes his way to the kitchen, “I’ll fix us some coffee.”

The island has a seated side to it with bar stools that raise high and turn in fully 360 degree fashion, so you swirl around in your seat to make yourself dizzy while Gojo brews some coffee with his espresso machine. 

“Mm…smells nice,” you comment, still swirling.

“Milk? Sugar?” he asks you, and you stop swirling to answer him.

It’s not the first time you’ve been to Gojo’s house. When he first moved in next door, you brought him a plate of cookies as a welcome to the neighborhood! gift and he had invited you inside and fixed you a cup of coffee then too. The house was mostly empty back then, he’s made a lot of good work in filling it with furniture in that sort of IKEA catalog fashion, and you can clown on him for it all you want, but it still looks nicer than most homes you’ve been in. Anyways, you only visited him in his house a couple times after that before you realized you hated him. Because he blasts loud music at the most random times, which you’re convinced he’s just trying to show off the sound system he probably spent an unnecessary amount of money on, not to mention an unnecessary amount of time installing. He also always forgets to mow his fucking lawn, and it drives you nuts because then the weeds spread over into your lawn, but it’s not like it matters because you hardly mow yours either, but still. And that fucking boat. That fucking boat he keeps right at the edge of your driveway that taunts you and your ability to pull into garages after every single one of your dreadful night shifts. One of these days, you might just steal it and drive it into the ocean so it drowns. Wait, boats don’t drown. That’s the point of boats. They’re buoyant. It’s okay, you’ll find another way to get rid of it. The boat, you mean. 

“Here you go,” he says, sliding a cup of coffee to you across the island. You peer inside at the brown liquid, and the scent alone awakens your senses.

“So, logistics,” you say.

“Logistics,” he repeats after you as he stirs a spoon in his mug. 

“We need to make this believable,” you say to him, “otherwise the marriage could be invalidated, and we could face criminal charges, and I could lose the insurance benefits for my mom, and potentially get sued by said insurance companies, and get thrown into jail for life, and—”

“And how much sleep have you lost thinking about this?” he asks you with a sigh as he brings his mug up to take a sip. 

“I’m being serious, Satoru,” you say to him, “I…would just rather err on the side of caution. It’s a small town, people talk. And sometimes those people know the law.” You shudder.

“Who the fuck is out there that would be so pissed about us getting married just so you can help out your sick mom?” he asks.

Your eyes flicker downwards slightly in consideration. You can think of one person, at least. And when you look up at him, you’re surprised to see there’s a similar look on his face, as if he could think of a particular one person too. But before you can dwell more on the expression on his face, he grabs the paperwork in front of you and looks through some of it. “You should get started on your paperwork. Higurama filled most of mine out for me already, so you’re the one he’s waiting on.”

You groan and stretch your arm out across the island counter, then lay your head on your upper arm. “Sigh, why couldn’t he have done that for meee tooooo.”

“Probably because he doesn’t know you?” Gojo snorts. He’s silent for a moment as he takes another sip. You can’t see his face. “So,” he starts, “I mean. If we’re going to make this believable, which, to be honest, I don’t think a single person in this neighborhood would find us getting married believable, but still, if we were to try making it believable, wouldn’t it make sense for us to, uh, I don’t know, live together? Like what regular married couples do.”

“I am appalled you would even suggest that.”

“It’s going to look like we’re just faking it if we don’t at least cohabitate together,” he tells you.

“We can’t do that,” you sigh, “I bet you’d try to touch me inappropriately.”

“What???” 

“Yeahhh, I don’t know, you just—...you just seem like a guy with very little self control.”

“...y’know what? This is over. I’m calling off this engagement,” he says, and he walks over to the dining table with his coffee cup in hand and you lift your head up off your arm in a panic.

“Wha–...no!! Wait!!” you say, grabbing all the paperwork off the island and bringing it to the dining table where he’s taken a seat. “Please marry me. I need it so bad.”

“Woah,” he says, looking up at you, and there’s a darker glint to his eyes. “You need it so bad? Can you say that again?”

You curl up the papers in your hands into a makeshift hollow pole and whack him across the head with it. “This is exactly why I think you would touch me inappropriately.”

He grumbles slightly as he nurses the spot you whacked him with two of his fingers rubbing the area, and then he fixes his hair with a comb of his hand through it. The sleeve of his shirt drops a little from the movement, and you can see the muscles of his arm flex, then your eyes are quickly darting away so he doesn’t catch the line of your gaze on him. What the fuck. That was weird. You blame ovulation. 

“Alright, fine,” he says, and he grabs the papers out of your hand, “also don’t bend these. It bothers me.” 

You circle back to the kitchen to grab your abandoned coffee cup, and then bring it to the dining table to sit down with him at it. He places your half of the papers in front of you. You glance down at the first few boxes to fill out, and you already feel like giving up.

You glance up at him for a distraction. “Aren’t you going to ask me how long I want you to be married to me for?” you ask him.

“Uh, how long do you want me to be married to you for?”

“Forever,” you say. To scare him.

“Yeah, right.” He waves his hand in the air dismissively. 

You sulk because it didn’t scare him. “Six months.”

“More plausible.”

“Really,” you say earnestly, “six months.”

He looks up at you now, a curious expression on his face. “Why specifically six months?”

Your eyes find the color of your coffee fascinating once again. “I don’t want to put my mother in hospice for too long. I’ll miss her,” you say, “it’s just…something I’m trying out for now. And to just get a bit of a caretaking break, and also so I can pick up more shifts at the hospital to work on paying off my debt. It’s just…temporary.”

His shoulders roll back once and he sits up a little straighter, holding up one of the pieces of paper to study it better while he clicks his pen. “Alright. Whatever works for you.”

You twiddle with your hands again, blinking a little in consideration as a few moments pass by. “Uh…about living together. That’s fine. I suppose.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Really?”

“Yeah. But no touching,” you point at him with a strict finger.

He tilts his head back up to the ceiling in annoyance. There’s a roll in the muscles of his throat as his jaw goes slack. You squirm in your chair a little. Ovulation, you think. 

“I’m not going to touch you, y/n,” he assures you when his chin tips back down. You just stare at him for a few seconds as he seems to be in thought about something, and then his eyes meet yours. “Whose house are we going to live in?”

“Mine,” you say, “yours looks like a shitty catalog. It’s lame.”

“True,” he says, “yours feels homey. I like that.”

You’re a little taken aback by his words, and then purse your lips together. Your sort of go-to thanks expression reserved for him. “So, are you gonna sell your house then?”

“Huh? No way,” he shakes his head, “I’ll just see if I can rent it out for now.” He shakes his head even more. “I mean, god no, I wouldn’t be caught dead selling a house. Not with these market conditions. You know how much it’s already risen in equity within just the past few months alone? In five years from now—”

While Gojo continues to drone on about the lunacy of not holding onto property in this housing market, your eyes widen slightly at his words, like your body realizes a truth to what he’s saying before your mind does.

And then that’s when it hits you.

How you can help pull yourself out of debt.

You slam your coffee mug down on the table with a little more fierceness than you probably should’ve.

“Hey,” he scolds you, “can you be careful with that?”

“We’re not going to live in my house,” you say, ignoring him, “we’re gonna live in yours.”

“Huh?” he responds, “...but I thought you said mine looks like a catalog.”

“A shitty catalog.”

“Did you need to specify?”

“We’re not going to live in my house,” you tell him, with resolve, “because I’m gonna sell my house.”

He sits up a little straighter at your words. “Like, the house next door?”

“Mhm,” you nod.

He sighs. “Were you even listening to me? It’s so much more worth it to–”

“I don’t care,” you cut him off, “I need the money now. Not five years from now.” Your eyes glance down at your hands, and your tone becomes quiet. “I…I don’t even know if my mom has five years left to live.”

A silence settles in the room, and you see in your periphery that Gojo’s stiff and still, like he’s barely allowing himself to breathe as if you’d find it abrasive, and when you look over at him, his expression is soft.

“I know,” he says. “It sounds like a plan.”

“Will you help me sell it?” you ask him. “I’d…need a realtor.”

“Sure,” he easily agrees.

“Okay…” you say, and take a sip of lukewarm coffee, as if you haven’t just decided on an extremely major life decision. “Um. I’ll go get the paperwork then. From my house.”

“Oh. Right now?” he asks you, and he leans forward in his seat a little to get a closer look at your face. “I mean, don’t you want some time to think about it before putting it on the market? We can wait for a little bit.”

“No. That’s okay,” you say, standing up from your chair, “I’ll…go get the paperwork.”

He nods at you slowly, but his eyes are observant, and you ignore it to keep up the momentum of this decision that was definitely the right decision by all means and one that you should not be hesitating on at all as it is such an epiphany that can help clear your debilitating financial burdens. 

“Drive safe,” he says to you when you grab your purse off the coffee table in the family room.

“Ha ha. Very funny.”

The outside air is breezy, it’s a nice day with the sun shining down and sparkling off of sprinkler dew drops on overgrown grass, and you hop across with a pep in your step as you make it to your house next door. You’re always quiet when opening the door, because you never know when your mom is sleeping or not, and since her bedroom is downstairs, she’s privy to noises. Once you’re inside, you check to make sure she’s sleeping with a small creak open of her door, only to find that she’s sitting on her rocking chair and looking through a box of paintings.

Your heart twists at the sight, and you gently knock the door with your knuckles.

She glances up at you, and you can always tell from just the look in her eyes if she recognizes you or not. Because they’re warm and gentle when she does, but they see right past you to the wall when she doesn’t.

“Hello,” she says, “can I help you?”

You come up to her and kneel down beside her, placing a hand up on the rocking chair arm rest while she looks down at you.

“Hi, mom. It’s me. Your daughter,” you gentle reintroduce yourself. It’s what her neurologist suggested you do anytime she can’t remember you, but it rips away a piece of your soul each time.

Her eyes still see past you, abstract, empty with no feeling as she wraps her head around your words. “I am no one’s mother,” she tells you, tone sounding sharp and like she’s a moment away from terror.

“That’s okay,” you quickly remediate, feeling hollow inside from her words but you always had to be the sane one, so you direct her attention to the box in her lap. “What are you looking at?”

“Oh, I just found these paintings!” she exclaims. “I thought they were wonderful. Do you know who drew them?”

You smile up at her. “You did.”

“Me?” she blinks at you. The wrinkles in her forehead crumple with surprise, “oh, no, dear, I could not paint such things with detail. Look at me!” She holds her hand up. “My hand is trembling!”

She’s getting weaker. You make a mental note to bring it up to her doctor.

“You used to hold a paint brush like it was just an extension of your hand,” you tell her, picking up one of the paintings out of the box, “you were an art teacher, mom.”

“Don’t call me mom,” she says to you, that sharp tone from earlier cutting through to your soul. “I am no one’s mother.” Her eyes shimmer with a light sheen of tears.

You stare at her, brow pinching together with hurt, but you bite back the part of you that wants to beg her to remember you, to take one close look at you, and see you with warmth and not emptiness. But she sees past you all the same.

“Can you do something for me?” you whisper to her.

“Yes?” she asks.

“Could you please lay down? You need some rest.”

“Are you my nurse?” she asks.

You breathe in deep. “Yes.”

“Am I…” she glances briefly at her reflection in the vanity mirror, her eyes flitting up to the head scarf on her head that covers the absence of hair, “am I sick?”

You exhale. “Yes. You need rest.”

“Oh…” she acknowledges, “why, yes. I do feel…a little frail.”

“I know,” you comment, and you put the box down on the floor then help her up onto her feet slowly by holding onto her arm, and you guide her to sit on the bed and take her medications. She then lays down, and you nod at her reassuringly before you head out the door and close it behind you.

Your lip trembles with the threat of a sob as you stare straight forward at the wall in the dimness of the hallway. But a harsh bite to the plush of it ceases the quiver.

You make your way up the stairs to go grab that binder you had with the mortgage and house information, plus some of your recent utility bills. Except the binder is hard to locate, and you’re rummaging through the cabinets in your closet, the drawer of your nightstand, you’re even looking underneath the bed. But when you lift your head up from under it, still kneeling on the carpet, and glance at the wall, you notice something.

48’’ eight yrs. what a big girl! 

46’’ seven yrs. big jump

41’’ six yrs.

37’’ five yrs. my little princess

…

..

–all written in graphite pencil, scribbled up the wall where you would stand tall against as a kid, your mom marking your height at every birthday. And your eyes start to well with tears. 

This was your childhood home. With magical corners tucked away where you used to play hide and seek with your dad, with your old bedroom you used to play in with dolls and have tea parties with all your stuffed animals. There’s still a stain of fruit juice on the carpet underneath the rug that you never told your mom about because you knew she would be mad at you and would scrub it out, but it was in the shape of a heart and when you were a kid, you thought that meant you would find your prince charming some day. This house holds so many memories, like birthday parties and Christmas Eve and the sunflower patch in the backyard where you laid Sniffles to rest.

And it holds the familiarity of you that seems to be slipping through your mother’s fingers with each passing day, all those memories you created with her now solely yours to keep and no longer to share. But you realize at this moment that you’re not alone. This house still holds those memories with you.

Your eyes flicker to the graphite pencil marks on the wall again, and the tears flow freely.

In the moments where she cannot remember that you are her baby, this house remembers for her.

Your sleeve wipes at the dampness on your cheeks.

But it’s never enough, is it? And it’s never that easy, either. Life was never that easy, and you don’t always have the choices you might think you do.

You find the binder, and grab all the utility bills too, and head downstairs. You pass by your mother’s room with softness and sleuth, and guilt in your heart when you realize what you’ve chosen to do. There’s no pep to your step when you make it back to Gojo’s.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

“Sooo,” Gojo says, after about twenty minutes of looking through all the house paperwork in the binder at the dining table, “your mom transferred ownership of the house to you as a gift deed when she was diagnosed?”

“Mhm,” you say.

“She paid off quite a bit of it,” he comments as he looks through banking statements, “but still not enough to pay off your medical debt, unfortunately.”

You sigh. “I know. It was never really a house she could afford anyways. She just received it from the divorce, and I remember we were supposed to downsize, but…she didn’t want to.”

“I see,” Gojo comments, “well, it’s alright, it would still help you a lot for sure. How many years are left for your solar panel lease?” He has a pen in hand and a custom realtor notepad in front of him with his messy handwriting all over it. 

“It’s new,” you say, “still got thirty years left.”

“Jeez, okay. How much per month?”

You scavenge through the bills on your table. “Ummm um um ummm…….”

“You should really…get more organized.”

“You should really mind your fucking business.” You find the bill. “$285 per month.”

“Okay,” he scribbles it down, “does it offset your electricity bill?”

Your shoulders sulk. “A little bit.”

“Yeah, it might scare some buyers away.”

You sigh. “Oh and then the HOA too.”

“HOA?” he looks up at you with a puzzled expression on his face. “We don’t have an HOA in this neighborhood.”

“We don’t?” you blink at him. “Then who have I been sending $195 dollars to every month?”

“…….....you’ve seriously gotta be some special kind of stupid.”

After panicking for five minutes while checking your credit cards for fraudulent activity, Gojo gets done cutting up an apple for you. 

“Here,” he says, sliding the plate to you, “since you look like you’re about to faint. Knowing you, it’s probably just low blood sugar.”

You dramatically sigh and sink in your chair. “I can’t believe I spent the last three years paying an HOA that doesn’t even exist…”

“Hey, on the bright side, there’s some dude out there on an exotic vacation that’s very thrilled by your idiocracy right now.”

You shoot him a look. And then you hang your head low to drink your extremely cold coffee that you were still nursing, before downing it all in one go. Your eyes catch the marriage paperwork that Gojo was reviewing earlier, and you see Higurama’s pre-filled in information that he typed onto the papers before printing them for him. 

“Hm,” you hum, “it says here that you’ve been married before. You might want to get that fixed before we submit these.”

He stands up from the table, two of his fingers hooking onto the handle of his coffee cup, and he glances into yours to make sure it’s empty, briefly flicking his eyes to you and you shake your head for no, no more coffee, thanks before he wraps his other two fingers around the handle of your mug as well. The clink of the two porcelain mugs in his hand startles you a little as he walks past you to the kitchen sink. “There’s nothing to fix about that,” he says, his tone level and easy, “it’s true. I’ve been married before.”

Your eyes widen at his confession, and you quickly twist your torso in your chair to stare at him. Or at least, the back of him as he turns the faucet on and begins to rinse out coffee mugs. 

Married? Before? There are so many questions swimming through your head right now, ones that you desperately want answers to, biggest of all perhaps being now who the fuck would actually want to marry him??? for real??? you’re telling me this self obsessed dork proposed to a real life woman with a pulse and she actually said ‘yes’ to him??? who was this woman, and which psych ward did he find her from??? 

