Imagining at Elpba arc where Luffy (plus reader) is learning of Nika, and you know how there’s a lot of versions in mythology. Well one where Nika had a lover (i’m calling them Europa as a place holder), incident happen with another being or god that resulted in spitting Europa in half, and losing her heart. Nika tries anything he can to replace the heart, from using a cloud to using a part of himself, but it’s only temporary. This makes him upset that he can’t do anything to help them. So another godly being decides to take pity on them, transforming them into the sun and moon, only being able to see eachother once a year, creating the eclipse.
Once A Year
Song: Needed Me - Rihanna
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
The air in Elbaf carries the weight of centuries. It tastes like pine needles, frozen brine, and the kind of ancient, bone-deep magic that makes the skin on your arms prickle.
You are sitting at the base of the Great Yggdrasil, the colossal tree that serves as the heart of the giants’ land, your hand tucked securely into Luffy’s.
Luffy is uncharacteristically quiet. He’s been staring at the shifting murals carved into the bark for hours—stories of the Sun God, Nika, told in broad, sweeping strokes of history that predate the World Government’s erasure.
"It’s weird, isn’t it?" he murmurs, his thumb tracing the back of your hand. "The stories. They make him sound like he’s supposed to be everything. But even he couldn't save her."
You follow his gaze to a panel that is worn smooth by time. It depicts a figure—Nika—cradling a woman whose body seems to be dissolving into stardust. Her name, according to the local lore you’ve been reading, was Europa.
"The myth says he tried everything," you whisper, feeling the cold wind of Elbaf tug at your hair. "The clouds, the stars, even his own essence. He wanted to make her whole again."
Luffy sighs, a sound that feels too heavy for his chest. He pulls you closer, his warmth—that constant, solar heat that radiates from him—seeping into your bones.
"He was a god who could change the shape of the world, but he couldn't fix the one thing that actually mattered. That’s gotta be the loneliest feeling in the universe."
As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long, bruised shadows across the forest floor, the stories of the giants begin to blur with your own reality.
You feel a strange, rhythmic thrumming in the ground, as if the tree itself is breathing.
In the mythology of this place, Europa wasn't just a lover; she was the anchor to Nika’s chaotic, liberating spirit. When a jealous deity—a shadow that sought to dim the light of the world—split her in two, the legend says Nika’s laughter died for the first time.
He tried to replace her heart with a piece of a lightning-struck cloud, but it drifted away, formless. He tried to give her a piece of his own burning light, but she was too fragile to contain the intensity of a god.
"He felt like he was failing her," you muse, leaning your head against Luffy’s shoulder. "Every moment he spent with her after that was just a countdown. He knew she was fading."
Luffy turns his head, his dark eyes searching yours. There’s a raw vulnerability there—the kind he rarely shows anyone but you. "If I were him," he says, his voice barely a rasp, "I would have burned the whole world down to keep her heart beating."
"You wouldn't have had to," you tell him softly. "Because you wouldn't have let them take her in the first place."
He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He is thinking about the fragility of things. He is thinking about how, even with all the power in the world, there are voids you cannot fill.
The legends continue. Distraught by Nika’s grief, and perhaps weary of the shadow-god’s cruelty, a primordial existence—something older than the sun itself—intervened.
The story goes that they couldn't undo the damage, but they could preserve the connection. They took the two broken pieces of Europa and the essence of the grieving God and cast them into the sky.
One became the Sun. The other became the Moon.
"They were cursed to chase each other forever," Luffy says, recounting the final stanza of the epic. "Always in the same sky, but never truly holding one another. Until the eclipse."
"Once a year," you recite, the words feeling like a prayer. "The moment where the moon covers the sun. The only time they are allowed to be one again. A brief, fleeting union before the cycle forces them apart."
Luffy stands up, pulling you to your feet. The transition is seamless, his movements fluid and purposeful.
He leads you toward a clearing where the canopy opens up to reveal the vast, star-strewn expanse of the Elbaf sky.
"I don't like that ending," Luffy declares, his brow furrowing. "It’s a tragedy. Why would the god let them do that? Why not just stay together?"
"Maybe because the distance is what keeps the world turning," you suggest, though it feels like a hollow comfort.
Luffy shakes his head, his grip on your hand tightening. "No. That’s just stories people tell to make themselves feel better about being apart. If we were stars, I’d stop the orbit. I’d freeze the sky in place."
As you stand in the clearing, the world begins to change. The temperature plummets, the birds go silent, and the shadows grow impossibly long. It is the night of the Elbaf Eclipse—the night the legends come to life.
There is an eerie, cosmic alignment occurring above. The moon begins its slow crawl over the edge of the sun.
You watch as the light dims, the world bathed in an unnatural, silvery violet glow. It is beautiful and terrifying, a celestial reenactment of a heartbreak that transcends time.
"Do you feel it?" Luffy asks.
You do. You feel a strange sense of longing that isn't yours—a desperate, aching desire for touch that feels like it’s being pulled out of the ether.
You look at Luffy, and for a split second, his silhouette seems to shimmer. The golden aura that usually dances around him flares, mimicking the corona of the sun eclipsed by the moon.
You realize then that this isn't just a story for Luffy. He is identifying with the ache. He understands the struggle of holding onto something that is constantly being pulled away by the gravity of existence.
"Luffy," you say, your voice barely audible over the sudden, rushing wind.
He turns to you, and his expression is unreadable. The light of the eclipse hits his face, turning his skin into polished bronze. He looks like a deity carved from the very history you were reading about. He reaches out, his hand cupping your cheek, his touch scorching and gentle all at once.
"I won't let us be like them," he vows. The bravado is gone, replaced by a terrifying, absolute certainty. "I don't care about the sky or the cycles or the gods who think they can dictate how long we get. If the world tries to split us, I’ll fold the world itself."
The sky reaches the moment of totality. The sun is completely obscured by the moon, a black iris rimmed with fire.
The world stands still. It feels as though the universe is holding its breath, waiting to see if the ancient lovers will finally break the rules.
In that silence, you lean into Luffy. You aren't thinking about the mythology anymore. You are thinking about the warmth of his chest, the sound of his heart—a steady, rhythmic drum that tells you he is here, he is whole, and he is yours.
He kisses you, and it isn't the kiss of a boy who is just learning about love; it’s the kiss of someone who has defied gravity. It is possessive and desperate, a claim staked against the cosmos.
For a moment, the ache of the legend fades. The tragedy of Europa and Nika feels like a distant, irrelevant ghost. You aren't chasing each other through an orbit. You aren't waiting for a yearly alignment.
You are grounded, here, in the present, under the shadow of the great tree.
When the light finally begins to break again, the sun creeping out from behind the moon, the world rushes back in—the sound of the wind, the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a giant.
Luffy pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours. He’s breathless, his eyes wide and bright, reflecting the returning light.
"See?" he whispers. "The sun comes back. The moon stays. They don't leave."
"They have to," you remind him gently, though you feel the tears pricking your eyes. "It’s their path."
Luffy shakes his head, a stubborn, crooked grin spreading across his face. "Not for us. We write our own path. Let the gods have their eclipses. I’d rather have the sunrise with you every day."
You walk back toward the village as the sky returns to its normal color. The weight of the Elbaf legends feels lighter now, the tragedy stripped of its power.
You look at Luffy, watching the way he strides forward, completely unafraid of the vastness of the sea or the cruelty of fate.
He grabs your hand again, interlacing his fingers with yours. His grip is firm, undeniable. He isn't a cloud, and he isn't a fading myth. He is solid. He is the person who would fight the gods to keep his heart beating, and you are the reason he would do it.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks, casting a glance at you.
"Just that I’m glad we aren't stars," you say.
Luffy laughs—a loud, boisterous sound that echoes through the trees, chasing away the last of the silence. "Yeah. Being a star sounds boring. Way too much distance. I like it better this way."
He pulls you closer, tucking you into his side as you walk.
"Besides," he adds, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "if we ever do become stars, I’ll just make sure we’re binary ones. The kind that spin around each other so fast they turn into one giant, burning ball of light. No room for anyone else to get in between."
You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. It’s a ridiculous, Luffy-esque solution to a cosmic problem, but as you look up at the expansive, uncaring sky, you realize you wouldn’t have it any other way.
"I'd like that," you say.
"Good," he replies, and he squeezes your hand, anchoring you to the earth, to the moment, and to him.
The story of Nika and Europa will continue to be told in the halls of Elbaf, a cautionary tale of love and loss for generations to come.
But as you walk into the night, hand in hand, you know that your story is not written in the stars. It is written in the dirt of the path you tread, in the calloused skin of your hands, and in the promise that no matter what the world demands, you will choose to remain exactly where you are: together.
The night air is cold, but you are wrapped in a warmth that refuses to dim. And as the stars begin to peer through the canopy, they look less like distant, lonely entities and more like witnesses—not to a tragedy, but to the small, quiet victory of a boy who refused to let his love become just another myth.
You aren't a sun or a moon. You are two people, finding your way home, and for now, that is more than enough to silence the gods. . . .
Description: Clark always wants to be so polite. His girl wants to climb him like a tree. I think he knows.
Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!Reader
Warnings: SMUT (masturbation, oral [m and f receiving], p in v, dirty talk, praise kink, scent kink, size kink, clark is a horny mf’r for his girl pretty much)
Word Count: 4.1k
A/N: so much for this being a drabble. technically part of a series, but can be read as a stand alone fic
read part 1 here | part 2 right here
Weeks had passed since that first date.
Weeks of feeling like you would positively explode if a gentle breeze blew the wrong way on your skin after being near Clark.
You’d been on a couple more dates, now, ending in those soft, polite kisses. You wanted to rip his clothes off, but he seemed so shy and gentlemanly. It hardly seemed fair to jump him out of nowhere.
Clark, however, was feeling even more impatient than you. Every time he was close, he could smell you. He’d become accustomed to what you smelled like in different moods, and it seemed you really liked it any time he let his eyes linger on you. Or when he kissed you. Or held your hand, or hugged you, or… like, most of the time he was near you in general.
It was making him crazy.
He smiled at you across the table in another meeting at the Daily Planet, noting how you shifted a little bit after catching his eye. He felt his heart flutter every time he saw you react to him in any way. As much as he wanted to be inside of you, he wasn’t some pervert. He actually liked you. A lot. He just also felt hot under the collar any time he thought of you.
It was worse when you got a new perfume. Not that he didn’t like what you wore before, but now? The scent with the natural smell of your skin mixed together was intoxicating. It was also embarrassing. Nearly every time he could smell the trail of scent you’d leave behind you, he was fighting tooth and nail not to get hard; and often failed.
At the end of your third date, he’d kissed you a little harder than he normally would. It made you weak in the knees, and even more needy than you usually were with him. His big hands dipping a little lower on your waist than usual, and the most gentle brush of his tongue against yours. You wanted more, but true to Clark fashion, he just had to be so coy and sweet.
You almost groaned in frustration when he pulled away, his cheeks a little pink as he flashed you a smile.
“Goodnight,” Clark murmured softly. “I… I really like this. Being with you.”
Fuck. You knew it’d be a long night the second you were alone. You swallowed and nodded.
“Yeah. I do too.”
He grinned again, kissing your cheek. “Okay. See you at work?”
“Yeah. See you then.”
He watched you walk inside, letting his eyes trail down your body when he was sure you wouldn’t notice. He couldn’t handle it. Being around you all night, watching you laugh at all his stupid jokes, smelling that gorgeous smell that was all you and the sweet perfume you wore… he needed relief. Badly.
Clark found himself at home within seconds, stumbling into his room in a love-drunk stupor. He ripped at the buttons of his shirt, breathing shaky and excited. He pushed the shirt off, tugging off his undershirt as well. He shoved his pants down in one go, dropping down onto his bed with a hand wrapping around his leaky cock. He let himself picture you.
“Please,” he whispered to nobody but himself, hips starting to jut up to meet his hand.
He couldn’t help but think of how it’d feel if it was your hand touching him like this. How big he’d look beneath your fingers. If you’d use your mouth, your pretty lips struggling to fit him in comfortably. If you’d swallow around him as you tried not to gag, his cock touching the back of your throat. He stroked himself faster, throbbing and pulsing with the need to cum. He wondered if he’d be able to smell you soaking yourself as he came down your throat, and how long it would take for him to make you come on his tongue as a thanks. How you’d move against him, if you’d stay still and let him work or if you’d be so desperate that you wouldn’t be able to help but to grind against his face. He’d be overjoyed with either option.
He reached his other hand down, wrapping both firmly around himself, thrusting up into his fists, pretending it could be you. But he knew it wasn’t the same. He knew you’d be so soft and warm. Tight and cozy and wet around his length as he bounced you on his lap until you were cockdrunk and a little bit dumb. He liked the idea of being the only person who could make it so that you’d turn off your overactive brain for a little while.
He pushed himself into his hands, imagining every possible scenario, certain he could smell you even now. He breathed heavy, murmuring little pleas and whines of your name before he was tensing, hips still jerking as he spilled over his knuckles. It was a full minute of cumming to the thought of his pretty girl. His girlfriend? Maybe he should properly ask, he thought. He wanted you as his.
He glanced down, his own release drenching his hands and thighs. He took a deep breath. Time for a shower.
You saw him at work the next day, his face a little blushy every time he glanced at you. It was sweet, but a little… unusual?
He was generally shy and it wasn’t unheard of for him to get a little red-faced every now and then. But all day? Geez.
“Hey,” you said softly, walking up to him at his desk that afternoon. He looked up with wide eyes beneath his glasses. “I’m finished for the day. You want to go get dinner or something?”
“Oh! I, uh… after work is no good. But maybe later? Dessert? I can bring it to your place?” He offered, glossing over the fact that he was going to be busy with the Justice Gang. He hadn’t exactly let the Superman secret slip yet. “If that’s okay.”
“You want to come over?”
He blinked. “Oh… I, uh—”
“I’d like that,” you offer, smiling at his flustered expression. “I’ll text you my address.”
“Oh. Okay,” he breathed out, his smile bright. “Great. Maybe like… eight? Is that okay?”
“That’s perfect.”
“Great.”
You smiled at him again, then left. You went home, body buzzing in anticipation. It’s not like you planned on attacking him or anything. Just… suggesting more. Also, you figured you should probably let him know that you’d one hundred percent seen him use his super-speed out of the corner of your eye a couple weeks ago. So much for that ‘secret’ of his.
You made yourself a light dinner, then took a long, hot shower. You dressed down, a thin tank top and soft pair of cotton shorts. Nothing overtly sexy, but not covering much. You figured that the hint of a nipple through fabric would probably do the job for someone as polite as Clark. It turned out to be true, judging by the way he tried to not let you notice he was staring at your chest the second you opened your front door for him.
“Hey,” you greeted with a grin.
“H-hiya. Hi.” He swallowed, trying to make sure he kept his eyes on your face. Nowhere else. But gosh, a tank top and shorts never looked so provocative before. He lifted up the small cheesecake in his hand. “Brought dessert. I remember you liked the strawberry cheesecake from the office Christmas party last year.”
You smiled softly. “That’s sweet. Thank you. Come on in.”
He ducked his head, clearly happy that he’d done good. He stepped inside of your apartment, looking around curiously. He toed off his shoes as you took the cake and brought it to the kitchen. He trailed after you, eyes darting between your home and your ass. He was feeling a little hot.
“You have a, uh… a nice place. I like it. Smells good in here.”
“Thanks. I try to keep it clean.”
He hummed once, leaning against the counter as you popped the lid off the cake.
“Not just that,” he said softly, watching your hands as you started cutting into it. “It just smells like— you. Your perfume I guess. Your skin.”
“You know what my skin smells like?” You laugh.
He flushed. “Oh. Gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound so creepy. You just… you just smell good. You smell like you. It’s nice.”
“It’s not creepy. It’s sweet.”
“Oh.”
“I like you, Clark. Quit worrying so much,” you mention, glancing at him as you lick a bit of the strawberry syrup off your thumb.
His eyes followed the movement, his tongue running over his lip once. “I like you too. A lot.”
You just grin softly. You plate up the cheesecake, handing him both slices.
“Go sit in the living room. I’m gonna grab some wine.”
He faltered for a second. “I don’t really drink much.”
“I know. It’s only one glass, I know you do that sometimes. I don’t intend on taking advantage of you, you know?”
“R-right. Okay.”
You watched as he walked away. God, he has a cute butt.
Two slices of cheesecake and three glasses of wine later, two for you and one for him, you were definitely getting a little cozier. He pretended not to notice how you leaned into his side; you pretended not to notice his hand on your knee.
“Cat totally thought you and Big Blue were hooking up, by the way.”
Clark blinked, looking away from the movie you’d put on. “Pardon?”
“Since you’re always up his ass. She asked me after me and you started dating if you were getting some super-dick on the side,” you mention with a short laugh.
“Super-d—? That’s inappropriate.”
“And hilarious.”
“Oh, please.”
You chuckle, smiling up at him. Despite his verbal protest, his cute little dimples were still poking into his cheeks. He just looked at you, his eyes wide and sparkling.
“I really do, ya know… like you.”
“You said that,” you reply softly.
“I know. I mean it.”
You just look at him, heart fluttering and body thrumming as he leaned in, his lips on yours. It started off soft. Just a few soft, lingering kisses. You snuck a hand into his dark hair, not tugging but definitely gripping. Judging by the shaky breath that left him, you assumed he liked that. Your assumption was proven correct as he deepened the kiss, one strong arm snaking around your waist to pull you into his chest. You took that as your cue, swinging a leg over his hips, settling on his lap and right over the bulge in his pants.
