description: for the sake of the band, the friend group, and his own sanity, eddie keeps his feelings for you firmly to himself. unfortunately, one offhand correction during a hellfire campaign reveals you're just as much of a fantasy nerd as he is. from that moment on, eddie is completely and utterly screwed.
pairing: eddie munson x nerdy!reader (fem!reader)
tags: eddie munson x you, no y/n, reader insert, FLUFFFF, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, boyfriend!eddie munson, hellfire club, guitarist!reader, gareth's bestfriend!reader, excessive physical affection, domestic fluff, reader gets special treatment during campaigns, gareth gets fed up of the will they wont they bs
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!!, PiV, unprotected, some post-campaign fun ;)
WC: 7.0k
A/N: requested by @eddiemunsonspantschain AHHH hello all! requestpalooza has started, so thank you to all who have submitted! i hope you all enjoy!! (i proofread as best as i could, i am utterly exhausted pls be gentle)
reblogs are truly appreciated <33
enjoy some lovely fluff. thought you all would appreciate a palate cleanser after the angst streak.
If anyone had asked Eddie Munson to describe you, his answer would've been embarrassingly simple: quiet, pretty, funny when you actually spoke, and an absolute menace on rhythm guitar.
You'd been Gareth's best friend since elementary school, which automatically made you part of the group years before Eddie ever showed up. Somewhere between band practice in Gareth's garage and late-night drives to nowhere with cheap gas station snacks, you'd just... become one of them.
You usually sat with your combat boots kicked up on an amp, cigarette hanging lazily between your fingers while Jeff and Gareth argued over chords and Eddie rambled about whatever had caught his attention that week.
Sometimes horror movies. Sometimes a new Metallica album. Sometimes some insane campaign he'd spent six straight hours writing instead of doing homework.
You'd just listen, smile every now and then. Throw in the occasional dry comment that made everyone laugh harder than anything else said that evening. Then go back to quietly restringing your guitar.
As far as Eddie knew, that was the extent of it. He knew you liked metal. He knew you preferred your coffee black. He knew you kept a denim jacket covered in patches draped over the back of Gareth's couch because you were over there so often.
He knew you could play Iron Maiden riffs cleaner than half the guys he'd met. He knew he had the most pathetic schoolboy crush on you imaginable. He also knew Gareth would never let him live it down if he acted on it.
So he didn't.
He flirted just enough that everyone thought that's simply how Eddie talked to girls. He'd throw you a grin. Call you sweetheart. Offer you the first beer. Let your shoulder bump against his when everyone piled onto the couch.
Nothing serious, nothing obvious. Nothing that would risk screwing up something that already worked. Because having you around was better than making things awkward and losing you altogether.
You, meanwhile, had somehow convinced everyone you had absolutely zero hobbies beyond music, which was exactly how you preferred it.
Nobody knew about the stack of fantasy novels hidden underneath your bed. Nobody knew about the little notebook full of campaign ideas. Nobody knew about the afternoons you'd spent reading through Gareth's Player's Handbook after he'd accidentally left it at your house when you were fifteen. And absolutely nobody knew that after borrowing it once, you'd gone out and bought your own.
Then another, and then another. By now you owned enough books that your bookshelf looked suspiciously like a tiny game shop. Not because you actually played; you'd never had the courage.
You just liked learning about it. The stories. The worlds. The maps. The mythology. You found it fascinating. But somewhere along the line, quietly reading had turned into quietly memorizing.
Which was why, every time Hellfire met in the theatre room after school, you intentionally sat just far enough away that you couldn't hear very well.
Because if you could hear...You'd start correcting people, and nobody likes that person. So you kept your mouth shut. It worked for months.
Until one rainy Thursday when band practice got canceled because Gareth's parents wanted the garage cleaned out, leaving the entire group with nowhere to be. Hellfire happened to be meeting.
"You should just stay," Dustin insisted.
"You literally sit here anyway."
"I'm not playing."
"You don't have to."
Jeff chimed in from somewhere behind him. "Yeah, just hang out."
You looked toward Gareth; he shrugged, "Might as well."
So you settled into one of the empty chairs against the wall with a comic book you'd barely read a page of while Eddie started spinning another one of his ridiculously elaborate campaigns.
You weren't trying to pay attention; you really weren't. But you couldn't help overhearing bits and pieces. Names you recognized. Places you recognized. Monsters you recognized. And honestly? He was really good.
Animated. Creative. Completely invested. Watching him practically stand on top of the fake throne to voice an evil wizard was charming enough that you forgot to hide your smile.
Then it happened. "So naturally," Eddie declared dramatically, "the basilisk's gaze instantly petrifies all three of you permanently—"
You physically looked up, and your eyebrows pulled together, lips parting. No. No, no, no.
You looked back down at your comic. You could ignore it. You should ignore it. Dustin was already reacting. Mike was planning around it. Lucas looked mildly horrified.
You squeezed your eyes shut. Stay quiet. Stay quiet. Stay—
"...Actually..." The word slipped out before you could stop it.
Every single head turned toward you. You immediately wished the floor would open beneath your chair.
Eddie blinked. "Hm?"
You stared at your comic. "...Nothing."
He tilted his head. "No, c'mon."
You sighed through your nose. "...A basilisk's gaze doesn't permanently petrify you."
Silence. "It can," Eddie answered carefully.
"It can…but not instantly."
You paused, rethinking your life’s choices, but decided to follow through. "It requires you to fail the saving throw."
Dustin slowly looked between both of you like he was watching a tennis match.
Eddie folded his arms. "...Okay."
You already hated this.
"And how exactly do you know that?"
You mumbled the answer.
"What was that?"
"...Monster Manual."
"What?"
You looked up reluctantly. "The Monster Manual."
He stared, and you stared back.
"...Page seventy-three."
Absolute silence. Jeff's jaw slowly fell open. Gareth looked at you, a mix of suspicion and pride forming. "...Since when?"
You rubbed the back of your neck. "I don't know."
"You own a Monster Manual?"
"...Yeah."
Eddie's voice got quieter. "...Anything else?"
You made the mistake of answering honestly. "I've got most of them."
He blinked. "Most... of them."
"The books."
"The books."
"Yeah."
He looked genuinely speechless. Then, very carefully, "...Name five schools of magic."
You frowned. "There are eight."
His eyes got wider.
Without thinking, you started listing them. "Abjuration, Conjuration, Divination, Enchantment, Evocation, Illusion, Necromancy, Transmutation."
By the time you finished, Eddie was staring at you with an expression somewhere between existential crisis and complete infatuation.
He looked over at Gareth, looked back at you, then looked at Gareth again.
"You've been hiding this from me?"
You blinked. "I didn't think anybody cared."
"Cared?"
He sounded personally offended. "Cared?"
You shrugged helplessly. "I don't actually play."
"So?"
"I just read them."
"So?"
"I like lore."
"So?"
"I didn't think it mattered."
Eddie dragged both hands down his face, then looked at you again with something that almost looked pained. "I have spent three years desperately searching for people who voluntarily read sourcebooks."
You looked confused. "...Really?"
"And Gareth has apparently been gatekeeping the coolest girl in Hawkins."
Gareth immediately defended himself. "I DIDN'T KNOW EITHER."
Eddie looked back at you. Then, with complete sincerity, "Please join Hellfire."
You laughed.
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
"No, seriously." He leaned across the table. "I am literally begging you."
You couldn't help smiling. He looked completely smitten, like something had clicked into place. Like the cute girl he'd been trying not to flirt with too much had suddenly started speaking his favorite language.
And judging by the ridiculous grin spreading across his face, you had absolutely no idea what you'd just done to him.
It started small: a little less space between you on Gareth's couch. Conversations that accidentally stretched long after everyone else had wandered into another room. The realization that if Eddie had a campaign idea, your opinion was one of the first he wanted.
At some point, it became completely normal for Gareth to call your house and ask if he could come over to work on music, only to show up twenty minutes later with Eddie in tow and an armful of graph paper, dice, and notebooks.
Band practice would last an hour; campaign brainstorming would last four.
You'd all end up around your bedroom floor or the dining room table with pencils scattered everywhere, Eddie pacing barefoot because he'd inevitably kicked his shoes off halfway through explaining something.
"No, okay, listen," he'd insist, waving his hands around wildly. "Imagine the town thinks they're cursed because people keep disappearing into the woods."
You'd be scribbling notes already. "They're not disappearing."
He'd stop. "No?"
"They're being taken."
"By what?"
You'd chew on your pencil for a second. "They think it's a monster."
"But?"
"It's not."
He'd grin. "But?"
"It's a druid."
His eyebrows would shoot up. "Oh?"
"They're taking people because something older is waking up underneath the forest and they're trying to keep them away from it."
"That's why you're my favorite."
Gareth, without missing a beat, would throw a crumpled piece of notebook paper at him. "You are so unbelievable."
"What?"
"You don't even hear yourself."
"Hear what?"
"'That's why you're my favorite.'" He mocked.
Eddie would look genuinely confused. "I meant campaign-wise."
"Mhm."
"I did."
"Mhm."
Jeff would snort from wherever he happened to be sitting. You'd duck your head to hide a smile while pretending to be very invested in your notes.
Eventually Eddie would wander over anyway, leaning over your shoulder to look at whatever you'd been writing. His hair would brush yours.
His hands would be slightly closer to yours against the table. He'd smell faintly like cigarettes and weed and that cologne you complimented one time, and he refused to wear a different one since.
"Holy shit."
You'd glance up. "What?"
"This is so much better than what I had."
He'd snatch your notebook. "Eddie."
"Nope."
"Eddie."
"This is mine now."
"You can't just steal my ideas."
"I absolutely can."
He'd flip another page. "You drew maps?"
You'd immediately reach for the notebook. "No."
He'd lift it over his head. "You drew maps."
"Eddie."
"You color-coded the districts."
"Eddie."
"You made economic systems."
"Oh my god, give it back."
He'd be laughing too hard to defend himself as you reached for it, nearly climbing over him in the process. Somewhere behind you, Gareth would let out the most exhausted sigh known to mankind.
"Jesus Christ."
Neither of you would even notice. You'd finally grab the notebook back, smoothing out the bent page with exaggerated offense.
"You suck."
"I know."
"You bent it."
"I'll buy you another."
"I don't want another."
"I'll buy you five."
"They won't have my notes."
He'd soften immediately. "...Good point."
Then, almost sheepishly, "I'm sorry."
You'd just smile. "It's okay."
And somehow that stupid little interaction would live in his head for days afterward.
The problem was that spending more time around Eddie wasn't making your crush go away; it was making it catastrophically worse.
It was one thing to think he was attractive from across Gareth's garage while he played guitar. It was another thing entirely to watch him get excited over stories.
To watch him grin when you challenged one of his ideas and immediately start building on yours instead. To watch him get genuinely delighted when you beat him to a fantasy reference. He really listened to you. Like, actually.
Half your conversations started with him saying, "Wait, what do you think?"
Nobody had ever asked you that so often before. It made your chest hurt a little. Then there were the little things.
He always sat next to you. Always offered you the first slice of pizza. Always saved you the root beer because he'd noticed it was your favorite after seeing you pick it out exactly twice.
One afternoon, he disappeared for ten minutes while everyone argued over music. When he came back, he tossed something into your lap. You looked down: a little pewter dragon pin. Nothing fancy, probably from the flea market. Its wing was chipped, and one eye had faded paint.
"I saw it and thought of you."
Your heart nearly stopped. "It's cool."
"I figured you'd put it on your jacket."
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. "I will."
He looked suspiciously pleased with himself. Across the room, Gareth watched the exchange happen in complete silence before rubbing both hands over his face.
Jeff noticed. "What?"
Gareth looked at him. "I can't do this anymore."
"Do what?"
He pointed between the two of you. "This."
Jeff looked over. "...They're talking."
"They're in love."
"They're discussing dragons."
"They're discussing dragons in love."
Jeff started laughing, then Gareth stood up dramatically. "Eddie."
"Hm?"
"You know you can just ask her out."
The room went completely still. Eddie looked genuinely horrified. "What?"
"You heard me."
"No?"
"Ask her out."
He immediately looked at you, then away again so quickly it almost gave you whiplash. "I am not asking her out."
"And why not?"
"Because she's your best friend."
"So?"
"What if she says no?"
You looked down at your hands, and Gareth threw both arms into the air. "And what if she says yes?"
Eddie looked personally offended by the suggestion. "Don't mess with me."
"I'm literally not."
Jeff had gone completely silent, clearly realizing something much larger was unfolding.
Gareth pointed at you now. "And you."
Your head snapped up.
"When are you gonna tell him?"
You nearly choked. "Tell him what?"
He stared. "Oh, don't even."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You look at him like he personally invented the damn game himself."
Your face instantly went hot. "I absolutely do not."
"You absolutely do."
"I don't."
"You do."
"I don't."
"You literally smile every time he walks into a room."
"I smile at everyone."
"You do not smile at Jeff."
Jeff looked mildly offended. "Hey!"
You buried your face in your hands. "This is awful."
Gareth groaned loud enough to shake the walls. "I swear to God, one of you has got to grow a spine."
Eddie looked over at you. You peeked at him through your fingers. The second your eyes met, both of you immediately looked somewhere else.
Gareth stood there for another few seconds before muttering to himself and grabbing his jacket. "I'm going outside."
Jeff followed. "Me too."
The door shut behind them. You were still looking at the floor while Eddie was rubbing the back of his neck.