But he’s so quiet from where he stands, broad shoulders less pushed back like they usually are, and something tells you he wouldn’t entertain any of those questions from you right now. A glance at the paperwork, though, tells you the divorce was recent. Less than a year ago. Around the time he moved in next door. 

He still has his back facing you, and you try to sneakily catch a glimpse at more info under the Wife section on the prior marriages form. You can see the paper says maiden name: Inoue and you’re just about to sneak a peak at the first name when—

“You want to stay for dinner?” he asks when he turns around, leaning back against the sink counter. “I’m ordering pizza tonight.”

You’re surprised by the sudden invitation, and shuffle the papers over one another again. “Oh–that’s…that’s okay.” You glance at the clock he has hanging on the wall. “I’ve got work in a couple of hours, so…I should really get going. Have a few errands to run before then.”

“Okay, so, we’ll…talk later?”

“Yeah, later,” you stand up from your chair, and for some reason, the air feels a little heavier to you now. “Uh…” you start, awkwardly scoffing a little, “wow. Bachelor life again, then, huh? Probably just–...probably just beer and pizza every night?”

He purses his lips together, humoring you with a small laugh that comes out as a scoff through his nostrils. “No. Not really. I only order pizza when I close a sale on a house. My way of celebrating.”

“Oh,” you respond, “I see.”

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he says.

“I live next door,” you remind him.

His eyes widen slightly. “Oh. Right.”

“H-Hope the traffic’s not too bad!” you joke.

His laugh comes more genuine now. “You’re stupid.”

You head towards the door, and when he opens it for you, there’s a chill of air outside and it’s darker now, hues of dark gray, purple and a slight orange still present on the horizon paint the sky and you step outside then turn on your heel to face him.

“Um. Congrats, by the way. On the sale,” you tell him, “enjoy your night. And I’ll see you this weekend?”

“Huh?” He raises an eyebrow. “What’s happening this weekend?”

“We–” you scoff, “we’re getting married this weekend?”

“Oh!” he exclaims, tense, “right, yes, see you this weekend. For marriage. Of us.”

You roll your eyes and make your way down the concrete pavement that leads its way to his house, and leads its way away from it too. And when you walk back to your house, it’s not with a sulk, but it’s not with a pep in your step either. You just feel…neutral.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

“So, tell me about this fake husband of yours,” Hana says, leaning against your work-on-wheels as you attempt to catch up on charting notes with 4 hours and 15 minutes and 53 seconds left on your shift (it’s not like you were counting though).

“Yeah, in a sec,” you mumble as you punch in keys.

6/2/2024 0344: patient placed on 5150 hold on 5/31 at 1745, continually monitored by ED tech. all objects have been removed from pt’s room to prevent any danger to self or others. however patient accessed hand sanitizer dispenser on the wall at roughly 0320 and ingested all the hand sanitizer. notified MD of toxic ingestion, follow up plan is to coordinate care with poison control. no further orders at this time

“Okay, what were you saying?” you look up at Hana again and rub the tired out of your eye with a balled up hand, along with all the mascara. 

“Your fake husband!! Tell me about him!!” she chirps, shaking your work-on-wheels in excitement and the blur of your computer screen makes you feel dizzy.

“Shhhhh,” you hiss at her, “keep your voice down when we discuss illegal activities.”

She rolls her eyes. “Why are you always so paranoid? I’m already sick and tired of you charting incessantly every five seconds to save yourself from medical lawsuits that you haven’t even been accused of.”

“In a medical lawsuit, the chart is the law, Hana,” you say eerily with a shiver, and her words remind you to continue your detailed charting. “Never forget that.”

She sighs. Her gaze travels across to the other end of the emergency department, and you assume she’s staring at the asses of the EMT boys again, so you glance over your shoulder too. 

Except instead, you see the worst person on the planet.

Well, second worst as of right now.

The worst person title was reserved for someone else.

Approaching from down the hall is Yuna, your ex-best friend, a bounce in her step as she walks with a sort of allure as her hips rock side to side, her mile-high ponytail swaying in beat with the rhythm as well, and the ashy blond highlights in her hair hypnotize anyone she waltzes by. 

She was the kind of nurse that all the other nurses are jealous of. Always has cute little accessories and stickers on their badge, is wearing the fancy FIGS scrub sets that hug her sporty curves in all the right places, paired with those little shoes with the ankle socks, and she most definitely gets her water goal in for the day because she’s always sucking on the straw of her periwinkle Stanley cup around the ED all night just like she sucked the cum out of your boyfriend of seven years just twenty-four hours after the two of you had broken up–

“y/n,” she casually calls your name, leaning her elbow up on the cubicle divider of the nursing station. “It’s time for you to take your break. I’ll watch your patients.”

“I’m not taking my break,” you say, trying to relax the grit to your teeth which makes your eye twitch out of frustration instead. “Now get the fuck away from me before I call a Code Black.”

She sighs, rolling her eyes and smacking loudly on her gum. “Yaga said you have to take your thirty tonight. Something about how you haven’t clocked out for a break in more than two months and the hospital could get sued for that.”

“The hospital has way bigger cases they should be biting their nails about getting sued over,” Hana snorts just to butt in on conversation.

“C’mon,” Yuna says, her fingers reaching out to touch the handle of your work-on-wheels, purposefully stretched so that you can eye the perfect sparkly manicure to her nails. You curl your fingers into the skin of your palms to hide your gel polish that’s long started to scrape off. “Go clock out.”

“I’d rather die than listen to a single fucking thing you tell me to do,” you tell her, plain and simple.

“y/n!” a loud masculine voice calls from the other end of the Emergency Department, and all three of you visibly shrink a little in your stances out of fear. Head nurse Yaga. “Take your break, or I’ll be damned to let you set another foot in this hospital!!” he’s yelling at you all the way from the entrance to the CT scanner.

“But–”

“Now!!!!!”

Your eyes flicker to Yuna, who has an amused look on her face and a tilt to her head, and then you’re grumbling before logging out of your computer then stepping away from it. “Draw a CBC & chem on Beds 24 and 28 at 4 AM sharp,” you grumble to her, and she just gives you one of those tight-skinned smiles. 

The break room is empty, with shades of beige on the walls and even more depressing shades of gray on the lockers. There are all sorts of things pasted on the walls, like photos from staff Halloween and Christmas parties, drawings that pediatric patients have made in appreciation of their nurses, and employee information that Yaga’s constantly shoving in everyone’s faces. 

Okay, the backstory with Yuna. Pretty simple. You two had been best friends since high school, like inseparable best friends. Y’know, sneaking out late at night to use fake IDs at the bar, cover for the other when you’re busy losing your virginity to your high school boyfriend in the most dishonorable way possible, rooming together in college, sobbing and crying through all of nursing school together, ride or die type of friendship that you think you’d only find once in a lifetime. Except turns out your best friend, who you’d considered a sister, had eyes for your boyfriend since you started dating him in college, and the second that dickwad dumped you, you catch her sucking him off in the back of his Toyota Camry when you go to pick your stuff up from his place. Yeah, ouch. You lost the two closest people in your life, all in the matter of twenty-four hours, so pardon yourself for being a bit bitter about it. 

But being bitter is the coping mechanism. The real way you feel comes in the form of tears prickling in your eyes and the pain in your throat as you try to swallow away the knot that’s suffocating you from the inside out. A type of loneliness that leaves you stranded even in a room full of people. But at the very least, this room is empty, so no one has to see the crack in your resolve.

There’s no time on a thirty-minute lunch break to have a full mental breakdown, so you sparsely wipe at your tears and head back to your shift.

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

If you want to know who actually holds the worst person on the planet title right now, well, you run into him on a Tuesday afternoon while on a grocery run after you just woke up from barely sufficient post night shift sleep. Bitter and drugged by Melatonin was not a state of being you needed to be in right now, but you’re out of orange juice and you’re having Vitamin C withdrawals which warrants a trip to the store. Unfortunately, the town only has one grocery store, which means you were bound to run into pestering ex-boyfriends at least once every full moon. 

“Get the fuck out of my way, Choso,” you snarl at the man who’s walking backwards ahead of your grocery cart, trying to stop you in your tracks so you’d just chill out and listen to him for a second.

“Can you just chill out and listen to me for a second?” he asks you, irritation evident in his voice like you’re being the difficult one here.

“I already told you that I quite literally never want to see your stupid ugly face ever again for as long as I live,” you say, and you ram your grocery cart forward with so much force the metal hits his knees and he doubles over the basket indignantly with a groan.

He seems like he’s had enough of you evading him, so he jams his foot under the wheel to keep you from moving forward, and you’re scowling at him and struggling against his foot-stop but to no avail. 

You briefly consider abandoning your cart all together and just bee-lining for the exit, but he’s a cop, so he’d easily be able to tackle you to the ground if you tried.

“What do you want?” you snarl, impatiently tapping your foot with every miserable passing second spent in his presence. 

“I just–” He sighs, “I just want to talk. And to know how you’re doing. You won’t pick up any of my calls.”

“Huh?” You blink at him. “I’ve had you blocked for the past two weeks. You shouldn’t even be able to call me.”

His eyebrows raise. “Really?...who have I been dialing then?” 

“Fuck if I know,” you shrug, and you use his moment of confusion to swerve your cart off to the side and make your way down the refrigerator aisle. Ohhh, dulce de leche gelato sounds nice, and it’s on sale. You grab a jar. 

Choso’s trailing behind you as you eye price tags and sale signs in the open chill of the yogurt section. “Babe–”

“Don’t–” you immediately cut him off, spinning fast on your heel and he stops himself just in time from crashing right into you. You hold your index finger up in the air between the two of you with a clench to your jaw so tight it feels sore, and through gritted teeth you say, “don’t call me babe.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. It’s habit.”

Indeed, habit. Seven years of him calling you babe, or baby, or boobie (idk don’t ask). Your favorite though? Babydoll. He’d always call you that when he’d make sweet, sweet love to you while you were wearing his favorite flimsy little piece of lingerie–babydolls. Even now, the memories have your cheeks feeling hot. But he doesn’t get to call you babe anymore, and he doesn’t get to fuck you anymore, or talk to you anymore, or breathe in your general direction anymore, because he betrayed you. He wasted your time, and then he betrayed you.

Seven years of your sexual prime, where you could’ve been fucking hunky firefighters and bisexual Europeans, wasted on a man you weren’t even going to marry in the end anyways. Now you’re pushing thirty, and the idea of having to date again makes your skin crawl with anxiety that turns into fury because your doom is all caused by the man in front of you.

Whatever, forget about the sex and the impending loss of a woman’s novelty within society for a second. You loved him. A part of you still loves him. You wanted to marry this man. You thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with this man. Little sheriff deputy’s wife, Mrs. Kamo, the perfect number of letters to get on a bejeweled license plate. You had envisioned all the cute little quotes of adoration that would be imprinted on your wedding reception’s custom-made doily napkins with everyone that’s ever meant anything to you sitting at the table, ready to celebrate the love that you thought was real and true and brave and strong and one that would last forever.

But he abandoned you when you were at your lowest. And he fell into the arms of the one person you thought you could turn to crying when the relationship crashed and burned in the first place. And the problem with living in a small town is that everyone knows everybody’s business, so now you’re just the woman that wasted her youth on a man that played her like a broken fiddle. Utterly heartbroken, and humiliated. 

So, yeah, he doesn’t get to call you babe anymore.

“Listen here, asshole,” you say, stabbing him in the chest with your finger, so he can feel even a fraction of the pain you’ve felt in the past three weeks, “I couldn't care less if you live today, or die tomorrow. So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave me alone. Or I’ll file for a restraining order.”

“Really?” he says, brows pulled tight together in disbelief, like he just can’t understand what he’s done to make you act this way, and quite frankly, that only makes it sting even worse, “after everything we’ve been through, you’re just going to throw away the past seven years?”

“What the fuck are you saying?!” you all but snap at him, and an elderly couple that’s passing by flinches a little from the noise and you wince in apology before glaring at Choso again. Your voice is hushed this time. “You’re the one that broke up with me, but I’m the one that’s throwing it all away??”

He purses his lips together, and you notice how dark the circles under his eyes are. He shuts them tightly and leans back away from you, which makes you realize how much he was leaning into your space just a second ago. “I know that we…aren’t dating anymore. But, I mean, c’mon, y/n, it’s me. Just because we’re not together anymore, doesn’t mean that I don’t still…care. I want to know how your mom’s doing, and how treatment has been for her, and–” he glances up at the ceiling briefly, as if to mislead you into thinking that the next thing he says is just as nonchalantly desired as the other things he listed, “and I want to know how you’re doing, too.”

“You don’t deserve to know how I’m doing. Continue to wallow in your pathetic self righteousness, or go run with your tail between your legs to that two-faced rat I used to call a best friend. Either way, I don’t give a damn,” you say, in a way that very much sounds like you give a damn unfortunately, and spin on your heel to continue pushing your cart down to the juice section.

“Yuna and I–” you hear him say behind you, and just the mention of her name on his tongue makes your heart ache in your chest, to the point you need to place a flat palm over it just to alleviate the pain, “I–...I broke things off with her yesterday.”

Fuck. Pretend like you’re not fazed by that info. Pretend like you’re not fazed by that info.

“Okay? Whatever,” you barely manage to say.

He’s silent for a moment behind you. The wheels of your cart squeak as they roll. 

“I mean, we’re not together anymore. I’m not seeing her anymore,” he clarifies, as if he didn’t believe you heard him right the first time.

“Cool,” you comment, tone colder this time, since you had the practice round. 

“You don’t–” Choso starts, a rattle of hurt and confusion in his voice, “you don’t care about that?”

“Nope.” 

He reaches out to grab your wrist, and the contact burns through your skin, like something so familiar yet so foreign. You turn your head to look at him. 

“I…” he starts, and you can see his chest rising and falling with more intensity. Oh god. Please. Please don’t say it. You’re not sure you can handle hearing it. “I really miss you.”

Damn it, he said it.

Your posture relaxes slightly when you take a long look at him. You finally notice his hair has gotten longer in just the three weeks you’ve been apart, layered locks curling at the end of his neck, and it’s the first time you’ve noticed such a small detail because you were so used to spending everyday with him. He spent most of the week at your house, since the two of you could never formally move in with one another after your mother was diagnosed and it was easier for him to come by to yours so you could continue to keep an eye on her. There’s no option to live on your own and start your own life when you’re taking care of someone sick. They become your priority, not yourself, but you’d still make every single sacrifice you’ve made for your mother over and over again in a heartbeat if you had to relive the past five years. 

But that meant that you never had a real and true chance to live the life that you wanted with Choso. A place just for the two of you, lived in intimate solitude and not with the cries of your mother down the hall when she feels too sick to get up out of bed or when she cannot remember her own name. But you had never been this far apart from him to where you notice his hair is an inch longer than it was the last time you saw him. He was never that far away, as he is now. And you’ve just now realized it.  

“I don’t,” you start, swallowing the lump in your throat and your voice quivers ever so slightly when you speak, “I don’t care that you miss me.” You take a deep breath. “I’m getting married this weekend.”

His face entirely relaxes, like a calm before the storm, before it twists with so much confusion and incredulity and shock and–was that horror on his face?

“What?” he practically spats out, “it’s only been three weeks since we broke up!”

“Uhh,” you glance up at the ceiling of the store, just in time for an employee to make an announcement on the overhead for a manager at checkout lane 2 please, and then you glance back down at him, “I was having an affair while we were dating.” An easy lie. 

He scowls. “Yeah fucking right. There’s no way you’d cheat on me.”

His words burn bitter. The fact that he couldn’t even fathom you hurting him the same way he hurt you makes you clench your teeth. Because he knew you were better than he was, and that you were too good for him, and yet he still wasted your honor.

His friends, who used to be yours too, have probably fed him lies since the breakup. Like it’s okay, man. You broke up with her before you got involved with someone else. You didn’t do anything wrong.

But you say bullshit to all of that. Because after seven years of being together, you can’t just cold turkey a relationship like that to sleep with someone else, and then claim it’s not cheating. Technicalities like that were no vindication if the betrayal hurt all the same in the end. Because it still felt like you got cheated on regardless.

“Whatever. I don’t need to explain myself to you,” you tell him, “I’m getting married this weekend, so I really don’t give a damn about anything between us anymore. It’s over.”

“Who are you marrying?” he asks, suddenly breaking a sweat over the news like he’s starting to suspect you’re actually being serious.

“My neighbor.”