He gasped your name against your lips. “Geez.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded, hands running over your hips and waist. “Yeah.”
Clark felt like he could explode, metaphorically and physically, when you started kissing him again. You were aroused. He knew it well. It invaded his senses and made him dizzy, pulling your hips over his before he could think twice about it. He groaned in the back of his throat when he felt the friction against the extremely obvious erection straining to get out. He nearly passed out when you made an equally needy sound.
“I like you,” he breathed out, voice wrecked already.
“I know, Clark.”
“A lot.”
You smiled, rolling your hips again with his instruction. “I know. I can feel how much you like me, you know?”
He whimpered. Full-on, whiny little whimper. He was smart, he knew he was. And strong. He could pull a building off its foundation. But now? With you on top of him, rubbing yourself on him like this? He felt weak and brainless. Every single blood cell that should be in his brain went straight to his cock. The only reason he didn’t feel embarrassed is the fact that he knew you felt the same way, your pretty face glossed over with want. He mumbled your name once, looking up at you with big, wet eyes.
“You done playing gentleman?” you asked teasingly, brow raised.
He pouted. “I am a gentleman.”
“I know, baby. But I am a woman who wants my boyfriend to touch me for once.”
He groaned. Boyfriend. Yay! “Golly.”
You laughed, for a moment. But it was cut awfully short when his hands snaked under your top, cupping your bare breasts. You let out a soft noise, letting him grope you as he kissed down your neck.
“Clark.”
“Mm…”
Clark was in heaven. Clothing strewn all over the floor and furniture, leaving a breadcrumb trail all the way to your bed. He laid between your legs in only his underwear, staring at you bare and spread out for him as he kissed up your legs.
“Y’so pretty,” he mumbled against your thigh, looking up at you with stars in his eyes through his frames. “Smell so good.”
“Clark, please.”
He smiled, licking his lip as he dragged a finger through your folds, watching the slick gather on his fingertip. He spread you open with two fingers, taking in a deep breath. He leaned in, kissing just over your clit, tongue flicking out to taste you.
“Taste even better.”
“Fuck,” you whined, watching him with hooded eyes.
“Mhm. Thank you,” he muttered, diving in again.
Your hands tangled in his hair, gripping tight as his mouth moved over you. He smiled against you, giddy to finally be tasting you. He’d thought about it so many times, if you’d taste as sweet as you smelled. His hips ground against the bed on their own volition, wanting to find any kind of relief from how he was throbbing in response to finally being able to touch you. He’d been so good, so patient, so slow… and it was finally paying off in a big way. He moaned into your pussy, tongue delving into you, practically fucking you on his mouth. His hands wrapped around your legs, keeping you wide open for him.
Your hips moved against him as much as they could, trying hard to get that extra friction. He ate you out like he was starving for it. You wondered if he’d thought about it as long as you did.
He looked utterly ruined, his cheeks flushed and hair a mess. His glasses were fogged. You reached for them, trying to pull them off, but he quickly grabbed your wrist.
“No,” he shook his head, lips brushing against you.
“Why? Wanna see you.”
“I— I need them.”
“You said you were nearsighted.”
He looked up, trying to see you through the fogged lenses. “W-well, yeah, I just…”
“Please?”
“I really can’t.”
You huffed, horny and needy and wanting to see him.
“Clark.”
“Baby, please. You don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand about glasses?”
“They…” He paused. How could he say it without saying it? He needed them because he was secretly a space alien who wore his underwear on the outside to fight crime and rescue puppies? Not exactly a sentence that rolls off the tongue. “It’s… they’re a part of me.”
“They’re not surgically attached.”
“No, but they’re, uh…” he glanced down, your pussy still wet and needy in front of his face. He had half a mind to tell you he was Superman just so he could get back to business.
“Quit it.” You pulled the glasses off before he could notice.
He jolted, shocked and nervous and feeling suddenly like he was in deep. Shoot. He stuttered out your name, his heart pounding out of his chest. You’d seen him. His cover was blown. You’d probably freak out and not want to see him again and not let him make you cum and he’d go home with blue balls and a broken heart.
“I’m… I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you, I know. I just didn’t know how to say it, and we hadn’t talked about if we were like actually a thing until you called me your boyfriend today, and… and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Clark.”
“W-what?”
“I knew you were Superman. Now in the nicest way I can say it, shut the fuck up and get your face back down there before I finish myself off instead.”
He blinked in shock, almost ready to protest before you pushed his head back between your legs. He couldn’t argue with that. He moved faster, wanting even more badly to make you feel good. You knew. You knew who he was and it didn’t matter. He could cum right then and there if he wanted to.
You gasped, back arching high as he gained a new fervor he hadn’t had before. Maybe it was the fact that he didn’t feel like he had to hold back all the way now. Whatever it was, you didn’t really care. What you cared about was the way he humped the bed and whined against your skin as you came on his tongue.
You were in a haze, the orgasm knocking your feet out from under you. Clark watched you as you came down, chest heaving. Pretty tits and a pretty face and the cutest pussy, his pretty girl. He sighed dreamily, eyes flitting all over you as he pushed his underwear down his thighs.
You blinked your eyes open, mouth watering at the sight of a fully naked Clark Kent and his monster cock. Cat totally owed you twenty dollars, you knew he’d be massive.
“C’mere,” you mumbled, reaching for his hips, trying to draw yourself up to him.
“What?”
“Want it in my mouth. Please.”
“Baby…”
You leaned closer, hand wrapped around him. “Just for a little. Just let me.”
He let out a soft, shaking breath as you touched him. He memorized the way his cock looked in your hand. He knew he was big, but he looked almost scary in your grip. It was insanely hot. His mouth watered as you licked your lips, trying to prepare yourself to take him. He gasped, hand touching your hair softly as you leaned up to brush his tip against your lips. He shifted a little closer on his knees, trying to make it so that you were a little more comfortable.
“So sweet,” he said softly, barely above a whisper. “Sweet girl.”
You smiled up at him, no more of those adorably dorky glasses covering his gorgeous eyes. His lips stayed parted, clearly paying attention to every tiny move you made as you played with him. You let your tongue loll out of your mouth, dragging it against the blunt head of his dick. He moaned outright, hand resting in your hair now, hips jerking as you took him into your mouth.
Your eyes fluttered as you took more of him in, your mouth opening wider to try and accommodate his size. He felt hot and heavy on your tongue, the salty taste of his precum nearly making your eyes roll back into your head. You bobbed your head slowly, taking as much of him as you could. He whined and moaned and made sounds you never expected to hear from him. If only the world knew that Superman was so desperate when he got his cock played with.
He suddenly pulled you off, chest heaving.
“Wait. W-wait. Sorry, honey, I just… I don’t want to cum in your mouth the first time.”
“Hm?”
“Wanna be in you.”
You swallowed, eyes still trained on his length as it jumped in excitement. “Okay. Yeah.”
“Do you have, uh… I didn’t bring any…”
“You want to wear a condom?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. “You should always practice safe sex.”
“That the slogan on one of your educational billboards?”
He frowned. You laughed.
“Just want to be responsible.”
You nodded. “Okay. But, for the record, I’m on a contraceptive.”
You almost laughed at the way he clearly struggled with that though. He knew wearing a condom was still the safe option. He also knew that he wanted nothing more than to finish inside of you.
You giggled as he made his decision, pushing you back on the bed and kissing you deeply. He pushed your thighs to your chest and settled on his knees, brushing his thick tip against your pussy, still puffy and needy from the way he’d made you cum with his mouth. He let out a slow breath, rubbing your clit with it a few times before he pressed at your entrance.
“I know it’s… it’s big. Just tell me if it hurts, okay?”
You nodded, watching as his face tightened in pleasure and anticipation. You forced yourself to relax, letting him press into you slowly. You moaned pathetically as he pushed harder, the first few inches hurting as much as they changed your life.
“Y’okay, baby?” He grunted out, slowly starting to rock his hips in that shallow depth.
“Y-yeah. Yes.”
“Good. You’re taking it so good, baby. Look at you.”
You whined, not expecting the praise. You fluttered around his length involuntarily, drawing another sound from him. He pushed in further and further with each slow, careful thrust.
“That’s my girl. So good for me. So pretty.”
He dropped down on top of you, wrapping your legs around his hips with strong hands, pulling you up onto his lap. You gasped, the new angle letting him fill you to the brim. He thrust into you quicker now, arms pushing you off and on as he moved his hips.
“Pretty baby. Perfect for me, fitting all of me in you. Y’feel this?” He grabbed your hand, pressing it to your lower belly to feel the bump of him hitting you deep with every rock of his hips. “Take me so well. Gorgeous girl. You’re doing such a good job.”
“Baby… baby, please. Clark.”
He smiled. Cocky son of a bitch. “I know, honey. You like it, huh?”
You nodded quickly, brain and body turned to jelly as he rammed into you like you were his personal fuck toy. He breathed heavy, a million little sounds leaving him between all of his praises. His face was buried in your neck, moving faster now. You held onto him as tightly as you could, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand tangled in his hair.
He groaned, trying hard not to cum with every move of your body against his. He’d never felt such a perfect fit, it was like you were two puzzle pieces finally clicking. He shuddered against your skin, kissing down your neck and chest until he found one warm, stiff nipple to pull into his mouth. He sucked, alternating between a steady suction and his tongue swirling and flicking over it.
“M’gonna cum,” you gasped out, feeling deliciously overwhelmed.
“Good. Attagirl. You can finish, baby. You can cum,” his voice rumbled against your skin, switching to the other nipple. “Cum for me. You can do it.”
You whined and whimpered, letting him pump into you a few more times before you cried out his name, legs shaking hard. He moaned in time with you, trying like hell to keep moving in order to let you ride it out.
If he thought you smelled good before, the scent of you like this could rouse him from a coma. He could only move for a few more seconds before he was buried himself deep, grinding more than thrusting as he gasped your name, mouth still open against your tit. You felt him fill you, cock twitching and throbbing inside of you.
“Shoot,” he whispered, kissing up your chest until he settled his face against your neck. “Baby. Thank you. Thank you.”
“God damn.”
“Never felt anything like you.”
You smiled drowsily. “Says you.”
He laughed, rubbing your back slowly, fingers tracing the skin. “I’ve been thinking about that a long time.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“I get half hard any time I smell you.”
“What’s up with you and smells?” you asked softly, leaning back to look at him with sleepy eyes.
“Super senses.”
“Ah.”
“Super smell. I pick up a lot of stuff, and you… you smell extra good when you’re— when you’re wet?”
“That is so gross.”
“Can’t help it. You’re delicious,” he said with his lips against your neck again, voice rumbling in his chest. “Can’t believe you knew this whole time.”
“Not hard to guess, Clark. At least not when I both date you and work with you.”
“Mm… shoulda told me you knew.” He kissed your neck, then your jaw, then cheek, and finally lips. He smiled against your lips. “Dropping that and then pushing me between your legs wasn’t fair.”
You smiled back. “Yeah, well. Also wasn’t fair to hide it. We’re both at fault.”
“Maybe.”
You kissed him again, just once. “So… Superman. Super cock. Super eater. You got super stamina, too?”
summary: Christmastime brings a dreaded holiday workplace job of a Secret Santa. When you get the not-so-popular recluse chemist Calvin Evans as your Secret Santa, you set out on a mission to find the right gift for him. Things totally do not get complicated.
AO3 LINK
contains: fluff, minor swearing, idiots falling in love, Calvin being autistic (he just like me), general Christmas silliness. If I've forgotten anything, please tell me!
word count: 8.6k
A/N: wow I'm really sliding into home base at the last second haha... this is for the event a very lewmagoo holiday! Everyone send some incredible love to all those who have done submissions, and to Leah, who put the event together.
Happy New Year's everyone!! Hope you enjoy <3
dividers by @/chateaubarnes
Every year, one of your greatest nightmares stretched into the holidays, filling in the space, blotting out the gaps, consuming your every waking moment.
This great nightmare was a very simple, plain thing; workplaces loved doing dumb things for the holidays. Notoriously, this came in the form of Secret Santas.
You had never ever ever understood the appeal. Workplaces seemed to love the idea of forcing people who already saw one another every day to make torturous small talk, when they could be doing anything else to prepare for the already busy holiday season. It wasn't productive for anyone, really, but your workplace, Hastings Research Institute, seemed eager about this holiday season. You supposed you would have to grit your teeth and go along for the ride.
The initiation to this time of frustration came on a clear December 4th. Everyone was gathered in the cafeteria, where people sat in their normal places for lunch. You normally clustered on the end of a table where similar secretaries and lab assistant sat, one elbow hanging off, so you sat there, blending into the crowd as you normally did and excited chatter flowed in one ear and out the other. After everyone was seated, a sharp tap to the microphone up front drew everyone's attention to the front of the room.
"Hello, everybody. Good afternoon." The man up front gave a short, small smile at everyone. "I'm sure some of us aren't very eager to be wrenched away from our important work, but this holiday season is an important time. It's a time where we can all remember what a team we are here at Hastings, and how we work best when we work together."
You knew of at least three people at your table who secretly hated and bad mouthed each other, in secret, frequently. If this place was a team, you were as good as the worst sports team out there.
"This year, as I'm sure you're all aware, we'll be doing our annual Secret Santa!" The man raised up a large bowl. "We've gathered everybody's names into this bowl. The rules are simple, as always—draw a name, keep it to yourself, and get a secret gift for that person. On our holiday party before Christmas, everyone will get their gifts from their Secret Santa!"
Ah, yes, so simple. How convenient that he did not mention how difficult it was if you got someone you didn't know at all. You were already mentally preparing yourself for some smelly soap to go straight into your garbage bin at home.
People formed a line, called table by table to retrieve little slips of paper. Everyone in Hastings seemed determinedly set to their task, which surprised you. It was your first Christmas there, and despite getting to know people here and there, you clearly hadn't learned enough about them, because even the guy who never said thank you when you brought his group coffee looked excited to do this.
You didn't look at the paper you received until you returned to your seat. Paper half-crumpled in your hand, you rolled it open and cupped it secretly to the side as you read over the name.
Calvin Evans
Your head slowly raised.
Oh no.
You craned your head as nonchalantly as possible to figure out if the man was even there. After a moment, you spotted him, sitting as close to the door and as far from others as possible.
Calvin Evans, the ghost of the Hastings Research Institute.
You had spoken to him twice—only brief interactions, a "Good morning" and an "Excuse me" that could hardly constitute as true conversation. You had seen him plenty more times, of course. He would approach the building in sweaty gray joggers on the dot every morning as you sat in your car and told yourself to stand the hell up and go inside.
He was revered among your coworkers because he funded the place. Because he was brilliant—silently light-years past the work everyone else did.
He was hated among your coworkers because, apparently, he was weird.
Maybe he's just introverted, you thought as the line finished and you stuffed the paper into your pocket. This was, of course, wishful thinking, but a girl could dream.
"Did you get someone you liked?" Your coworker nudged your arm—a nice lady, Marion, who was always pleasant to talk to and normally listened when you told her how you were. "I got that handsome man I talk about all the time."
"Rory?"
"Yes." She grinned. "Isn't it fate? I'll have to think of something nice to give him—not overly romantic, but something that says I notice, y'know?"
"I'm sure he'll appreciate whatever you give him, Marion." You watched people begin to file out. Apparently in the midst of your thoughts you had missed the closing words from your boss. You would get all the details later.
"It can't help to be thoughtful." Marion put a hand delicately over her heart and batted her eyelids. "After all, isn't that what a man desires?"
You knew she was joking, but something about it still made your nose wrinkle. "If I ever start acting like that, poison me."
Marion gasped your name dramatically. "What? Oh, come on, you would never!"
"I know I wouldn't." You stood. "Which is why it would be concerning if I ever did."
You faced a very dangerous obstacle ahead of you. About four weeks to Christmas, and you had absolutely zero plan.
You laid out your options a few days later, scribbling idly on scrap paper.
Option 1: A safe gift. A generic gift. Some kind of candy, or nuts, something easily disposable… yet disappointing and entirely unexciting.
Option 2: Something science related. Like a book or a decor item—something easy and job related, something you'd already heard others planning to do. Yet, still, not very personal.
Option 3: Actually try. Try to get close enough to the living enigma of the Institute in order to get him a good Secret Santa gift.
You'd never been one to turn down a challenge. Option 3 it was.
You got your first chance at infiltration later that day. Deliveries were bi-weekly unless there was some particular accident that cleared supplies from the place. The delivery driver came late, flustered and annoyed because of something happening in his own workspace. You sympathized with him—the holidays got to everyone—and offered to help carry boxes around. This was a blessing, eventually, because after working through the load, you finally arrived to the final box. The box to be delivered to Calvin Evans.
"You've been working so hard the past hour, you could always let someone else grab it." A secretary—Marie? Maddie?—lounged over her desk, watching you stoop to pick up the box. "God knows those boys in the lab could use a walk from time to time."
"I've got it," you said. "I really don't mind, helps me test my memory."
"If you insist."
Calvin Evans' lab was a bit further removed from the others, down a long corridor as a door that others seemed to steer around if they needed to pass it. There was a handwritten sign plastered on the door talking about DO NOT DISTURB, but both for the sake of your research and your aching arms, you managed to knock on the door.
The door swung open around three seconds after you knocked. The man in front of you was noticeably taller than you had ever really taken note of, his hair short and slightly curled in front of his face as the nicest blue eyes you'd ever seen focused straight on you.
"Hi." You greeted.
"… hello." Calvin blinked at you, then the box. "It's Thursday already." This was not a question.