Finally, after what felt like forever, he spoke. "...For what it's worth..."
You looked up.
"...I don't think he's completely wrong."
Your stomach did a complete somersault. He looked terrified; you probably looked exactly the same. Then, somehow, despite both of you being objectively hopeless at this sort of thing...
You both started laughing. The nervous, embarrassed kind that comes out when there's nothing else left to do.
"So..."
"So."
Then both of you started talking at exactly the same time.
"I'm sor—"
"I didn't mea—"
You stopped, he stopped, and you both laughed again. Eddie shook his head, looking down at the floor with the kind of smile that only appeared when he was genuinely embarrassed.
"I've fought people with knives, and somehow this is scarier."
That made you smile. "I don't think Gareth was supposed to say all that."
"He definitely wasn't."
"He looked like he was gonna explode."
"He has looked like that for weeks."
Your eyebrows pulled together. "Weeks?"
Eddie looked up, immediately realizing he'd said too much. "...Maybe."
You studied him for a second. "You knew?"
He let out a long sigh. "I knew he thought something."
"And?"
"And I kept telling him he was making it up."
"You did?"
"Mhm."
"And was he?"
He looked at you for a long moment before quietly admitting, "...No."
Your heart gave one heavy, impossible thud. He looked back down almost immediately.
"I just figured..." he started, picking at one of the rings on his fingers. "I don't know."
"You can tell me."
He laughed softly to himself. "I figured I was reading into things because I wanted to."
He shrugged. "You laugh at my jokes."
"They're funny."
"You always sit next to me."
"So do you."
"You remember everything I tell you."
"So do you."
"You still have that stupid dragon pin."
You instinctively looked down at your jacket hanging over the chair across the room. It was still there, pinned right over your heart.
You looked back at him. "...Of course I do."
His ears turned pink as he smiled to himself. "I kept thinking maybe you were just nice."
"And I kept thinking you flirted with everybody."
"I do flirt with everybody."
"I know."
"But not like that."
You looked at him. He was still staring at the floor. Quietly, almost too quietly to hear, he added, "Not like you."
He took another breath. "I didn't want to make things weird."
"I didn't either."
"I didn't want Gareth to think I was making band practice complicated."
"I didn't either."
"I didn't want to screw up the friend group."
"I didn't either."
That earned another little laugh from both of you. It was almost ridiculous, months of overthinking condensed into a handful of matching sentences.
He shifted a little closer on the couch. "...Can I ask you something?"
You nodded, but he hesitated anyway. "If Gareth comes back in here and starts laughing at me, I'm moving to Canada."
You couldn't help smiling. "I don't think you’d make it that far."
"I've got enough gas money to reach Ohio."
"Fair."
Then he just blurted it out. "...Would you maybe wanna go on a date with me?"
No dramatic speech, no rehearsed line, no confidence. Just Eddie, visibly terrified, trying to act like his entire future wasn't hanging on your answer.
Then your mouth betrayed you before your brain could. "...I thought you'd never ask."
His eyes got impossibly wide. "...Really?"
You laughed. "Eddie."
"No, seriously."
"I'm serious."
"You mean yes?"
"I mean yes."
"You actually mean yes?"
"I do."
He blinked twice. Then covered his face with both hands. "Oh, my God."
You could hear him laughing behind them. "Oh, my God."
He dragged his hands down slowly, looking somewhere between relieved and completely stunned. "I had a whole backup speech."
"You did?"
"It was terrible."
"I would've liked to hear it."
"No chance."
"Please?"
"It somehow involved dragons."
You laughed so hard your head dropped forward. "I absolutely believe that."
He looked at you for another second before another thought visibly crossed his mind. "Oh."
"What?"
"So..." He scratched at the back of his neck again. "This is kind of embarrassing."
"What is?"
"I didn't think you'd actually say yes."
"So you don't have a date planned."
"...Not exactly."
You bit back a smile.
"I had approximately seventy-three fantasies and zero logistics."
"I appreciate the honesty."
He thought for a second, then suddenly snapped his fingers. "Wait."
"What?"
"The open-air market."
"The one over by Main?"
"Yeah,” he smiled. "My uncle goes every few weeks."
"I've never actually been."
"You haven't?"
You shook your head.
"They've got old records and books and weird antiques and flea market junk and people selling handmade jewelry and all kinds of random stuff."
He was getting animated now, talking with his hands the way he always did when he got excited. "And this old guy that always has boxes of fantasy novels for like fifty cents."
Your eyebrows lifted. "Oh?"
"And another booth with vintage band shirts."
"Oh?"
"And there's usually a food truck with cider donuts."
"...Eddie."
"What?"
"I already said yes."
"I know."
"I'm just making my case."
"You don't have to."
He grinned. "So..." His voice softened. "Tomorrow morning?"
You smiled. "I'd like that."
"You would?"
"I would."
"What time?"
"Whenever you pick me up."
His grin somehow grew even bigger. "Nine?"
"Nine."
For another second, neither of you moved, just smiled at each other like two complete idiots. Then the front door flew open. Gareth walked in carrying two sodas, took one look at the way you were looking at each other, and immediately stopped.
His eyes narrowed. "...No."
Neither of you said anything. He looked at Eddie, he looked at you, and then he looked back at Eddie once more. "...No."
Jeff stepped around him. "What?"
Gareth pointed dramatically. "They're smiling."
Jeff looked. "...Yeah?"
"The weird smiling."
"They smile."
"No."
He pointed harder. "The smile."
Jeff watched for another second, then slowly grinned. "...Oh."
Gareth closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "...Did one of you finally grow a spine?"
Eddie looked over with a smile he couldn't suppress if he tried. "...Maybe."
Gareth stood perfectly still, then set both sodas on the coffee table. Then walked over and hugged you. Then hugged Eddie.
Then immediately pushed him away again. "If you break her heart, I'll kill you."
Eddie nodded solemnly. "Fair."
Gareth looked at you. "If you break his heart, I'll kill you too."
You nodded just as seriously. "Also fair."
He looked between the two of you one last time before throwing both hands into the air. "Jesus Christ."
Jeff laughed. "What?"
"I HAVE BEEN WATCHING THIS FOR SIX MONTHS."
He turned toward the ceiling. "THANK YOU."
And somewhere beside him, Eddie's hand quietly found yours for the very first time. He didn't make a joke. Didn't look at you. Didn't say anything at all.
He just laced his fingers with yours like he'd been wanting to for a very, very long time. You squeezed once, and he squeezed back.
The next morning, you were standing on your front porch at exactly 8:58 when you heard the familiar rattle of Eddie's van coming down the street. Not that you'd been waiting by the window or anything…definitely not.
The van pulled into the driveway, and before it had even fully stopped, you could see Eddie leaning across the passenger seat.
The door swung open. "Good morning."
You laughed. "It's nine in the morning."
"And?"
"You look entirely too excited."
He grinned. "I got a date."
Your stomach immediately betrayed you. The stupid thing was that you'd known Eddie for years now. You'd spent countless afternoons with him. Late-night band practices. Movie marathons. Campaign planning sessions.
Yet somehow, the word "date" made everything feel different.
You climbed into the passenger seat and immediately noticed the stack of cassette tapes scattered between the seats. "You cleaned."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I moved things."
"Eddie."
"The important garbage is still here."
Neither of you had to struggle for conversation. You talked about music, about the campaign you'd been helping him write. About the ridiculous argument Jeff and Dustin had gotten into over whether dragons or vampires were cooler. By the time the market came into view, you'd spent half the drive laughing.
The open-air market occupied an old fairground lot just outside town. Rows of tents stretched across the grass. People wandered between booths carrying coffee cups and paper bags. Music drifted through the air from somewhere. The entire place smelled like baked goods, fresh grass, and sunlight.
"This is cute."
Eddie looked weirdly pleased by your approval. "Right?"
You followed him through the aisles, taking your time. Every booth seemed to have something different. Old records. Handmade jewelry. Vintage books. Antiques. Hand-painted signs. One tent was entirely dedicated to old movie posters. Another sold homemade candles.
A woman was knitting behind a table full of scarves despite the weather being far too warm for scarves.
"This place is amazing."
"I know."
"You come here often?"
He shrugged. "Sometimes with Wayne."
You stopped at a table full of records while Eddie flipped through another crate beside you. Every couple of seconds, one of you would hold something up.
"What about this?"
"No."
"This?"
"Absolutely not."
"This?"
"Now we're talking."
It felt easy, like everything else did with him. Eventually you reached a booth covered in old band shirts hanging from racks.
Your eyes immediately lit up. "Oh, my God."
You were already digging through them. Most were faded, some had holes, and a few were clearly older than both of you combined.
You found a Black Sabbath shirt and held it up. "Eddie."
His eyes widened. "No way."
"It's my size."
"That's illegal."
You immediately bought it. He found a faded Dio shirt twenty minutes later and looked just as excited.
"You are absolutely getting that."
"I don't know."
"Eddie."
"It's kinda expensive."
It was eight dollars. You stared. "Eddie."
"Okay, when you say it like that."
You rolled your eyes. He bought the shirt, and you continued wandering. At some point, your shoulder started brushing his when you walked.
Then you found the books, a whole tent full of them. Secondhand fantasy novels stacked in crooked towers. Leather-bound collections. Old paperbacks. Forgotten adventures.
You immediately disappeared inside. Eddie smiled before you were even fully gone. Of course this would be your favorite booth. He watched you crouch beside a stack, completely absorbed within seconds.
Your fingers carefully turned pages. Your eyes scanned titles. You smiled when you found something interesting. And God, maybe it was pathetic. But he could've stood there all day watching you be happy.
Instead, he wandered a few booths down, and that's when he saw the flowers. A little elderly woman sat beneath a striped canopy surrounded by buckets overflowing with blooms. Sunflowers. Wildflowers. Daisies. Lavender. Tiny pink roses. The entire booth looked like something out of a storybook.
Eddie wasn't really a flower guy, at least he hadn't been. But then he spotted a small bouquet sitting in a glass jar. Nothing fancy, just a handful of wildflowers tied together with twine. It looked like something someone had picked during a walk.
For some reason, it immediately reminded him of you. The woman caught him staring.
"Got a girl?"
Eddie immediately looked away. "No."
She smiled knowingly. Then glanced toward the book tent where you stood.
"Honey."
He groaned.
The woman laughed. "That one's cute."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah."
"You should buy her flowers."
"What if she thinks it's weird?"
The woman gave him a look. "Son."
"Yeah?"
"She's here with you at the crack ass of dawn, isn’t she?"
Fair point.
Five minutes later, he was walking back with the bouquet hidden awkwardly behind his back. You still hadn't noticed him. You were standing in front of a shelf with three books pressed against your chest, completely focused.
"Find anything good?"
You looked up immediately. "Look."
You handed him one. Then another. Then another. By the end of your explanation, you were smiling so hard that he almost forgot what he'd been doing.
"Oh."
"What?"
"I got you something."
Your eyebrows lifted. "You did?"
He suddenly felt sixteen years old. "Yeah."
Then he awkwardly revealed the bouquet, and immediately regretted every decision he'd ever made.
"I saw them and—"
You froze. "Oh."
His heart dropped. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe flowers were too much. Maybe—
"Oh, my God." You looked genuinely shocked. "Eddie."
Your expression softened into something so sweet it nearly killed him. "They're beautiful."
The relief that hit him was immediate. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You carefully took them from him.
"They reminded me of you." The words slipped out before he could stop them.
You looked up, and his face immediately turned red. "That sounded cooler in my head."
A laugh escaped you. "No."
You glanced down at the flowers again, then back at him. "It's actually really sweet.".
The crowd continued moving around you. People walked past. Music drifted through the air. Yet somehow it felt like the entire world had narrowed down to that tiny space between you. And somewhere in the distance, a vendor yelled that fresh cider donuts were ready.
Eddie immediately pointed. "Okay."
You laughed. "What?"
"Before I say something embarrassingly romantic and ruin my reputation—"
"You don't have a reputation."
"I absolutely do."
"You really don't."
He grinned. "Cider donuts?"
You looked down at the flowers in your hands. "Lead the way, Munson."
His smile was so bright it almost rivaled the morning sun. And for maybe the first time in his life, Eddie couldn't think of a single place he'd rather be
The funny thing was that absolutely nothing changed after you and Eddie started dating. And simultaneously, everything changed.
Band practice still happened in Gareth's garage. Hellfire still met every week. You still spent entirely too much time arguing over music and fantasy novels and campaign mechanics.
Eddie still stole your fries. You still stole his jackets. On the surface, very little was different.
Except now Eddie could kiss you whenever he wanted, which turned out to be a problem. Because Eddie Munson was possibly the most physically affectionate human being to ever walk the earth. You discovered this approximately forty-eight hours into the relationship.
It started innocently enough. A hand on your lower back. His arm around your shoulders. His knee pressed against yours whenever you sat together. Normal boyfriend things. Then it escalated…rapidly.
Somehow Eddie always needed to be touching you. Not in an overbearing way, just constantly. If you were sitting beside him, his hand would find yours without him even realizing it. If you were standing next to him, he'd hook a finger through your belt loop. If you were walking somewhere together, his arm would automatically settle over your shoulders.
Movie nights became nearly impossible because he'd slowly slide lower and lower until his head was in your lap. You'd look down halfway through a film to find him completely comfortable, stealing handfuls of popcorn and using your thigh as a pillow.
"Eddie."
"Hm?"
"You have your own seat."
"This is my seat."