His face twists with disgust. “Old man Jenkins? He’s eighty-four years old.”

You roll your eyes. “Not the one on my left, you idiot. My neighbor to my right.”

The corner of his mouth tugs up in a ridiculing smirk, and the sight of it makes your skin crawl. He scoffs. “There’s no way. You hate that guy.”

“It’s true. I’m marrying him.”

“Seriously??” He guffaws at you, leaning in closer to you and you lean away until your back is resting on the handle of your shopping cart. “The obnoxious realtor I once heard you talking in your sleep about how much you want to murder him and then dump him in a lake?”

“What?! I talk in my sleep?!” you gasp.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah. You have for years.”

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me that?!”

He looks annoyed. “Because you’re such a hypochondriac. You would’ve thought you had a brain tumor or something, and I’d have to deal with the paranoia that follows suit.”

“Choso,” you say to him with a strict tone, jutting your hip out to the side in preparation to scold, “my mother has Alzheimer’s, which is genetic, and I was having an abnormal neurological symptom for years which has studies to show is an early indication of dementia and you just chose not to tell me because you didn’t want to be annoyed?!”

“See?” he gestures to you, “you’re doing it right now. How did we go from just sleep talking to ‘I might have dementia’?” 

“We,” you point between you and him, “are never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever getting back together. If there’s one thing you can pull through that stupid skull of yours, make it that.”

“Excuse me,” you hear a tiny voice squeak out, and you turn to your right to see a little kid trying to push past the two of you to grab a box of GoGurt in the Yogurt section. You move your cart forward by bumping it with your butt to get out of the kid’s way, and Choso circles around to the front of your cart before you start moving forward again. Like he’s literally stopping you from moving on from him. 

“You’re lying about marrying this guy,” Choso says like it’s a fact. In typical cop gaslighting fashion. “You’re just saying that to make me jealous.”

You roll your eyes. “No. I’m just that hot and gorgeous that I made a man fall in love with me in three weeks.”

“He’s in love with you?” he asks.

“Duh, he wants to marry me. When you dumped me, I found comforting solace in my next-door-neighbor, and we fell into bed with one another, and now he feels the obligation to provide for me for the rest of my life. What’s so hard to believe about that? You didn’t find abrupt matrimony odd when we binged all three seasons of Bridgerton two months ago.”

“That show is set in the fuckin’ regency era,” he hisses at you, “look around. There’s plastic bags of Hot Cheetos with Red 40 in them everywhere. Does this look like the 1800s to you?”

You have to be careful with him. He’s a cop, who could arrest you for medical insurance fraud, and would also have a personal vendetta against your marriage because boo hoo he misses you. But yes, he was right, you did want to make him jealous, and you just can’t help it.

“Well, me and him have a love that no one else can understand, so suck it. I’m marrying him, and he’s super into me, and he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life with me, and he desperately wants to put babies in me, and–”

“And where’s the ring he gave you, then?”

Fuck. You briefly flick your gaze down to your left hand and note the daunting absence of a shiny diamond on your ring finger. Note to self, Gojo needs to buy you a ring.

“I left it at home,” you mumble.

“Uh-huh, as all newly engaged women who have been waiting for a ring all their life would do.”

That pisses you off. Because you were waiting your whole life for him to put a ring on your finger, and he never did. 

“Go fuck a fleshlight,” you snarl at him, unfortunately in earshot of the GoGurt kid and his mom shoots you a nasty look, but you’re a jaded woman after everything you’ve been through and you ram your cart into Choso so hard you swear you could’ve cracked his knee caps, and he doubles over in enough pain for you to have the time to leave him stranded there as you push your cart all the way to the end of the store. 

You finally make it to the orange juice section, the one thing you needed, although your cart is filled with things you didn’t need, because that’s always how these grocery runs go. You try to take a few breaths to calm down the fast beating in your heart after that confrontation with Choso. You’re not good with confrontation, even though it might seem like you are, but you’re just putting on a face. Acting strong, when really all you want to do is curl up into a ball and cry. But there are bills to pay, and images to upkeep, and orange juice to replenish. 

Your hand reaches out for the handle on the refrigerator door, but just before you curl your fingers around it, another hand beats you to it. It’s a large and masculine hand, with veins disappearing into the cuffed felted fabric of a suit jacket, and the knuckles turn a shade lighter than the olive skin around them when the fingers flex around the handle. 

You glance up at the person standing next to you, who you register towers over you in height. He has long, sleek black hair that shimmers under fluorescent lighting, some of which is tied up and out of his face, while the rest cascades over his back. But there’s tendrils of hair falling over the left side of his face, barely distracting you through the intensity of purple in his eyes when he glances at you.

“Ah, apologies,” he says, and the way he speaks is so calm and gentle, different from the intimidating aura he holds himself with. He retreats his hand from the handle.

“Oh, that’s–” you find yourself stuttering, “...that’s okay.” You grab the handle and open it, the chill rush of the fridge hitting you as your eyes peruse the selection of orange juice cartons while his eyes remain on you. You awkwardly glance at him again. “Sorry, d-did you also need to get orange juice?”

He nods. “Yes, I did.”

Not a man of many words, you think to yourself. Or maybe just around people he’s just met.

Your eyes catch the familiar labeling of your go-to orange juice, the one with no pulp and has added Vitamins D and E (basically the one for children), but you realize there’s only one left. You grab it anyway and put it in your cart. When you glance up at the handsome stranger beside you, there’s a slight look of amusement on his face.

“Seems we both have the same taste in orange juice,” he comments. 

“Oh no,” you say with a small laugh, “I’m sorry. It’s the last one.” Your eyes widen. “You–…you can have it, if you want–”

“Oh, no, no,” he shakes his head, long hair swaying with the motion as he holds his hands up in front of himself, “please. I will just find a nearby store.”

You tilt your head. “Oh there’s no other stores nearby…unless you get on the highway for at least twenty minutes. It’s a…small town.”

His lax expression finally cracks into one of subtle surprise. “That’s interesting.”

“Are you…new to town?” you ask.

He nods with a small smile on his face. “Indeed. Well, just visiting. I’m from New York.”

“Oh! Wow, that’s a long way from here.” You briefly register that he does look like a city man. Upscale restaurants, skyline views, premium outlets. The subtle fragrance of his cologne smells expensive too. “What are you up to while visiting?” You mentally facepalm yourself for asking personal questions, but he seems mysterious and you like peeling the layers back on people like him.

His expression drops, turning almost solemn and his eye contact that was previously very direct is suddenly averted elsewhere, “Just…visiting some old friends.” There is no elaboration.

“Ahh…I see,” you say, picking up on the hint that he has no more words to give you. “Well…I’ll be taking the orange juice…maybe try one with pulp?” you suggest a little cheekily. 

His lips tug upwards in a lopsided smile, one you’d call a smirk if you weren’t so mesmerized to define it as one, “I’ll think about it.”

You hum slightly in polite acknowledgement of him, then push your cart back towards the heart of the store without a word of goodbye.

Odd stranger, who’s good at giving misleading answers. You wonder what life he’s come here to escape. 

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

It’s a bright, picturesque Sunday morning, with children laughing and squealing out on the streets in front of your house as they ride their scooters up hot pavement while their parents catch up on PTA drama on the lawns. You’re standing in front of your full length mirror, trying on dress #3 for your little meeting with the courthouse today. And by little meeting, you mean your wedding. You’re getting married today.

The dress you have on falls to below your knees and has buttons all the way from the hem right up to the base of your neck, where the collared neckline wraps around you like a noose. Suffocating, way too prim and proper, although it’d make your grandma very happy and adored to see you should you show up to church service in it. 

Your bed is cluttered with clothes you’ve thrown across it as you try to find a good dress. Your hands move with impatience as you skim through the rack of your closet for another dress to try on, since you’re starting to push the time a little too much. You’ve only got ten minutes before you need to leave. 

A dress tucked in the corner of your closet catches your eye and you pull it out. It’s a cream-colored milk maid dress with an underskirt to puff out the A-line silhouette, length down to your shins that would be oh-so-flattering with a cute pair of heels. There are small red flowers adorning the pattern, with tiny green leaf details as well. It was cute and sweet and feminine, something you haven’t worn in a long time unlike your usual monotonous hospital scrubs, stained sweatpants and adult onesies.

It was the dress your friend Sana convinced you to buy when you thought you were going to get engaged. In the first two years of your relationship with Choso, you two talked about marriage non-stop. You both had just graduated college when you first started dating, and it felt like your lives were finally starting. At the end of the second year you two had been together for, after Christmas dinner with your family, he pulled you into his arms and you squealed with glee as he spinned you around in your childhood bedroom upstairs and told you how much he wanted to marry you, and that he was going to propose in the new year.

Your mother was diagnosed with cancer in January, and he never brought up marriage ever again. 

He still stayed with you for five years after that though, and swiftly dodged every single question you ever asked him about his impending proposal. For five years, you were fed every excuse in the book. And in hindsight, you feel like an idiot for staying, and for still holding out hope, when what you were really holding onto was heartbreak. The feeling of not being enough, like someone was just tolerating you, and not loving you. It was easy to ignore at times, given how occupied you were with driving your mother to chemotherapy appointments and reading up on books about which diet works best to slow down the development of Alzheimer’s because your mother started showing signs of dementia just two months after the cancer diagnosis. But in those moments of freedom, where you had a moment to breathe, all you could breathe was a suffocating smoke. Because you stopped feeling wanted or loved in between all of it.

But there was a trip he planned for the two of you to Greece. It was after your mother had first successfully gotten into remission. A gasp of fresh air amongst all the pain and suffering, and you could only assume that he wanted to celebrate by taking you on a trip. Sana was convinced he was going to propose to you on this trip, and you wondered if maybe he was just waiting until your mother felt better before he proposed so that the two of you could enjoy being newly engaged without the pressure or worry. Sana took you shopping, and you bought this dress, one that clings to your form in a way that made you feel beautiful. Made you feel wanted. Made you feel worthy of being loved. Because all other parts of yourself had been overlooked and paid no attention, but you thought a dress could save you. 

He never proposed. You left Greece with an extra suitcase of souvenirs, but without a ring on your finger or even a compliment on how beautiful you should’ve looked to him standing there on that beach with this cream-colored dress on, arm wrapped around his. And it was at that point you became numb, and you existed in limbo for the remaining four years of your relationship. Until he finally did what you silently begged him to do, with every sullen look in your eyes when you glanced at him. Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, what he did to you. Something you willed him into because you didn’t have the strength to leave, and so he had to.

You hold the dress up to your form in the mirror. It’d still fit you, and it’s far too pretty to have only worn once. But you’ve been numb for so long now, you don’t even remember what it’s like to feel pretty in a dress. You unbutton yourself out of dress #3 and step into failed proposal dress #4, and as you slowly zip up the back of the dress, you’re met with resistance. 

Fuck.

The last thing you need right now is a weight-related meltdown.

You tug up on the zipper even more, harshly, to the point you hear a stitch rip and you gasp and try to do it slowly so as not to completely tear the dress apart. But it’s not fitting. It should fit. You just assume the zip is stuck, or it’s too rigid after years of no wear.

You’re about to do another colossal yank upwards that could potentially dislocate your shoulder when you jump at the sound of your phone chiming with a notification. And then multiple.

“What...the hell…do you want…” you sigh to nobody, swiping your hands across the pile of dress fabric on your bed to find your phone, and when you do, you quickly tap on the screen to see the messages.

|| 11:32AM neighbor (avocado tree): Hey, are we still getting married today?

First of all, wild fucking thing to nonchalantly ask.

|| 11:32AM neighbor (avocado tree): Your car’s still parked out front, so I wasn’t sure if you’ve left yet. I was just about to leave, and then the thought occurred to me that we should probably carpool?

|| 11:35AM neighbor (avocado tree): But just wanted to verify, are you sure you want to go through with this? You’re not having cold feet? Won’t be a runaway bride? I’m not gonna be left at the altar, wondering where I went wrong?

You roll your eyes, breathing heavily still from the struggle of zipping up your dress.

|| 11:36AM You: yes, we are still getting married. I just can’t zip up my dress for the life of me 

It takes him a whole minute to respond.

|| 11:38AM neighbor (avocado tree): Do you need help?

You blink at your phone screen. Help? What kind of help? Helping you zip up your dress?

You look over your shoulder to the full length mirror, eyeing your back. The dress was zipped up to just above the small of your back, with the rest of it flayed open to reveal the expanse of your skin. Setting your phone down, you roll your shoulders back once and flex your fingers to try again in securing this dress, but to no avail. You curse yourself for not having the flexibility, and to be honest, you’re not even sure if you can take the dress off anymore to get into something else with the way the zipper won’t budge neither up nor down. Well. You’re just going to have to wear this dress for the rest of your life now. A scary predicament.

You pick your phone up again.

|| 11:41AM You: yes

It only takes about two minutes for him to text you that he’s at your front door, a surprisingly considerate gesture considering your mother is sleeping downstairs so it’s good he didn’t ring the doorbell, and you tiptoe your way down and over the creaky floorboards of the stairs to the front entrance. 

You slowly crack the door open only a couple inches, hiding yourself from him behind it as you peek at him. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he says, and he glances at his watch. “We’ve got to hurry.”

You nod, and take note of his appearance. He’s wearing a dark fitted navy suit over a white dress shirt, which to your surprise, doesn’t have the top two buttons sluttily undone for once. His suit pants are perfectly tailored to his ankles and you can barely see the exposed fabric of black socks before they disappear into his polished Oxfords. He looks like he’s going to a wedding. Oh wait, he is. 

He raises an eyebrow at you when you refuse to reveal yourself by stepping away from behind the door. Even his hair is particularly kept and proper, swept off to the side slightly in a way that makes him look younger and you feel nervous from the intensity of those eyes, which are usually somewhat hidden by the fringe of his snowy hair, now look at you unwaveringly with no obstruction. You feel like you’re seeing him in a completely new light, and for some reason, it makes you cower behind the door even more. 

“Uh, are you going to let me in?” he asks you, his foot tapping lightly on the welcome! mat. 

“Yes,” you say, but you make no movement to prove your word. 

“y/n,” he says, “we need to get going.”

You sigh, tapping your fingers against the stained glass window of your front door to release some nerves before hesitantly stepping to the side and pulling the door open all the way, then you’re standing in front of him in full view. You catch a glimpse of the black tie hanging from his neck that’s secured all the way up to the collar of his shirt, before you finally look at his face.

Those striking eyes of his round slowly until he’s looking at you wide-eyed, blinking in some sort of dazed surprise as his gaze eventually sweeps down your entire form to take in the sight of you standing barefoot on wooden floor in your cream-colored dress, and you swear you see the muscles in his jaw jump. His brow furrows like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“You–” he starts, that shocked blinking still taking place on his face, and you grasp the fabric of your dress in front of you from the anticipation of what he’ll say, “...you look beautiful.”

A silence settles between the two of you as he continues to roam his eyes all down you like there’s nothing that could stop him from doing it, and you feel heat in your cheeks from his compliment. It’s just a silly little cream-colored dress. One that didn’t look pretty on a beach in Greece, so why would it look beautiful on you  here right now? While you’re standing at the dusty front entrance of a decades old house? He’s bullshitting you.

“You know you don’t have to compliment me, you know that, right?” you squeak out, trying to keep your tone level and easy to fight back the raw feeling in your throat, “this isn’t a first look. There are no photographers around to capture your reaction. We’re not actually getting married.”

“But–” 

“Can you just help me with the dress?” you cut him off so he doesn’t say anything else that makes you feel pretty right now.

“...sure,” he agrees, and he steps inside your house. You start to walk upstairs, and he follows suit, and you suddenly feel his eyes on your back so you turn around and walk up the stairs backwards while facing him.

“I don’t understand the concept of first looks anyway,” he says out of nowhere to cut the silence, “isn’t it a bad omen to see your partner before getting married?”

“That’s such an outdated superstition,” you tell him as your feet finally press firmly flat at the top of the stairs. 

One of his feet is placed next to where you’re standing up straight at the top, while the other is still on the third step down. And it’s like he’s kneeling on one knee in front of you as he looks up at you. After a moment of deep breathing on your part, you finally step away from the top of the stairs so he can finish walking up them too.

“I don’t know what happened,” you say to him as you make it to the front of your full length mirror, “I was just trying to zip it up but it got stuck. And it’s not unzipping either.”

He comes up behind you, and you can see in the mirror that he’s put a decent amount of space between the two of you from the way his arms are reached out in front of him just to access the zipper. He tugs up on it.

“Hm. It…” he struggles with it, “it seems…” he yanks again, “jammed?”