"Yes, it is." You hefted the box a little higher. "Apologies that I'm not the normal delivery man, he got… indisposed, I guess? Something about route mix-ups."
"You've managed to deliver the correct box competently to my door, so I see no reason why it makes any difference." Calvin blinked a few times, not exactly making eye contact but clearly trying to look at you nonetheless. "You're…" He said your name slowly. "… right?"
You nodded. "Yeah. That's me."
"Come in." He offered suddenly, stepping aside.
Though you questioned if this had ever happened before, and if you were perhaps the first person to see the inside of this lab since he had taken residence, you accepted the invitation with a gracious nod and stepped inside. You had seen all the labs in Hastings except for his, and it was… not what you expected. Sure, there were the normal things—beakers and a chalkboard with scribbled notes in handwriting you could slightly catch, but there was also a mess. An abominable mess. And a million crumbs that seemed to be related to nuts.
You stood there for a moment, vaguely bewildered, but Calvin brushed past you. "Come, come here, I have somewhere you can set that."
"Of course." You followed him to the clearest counter, watching him absentmindedly brush aside nut shells. "Do you… want any help organizing them?" Organizing your whole lab, perhaps? You'd worked as some mix of secretary and lab assistant over your year-ish of working at Hastings, which led you into the familiarity of how the other labs were organized. It would be easier, probably, considering Calvin's lab was all his own, but—
"Don't you have anywhere else to be?" Calvin asked. He crooked an eyebrow in your direction, and you faltered, before he barreled on, suddenly switching gear. "Actually. Yes. I… yes. Your help would be appreciated."
You stared at him for a moment and then nodded. You were… afraid to touch anything. Or move, really. Every purpose and reason you were there had sort of been thrown out the window. Your eyes flicked over everything, slowly, slowly, before you took in a deep breath.
You had a mission, right? You had to focus. Stupid, annoying, dickish Secret Santa.
"Do you like nuts?" You blurted.
Calvin looked at you. "Are you being sarcastic?" He asked, a vague twitch to the corner of his mouth.
The switch of expression relaxed you a little. You pushed back slowly as Calvin opened up the box of supplies. "I suppose I'm curious why such a precise chemist has scatterings of nuts all over his lab."
"You're calling me a slob."
"I think it's funny."
"Hmm." He had started you passing you things, and you were mindlessly taking them and setting them aside without really realizing the rhythm the two of you had fallen into. "I do like nuts. They're my lunch."
"Every day?"
"Every day."
You blinked a little. That couldn't really be healthy, could it? You studied him from the corner of your eye for a moment—he looked healthy enough. Pretty, really, with that shaped nose and the vaguest thoughtful frown on his face at all times, like everything was a mystery to him.
"Are you really that constantly at work that you can hardly pause for lunch?"
Calvin made a motion like a shrug as the two of you finished unpacking the box. "Science never stops."
"The human body does." You scratched at your neck slightly. "Isn't the recommendation for calories per day somewhere around 2000 calories for men? I don't think nuts really get you that high up there."
He frowned slightly at you. "I don't think—"
"Oh, what else, you also need proteins and enzymes and vitamins, especially since we are in the winter months." You started ticking off on your fingers. "Vitamin C, protein, minerals like iron and zinc…"
Calvin was just staring at you. "Are you… suggesting I change my eating habits?"
"I'm just saying that Hastings Research Institute's best chemist should have the right diet to keep him up and running. We wouldn't want all this—" You gestured to him. "—to break down, would we?"
He slowly shook his head. "… no. We wouldn't."
"Glad you agree." You gestured to the set-out items. "Now, let's work on these?"
There wasn't much conversation that passed between the two of you for a time. You were pretty sure you'd thrown Calvin off a little, but he didn't seem to mind it, or you, which surprised you. For about a year, all you had heard about him was gossipy whispers about his weird ways and aversion to other people.
Maybe he was just lonely, you thought, watching him from the corner of your eye as he lined up beakers in his supply room.
When you had finished helping him organize his supplies, you cleared your throat in the vague silence. "Well. There you are. If there's nothing else I can do, then I can leave."
He said your name, which made you pause. When he stepped closer, his eyes were very focused on you.
"Do you have specific recommendations for how to improve my diet?" He asked bluntly.
You stared up at him, then smiled. "Are you asking for more help?"
Something like a flustered expression passed over his face, brief as a flash, but he tilted his head. "Are you offering more help?"
You hummed, considering. "Tuesday night. I will come to your house and make you dinner, and we will talk about balanced diets." You stuck your hand out, unsure where this boldness had come from, yet unwilling to back down now. "Deal?"
Calvin smiled, just a little bit, and shook your hand. "Deal."
Three weeks to Christmas, and you had all your holiday shopping done.
Christmas Eve, you would spend with your family. This was the same every year, on the dot, no matter what. They lived close, yet you didn't see them too often, everyone wrapped up in their own life, so you relished the yearly chance to be close, even for a night. It was one night you could at least not worry so much about everything else.
You had a bit more money this year, too. Working at Hastings provided you with a decent enough salary that you could purchase some things you truly wanted to buy, which included Christmas gifts. The one problem was that your car was tiny, so your entire back seat was mostly crammed with the gifts you'd bought.
Calvin Evans found you two hours after you arrived at work, hovering all tall in his crisp white lab coat as he watched you slap at a typewriter like it had insulted you.
"Hi." He said after a moment.
You jumped slightly as you spun to him. "Goodness—what is wrong with you? How in the world did you sneak up on me, you're massive!" You gestured to him.
"You seemed focused on… assaulting a typewriter." Calvin said, tone somewhat teasing as his gaze moved between you and the machine.
"Yes, well, it's not working, so maybe it deserves a smack or two."
"Or seven."
"Hey." You frowned at him ruefully. "Can I do something for you, Dr. Evans?"
He straightened. "I was… wondering when you were planning to come over. To my house."
"Oh." You smacked your lips. "Well, after work, I have to go buy groceries, so I'll buy those and then come over."
"Okay." Calvin paused for a moment. "May I come with you?"
You stared at him for a moment and tilted your head. "You could, if you would like." You smiled. "Is there a reason why?"
"Well, I don't drive, first of all."
"You don—"
"I believe it would be more beneficial if I were able to lead you to my house more directly," Calvin continued. "and I am also curious what choices you'll make towards dinner. If the process of a good diet starts at a grocery store, I believe I should start there with you as well."
The way you were going, you were pretty sure you were going to get him a cookbook for his Secret Santa gift. Either way, there was something endearing about the linear logic of the chemist and the way he seemed so solid and certain, so you nodded.
"Alright, then. Once we get off work, we can go. Sound good?"
"Yes." Calvin rounded on his heel, then paused and gave you a little smile and a thumbs-up.
You tried to ignore the dumb smile over your own face and the little thump in your chest.
When Calvin bent his way into your car later, you saw him cast a curious glance over his shoulder at the numerous Christmas presents in the back.
"For my family," you explained. "I actually have money this year, so… I kind of went a little overboard?"
"Do you like buying gifts for others?" Calvin asked as he fastened his seatbelt.
You blew out a small breath as you pulled out from Hastings' parking lot. You don't know the half of it. "I don't find it easy. But I do like it."
"Finding a path to the heart." Calvin muttered.
You snorted. "Yeah, exactly. Good gifts are… simple, right? Something that makes that connection between people. That shows them you noticed." You tapped your fingers on the steering wheel. "But I still find it so hard, you know? How do you balance the materialistic with the, uh, idealistic? Or—or with a possible experience? It's so easy to just wrap something, but what if what someone needs or wants is bigger and less solid than wrapping?"
Calvin remained silent, though he hummed softly. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye and found that he was simply watching you, taking in all your words.
"I want to try," you continued after a moment. "I want to do good, especially during Christmas. Gifts shouldn't mean nothing, you know? They shouldn't be a pointless workplace exercise, either. Secret Santas are stupid sometimes. Sometimes you barely know your coworkers, and you're, what, supposed to buy them a present? Just for fun? Just because? If I exist in someone's space, I want to know them before I buy them something or create something for them. It doesn't feel complete or right otherwise."
Silence lingered for a long, long moment. Then Calvin spoke.
"If the amount of presents in this car means anything, I think you are very good about giving people the right gifts."
Your shoulders eased marginally.
"I think you have a more optimistic and passionate look on it than some people." He shifted. "Christmas doesn't carry the same connotations for everyone."
"What does it carry for you?" You asked quietly.
He paused for a moment, staring out the window instead of at you, hands curling and uncurling in his lap. You pulled into the grocery store parking lot and turned off the car, yet did not move, waiting for his answer.
"I'm usually alone for Christmas." Calvin said quietly after a long silence. He was factual about it, yet you saw a new crease between his eyebrows, something that marred his pretty face with evidence of a pained past you had no idea about. "I would… I would like to put thought into gifts, yet I have very little people to achieve that with. Christmas feels very distant from me. Working is easier."
You looked at him for a moment and then extended your hand, resting it on his shoulder. "I'm sorry you've not had good experiences so far in your life," you said. "but this year, I'm here, and I'm going to teach you how to eat well, and we're going to buy a garland and put it up in your house, and we're going to sing along to Christmas songs."
Calvin blinked at you. "… thank you." he said, then— "In my house?"
"In your house."
He sighed. "Lovely." His fingers brushed over your own as you pulled your hand away and he reached for it at the same time. There was a hesitance there, a sort of in-between, before he exited the vehicle. "Let's go, then."
You had a small little list in your head. Both of ingredients and the plan. The Plan. Trademarked. Underlined three times. Calling it something other than Secret Santa Present made it feel more important, more declared.
And it was important. Because Jesus Christ, Calvin Evans was indeed the world's loneliest person. He was alone, and nobody should ever feel alone on Christmas, so you had decided without really deciding that you would be the guide to the greatest Christmas ever. And also so you could figure out what to get him for the Secret Santa.
The grocery store run was pleasant and strangely domestic. Calvin trailed after you like a lost puppy, never too close and certainly never too far. You talked nearly the whole time, your mouth running words, but you talked about food. You talked about nutrition and balance and flavors and how things did and didn't go together. Sometimes what you talked about went into your cart and sometimes it didn't, but Calvin paid attention the whole time, and if you stopped talking you would start feeling self conscious, so you kept going.
By the time the two of you were checking food out, you found yourself staring at the rising price of the food with an increasingly anxious look.
"Move." Calvin murmured near your ear. You blinked up at him, confused, just in time to watch him pass money to the cashier.
"Calvin—" You hissed.
"Don't worry about it. You're grabbing food for me." He insisted as he looked down at you. "Let me pay for my food, yeah?"
You shut up pretty quick under that firm look.
Calvin led you with perfect geographical instructions into his driveway. His house was lovely—simple yet well-sized in a lived-in neighborhood. Had you not known he was alone in life, you would've assumed he would be married with two children and a pet in this kind of house.
"Let me take some of those." He scooped up bags of groceries and helped usher you into his house, which was neat and plainly decorated. Lived in, but not breathed in. You noted a record player that you passed by on the way in and quirked a lip thoughtfully as the two of you began unpacking groceries.
"I saw a record player." You looked at him. "A fan of music?"
"Oh." He blinked, then nodded. "Yes, I am, I like Charlie Parker."
"You're a jazz fan?" This delighted you, though you couldn't put your finger on why. When Calvin nodded, seemingly puzzled by your grin, you just smiled wider and giggled as you lined ingredients up for dinner. "I love jazz, too. You wanna put a record on? We could use some music while we cook."
Charlie Parker's complex harmonies floated around the two of you, enveloped in the warm light of Christmas spirit. Calvin helped you chop vegetables and mix ingredients, watching with rapt attention as you rattled off to him steps in creating tonight's meal—soup and homemade bread, because a way to win someone's heart over was obviously with homemade bread. His attention was easily the thing that startled you the most—though he often didn't make eye contact and his responses could be blunt and unapologetic, it was clear Calvin Evans was a man who took in every word that was said.
Once, you had heard someone describe him as haughty. A holier-than-thou scientist who thought he was so much better than everyone else.
Now, as you watched him push bread into his oven, a concentrated crinkle to his brow, you thought that he was better than everyone, but he certainly wasn't haughty over it. He was lonely and thoughtful and brilliant, and you'd only properly known him for about a week now.
"Now what?"
You were shaken from your thoughts to find Calvin watching you as he dried off his hands.
"Well," you hummed. "The soup is gonna simmer, the bread needs to bake… we don't have anything else to do for a while."
"Would you like to talk?" Calvin asked quietly.
You stared at him. "Would you like to?"
"I wouldn't offer—" He stepped forward, a little closer than normal, and looked down at you. "—if I didn't want to."
"Garland, then," you said, weaker than you wanted to be. "and talking."
Calvin didn't even need a ladder. He just needed your direction as he stretched up high and explained, breathlessly, his latest science project to you.
"I've been going over things in my head repeatedly. Trying to think of new routes, you know? New directions. Everything in chemistry may seem like it has been done already, but that is not true. There's always new directions to be stretching, as long as the mind allows it."
"To the left a little for that hook."
"Thank you. So," he inhaled. "I've gone back to the basics, really. On what we think of as the modern truth of chemistry. When you think of other great scientific discoveries such as those by Galileo, he did not make those discoveries by simply cruising along and assuming all modern assumptions were correct. Amino acids, for example—those are such a basis for the modern day, but what if it's more complicated, more immense than modern scientists imagine? I'm trying to… expand from that. Combinations, equations, trying to send out in all directions in the hopes that I snag onto something."
"It sounds rather a lot like faith to me," you said curiously. "but I like your reasoning. Do you really think that by simply casting some kind of line out, you'll get a tug?"
"I can't hope for anything but." Calvin finished attaching the garland and finally turned to you, brushing askew strands of hair away from his face. "When science seems to have hit some kind of dead end, that's when you know something is wrong."
The two of you lounged on his couch for a while and just… talked. You couldn't remember the last time you had gotten to know someone, and from the clunky yet endearing way Calvin navigated the conversation, you knew it was the same for him. He was incredibly intelligent in more than just chemistry—he talked about his neighbors, all Black Americans in a world that rejected them. He talked about the intricacies of public law that he had dipped his toe into at one point. He talked about how religion was interwoven into so much that it made people blind, especially considering science.
You liked to hear him speak. You thought that you could listen to him speak forever, with that warm, intelligent voice with a cadence like warm water.
Just as the two of you were cutting the bread into slices, you remembered the mission all over again. It had flitted from your mind in this warm haze of a growing friendship, but now it was back, and you cleared your throat as you set the table.
"So," you started casually. "do you have any Christmas wishes, then?"
"I don't exactly have anyone to give me gifts." Calvin remarked.
"If you did, though." You glanced up at him. "Or if you're buying things for yourself. Anything on the plate?"
Calvin considered this question for a moment as he ladled soup into his bowl. "I would like more casual clothes," he said. "for when I'm home. I also need a second workout outfit."
"You mean your 'I'm running from work to home twice in a day' outfit?" You asked, lips pulled into an amused expression.
He shot you a look. "Yes. That one."
"I think more than one pair of consistently sweat-covered clothing is likely a good idea if you like smelling decent." You said with a nod.
Calvin was giving you a look, but that stopped the instant he ate the first spoonful of soup. You saw his eyes flick to the bowl, then to you, as his eyelids fluttered slightly.
You smiled a little, tentative yet hopeful. "Good?"
"This is…" He ate another bite. "Delicious."
You laughed. "Don't let me stop you, Mr. Genius. Dig in."
Calvin ate with enthusiasm, which encouraged you. You also could not remember the last time you'd shared a meal with someone, so to sit across from a very nice man and speak with him about both foolish and interesting things was really, incredibly, delightful.
"Do you have no other wishes besides clothes?" You asked, poking softly at your mission. Your mission, your mission, was this entire dinner and trip and talk because of your mission, because you were trying to be a good coworker—?
"I like books. And music," Calvin said quietly. "I've tried to look for the last Charlie Parker record I don't have, but it's impossible to find."
"What kind of books do you like?"
"Fiction and nonfiction alike." Calvin dipped some bread into his soup and took in a breath like he hadn't eaten in days. "My favorite book is Great Expectations."
"That's a lovely book. It's been a few years since I've read it, though." You said with a nod. "Okay, okay, let me rephrase the question—do you read to escape or learn?"
Calvin blinked at you. "What?"
"Oftentimes when I ask people about their reading likes and habits, I notice that you can usually group a person on two sides—they read to escape life, or they read to learn."
"Can it not be both?"
"It can," you said. "but normally a person tends to lead. Nobody's ever right and straight in the middle. And it's not like there's a right or a wrong. It's just personality, you know?" You pointed to him with your spoon. "As I asked—escape or learn?"
"… learn," Calvin said after thinking. "I think. I always say that a good book never stops teaching you, y'know? Even a nonfiction book can teach you something, tell you something, give you a lesson or an idea or an out. I like learning."
You smiled a little. Endearing. "I do believe that's your science brain talking."
"I do believe," he repeated, half-teasing, half-mocking. "that you may be right. What about you, then?"
"Escape, mostly. I like fiction and stories. I like the lessons you can get from them, but I also like submerging into someone else's world and problems so I can get away from my own."
Calvin was studying you as you said that, all soft-eyed and quiet. His blue eyes didn't look so blue all the time, you had realized. They looked more brown now, though you knew it wasn't true. Either way, he was listening. This realization, though it had come and gone repeatedly and many times, continued to settle lower in your gut.
"What books do you like?" Calvin asked softly.
You responded in a mumble, something about stories that you never really had shared with anyone before, but he didn't make you feel dumb for it. He just nodded, smiling a little, as he finished his soup.