"No, it isn't."
He'd just smile, close his eyes, and settle in deeper. Hopeless, absolutely hopeless. Then there were the kisses.
God. The kisses. Eddie kissed you constantly. Not because he was trying to be smooth. Mostly because he genuinely seemed incapable of stopping himself.
The top of your head. Your cheek. Your temple. Your shoulder. The back of your hand. Sometimes he'd walk into a room, kiss your forehead, and then continue whatever conversation he'd been having as though nothing had happened.
The first few weeks, it caught you off guard every single time. Months later, it still made your heart do stupid little flips. One afternoon you were helping him organize campaign notes at his trailer. You'd been focused on a map for nearly twenty minutes when suddenly—
Mwah.
You looked up. "What was that for?"
He blinked. "What?"
"You just kissed me."
"Yeah."
"Why?"
He looked genuinely confused. "You looked cute."
Then immediately went back to writing, as if that was a perfectly normal explanation. Which, for Eddie, it apparently was. Wayne found the whole thing hilarious.
"You know," Wayne had said one evening while watching Eddie practically drape himself across you on the couch, "for a fella who spent years actin' tough, you sure turned into a sap."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Wayne pointed; Eddie was literally entirely in your bubble.
"And now?"
"I'm comfortable."
"You followed her into the kitchen earlier because she went to get some water."
"I was thirsty."
"You don't even like water."
Eddie opened his mouth, closed it, then looked at you.
"...That's not the point."
The truth was that Eddie had spent so long convincing himself not to cross the line that once he finally could, all that affection had nowhere to go except directly toward you.
And honestly? You loved it. Because underneath all the teasing and dramatics, he was impossibly sweet. He remembered everything, every little thing.
Your favorite candy. Your favorite records. The books you'd mentioned wanting but couldn't find. The exact coffee order you got at the diner. One time you casually mentioned liking a specific fantasy author. Two weeks later, he showed up with a battered secondhand copy he'd found three towns over.
Another time you'd complained that your hands were cold. The next day he brought you a pair of fingerless gloves he'd found at the market. They were hideous and completely ridiculous.
You wore them all winter.
Ironically, your first kiss had been nothing like what you’d expect.
It had happened a couple of weeks after the market, after band practice. Everyone else had left. Jeff had work. Gareth had dinner. You'd stayed behind to help pack up equipment while Eddie finished putting away cables.
The garage had been quiet, just music playing softly from an old radio. You'd been sitting on an amp while he rambled about a campaign idea. Something about dragons, obviously.
At some point, he'd stopped talking, and you'd looked up and realized he was already looking at you.
"Eddie?"
"Hm?"
"You stopped talking."
"I know."
You smiled. "That's unusual."
His laugh had been nervous, which should've tipped you off immediately. Then his eyes dropped to your mouth, only for a second. And suddenly your stomach was somewhere near your shoes. Neither of you moved. Neither of you looked away.
Then Eddie had done something completely out of character. He asked quietly, almost as if he wasn't sure he was allowed, "...Can I kiss you?"
You remembered the way your heart had nearly exploded. The way he'd looked terrified. The way he'd immediately started backtracking when you didn't answer fast enough.
"I mean—you don't have to—I was just—"
You kissed him before he could finish. Mostly because if you'd let him keep talking, he probably would've apologized and fled the state.
For a second, he froze, as if his brain needed a moment to process what was happening. Then one of his hands found your jaw, and suddenly he was kissing you back. Soft and careful, like he couldn’t quite believe it.
Months later, Eddie still brought it up sometimes, usually when he wanted to annoy you.
"You know."
You immediately knew that tone. "What?"
"You kissed me first."
You rolled your eyes. "Here we go."
"I'm just saying."
"You literally asked."
"Technically."
"You were halfway through a panic attack."
"Technically."
"You would've talked yourself out of it."
"Possibly."
"Definitely."
He laughed, then leaned over and kissed your cheek. "Good thing you saved me, sweetheart."
By the time you and Eddie had been dating for about seven months, Hellfire had developed a new problem. Or, more specifically, Eddie had developed a problem. And that problem was you.
"Okay," Dustin said, pointing accusingly across the table. "This is bullshit."
The entire campaign immediately ground to a halt. Eddie looked up from behind his DM screen.
"What is?"
"This,” Dustin gestured wildly.
"Define this."
"You giving her special treatment."
You nearly choked on your soda.
Across the table, Mike immediately nodded. "Thank you."
Lucas pointed. "Finally somebody said it."
Eddie looked genuinely offended. "I do not."
"You absolutely do."
"I absolutely don't."
Jeff snorted. "You absolutely do."
Even Gareth joined in. "Dude."
Eddie looked around the room. "You guys are insane."
Then slowly looked toward you. "...Back me up."
You immediately betrayed him.
"Oh, no." His jaw dropped. "You too? Babe."
The entire table collectively groaned; even the nickname irritated them now.
"Babe?" Mike repeated. "You call her babe in-game too."
"It slipped out once."
"It happened three times last session."
"That's not important."
"It kind of is when you're talking to a barbarian."
Eddie pointed dramatically. "None of you have evidence."
The room exploded. "No evidence?"
"Dude!"
"You literally gave her a dragon."
"It was a baby dragon."
"It was still a dragon."
"It was injured!"
"You let her keep it."
"She nursed it back to health."
"You gave her a dragon."
"...Okay, maybe the dragon thing wasn't helping my case."
"THANK YOU." Dustin practically stood up.
The truth was that they weren't wrong. Eddie tried to be fair; he genuinely did. But every time he sat behind that DM screen, all logic immediately left his body.
You'd mention some random piece of backstory you'd thought of at two in the morning, and suddenly there was an entire side quest dedicated to it.
You'd casually mention that your ranger grew up near the ocean. Next thing everyone knew, there was a mysterious coastal kingdom appearing in the campaign.
One time you'd joked that your character liked collecting shiny rocks. Two sessions later, Eddie had created an entire magical gemstone subplot. The man had no self-control, and everyone knew it.
Especially Gareth, who had spent months witnessing it firsthand. The latest offense had happened approximately twenty minutes earlier. The party had entered a ruined cathedral.
A dangerous encounter, lots of enemies, high stakes. Or at least it should've been. Unfortunately, Eddie had described a hooded traveler sitting alone by the fire.
A traveler who immediately recognized your character. A traveler who apparently knew your character's family. A traveler who had information specifically relevant to your backstory. A traveler who somehow only wanted to talk to you.
The entire table had immediately erupted. "NO."
"Dude."
"Again?"
"This is ridiculous."
Eddie had tried defending himself. "It makes sense narratively."
"No, it doesn't."
"It absolutely does."
"It absolutely doesn't."
Now, twenty minutes later, they were still arguing about it.
"I just think," Mike said, crossing his arms, "that maybe the rest of us deserve emotional character development too."
"You have emotional character development."
"When?"
"You got stabbed."
"THAT'S NOT CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT."
Jeff nearly fell out of his chair laughing. Meanwhile, you were actively trying not to laugh, which wasn't helping.
Eddie noticed immediately. "You think this is funny?"
"A little."
The rest of the session dissolved into more good-natured ribbing until the guys finally started packing up their dice and minis, trading complaints about favoritism all the way out the door.
Gareth shot you both a knowing look as he left last, muttering something about "not wanting to know what happens next."
You started gathering scattered papers and pushing chairs back into place, the faint scent of dry-erase markers and lingering pizza still thick in the air.
Eddie watched you for a moment from the end of the table, that familiar wicked little smile tugging at his lips. Then he rounded the table, coming up behind you as you reached for a stray miniature.
His arms slid around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.
"You look like this," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear, "and they still act shocked I can't keep my hands off you." His voice dropped lower.
"Can't really blame me though. Look at you, sitting there all session like you weren't thinking about what I’d do to you once they left."
You shivered as his mouth found the side of your neck. He kissed the sensitive spot just below your ear, then scraped his teeth gently over it, sucking lightly until your breath hitched.
One of his hands splayed across your stomach, fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt to trace slow circles on your skin.
"Eddie," you warned, half-laughing, half-breathless. "We’re supposed to be cleaning up."
"Mm, we are," he said against your throat, kissing lower and more open-mouthed. "I’m just… multitasking."
His other hand slid down to grip your hip, pulling you back against the growing hardness in his jeans.
"Been hard half the session thinking about bending you over this table. You know that?"
You turned in his arms, intending to tell him to behave, but his mouth crashed into yours before you could. The kiss was messy and eager, all tongue and teeth, the kind that always left your lips swollen.
He backed you toward the edge of the massive wooden table, hands roaming under your shirt until he cupped your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples through your bra.
"Fuck, baby," he groaned into your mouth. "Need you. Right here. Been dying to feel how wet you get for me after I’ve been staring at you all night."
You gasped as he lifted you onto the table, shoving aside papers and a few forgotten dice that clattered to the floor. He stepped between your spread thighs, grinding against you as he tugged your shirt up and off.
His mouth returned to your neck, sucking marks you’d have to hide tomorrow, while his fingers worked your jeans open.
You reached down to palm him through his pants, earning a low, wrecked sound from deep in his chest. "Eddie…someone could come back."
"Let ‘em," he muttered, nipping at your collarbone as he pushed your jeans and panties down just enough. "Let ‘em see how fucking perfect you look when I’m buried inside you."
He dropped to his knees briefly, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss between your legs that had your head falling back with a moan. One quick, filthy lick, then he was back up, freeing himself from his jeans and lining up.
He pushed in slow at first, savoring the stretch, eyes locked on your face. "That’s it," he breathed, voice strained. "Take me so good, like you were made for this."
Once he was fully seated, he gave you barely a second before he started moving; deep, rolling thrusts that made the table creak beneath you.
Your hands fisted in his hair, legs wrapping tight around his waist as he fucked you harder, the drama room filled with the wet sounds of skin on skin and your shared, ragged breathing. He kept kissing your neck, your jaw, whispering filthy praise between thrusts.
"Love how you squeeze me… fuck, you’re dripping down my cock already. My perfect girl."
The angle had him hitting that spot inside you with every snap of his hips. You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt, chasing the building heat. Eddie’s rhythm faltered as he got close, one hand slipping between you to rub tight circles over your clit.
"Come on, baby," he panted against your mouth. "Want to feel you come on me. I’ve been so good to you all night."
The combination of his words, his fingers, and the relentless drag of him inside you sent you over the edge with a cry.
He followed right after, burying himself deep and groaning your name like a prayer as he spilled inside you, hips jerking through the aftershocks.
For a long moment, you stayed tangled together, foreheads pressed close, catching your breath in the quiet room. Eddie kissed you softly, peppering kisses all over your face, jaw, and neck.
You laughed breathlessly, tugging lightly at his curls. "We’re never going to finish cleaning up at this rate."
"Worth it," he said, already leaning in for another kiss.
well, hey! hope you all enjoyed ;) i have an inquiry for you all. going forward with requests, would you prefer...
request format
make a different post (what i've been doing so far)
make the fic within the request
bea's tab pls don't press (...but ik ya'll be pressing anyway)
You stared up at him through your eyelashes as you took him farther into your mouth, loving the sounds you pulled from him as he was completely at your mercy. You’ve never felt more sexy, more powerful than you did when you were on your knees for a man that was completely under your spell- and there was no one under your spell more than Eddie “The Freak” Munson- your devout “secret admirer.”
“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna kill me.” He moans, watching as that godforsaken lip gloss of yours- your signature lip product- coated his dick the further back you took him into his mouth- leaving a sticky sweet mess.
You hum around his cock, causing his hips to buck involuntarily.
“S-shit!” He hisses, staring down at you slack-jawed as you began to bob your head up and down his length, spreading your spit and your gooey lips all over him. The slick gloss of your lips acted as a makeshift lubricant, causing Eddie’s eyes to roll into the back of his head.
“Fuck, baby! So good….so, so good.”
You take your hand and grab the base of his cock, stroking what was left of him that you couldn’t fit in your mouth. Who knew that the freak of Hawkins’ High School had a huge dick? Definitely wasn’t on your list of possibilities. But, then again, having it in your mouth definitely wasn’t on that list either.
“God, you’re so fucking perfect, you know that?”
“Shut up, Munson.” You order, pulling off of his cock as you stare up at him “You know the drill. I suck you off, you keep your mouth shut. Got it?”
“Yeah, right,” He nods, totally forgetting “Sorry.”
“And that also goes for running your mouth to your little nerd friends. If I find out that you’re telling them about this, it’s over. Capisce?”
“Um….Oui?” He replies cautiously, causing you to roll your eyes in annoyance.
“Okay, seriously, the ‘no talking’ thing starts now.” You retort.
As if he couldn’t get any more dorky, Eddie Munson puts his fingers to his mouth, miming as if he’s zipping his lips and throwing away the key. In a moment of weakness, he got you- causing you to snort out a laugh that makes his face light up in satisfaction. You’d never admit it but even though he was a complete and total weirdo freak, he was kind of cute. Like, really cute. As if you’d ever tell him that though.
Your mouth was back on his cock, wrapping around the tip as you suck- swirling your tongue around the sensitive head as he gasps. You’ve only done this once before but you already knew him like the back of your hand- what he liked, what types of things got certain reactions, the way he liked to be stroked, his preferred pace that had him gushing into the palm of your hand.
“Mmm…” he groans, biting his lip as he tried to hold in his sweet little sounds. He was getting close and you knew it. He didn’t have to say a word. You pull your mouth off of his tip.