“Fudge,” you mutter under your breath (more ladylike perhaps, as opposed to fuck) and you sulk your shoulders. “But will it close at all, do you think?”

He takes a step closer to you, and his cologne has the fragrance of woody oak with undertones of citrus, like something expensive and sophisticated. His hand sweeps your hair off to the side and over your shoulder to the front so he has a better view, fingers brushing against the nape of your neck from the motion and you try to fight the shiver. A glance to the mirror, and you see his eyes are set on the exposed skin. He tugs to pull your dress together, and is able to cross the fabrics. “Yeah, it should. I think just hold your breath for a second? I’m going to try to see if zipping it down helps unjam it.” 

“Okay,” you say softly, and he eyes you in the mirror at the sudden subservience. 

You try to hold your breath as he tugs down on the zipper, and you hear the metallic click when he succeeds in unjamming it before he zips it down just an inch. You can feel the small of your back exposed to cool air from the motion. 

He’s suddenly frozen entirely behind you, the knuckle of his index finger brushing against your skin as he continues to pinch the zipper between it and his thumb. You feel his slow exhale on the back of your neck. You’re too scared to look at his expression in the mirror.

“Sa–” you stutter through a gasp, “Satoru.”

“Sorry,” he says quietly, and then he’s shifting on his feet once before slowly attempting to zip the dress up. 

He’s met with a slight resistance just underneath your shoulder blades. “Hey. Just hold your breath.”

“I’m trying to,” you tell him, almost whining, because it’s hard to stop breathing when your heart is beating fast and it needs the oxygen supply.

“Do you want to try on a different dress?” he asks you.

“No,” you immediately answer him. You’re not sure why, but the idea of wearing this dress for the rest of your life doesn’t scare you anymore. In fact, you never want to take it off.

Your hands twiddle with the flimsy string at your collarbone that you tied to connect the fabric across your chest, and then you realize. “Oh…maybe I need to–” you tug at the end of the string, “undo this? That might make it looser?” You finally glance at the mirror to seek his approval of your suggestion.

His eyes meet yours, and when he sees what you’re referring to, his eyes widen. “But that would–”

“Just don’t look,” you say simply.

You two remain looking at one another in the mirror, and you see his chest heaving slightly through the tightening of his dress shirt against the expansion of his breathing. Like you’re asking the impossible of him.

“Or I’ll kill you,” you say.

He sighs, and his eyes flit down to your zipper again. You swear you feel his hand tremble slightly. “Alright.”

You pull on the end of the string, watching him in the mirror to make sure his eyes don’t wander, and the fabric covering your breasts falls open, but you use a hand to still sparsely cover your skin with the cloth where you can. In the reflection, you see his jaw clench but his eyes remain on the zipper, and only briefly flicker to the bed once. Then he’s zipping up your dress with ease. 

You quickly tie the string above your chest once more to cover yourself up, and then spin to face the mirror, petting down the fabric of your dress and throwing your hair back over your shoulder. It was a snug fit, but at least it still fit. 

He’s a step behind you with his hands shoved in his suit pockets, looking at your face with a slight tilt to his head like he’s studying you in the mirror just as much as you’re studying yourself. And then he pulls his hand out of his pocket to glance at his watch again. “It’s almost noon,” he says. 

“What?!” you bark at him. “We’re fucking late!!! Why didn’t you say anything?!?!”

“Huh??” he baffles. “I’ve been trying to tell you we need to rush this entire time.”

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you say, pacing your room to find your things in a scurry, picking your purse up and then grabbing your Manila folder of paperwork from your desk, and you try to walk past him to the door when you trip over the five pairs of shoes that you had been trying on earlier, almost twisting your ankle, and you gasp then grab onto his suit jacket for purchase before his arm attempts to reach out to hold you upright but to no avail since you tug on him as you fall straight backwards onto your bed and bring him down with you. 

His hands sink into the soft mattress on both sides of your head, wrists tickled by your hair, as he hovers over you, and your fingers quickly curl into little balls at your chest as you shrink underneath him, looking up at his surprised expression, likely from having to suddenly brace himself from falling right on top of you.

You both look at each other, blinking as you come down from the sudden chaos, and his tie that’s hanging from his neck brushes against your knuckle and falls over your hand to graze the skin above your breasts. His eyes briefly flicker to the sight, and he catches himself only to stare at your lips instead.

Even through thick layers of fabric, you can see the thick curves of the muscles in his arms, pulled taut from how he’s holding himself up over you. And for once, you wish the buttons of his shirt were undone, so you can see what he’s hiding underneath. The hair he had swept up above his eyes now falls freely with gravity, soft tufts that dangle above you and shadow over the blue of his eyes as he looks at you with a furrowed brow that–...that makes him look handsome. 

You must be ovulating.

No, wait, you finished ovulating a couple days ago.

Oh god.

Was your next door neighbor hot this entire time?

There was simply no way. 

You refuse to believe it.

You’re laying still like a deer in highlights, motionless underneath him, before he curls his arm around your waist to bring you up with him as he stands up straight, and you only spend a moment pressed up against him before you get yourself out of his grasp by pushing flat palms against his chest, and then the two of you are in proper distance from one another once again.

“D-Don’t ever do something like that ever again,” you stutter, shimmying your hips slightly to pull the snug fabric down your waist from where it had risen up.

“I didn’t do anything,” he grumbles, and he runs a hand through his hair. Now it looks like it always does, no longer prim in style.

“Whatever, let’s just go.” You slip your feet into one of the pairs of heels sprawled across on the floor, and then you head straight for the door. “You drive.”

You hear him sigh behind you. “Yes ma’am.”

•┈┈┈••✦☽✦••┈┈┈•

The courthouse is bustling with people when you two arrive but Gojo’s pleasantly able to pull into an open curbside parking spot right in front of the entrance. You’re surprised when he comes around to the passenger side to open the door for you, and you swat his hand away when he offers it to you too, but you probably should’ve taken it, since you almost twist your ankle for the second time today as you step out onto the curb and get used to walking in heels again like a newborn fawn.

“Should’ve taken my hand,” he says to you, smile turned upwards into a smirk as he watches you struggle while he’s a few steps ahead of you.

“Give it to me then,” you grit through your teeth as you wobble, giving up your pride to avoid adding yet another medical bill to the list of debts in your name.

“Nah,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets, “too late. Lost your chance.” You curse his entire lineage in your head.

You two make it inside the courtroom, and the first person you look for is Hana, whose head you catch at the front row much to your pleasant surprise since she is your sole witness to sign on the marriage certificate today. But in your study of the room to find her, you notice that there are a lot of other people in here as well.

“Don’t tell me…Did you invite people??” you ask Gojo, grabbing onto his sleeve to get his attention and also for balance, but he doesn’t need to know that latter part.

He glances down at you. “No? Why would I invite people to my fake wedding?”

Your eyes peruse the room once again, and you realize that most of them are just old retired people with nothing better to do on a Sunday than visit the courtroom. Some are elderly couples, eyeing you and Gojo as you two make your way down the aisle with sweetness in their eyes like awwwwwww to be a young couple in love once more <3 while they wait for the judge to call on their hundreds of unpaid parking tickets because they don’t know how to access an internet portal.

“D-Do you have the marriage license?” you squeak out to Gojo, who has now adjusted his walking speed to match yours.

“No, I left it at home,” he tells you in a flat tone. “Of course I brought the marriage license.”

“I was just checking, jeez…” you grumble.

Gojo hands the clerk the folder he was holding in his hand, and you hand in yours too.

Oh god. Your peripheral vision already recognizes him before your brain can, but you see an extremely familiar silhouette standing guard off to the side of the Judge’s bench, and your gaze immediately snaps in that direction.

Choso stands there, in his Sheriff Deputy’s uniform, his thumbs tucked into his vest as he puffs his chest out in assertion of his oh so important duty securing the courthouse on a Summer Sunday from any devastating danger, such as an elderly man not wanting to pay a parking ticket and then proceeding to charge towards the judge at 2 MPH, and you can’t help but roll your eyes from his attitude and scowl at him. Of course he pulled some strings and saw when you were getting allegedly married and decided to show up on that exact day. Whatever. You’ll pay him no mind. As long as he doesn’t speak now.

You and Gojo walk back to the lower desk in front of the Judge’s Bench.

“Ah! y/n, hello my dear, how are you?” the judge calls out to you.

“Hi Judge Jin,” you say meekly with a small wave, your voice echoing in the room, “good, and yourself?”

6/4/2024 1232: Judge Jin is a 72 y/o man with a past medical history of hypertension, hypercholesterolemia, hyperglycemia, GERD, liver cirrhosis and COPD, who endorses a social history of frequent tobacco usage and occasional alcohol consumption. Patient presents to the ED with chief complaint of chest pain, onset two hours ago after he drank three bottles of beer, and—

“Much better since you took care of me last week!” he humphs, patting his stomach.

You snap out of your automatic charting that was droning on in your head on reflex from how many times Judge Jin has shown up to the ED for acute chest pain which almost always ends up just being beer-induced GERD.

“At the hospital!” you clarify, “for taking care of you at the hospital!”

The man laughs heartily from where he sits up at the raised platform bench. “Yes! And Mr. Gojo! Nice to see you as well.”

You flit your eyes to Gojo, like you know him too? He only briefly spares you a sidewards glance before looking back at Judge Jin. “Likewise, sir.”

You postulate he scammed the fuck out of the man into signing a forty-year lease on a condo in the shady part of town, and you’ll leave it at that.

“I have to say, I am a little shocked by this matrimonial partnership!” Judge Jin chimes in. “But do you both swear to enter this marriage under just circumstances? I will need verbal affirmation from you both.”

Gojo raises his hand up in the air to swear on it, and you remember that he’s possibly done this before. Y’know how people have a courtroom wedding before a real wedding, something like that. And maybe that’s why he knows to raise his hand, because you didn’t even know you were supposed to raise your hand until now.

A real wedding. Something you’ve pictured a lot in your head, and so much more different than the arrangement you find yourself in right now. And because the pain of imagining yourself tying the knot with someone is too much right now, especially when the man you thought you were going to marry stands in uniform five feet away from you and probably doesn’t even recognize the dress you’re wearing right now, you glance over to Gojo and you try to imagine what a real wedding would’ve been like for him. Since he’s done it before.

He probably had a tacky wedding, like in a barn with barrels of beer used as tables with barely flickering string lights hung across wooden planks high on a triangular ceiling. The reception and the ceremony likely happened under the same roof, because he seems like the minimalist type, more focused on the feelings behind it and all, and not the grandeur.

Or maybe he was into the grandeur. Maybe he had a wedding on a skyline penthouse in the city, wearing expensive cologne like the one he’s wearing now, and a Dior suit he got custom made because it was a once in a lifetime occasion so why not? The image becomes a little too vivid in your head now, where you can picture this woman he’s marrying too. Pretty, tall just like him, wearing a ball gown white dress. He would’ve told her she looked beautiful, too. He would’ve told her he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life with her. Vows uttered shakingly into the microphone at an altar while the sun is setting far into the sky, shimmering off of high building windows until the air is golden and it reflects off of his and his soon-to-be wife’s face. And when they’ve professed their love for one another, he grabs her by the waist and dips her in a kiss, for the perfect picture against the perfect backdrop in front of all the perfect little people because there probably was a photographer at that event, wanting to capture the moment.

You snap out of the dazed moment when a loud voice calls out your name, and in a shock, you glance back up at Judge Jin who’s looking at you with slight irritation.

“Huh?” you squeak out, and then turn to look at Gojo, who’s got a look of mild concern on his face as he raises an eyebrow at you.

“Please swear that this marriage is under just circumstances,” Judge Jin states with a cadence that indicates he’s commanded this of you multiple times already.

“Oh!” you stand up straight, “I—…I’m sorry.” You hold your hand up. “Yes, I swear this marriage is under just circumstances.” Just like Higurama had you practice. He’d be proud. Phew, the hard part was over.

The rest of the ceremony goes by in a rather fast blur, and it’s a little awkward when you both have to tell Judge Jin that you don’t have any vows to exchange at the moment when he offers the time for them, but Gojo comes up with some lie about how the real vows will be at our formal ceremony, and Judge Jun seems entirely satisfied and a little too ecstatic by the answer before allowing you two and Hana to sign the marriage certificate.

“And rings?” Judge Jin asks as he peers down through his glasses to the paper he was holding at his desk. “We can now make time for the exchange of rings.”

You’re prepared for Gojo to come up with another lie about how the real rings will be at our formal ceremony, but you see him shuffling with something in his pocket in your periphery. Hm? You glance down at his hip, and you see him pull something shiny out.

He turns to face you, and he holds his hand out to you with an up-facing palm. You blink at him and then glance down at his hand. And then you look up and blink at him, and then glance down his hand. And then you look up and blink at him, and then gl—

“Give me your hand,” he says to you, a little hushed and rushed.

“Why???” you ask, baffled.

“So I can put a ring on your finger?” he says, like it’s the most casual thing. Like getting a ring slipped onto your fourth finger is the most casual Sunday for you, when it’s something you’ve dreamt of your whole entire life.

You finally take a long hard look at the ring he’s holding in his right hand. It shimmers with every glint of light in the courtroom off of every angle, no doubtedly precisely cut diamond from a jeweler who really cares about their craft, and you swear you’ve saved a similar looking ring to one of your Pinterest wedding boards before.

You hesitantly bring your hand up and hover it over his.

“Your left hand, silly,” he tells you.

“Oh, right,” you say, and hand him your left one instead.

He holds it in his hand that is much warmer than yours, and it’s so tender, the way he gently slips the ring onto your finger. It fits with ease, perfection actually, and you can’t help raising your hand up in the air, spreading your fingers weakly as you admire the stone now sitting above your knuckle. It’s pretty.

You feel Gojo’s eyes on you, as he’s halted in frame, and you glance past your hand to look at his face. You dislike him. You do. You should. He’s your annoying as fuck next-door-neighbor. So then why does your heart feel like it could burst right now?

A glimmer of silver catches your eye, and you look down at his hands as he slips a silver ring onto his left hand while facing you before he turns to face the front again, signaling the end of the ring exchange, except you didn’t get to put it on his hand. He didn’t give you the chance.

“Alright! Wonderful!” Judge Jin exclaims, whose eyesight is probably too poor to have seen that it wasn’t even a proper ring exchange. “With the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife!”

There is scattered applause across the courtroom, a few cheers as well, as you two stand in front of the court of law in holy matrimony.

Judge Jin glances at Gojo. “Well, young man, you may now kiss the bride!”

“Oh—…that—” you stutter, “that’s not necessa—”

“Okay,” Gojo says, more to affirm Judge Jin than in acknowledgement of your protest, and in a series of what feels like just one motion, he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you two him and then he—

He kisses you.

He kisses you like it’s real, like there’s history, like it’s a pure thing meant to last and not something you quite literally put a time stamp on. The kiss muffles the small sound that comes from your throat, your hands held up in the air in some slight surrender before they slowly settle on his shoulders as he bends you backwards over his forearm to deepen the kiss and the cheers surrounding you grow with a fervor that has your cheeks burning red but for some reason you don’t want it to end—

And then he pulls away from you, eyes darting across the features of your face in close proximity as he exhales slowly, like a release, and it feels like the two of you are the only ones in this room before he glances at your lips one last time and then he releases his hold on you. You stand shocked, and briefly glance at Choso, who looks like he’s about to burst a fuse off the top of his head.

What.

What.

What?

And just like that, you were married to your insufferable next-door neighbor.

.

.

.

[end of chapter 2]

a/n. thank youuu soooo so much for reading this chapter of ihm!! i’m kinda liking the writing style i’ve adopted for this series, it’s kinda lax n lenient sort of like a stream of consciousness and i hope it doesn’t come of too crass of informal lol i’m just playing around w some writing styles rn. ANYWHO i hope you enjoyed!! btw i picture choso as long-hair choso in any modern au (and not pigtails choso) so if you see me describing his hair in the way that i do, that’s why lol. love you all so much, hope to see you in the next one <3

➸ take me to chapter three!

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meme of the chapter:

[wttcsms]

these eyes were made for lookin’ at you (only you) ; simon “ghost” riley.

pairing simon “ghost” riley x f!reader word count 5.6k synopsis simon riley didn’t ask to be a hero, but he finds himself wanting to be yours. content contains hints to human traff/icking (not explicit), breeding kink, belly bulge, size difference, pet names/terms of endearment (pretty girl, baby, love, darling, sweetheart), soft!ghost, obsessive!ghost, domesticity, mutual pining, praise kink, probably ooc!ghost but the man is absolutely whipped for you, clothed sex (his uniform is on), minor depictions of violence

He doesn’t quite consider himself a hero, you know.