"I've heard of those." He folded his napkin onto the table. "I think I'll have to take a look at them, when I have some free time."
"Do you ever have free time?" This was the first time you'd ever thought of or experienced him outside of the lab. You realized you'd been thinking of this as an exception.
"That sounds like that one question." Calvin chuckled a little, the sound warming your stomach more than the soup had. "The, ah. 'If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?'."
You huffed. "What would your answer be to that question, then?"
"Of course I make a sound." Calvin said. "I'm a human, and very alive."
"What about the tree, then?"
He scooped up your bowls with a smile down at you. "I'm not a philosopher. I'm a chemist."
"Rude."
He laughed—actually laughed—for the first time, and you just frowned at his back as a million realizations crashed down onto you.
You were not merely doing this for the Secret Santa mission anymore.
One and a half weeks until Christmas.
You liked taking notes. It was an idle habit, but you liked carrying around a small notebook, something that could fit most places inside uniforms and clothing. Small notes, small doodles, average thoughts. You wrote a poem, you doodled a leaf, you did small diary entries, you wrote a grocery list. Your current notebook had been with you for the better part of three years, and thanks to the near-constant use, it was growing close to being finished.
Today, you returned to the four-page section devoted to the mission. Specifically, you were looking at page 3 of this section: POSSIBLE CALVIN GIFTS
-Charlie Parker record
-Great Expectations something?
-Another book of some kind
-Cooking supplies??
-Cookbook
-A coupon for me to cook him dinner I would do that for him anytime he asked actually never mind
-Something really personal that he really really wants.
You sighed and leaned back from the notebook, scrubbing at your face. The party was a week away and you were no closer to deciphering the heart of the man you'd spent every day talking to. You were blaming yourself for that, too. Despite trying to stay focused on what you had to do, every interaction with Calvin Evans turned into something more. Like the fact that he had a comfy chair in his lab that was great for you to rest your legs, or the fact that he had started eating actual lunch in the cafeteria at a table with you. He talked to you in murmurs about science and he never minded your presence, and you felt like an idiot because after everything, you were still going to be the worst Secret Santa to him ever.
The sound of your name made you jerk from your thoughts and slam your notebook shut in the same motion. Calvin stood over your shoulder, blinking curiously at you.
"Hi." You breathed.
"Hi." He repeated, tilting his head. "Could I… have the assistance of an experienced lab assistant?"
"Oh, I don't think we have any of those." You propped your head in a hand and shrugged. "You see, we're very low on intelligence here at Hastings."
"Is that so?" Calvin looked around, shoving an idle hand in his coat pocket. "That's very strange, I could have sworn there was a certain someone here that was incredibly intelligent."
"Hmm. You might've missed them."
Calvin shot you a look. "I don't think I did."
For some reason, you warmed a little. His hand brushed slightly against your back, and you were suddenly shooting up in your seat with a barely restrained squeak as you spoke.
"Wow, I think you've suddenly discovered a great candidate to help you, Dr. Evans! I would be ever so pleased to assist you."
If Calvin noticed how you had said it all in one breath, or that your face felt warmer than usual, he didn't comment on anything, just smiled.
"Wonderful. I appreciate your assistance."
When you pushed inside Calvin's lab, you stopped dead in your tracks.
The inside was clean. Organized. Orderly. Nut remnants swept away, beakers lined, notes organized and spread across counters in a way that wouldn't drive anyone crazy.
Not only was it clean, but there were Christmas lights hanging around the space.
Calvin Evans had fucking decorated.
Your mouth fell open. "Oh my god."
"Do you… like it?"
"Oh my god, Calvin!" You spun around, arms flung up in the air. "You fucking cleaned! Did you do this for me?"
"I…" The scientist suddenly looked very nervous as he closed the door and fidgeted with a pencil in his hands. "I thought that for all the time you spend in here now, you deserved a nice place."
"The thing that made this place nice was you, you silly man, but I like it." You took a glance around and looked at him. "Do you like it?"
"I do." He said quietly. "I did it for myself, too. I just… didn't realize I needed it until you."
You smiled at him. Big and grinning and heartfelt in a way that had been foreign to you for so long. You wanted to fling your arms around him and take all of him in—breathing, breathing, like nothing else mattered.
Still, you held yourself back. You were just friends. Guilt tugged at you, the idea that you were only friends anyways because of a Secret Santa thing. You'd tried not to think about after Christmas, if anything would be the same, or if he would suddenly reject you because of your likely terrible gift.
Maybe you were being silly. Or maybe you were just afraid of losing something you'd just gained.
You shoved the thought away and tried to focus on the present. "This is lovely. I'm glad I could… encourage you, you know? To do something like this."
Calvin nodded. His gaze was soft, lingering on you in a way that had been changing over the last couple of weeks.
"Thank you." He said.
"No, thank you." You said with a smile. "Now—is there anything I can do in here so I don't get accused of slacking?"
"Hmm." Calvin pressed his mouth together. "I need to get some things measured before my final experiment of the day." He looked around and groaned. "There's no—god, I need a watch, what time even is it?" He looked back at you. "Yes—I certainly need some quick help."
"Well, that sounds like a job for a lab assistant." You reached for a drawer and found that you now instinctively knew where he kept his gloves. You smiled to yourself and pulled a pair on. "Where do I start?"
You stood in front of your mirror, turning this way and that as you studied yourself with a small frown.
It was always hard to decide what to wear to holiday parties. Holiday parties were dumb, first of all. There was always some dumb game or drawing that unexpectedly happened that people had to do or watch. The food was usually mediocre. The drinks were oftentimes lukewarm and flat. You could always see it in people's eyes when they started counting down the time until they got home.
And yet there was always a performance one had to put on when attending parties. The first main obstacle being how you dressed.
You were fairly satisfied with the outfit you'd finally settled on. Sweater, slacks, shoes. Things that started with S as an outfit could lead you to no wrongs. It fit you, it looked good, you were fine.
So why were you still nervous?
That was a dumb question, you thought as you started up the car and drove towards Hastings. You know exactly why you're nervous, you fool, it's because of the gift wrapped up in that jacket of yours.
In the backset, covered by your jacket, was your present for Calvin. It was wrapped in deep red wrapping paper with little dogs and Santa Clauses running across. Dog chasing Santa. Santa chasing dog. You chasing nerves.
He would like it, you told yourself. He would like the bow and the present and he would love it because you had tried. Was trying enough for him? He, who tried and excelled in so many brilliant ways?
You wanted to bang your head against the steering wheel. Now was not the time to lose it. You could always cry away your feelings once you got home.
Hmm. Alcohol at home. The thought soothed you as you stepped out of your vehicle into the cool night.
Despite the chill outside, Hastings was lively and well-lit. There was music playing somewhere, and the cafeteria had been arranged differently, giving way to seating to the side and a dance floor of sorts in the middle, which a few people were surprisingly engaging in. You discreetly dropped your present off on the Secret Santa table and glanced around the room for any sign of Calvin, but the only person you located was Marion, who was dancing with Rory. She grinned at you as he spun her around, and you gave her a thumbs up. Christmas miracles did happen.
You found Calvin only because he found you. You caught each other's eye from across the room and you stiffened, straightening slightly and restraining the urge to wave. You furiously fought back the nerves as he got closer, smiling that wobbly and lovely smile at you.
He looked good tonight. So good it made your chest hurt. He'd done something a little different with his hair, slightly more curled yet still neat, and he wore a neat, nice suit in a deep jeweled tone.
"Hi." He said, a complimentary greeting.
"Hi." You said back, a complimentary response. "Get here safe?"
"I'm here." He was standing very, very close, and both of his hands were shoved in his pockets, which was funny, because he normally didn't do that. "I took a bus."
"No running today?"
"I was carrying cargo. Couldn't let it get damaged."
"Ah, right." You nodded to the Secret Santa table. "It's a colorful haul. Looks like Santa came early."
"Santa Claus is not real, but people's effort is."
"I mean… some of it likely can't be called effort, right?" You said as you shot him a look. "I think some people are going to get some great garbage stuffers tonight."
Calvin snorted lowly. Something about it was more distant than usual, which only made the anxiety in your chest spike.
"… everything alright?" You asked quietly.
"What? Yes, of course it is." Calvin blinked down at you. "Why wouldn't it be?"
"You seem… I don't know. Off."
"I am a bit apprehensive," Calvin admitted. "and I don't like loud gatherings like this."
"Yeah, I hear you." You sighed. "I was just fantasizing about being at home and having a drink and, like, relaxing, y'know?"
"That sounds nice," he said softly. "I could go for that kind of thing right now too."
You would be welcome. You thought quietly, but before the thought could leave you, another sharp and fateful tap to a microphone drew everyone's attention to the front of the room.
"Alright, everyone, well. I know it certainly isn't Christmas yet, but tonight we're having a very Hastings Christmas!" Your boss, who had clearly been drinking, was smiling as he stared at everyone. "We've got a table over there of Secret Santa presents. Everyone was instructed to write their recipient's names on the gift somewhere, and to write their own names inside the packaging or gift, so it should be easy for everyone to find their own gift and know who gave it to them." He waved a hand. "Aside from that, we'll have a few fun games to play throughout, but I know everyone's been excited for the presents, so—get at 'em!"
There was a flurry of motion not unlike pigeons descending down upon seeds. You and Calvin stood in the corner of the room, blinking as people rummaged through the pile of presents as if on a treasure hunt, people eventually flaking off as they found what was addressed to them.
You glanced up at Calvin in that moment of observation, watching his face. His long, pretty eyelashes, the curve of his jaw, the steady bob of his throat as he swallowed. You had never been so nervous and so hopeful about a reaction in your life, you thought, which was strange.
Or maybe it wasn't so strange. You were rather endeared by Calvin Evans, after all.
"Should we…?" Calvin gestured, and you nodded, following him. You searched around, finding your present to Calvin, and you turned to him.
"This one has your name," you said with all the nonchalance you could muster. "here you go."
"Thank you." He murmured, his hands closing delicately around your present. A moment or two of searching later, and you found a present with your name on it. Simple candy-cane-stripe paper wrapped around something rectangular, tied with silver ribbon. A smile ghosted over your face at the wrapping before you stepped back from the table and caught Calvin's eye.
The man was searching around the cafeteria with a vaguely scrunched nose. When you called his name, his eyes moved to yours, and you jerked your head towards the doors.
"Wanna go somewhere quieter?"
The front hall of Hastings was quiet, unlike the cafeteria. The two of you settled on the nearby stairs, illuminated by the decorations, gifts in your laps as you sat in a simple silence.
"This is a lot." You said after a moment.
"What is?"
"All of it. Christmas."
Calvin hummed. His arm brushed against yours as he leaned back with a slow sigh.
"This has been… a very good Christmas season for me," He said quietly. "because for once, I've not felt entirely alone during it."
Your heart gave a little tap dance in your chest at that. "I'm glad I've been making it better."
"You don't even know how much better." Calvin swallowed noticeably, eyelids fluttering slightly as he looked down at his lap and opened his mouth, stumbling over his words. "I just—it means—I—"
"It's alright." Your hand landed over his for a moment, and you both paused as your eyes met. You smiled at him, searched his expression.
"I get it," you whispered. "and I'm happy you're here with me."
"… yeah," he said, voice low and thick. "me too."
"I… we should—" You ripped your gaze away, down to the present. "We, should, uh—"
"Right. Yes." Calvin straightened slightly, clearing his throat. "On three?"
You smiled a little. "Of course. One… two…"
"Three." Calvin finished for you, and both of you tore into the presents.
Calvin opened presents like he was operating on a patient. You would have to teach him how to properly unwrap. Your attention, surprisingly, was ripped from Calvin when your eyes fell on your gift.
It was a notebook—sleek and expensive-looking, your initials on the front. As you flipped the first page open dazedly, you noticed familiar handwriting, tentative and neat on the first page.
"For my note-taker, my assistant, my culinary instructor, my listener, and the one who has reminded me this month that for all the loneliness I have suffered, it has all been worth it to know you."
Calvin
You jerked your head up at the exact same time that Calvin's head whipped up.
"It was you—" You both started saying, before you both stopped and stared at each other.
Calvin was cradling a watch in his hand. He'd needed a new one, of course. He told you two weeks ago that his old one had broken on a random day and he'd been completely distraught since. You'd gone to great lengths to research this one, and those lengths had gone far, especially with the quote on the back of the watch.
You must never be fearful of what you are doing when it is right.
You had a note in there. You knew it was simple, sweet. "To the man who is brilliant, smart, funny, and interesting in every way. Thank you for entertaining and caring about me."
The realization clicked into place very slow and very sweet.
You had gotten each other as a Secret Santa.
You began to laugh. One second it was giggles and the next it was soundless laughter, laughing so hard that tears sprang to your eyes. Or maybe the tears were because you loved this gift and you loved the man next to you.
"Why are you—" Calvin was laughing now, too. "Why are you laughing?"
"Because—" You wiped a tear from your eye. "Because this is so funny and you are so amazing and I love you and this gift so much—"
"You love me?" Calvin stared at you, lips parting.
Your laughter hitched, your breath stalling in your lungs. Your fingers clutched tight around the notebook in your lap, and you bit down on your lip as you managed a slow nod.
It was like a dam had broken inside of Calvin. His shoulders eased as a breath slid from his lips like it had been waiting for permission.
"That's—that's really good," he managed. "because I am quite positive that I love you too—"
You leaned forward and kissed him.
He was warm, and he smelled even better up close. His hand was cupping at your cheek and your neck, thumb along your jaw, tilting his head with a low, rumbling sound.
You both pulled back from the kiss. "Come to Christmas Eve," you panted. "with my family? Please?"
"Okay," Calvin agreed, and you dove back into each other again.
You were making out with Calvin Evans on the staircase of a building with an incredible Christmas gift in your lap and you were positive this was the greatest Christmas party ever.
"I'm guessing you like it, then?" He murmured between kisses. "I was—I was scared, I think, worried that you wouldn't like it—"
"I love it. I love it so much, Calvin, you don't even know how much it means to me." You shook your head, grinning as you peppered small little kisses all across his face. "So brilliant and observant, you know that?"
"I love this too. I've gotta—honey, hold on, I have to—" He was torn between continuing to kiss you and wrapping the watch around his left wrist. "The quote's so—how did you even—?"
"Research." You said smugly against his lips.
Calvin groaned softly. "That sounds… very hot when you say that." He kissed you again.
The two of you leaned back after a few moments, sprawled on the stairs. You would have to shower later, of course, you didn't trust where your coworker's shoes had been, but right now you were on cloud nine and nothing else mattered.
"… you're very hard to buy for, you know that?" Calvin murmured, playing with your hand.
"You are too," you protested. "I mean, what was I supposed to get, soaps? It took me forever to pinpoint the right—"
Calvin laughed and shushed you, kissing your knuckles. "I am joking with you," he murmured. "I enjoyed shopping with you. A little too much, actually."
You stared at him for a moment. "… what does that mean?"
Calvin glanced over at you, searching your face. "… spend Christmas with me?" He asked softly. "Please?"
A slow smile spread over your face. "Of course I will. Absolutely."
"Good." He rubbed your arm up and down. "I ended up buying you lots of presents."
Your eyebrows shot up. "… I did too. For you."
"No shit?"
Calvin swearing took you off guard, but you giggled and nodded, and he smiled and kissed you again, and for once, everything was right in the world.
"Oh, I mean it." He said when he leaned back from you, studying his new watch and then looking like you like you were worth billions. "This has been my best Christmas ever."
"Merry Christmas, Calvin." You said as you brushed your thumb along his cheeks.
He shivered slightly, but leaned into your touch. "Merry Christmas." He repeated, lower. His eyes moved to your lips again.
"Do you think I have more time to show my appreciation for the present?" He asked hopefully.
You smiled. "I don't think we'll be missed."
"Good." A hand pulled you closer by the sweater, and you thanked the Christmas spirits for blessing you with the hottest chemist alive. "I think I have a lot to thank you for."
"Merry Christmas indeed." You said with a giggle.
His lips closed over yours again, and in the crook of the Hastings building's stairway, the two of you pressed together, close and warm and happy, and celebrated new love and the right kind of connection the Christmas way.
A/N part 2: Guys I am sooo soooo insanely happy I got this done but also DAMN! So much writing! I wrote most of this today!
Thank you for all the support in 2025. This is the first year in a while that I've put my writing out there, so to see all the support and love pouring in means a whole lot. Thank you all for reading and engaging :) I'll see you all in 2026!! Much love!!
(come talk to me here or on twitter @/lostglassguitar)
hope you do not mind the tags everyone: @userpullman @theres-a-bea @lewmagoo
Summary: You have spent your entire life preparing to meet your soulmate. Even with the words inked on your skin, you could never have imagined how badly your other half would hurt you, nor how much you'd want him anyway.
Content: GN!Reader, Angst, Soulmate AU, Imprisonment, Medieval AU, Yearning, Unwanted Soulmates, Eventual Happy Ending, Starvation, Isolation, Illness
Word Count: 2.5k
You hear whispering outside. The soldiers usually make no effort to hide their conversations from you. You’re a mere set piece in the background most of the time, or, if you’re lucky, a participant that can chime in whenever they please. You know what this means: you will die soon. It’s honestly shocking they’ve kept you around this long, considering the circumstances. They must be working hard to make this a real show-stopping event.
Some traitorous little part of you whispers that someone might have been working hard to stop this, to protect you as long as he can. You smother it the best you can. It’s not kind to you or him to linger on such thoughts. To leave behind thoughts of what was and could have been. You know you won’t be a happy memory.