“Getting close, baby?” You ask, stroking his sticky, gloss-coated cock in your hand- flicking your wrist in just the right way that would have him a whimpering mess in less than sixty seconds.
“Mhm..” He nods helplessly, trying to stop himself from panting as you jerk him closer and closer to completion.
“You gonna come for me?” You purr, looking at him with your pretty doe eyes that he was a fucking sucker for. Hell, Eddie thought, you probably didn’t even have to suck his dick to get him to come. All you’d have to do was look at him with those eyes and he was a goner.
“F-fuck,” he gasps, trying to stay quiet for you. Not wanting to go against your orders.
“It’s okay, baby.” You coo “You can use your words.”
“Thank fucking god.” He pants, relieved to have your permission “Gonna come for you, angel. Gonna- oh fuck.”
“Mmm…good boy.” You tease, throwing out the two magic words before wrapping your mouth around his dick again- preparing to catch his release in your mouth.
“Fuuuuuck, baby!” He chokes out, his breathing becoming heavier and heavier and heavier as his orgasm ramps up.
You bob your head, taking him as far as you can go at the perfect pace that has him hitting his peak- ready to fill your mouth with his warm release.
“Shit, sweetheart! Fuck! Just like that! Just- ohhhh fuck! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!”
You pull off of him at just the right time, opening your mouth as he begins to come- his spend landing on your waiting tongue as he coats it in his seed. It was the hottest thing he’s ever seen, your mouth open and waiting for him after milking him for all that he was worth.
He was in awe as he watched you take it all and still seemingly wanted more. He loved it when you got messy- his spend coating your tongue, your cheeks, your lips, the tip of your nose. He loved making a fucking mess of that pretty little face of yours. This was the type of shit that Michaelangelo should’ve been painting instead of the fucking Sistene Chapel. A modern fucking masterpiece and it was all for him. A private viewing.
As Eddie came down from his high, you closed your pretty mouth, swallowing his cum as if it were nothing- as if you enjoyed it. No, loved it. Lived for it, even. All his life, Eddie Munson was known as a freak. If only all of Hawkins’ High could see you now- swallowing his cum in the back of his van in the student parking lot. Did that make you a bigger freak than he was?
“Jesus Christ, sweetheart.” Eddie breathes, blissed out and drunk on you- those lips, your eyes, and the sweet scent of strawberries. “That was-“
“You’re welcome, Munson.” You cut his off, reaching for a wad of fast food napkins that he pulled out of his glove compartment- specifically for times like this. “Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you.”
“Well, shit. Thanks.” He replies, watching as you wipe his cum off of your face- making sure that you were presentable enough to step out of his van and back into the cold reality in which you pretended as if you didn’t know him. As if you didn’t just blow his mind in the back of his van.
“Alright, well, see ya around.” You say, announcing your departure after Eddie had barely gotten himself tucked back into his jeans.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! You don’t want me to, like, return the favor?” He asks “Since you…”
“You know,” you start “As much as I’d love to, Munson, I have places I’ve got to be.”
“Oh.” Eddie replies, his face dropping into a disappointed frown. But, then again, what did he expect? A cuddle session afterwards where you kiss each other’s noses and recite Shakespeare to each other?
“I’ll tell you what,” you say “You can make it up to me next time. Sound fair?”
Eddie perks up, his face breaking into a shit-eating grin.
“So there’s gonna be a next time, huh?” He asks, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively.
“Don’t push it, Munson.” You glare, reaching for the handle on the inside of the van doors to let yourself out, hoping out onto the pavement before turning to take one last look at Eddie.
“As long as you play your cards right, there will be a next time.”
“Yeah?” Eddie chirps “Sweet!”
“See ya, Munson.” You announce “Enjoy your little nerd club.”
“Bye, sweetheart.”
You slam the van door closed, sauntering off to do whatever it is that you cheerleaders do. Eddie, on the other hand, reaches into his jacket pocket- pulling out a pre-rolled joint and a lighter. Nothing better than some after-sex bliss.
God, Eddie thought, lighting up his joint before taking a long drag- smiling to himself. What a fucking woman….
Summary:
In the quiet of a sleepless night, Bucky watches you with his son and for the first time in a long time, he understands what safety is supposed to feel like.
Author’s Note:
Oh my goodness hello again 🤍 I am officially knee deep in my cowboy/bull rider era and I’m not even pretending to escape it at this point haha, BECAUSE WHY WOULD I!
This is another small moment within the “All I’ll Ever Need” universe; little snapshots of life, exhaustion, and the quiet kind of love that builds in the spaces between words.
I hope you enjoy this one.
As always, happy reading 🤍
Now back to my little writing cave I go.
Bucky hadn't slept. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten a decent night's rest; a full eight hours instead of the two or three he managed to steal between Grant's cries and his own restless thoughts.
Had it not been for you practically offering to move into the ranch during those first few weeks easing some of the stress, some of the worry, it would've been worse.
A hell of a lot worse.
Truth be told, he didn't remember much of that first night.
Only fragments; the sound of Grant crying, the crushing weight in his chest, your voice on the other end of the phone telling him to hold on.
Most of all, he remembered you.
Your steady presence had tethered him to the moment, keeping him grounded when everything else threatened to come apart. Not just him, either. Grant, too.
God, his boy had suffered the most.
Most nights Bucky found himself staring at the ceiling long after Grant had fallen asleep, wondering how she could've just up and walked away from him, from them. From the little boy she'd sworn was going to be their whole world. The one thing that was supposed to change everything.
He's not sure how he's supposed to do this.
He wasn't supposed to do it alone.
Dolores had promised they were in this together, that Grant would be the blessing that fixed all their problems. That he'd make them stronger as a couple. Happier.
What a load of shit that had been.
A soft cry crackles from the baby monitor resting on his nightstand, sleep completely evading him as he lets out a weary sigh, his eyes squeezing shut.
Five minutes.
That's all he'd managed to get before Grant woke again, his cries calling for him through the monitor. With a soft groan, he drags a hand down his face, willing the remnants of sleep away as he pushes himself upright, the mattress protesting beneath him.
"I hear you, buddy," he calls to his wailing son. "Daddy's coming."
He reaches for the monitor as he gets to his feet, another cry sounding through the speaker.
Then your voice follows; Soft, Sleepy, Familiar.
Bucky stills.
"Hey, sweet boy, why the tears?" you murmur. "Shh, s'alright. I'm here. Don't you worry, I've got you."
Grant's crying doesn't stop immediately, but it begins to quiet as your voice drifts through the speaker, wrapping around him like a warm blanket. Gentle assurances fill the room as you rock his son, soothing fears neither of them fully understand.
Bucky lets himself stand there a moment, breathing, your voice not only calming his son, but him as well. Anyone would've walked away by now. Patted him on the back, reassured him he had this, promised to check in, and then never looked back.
But you?
You stayed.
Day after day, you showed up for him, for them. You stayed through the sleepless nights and endless bottles. Through the mountains of laundry neither of you could seem to keep up with, though you tried. You stayed through the nights Grant cried for hours and the mornings Bucky could barely drag himself out of bed. You cooked when he forgot to eat, held Grant when his arms grew tired, sat beside him when the house felt too quiet.
You stayed.
Bucky exhales slowly, like the thought itself is too heavy to hold, and it is, because the truth is he doesn’t think could do this without you anymore.
And god why does that scare him?
Another soft cry crackles through the baby monitor, pulling him back before he can sit too long in that realization.
He moves without thinking, finally stepping out of the room and down the hall, the worn floorboards creaking beneath his feet. The nursery door is slightly ajar, warm lights spilling into the darkened hallway.
His fingers inch the door open, his steps stilling as he catches sight of you; you’re in the rocking chair you helped him choose Grant tucked against your chest, one of your hands moving slow and steady over his back while the other keeps the bottle angled just right. Your head is tipped slightly forward, eyes heavy, like you’ve been awake far longer than you should’ve been, but still watching his boy.
A soft tune leaves your lips, Grants eyes slowly losing their fight, as sleep threatens to pull him under, and as he watches you with him Bucky gets it. He feels safe, his boy is safe. With you.
He doesn’t move right away, opting to watch the rise and fall of Grant’s tiny chest against yours the way your hand keeps moving, steady even in sleep.
It’s in that moment that Bucky lets himself believe even if just for a second that everything will be okay.
summary: When you witness Eddie's death, you are plunged into the downward spiral of grief, guilt, and paranoia. Your life takes a turn for the worse when you enter a state of catatonia and your parents have no choice but to admit you to a mental institution.
When Eddie turns up from the dead, everyone but you has hope that you'll make a recovery.
warnings: didn't proof read, mention of Eddie's death, blood, paranoia, grief, organs shutting down, end of life care, can't think of anything else.
word count: 1.7k
Your family and friends thought that eventually, you'd somehow recover. They weren't expecting you to smile or laugh all day, every day, but they were hoping that the tears would slowly taper off. They were hoping that you'd stop screaming yourself awake in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat and gasping for air, paralysed from the waist down out of fright.
Eddie died that night. You were sure of it. You'd seen all the blood and bats, heard his loud yells, and then... nothing. Everything became still, the bats moved on, and Dustin came back, dragging you away with him. No body to bury, no chance to process what the fuck just happened to him.
Leaving Eddie there, alone to rot, felt like a betrayal, and your suffocating guilt convinced you that you were the one who killed him; you were the reason his body was rotting from the inside out.
Every milestone and passing of time was just another reminder that he wasn't coming home, another reminder that he was on his own in the bitter cold in a place you couldn't access.
The nightmares became so severe that you were too scared to sleep, and eventually, with the constant refusal of rest, the line between your world and reality started to blur. Everyone and everything frightened you; they put you constantly on edge.
"Stop it!" you'd yell, backing into the darkest corner of your room. "I am not leaving this room, I know what you're doing!"
Robin and Steve stood in the opposite corner, pleading with you to come outside and feel the warmth of the sun kissing your face.
"We won't do anything, we swear," Robin said calmly, trying to defend herself with her hands, palms spread and fingers fanned out.
You shook your head violently. "No, no! You lie! I know what's waiting for me out there, you're going to hand me in for killing him!"
Steve's eyes were full of tears at the sight of you.
Your eyes were dull and presented deep, hollow bags, and your clothes that used to fit like a glove were now draping over you, three sizes too big because you were constantly missing meals, feeling too sick to eat.
"You didn't kill him," Steve choked out, his voice cracking. "What happened to Eddie was..."
You flinched, scurrying further back into your room. The sun peeking through your long curtains, burning your eyes only made things worse.
"Don't say his name! No, no, lalala, I'm not buying it!" You pulled the curtain shut with sudden, frantic force, plunging the room into darkness. You could no longer see Steve or Robin; you didn't want to. "You're both trying to get me locked up, sent away! Get out!! He's dead! I killed him, I killed him!"
Steve and Robin slowly dragged their feet out of your room, their heads bowed in defeat. Outside, they looked up at your terrified parents and shook their heads.
"Nothing," Steve muttered. "She just became angry. Paranoid."
"She's stuck in this state where she believes she's going to be locked up for murder." Robin sighed, trying to avoid eye contact with your parents.
"Yes," your mother replied, defeated, "Or she's stuck in the moment where he's died, we hear her calling out for him, screaming all night. The same time every night."
Your parents thought your mania would last forever, that your loud and violent outbursts would be the ultimate reason they sent you away for specialised care once they were too old and frail to handle it themselves.
But one day, you stopped eating and drinking completely, unable to open your mouth and talk, or even look away from the centre of your bedroom wall.
Every part of you that made you you was gone; all that was left behind was a breathing body with no other function but to starve and rot away.
Just like Eddie.
You became glued to the chair in the corner of your room, staring blankly at the wall, often without blinking for long periods of time, causing your eyes to become incredibly dry and bloodshot.
Your mother begged you to do something, like look at her or turn your head, but you never did. She shook you, squeezed your hands, and yelled your name until her throat was sore and hoarse, but nothing changed.
"Please, darling, look at me." She'd beg, a crying mess, "If you can hear me, just blink for me, baby, blink twice for yes and once for no."
You didn't blink.
Your parents couldn't keep you under their roof with you in such a state, and your refusal to eat and drink would brand them as killers if you were to die from dehydration and starvation.
The decision wasn't made lightly; it was their last resort, sending you to the psychiatric facility, but in doing so, they allowed themselves to have a sliver of hope that rehabilitation was possible for you.
"A feeding tube, that would keep her alive, right?" Your father chirped, his eyes the brightest they had been in months.
"Realistically, your daughter's physical condition would improve. She would put on weight and gain nourishment, but we cannot promise to delay or reverse her severe mental decline."
You would never recover. You were trapped inside your own body, reliving hell over and over without release. Unable to move, unable to speak, unable to live.
The hope they had in the feeding tube was a bust, and rather than put on weight, the feeding tube did nothing but put your already declining body in more discomfort. Your organs were failing slowly at first, but towards the end of your last week, the decline became rapid, and there was nothing left to do but put you on end of life care.
"I've notified her friends," the head nurse murmured, "they'll be on their way."
They placed you in a private room, away from the other patients who would only know a long, hollow life inside the facility, free to roam but never free to explore the edges of the earth.
You were still sitting in a chair in the corner, and the only thing your mind could see was Eddie's dead body, which had become a permanent freeze-frame, burning itself into the screen of your eyelids.
"How is she?" Nancy asked your mom, her small, sharp face full of worry. "They say she's..." Nancy swallowed hard, "End of life now?"