He’s got a foul mouth, a sense of humor that borders between too dry or too dark, and so much blood on his hands that he’s surprised to see they’re not red when he pulls off his gloves and runs them under scalding hot water.

There will be no parades in his honor. No little boys running up to him on the streets, proclaiming that they want to be just like him. No statues to be sculpted to remember him by whenever he meets his inevitable end, six feet under. He probably won’t even be a memory after death.

And he’s come to terms with all of this, of course. It’s not like he cares — he didn’t sign up to do this shit for the glory or because he wanted to be considered a hero. He did it because someone out there had to be the person willing to do anything for the betterment of everyone.

Perhaps that makes him heroic in some sense; again, he doesn’t particularly care.

Until you.

Until one mission sends you into his direct orbit, knocking everything he’s ever known out of its place. It’s disorienting, confusing—

—exhilarating.

He doesn’t get scared anymore, but there’s something inherently frightening about wanting to share parts of yourself — of your very being, of your soul — to someone. He’s not quite able to label any of the emotions he feels for you the first time he sees you, but he feels enough to know that if he wants to save himself, he should put as much distance between the two of you as he possibly can.

(It turns out that this lieutenant doesn’t have as great of a sense of self-preservation as he proclaims.)

You cling to his arm, ignoring the way your palm digs and presses into the hard armor and tactical gear he sports. You think he might shake you off or forcefully pull you off of him, but he does neither. The soldier freezes, just for a second, and then he turns to face you.

If this is what the Grim Reaper looks like, perhaps death isn’t such an unfavorable ending. You can’t make out any physical features of your savior’s face, save for the pair of dark eyes staring right at you.

The skull mask does its job of securing his identity, but he should consider wearing goggles, you think. You’re not certain, but you think his eyes must be his most incriminating feature. You think if he gave you a proper minute to look at him, the image of his eyes would be ingrained in your memory. You’d be able to recognize him by them alone.

“Do you understand me?”

The gruff voice must be coming from him, if the subtle movements underneath his mask are any indication. He’s staring straight ahead now, watching as the rest of his team begins to usher the other girls who were stolen alongside you into large trucks. Maybe they’re tanks. You’re not quite sure.

“You must not then, yeah?” When he speaks, every word seems to be just the slightest bit rough around the edges. His accent is oddly nice; from the way he delivers his comments, though, you’re left wondering if he is, too.

He must be — nice, that is. A nice man would let you continue to grip his arm for support, even though you’re capable of standing on your own. A nice man would save you from the hell you’ve been subjected to for… Months? Has it been months? Shorter, maybe? Or longer? Time passes differently when all you want to do is die.

“I understand,” you finally answer him. You think your words must come out a little rough, too. The air in this area seems hard to breathe in, and you’re not sure when was the last time you even drank anything. You say it so quietly, you’re afraid that you’ll have to force yourself to speak up, but he nods.

“You’ll be safe now.”

Looking back, those might have just been words meant to comfort you, but you trust this masked man. You don’t know him (not yet), but the way he says it sounds like he means it.

(He means it.)

He goes by Ghost.

He doesn’t tell you why, and you don’t unnecessarily pry yourself into his business.

He doesn’t even tell you the name himself; you hear it from the mouths of the other officers, the other men who helped in rescuing you and the others.

The man who took you — the one in charge of shipping and selling the girls — won’t be giving you any more problems, now. He won’t hurt you again, isn’t even capable of touching you ever again. This is what Ghost reassures you with, and you nod, believing him.

After all, you witnessed him slice the asshole’s neck. You watched the blood spill out of his body. You were being ushered away at the time, but you still found the strength to turn around to watch him die.

You still haven’t found yourself able to detach yourself from him, and he hasn’t found the strength to shake you off just yet. Your fingers look dainty compared to the bulk of his arm, and the uniform he’s wearing only serves to add to his overall mass. You should want to put some distance between you and him; you know what men are like. You know it doesn’t take much for them to snap and change their demeanors in an instant. With the strength you’ve already witnessed and the sheer size of him, you know fighting him off wouldn’t even be realistic. But you still find yourself refusing to leave him alone, as if the evil he just destroyed will come back to life and hunt you down the very moment your savior leaves you.

It’s why you’re in a separate vehicle from the rest of the rescued girls. It’s just the two of you in the back, and the only noise you can hear is the loud huffs from the engine and the sound of tires speeding on rough terrain.

“When we return, there will be people who will come collect you and the others. They’ll clean you up and help you get back on your feet. You’ll be able to start a new life.”

A new life?

The thought excites you.

You don’t know what awaits you outside. When you were a little girl, you were still allowed to bask in the outdoors. The warmth of the sun, the feel of a soft breeze brushing against your skin — sometimes, when you were chained and in your cell, cowering in the dark, you wished that you hadn’t taken advantage of those little luxuries.

“In this life… I will feel the sun?” He hears the innocence in your voice, your question filled with longing and maybe even excitement. It was just past dusk when they rescued you; it’s now nighttime, and he feels himself wishing he had the power to bring the sun down from the sky and present it to you.

“In this life, you’ll be able to do anything you want.”

He’ll personally see to it if he has to.

You had fallen asleep by the time you reached your destination. With one mission successfully completed, Ghost finds himself with another almost immediately after, and with the peaceful expression on your face and the fact that this facility is one of the most secure buildings in the world, he leaves you—

—only to return back to the facility in a little over two weeks.

It’s not as if there’s someone waiting for him in the empty residence he calls home. Besides, it’s only natural — human, even — for him to be curious as to how you’re doing. While he trusts that you’re safe, he finds himself, in between lulls on missions, wondering how you’re adjusting.

(And in the rare moments where he finds himself fighting off exhaustion — the only telltale sign that he’s still flesh and blood and not the phantom his enemies think he is — he finds himself wondering if you’re thinking about him too.)

What did you see when you stared at him that day? He had killed a man — killed many men, actually — without mercy, without hesitation. He’s done it so many times throughout his life that wielding a weapon has become second nature to him.

Sometimes he even feels like he’s the weapon.

And again, he doesn’t care about whether or not he’s deemed a good person or a hero, but he doesn’t want to be a nightmare to you. He can still feel the ghost of your touch lingering on his left arm, the arm that you had clutched the day he rescued you. If not for the employees confirming your presence and guiding him to your room, he would be almost convinced that you’re a dream he thought up himself.

“Poor girl,” the woman leading way is telling him. “She’s been having the worst time out of all the others. I’m not surprised, hearing what they must have had to endure all that time, but the sweetheart can’t even sleep without us sedating her.”

“What?”

The low timbre of his voice makes the word sound more like a growl.

Seemingly shocked at his reaction, the woman almost pauses in her steps before continuing. “Yes, she’s been having nightmares. Thrashing wildly in her sleep, screaming the first few nights, even.” And then, almost as if she’s trying to make him feel better, she adds, “But she’s much better now. Save for a few sobs every now and then.”

He doesn’t know what to make of that. If it had been someone physically tormenting you, he would have no issue in getting rid of the source of your pain. Demons who only appear in nightmares, though — that’s something not even he can fight off for you.

When they make it to your door, the woman knocks gently, calling out your name softly, almost as if she does anything too harshly, you’ll break down.

“I brought someone here who wants to see you, hon. I’m going to come in now, okay?”

The woman eyes him almost warily as if she’s just now taking him in. He didn’t bother changing out of his usual uniform, telling the helicopter pilot that picked him up after his most recent mission to take him directly here instead. In his defense, he hadn’t even anticipated you still being here.

But you are.

He’s well aware that he probably doesn’t look the nicest, his mask serving its purpose and obscuring his whole entire face, making him entirely unreadable. If you’re as skittish as the woman claims you are, perhaps it’ll be for the best if he leaves now.

But it’s too late. She’s opening the door and never one to hesitate, he’s stepping in. The woman doesn’t follow; instead, she shuts the door, most likely ready to call for backup if anything were to happen to you.

You look at him, and then a second later, recognition gleams in your eyes.

Now that it’s not as dark, he’s able to take in every single feature of your face, from the color of your eyes down to the slope of your nose and the shape of your pretty lips. He commits your visage to memory.

“It’s you,” you breathe out, sitting up straighter on your bed. “The man who saved me.”

And if the near reverent way you greet him isn’t enough to have him reeling, the next words you say have his heart freefalling:

“You’re my hero.”

You speak to him so sweetly, in a tone so soft that the words you say wrap around him like a warm blanket. No one has ever said that to him. No one has ever spoken to him the way you do.

He swallows hard, and for the first time in his life, he’s unsure of what to do.

“Have you been alright?” He asks, and your expression falls almost immediately.

You answer him after a few seconds of silence.

“Yes.”

You little liar.

“I’m very comfortable here, but I’ve seen many of the others getting ready to travel elsewhere. The people here are kind, and they tell me they have many houses I can choose from. They’ll help me find work and…” Your voice trails off, and he watches the way your hands curl around the bedsheets. “I’ll be normal. Find a husband, make a family, forget all about this.”

“Is that what you want?”

“Yeah.”

You’ll learn soon enough that he doesn’t like lying.

He moves quicker than someone his size should be able to; stealthy, too. You don’t catch his movements, but you blink, and suddenly he’s right in front of you, crouched down so he’s able to look you in the eyes.

You were right. You are able to recognize him by his eyes alone.

“You don’t have to lie to me, you know.” When he speaks, you can’t help but hang on to every word. You find yourself nodding. “You’ll answer me honestly then?”

You nod again, this time a bit quicker.

“Good girl.” You hear the approval in his deep tone of voice, and you almost wish you hadn’t. You didn’t know what it’s like to be fed such praise, and you’re stuck starving for it now. “How have you been?”

“Alright. I’m happy to be here, but I—” Your voice cracks, and so does something inside of him. You look down, suddenly more interested in your sock-covered feet rather than his eyes. “Everyone else is able to move on so quickly, or they have someone waiting for them. I have no one. No one is looking for me. No one is expecting me.”

The realization of your reality finally settles in for you with your confession. You were born into that fate; the other girls who used to occupy the cells next to you were stolen. By all means, you were assigned to die there. There isn’t a future for you because you’re certain the universe did not anticipate you ending up like this.

No one is expecting me.

He understands what that’s like. It’s the reason why he’s here, because for once in what feels like forever, he finally has someone he’d like to see after a mission.

“You could find someone out there.”

“What if I leave here, and no one wants me?” The words come out a bit wobbly, and you look at him with glossy eyes and wet lashes.

You’re even prettier than he remembers.

He swallows hard, trying to find the right words to say.

(Soap claims he has a bad habit of saying the most awful things at the worst time possible.)

“That won’t happen.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Because after meeting you for the first time, he — the man with no regard to his own personal well-being and the utmost self-control — finds himself longing to be in your presence. He had to see you again; can’t you already see how you’re taking root inside his very being?

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Will you come back then?” When you look at him like that, all wide-eyed with your pretty lips forming a subtle pout, he thinks he might do something stupid, like—

“Whenever you want me to.”

—make a promise he might not be able to keep.

He gives you a burner phone. It’s supposedly untraceable (he doesn’t let you know about the tiny personal tracker he attaches to it; don’t worry, he’s the only one able to access your locational information), and while he doesn’t give you any explicit instructions, the only number programmed into the contacts list is his.

(That’s fine with you. It’s not as if you have anyone else to talk to.)

You know that he must be a busy person. You wonder if he’s considered a savior to many other people like you. Then innocent thoughts like that spiral into something jealous. Does he normally visit the people he saves? Are there other girls who have been gifted a phone like this?

He doesn’t message you, and you’re too scared of bothering him to reach out.

Every night since he sent you this phone, you’ve laid in bed, thumbs hovering over the keypad, debating what to say if you ever get the courage to text him. Every night, you never hit send on a single draft, and you fall into an uneasy slumber usually after your tenth attempt at a text message.

Sleeping is the worst.

Your nightmares can’t reach you when you’re in the safety of the waking world, but the moment your eyes are closed, it’s like every dark memory you’ve suppressed comes out of the shadows and begins its long-awaited torment.

The feeling of the cuffs on your ankles digging into your flesh feels too raw and real to be a mere memory. The men walking by your cell, sometimes staring at you uncomfortably long, taunting you and calling you cruel names. They’re always so explicit about what they have planned for you, but your seller will never give you up. Not until he finds someone willing to pay the high price he has hanging over your head.

You’re an untouched, undamaged good is what he reminds you. You’ll make him so much money.

But then you feel the cold, clammy grip of his on your arm and his breath on your neck, and you scream and scream and scream.

There must be cameras in the room you’re in because after the first week of nightmares, the kind workers here stop rushing to your room. If you don’t quiet in a few minutes, a male nurse will come in with a syringe and a pitying look before injecting a sedative into your veins. Artificial sleep is the only uninterrupted rest you get these days.

You wake up with your throat raw from your yells, and your skin sweaty. It takes several minutes for your heartbeat to go back to its regular pace, yet the images of your most recent nightmare are still flashing in your mind. You grab the cell phone you keep tucked under your pillow. It must be because of your panicked state of mind, but you find yourself clicking his contact.

The dial tone grounds you into reality, but before you can truly come to your senses and hang up, he answers the call.

“Hello?” Hearing his voice calms you down even more so despite the slight crackle that comes with hearing him through the speakers of the phone.

“Ghost?” You’re whispering, even though you’re certain that the walls are thick enough for you to speak normally without bothering anyone. Besides, anyone with ears probably already suffered through your fit.

“[Name].”

You don’t remember telling him your name, but it makes sense for him to know it. After all, he’s the one who visited you several days ago.

The thought that he would have to make an effort to seek you out and learn more about you is far more comforting than you think it should be.

“S-sorry for bothering you. It’s probably late—”

“Are you alright?”

“Am I… Alright?”

“Yes.” After contemplating a bit, he adds, “And don’t try to lie to me, either.”

“Are you busy?”

He’s in a safe house ten minutes away from the facility; say the word, and he can get there in three.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t answer mine.”

“No, I’m not busy. Now your turn: how are you feeling?”

“Scared.” It’s easier to admit things when you’re unable to see him. Staring at him makes you nervous because you think he’ll be able to read everything on your own face. Vulnerability is never easy.

“Did you have a nightmare?” Maybe it’s the exhaustion messing with your mind, but you think his voice might have just softened, just the slightest.

“Yeah.”

He’s silent, but you think you hear some slight movement on his end.

“Ghost?”

“Yes?”

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m going to visit you. Do you not want me to?”

You’re scared to answer, too frightened that your tired state will cause you to let the raw truth slip out.

You think you’re always going to want him.

He can only visit you when he’s in between missions.

(Unfortunately for you, breaks for him are a rarity.)

He comes back to you, sometimes a little bruised, sometimes a bit more broken than when he had left, but he always keeps his promise.

Whenever you want him to be with you, he’s there.

The nightmares gradually get better with time, but you always sleep the best when he’s with you. At first, he would just sit in a corner of your room, almost impossible to view unless you focus hard on him (if you didn’t know he was there, you probably never would have noticed him at all). He eventually began to sit closer to you, somewhere near the edge of your bed. On the rougher nights, you would find yourself reaching out for his hand.

When his presence alone can’t keep the nightmares at bay, and you wake up from another bad dream, he doesn’t force you to tell him what you see. Instead, he talks. Despite his rough voice, the sound of him telling you about the mundane aspects of his day is the most comforting thing in the world. It’s like your own personal lullaby.

He tells you about his life before this. You tell him about yours, too. His gloved hand brushes against your cheek as he tucks back a strand of your hair. You lay your own hand atop his, feeling the warmth of him even through the thick leather. You tell him about your nightmares, all the darker details that make you loathe your very being. He tells you his name.

You whisper it back to him.

Simon. Simon Riley.

You say it several times, sometimes slowly. Testing out how the syllables rest on the tip of your tongue.

He likes his name best when you’re the one saying it.

The facility starts to fill up with other saved victims from missions more recent than yours. You’re free to stay here as long as you like, but one day, Simon presses a key into the palm of your hands. You don’t need him to say anything; the imploring look in his eyes, your favorite feature in the whole world, ask the question for him.

Now the two of you share a bed. His toothbrush stands right next to yours, and the former empty residence that Simon used to spend his off-time avoiding is a home. He cares about what will happen to him because every time he leaves for a mission, you send him off with a soft see you soon!.

He knows that keeping his heart cold would ensure that he would go to great lengths to see to the success of his missions, but running towards death is such a silly thing. Why would he be okay with chasing after that when he knows he can return to his safehouse hidden in the woods and find you in the kitchen humming? If anything, he completes his missions even faster now. You told him that you’ll be expecting to see him soon, and he’s not one to disappoint you.