The specter haunting your thoughts doesn’t appear for a few days, and the soldiers are mercilessly silent. They don’t speak of the wife they’ve left at home, or how their son is doing with his sword training, or how they heard the chef is making their favorite tonight. Such thoughts must feel blasphemous to speak aloud near the almost dead. They think it’s for your sake, not to taunt you with what you don’t have, but it’s really for them. So they don’t have to think about how you won’t get to experience such beautiful little moments once the guillotine drops. So they don’t have to think about how you’ve experienced them before, as every human being has. They don’t have to think about the life you’ve led, and how they’re actively facilitating its end.
One day you finally break, watching two of the men who’ve been kindest to you shift nervously on their feet, eyes fixed straight ahead. “You can still talk, you know.”
They jump, as though somehow they forgot you were still here, alive and breathing. In their minds, you’ve already died. They share a look you can’t quite decipher, mouths set into twin grim lines. “We know,” one says.
“Do you?”
His shoulders are so tense you worry he may crack himself in half, but to his credit he manages to keep his tone calm. “We just have nothing to talk about.”
They flinch when you laugh, an edge of madness creeping into the noise. “Oh, yeah? Every single soldier in this entire place has nothing to speak about? Every single one? Do me a favor and don’t lie to me. I barely have any time left, I’d like to spend what little I have pretending things are normal. I can’t do that if you all have already buried me.”
They don’t give you the mercy of speaking again, but you almost think you see one of their shoulders shaking, his hands trembling around his blade. It makes you relax a bit, despite the fear and rage and defeat swirling in your chest. They’re mourning you. Isn’t it something of a blessing, to know someone is? Perhaps they’ve grown fond of you, or perhaps their time on the battlefield hasn’t beaten the gravity of death out of them, but either way they know that you’re here now and can’t help but fear the thought of your absence. That’s something.
Zoro only comes to visit his dear ghost after yet another week of staring at the wall, listening to nothing but the dripping of water and occasional footsteps coming down the hall. At first, you convince yourself that you’ve dreamed it, the familiar sound of his boots thumping against stone. It has to be wishful thinking. You’ve been dreaming of him enough that it’s worked its way into your waking hours, and soon you’ll feel the warmth of his arms around you and hear his soft voice whisper something you’re far too afraid to admit you want to hear.
But he’s here, flesh and blood, gesturing the soldiers away with a single jerk of his chin toward the door. They scramble off, desperate to be free of you. You think these two find you unsettling, disturbed by the way your sharp eyes have gone vacant and your normally proud posture has started to slump. A walking corpse.
Your cell creaks as he opens it, the sound bouncing off the walls and back to you again and again, an infinite loop reminding you exactly where you are and what’s coming. Zoro sits across from you, hair mussed and eyes tired. “You alright?”
You can’t help but chuckle. “What the hell do you think?”
He rubs his forehead, the weight of what he’s carrying dragging his shoulders forward. “Yeah, that’s fair.”
You sit in silence, waiting for the other to speak, but you’re both struck silent by the gravity of the situation. It’s coming any day now. You can feel the breath of the reaper against your neck, a constant chill running down your spine and a tension in your body as you await for his bony hand to wrap around you. Zoro’s warmth can’t drown out the feeling, even if you know he’d like to try.
“Tell me more about yourself,” he finally murmurs, his eyes boring into yours. There’s a heat there, a determination you’re used to seeing in an enemy commander.
You should answer. You should give him this, just a few small pieces of you to carry with him. But the more of you he carries, the more it will weigh him down and hold him back. The more it will make him suffer, make him mourn someone he never really knew. Every piece he has will just remind him of how much he didn’t know.
“No.”
“No?” He blinks, once, twice, surprise clear on his face.
“No. No more talking. No more pretending this isn’t happening.”
“Who says we’re pretending this isn’t happening?”
He’s a terrible liar. You can see it in his eyes, the pain and regret and longing. Or maybe he’s a fine liar, but you’re made to be his weakness, to slip through his defenses in the exact ways he wouldn’t want you to. “Zoro, this is for your own good.”
He scoffs. “My own good? Just another choice you’re making for me, huh? I want to know you. I want to spend time with you. No matter how little it is.”
He reaches out to you, but you flinch backwards, head hitting the wall. “No, you don’t get it. You don’t know what it’s going to be like to be alone. To lose someone you never really had.”
“I’m going to have to know it. There’s no way out, alright? I know that. But that doesn’t mean I can’t know you at all.”
He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that he’s going to have far more time without you than he ever did with you. That he’s going to spend years remembering a few memories he managed to scrounge together, a few stolen moments in this damp and rotting cell. He needs to leave you to rot with it.
“You’ll never really know me. We don’t have time for it. This is kinder.”
“You seem very sure everything you’re doing is kind. That it’s all for my sake.” He shakes his head. “You don’t have to worry about what comes after. That’s my problem.
You can hardly hide the shake in your voice, but you don’t want to let him know he’s getting to you. You need to stay strong. "You're going to regret this. One day, years from now, you're going to see a beautiful sunrise and, for a moment, wonder what I thought of it. You're going to see a flower and wonder if I would have loved it. You're going to wake up and realize you never knew my favorite color, favorite food, favorite song. You're going to regret not knowing me, Zoro. It's going to haunt you for the rest of your life. And you're going to understand why I tried to spare you from this."
He's silent for a moment, jaw clenched. He breathes in the stale air deeply, before quietly asking, "Well, what is your favorite color?"
You laugh, a low, bitter sound. "That's not the point! There will always be something you don't know! Always something you'll regret not having said! Nothing we do now can change any of it."
He looks at you with a degree of pity you don't understand. "But I can know this. So what is it?"
You sigh. "Blue. My favorite color is blue."
He chuckles softly. "Some part of me hoped it would be green."
"Maybe it could have been," you say, before you can stop yourself. You can see it clearly in your mind; a soft, sunny morning where the rays of light catch his eyes so perfectly that you cannot help but fall in love a little bit more, enough so that you begin to see him everywhere there's even a hint of green. But the only life you have is this one, and it's ending shortly. "But that doesn't matter now."
"It still matters," he whispers, "to me. I'll remember."
Your frustration mounts again. He's promising to torture himself in your absence. That's not what you wanted. You didn't suffer countless silent nights and the arguments that followed just for him to end up suffering anyway. If he does, it was all worthless. You refuse to accept it was all for nothing. "What, so I can live on in your memory? My heart's still going to stop. I'm still going to be six feet under, if they even bother to bury me. Stop doing this, Commander." There it is, that distance you need. He'll remember you like this: cold, bitter, unworthy. He can freely bury you in his mind, let you rest the way you deserve. He'll find some unpaired soul to settle down with, one that could never compare to a martyr in his heart but that might just stand up to a pathetic shell of a soldier.
"Is that an order?"
You stare unblinking. He doesn’t flinch. In a battle of wills, you are unfortunately perfectly matched. And god, you are so, so tired of fighting.
“You’re the most frustrating man I’ve ever met,” you murmur, eyes falling closed in defeat.
“I’ve heard that before.” You can hear the smile in his voice. You don’t let yourself open your eyes to see how handsome he looks when he’s smug. You don’t need to know. It’s better to never know at all than to see it once and know you’ll never experience it again. No matter what he thinks. If he wants to carry your body around with him, you can’t stop him. You’re finally realizing that. You’re both horribly stubborn, but he’s better equipped than you. Better fed, better rested, better everything. He knows he can outlast you. No matter how determined you are, you’re worn down beyond repair, even if you did have any way to build yourself back up. But you’re so very tired.
“What else do you want from me?” You ask softly, thoroughly defeated.
He reaches forward to take your hand in his. It’s rough, your calluses rubbing together, years of training and combat sanding away all of the softness from both of you. He stares at where your skin meets, intertwining your fingers and clinging to you as though the moment he lets go you’ll be taken from him forever.
That’s a lot closer to being true than you’d like.
He shifts closer, approaching with the same amount of caution one might use for a feral animal. Maybe a feral animal would be less dangerous to him. He squeezes your hand, warmth seeping in and banishing the ever-present chill that’s haunted you from the moment you were thrown into this cell. First his shoulder presses against yours, then his hip, then his thigh, until he’s pressed every inch of his side to yours. His body heat seeps through his uniform and your tattered clothes, and you can’t help the way your eyes flutter shut as you lean into him.
You shouldn’t do this. You shouldn’t give in. But god, it makes you feel more alive than you have in years. It makes you feel human again. So you push down the martyr in your head and allow yourself to relish in the feeling of another human being, of his hand gently cradling yours, of being cherished in what little time you have left.
“I’ll miss you,” he whispers, because he is the cruelest man you have ever known.
“I don’t want you to.”
“I know.”
His head leans against yours, and you can smell the salt of his sweat and the leather of his uniform and god that smell shouldn’t make you so weak. But it does. Everything about him rips away the things you know should be and leaves behind only the confusing what is. Reality makes no sense with him.
His voice shakes as he speaks. “Are you afraid?”
You laugh. “Of you? Yes.”
He scoffs. “You know what I meant.”
“I do.” Your answer was more honest and vulnerable than he could possibly understand.
“I wish it wasn’t like this.”
“Wishing won’t change anything,” you whisper. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”
It’s the closest thing to real gratitude you’ve ever given him, and he looks at you like you’ve blessed him with his truest and greatest wish. He shifts, pulling away so he can face you, and you’re mortified by the soft whimper that leaves your mouth as his warmth gets further away. “Would you have wanted this, if things were different?”
He clasps your hands together again, fingers intertwining. His eyes are shining with emotion, pleading with you for something, anything, and unfortunately Zoro makes you more honest than you’ve ever been in your life.
“I want it now.”
He lets out a single shaking breath, and you expect him to pull away, but suddenly the world shifts.
It’s frantic, the way he pulls you toward him. Your teeth clack together, his callused fingers pressing hard enough into your arms to bruise. It doesn’t seem quite right to call it a kiss; it is far too consuming, as though he wants to steal all of you, down to the breath in your lungs, and refuse to let you go. And he doesn’t, not until you’re banging against his chest, begging for release, and gasping as he backs away from you. Your cheeks are wet from the tears that forced their way out, and you heave out the only words you can think right now. “I hate you.”
And you do right now, for being cruel enough to give you a taste of him. Weren’t the kind words and gentle touches bad enough? No, not for him. With his next words it becomes clear: Commander Zoro, your enemy, the destined love of your life, has never held any mercy for you.
quarterly reminder that if i reblog something ai-generated it is 110% and always an accident and for the love of god please tell me so i can delete it from my blog
M!Y/n: Bonjour, Darling Sanji!~ Voulez–vous coucher avec moi?
Sanji: No, I don't want to sleep with you
M!Y/n: ... Is that what that means? Oh, man, I had a really gross tennis instructor-
Sanji*Head snaps to look at you,fiery rage*...Who was your instructor?
Luffy is already in that needy, instinct-driven mood.
His hips are slamming into you, balls hitting against your ass, his thrusts are fast and rough. “Hnghh! s’good!” His voice is spilling out loud moans and gasps without holding back. He’s not thinking about the pace or rhythm, he’s just lost in the feeling of your pussy squeezing around him, too tight every damn time. His mouth is open, drooling against your neck, teeth grazing skin like he can’t decide whether to moan or bite.
“y/n, fuuckk.. s’tight!—“ he moans out, hands running down your body before gripping you, his fingers digging in your hips as if he’s keeping you tightly in place while his cock slides even deeper inside your wetness, as far as he can go. His leaking tip hits against the end of your cunt each time, pre-cum coating your already-wet velvety walls.
You're a mess underneath him. “L-lu!—Ah!“ your body is limp but so alive, shaking from every thrust. Your thighs quiver and your back arches helplessly, your mouth keeps falling open with these uncontrollable sounds that get louder and louder. “I—hnghh, ahhn! Luffyy!—“ Your pussy can’t stop clenching around him, and the overstimulation is so much that your whole body searches for something to cling to.
And then without thinking, it happens.
Your nails drag down Luffy’s back. Not gently. Hard. Deep red lines bloom down his skin as you scratch, desperate, grounding yourself in the only way you can. You’re crying out Luffy’s name, sobbing from the pleasure, your hands raking over Luffy’s sweaty back like if you’ll let go, you’ll drown in it.
Luffy shudders the second he feels it. His moan cuts into a sharp gasp, his whole body jerks like electricity shot through him. He’d never felt that before, never had someone mark him like that. And it drives him insane. His instincts kick in—he snarls into your neck, rutting into you harder, chest heaving, but there’s this huge grin splitting his face too.
“—Haa! y/n!! That feels good!!” he cries, voice cracked and needy, and he starts chasing it, almost angling his body so your nails keep dragging along him with every movement.
Your voice is hoarse.. breathless: “l-luffy—luffy please!~ I can’t— it’s so much—!” but your nails dig deeper anyway, your hands trembling as they tear lines down his back again and again.
Luffy is so gone that the sting just fuels him. He doesn’t slow down once, doesn’t even notice his own back burning from the scratches—it just eventually shoves him right over the edge—like his body wants it. “‘m gonna cum, gonna cum—!” the feeling of your nails deep in his back while his cock is getting hugged so tight from your sweet pussy is just too much, it feels too good. His cock throbs deep inside you, and then he’s cumming hard.
Thick, hot spurts fill your cunt in heavy waves, way more than usual, so much it leaks out almost instantly. His moans are loud, breaking into desperate little cries. “Ahhh ‘m cummin’—c-cummin’ s’good.. feels s’good!..haaah—!!” He moans out, eyes half lidded and glazed with pleasure.
His back is still raking against your trembling nails, every sting sparking another throb, another spurt. His hips jerk through it, rutting sloppily, chasing every last drop, still thrusting deep in you—fucking himself through his orgasm.
And you—the moment Luffy empties inside you while rutting so hard, your body shatters, a sharp aching jolt running down your spine as your cunt clenches hard around Luffy’s length, fluttering and sucking him deeper, overstimulated to hell. Your legs quake and lock around Luffy’s waist, heels digging in. You sob out, voice high and broken “hngh—! ‘m—ahhh!!”
And then you're cumming too, hard, pussy spasming. The overstimulation is unbearable, your nerves feel like they’re on fire, every thrust dragging you through wave after wave. Your scratches get even deeper into Luffy’s back, nails trembling but desperate, carving red streaks as you cry out helplessly while he continues to fuck into you.
By the time it ends, Luffy is still above you, panting, drooling on your neck with the dopiest, bliss-drunk grin. His back is a canvas of red marks and welts, but he’s giggling breathlessly, voice hoarse, “Shishishi… that was s’amazing… y/n, you scratched me sooo good… it made me cum s’hard…” he sighs happily.
Luffy’s back is covered in raw, red lines, some still stinging, some bleeding lightly, but he doesn’t care at all—he’s still just grinning like he just had the best meal of his life, “You scratched me a lot, y/n. Do it again next time, ‘kay?” While you just whined underneath him, your pussy fluttering weakly around luffy’s cock as you can’t think straight right now.
Luffy’s humming to himself after, pulling his blue shorts back on, tying his yellow sash lazily around his waist. He’s still sweaty, hair sticking out in every direction, but his grin is wide and boyish.
You’re sitting on the bed, blanket bunched around your waist, legs trembling, face still hot and flushed. You catch a glimpse of Luffy’s back as he straightens up—and your eyes widen.
The whole expanse of his tanned skin is covered in angry red scratches, some raw and welted, a few with little beads of blood. They run all the way down his back, vivid and shameless. You instantly go pale, your hands flying to your mouth. “Luffy—!!” Your voice cracks, horrified. “I–I did that?! Oh my god—I’m so sorry! Does it hurt?! I didn’t mean to—!”
Luffy glances over his shoulder, blinking. “Huh? Oh.” He cranes his neck to try and see his own back, but then just shrugs like it’s nothing.
You're scrambling, cheeks burning, trying to reach for him. “I-I scratched you so bad! You’re bleeding a little—Luffy, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
But Luffy just laughs, that carefree, belly-deep laugh, his grin stretching wide. “Shishishi! Why’re ya apologizin’? I liked it!”
You froze, speechless. Your whole face goes pink, ears hot, lips fumbling to form words. “Y-You… you liked that?!”
Luffy just tilts his head, totally serious but playful. “Yeah! It made me cum way harder. Ya should do it again next time!”
You make this tiny strangled noise, burying your red face into your hands, completely overwhelmed. You don’t know if you want to sink into the floor or kiss Luffy senseless. Your chest is pounding, and all you can manage is a muffled “l-luffy..”
Luffy just plops down next to you with that goofy grin, eventually pressing your foreheads together. “What? It’s true! You’re the best, y/n!” He giggles as he wraps an arm around your waist, nudging you to get up. “C’mon, let’s go!” He announces, that made you let out a sigh, at least he doesn’t mind the scratches you desperately made on him.
Later, when Luffy’s still wandering around shirtless, you're trailing behind him like a little stormcloud of nerves. Every time you see those deep red scratch marks across Luffy’s back, your stomach flips, especially because the crew definitely would notice.
You finally tug him into their room, cheeks pink, holding a little jar of cream Chopper gave you for cuts and scrapes. “Sit down, Luffy..” you mutter, voice all wobbly but stern. “I need to clean your back.”
Luffy blinks at you, tilting his head like a puppy. “Huh? Why?”
Your face heats. You gesture weakly at his back. “B–Because you’re covered in scratches! And they’re from me… If the others see, they’ll—they’ll ask questions!”