Your mom nodded with her shoulders slumped under the weight of grief. She wanted you to die so you could be at peace, no longer suffering, but for you to die, her baby, would be the ultimate loss she'd never get over.
"The feeding tube causes her more distress than it's worth, and her body started rejecting it... She's got no quality of life, Nancy, none."
Nancy reached out and held your cold, pale hand, her thumb gently stroking your knuckles. "H-How long does she have?"
Tears filled your mother's eyes, and her lips quivered. "Not long, Nancy. She probably doesn't have another week in her."
Nancy hesitated for a moment, sharing a heavy glance with Steve and Robin, who stood hovering near the doorway.
Your mother noticed the sudden shift in the room's energy. "What is it? What's wrong?"
"A miracle... really," Nancy said, lowering her voice, "we can't describe o-or even figure out how this happened, but he isn't dead."
Your mother's eyes widened, and her eyebrows pulled together "What?"
"Eddie is alive."
Eddie appeared in the doorway, covered in deep bruises and brutal scars. His hair was frazzled and stained with blood and a little longer than the night he 'died'.
"Oh my God," your mother gasped, covering her mouth, "This can't be possible."
"We were all hoping that he could give her a chance to fight through this, to come back." Robin spoke up from the corner of the room.
Eddie felt exhausted, but the moment his eyes locked onto you, he wished he hadn't made it out at all. He closed in on you slowly and couldn't stop staring at you. You were almost completely unrecognisable.
"Sweetheart?" Eddie called out, loud enough for you to hear, "It's me." He dropped to his knees beside your chair and he took your tiny hands in his.
Everyone in the room expected you to break out of your spell, confused, in disbelief or even totally relieved. They were hoping you would scream and jump out of your chair and into his arms, unable to control your anger for him taking so long to find his way back to you.
Instead, you just stared through him, your pupils didn't dilate, your emaciated body didn't move. You couldn't see him right there in front of you, living and breathing.
All you could see was the same freeze frame of his dead body and the blood.
"Hey, it's me, Babe. Your man is back," Eddie whispered before reaching up with his dirt-coated hands, lightly trembling, as he cupped your hollow cheeks. "I'm alive. C'mon, princess."
Your parents, Steve, Robin and Nancy all watched with deep regret and building remorse for Eddie. Their hearts were shattering at the inevitable, and all they could do was watch as grief began to destroy another pure and soft soul.
Eddie grabbed your limp and cold hand, squeezing and kissing it before he pushed it against his chest, and holding it right over his heart. His heart was beating wildly against your hand, but you couldn't feel it. You wanted to, but you weren't there.
"Please," he begged, a strangled sob escaping him, "Can't you feel it, baby?" The tears streamed down his face, washed clean tracks through the dirt and dried blood.
The darkness had completely consumed you and you were too far gone to be reached. It was as if that night in the upside down, you were the one who died. Not Eddie.
Your mother couldn't take any more, and she quickly fled the room, taking your father with her. Nancy stared at you for a moment before following your parents, hoping to provide them with some sort of comfort or support.
Eddie crawled closer to you and placed a soft and desperate kiss against your forehead, and then against your dry and cracked lips.
"Come back to me, sweetheart." He whispered, "I've just got back, I can't be here alone."
Steve closed in on Eddie and put a hand on Eddie's shoulder, "Munson," he sighed, "I'm sorry but she's gone, man."
"But she can't be!" Eddie sobbed louder, pulling your fragile body out of the chair and into his arms, tucking you into his chest like a doll, "She's right here, she's here."
Eddie refused to let go, he refused for anyone to try and intervene and as he rocked back and forth, humming and singing your favourite songs from the floor, the colour in your eyes began to fade and your breathing slowed until it finally came to a stop.
{Daemon Targaryen x f!Reader}
You find yourself held for ransom by a minor lord and his idiot son, and the only thing worse than your current situation is the knowledge that your husband probably won't even notice you're gone...
♡ dragon daddy is back on my screen and so I'm back writing ~xo ♡
8.4k words - Warnings: smuttt, kidnapping, blood and gore, captivity, threats of sexual assault {not carried out}, cliche heroic rescue, descriptions of violence, daemon being daemon, caraxes lil squeaks, && dragon riding in more ways than one...
You probably shouldn't have wandered off, but you were bored. The Red Keep was dreadful and you had long since run out of places to explore. So you took a secret little stroll outside and hoped you would be back before anyone noticed. Your husband certainly wasn't going to miss you, he was too busy whoring and gambling off in some far distant city. Doing whatever deplorable thing suited his fancy that day.
And now you were sitting at a dingy table, in a castle that was so run down it was more like a ruin, being held for ransom by a bunch of morons. They seemed to think they were getting some great prize by holding you hostage. As if your husband would ever lift a finger to get you back.
The chains around your wrists and ankles were heavy and uncomfortable, your skin chafing from their weight. It was difficult to lift your goblet of wine to your lips, your hand shaking from the effort.
"Drink up, Princess." Lord Byrch said from across the table, chewing on a turkey leg with the sort of vile gluttony that would make even a pig nauseous. "I won't have the Prince thinking I've mistreated you."
Your hair was tangled and your dress torn and dirty, your face bruised and bloody from the initial fight. You hadn't let them take you easily, and you were quite proud of the fact that you had managed to scratch Lord Byrch's son right across his ugly face.
You raised your goblet towards him, lifting it as high as you could, keeping your eyes locked on his before you poured it all over the floor. He watched you in silence, chewing, chewing, chewing, until a slow smile spread across his lips.
"Fiery." He commented and you narrowed your eyes, "I see why the Prince married you."
He married me because his brother and my father told him he had to. You didn't say it out loud. You wouldn't give Byrch the satisfaction of hearing your marriage reduced to its ugly, political truth. Instead, you leaned back in your chair as far as the chains would allow and let your lips curl into something cruel.
"My husband will come for me," you said, your voice surprisingly steady and confident. "And when he does, he will kill every last one of you. He'll feed your entrails to his dragon and string up what remains as a warning to any other fool who thinks they can touch what belongs to him."
Inside you only had doubts. Will he, though?
You remembered how excited you had been when the betrothal was announced. The Rogue Prince. The most dangerous man in the Seven Kingdoms, and he was to be yours. You used to dream of him sweeping you off your feet, of dragon rides and passionate nights, of a love story that would make the bards weep. You thought of your wedding night, the way his body had felt, so warm and firm, pressing you into the bed. How he had been so gentle with you, so tender. How he had called you wife and kissed your mouth as if he were trying to drink you down and drown in you.
You actually thought, for a brief, beautiful moment, that the fairy tale was real. But a year of marriage had shown you a very different side of your husband. One that was cruel and cold. One that cared only for himself.
But Byrch didn't know that, so you were satisfied when a flash of fear crossed his features and he put that bloody turkey leg down.
"Father."
Byrch's son strode in behind you, you looked over your shoulder to see the scratch you gave him still looking a little swollen, raw, and definitely not healing well…You quickly turned to face his father again before he could see you smile. But it didn't matter, the son’s hand came down hard across the back of your head. The force of the blow made stars burst across your vision, a cry tearing from your throat.
The son chuckled as he walked past you and towards his father, clapping a hand on the back of his own chair. "What have you learned?" Lord Byrch asked, gesturing for him to sit.
"King Viserys has responded to our ransom demand. He's willing to pay. Fifty thousand gold, just as we asked. He's sending envoys to negotiate the exchange."
Your stomach dropped.
Viserys. Not Daemon. Of course.
"Your good-brother is a reasonable man," Byrch said, taking another bite of his turkey leg. "He understands that gold is cheaper than blood... I knew Daemon wouldn't risk open war with his brother over a woman." He tilted his head, enjoying your silence. "You see, my lady? Your husband is on a leash, just as I predicted."
The son's smirk widened. "From what I hear, the Prince has been in Pentos this past week."
Pentos. Fucking Pentos. Of course he was in fucking Pentos. Probably so deep in his cups he forgot his own name let alone yours.
Some small, foolish part of you had hoped. But you knew better, you had always known better. It was always going to be Viserys, probably by the urging of your father... And of course the reputation of the Targaryen name. It was his duty to try and bring you back. He would pay, and send the envoys. Perhaps you would get to wear some of the better royal jewels at the next public event, a consolation prize for your suffering.
Lord Byrch waved a hand. "Take her back to her cell. No point letting her sour the wine."
The son grabbed your arm, his fingers digging into the bruises already blooming there, hauling you to your feet. You stumbled on the chains, but he didn't slow. He dragged you down a cold stone corridor with a rough hand, until he reached the heavy wooden door of your cell.
He shoved you inside and you hit the damp stone floor hard, the impact jarring through your knees and wrists, the chains clinking loudly. The door didn't close behind you, instead a shadow fell over you, the son's boots crossing the threshold, his foot landing dangerously close to your head.
"I'd watch that mouth, if I were you." He crouched down and grabbed your chin, forcing your gaze upward. His thumb pressed into the bruise on your jaw, and you bit back a hiss. "I'm sure the gold is coming," he murmured, almost thoughtfully. "But if it doesn't..." He smiled. "Father said I get to fuck you first. Might even scratch up your pretty face to match mine. Would you like that?"
Your stomach turned to ice at his words, but you didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply. Instead you held his gaze, you wouldn't look away. Wouldn't give him an inch of your fear.
He squeezed your jaw tight enough that tears welled in the corners of your eyes. "No? You don't look so pretty anymore, anyway. Not much a man would want."
He shoved your head down, pushing you into the ground before turning and walking out. The lock clicked heavily in the quiet.
You lay there for a long moment, face pressed into the floor, the taste of blood and dirt on your tongue. The son's words echoed in your mind and your whole body began to shake.
Slowly, you pushed yourself up and leaned against the wall. Your wrists were raw. Your head throbbed. And somewhere deep in your chest, a sob was building.
Daemon wasn't coming. Daemon was in Pentos, drunk, probably with a whore on each arm. And these men were going to-
You pressed your palms to your eyes and bit down on your lip until you tasted copper. You couldn't cry. You wouldn't. You were stronger than that.
But the tears came anyway, hot and humiliating, the kind you hadn't cried since you were a girl. You curled in on yourself, forehead to your knees, and let them fall. You cried for the girl who had dreamed of a gallant dragon prince. You cried for the wife who had once reached for her husband in the dark and found only cold sheets. You cried because he had been gentle once, and you had been stupid enough to believe it meant something.
He's not coming.
The thought was a cold stone in your gut.
He's not coming. He was never going to come.
Your honor and safety would be traded for gold and Daemon Targaryen would continue to forget he ever had a wife at all.
You cried until your throat was raw and your eyes burned, until you were shivering and weak.
Finally, you took a shaky breath and looked up at the small, barred window. The sky was darkening, the sun sinking beyond the distant hills. You were exhausted, the weight of your chains a terrible burden, your eyes drooping and heavy.
Sleep took you before you could think to fight it. Your head fell back against the stone.
You didn't see the small black dot that appeared on the horizon. So small one might mistake it for a distant bird. But it grew. Larger. Faster. Until the beating of wings echoed through the walls.
And the screams began.
Flames. Everywhere. But they didn't burn. They cradled you, lapped at your skin like warm water. Is this what dying feels like? It wasn't so bad. Not as bad as what Byrch's son had promised.
Screams.
You stirred. The dream flickered.
Screams. Real ones.
Your eyes cracked open. Smoke stung your throat. The cell was awash in orange light. Outside the small window, the world was nothing but flame. The castle was on fire.
And then you heard it. A sound you would know anywhere; a long, stretched-out shriek that was half roar and half scream, and yet all dragon.
Caraxes.
Something like relief washed through you, even as your heart beat faster. If the castle was on fire and Caraxes was outside, then that could only mean-
Footsteps. Heavy. Unhurried.
You scrambled backward, pressing yourself against the far wall. The lock scraped, the mechanism groaning, and you held your breath as the door swung open.
Byrch's son filled the frame. His face was streaked with soot and blood, his eyes wild. The smug cruelty from before was gone, burned away by fear. Fear of dragonfire and its vicious rider.
"You-" His voice was high and shaky as he grabbed a fistful of your tangled hair, yanking you to your feet. "You're coming with me. Now. H-he'll gut me if he finds me, but I'll make sure you-"
His words stopped, because the tip of a blade punched through the front of his throat.
He released you. Stumbled. His hands flew to his neck, but the blood was already pouring, too fast, too much, and his eyes went wide. Confused. Then dim. Then he collapsed at your feet. The last thing he ever heard was you screaming at the sight of his throat gaping open.
You stood there, shaking, staring down at the body in shock. He had been threatening you a heartbeat ago. Now he was just meat.
And then you saw him.
Daemon stood in the threshold, his dark armor was slick with crimson, his face streaked with ash. His pale hair was braided and he held a dagger in one hand, blood dripping from its edge.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Your gaze locked. The crackle of flames and distant screams filled the silence.
"Wife."
He sheathed the dagger and crossed to you in three quick strides. You couldn't speak, couldn't move, but you let him take your face in his hands. His fingers were gentle as he tilted your chin this way and that, inspecting the cuts and bruises, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he did.
You lifted your wrists to show him the heavy shackles. He stepped back and unsheathed his sword and brought it down upon the chains. They fell from your limbs and clattered to the ground.
"I thought you were in Pentos," you managed, your voice hoarse and raw.
He tilted his head. "Why would I be in Pentos?"