Simon Riley knows he’s got it bad. He can’t sleep well unless his sheets smell like you. He asks if he can bathe you just to run soap over the smooth skin of your body because he’s entirely obsessed with you, every scar and beauty mark. He knows it’s dangerous, but he keeps a Polaroid of you tucked safely away in one of his inner pockets in his uniform.

One morning, nearly a year since he rescued you, you tell him you love him.

He lets you take his mask off.

You’re smiling at him, eyes shining as you take in every minute detail. You can’t believe this is a face he would want to hide from the world. Selfishly, you’re a bit pleased with knowing you’re one of the few to see him like this, completely bare. To make the moment even better, he says it back.

He loves you.

“I know.” You tell him; it’s obvious. His mask is resting in your hands, after all.

Simon rushes home after every mission to see you, his first love, his only love. He loves coming back to you when you’re barefoot in the kitchen or washing your face in the bathroom, but he loves it the most when you guide him to your shared bedroom, the prolonged distance between the two of you making your longing for him all the more intense.

He loves you all the time, especially when you’re lying beneath him completely bare, with your hands (so much smaller compared to his own) eagerly touching every inch of him you can reach. He just got back; his uniform is partially off, all the weapons left hanging by the doorstep. He’s got nothing but the protective armor and the thick fabric on him, and with the way your body is practically calling for him, he doesn’t think you’ll give him enough time to strip himself of his clothes.

“Simon — missed you so much,” is what you whine out. He knows. You don’t have to whimper it out to him because your actions (and body’s reactions) leave nothing to assumption. You’re struggling to lift yourself up to pepper kisses all over his unmasked face, dainty hands tugging at his sleeves. Your cheeks are flushed, and you attempt to rut against him, trying to get some type of friction to satiate yourself.

You’re already so wet for him that he can feel it through his uniform.

“I know, baby. I’ve got you.” That’s your Simon. Always reassuring, always there when you need him. And right now, you need him so desperately that you’re soaking the bedsheets beneath you.

True to his word, you feel a gloved hand teasing your slick folds, smearing your arousal everywhere.

“Fuck.” He breathes out, admiring your glistening folds for just a second with a sort of sick fascination. He can spend hours with his head in between your thighs and your hands clutching at his hair. He won’t be leaving you so soon, though. He’ll have all the time he wants to bring you to the height of pleasure with just his tongue; tonight, he wants to give you exactly what you need.

The feeling of two of his thick fingers working in and out of your tiny hole has you moaning and writhing beneath him. You’re always beautiful in his eyes, but there’s something about you with wild hair and eyes shut from pleasure that makes you practically irresistible to him.

Everything about Simon is larger than life, and the feeling of being so small in comparison to his hulking figure should be frightening. But when he’s above you, his large fingers toying with your pussy in the way he knows you just love, you feel protected. Like he’s your shield from the harsh world outside. Inside your shared bedroom, only you two exist.

Your back arches, forcing his fingers to reach even deeper. The texture of his gloves only adds to your pleasure and in an attempt to prepare you for his cock, Simon adds another finger to stretch out your tight cunt.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Be a good girl and cum for me, yeah?” His words come out through gritted teeth, as if it’s taking everything in him not to replace his fingers for his cock. His tolerance is hanging on by a mere thread, but he refuses to fuck you properly ‘til he’s certain you’re ready to take him. Only when your cum is coating the leather of his gloves will he know.

You nod, occasionally jerking your hips in tandem with his thrusts, chasing after your high. You’re beginning to feel hotter, your pussy becoming even wetter, and neither of you can make out the words you’re mewling out. Perhaps your whines are pleas for more, maybe even mercy.

You can’t last any longer, and as his fingers curl against your sensitive walls, you find yourself nearly screaming his name as you gush around his fingers. He grins at the result of his hard work, withdrawing his fingers just to hold them up to you. His gloved hand glistens in the moonlight, and you can only watch as he raises his fingers to his mouth before sucking your essence off of them, effectively cleaning it up.

He never breaks eye contact with you once.

“Should I try it straight from the source?” His grin is teasing, the gleam in his eyes nothing short of wicked.

You weakly shake your head, already too fucked out to properly respond.

“No? I’ve been starving for your taste all those weeks I was gone, love. You don’t want to be a sweet girl and let me have my fill?” You know he’s just teasing you, but you still find yourself upset at the prospect of displeasing him.

“Not yet.” You pout, spreading your legs for him. “I wanna feel your cock.”

His grin only grows wider.

“Looks like my perfect girl’s been starving too, huh?” He leans down to give you a kiss, and you can taste a hint of your arousal lingering on his tongue. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll give you everything you want and more.”

Everything about Simon is larger than life.

The first time he ever fucked you, you had cried from the stretch of his massive girth invading your previously untouched cunt. The sensation of being filled to the brim was a foreign one, but a feeling you’re certain only he could provide. No matter how many times he’s had you, it always feels like it’s your first time taking him.

He’s whispering words of reassurance as he guides himself into your leaking entrance. Despite him working you to your peak, three fingers doesn’t begin to compare to his dick, and you find yourself whimpering over his words of praise.

“You’re doing so well for me, love. Such a good girl, my good girl.” He kisses your forehead, forcing every inch of himself inside until the tip of his cock is kissing your cervix. The pleasure of being so full outweighs the pain of the stretch your cunt has to make to accommodate his sheer size.

You stare down at where the two of you are connected, taking a sharp breath as the unmistakable bulge in your belly serves as undeniable evidence of just how deep Simon is capable of reaching. It’s always a wonder on how your tiny pussy is always able to take him, and Simon merely chuckles as he notices where you’re staring.

Using the same hand he used to coax your first orgasm with, he gently guides your hand to rest on top of the bulge. He’s smiling as he tells you, “Keep your eyes right there, darling. I want you to watch me as I fuck you.”

His thrusts are always powerful, a true sign of his strength. You’re not even sure where all his stamina comes from because no matter how exhausting his missions may appear to be, he always finds the energy to fuck you well throughout the night.

Your body’s natural instinct is to tighten around him, and the pressure has him growling as he works harder to piston his cock in and out of you. The lewd squelching noises, the smacking of skin against skin — everything is just so downright pornographic.

Your free hand finds purchase on his clothed back, nails digging through the fabric as he continues to work to bring the two of you to an explosive finish.

“Fuck, I missed you so much, darling.” He hisses, relishing in the tightness of your cunt and how your body takes him so well every time. “I don’t ever want to leave you alone again.”

You whine out for him, needing him closer even though he’s already as close as he can get. With his unyielding, powerful thrusts and your heightened sensitivity, neither of you is going to last much longer. He looks down to admire the imprint of his cock in your belly. He loves you and finds every little thing about your body perfect, but he can imagine your belly expanding to make room for his child and your tits swelling with milk. Fuck.

“Want to put a baby in you, love. Will you let me? You’ll never be alone again, not when we make the perfect lil’ family.” He grunts, and you nod, overjoyed at the idea of him wanting something so intimate. A family. Your family. He’ll give you a baby.

“Yes!” You scream out, feeling the coil in your stomach about to snap, every thrust bringing you closer and closer to breaking. “Wanna have your baby, wanna be with you forever.” The words come out sounding like sobs as you feel the tension inside of you snap.

“Fuck, you’re so perfect. Going to fill this cunt with my cum, darling.” His thrusts are becoming more erratic as he gets closer to losing control. Both of his hands grip your hips, his hold on you tight as he releases into you with a deep grunt. His cum is thick and warm, filling you up so much to the point where it’s already leaking out despite him staying inside of you all in an attempt to make sure it takes.

Breathless, wild-eyed, red cheeks — the both of you are an absolute mess.

You take a shaky hand to run through his hair that’s damp with sweat, and he leans into your gentle touch. You stare at him with a reverence he feels he doesn’t deserve.

“My hero.”

[deancasbigbang]

Title: Highly Unprofessional

Author: seidenapfel

Artist: Sasanka-27

Rating: Explicit

Pairings: Castiel/Dean Winchester

Length: 23000

Warnings: N/A

Tags: Professor Castiel, College Student Dean Winchester, Mutual Pining, Castiel is Jack Kline’s Parent, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues

Posting Date: November 4, 2024

Summary: On his first day of college, Dean feels like a fish out of water. After years of working his ass off with several jobs at once to fund his brother’s studies, his family and friends have decided to pay him back. That’s how he finds himself panicking in the lecture hall. Thankfully, a fellow student distracts him. She promptly becomes a good friend, and Dean has no idea how badly he will need her. The moment he lays eyes on his physics professor, Dean is lost. Castiel Novak seems like the man of his dreams. And when the professor’s son appears from under the podium, several lives take an unsuspected turn.

Excerpt: “Oh, fuck you,” Dean grouched, though he couldn’t help but grin. “No, thank you,” Charlie shot back without heat. “You’re not my type.” “Ouch.” Charlie chuckled, rolling her eyes. “As in, you're not a girl.” “Oh. Oh…” Taken aback, Dean was lost for words. Silently, he observed her in a new light. Of course, his reaction didn’t go unnoticed. Charlie sat up straight — or as straight as she could sit, given that she… Dean winced internally. Goddammit, Winchester! Get your shit together. A frown covered Charlie’s brow. “That a problem?” she asked coldly. “Uh… No?” Dean gulped as she glared at him, a hand on her bag, ready to leave. Finally, his main drive kicked back in. “Fuck, no. No, no, no. That’s… that’s awesome,” he stuttered, scratching the back of his head. The wary look on Charlie’s face was replaced by a broad smile, and Dean relaxed. “Saved by the bell, bitch.” Charlie nudged him. “And you got to know, there’s nothing wrong with working and saving up before being able to go to college. Actually, it’s kind of awesome that you’re here.” “That’s not—” Dean started to object, but then he shrugged. She didn’t need to hear his sorry life story. Instead, he offered his hand. “Dean.” “The dean? Head of the college? That at least explains your advanced age,” Charlie quipped, a twinkle in her eyes. “Oh, shuddup,” Dean muttered, earning him another chuckle. Before Charlie could answer, though, someone cleared their throat. The entire lecture hall fell silent at once, except for two idiots in the last row who were still wrestling on their seats. Somewhere, a girl laughed, but everyone else kept their mouths shut. And then, a voice pierced through the silence. “Gentlemen.” Goosebumps erupted all over Dean’s body at that sound and a shiver ran down his spine. That voice was doing things to him. Fuck! Slowly, he turned his eyes to its source and froze. There, behind the podium, stood the most breathtaking man Dean had ever laid eyes on. “Thank you for gracing us with your presence,” the man went on with a snide remark when the tumult stopped before addressing the crowd. “Good morning. Now that we can finally start, I’m really impressed how many of you joined me this term. A physicist talking about comparative religion and science is not everyone’s cup of tea. But keep in mind that many of our predecessors studied both. Back in the day when scientists didn’t have to specialise.” He paused. “Even though I have to admit, the cryptid part in the class’ description might have sold it…” The lecture hall erupted in laughter and Dean was too mesmerised to look away. Hanging on the professor’s lips, he was hooked, especially after he got a name a moment later. Castiel Novak was not what Dean had expected. Whatever Sam had told him about college whenever Dean hadn’t tuned him out — nothing could have prepared him for the lecture he was just experiencing.

DCBB 2024 Posting Schedule

[nicoline1998enilocin]

Flufftober Day 31 | Spiked candy

Pairing | Iron Man!Tony Stark x Avenger!Female!Reader

Word count | 2.1K

Summary | You've had a crush on Tony for as long as you can remember, but you didn't know he also has one on you. During his annual Halloween party, he makes a move using a project he's been working on for a long time, and they have precisely the desired effect because you couldn't be happier the morning after. Your dream of being his might finally come true after all.

Warning(s) | This is your official trigger warning. Do not proceed if any of these topics upset you. Swearing, costume party, use of pet name (Kitten), aphrodisiac candies, mutual pining, friends/coworkers to lovers, smut (Daddy kink, dirty talk, oral - M receiving, light choking, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), squirting, implied aftercare), a boatload of fluff.

Prompt | 31. Dreams do come true | @flufftober Prompt | Tony only buys the good stuff when it comes to Halloween candy. But be careful. There's a reason there are no kids at this party. Some of the candies are a pretty potent aphrodisiac | @jtargaryen18

A/n | This one-shot is written for Jamie's Halloween Challenge 2023. As always, I want to thank @ccbsrmsf1 for enjoying this with me and proofreading it as well! I had an absolute blast writing this one, and I hope you will all enjoy it as much as I did when writing 🖤

Likes, comments and reblogs will be very much appreciated 🧡

Divider is made by @firefly-graphics | GIF credit to the owner This GIF has been found on Pinterest, but I sadly can't find the original pin anymore since I forgot to save it. If you have the link to the original GIF, please let me know so I can credit it accordingly!

Main Masterlist | Tony Stark Masterlist | Flufftober Masterlist

Your costume idea may have been basic, but your result is far from that. The tight black dress, thigh-high heels, slicked-back hair, cat ears, and smokey makeup give you a sexy, sultry look you hope will impress one man. Anthony Edward Stark.

The entire day you've spent getting ready, from doing your hair and makeup to having every single hair on your body waxed that doesn't belong there. You're smooth as a baby's butt, and you've never looked better.

Looking this good also means you feel just about as good, and confidence is dripping off every inch of your body as you enter the party. Each year, Tony throws a Halloween party even more extravagant than the last, but you don't look at any of it.

There's only one thought in your mind: ''What will Tony think of my costume?'' it's a good thing you don't have to wait long before you have your answer.

''Fuckin' hell, Kitten, don't you look like a million bucks tonight?'' Tony says, and his hand finds its way to the small of your back as he leans in to whisper these words in your ear.

Heat creeps up your chest and neck, all the way to the tips of your ears because you've had a crush on him since before you had even become an Avenger. But honestly, who wouldn't when they were in the presence of someone as amazing as Iron Man?

However, what you did not know - or were too in love to see - is that he had a crush on you as well. He's been flirting with you ever since laying eyes on you. And tonight, he plans to make it abundantly clear how he feels about you.

''You don't look bad yourself, either,'' you say as you look Tony up and down. He's wearing a tailored pin-striped suit with no shirt, the jacket hanging open to reveal every last ridge of his muscle. Around his neck is a bow tie identical to the one of Jack Skellington, and the white hair and makeup finish off the entire look.

You turn towards him and lay your hand on his abdomen, scratching softly down to the edge of his pants with your Halloween-themed nails. When you hear Tony's breath hitch, you know you've achieved your goal and flashed a mischievous smile up to him.

''Don't tempt me, Kitten,'' he growls lowly, the dark brown of his eyes almost disappearing as his pupils grow wide in arousal.

''I'm sorry, Daddy,'' you say before tapping his chest once and turning around to head to the bar, and you're using the fact that it is busy to your advantage. You're immediately swallowed into the crowd, and before Tony can even reach out to you, you're out of his sight.

''Shit,'' he mutters to himself.

You have found your way to the bar in the meantime, and that's where you find both Bucky and Steve, just like every other party. Bucky's not a socialite, and Steve is nice enough to stay with his best friend.

Bucky whistles as you walk over. ''Someone must have left a cage open because there's a wild animal at this party.''

''Lookin' amazing tonight,'' Steve adds, and it's only then that you realize they're dressed up as one another. Steve is wearing Bucky's tactical gear, complete with a fake metal arm made for him, and Bucky is wearing Steve's Captain America suit, complete with the shield on his back.

''You two look amazing as well,'' you say with a big smile before ordering a cocktail. The two of them are some of your best friends, and they have been rooting for you and Tony since day one.

''Is there any chance you dressed like this for a certain someone?'' Steve inquires, and Bucky looks at you with a quirked brow.

The blush across your cheeks tells them everything you need to know, though they drop it for now, instead pulling you into the conversation they had earlier.

In the meantime, Tony is setting up a little plan that he has been working on for a while. He has made some candy for tonight, but this isn't just regular candy. Oh, no. These contain a potent aphrodisiac.

Now, Tony has to wait until you're feeling snack-ish - which you usually do at these parties - and make your way to the candy table. Luck must be on his side today because it doesn't take long for you to check out the selection.

Your eyes glide past every card by the bowls, and you chuckle at their puns. When you arrive at the last bowl, you suddenly feel a pair of eyes on you, and that's when you turn around.

''Care for a candy, Kitten?'' Tony asks, handing you one from the last bowl he just set up, and you gladly take it, unwrapping it quickly before popping it in your mouth.