Luffy just grins at that, plopping down cross-legged on the bed like this is some big fun game. “So what? I’ll just tell ’em ya did it.”
“Luffy!!” You squeak, nearly dropping the cream. Your whole face is glowing red now. “Y–You can’t just say that! Do you want everyone to know?!”
Luffy blinks at you innocently, totally confused. “Why not!? I told ya I liked it!” He’s so cheerful about it, so blunt. His big smile is making you want to melt into the floor.
You let out a groan, covering your face with one hand, but you still scoop out some of the cream with trembling fingers. Carefully, gently, you smooth it over the angry lines down Luffy’s back. Your touch is tender, almost reverent, even as you stammer out “jeez.. you’re so shameless, y’know that? Aren’t you embarrassed..?”
Luffy giggles at the cold cream, wriggling but letting you work. “Embarrassed? Why? You’re mine! If ya scratch me, then ya scratch me. I don’t care if they see.”
You go silent, your throat tight, you can’t argue with that blunt honesty—it always leaves you speechless. All you can do is keep tending the scratches with careful little touches, your heart pounding like crazy. When you’re done, Luffy twists around and suddenly wraps both of his arms around your waist, hugging you tight with a cheeky grin. “Thanks, y/n! You’re always so nice to me!”
At night, the ship is quiet, everyone else is asleep. But Luffy’s sprawled on top of you, cheek squished against your chest, drooling just a little with that blissful knocked-out smile. His arms are wrapped around you like he’s never letting go.
You’re wide awake, though. Your fingers keep ghosting over Luffy’s back where the scratches are still faintly raised and red. Every time your fingertips trail across them, your chest squeezes with guilt and warmth all at once. You pout down at the mess you left, whispering softly even though Luffy’s practically half-asleep “..You really could’ve told me to stop…”
But Luffy shifts at the touch, a sleepy hum slipping out of him. “Mmm… don’t stop...” His voice is slurred, half-asleep but honest.
You sigh, blushing furiously, eventually you duck your face into Luffy’s messy hair with a shaky little smile. Your nails drag so carefully now, just tracing the lines you left behind, softer than soft. Not hurting—just petting, retracing what you did. Your voice is a whisper, shaky but affectionate “I’d never hurt you… I was so scared that I did… but you really did like it, huh?”
Luffy giggles against your chest in his sleep “mmm.. liked it… ‘lots…” he mumbles.
And your heart melts completely at that, your chest aching with love. You keep scratching lightly, almost massaging up and down Luffy’s back until your own eyelids grow heavy. Before you drift off, you press a kiss into Luffy’s hair and whispered “…love you, lu..” after that, you finally let yourself sleep, your arms locked protectively around your beloved captain.
do not copy, translate, plagiarize or put my writing into ai ⋆˚⟡˖
Summary: In present-day Britain, you buy a small wooden box at a flea market and find a bundle of unsent WWII letters addressed to Bucky Barnes, written by his mother and sister. You mail them back with a brief note, expecting nothing. What you get instead is a quiet, steady correspondence, and the slow, gentle way two lonely people learn to trust the page.
Wordcount: 7,8k
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader (no use of Y/N)
Warnings: mentions of war (WWII), mentions of loss and grief (family), mentions of trauma/PTSD, mentions of captivity/experimentation, emotional vulnerability, loneliness, anxiety, insomnia mentions, minor injury (non-graphic)
Elixir's Arcade Event: High Card with penpal AU & "I don't have anyone else."
A/N: as always, this has been betaed by @blobfishlol (thank you <3). Would you believe that Cassie yelled at me for that one? It's not even angsty!
Masterlist
Bucky returned to his flat with the kind of quiet that came after a mission that went well enough to be called a success. Steve and Sam had peeled off at the curb – Steve with a nod that meant are you alright, Sam with a crooked grin that meant don’t get sentimental about it – and Bucky had climbed the stairs alone, keys cold in his palm.
He collected his mail from the lobby boxes out of habit more than hope. Most days it was the same thin stack: bills, notices, something glossy he never remembered signing up for. He held them under one arm as he walked, already sorting them in his head into piles that meant later and never.
Then he saw it.
An envelope sat among the usual paper like it had taken a wrong turn into someone else’s life. It was larger than the rest, stiff-backed, too clean to be junk, too deliberate to be a mistake. His eyes moved over it once, then again, slower, as if the letters might rearrange themselves into something familiar.
The name meant nothing to him. The return address meant even less – an ordinary street in London, a handful of numbers, a postcode that looked like a code word.
London.
He stood there for a moment, mail in hand, and felt an old reflex stir in his chest: caution first, curiosity second. His mouth tightened as if he had bitten down on a thought.
Upstairs, he set the stack on the kitchen counter and stared at it like it might start talking. The room smelled faintly of coffee grounds and laundry detergent, clean in the way only a place lived in by one person ever was.
He took off his jacket. He hung it up. He kicked off his boots and lined them neatly by the door because order was a thing he could make when other things refused to be made.
He poured himself a glass of water and drank half of it in one pull, like he had been thirsty for longer than he wanted to admit. The glass clinked against the counter when he set it down.
Then he reached for the large envelope again.
He turned it over once, checking for anything that might bite him – powder, wires, anything that would turn kindness into a trap. He pressed the pad of his thumb along the seal. It held. He tried again, more impatient. The paper gave with a soft tear that sounded too small to matter.
Inside, something slid against the cardboard backing with the weight of time.
He drew it out carefully.
It was a bundle of smaller envelopes, tied together with ribbon that had faded into a muted, tired colour. The paper was thinner, the edges worn. The stamps were wrong – too old, too familiar in a way that made his stomach go tight. The handwriting on the front was not the printed neatness of a label; it was ink laid down by someone who had pressed too hard, like they had been trying to anchor a person to the page.
Bucky’s breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale.
He did not touch the ribbon at first. He hovered his fingers over it, as if it might burn. His metal hand stayed back, uninvited, while his flesh hand approached – because some instincts never changed, no matter how many decades tried to sand them down.
Then he noticed the other thing tucked alongside the bundle: a single sheet of paper, newer, brighter. Clean white. Modern ink. A note folded once, as if the writer had hesitated, then decided to make it small.
He unfolded it.
His eyes tracked the lines quickly – too quickly, like he expected it to vanish. Then he read it again, slower this time, letting each word settle into place.
The name at the bottom matched the return address.
London. A stranger’s handwriting. A stranger’s choice.
Bucky sank onto the nearest chair without meaning to, the wooden seat pressing up against him like proof he was still in the present. He set the note down on the table with a care that startled him.
The ribbon around the old letters looked suddenly like something fragile and alive.
He stared at the bundle until the room went very quiet around him, the way it did right before an explosion – only this time there was nothing loud coming.
Just paper. Ink. Time, delivered to his kitchen counter in a thick envelope with an unfamiliar name.
The note was short.
The paper was newer than the bundle it had travelled with, bright and clean against the tired, yellowed envelopes. The handwriting was careful without being stiff, as if the writer had chosen each stroke the way someone chose their words around a skittish animal.
He read it once.
Then he read it again, slower.
Mr. Barnes,
I found these letters inside a wooden box at a flea market.
They seemed important, so I’m returning them to you. I hope my parcel reaches you. Personal effects like these shouldn’t be forgotten in an attic.
Take care of yourself.
P.S.: I didn’t read them.
He held the page for a moment after he finished, staring at the last line as if it had weight.
I didn’t read them.
Something in his chest loosened by a fraction. Not relief exactly – relief felt too generous for a man who had learned to expect the worst from strangers – but something like a careful exhale. A small kindness, stated plainly, with no hooks hidden in the margin.
Bucky set the note down on the table.
His hand went to the bundle.
The ribbon resisted at first, fibres stiff with age, and his fingers hesitated – just for a beat – before he slid the knot apart. The envelopes shifted against one another with a soft, papery sigh.
He lifted the first one.
The name on the front was his.
Not typed. Not stamped. Written.
His mother’s handwriting struck him like a scent he had forgotten existed. The neat slant, the way she formed her capital B as if she meant it. The slight smudge where her hand must have paused, ink gathering when she pressed too long in one place.
Eighty years fell away in an instant he did not ask for.
His thumb traced a letter without touching it, hovering a hair’s breadth above the paper. His throat tightened.
He picked up the next envelope.
The script ran quicker – less measured, more urgent, like the words had tried to outrun the page. His sister. A younger hand, but unmistakable. A curl in the y, a stubborn line under certain words as if she had been underlining her own courage.
His breath caught, sharp and quiet.
They had written to him.
He understood it then, all at once: these were the letters that had never reached him. Letters that had crossed an ocean – or tried to – and gotten lost somewhere in the grey machinery of war, filed away, misplaced, forgotten. The kind of loss no one noticed because there were so many losses already.
He sat down before his knees betrayed him.
He chose one carefully, as if choosing wrong would ruin something.
He slid a finger under the flap and opened it with the gentleness of a man disarming a bomb.
The paper inside crackled softly when he unfolded it.
He read.
At first he read like he always read – fast, scanning for threats, for traps, for what mattered. Then the words sank in and made him slow down, because none of them were threats. None of them were orders. None of them demanded anything of him except attention.
He read the way you listened when someone spoke from a long way away.
His mother wrote about rationing as if it was an inconvenience instead of a hardship. She complained about the cold and then, immediately, apologised for complaining. She told him she had fixed a loose button on one of his shirts that he hadn’t even remembered owning. She told him she missed him with a steadiness that made his eyes burn.
He smiled once – brief and startled – at a line that sounded so much like her he almost heard it out loud.
He swallowed hard when he reached a sentence where she tried to be brave and failed, just a little, between one word and the next.
He folded that letter back up carefully and placed it on the table as if it deserved its own space.
He opened another.
His sister wrote faster, more chaotic, as if she had been talking with her hands. She described neighbours and news and a boy from down the street who had tried to act tough and tripped over a doorstep. She asked him questions she could not hear the answers to. She told him she saved him the last piece of something sweet and then admitted she had eaten it anyway, because she couldn’t help herself.
Bucky laughed under his breath – one short sound that surprised him in the quiet kitchen.
A few pages later, his vision blurred without warning.
He blinked, once, twice, and the blur stayed.
He set the letter down and pressed the heel of his hand to his eye with a roughness that did not match the care he’d given the paper. His breath shook, just enough to irritate him.
He did not sob. He did not collapse.
He just… let the water gather, because it had to go somewhere.
He kept reading.
Letter after letter, slowly now. Sometimes he smiled, small and private, like he was borrowing a moment that no one could take from him. Sometimes his throat tightened and he had to stop and stare at the kitchen wall until he remembered how to breathe again.
Outside, the city went on – cars, distant voices, the hum of someone else’s life through the thin glass of the window.
Inside, time sat down across from him and spoke in his mother’s ink.
When the light in the room shifted and he realised hours had passed, the bundle lay partly untied, envelopes spread like a fan across his table. The wooden box sat open beside them, no longer a stranger’s relic but a kind of anchor.
The modern note remained where he had placed it, plain and quiet among the ruins and miracles of old paper.
Bucky stared at it for a long moment.
Then, as if the movement had been waiting in his bones, he pushed back his chair.
He went to the drawer where he kept things he used and things he didn’t.
He took out a pen.
He found a sheet of paper that wasn’t wrinkled, wasn’t stained, wasn’t a scrap torn from a notebook. Something worthy of an answer.
He sat down again.
He placed the blank page in front of him.
For a moment, he only held the pen, poised above the paper, feeling the strange weight of choice. He had written so many things in his life – reports, notes, names, confessions he never sent. None of it felt like this.
He thought of London. Of a flea market. Of a stranger who had looked at his name and decided to do the right thing.
His hand moved.
He began to write.
About two weeks passed in a way that felt both too fast and impossibly slow.
In that time, Bucky’s mailbox began to hold something other than paper that demanded money or silence. Envelopes appeared with British stamps and a return address he still could not picture in his head without effort. He received them like a man receiving weather – cautious at first, then with a reluctant sort of expectation.
By the third – maybe the fourth – he recognised the shape of it before he even saw the handwriting. He told himself not to.
He did anyway.
That afternoon, he climbed the stairs with a paper bag of groceries cutting into his fingers and an envelope tucked under his thumb like a secret. The bag smelled like apples and bread and something citrusy from a cleaner he didn’t remember choosing. The envelope smelled like nothing at all, and somehow that made it louder.
Inside, he set everything down on the counter and stared at the letter as if it might open itself.
He forced himself to put the groceries away first.
Milk in the fridge. Eggs in their carton. Bread on the counter because he never trusted the fridge not to turn it into something damp and wrong. He moved with the stiff efficiency of a man who had learned to keep his hands busy when his head threatened to do something reckless.
Only when everything sat where it was supposed to sit did he pick up the envelope.
He washed his hands, too, because the idea of touching that paper with grocery-store grit on his fingers bothered him in a way he couldn’t explain.
Then he opened it.
The sound of tearing was small, domestic. It grounded him.
He slid the letter free and unfolded it once, careful not to crease the page more than it already was. His eyes caught on the first line, and his mouth twitched before he could stop it.
He read.
Dear Bucky,
Writing that still feels really strange.
But your comment about how calling you Mr. Barnes made you feel old – and like I was talking to your father – made me laugh out loud. I didn’t mean to make you feel ancient. I promise I wasn’t trying to be formal. I just… didn’t know what was appropriate.
(It turns out you did. So thank you.)
It rained again today. I know, it sounds like the most cliché thing a person living in London could possibly say. There are beautiful days here. They exist. Sometimes. Briefly. Usually when you don't bring an umbrella out of pure spite.
It doesn’t surprise me that you don't think the tea in New York tastes good.
Small confession: ever since the Boston Tea Party, we only send you the tea that is roughly acceptable. Consider it a centuries-long grudge carried out via slightly disappointing leaves.
Especially when we see what you do with iced tea.
I still don’t understand it. I tried. I really did. But I once watched someone put lemon and sugar into a glass the size of their head and call it “refreshing” and I felt personally offended on behalf of every kettle in Britain.
Anyway – enough of my dramatic opinions.
I slipped a bit of Earl Grey into the envelope. Tell me what you think. You have to respect the temperature and the steeping time, though. No crimes against tea. I will know.
Yours,
Bucky read the letter once.
Then he read it again, slower, like the humour sat between the lines and he wanted to catch every last piece of it before it vanished.
The laugh that left him was quiet, rough-edged from disuse, but it was real. It surprised him enough that he covered his mouth with his hand like he had been caught doing something indecent.
He looked down at the page again.
“Centuries-long grudge,” he murmured, and his lips pulled into something that almost felt like a smile he remembered how to wear.
When he turned the paper over and a small packet slid out – neat, light, harmless – he froze for half a second out of instinct. Then he exhaled and picked it up with two fingers as if it might be fragile in a different way.
Earl Grey.
He held it there for a moment, the little sachet resting in his palm like a ridiculous, ordinary gift, and his throat tightened for reasons that had nothing to do with tea.
He set it carefully on the counter next to the letter, lined them up as if alignment could make sense of feeling.
Then he went to the cupboard.
He took out a mug he actually liked – the one Steve had bought him months ago because he kept using chipped ones like he didn’t deserve better.
He filled the kettle and set it on.
While the water heated, he found himself glancing back at the letter again and again, like it might say something different if he looked away for too long.
When the kettle clicked, he poured the water and waited. He actually waited.
He counted the minutes under his breath, like a man defusing something delicate.
When the tea steeped long enough, he removed the bag and took a careful sip.
He did not know what he expected – some sudden doorway back into the past, some magic correction of all the wrong turns his life had taken.
It tasted like bergamot and warmth and the sharp comfort of something done properly.
It tasted like someone had thought of him on purpose.
Bucky sat down at his table with the letter spread in front of him and the mug between his hands.
He stared at the blank space on the page where your signature ended, and he thought – very plainly – that he needed to write back.
Not because he owed you.
Because he wanted to.
The mission went wrong in the small, ordinary ways that never made the news.
It did not end with a building collapsing or a skyline on fire. It ended with a bad call, a door that should have stayed closed, a moment where Bucky’s reflexes were fast but not fast enough. It ended with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth and a pain in his ribs that flared every time he drew a full breath.
He reached his flat after dark, moving like he had to negotiate with gravity on every step. He washed his hands by muscle memory. He pressed a dish towel to his lip until the bleeding slowed. He did not turn the lights on in the main room right away.
The silence greeted him at the threshold, familiar as a second skin.
For a moment, he stood there as if he expected it to accuse him.
Then he noticed the envelope on the floor by the door, half-hidden where it had slid under the gap. The sight of it cut through the fog in his head with a clarity that made him go still.
London.
His name – Bucky – written in careful ink.
He bent to pick it up and hissed as the movement tugged at his ribs. He swore under his breath, not at the pain, but at himself for reacting as if he had forgotten his own body could still betray him like this.
He carried the letter to the couch like it was something breakable.
He sat down slowly, one hand braced against his side. The other hand – his flesh hand – held the envelope. His metal fingers curled and uncurled once, restless, as if they wanted to help and did not know how.
He did not open it immediately.
He stared at the return address, at the shape of your handwriting, and tried to breathe through the ache in his ribs. He tried to keep the mission out of his mind. He tried not to think about the moment he hit the floor and saw stars and felt, very briefly, the old, ugly certainty that he might not get up again.
He tried.
The paper in his hand grounded him anyway.
He tore the envelope open with more care than his shaking fingers suggested. The sound was soft, domestic, too gentle for the state he was in. He pulled the letter out, unfolded it, and the world narrowed to ink.
Dear Bucky,
I hope this letter finds you well.