"They told me-"
He chuckled, low and humorless, and reached up to push a loose lock of hair from your face. "Pentos?"
You opened your mouth to yell at him. To demand he tell you where he'd been and why you'd spent days believing he'd abandoned you. But a shout echoed from the corridor, followed by the clash of steel.
Daemon's hand found your wrist. "Stay behind me."
He pulled you through the doorway, and the corridor was chaos. Smoke billowed, thick and choking. Two of Byrch's guards rounded the corner, swords drawn, their faces twisted with panic as they laid eyes on your husband.
Daemon moved before you could breathe.
He met the first guard head-on, his sword singing as it caught the man's blade, disarming him in a single twisting motion. The second guard lunged, aiming for Daemon's exposed side, but Daemon spun, driving his elbow into the man's face, then burying his blade in his chest before he could fall.
The first guard tried to scramble for his fallen blade, but Daemon's boot came down on his wrist, and the crack of bone made you feel sick. Then Daemon swung and the guard's head rolled away.
It took seconds. Less.
"Come." He didn't look back, just reached out his arm for you to grab.
There were three more guards in the next passage. Daemon didn't slow. He shoved you backwards, his body a wall between you and the attackers, and then he struck them like a viper. His blade was a blur. Parrying, slashing, driving through armor like it was parchment. One man fell with a gurgle. Another dropped his sword and tried to run; Daemon's dagger found the back of his head. The third lunged, aiming for you, and Daemon caught him by the throat as he tried to rush past him, lifting him off the ground, driving his sword through the man's gut before letting him crumple.
The corridor was slick with blood. Daemon's chest heaved as he retrieved his dagger from the guards head. Then he stalked towards the exit.
"Keep moving."
You stumbled after him, past bodies, past flames licking at tapestries and wooden beams. The heat was suffocating, but Daemon's pace was relentless. He kicked open a side door and more guards spilled out and Daemon carved through them without hesitation.
And then he pulled you onward.
Finally, the great doors to the courtyard loomed ahead. Daemon didn't slow. He raised his boot and kicked them open.
The smell outside hit you like a wall. Fire raged across the courtyard walls, and the air was thick with smoke and the stench of burning flesh.
But the fighting was over.
Byrch's men were on their knees.
Dozens of them. Lines of them, forced onto the cobblestones with gold cloaks behind them, swords at their throats. Targaryen household guards stood at attention, their armor black and red, their faces hard and grim. And above it all, perched on the broken walls like a god of old, was Caraxes. His long neck craned toward the sky, and when he opened his maw, a plume of flame burst forth.
The heat made the air shimmer. Byrch's men flinched. Some wept.
Daemon walked you through them.
His hand wrapped around yours, and he led you past the kneeling men with a slow, deliberate stride. He wanted them to see. He wanted them to know. That the prince's wife was alive. That he had come for her. That this wreckage, this blood, this brutality; was the price of touching what belonged to him.
Your bare feet left bloody prints on the stone. Your dress was torn, your hair tangled, your face bruised. But you walked with your chin held high, because Daemon was holding your hand, and you would not let these men see you break.
At the center of the courtyard, Byrch knelt alone. His face was pale, streaked with sweat and ash, and his hands were bound behind him. Two gold cloaks held him in place.
"Byrch."
Your husband's voice was like silk, calm and smooth, his arm came around your waist and pulled you against his side. He kissed your temple gently before letting you go, gently guiding you to a waiting gold cloak. The guard wrapped you in a clean cloak, the targaryen sigil stitched into the fine material. It struck you in that moment, that this was all for you. His men. His dragon. The blood on his hands. Every corpse in this courtyard was a gift laid at your feet.
The lord's head snapped up. His eyes darted to you, then back to Daemon. "Mercy, my Prince. Please. You've already taken everything. Mercy."
Daemon cocked his head. "Everything?"
"Mercy," Byrch begged again. "I beg you-"
"Begging," Daemon said, chuckling to himself before he placed the point of his blade against Byrch's throat.
Byrch's eyes were wide, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps.
Daemon leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Why should I show you mercy?"
"Because I- because-"
"What's done is done," Daemon smiled, and it was the cruellest thing you'd ever seen.
Then he drew his sword back. And plunged it straight down Byrch's throat.
The gurgle was wet, horrible. Daemon pushed the blade deeper, through flesh and bone, until the tip emerged from the back of Byrch's neck. He held it there for a long moment, staring into the lord's empty eyes, before he wrenched the sword free.
Byrch's body slumped. Daemon wiped the blade clean on the dead man's clothes.
Byrch's remaining men cried out. Some begging, some cursing, a few trying to rise. The gold cloaks drove them back down to their knees.
Daemon looked at the prisoners, then at his men. He nodded once.
A flash of steel. A spray of blood. And without a single word, one by one, the kneeling men fell.
You watched, frozen, as the courtyard became a slaughterhouse. It was over in moments. Dozens of bodies lay sprawled across the cobblestones, their blood pooling together, running in dark rivulets between the cracks.
Daemon turned to you.
He crossed the distance to you in an instant, his hand finding yours again. His fingers were slick with blood, but you didn't pull away. He lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.
"Burn it," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "I want no trace left of this place. Take everything of value and bring it to Dragonstone."
"Yes, my Prince." His men shouted out in unison.
He pulled you away, past the bodies and towards where Caraxes waited. And that's when you saw the way he was favoring his right leg, barely, but you saw it.
"You're hurt," you breathed.
He didn't slow. Didn't respond. But you knew he heard you.
You wanted to argue, to grab his arm and make him stop; but then you were at Caraxes's side, and the dragon's heat washed over you, and your words died in your throat.
A sudden base instinct to flee gripped you, the sight of the great red dragon enough to freeze your limbs. But Daemon's grip was firm, his pace steady, and before you could process what was happening, he was lifting you up onto the dragon's back.
He climbed up behind you, a grunt escaping him as he swung his leg over. His arms came around your waist, and you felt the warmth of him, solid and real.
"Sovès" Daemon yelled.
Caraxes roared, a long, high sound, and lifted his wings. For a brief, terrifying moment, you were weightless.
And then the dragon launched itself into the air.
You didn't scream, didn't even cry out. You couldn't. Your mind was still catching up, your thoughts a jumble. Your mouth fell open, and your hands grasped at the saddle, your fingers digging in so hard your knuckles turned white.
The air rushed past, and you looked down, and the sight made you dizzy. The castle shrank beneath you, the bodies, the smoke, the flame. Everything was so small. The world was vast and the sky was endless and you were soaring.
A laugh bubbled up, the thrill of it filling your lungs. Then tears. Tears because you were safe and Daemon had come for you and it wasn't a dream and your chest was so tight and you were gasping for air-
You leaned back against your husband and sobbed, tears streaking down your cheeks, the sound swallowed by the wind.
Daemon's arms tightened around you, and the feeling of him there, his heartbeat against your spine, made you cry harder.
"Paghā" he whispered against your ear, the word rumbling through his chest. You didn't know Valyrian, but the tone was clear.
It was alright.
You were safe.
At first you thought you were going to Dragonstone, you could smell the salt in the air, the tang of the sea.
But no, Caraxes moved south, along the coast leading to Dorne. Daemon kept a firm grip on the reins, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He was silent.
Your sobs faded as you flew over the waves, and you settled in, watching the water, and the horizon, the sky painted in shades of red, orange and purple as the sun sank beyond the distant peaks.
Finally, Caraxes began to descend. He landed gracefully near a stone tower that looked out over the ocean, his body shuddering and his claws digging deep into the ground.
Your heart was still beating wildly, and you were grateful when Daemon slid down first and offered his hand. You took it, his warm touch bringing you back to earth, and let him guide you down.
Caraxes snorted and shook his wings, the gust of wind nearly knocking you off your feet. Daemon chuckled, pulling you against his side as the dragon's tail swished and he launched himself into the air, his huge wings beating so hard that dust billowed.
"Where are we?" you asked.
"A place I keep," he said, already moving past you toward the tower door.
You followed, watching the way he favored his right leg, the slight hitch in his stride he was trying to hide. He shouldered open the door and held it open, gesturing for you to enter.
The tower was not what you expected. Not the cold, damp ruin it looked to be from the outside. It was well furnished, with a large bed in the corner piled high with furs and pillows, a table bearing wine, bread wrapped in cloth, a basin of clean water. The hearth was cold, but fresh wood was laid and waiting.
This wasn't some abandoned hole he used for hunting. This was meant for something far more intimate.
"Is this where you bring your whores?" You didn't mean to say it, but the words escaped anyway, the bitterness in them a surprise.
"Why would I do that?" He crossed the room and grabbed a flagon, filling a cup with wine.
"Because they're easier than a wife," you snapped.
He laughed, and you bristled, but didn't respond. You watched him let out a quiet groan of pain as he knelt in front of the fire. It made something twist in your chest. He grabbed the wood and flint, struck a spark, and coaxed the flames to life. You watched as the flames licked up the dry wood, slowly consuming it.
"Your leg," you said, when he didn't speak.
"It's fine."
"No, it isn't."
He didn't answer. He was staring into the flames.
"Daemon."
He glanced over his shoulder at you, and then rose to his full height, turning to face you fully. He looked tired. Dark shadows hung under his eyes , and there was a pallor to his skin beneath the ash and blood. You hadn't noticed it before, when you'd seen him in the castle. He must have been riding all day, flying, killing...and he hadn't stopped. Not for rest, not for food, not until he had you back.
"I'll live," he said. "Sit."
You stayed standing. "Let me at least help you with your armor."
His lips twitched, but he nodded, sitting down heavily next to the table. You crossed to him, your hands reaching for the buckles of his pauldrons before you could second-guess yourself. He watched you, silent, his eyes tracking your movements as you worked the leather straps free.
The first piece of armor clattered to the floor. Then the second. Each buckle you loosened revealed more of him. The sweat-dampened tunic beneath, the way his shoulders sagged slightly without the weight of the steel.
"Did they hurt you badly?" he asked, his voice a soft rasp.
"They wanted to," you replied. "They said a lot of things."
You weren't sure why you told him. Perhaps because you wanted him to know what had happened. What might have happened if he hadn't come. Or maybe you simply needed to say it. To put the words into the air.
He reached up to where your hand was struggling with a strap at the back of his shoulder. He wrapped his fingers around yours, stilling them for just a moment before he helped you work the rest of the buckles free.
"I should have killed them slower."
"And more creatively." You smiled despite yourself.
He returned the smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
You stepped back as he rose and began stripping the rest of his armor. Greaves, gauntlets, bracers, until finally he was free. His white underclothes were stained red, blood seeping from the wound in his thigh.
"That needs stitching."
"I'm not some green knight who needs tending." He pulled a dagger from his belt and cut the fabric away, revealing a jagged cut down the outside of his thigh, the edges dark with blood. "See? It's not deep. It'll heal."
"Fine." You threw up your hands and turned away, anger simmering beneath your skin.
You could hear him moving, and you imagined him grabbing his sword and leaving. You wouldn't care. Let him leave. Let him go fly off wherever the hell he pleased.
But he didn't. Instead, his hands came around your waist, his warm breath tickling the shell of your ear.
"Paghā," he whispered, his voice low and soothing.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," he murmured, kissing your shoulder gently, "breathe."
"Breathe," you repeated.
"Aye, you're shaking."
You hadn't noticed, not until his hands slid over yours and took hold, his chest warm against your back. He brought one of your hands to his mouth, pressing his lips to your knuckles, looking over the raw flesh around your wrists.
"You look to be the one who needs tending," he said.
"I'm fine," you echoed his own words.
"Not yet." He led you over to the basin and guided you to sit on the bed, and then he dipped a cloth into the water, and began to clean the wounds.
His touch was gentle, the water soothing. You watched him in silence, your gaze tracing the line of his brow, the sharp angles of his face. Flashes of him fighting Byrch's men filled your mind. You'd never seen a man kill before.
"Why did you come for me?" you asked.
He paused, before dripping the cloth into the bowl.
"Because you're my wife."
"Am I?" You couldn't keep the bitterness from your voice.
"Do you think I'd have gone through the trouble otherwise?"
You didn't know what to say to that.
He finished cleaning the last of the wounds, then wrapped a bandage around each wrist, the feeling of his fingers on your skin sending a shiver through you.
"It doesn't mean anything," you said. "Being your wife."
"Make meaning then."
He rose and crossed the room, his movements stiff, and filled another cup with wine. He drank it quickly, then refilled the cup and came back to where you sat.
"Drink."
You took the cup, and sipped. The wine was rich and sweet, and after a few swallows you felt warm. You let out a slow breath and met his gaze.
"I didn't think you would come."
He said nothing.
"They told me Viserys was to pay a ransom," you went on. "I thought-"
"I'd let my brother handle the responsibility of saving my wife?" He smirked.
You looked away. The room was warm now, the fire roaring and the heat suffocating. You rose and went to the door, opening it, and the cool air rushed over you, making you sigh.
The sun was nearly gone, the stars bright in the sky, and the waves lapped gently against the cliffs below. It was beautiful, and quiet. It made the fear of the past days feel distant.
"If I matter so much, why have I not seen you since our wedding night?" You kept your gaze on the horizon, too afraid to look at him, all the pent up emotions you'd held inside threatening to spill over.
He let out a quiet laugh, a short, derisive sound, and rose, coming to stand beside you. He leaned against the door frame and looked out at the night sky.
"What do you want me to say?" he asked.
"The truth."