It didn't take long for the effect to find its way into your system, and before it could hit you full force, Tony had already herded you to a nearby conference room.

That's where you find yourself on your knees on the floor, his thick, veiny cock filling your throat, blocking every single noise that even threatens to leave.

''Jesus, look at how good you're taking me, Kitten; I can feel myself in that tight little throat of yours,'' he says as his large fingers wrap around your throat and squeeze the sides to restrict your airflow just enough to have you feeling a little lightheaded.

The groans leaving his chest are out of this world, and they only spur you on to take him entirely. Just a few more inches, and you are taking him, but he doesn't let you get that far.

''Oh, fuck Kitten, I won't last if you do that,'' he says before pulling you off, your tongue still lapping at his tip despite not having him in your mouth anymore.

You're panting uncontrollably, but you're also turned on beyond belief, and you can't wait to feel him inside you, where you need him more than anything.

''Daddy, please! Want you to fuck me until I can't walk,'' you say with an innocent look in your eyes, though your face isn't that innocent anymore.

Makeup has run entirely, your hair is a big mess, and your neck and chest are covered in bruises and lovebites from Tony. How your outfit is still intact is beyond you, but that won't last long.

''Yeah? Is that what my Kitten wants? To be fucked by her Daddy? You've been a good girl for me, haven't you, sucking my soul out through my dick,'' he says as he helps you to bend over the table, your chest and cheek pressed firmly against the wood.

''Y-yeah, 'm Daddy's good girl,'' you say with a whine, and before you know it, your sad excuse of a thong has been ripped from your body, and Tony is shoving himself inside of you in a single thrust.

There's not a single thought in your mind other than ''Daddy!'' and you can't help but want to hold onto something to ground yourself, but most of all, you want to grab Tony.

Anywhere you can, you want to grab him, scratch him, anything to ground yourself. His fast-paced thrusts are sending you over the edge in no time, and your pussy squeezes him like a vice.

With a loud shout of his name, you squirt all over him, and you don't know when his fingers found your clit, but you're delighted that they did.

You're at the point where your brain has turned into complete mush, and you can't think, let alone talk, so all that's leaving your mouth are whines and broken moans.

He keeps thrusting despite you becoming oversensitive quickly, and it's almost too much, but somehow you manage to hold on long enough for him to cum inside you and collapse on top of you.

''Wow, Kitten, now I know what I've been missing out on all this time, huh? But you know what they say, dreams do come true for those who want it badly enough,'' he chuckles.

He cleans you up, and after that, you two head back to his apartment in the Compound, only a few floors above the party. Tony has carried your bridal style, your head propped against his shoulder while you fell asleep.

''Get some rest, Kitten, we'll talk tomorrow,'' he says with a few kisses on your forehead. He removed your makeup and remaining clothing, instead pulling a pair of his boxer briefs and oversized shirts onto your body.

The combination of the candy and Tony treating you like that in the conference room has left you tired beyond words, and you don't even notice him climbing into the bed with you after removing all of his makeup in the shower.

The following day, you wake up with a big yawn and a stretch. Tony's strong arms are wrapped around you as he pulls you against his chest, and you feel very content in his hold.

''Mornin' Princess,'' Tony says in a deep, gravelly voice that warms your insides. When you're about to turn around, you suddenly feel a soreness between your legs, and that's when you remember what happened last night.

''Good morning, Tony,'' you say as you turn over and look into his deep brown eyes. A small smile appears on your lips, and you place a soft peck on his lips, which he happily reciprocates.

''Thank you for last night,'' you whisper before burying your face into his neck, and he chuckles softly.

''You're welcome, Princess; I'm thrilled we finally ended up here together,'' he says, and you hum contently. You don't want to leave his arms, but once your belly starts rumbling, you know you don't have a choice.

''C'mon, let's get some breakfast, and after, we'll talk, okay?'' he says, and you agree before wiggling out of his grasp after a few more kisses.

Tony pulls on a pair of sweats before you walk to the communal kitchen, where, much to your surprise, no one is.

''How about some pancakes?'' you say, and Tony agrees, so you get the batter ready while Tony sets up the pan to make them. Once you're both ready, he grabs your hand and pulls you towards him, letting you step in front of the stove and standing behind you to bake them.

Even with you standing there, he can prepare them perfectly, and you can't stop yourself from smiling constantly. You don't notice the rest of the Avengers slowly trickling into the kitchen, but they all give each other knowing looks as they see the two of you.

''Morning, you two,'' Bucky says as he walks in, and that's when your head snaps towards him, and you finally see all the other Avengers in the kitchen, looking at the both of you.

A deep red color from the tops of your cheeks down to your chest appears, but all Bucky does is wink, and you give him a huge smile. Tony places a soft kiss on the top of your head before flipping more pancakes.

It doesn't bother Tony in the slightest, and you let yourself melt into his embrace while you wait for the last pancakes to be cooked.

''Let's have our breakfast in my apartment, okay?'' he whispers, and you nod before plopping a few pancakes on your plate with extra syrup and waving to the Avengers before you retreat to his apartment.

As soon as you find yourself on his couch, Tony has sat down next to you, and you're enjoying his delicious pancakes. He decides to break the silence first by addressing what's going on between the two of you.

''So, what do you think, Princess? Was this just a one-time thing, or did you have something else in mind?'' he asks carefully, and your eyes shoot up to his.

''Oh, Tony! This was more than just a one-and-done for me! I can't tell you how long I've loved you. Well, first it was just Iron Man, but when I got to know the man behind the suit, that's when you stole my heart, and to this day, you still have it,'' you say with a shy smile.

You feel a little stupid for saying you've had a crush on him forever, but he doesn't judge. At the very least, it's an ego boost for him, though he doesn't say that.

''It wasn't a 'one-and-done' for me either-'' he says in air quotes, ''I'd love to give us a chance at a relationship because I want to show you how much I love you, Princess. Treat you the way you deserve to be treated,'' he says.

And with those words, it's official. You're in a relationship with the one and only Iron Man, and you couldn't be happier. Dreams do come true for those who believe in them, after all.

[imaginedreamwrite]

Hello, I want to share this idea with you that I had from the Turkish TV show... I don't if you know about Turkish soaps...

So, reader is District Attorney’s daughter and Steve is the son of the mafia/mob.. they’re both artists and met in same art school. They started with love hate kinda relationship, then some mutual pining but they still can't tell each other they’re in love because its forbidden. They’re from two different worlds and in love. Steve doesn't have any criminal record YET but he's still a mob's son...

I'm just sharing it with you, if you want to write a one shot perhaps turn it into a series... whatever... or maybe you won't consider giving it shot.. that's okay...

Thankyou for providing a safe space for everybody and let me share it with you...❤

Bad For Me

It’s immaculate, the dark walls that are encompassed by rich gold trim around the baseboards and crown moulding. There’s a oversized chandelier hanging above the bed with teardrop crystals and the same gold trim that surrounds the room, the base of the chandelier that holds it against the ceiling is carved and etched metal that mirrors the sconces on the wall.

The bed is an Alaskan king, the size would have seemed almost outlandish if the room was smaller, but as it is the bedroom is as expansive as you would have imagined.

The bed is made of sturdy wood, dark to match the colour of the paint, with a curved headboard that rests high against the wall, almost like the back of a throne, and there’s two distinct round studded holes that you can only imagine would be for your restraints. There is a section of padded material to keep you from injuring your head should you throw yourself against it.

The rest of the room is as breathtaking and stunning to match, across from the bed is a fireplace that’s still burning leftover logs. There are walk-in closets set against the right half of the room, both are placed precisely between two floor to ceiling mirrors. Across from the closets is the ensuite bathroom with the shower and bathtub placated flush against each other a design, he had claimed, was to bring an air of intimacy to the relationship.

And to finish off the room, there was a chaise set before the windows, the furniture designed to be the focal point for his artwork. He had claimed, again, that it was meant for intimacy.

“And I will be drawing and sketching you.” He promised you that everything in the room would come to good use.

The heavy door opened and his footsteps were heard on the hardwood floor. You had stood before the windows, glancing out at the property below, so entranced by the prospect of escaping.

“There is no running from me.” His voice had hit your ears, the scent of his cologne invaded your senses and you had wished you hated it more. “Why so somber, my wife?”

He was the son of a ruthless Don, and you were the daughter of the district attorney. He was attending art school where you had taken a few classes, your main focus was classical and contemporary dance while he was dabbling in sketching, drawing and painting.

You didn’t know who he was, he had only ever given you his middle name but he knew who you were. He had you figured out on day one, and you knew you should have left his presence before he got in too deep.

It was your fault, it was your fault that you were here.

“Steve please don’t do this.” You begged him, you pleaded with him to let you go. “Choose someone else, anyone else.”

“You know the tradition of bride kidnapping?” He brushed your hair off your shoulder, his large hands had come to rest on your waist as his lips met your jaw.

“You could have anyone else-“

“The groom snatches the woman he wants as his bride to save her from any other suitors. It’s most common in other parts of the world, but its a practice that suits me well.” He was possessive yet tender, kissing your neck as he pulled you back flush against him.

“You’re the most dangerous man on the east coast, you could have-“ you stopped breathing, negating your reaction to his fingers tugging on the silk tie that held your robe around you.

“I know what I am,” he hummed, his cock twitching against your ass, “I know what I want. I know who I want, that’s why I had to take you.”

“We met at school, we didn’t-“

“I know how you felt about me. Before you knew what I was, we had gone on a date. We had fun and you let me taste you. Did you really think-“ Steve groaned in your ear, hands running up your abdomen to your bare breasts.

“-I could handle just one taste?” Steve’s hands grasped your breasts, his fingers squeezing as you moaned and pliantly pushed back into him. “You are not the kind of woman who only requires one taste.”

“Please…” you whined, cratering with your willpower. “Steve…”

“Yes, Mrs. Rogers.” He nipped your neck and let go of your breasts only to sweep you into his arms and take you back toward the bed. “I will feast on your sweet pussy again. But…”

Steve leaned back and looked down at you, your chest heaving and your legs spreading to reveal the dampness of your thighs.

“I think its time,” Steve pulled you up and switched positions with you, this time it was him laying back on the bed, “you ride my face.”

“Steve I-I can’t…I’ve never-“

“Yes, darling wife.” He snatched your wrist and pulled you forward, dragging you until you had sat on his chest. “Don’t leave your husband starving. Ride my face.”

He settled his hands on your hips and dragged your forward until you hovered above him. “Don’t hold back, fuck yourself on my tongue.”

[iliveiloveiwrite]

I wonder what it’s like to be loved by you // Benedict Bridgerton

Summary: You’ve loved him for as long as you can remember. Is this the season where he finally realises?

A/N: I LOVE BENEDICT. I love him so much. What do I have to do to get a Benedict? Title is from Shawn Mendes - Wonder. I had so much fun writing this fic, I can’t wait to write more for the Bridgerton fandom! I truly hope you all like it, let me know what you think please?

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Warnings: swearing, mentions of food and drink, fluff, pining, mutual pining, dancing, balls, obliviousness, friends to lovers, she/her pronouns, a lot of history - I am a historian after all and this is the regency era.

Word count: 4.8k

Lady Danbury never spared any expense on the balls she held every season. She knew full well that many a match could be made that night so there was not only pressure from the ton, but also a responsibility that this ball must outdo all others thrown before – by herself and other matriarchs in society.

A feat she always managed to achieve, the elder thinks to herself as she watches your eyes widen upon entering the ornately decorated room. Looking you up and down, she approves of your outfit – a dark blue dress punctuated with silver jewellery, hair twisted into an updo with only a few strands hanging loose to frame your face. From her spot across the ballroom, Lady Danbury wonders how you hadn’t married yet.

As the band strikes up, Lady Danbury walks into the fray, greeting her guests with a smile. All the while, she keeps a trained eye on you, wondering who on earth had captured your heart but had not noticed.

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

No matter how hard he tried, the charcoal would not wash from his fingers. Having scrubbed and scrubbed at his hands, Benedict could only offer you a smile of apology as you not only noted his lateness but the state of his hands.

“It’s very fortunate that you are a talented artist,” You comment with a teasing smile.

Benedict reaches for your hand, dropping a kiss to the back of it before answering. “I class myself as very fortunate to have a friend like you who understands how easy it is to get lost in a sketch or a painting.”

You roll your eyes, careful not to let anyone else but Benedict see your act of impropriety. He smirks, unable to help himself.

“You’re a shameful flatterer, Benedict.”

“Some might even call me a ‘rake’,” He replies, his tone teasing.

“I shall save that for when you’ve really annoyed me.”

He laughs; a loud chuckle that draws the attention of those closest to you. Most notably, Benedict’s mother, Violet Bridgerton and Lady Danbury.

Benedict clears his throat; cheeks flushed not only from the attention but from the knowledge that his mother would soon be making her way over to him. He adored his mother; was grateful for her every day, but he could happily admit he could live without the meddling in his love life. He grabs your gloved hand once more; kissing the back of it in parting before asking, “Save me a dance on your card?”

“Always,” You answer, watching his back as he stalks away. Benedict narrowly avoids being collared by his mother, an act to which you find yourself smiling at.

With thoughts of Benedict in mind, you wander around the outskirts of the ballroom, your dark blue skirts swishing pleasantly under foot. You pause only to grab a lemonade from the table, sipping happily at the cold drink.

You catch sight of the brunette that had stolen your heart dancing with Penelope Featherington and though you know there is no romance there, your heart is unable to stop the hurt that lashes through it. Schooling your face into a mask of polite delight, you force yourself to turn away from the sight of the man you had so readily given your heart to dancing with someone else.

“How long have you been in love with my brother?” A raspy voice asks from behind you.

Your lemonade splashes slightly as you turn to face your interrogator. “Eloise!” You laugh, smiling too wide to be comfortable, “Whatever do you mean?”

Eloise’s shrewd blue eyes narrow slightly as she takes in your dismissal. She waves her hand in the general direction of Benedict though you knew exactly where he was – could feel his location thrumming in your veins.

“Don’t play coy, (Y/N). It doesn’t become you. Now, how long have you been in love with Benedict?”

That was the question, wasn’t it? How long had you loved Benedict? Thinking back on it, you’re sure that you’ve always loved him. Your family had been good friends with the Bridgerton family for as long as you could remember. Your mother was always having tea with Violet and you were always thrust upon the eight siblings without much worry. Your friendship with Benedict had started in earnest when you had complimented his art skills, bringing up how you liked to draw too. From there, a close friendship was forged.

By your twentieth year on this earth, you realised that your feelings for the second Bridgerton were no longer platonic… that you craved something more. Falling for Benedict Bridgerton felt inevitable almost; that your heart was destined to be his whether he knew it or not.

Sighing heavily, you see no point in lying to the second eldest Bridgerton girl. “For as long as I can remember,” You admit, rushing to add on, “But he doesn’t know so please don’t tell him!”

Eloise’s eyes widen at your confession, not only shocked that you readily admitted your feelings for her elder brother, but for how long you have harboured them. “Is that why you have not yet married?” She demands, “Because you loved him?”

Biting your lip, you nod. “It wouldn’t be fair to my husband. Their wife in love with another man – it doesn’t exactly set stable foundations for a long, prosperous marriage and…”

“And…” Eloise prompts, her innate curiosity getting the better of her. If her mother could hear her now, she would surely receive a scolding.

You ball your hands into fists before letting them drop to your sides; letting them hang there like the constant hope you have for Benedict.

“And I still hope he’ll notice I’m here. That I have been here all along,” You voice cracks on the admission causing a pang of upset to flash through Eloise. She’d reach out to comfort you, but it would only draw attention from the many mothers circling and no doubt, Lady Whistledown.

“(Y/N)…” Eloise begins but you hold a single hand up to stop her before she starts. With a strained smile, you reassure her. “It’s fine, Eloise. I accept it with every season that passes that it is unlikely he shall ever return my feelings.”

“Then he is a fool,” Eloise states plaining, sending a glare in the direction of her beloved brother. She had no qualms admitting that Benedict was indeed her favourite sibling, but he had his moments where he vexed her beyond belief.

“Who is a fool?” A voice questions to the right of you. Benedict.

Freezing in place, you cast a helpless look at Eloise, begging her silently to take control of this situation. Eloise smiles and nods imperceptibly. She turns towards her brother, hooking her arm through yours as she declares, “The men that have not offered their hand to (Y/N) yet. They’re all fools, aren’t they dear brother.”

Benedict casts his gaze towards you; his eyes scanning your face for what, he does not know. “Fools,” He agrees quietly though he is heard perfectly over the music. “Would you care to dance?” He asks, wanting you to himself for a little while. As much as he loved his younger sister, she was a keen observer, and he wasn’t ready for her to figure out his feelings just yet. Not when he hadn’t admitted them to you.