Today a kindergarten class came to the library.
I read them The Leaf Thief. It’s about a squirrel who loves counting the leaves on his tree – red leaves, gold leaves, orange, and more. But then one leaf goes missing. He panics, obviously, and goes on a quest with his friend Bird to find the “leaf thief” among the forest animals. Turns out, of course, that the thief is only Autumn.
They laughed so much.
I especially love it when children visit. The whole library fills with laughter and there are fewer silences. It feels like the shelves breathe differently, like they’re happy to be used for something noisy and alive.
I took your recommendation and listened to Benny Goodman. You were right – he’s ridiculously good on the clarinet. I can see why you like him.
I would have loved to see you dance back then. I’m sure you were wildly popular. (Don’t deny it. I won’t believe you.)
It’s not the same genre at all, but I think you’d really like Tony Ann. I listen to him when I read. It makes everything feel… softer around the edges. Like the world is gentler than it looks.
I have to leave you now, “duty” (meaning chores) is calling.
With love,
Bucky’s vision blurred for a second and he blinked hard, irritated at his own eyes.
He read the letter once, absorbing it the way he absorbed intel: quickly, methodically. Then he read it again, slower, letting the warmth soak into places in him that had stayed cold out of habit.
His lip stung where it had split. He tasted copper when he swallowed. His ribs protested when he shifted, and he kept his hand there, steady pressure, as if he could convince the pain to stay contained.
The paper trembled slightly in his grip.
Not from fear. From adrenaline that had nowhere else to go.
He stared at the line about the library filling with laughter. He stared at fewer silences, like you had written it for him on purpose even if you hadn’t meant to.
He tried to imagine it.
He tried to build the room out of details: tall windows, maybe, because London liked old buildings with big panes of glass. Rows of shelves that smelled like dust and glue and the faint sweetness of paper. A front desk with a computer that always tried to update at the worst possible time. A cart of returned books that leaned slightly to one side because the wheel was stubborn.
He imagined you there, surrounded by a cluster of children small enough to look like a flock. Four or five years old. Coats too big. Shoes that lit up when they ran. Hands sticky with whatever snacks their teacher had promised them if they behaved.
He pictured you holding a book open in your lap. Turning the pages slowly so they could see the pictures. Making your voice higher for Squirrel, lower for Bird. Maybe you made one of the other animals sound silly on purpose – an exaggerated grumble, a dramatic gasp – because kids loved that. Maybe you pulled a face when the squirrel panicked over the missing leaf, and they shrieked with laughter like that was the funniest tragedy in the world.
He did not know what you looked like.
He did not know the colour of your hair, the shape of your mouth, the way your hands moved when you spoke. He did not know the sound of your voice – whether it was soft or sharp, whether you spoke quickly, whether you laughed through your nose, whether you had a little hitch when something genuinely amused you.
But he wanted to.
The want arrived without warning, hot and sudden, like stepping too close to a fire you hadn’t realised was burning.
He wanted to hear the voices you made for the animals. He wanted to hear the way you said his name out loud, not as ink, not as an idea, but as a real sound in the air. He wanted to know whether your laughter was quiet or loud, whether it filled rooms the way you said children’s laughter did.
He swallowed, and his ribs punished him for it.
Get a grip, he told himself automatically, the old voice in his head that tried to keep everything contained and manageable.
It did not work.
His eyes moved over the page again.
The bit about Benny Goodman made his mouth twitch, almost a smile. He remembered writing about music like it was safe ground – something normal to offer. Something he could share without bleeding.
He imagined you listening like he had suggested, maybe with headphones on, maybe with a small speaker on your kitchen counter while you washed dishes, the clarinet threading through the air like a bright, clean line.
He imagined you reading while Tony Ann played in the background, the piano smoothing the edges of the day the way you described.
With love.
The word sat at the end of your letter like a hand extended and left there, not demanding anything, simply offering.
His throat tightened around something that was not pain.
Bucky leaned his head back against the couch and closed his eyes for a moment. The mission tried to shove itself into the space behind his eyelids – flashes of movement, the sound of impact, the sickening second where everything had gone wrong.
He opened his eyes again and looked at your letter.
It was ridiculous, how quickly a single page could change the temperature of a room.
He glanced toward the kitchen. The sink still held his blood-stained dish towel. His phone sat on the counter with a dark screen. The apartment looked the same as it always did.
But the silence felt… interrupted. Not erased. Just less absolute.
His fingers tightened around the paper, careful not to crease it. His metal hand flexed at his side, then rose, hesitated, and finally rested against the back of the couch as if it, too, needed something steady to hold.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, controlled, the way he did when he wanted his hands to stop shaking.
He thought of the children laughing. Of the squirrel losing one leaf and acting like the world ended. Of the truth behind the story – leaves fell. Seasons changed. Things disappeared and came back different.
He thought of you writing about chores like they were a joke. Like duty could be ordinary and not a sentence.
And underneath all of that, he felt it again: that fierce, unfamiliar urge to know you beyond ink.
To not have you be only a return address and a handwriting sample.
His gaze drifted to the small stack of letters he had already kept – yours and his mother’s and his sister’s, all gathered in the same space now, improbably. He realised he had started measuring time by the distance between envelopes.
He read your letter one more time, because he could.
Then he folded it carefully along the existing creases and set it on the coffee table like it belonged there.
He stood up slowly, bracing his ribs, and made his way to the drawer where he kept pens. He chose one that worked, one that didn’t smear. He pulled a clean sheet of paper free and sat at the table, the overhead light casting a small circle like a stage.
He placed the paper down.
For a moment, he only held the pen, staring at the blank page while his heartbeat settled into something quieter.
He thought of London rain and a library full of laughter.
He thought of how you had signed off – with love – as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
Bucky lowered the pen to the page.
He began to write back.
The parcel arrived on a day when Bucky's hands did not stop moving.
He cleaned his kitchen twice. He reorganised the cupboard where he kept mugs until he had to stop himself from lining them up by height like a drill sergeant. He folded a dish towel three times and still thought the corners looked wrong. He paced from the window to the counter and back again, as if the distance between those two points could measure time.
He told himself he was waiting for the kettle to boil.
The kettle wasn’t even on.
When the knock finally came – two quick taps from the neighbour who occasionally accepted deliveries for him – Bucky’s chest tightened with something that did not feel like fear, exactly, but lived right next to it. Anticipation was a dangerous thing. He had spent most of his life treating it like a trap.
He opened the door.
The neighbour handed him a box. Cardboard, taped at the edges, his name printed cleanly on a label. The return address sat in the corner in your handwriting, as if you had insisted on writing it yourself rather than trusting a machine to do it.
London.
Bucky thanked him – awkwardly, because gratitude still felt like a language he spoke with an accent – and carried the box inside with both hands as if it might bruise.
He set it on the counter and stared at it for a beat too long.
Then he washed his hands.
It was a ridiculous thing, maybe, but he did it anyway. He did not want to touch something you had prepared with fingers that still smelled faintly of metal and soap and the restlessness he could not scrub out.
He cut through the tape carefully, blade angled away from the box as if he was afraid of cutting into whatever waited inside. The cardboard flaps sprang open with a soft sigh. There was padding – crumpled brown paper, the kind that made everything look like it had been wrapped by someone who cared about corners.
Underneath, there was an envelope.
Not the usual thin rectangle. This one was thicker, heavier, like it had been meant to hold more than words.
He lifted it out and felt something shift inside: small bags, light but substantial, a faint herbal scent rising as soon as the air touched it. Chamomile – sweet and apple-like – followed by something sharper, greener, that reminded him of summer fields he had not visited in decades.
His mouth twitched.
He slid his finger under the flap of the envelope and opened it, then unfolded the page inside.
Your handwriting met him like it always did – careful, familiar now, the shape of your sentences almost as comforting as their content.
He read.
Dear Bucky,
Have your insomnia spells calmed down?
I know it isn’t much, but you’ll find chamomile in this letter to make infusions with. My grandmother grows all sorts of things in her garden in Ingatestone, and among other things I always bring home enough to make my own herbal teas instead of buying them.
I don’t have anyone else with whom to share this. My hobbies don’t really match “people my age.” I don’t like going out dancing on weekends or staying out late drinking in crowded places.
Sometimes I tell myself I wasn’t born in the right era.
There isn’t even a question of whether you’re right: London has changed enormously since the 1940s.
But I’d be happy to be your guide if you ever decided to come and see whether you can find the places you once knew. The Old Bell is still there, but it’s the only one I can think of off the top of my head.
With love,
Bucky read the letter once.
Then he read the line again – I don’t have anyone else – and something in his ribs clenched that had nothing to do with injury. It was a phrase he had carried in his own head like a bruise, one he did not say out loud because saying it made it real.
You had written it down like it was simply a truth. Not a weapon. Not a plea. Not even a dramatic confession.
Just… a fact you trusted him with.
His throat tightened.
He swallowed, and the paper trembled slightly in his hand.
For a moment he sat very still, the way he sat when he tried not to scare something away.
Then, carefully, as if the movement mattered, he set the letter down on the counter.
He reached back into the envelope.
He expected a small sachet. A little baggie with dried flowers, maybe. Something modest you could tuck into a letter without trouble.
He pulled out the first packet and froze.
It was chamomile – but it wasn’t alone.
There were several small parcels, each sealed neatly, each with a little handwritten note attached. The kind of note you wrote as if you assumed he would want to know more than the bare minimum.
Bucky stared at them, then let out a short laugh he did not manage to hold back. It sounded strange in his quiet kitchen – surprised and genuine, like the room had been waiting years to hear it.
He spread them out on the counter like evidence, like treasures, like something that deserved space.
Chamomile, labelled with your tidy script. Beside it: lemon balm – Melissa officinalis, you had even written the full name, as if you couldn’t help being thorough.
Vervain.
Lavender.
Nettle.
He picked up the first note with his fingers and read it.
Chamomile: something about calming, about sleep, about easing the body into rest like a gentle hand on the shoulder.
He picked up the next.
Lemon balm: a note about soothing nerves, lifting mood, helping when the mind ran too fast.
The next: lavender – relaxation, quieting thoughts, easing tension.
Vervain – comfort, digestion, stress, old folk remedies, your grandmother swearing by it.
Nettle – nutrients, strength, “don’t make a face, I promise it tastes better than it sounds.”
Each one had a small piece of you in it: your humour, your care, the fact that you had thought beyond the obvious and decided he deserved choices.
He laughed again, softer this time, and the sound warmed his chest in a way he had not expected.
It was an absurdly gentle thing, this: a man who had survived wars and brainwashing and the collapse of his own name, standing in his kitchen grinning at dried herbs.
But it did not feel absurd.
It felt… human.
He imagined you at a table in London, gathering the herbs into little bags, trying to keep the paper from crinkling too much so it would fit in the envelope. He imagined you writing the notes one by one, pausing to decide how to phrase a benefit without sounding like you were lecturing him.
He pictured your grandmother’s garden in Ingatestone without having seen it – rows of green, sunlight on leaves, the particular stubborn pride of someone who grew useful things with their own hands. He could almost smell earth and summer warmth layered beneath the dry herbal scent.
Bucky leaned his hip against the counter and closed his eyes for a moment.
Joy was a dangerous emotion, too. It made you careless. It made you want things.
But he could admit it now, even if only to himself in the quiet of his flat.
His heart filled – slowly, steadily – with something that made his eyes sting.
Not the sharp grief he had learned to swallow.
Not the burning panic of memory.
Something softer.
He opened his eyes and looked down at the little packets again.
With love.
He did not hear your voice when he read it, but he felt the intention behind it like warmth through cloth. He felt the steady, patient affection in the small choices: chamomile for sleep, lemon balm for nerves, lavender for tension – like you had looked at the pieces of him and thought, I can’t fix this, but I can offer comfort.
Bucky picked up the chamomile and turned it over in his hands. The dried flowers shifted, pale and delicate.
He filled the kettle.
He set a mug on the counter – the one without a chip, because suddenly he cared about small dignities.
While the water heated, he read each note again, one at a time, committing them to memory like he committed safe house addresses and codes. Not because he needed to. Because he wanted to honour the effort.
When the kettle clicked, he poured hot water into the mug and dropped the chamomile in.
The steam rose, carrying that sweet, gentle scent.
He waited, watching the water change colour, watching the flower heads loosen as they soaked, as if even dried things could soften when given warmth.
When he finally took a sip, it tasted like quiet.
It tasted like being looked after.
He sat at the table with the letter in front of him and the herb packets arranged neatly beside it. His fingers traced the words I don’t have anyone else without touching them, then moved to With love at the end, as if that was the part of the page that held him in place.
He let himself breathe in the steam and out again, slower than he had all day.
Somewhere deep inside, a thought formed, simple and startling.
I love this.
Not in the way people used the word lightly. Not in a way that demanded anything back.
In the way you loved a gesture that had been made for you, specifically, when you had stopped expecting anyone to think of you at all.
In the way you loved the proof that a person could be kind without wanting to take.
He looked at the blank space beside the letter, the part of his table that always seemed to wait for a pen.
His hand moved before he talked himself out of it.
He went to the drawer.
He took out paper.
He sat down.
This time, he did not hesitate as long as he usually did. The warmth in his hands from the mug seemed to have loosened something in him, too.
He uncapped the pen and lowered the point to the page.
And he began to write back – already imagining how to tell you that your grandmother’s garden, and your careful notes, and your impossible generosity had made his kitchen feel like home for the first time in a very long time.
Bucky left the letter on his bed like it was something that might move if he looked away.
It lay there on the dark quilt, the white of the page too bright against the washed-out colours of his room. The envelope sat beside it, London postmark stamped like a promise, the flap torn open with a care that bordered on reverence. He had read it once at the kitchen table, then again standing by the window, then a third time as he walked from room to room with no real destination, letting the words follow him like a steady hand at his back.
Five months.
Five months of ink and paper and waiting for the sound of mail hitting the floor. Five months of learning the shape of someone through sentences. Of knowing when you were teasing, when you were nervous, when you were trying to sound braver than you felt. Five months of his own replies – unseen, unheard by anyone else – leaving his hands and crossing an ocean and coming back to him in the form of your next letter, proof that he had not imagined you into existence.
Now the words on the page insisted on something he couldn’t fold into a box and tuck away.
We’re going to meet in real life.
He forced himself to look at the letter again, to read the lines that made his stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with wanting.
Dear Bucky,
After five months of exchanging letters, I still can’t quite believe we’re going to meet for real!
And I can’t believe you’d rather get a hotel room than let me offer you my spare room. You’re so stubborn sometimes!
I wrote down your flight’s arrival time. And this time you don’t get a choice – I’ll be at the airport waiting for you.
I can’t wait to see you.
Love,
He smiled, despite himself.
It was the “stubborn” line that did it – the way you scolded him like you had earned the right. The way you teased without cruelty, like you assumed there would be more chances to tease him later. He could almost hear the tone, the imagined warmth behind it, the half-laugh that would have accompanied the words if this had been spoken instead of written.
You were right, too.
He had booked the hotel because it gave him control over one small corner of the unknown. Because it meant he could leave if he needed to without it feeling like he was rejecting you. Because he did not know if he would sleep, or if insomnia would turn him into a restless ghost in your guest room, pacing your hallway and remembering too much.
Because staying with you felt – unfairly, irrationally – like too much of a gift.
Because if he accepted your spare room, he might start accepting other things, too. Comfort. Safety. A place at someone’s table. A place in someone’s life.
And he had spent a lifetime believing he didn’t deserve those things unless he earned them with blood.
He set the letter back down carefully, flattening it with his palm. His metal fingers hovered and then retreated, as if they still weren’t sure they had the right to touch something so soft.
The bed creaked behind him as he moved away.
His bag sat open on the chair by the dresser, half-packed. He had tried to approach it like a mission – list the essentials, check them off, keep it efficient. It hadn’t worked. Every item he picked up carried a ridiculous weight of meaning, as if socks and a charger and spare shirts could decide what kind of man he was going to be when he stepped off that plane.
He folded a t-shirt and placed it in the bag. Then he adjusted it so it lay perfectly flat.
He added another, then paused and stared at the fabric like it might be the wrong choice. Too casual. Too “trying.” Not trying enough. He gritted his teeth at himself and kept packing anyway.
Toiletries. Passport. Wallet. Phone charger. A small bottle of painkillers he pretended he didn’t need. A spare pair of gloves because cold still surprised his skin sometimes, even now. He checked them twice, then a third time, because repetition calmed the part of his brain that insisted something bad would happen if he didn’t.
He moved through the apartment with a restless precision, collecting what he needed, putting it in the bag, then stopping to stand in the doorway and stare at the bed again where your letter waited.
It was ridiculous, the way the page anchored him more firmly than any of his furniture ever had.
He had been to London before. He had walked those streets under different names and different orders. He had known the smell of the Underground, the feel of damp air, the way the city pressed close around you like it was listening.
But this was not that.
This time, he was going as himself.
He wondered what you would do when you saw him.
Would you hesitate? Would your smile falter for a fraction of a second when the reality didn’t match the man you had built out of handwriting and humour and careful honesty? Would you reach out like you did on paper – bold, kind – or would you freeze, suddenly aware of how strange it was to meet a person who had lived in your mailbox for months?
He wondered what he would do.
His body reacted to the thought like it always did before a fight: a tightness in his shoulders, a sharpening in his senses, the impulse to plan every outcome. He had faced assassins without blinking. He had walked into firefights with less dread than the idea of standing in an airport arrivals hall and being seen.
Not feared. Not hunted.
Seen.
He zipped the bag halfway and stopped.