"You won't like it."
"That doesn't change it." You finally turned to look at him, a sudden surge of anger rising.
"I don't know how to be a husband." He said simply, his jaw tense. "I didn't want a wife. I didn't choose this. So, what should I have done? Made empty promises? Made you think you were special? That I was besotted? What was the point?"
He pushed off the doorframe and walked down the steps, and you stood frozen, staring at his back.
"You are right," he called over his shoulder. "This is where I bring my whores."
He kept walking. Away from the tower, down the path towards the shore.
Your heart was pounding. Anger, pain, frustration, relief; they were all warring inside you, and it made your head spin. Your feet carried you after him, the grass soft beneath them, the path winding down to the sand.
By the time you reached the beach, he had already stopped at the water's edge. He didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge you. He just reached for the hem of his tunic and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, the fabric stained dark with blood and ash. His boots followed, then his breeches, until he stood bare in the moonlight, the waves lapping at his feet.
He walked into the sea without a word.
You stood frozen on the sand, watching him wade deeper until the water reached his waist. He stopped there, facing the horizon, letting the surf wash over him. The cold didn't seem to bother him, or if it did, he didn't show it. He just stood there, washing the gore from his body.
You should have let him be. Should have turned around and gone back to the tower, wrapped yourself in furs, and waited for him to return... or not return. But something in you refused to let him walk away again.
You reached back and worked loose the ties of your dress, letting the fabric pool at your feet, the night air raising goosebumps across your bare skin. The shift followed a moment later.
The cold hit you like a slap as you stepped into the surf, the water shocking and sharp against your cuts. You hissed through your teeth but kept going, wading out until you were beside him, the water lapping just below your ribs. He still didn't turn, but you saw his jaw tighten.
The waves rolled in, cold and rhythmic, pulling at your legs. Neither of you spoke for a long moment. Just the sound of the sea and the distant cry of gulls.
"What was your plan?" you asked finally. "To come, rescue me, and then ignore me again? Go back to drinking, fighting and whoring?"
"Something like that."
You crossed your arms over your chest, though it did little to ward off the cold. You weren't sure what to say. He had given you no false promises, no declaration of love. But your wedding night was etched in your mind, a memory you couldn't let go.
"Then why did you treat me so kindly on our wedding night? Why were you..." You trailed off, your face suddenly warm despite the cold.
He laughed, a short, loud bark that echoed across the water. "Would you rather I have hurt you? Is that what you're asking?"
"No!" You scowled, feeling foolish. "I mean...you were gentle."
He finally turned to face you, the moonlight catching the sharp lines of his face. "What would you have preferred? A whore's treatment?"
"Shut up."
He laughed again, a rich, deep sound that made your stomach flip. His hand came up, brushing a lock of hair from your cheek.
"If it makes you feel better, my wife," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I enjoyed our wedding night very much." He shifted closer, his hand sliding around your waist, pulling you against the warmth of his chest. "Maybe I'll enjoy it again tonight."
You shoved his shoulders, but you were smiling despite yourself. "I don't even like you."
"I just saved your life. I'd say you should start liking me."
"You are a terrible husband."
"I'm the worst." He kissed your jaw, his mouth moving along the line of your neck, his breath warm against your cold skin. "Tell me how terrible."
You let him kiss along your skin, a soft sigh escaping.
"You're selfish."
"And?"
"A cheater."
"Keep going."
"Infuriating."
"More."
"Unkind."
"Very."
He tilted your chin up, and you let him, his lips were a breath from yours, and then you turned your face away. Not hard. Just away.
He went still. The water lapped against your ribs. You felt his breath on your cheek, unsteady. His hand didn't leave your jaw, but he didn't force you back.
"So what am I, then? Just another whore you'll leave in the morning?" you asked, the question quiet in the night. You weren't sure you wanted an answer. You were already regretting the words. They made you feel weak, desperate. But they were the truth.
He slowly let go of your chin, letting his hand drop back into the water. He looked at you, really looked at you, and you saw something there in the moonlight, something raw and unguarded.
"A cage," he said. "My brother. Your father. This marriage."
He paused, then reached up, his thumb brushing over the bruise on your cheekbone. "And you," he added, softly. "It was-" He broke off, looking away across the water. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, almost angry. "It was good. And I didn't want it to be."
You stared at him.
He turned back to you, and his eyes were dark, unreadable. "I don't get given things."
"Well this might surprise you," you said, a sudden surge of boldness washing over you. "But I am not a thing."
He looked at you for a long moment, then let out a short, sharp laugh. "I'm aware." His gaze dropped to your lips. "That's the problem."
"You've never once asked me what I want."
He tilted his head. "What do you want?"
You didn't know what to say, your mind was racing. The answer was on the tip of your tongue, but you were scared to say it. Scared he'd laugh, or worse, agree. But you were tired of being scared. And you were standing naked in the sea with your husband who had just slaughtered a castle for you.
"I want a husband who doesn't ignore me," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "One who maybe, occasionally, eats dinner with me. I want to not feel so alone in my own chambers."
You paused, gathering your courage. "And I... I want you to stop being a stranger to me."
"Anything else?" he asked, and you couldn't tell if he was mocking you.
You took a shaky breath. "I don't know... I didn't hate that ride on Caraxes... It was thrilling."
A slow, genuine smile spread across his lips. "No?"
You shook your head, a small smile of your own. "Perhaps the occasional dragon ride."
"I can arrange that," he said, pulling you close again. His hands were on your waist, and yours rested on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. "Is that all, wife?"
"I'm freezing," you admitted, shivering now as the cold seeped into your bones.
He let out a soft chuckle, his arms wrapping around you, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and he started wading back to the shore.
You should have protested. You should have told him to put you down, that he was still wounded, that you could walk. But his eyes were fixed on yours, and you were in his arms, and all you could think was how safe he made you feel.
"Better?" he asked, his mouth close to your ear.
"Getting warmer," you murmured.
He carried you back up the path, into the warmth of the tower, and set you gently on the bed. The furs were soft, and you sighed, letting your body sink into them. A real bed. Clean. Safe. The feeling was so overwhelming that for a moment you just lay there, eyes closed, breathing.
When you opened them, Daemon was kneeling by the hearth, feeding logs to the fire. You watched him through the haze of your exhaustion. The broad plane of his back, the way the firelight caught the edges of old scars, the careful way he stacked the wood.
He rose, and you saw him favor his right leg again. A hitch he smoothed over almost instantly. Almost.
"How's your leg?"
"You will probably be a widow by morning," he deadpanned.
"I doubt that." You couldn't hide your smile, and his answering grin sent a flush of warmth through you.
He crossed to the bed and sat on the edge, not touching you, just… there… and you realized he was waiting. For you to sleep. For you to speak. For something. He didn't know what to do with a woman in his bed who wasn't there for his pleasure.
You propped yourself up on your elbows, the furs pooling around your waist. The fire had warmed the room enough that the air no longer bit at your bare skin. You were acutely aware that you were both still naked, but the awareness didn't feel urgent. It just felt… present.
"You're very far away," you said.
He glanced down at the small space between you. "This is far?"
"For a man who just saved my life and carried me naked up a cliff…yes."
His lips twitched. "I was giving you room to breathe."
"How considerate."
"I have my moments."
You shifted, sitting up fully, letting the furs fall away. He watched you move, his gaze steady but unhurried. He wasn't going to reach for you. You understood, suddenly, that he was waiting for you to decide. If you wanted him, you'd have to give him something. The realization was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
You reached out and pressed your palm flat against his chest. His skin was warm from the fire. You felt his heartbeat, steady and slow, under your hand.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice low.
"I don't know," you admitted. "I've never done this before."
"Done what?"
"Take what I want."
Something flickered in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Interest. His hand came up and covered yours, pressing it more firmly against his chest. "And what is it you want?"
You swallowed. "I'm figuring it out."
He laughed, short and rough and utterly charmed. "Take your time, then."
You moved before you could talk yourself out of it, shifting onto your knees and then, carefully, deliberately, climbing into his lap. It wasn't graceful. Your knee caught his injured thigh and he grunted, but his hands came up to your hips anyway, steadying you.
"What's all this for?" he murmured.
"Because I want to."
"Not because I rescued you?"
"No." You met his eyes. "Though… you are owed thanks."
His grin was slow and sharp. "And you want to thank me with your-"
You pressed your fingers to his mouth before he could finish. "Do not say it."
He kissed your fingertips.
"I don’t like crude words. I am a lady."
"You are a lady who is currently sitting naked in my lap."
"Then stop talking and let me concentrate."
He leaned back on his hands, the picture of obedience, his eyes dancing. "By all means."
You glared at him, but it was hard to maintain, with the way he was looking at you like you were the most entertaining thing he'd seen in years. You were suddenly, acutely aware of your nakedness. The way your thighs bracketed his hips, the heat of him, the fact that you had no idea what to do next.
Your cheeks flushed.
His smile turned knowing. "I recall how shy you were on our wedding night."
"I recall you being rather drunk."
"That, I was." He sat up, his chest now a breath from yours, one hand coming up to brush the hair from your shoulder. "You were prettier than I expected."
"Is that meant to be a compliment?"
"It's the truth."
You looked at him, the sharp lines of his face, the pale lashes, the mouth that had just confessed more in the sea than you'd heard him say in a year. He was still a stranger in so many ways. But he was yours. And he was here. And he wasn't running.
"You're still too far away," you said.
"I'm right here."
"Then kiss me."
His eyes held yours for a long moment, searching. Then, slowly, he leaned in and brushed his lips against yours. It was deep and unhurried and certain, his mouth slanting over yours like he'd been waiting for you to ask. His hands slid into your hair, tilting your head back, and you made a sound against his lips, a soft, needy thing you didn't recognize as your own.
When he finally pulled back, you were breathing harder than you wanted to admit. He looked far too pleased with himself.
"You're very good at that," you said, a little accusatory.
"Years of practice," he smirked.
You shoved at his shoulder, but you were smiling.
"I don't want to hear about your practice."
"Then don't ask."
You wound your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your hands tangling in the soft hair at his nape. "I want to be the only practice."
His smirk faded. His gaze was serious now, searching your face. Something in your chest tightened, an old, familiar fear. You'd said too much. But then he was kissing you again, and this kiss was different. Deeper. Possessive. It wasn't a question or an answer; it was a statement. Mine.
Your body responded before your mind could catch up. You shifted in his lap, trying to find a better angle, and the movement brought your bodies flush together. He was half-hard beneath you, the heat of him pressing against your thigh, and the contact made you gasp against his mouth. You'd done that. The thought sent a sharp, unfamiliar thrill through you.
His hand slid down your chest, over the swell of your breast, the pad of his thumb brushing against your nipple, which pebbled instantly at the contact. He moved lower, tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, until his fingers found the heat between your legs. He paused there, a feather-light touch against your seam, and you held your breath.
"Daemon," you whispered, the name a plea against his lips.
He answered you with a touch, a slow, deliberate glide of his fingers through your wetness. Your hips jerked, a moan escaping your lips. He found the small, hidden spot at the apex of your thighs and circled it once, twice, a gentle pressure that made your toes curl. He was watching your face, absorbing every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, and the intensity of his gaze was almost as intoxicating as the pleasure itself.
You tried to kiss him again, needing the anchor of his mouth, but he pulled back slightly, his focus entirely on the movement of his hand. He slid one finger inside you, a slow, deliberate intrusion that stretched you, filled you. Your head fell back, your neck arching as he began to move, a steady, maddening rhythm that had you rocking against his hand. He let you move with him, let you find a pace that built the tension in your core, a hot, tightening coil. You were losing yourself, the world narrowing to the sensation of him touching you. The sounds you made were uninhibited, wanton, and you didn't care.
Just as you felt the precipice of your release, he pulled away. You made a sound of protest, your eyes flying open to meet his. He was smirking, that infuriating, handsome smirk that made you want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.
"Why did you stop?" you demanded, your voice embarrassingly breathless.
"Impatient," he chuckled, not ungently. He shifted you in his lap, adjusting your position until you were straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips, your core flush against his hard length. "I thought you wanted to be in charge."
Your breath hitched. The reality of him, hot and heavy against your most sensitive flesh, was a shock. You could feel your own wetness slicking him. The power was yours to take.
"I am," you said, though the claim felt less certain than you wanted it to be. Your hands on his shoulders trembled.
"Then take what you want, wife."
The challenge was clear in his eyes. You braced yourself, your hands flat on his chest, and lifted your hips. He held himself steady for you, one hand gripping the base of his cock, guiding the head to your entrance. The slow press as you began to lower yourself was a sweet, aching stretch. Your body welcomed him, a familiar, perfect fit that you remembered from your wedding night, but it felt different now. More intense.
When you'd taken him to the hilt, you paused, adjusting to the feeling of him. He was breathing hard, his eyes locked on where your bodies joined, the muscles in his neck taut. His self-control was admirable, and you wondered what would happen if you pushed it.
You started to move. Tentative, at first, just a slow roll of your hips that made you both gasp. You found a rhythm, unpracticed and a little unsteady, but it was yours. His hands stayed on your hips, but he let you lead, his head falling back slightly, his fingers digging into you tighter and tighter. The sight of him undone beneath you sent a surge of confidence through your veins.
"Does that feel good, husband?" you asked, and the word came out teasing.
His laugh was half groan. "You're a fast learner."