Nodding your head, you take his outstretched hand, bidding goodbye to Eloise for now. The brunette shakes her head as the both of you walk away. Oblivious, she thinks to herself, completely oblivious.

As the music strikes up once more, it becomes obvious that the next dance is a waltz, requiring the closeness of your partner. It was only years ago that this dance had scandalised the ton for its closeness – now, it was required at every ball, many married couples savouring the intimacy.

Benedict’s hand settles on the small of your back as his other grips your hand. Your hand rests comfortably on his shoulder as he begins to lead you through the steps you have known since your youth.

Music around you fades as do the other couples. The only two people in the room are Benedict and yourself. The feel of his hand on your back and the look in his eyes; it’s enough to have you accept your fate then and there. It’s enough for you to admit that you have been ruined for any and all men; finding yourself in love with the man who holds you so tenderly and has always held you in high regard. Is this it? You ask yourself, is this what it feels like to be loved by him? To feel like the only one in the world. If it is, you’ll take it with open hands.

Your eyes do not leave his as Benedict leads you through the rises and falls of the dance. His hand remains a steady presence on your lower back; the feeling just enough to distract you from the crowd now watching you and instead, leading you to wonder what his hands would feel like elsewhere on your body.

As the music falls into another song; this one more upbeat, Benedict drops his hands, letting you free. He hadn’t wanted to; had wanted to pull you from the ballroom, to confess the feelings that have haunted him for years and to ask you to be his for better or for worse.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he bows and smiles, reaches for your hand to kiss it and then lets himself breathe as he turns and walks away.

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

Dear Reader,

Though there is much to report from Lady Danbury’s ball last night – the fashion, the food, the décor – This Author wants to focus on one moment in particular.

Now, Dear Reader, whilst you may wonder the importance of such a moment, remember that it is one’s job to observe all. That is why I want to bring attention to Mr. Benedict Bridgerton who found himself extremely popular last night, dancing with many eligible women and delighting them with his talents.

However, Dear Reader, this is not the moment I want to focus on.

No. Instead, I want to bring attention to the heart most likely suffering in silence as Mr. Bridgerton continues to charm the ton.

As you all know, I am not one to beat around the proverbial bush and hide identities, but for the sake of the woman who has found herself in love with the second eldest Bridgerton for as long she can remember, I shall endeavour to keep her name a secret.

Know, however, that This Author’s sympathies lie with you.

To love another unrequitedly is a dear shame.

----------

The gossip sheet is scrunched to a ball in your hands. It’s all you can do to keep the tears from falling down your face. As if you didn’t know your love was unrequited; as if you didn’t know you had all but doomed yourself to being a spinster as you wait for a man who did not know you loved him.

Lady Whistledown knew your secret, and your identity. As a result, the whole ton knew your secret but whatever morals the author possesses, she had not revealed your identity.

Summoning the carriage, you ask to be taken to Bridgerton House where you can speak to Eloise in confidence and ask for her advice on what she might do. Deep down, you had to know whether Benedict had read the paper too.

It doesn’t take long for Eloise to find you in the tea room; a cup of tea in your hands but readily ignored as you chew on the inside of your cheek. Her brown hair tied up in her usual bun, her eyes hold the pity you didn’t want to see or hear as of this moment.

“I didn’t know she was listening, I swear,” Eloise promises, sitting by your side and reaching for your hand.

“I know,” You comfort, “You would never tell a soul.”

“At least she didn’t reveal your identity,” Eloise chirps, trying to find a silver lining.

“Yet she has revealed my secret to the entirety of London society,” You sigh. Removing your hand from Eloise’s, you press your palm to your forehead, feeling overwhelmingly tired and desperate for the day to be over already. “Does he know?”

Eloise chews on her bottom lip, deciding whether to answer you. “He has read it,” She admits,  but rushes to add, “He doesn’t know it’s you! He doesn’t have a clue really. He’s angrier at himself for not noticing anything was amiss.”

“I don’t know what to do,” You whisper, feeling helpless.

“For now,” Eloise states, “We do nothing.”

---------

Your heels sink into the soft carpet as you wander down the stairs, pausing only to check you have everything. Your mind remains elsewhere as you check your bag out of habit, the conversation with Eloise, the latest gossip sheet, your feelings for Benedict. They circle around your mind, leaving you dizzy in their wake as you try to make sense of them all, try to find your next step in and amongst the mess.

“(Y/N),” Benedict greets, hurrying down the final few stairs, pleasantly surprised, “What are you doing here? I didn’t know you were visiting.”

“I came to drop in on Eloise. I wanted to thank her for last night; she was an ear when I needed someone to listen.”

“Is it anything I can help with?” He asks, voice taking on a concerned note as he reaches out for you.

You shake your head, squeezing his hand in return. “For now, everything is okay.”

Benedict clears his throat. “I’m glad to hear it, but please come to me next time. I want to help if I can.”

“I will,” You promise, your eyes now scanning over his fine clothes. “Where are you off to?”

“An art exhibition at Somerset House. They’re showing some Holbein’s from the Royal collection.”

“Holbein’s?” You ask, shocked at the name falling from Benedict’s mouth.

He nods, just as excited. It was a rare thing indeed to have Holbein’s on display; they were usually kept in whatever royal residence they found themselves in; hidden away from the public eye. Art was the very foundation of your friendship; having seen so many of his sketches as a young boy and watching them develop into surer lines and confident strokes. Benedict was an exceptionally talented artist – something he would say about yourself. Benedict was the only person to see such work; the watercolours in your sketchpad leaving him breathless as you bring life to the inanimate.

“Would you like to join me?” He asks before he can talk himself out of it. He had barely seen you all season; you had closed in yourself, as if accepting a fate that you did not want. Benedict would do what he could to ensure your happiness for a little bit longer.

“Unchaperoned?”

A faint blush rises on Benedict’s cheeks as he realises what he has asked of you. “I shall ask Eloise to accompany us,” He suggests, turning to face the direction in which you had just come, “Did she mention any plans to you?”

You shake your head to which Benedict leases a sigh of relief. “I’ll go ask her now. I’m sure she won’t mind… much.”

Laughing quietly, you wait patiently in the entryway of Bridgerton House. The house in London so often felt like a second home to you; spending so much of childhood summers here when your mother would take tea with the Bridgerton matriarch. As you grew into your teens, you would begin to visit the house with just your maid, calling on the family for social niceties. The friendship with Benedict and Eloise only solidified your standing in the close family unit.

Eloise’s voice brings you back to the present. She walks down the stairs, accompanied by her brother. Taking one look at you, waiting patiently for the both of them, Eloise gets a mischievous look in her eye. It isn’t a look that leaves you in comfort, but rather leaves you wondering just what she has planned for the art exhibition.  

“Eloise has so graciously accepted to join us,” Benedict announces, sounding rather pleased with himself.

Eloise smiles: a smile that sets Benedict’s nerves on edge. He would owe her for this, that much he knew. “I would be more than happy to accompany you, brother.”

Benedict resists the urge to groan; he’s in deep shit for this.

“Thank you, Eloise,” You murmur with a smile. Something in Eloise softens at your tone as if she would be unable to deny you this time with Benedict when it was their mother’s mission to see him married off this very season.

“Of course,” Eloise allows, glancing between you and Benedict – noting the longing in both sets of eyes. She shakes her head, gesturing to the door and where the carriages waits just beyond it. “Shall we?”

--------

“He wasn’t a handsome monarch, was he?” Eloise murmurs quietly, staring up at the grand portrait of the fearsome king who preferred executing his wives rather than loving them.

The walls of Somerset House have become dedicated to the eyes of the past. Past monarchs and relatives decorate the walls; their eyes following each attendant, as if curious to see how society is progressing less than three hundred years after the death of the artist.

Benedict chuckles; the very sound raising goosebumps across your skin. You barely repress the shiver the sound elicits. Trying your best to listen as the siblings argue about the reign of this particular monarch – the pros and the cons to what he did for the very country he ruled over for decades.

“Oh!” Eloise gasps, interrupting the argument and loosening her grip on your arm, she waves frantically at Penelope Featherington. “Would you mind terribly if I go say hello?”

“Not at all,” You laugh.

“You’re sure you’ll be okay with Benedict?”

The man in question scoffs, rolling his eyes at his little sister. “Off with you,” He dismisses, “I’ll escort (Y/N) – someone who actually appreciates the art.”

Eloise laughs as she turns away, but you do not miss the wink she sends in your direction. It hits you all at once; her mischievous look before you all left the house. She had concocted this plan in her head; accepting to accompany you as a rouse to get you and Benedict alone.

You didn’t know whether to appreciate her genius or hide her favourite book.

Jumping at the sound of someone clearing their throat, you focus your attention on Benedict. He watches you with an amused look, and it’s then that you realise that he has stood beside you waiting with his arm out for a minute or so whilst you glared after his younger sister. Taking his arm, you rid yourself of any thoughts of violence against Eloise. Instead, focusing on the man beside you.

“How are you?” You ask, hand resting gently on Benedict’s forearm.

“Do you mean in general or after today’s publication?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“In general, I am quite well. I have a wonderful lady on my arm, and I am in the presence of excellent art work. However, after today’s publication, I must admit I am rather angry.”

“Oh?” You sound, trying hard not to let his words affect you so much but they rattle around your mind on repeat, committing themselves where they will last for an eternity.

“I’ve never been the focus of the gossip paper and now after one ball, I am. I don’t think I like the attention.”

“I don’t believe that for one second, Benedict Bridgerton.”

He pauses, smiling widely down at you. His eyes light up with the smile and your heart begins to pound at the sight of it. “Alright, I do like the attention,” He concedes, “But what I don’t like are the looks I’m getting from all mothers.”

“Why?”

“They all look like I’m about to break their daughter’s heart.”

“I’m sure you’re just imagining things,” You reassure, tightening your grip on his arm.

“I don’t think I am,” He states, nodding politely at Lady Whitelaw who in turn glares at the younger man. He turns his gaze to you as if to say, see?

You turn your face away from him, trying your best to hide the smile and laugh that threatens to break free. “You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?” Benedict guesses, a smile in his own voice.

“I’m not,” You promise, schooling your face into a mask of indifference, focusing on the closest sketch to you. A graphite sketch of Anne Boleyn; marking her beauty only years before her death.

“You are,” Benedict argues, standing beside you, admiring the same sketch. Throwing him a knowing smile, you turn your attentions to rest of the exhibition, unable to hide your awe at just what is being shown to the public.

The art is incredible; your watercolours barely compare to what is being shown in Somerset House. He would disagree in a heartbeat, but Benedict could come close to producing something of this calibre. He had shown his portraits of his mother and brothers; Anthony making the perfect candidate for a painting.

You come to a natural stop in front of a portrait of a young women. A young queen, in fact. This particular queen had never got to reign in the manner that she was capable, dying after giving birth the king’s heir. His one true love, the king had called her after he death.

“She’s beautiful,” You whisper, admiring not only the artistry but also the focus on the painting.

Benedict watches you admiring the portrait painted so carefully by Holbein. Though the portrait is indeed beautiful, Benedict finds himself agreeing that they do not hold a candle to you. As he watches you lift a single hand, trying to dampen the urge to run your fingers over the brush strokes, he thinks to himself that there would be no artist on this earth that would be so talented to capture your beauty.

His breath comes faster; his heart rate increases. He recognises the symptoms; he’s only experienced such signs before. He had been eighteen then; barely a man but man enough to accept that he had fallen in love with his best friend. Years later, here he was, experiencing such feelings once more. Once more, he wonders what it would be like to be loved by you. He cannot help but hope that the mystery woman in the society papers is you.

-------

Dear Reader,

It seems that Mr. Benedict Bridgerton reads my paper!

He was overheard at the Somerset House Holbein exhibition, complaining to Miss (Y/N) (Y/L/N) about my last column in which I criticised his treatment of the lady in love with him.

All I have to say on the matter is this:

Mr. Bridgerton, for every complaint you offer, you break her heart further. Stop now before you do irreparable damage.

-----

“What does she mean ‘break her heart further’? I’ve been trying to figure out who it is so I can put a stop to it!”

“It doesn’t matter whether you know who it is, Benedict,” You argue, placing your teacup on the table, “But rather the fact that you unknowingly hurt whoever it is that is in love with you.”

“Do my feelings not matter?” He demands, throwing the damned paper onto the table. Benedict runs a hand through his hair, sighing in frustration. “I’m sorry,” He apologises, “I should not have taken that tone with you. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“You’re forgiven,” You laugh, “I’ve heard you say a lot worse.”

He smiles though it doesn’t reach his eyes. Leaning forward on your chair, you wring your hands together, working up the nerve. “What feelings haven’t they taken into account?”

“Lady Whistledown,” He spits the name with derision, “Hasn’t taken into account that I may not have noticed someone in love with me because I am in love with someone myself.”

It’s as if the chair is pulled out from under you; your stomach dips and flips as the world crashes around you and Benedict is none the wiser. He’s none the wiser to the palpable shift that has taken place. Instead, he’s sat down across from, looking utterly defeated.

“Does she know?” You ask after a moment of silence, using the time to pull yourself back together, to compile it all and put it away for later.

Benedict shakes his head; eyes sad as he watches you. “Why haven’t you told her?” You ask, unable to stop the questions now they’re on the tip of your tongue.

“I suppose for the same reason she hasn’t told me. Fear maybe?”

“Fear of what? I’ve never known you to be afraid of anything.”

“Fear of rejection. Fear of humiliation. Fear of ruining a friendship,” He lists off, counting the reasons on his fingers, holding them up for you to see.

“Have you thought about telling her?”

“All the time,” He answers honestly, and you wonder whether the crack your heart makes was audible to the whole of the ton.

“Do you plan on telling them?”

“Eventually.”

You take a deep breath, staring at the teacup instead of him, readying yourself to offer up your broken heart. To confess that the two most recent society papers have been about you; have shown your heart to the whole of London.

“It’s me,” You confess quietly, voice no louder than a whisper but he hears you all the same.

Benedict’s head whips towards you. Had this been another situation, it would have been funny, but the look on his face… “What?” He whispers, shocked.

“It’s me,” You announce; louder this time, ready to lay your heart out on the floor for him to break entirely. “It’s me, Benedict. Lady Whistledown must have overheard Eloise and myself talking at Lady Danbury’s ball the other night. She had caught me watching you dance and asked me outright. I couldn’t deny it. I’ve been in love with you for years, Benedict. For as long as I can remember.”

“For as long as you can remember?”

You nod, wringing your hands together once more. “I didn’t realise until I turned twenty, just what my feelings meant. I think I’ve always been in love with you, Benedict.”

Benedict remains silent; eyes wide, hands slack as they rest on his thighs. He looks like he doesn't believe the very words leaving your mouth; as if he is unworthy of the love you offer him so willingly. 

“Say something, please,” You plead, “I know it isn’t proper for the woman to announce her feelings for the man, but I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. Not when it is the focus for Lady Whistledown to sell more copies of her paper.”

“I didn’t know,” He whispers after a prolonged silence.

“You weren’t to know. You don’t have to feel the same, Benedict.”

“I do as it happens.”

“What?”

“I do feel the same,” Benedict clarifies, standing from his chair, “I’ve loved you since I was eighteen.”

You sniffle slightly; emotional from hearing the words you have longed to hear for years. The words that have haunted your dreams; had you rushing from sleep, so you didn’t let yourself believe an alternate reality.

“You do?”

Benedict nods, “I do. I love you very much.”

“I love you too,” You reply, standing from your chair, reaching for him – not wanting anymore space between the two of you.

He dips his head, pausing mere millimetres away from your lips. The question burns in his eyes; desperate to know whether he can kiss you after so long waiting. Your nod is barely imperceptible but it’s nod, nonetheless.

Slowly, almost wanting to savour every moment, Benedict presses his lips to yours. Reaching up, you haul him closer, wanting to feel every inch of him pressed against you after having waited so long, after having dreamed of this moment for too long.

He tastes like tea and his hands bring to life the butterflies in your stomach as they wander the path of your back, settling on your lower back, dipping you slightly. Benedict groans softly at the feel of you lined up against him. If he had known heaven was this close, he would not have waited this long.

Benedict breaks the kiss; not out of need of air, but to stop himself from taking this too far when you feel like heaven pressed against him. You smile widely, kissing his jaw lovingly before starting to laugh lightly. Benedict’s hands on your waist tighten possessively as he joins you in laughter.

Briefly, he wonders whether this is what it feels like to be loved by you.

********

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