His gaze drifted to the nightstand, where he had placed the wooden box weeks ago. It sat there like a quiet witness, polished now, less neglected than it had been when it arrived from your flea market. Inside were his mother’s letters, his sister’s, and – carefully folded – your first note, the one that had started all of this.
He opened the lid.
The ribbon lay curled inside, faded and patient. He touched it with his fingertips and felt his throat tighten again, an old ache softened by something new.
Then his hand moved to the other stack.
Your letters.
He had them bundled neatly, too – his own small ritual. Paper kept together because he feared what would happen if he let it scatter. Because he liked the idea that the story had shape, even if his life often didn’t.
He slid the newest letter out and held it again.
I’ll be at the airport waiting for you.
The line made his chest warm in a way he did not know how to defend against.
He had spent so long being the one who waited in shadows. The one who watched. The one who arrived silently and left without saying goodbye. He had never been the one someone stood in a crowd for. Never been the reason someone checked a clock and smiled, impatient for the minutes to pass.
He read the last line again.
I can’t wait to see you.
He pressed his thumb against the paper, right over the word see, as if he could hold it in place.
“I’m coming,” he said under his breath, like the words needed to exist outside his head.
He returned the letter to the bed gently, smoothing it again, because he couldn’t help it. Then he went back to the bag and forced himself to finish.
He packed the last few things with the focus of a man trying not to think too hard about how much he cared: an extra shirt, because Steve always told him to bring one more than he thought he’d need; a small notebook, because writing had become a habit he didn’t want to lose; and, after a moment’s hesitation, a slim stack of your letters tied with ribbon.
He paused with them in his hands.
Taking them felt like superstition. Like carrying a talisman. Like admitting he was afraid of getting on that plane without proof that this was real.
He put them in anyway.
He closed the bag, zipped it fully this time, and set it by the door.
Then he returned to the bedroom and stood at the foot of the bed, looking at your letter one more time.
It looked so harmless on the quilt. A simple page with simple words.
But it had moved him across an ocean.
Bucky leaned down and, with a decision that felt oddly ceremonial, folded it once along the crease and slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket. Not in the bag – where it could be lost among other things – but on him, close to his chest, where he could touch it if he needed to remind himself why he was doing this.
He picked up his passport and checked it again, because that was what his hands did when his heart did something foolish.
Outside, traffic hissed along wet streets. Somewhere, a plane lifted off and disappeared into the sky.
And in a few hours, he would be on one of them, sitting still in a seat while the world moved beneath him, heading toward a place that had once been a battlefield and was now – somehow – a meeting point.
A woman he had never seen would be waiting in an airport terminal with his name in her head and his letters in her hands.
Bucky stood in the quiet of his room, the letter warm against his chest through the fabric of his jacket, and let himself feel it – just for a moment.
Joy, sharp as sunlight.
Fear, just as bright.
And beneath both, steady and unfamiliar and real.
Hope.
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Literally nobody asked about this but @snowyathena said something to me earlier about werewolf!Adrian, and my fanfic brain, which was forged in the depths of hell (the supernatural fandom) went immediately to the omegaverse so please allow me to brain dump—
On the surface he’s a beta. He grows up under the thumb of an alpha brother, and he’s always seeking for alpha friends like Chris. He just wants to be a part of a pack, just wants to be like the alphas he admires, and that’s why he takes up the mantle of Vigilante. To pretend to be something more than he is. He’s always felt this urge to be more, to protect the people he loves.
But also…Adrian literally mentions in the show that he was a late bloomer. So maybe, just maybe, that urge to protect is actually something more innate. He’s just a late-presenting alpha. He’s been surrounded by dominant personalities for so long, his body has just—defaulted. Let others lead.
Adrian doesn’t know the truth until he finally meets you. He doesn’t understand why he’s feeling so hot and itchy, so overwhelmed, so aggressive, so possessive. His omega, his mate, and all of his hormones are thrown out of whack the instant he scents you, hears you say his name. He has an absolute meltdown because what the fuck is going on and everything hurts until you touch him, until you kiss him, and then this fierce need to have you protect you keep you washes over him and it all makes sense and nothing else matters.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve harrington x reader
𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: your baby’s in love with her boyish, ridiculously charming swim instructor. and apparently, so are you. (2.6k)
𝐚/𝐧: hi :) ive been thinking a lot abt baby swim instructor steve lately.
. * ✦ . ˚ ✦ .
There’s this dumb little joke that's making the rounds in your “Mommy and Me” baby swim group.
That the most dangerous part about Saturday beginner classes isn’t the water.
It’s the instructor.
You used to roll your eyes at it—bouncing your nervous, clingy toddler on your hip while listening to the other moms whisper and gossip with each other. Oh my god, have you seen him with the little ones? It's amazing.
You don’t roll your eyes anymore.
Because the instructor in question—Steve Harrington, as you’ve learned from the sign-in sheet and the way the front desk girl said his name with a dreamy little sigh—has somehow earned your daughter’s undying loyalty in record time.
And that feels like a betrayal.
Especially when he’s just some twenty-something-year-old guy in red swim trunks, with lean, tanned arms that flex every time he hoists a giggling baby into the air.
It's ridiculous, honestly.
Your daughter went from clinging to you—fingers fisted in your swimsuit strap, wailing the second her toes skimmed the surface of the pool—to vibrating with excitement the moment she catches a whiff of chlorine.
It took, what, three classes?
Now, she spots him before you do.
You’re barely through the gates when she starts squirming in your arms, legs kicking wildly against your hip. She babbles at full volume, squealing, clapping her hands together in a desperate attempt to get his attention.
“Okay, okay,” you murmur, shifting her higher. “We see him. I know.”
He’s finishing a lap when you look up.
He cuts cleanly through the last stretch of water, arms slicing forward, shoulders rolling smooth and strong beneath the surface. When he reaches the wall, he plants his palms on the edge and hauls himself up enough to hook both forearms over the edge.
Water streams down his shoulders, along the swell of his biceps, dripping from his chin in steady rivulets. The sun turns every drop of water on his skin into a shimmering prism of light.
He wipes his face with both hands, dragging them down over his eyes to clear the chlorine, and slicks his hair back.
Then he looks up.
And it’s unfair, how his whole face changes.
Recognition lights him up instantly, his mouth curving into that easy, unguarded smile you’ve seen a dozen times now—one that pulls gentle crow’s feet around those ridiculously kind eyes.
At first glance, they're just brown.
Until the sun hits.
Then a deep shade of hazel starts to blossom at the edges, that slow spill of green feathering inward. Honey-warm at the center, almost amber where the light pools. A kind of kaleidoscope you only notice if you stare for too long.
Which you don’t.
He grins wide as you approach the pool deck, squinting slightly against the glare off the water.
There’s always this split second where he looks so openly happy to see you.
Or, more accurately—to see your daughter.
You lower yourself carefully to sit at the edge, adjusting your grip because your daughter is now folding herself in half trying to reach him.
“Hey," he smiles, glancing toward the clock mounted near the lifeguard chair. "You guys are early today,”
“Yeah, I know, she—” Your daughter lets out a determined grunt and lunges forward, feet thumping against your thigh as she tries to swan-dive straight into the water. “—Okay, okay! Hold on!”
Steve laughs, water sloshing around his waist when he lifts himself up with one hand.
“Whoa,” he says gently, catching your daughter by the ankle before she can kick you in the ribs. “Here, let me see those.”
He wiggles her foot up and down, thumb brushing over the soft arch of her sole to make her squirm. She giggles, kicking against his palm the way he’s been teaching her to do in the water.
His eyes grow wide. “Hey! Those are some serious kicks. You been practicing without me?”
You laugh, tightening your grip before she can try to launch herself again. “Sorry, she’s just... really happy to see you."
He smiles at that, still holding her tiny foot in his hand. He gives it another gentle wiggle, brushing over her little toes.
“Yeah?” he murmurs to her, playful. “You're happy to see me?”
Then he glances up at you.
And it’s very deliberate, the way he looks at you when he says it.
Something soft in his smile when he tells you,
“I'm happy to see her, too.”
𓇼
It really was just curiosity at first.
You’d sit on the shallow steps with the other parents, water lapping at your calves, your daughter balanced against your chest while you adjusted her rash guard for the tenth time.
And you’d watch him.
He’d kneel in waist-deep water, a half-circle of bobbing babies surrounding him like ducklings. Wisps of hair pasted to tiny foreheads, fat cheeks glistening with water. Tiny palms slapping the surface while he explained very seriously that, “Pools are for swimming, not drinking. Ah, ah, Ben—I saw that, bud.”
Gentle water acclimation and back floats came first.
Then came assisted front floats.
Your stomach tightened the moment he announced it.
Your daughter had only just begun to stop crying when her ears dipped into the pool. Turning her over to face the water felt like betrayal.
You shifted her in your arms, hesitating.
Then you felt a pair of warm hands brush gently against yours.
“Here, you mind if I show you? No, no, you're fine, you're doing great. You just want to support her like… this.”
You watched his hand slide over yours, cupping under her stomach to demonstrate proper placement. The span of his palm was wider than your daughter’s entire torso, fingers splayed across her round little belly, thumb braced lightly against her ribs. His other hand hovered near her shoulder, ready to catch her if she tipped even slightly.
Your chest tightened as you let go.
“Don’t worry,” he reassured you, glancing up with an easy smile. “I’ve got her, promise.”
He knelt in the pool so he was eye-level with her, bringing his face close enough that she could focus on him instead of the water beneath her.
“You’re okay, I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice dropping into that calm, even register he uses with all the kids. “See? Just floating. That's not scary, right?”
And though his eyes were on her, you had the distinct feeling the reassurance was meant just as much for you.
He eased her forward across the water, keeping her chin well above the surface, adjusting instinctively when her body went stiff.
“Can you kick for me?” he coaxed, lifting one of her chubby legs and moving it through the water. “Kick? Like this?”
For a second, she just blinked at him. Then both legs started flailing at once—wild, enthusiastic splashes that sent arcs of water straight into his face.
He sputtered, wiping at his eyes with his shoulder. “Hey! Okay! There we go!”
He turned to you, grin wide, blinking away droplets from his lashes.
“You might wanna start saving up for Olympic training.”
It was the first time he made you smile like that.
It wouldn’t be the last.
𓇼
“Uppies” are his favorite part of class.
At the end of every session, when the babies are pruny and a little glassy-eyed with exhaustion, he rounds everyone up for one last game.
He holds each baby under the arms, gently lowering them until the water reaches their shoulders. Leans in close, dropping his voice to a dramatic whisper—ready?—then hoists them high overhead with a loud whoooosh!
The pool always fills with shrieks of laughter, your daughter’s being the loudest.
She’s fearless now. The same baby who used to cling to your shoulders now squeals in joy whenever he dips her in. Wraps her arms around his neck, fingers tangling in the ends of his damp hair. One time, out of pure excitement, she smacked him square on the cheek. He’d only laughed, lifting her back up for another round.
“You like that, huh?” he grinned, a little breathless from doing twenty sets of baby shoulder-presses. “Okay, okay—one more. But that’s it. Last one.”
It’s never the last one.
He always does it again. Then again. Down, up, down, up—biceps flexing with effort, cords of muscle rippling under sun-warmed skin.
It has to burn after a while, lifting water-logged, wriggling toddlers out of the water like that.
He never lets it show.
𓇼
After a few weeks, your daughter doesn’t hesitate anymore.
The moment he’s close, she starts reaching.
Abandons your shoulders, ignores the bright foam rings floating nearby. Both arms stretched out toward him, fists clenching and unclenching impatiently.
You think it’s because she's come to associate him with safety. With warm, steady hands and that reassuring laugh that always comes right after something scary.
Like independent swims.
He backs slowly through the water while she paddles toward him, barely supporting her—just two fingers under her hands at first, then nothing.
“It’s okay, you got it,” he encourages when she lets out a frustrated whine. “C’mon, show me those strong legs. Kick-kick-kick!”
Her face scrunches in fierce concentration. She paddles forward in determined bursts, swallowing a little water but pushing through.
“That’s it. Big kicks. Yeah, there you go!”
And the second her tiny hands smack against his chest, he steadies her instantly, sliding his hands under her arms.
“Yes! Look at you go!”
Up she goes, lifted higher and higher until her legs dangle, round belly catching the sunlight.
Droplets fall from his jaw, tracing down his throat as he tilts his head back to grin at her. His brows shoot up, eyes going wide in exaggerated disbelief.
“Woah!” he gasps. “That was all you! I didn’t even help!”
Your daughter squeals, loud and piercing, toes knocking clumsily against his chest. You watch as he lowers her back down, pressing his nose briefly to her cheek before settling her against his shoulder.
He turns to you, grinning so wide it creases his whole face.
Did you see that?! he mouths, eyes shining with pride, excitement radiating off him.
You can’t do much except smile and nod.
𓇼
The day you realize you’re well and truly gone is the day the class moves to the deeper end of the pool.
The water reaches all the way up to Steve's chest there. The babies have got snug little float belts on, just enough to add buoyancy while they practice longer kicks and back floats.
Steve's hand rests under your daughter’s back, fingers spread between her shoulder blades, the other steadying her hip. You cling to the divider rope, peering anxiously at the deeper water where they float.
When he catches you watching, he bends down close, lowering his voice in an exaggerated whisper.
“Who's that?” he gasps, pointing at you. “Is that your mommy?”
Your daughter follows his finger. Sees you.
She squeals, slapping both hands into the water so hard it splashes up into his face.
“Yeah,” he laughs. “That’s your mom, huh? Say hi! Hi, mommy!”
He lifts one of her chubby arms out of the water and wiggles it in a wave. “Look at us! We’re in the deep end!”
She babbles wildly, smacking the surface some more.
He adjusts his hold on her so she’s secure against his side and calls out, “You wanna come join us, mom?”
You blink, heat rushing to your face. “Oh—uhh, no, that’s... I’m okay!”
He studies you for a moment, something curious flickering in his gaze, but doesn’t push.
“Alright, we’ll just show off from here then,” he calls back easily, shifting his attention back to your daughter. “You wanna show mommy your starfish? Yeah? C’mon, show me your starfish. That’s it!”
𓇼
He finds you at the end of class.
You’re sitting at the edge of the pool, feet dangling just above the water. Your daughter is bunded up like a burrito in your lap, sucking from her sippy cup with half-lidded eyes, fighting sleep.
You see him walking toward you, still dripping from the pool.
Water traces slow paths down his calves, leaving faint wet footprints on the concrete. Without thinking, you reach into your bag and hold out your spare towel.
“Oh, thanks,” he breathes, a little winded still, taking it with a small smile.
He drops down beside you, close enough that your thighs brush. Drapes the towel over his shoulders and scrubs it briskly through his hair, roughing it up until it sticks out in uneven, damp spikes. A few strands fall back over his eyes.
You try very hard not to stare.
There are beads of water still clinging to his bare skin, catching in the dark tuft of hair at the center of his chest. One rolls down the soft line of his stomach before disappearing into the waistband of his swim trunks.
You clear your throat, suddenly very absorbed in fluffing up your daughter’s towel.
“Hey,” he says casually, nudging your shoulder lightly with his. “Were you okay earlier?”
You glance at him. “Earlier?”
“When we moved to the deep end.” He tips his head slightly, studying your face. “You just... seemed kinda freaked out.”
You huff a small, embarrassed laugh. “Was it that obvious?”
“A little,” he shrugs, smiling.
You shift your daughter higher on your lap and press a kiss into her damp hair, mostly so you don’t have to hold his gaze.
“I just, um…” you clear your throat. “I can’t really swim. Not very well, anyway.”
There’s a brief pause.
“Oh,” he says quietly.
When you glance up, you don't find any judgement on his face. Not really surprise, either. If anything, he looks thoughtful. Maybe a little relieved, like he’d worried it was something worse.
He adjusts the towel around his shoulders, rubbing at the back of his neck as he considers.
“Well,” he starts carefully, “would you want to learn how?”
You blink at him.
“It’s just—it's kind of an important skill to have, you know?" He supplies quickly. Then his gaze falters, drifting down to your lap, settling on your daughter who’s now blinking up at him with sleepy curiosity.
“I mean, I could uh... I could show you sometime. If you want.”
Oh.
“Oh—no, I—” you rush out, flustered. “I wouldn’t want to like, take up your time. You already have to deal with so many of us.”
He shakes his head, a small, easy smile pulling at his lips. “It’s fine, I don't mind. I'd be happy to do it.”
He turns to face you fully, smile turning playful when he adds, “Seriously, I won't even charge you."
That pulls a small laugh out of you.
“You won’t, huh?”
“Nope,” he says, eyes twinkling as he gestures to the small, bundled-up head peeking up at him. "Call it a... bonus. For having the cutest little swimmer around.”
You glance down at your daughter, smiling.
“I don’t know,” you say lightly, bouncing her on your leg. “This little swimmer has the tendency to get super jealous.”
He lets out a soft laugh, reaching out to gently nudge her pudgy cheek with his knuckle.
“What do you think?” he murmurs to her. “Should we teach mommy how to swim?”
Your daughter makes a soft, pleased noise, leaning into his hand.
Steve grins, then looks back up at you, gently brushing his thumb across your knee.
“So?” he asks, voice gone quieter.
His eyes hold yours—dark brown edged with hazel, warm honey pooling at the center.
i have been obsessed with new girl rn and i was hoping to read something like reader being like jess, nick being steve, schmidt being eddie and winston being jonathan 👀
if someone writes something like this, please let me know
theartofmadeline
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
tangentwithtanner
kaledo-art