Your pace quickened, your thighs burning with the effort, but the pleasure was building again, that tight coil low in your belly. His thumb found that spot once more, pressing in time with your movements, and the combination shattered your rhythm. You cried out, your nails raking down his chest, and he sat up suddenly, one arm banding around your waist to keep you steady as you came apart around him.
He let you ride it out, your face buried in his neck, your body shuddering. Then, gently, he shifted. You felt yourself being lowered onto your back, the furs soft beneath you, his weight a warm, solid anchor, his forearms braced on either side of your head.
"Look at me."
His voice was rough. You opened your eyes, and the firelight caught the sharp lines of his face, the vulnerability he was letting you see. His thrusts stayed slow, deliberate, his gaze never leaving yours.
"You're beautiful."
The words were whispered against your lips, and for a moment you thought you imagined them. But he said it again, and again, each repetition timed with a deep, rolling thrust, until the pleasure crested and broke and you were falling apart beneath him, his name a broken cry on your lips.
He followed moments later, a low groan tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you, his forehead pressing to yours. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The fire crackled. The sea whispered against the cliffs below.
He pulled out gently and rolled to his side, but he didn't let you go. He pulled you against his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin, and you felt his lips brush your hair.
"Still hate me?" he asked, and you could hear the smirk in his voice without needing to see it.
"A little less," you whispered, running your hand down the side of his face. He caught it and pressed a kiss to your palm.
It should have felt strange to lie naked in the arms of a man who had, up until this afternoon, been little more than a stranger. But instead it felt comfortable. Safe. Like something that had been waiting for you both to stop running.
"Perhaps I was hasty," you mumbled, the words slurred and soft with exhaustion.
"In what regard?" His voice rumbled under your ear.
"I do think you could be a good husband, after all."
His arm tightened around your waist. "I can try."
"You'll be here when I wake? You won't run off?" You murmured sleepily. "If you're going to run, just tell me now."
"I'll be here, little wife. Sleep."
Sleep took hold before you could say more. Your last conscious thoughts were of how safe you felt, in this man's arms, in this strange little tower on the edge of the sea. And the strange realization that he was no longer a stranger. He was yours, and you were his.
He was still there in the morning, wrapped in furs and snoring softly beside you, your legs tangled with his. You smiled against his chest. It was a good beginning.
summary: after joe's kitten interview with buzzfeed, his view on owning a cat completely changes (to your absolute joy)
cw: pure fluff
wc: 700
"no im not a cat person”
"YOU HATE KITTENS?!"
"no- no! i don't hate kittens"
Joe, Maya, Natalia and Charlie were sat on the floor of a bare studio, ready for their kitten interview
"how could you hate kittens"
"i just- i've never had a cat so?"
maya could not belive the words previously uttered from joes mouth.
and neither could you when you'd first met him.
you were a cat person through and through, joe was not.
you'd asked on multiple occasions about adopting a kitten between the two of you. used the argument that it would keep you company when he leaves on tour.
didn't work.
when you heard he was doing an interview surrounded by tons of little kittens two things popped up in your mind.
1. jealous as fuck, And 2. what if it got him to change his mind.
like in an exposure therapy kinda way. him being surrounded by the cuteness of little baby kitties might bring him to his senses and finally let you get a cat together.
"this cat is like... eating me?!"
a kitten, the literal size of joes hand, was dangling off his arm, mouthing and biting the skin there.
"she likes you" maya laughed.
joe looked down at the little fluffy animal crawling over him, not really listening to the interview anymore.
once the interview was over, and the cats were being herded back, Joe took out his phone to bring up your number
you were at home alone, a couple hours away from where joe was filming when you picked up the facetime.
"hey baby, how's the shoot"
"better than i thought actually"
"oh yeaaah?"
"yeah okay.. oh look"
he panned the camera down to the last kitten in the studio, the one that had practically claimed him.
"AWHH" you squealed into the microphone.
you held the phone close to your face to see the little kitten as best as possible.
"she's sweet ain't she, she reminds me of you"
"of me?"
"yeah- adorable, and wouldn't stop biting my arm"
you laughed and blushed at his comment.
"she likes you"
"mhm she- oh"
one of the crew had swooped up the tiny kitty taking her back to her little friends.
"sorry honey she's been taken away"
"aw it's okay, when you coming home i miss you"
"literally now, this was the last thing"
"good, can't wait to see you"
when joe got home that night you hounded him about the interview.
and eventually he slipped up- just like you'd planned.
"i think i would get a cat you know"
and that's how you ended up with roxi, a little brown and white kitty you adopted from a family friend.
joe got everything for her. a tiny pink collar, pink bed, scratching frame, matching water and food bowl set with a little pink mat.
everything.
the night you brought her home you felt like a part of your life had actually been missing this whole time.
joe set the cat bed up on the floor at the bottom of your bed next to a water bowl.
roxi however, decided that your bed looked much comfier, specifically- joes chest.
"hey that's my pillow!" you crawled into bed next to joe who was mesmerised by the little ball of fluff that had settled on his chest.
"sorry princess, looks like you got some competition"
"mm i think i do"
you laid down, resting your head against his shoulder as his arm came up to pull you into his side.
you reached out to roxi, stroking her head softly.
"she's so cute”
"yeah she is"
"she likes you a lot"
"cats always do- i don't get it"
"it's cuz you're a calm person"
"calm?"
"you got that kinda energy about you"
he looked down at you with a slight frown, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"i'm serious"
"okay baby"
he leaned down to press a lingering kiss to you forehead.
"are you happy we got her?" you whispered.
"well so far.. yeah"
"so far?"
"well it's only been like 8 hours"
"it's been the best 8 hours"
"yeah it has"
roxi rolled onto her back in her sleep, stretching out her tiny body across joe.
"awwwwwh" you both squealed in unison.
"okay honestly.." joe started. "i think i'm in love with her"
your chest tightened, almost painfully as you looked at your boyfriend laying in bed with your baby kitten.
yeah- this is definitely what you've been missing this whole time.
wounded
(slight angst, mention of gunshot wounds, eventual fluff)
gator tillman is the kind of guy you wished you didn’t care about.
but you do.
unfortunately.
you ran into him a lot. him being the deputy sheriff and you being a nurse meant it was kind of inevitable.
he was at the hospital on a weekly basis—to take statements from witnesses. to arrest suspects after they had been treated. to waste time drinking the shitty coffee. to annoy you.
gator tillman had made his interest in you abundantly clear from the get go. you had rejected him every single time. still—it didn’t deter him. he persisted. you continued to deny him.
but you also didn’t tell him to stop. you liked the chase. he knew you did.
and so when you turn up to work one day to find out that the patient who had been admitted with a gunshot wound was gator? you falter. for the first time in your professional career, you wonder if you could handle it. not because of the blood or the severity of the wound. but because it was gator.
your find yourself pacing outside of the room you knew doctors were treating him in. the wound wasn’t severe enough for surgery—thank god—but they still needed to stem the bleeding and close up the entrance and exit wounds.
your hands shook and your heart hammered in your chest as you waited. you hated the feeling of worry that had settled in your chest. the feeling that was seeping into every pore, every nook and cranny in your body. making you feel restless.
you should be attending to other patients. you knew that. but your colleagues—all of whom seem to know that you cared about gator tillman more than you cared to admit—held the fort. they steered patients away from you. they didn’t ask you to return to work. they just looked at you with sympathetic eyes.
it took the doctors nearly forty minutes to stitch up the wounds. apparently gator kept complaining. was incredibly fidgety. kept asking for you. that’s what one of the doctors told you.
your face had burned at that comment. your stomach had turned. your heart doing stupid things in your chest that scientifically didn’t make sense.
“thank you,” you murmured to the doctor before you slipped into the room.
gator didn’t immediately look up. too busy scowling at the plate of food he had been given.
“you gotta eat,” you say by way of announcing yourself. your voice shaky when you finally use it.
gator looks up then—his expression shifting the second he sees you. you see it for a split second—how relieved he looked. how there was a flicker of vulnerability in his big brown eyes. how he looked like a scared child for the briefest of seconds.
but then his face shifts again—back to his usual self. even if he was shirtless with a bandage wrapped around his left shoulder.
“fancy seeing you here, sweetheart,” he greets you—a smile stretching across his lips despite the clear pain he was in.
“i work here,” you remind him when you approach him—your eyes on the bandage. trying not to look at the dark smattering of coarse hair across his chest.
“no shit,” he hums.
“want my attention that bad?” you ask in an attempt at a joke. trying to ignore the tightest in your chest at the small specks of blood—his blood—on the sheet beneath him.
“i’d take ten more bullets for you if you keep looking at me like that.”
it was meant to be joke—you knew it was. but it made your eyes sting.
“don’t say things like that,” you mutter, eyes flickering up to meet his.
gator then does something he rarely did—he listens. he stills. studies your expression for a long moment before he glances back at the tray of food on his bedside.
“you don’t happen to know if they do steak here?” he asks. you knew he had seen your tears and you were grateful that he hadn’t commented on them.
“no,” you tell him quietly, sniffling a little as you blink away your tears. “just chicken and vegetables for you.”
gator scoffs, eyes flickering from you over to the plate of roast chicken, potatoes and broccoli. “maybe if you feed it to me, i’ll eat it.”
the idea makes the corners of your mouth twitch. gator notices. makes the pain in his shoulder feel pretty insignificant in comparison to making you smile.
“the doctor told me you were asking for me,” you say after a few moments.
gator doesn’t falter, he smirks a little.
“yeah—i asked her where the hottest nurse in all of stark county was,” he says without missing a beat.
if he wasn’t injured—you might have slapped his chest playfully the way you usually did. instead—you crack a smile and gator swears it was better than any painful relief he had been given so far.
“you gonna take care of me now, sweetheart?” he asks you, still smirking in that annoying way he did. but now—it seemed softer. less arrogant, more—something that made you feel warm inside. “because you touch me in that little uniform of yours, i might lose it.”
you snort out a laugh but your face feels warm. you hope he doesn’t notice. but of course he does.
“maybe a little,” you tell him before you turn and head towards the cupboard where fresh sheets were kept.
you feel gator’s eyes on you the entire time—not because he was checking you out.
okay—maybe he was checking you out a little bit.
but because he didn’t want you to leave him alone.
“you’re coming back, right?” he calls after you—despite the fact you were only on the other side of the room.
"yes, gator," you say gently. "i'm coming back. just going to change your sheets. there's blood on them."
"good," he grunts as he tries to move his shoulder a little. pain cuts through him but he manages to hide it with your back turned. "fancy changing my hospital gown while you're at it? pretty sure i got blood on that too. though, i will worn you—i've got nothing on underneath."
you return to his bedside and for a split second—your eyes flicker down. your face warms. gator notices.
"careful," you tell him gently as you help him sit on the edge of the bed so you could change the sheets. gator grumbles but he lets you touch him—guide him. not like how he had swore blind at the doctor who had stitched him up. or how he had glared at the first doctor who had assessed his wound. how he had muttered threats of violence under his breath.
"were you worried about me?" he asks once you gently help him lay back down against the bed. your hands on his skin making him feel grateful he was alive.
your eyes meet his and there isn't a doubt in his mind that you had been worried. but he doesn't press you further about it. just silently reaches to grab the hand that had been resting on his chest and brings it up to his lips to kiss your palm. you let him—heart hammering against your chest.
"quit worrying," he tells you in that gruff voice of his that did nothing to distract you from the gentleness of his touch. "m'right here, sweetheart."
"i know," you whisper, squeezing his hand once before you let go. your face undeniably warmer than before. "just don't go making a habit of getting shot, okay?"
gator smiles up at you. "i'll not try to sweetheart."
dividers by @zclhs
💌 day thriteeen of the 1k followers special!! last day tomorrow 🥹 crazy because i am nearly at 1.6k followers 😳
💚 also gator is back 🥹 second time writing for him and forgot how much i loved him! more to come for gator TRUST! also please let it be known that I have ZERO medical knowledge. especially gun shot wounds so let’s just ignore all the (likely) very incorrect medical stuff going on here. okay? okay.
Summary: When you wake up on your first wedding anniversary expecting a day to remember, it soon comes to a halt when your other half isn't there to celebrate.
The apartment was silent, too silent for what was about to be a day to remember. You woke with a smile already forming, instinctively reaching across the mattress toward Joe's side of the bed to greet him. Cold. Your eyes fluttered open, gazing over to his side "Joe?" you called sleepily. Nothing. You pushed yourself upright, glancing toward the bathroom, but empty. The closet door was open slightly, but there was no sign of him.
"Joe?" Still nothing. A small crease formed between your brows as you climbed out of bed and wandered through the apartment. Living room, kitchen, spare room, studio room. All empty.
The smile had faded by the time you returned to the bedroom and grabbed your phone from the nightstand to one notification.
J✨
Sent 4:03am
Got some studio ideas buzzing around in my head. Went out to electric lady instead of home, didn't want to wake you. See you later, i love you xx
That was it. No happy anniversary, no mention of today's date, nothing. You stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary, maybe he was planning something, maybe he has being weirdly casual because he had a surprise planned for later. You swallowed your disappointment and set the phone down, he'd be home soon anyway. Surely.
By 10am, the kitchen looked exactly how you'd imagined it. The card you'd spent twenty minutes writing sat proudly on the island, his gift was wrapped beside it, the tiny recreation of your wedding cake sat waiting to be cut together, white balloons floated gently from the ceiling, polaroids from your wedding day were scattered across the counter. You'd spent weeks picking your favourites and printing them, Joe laughing during speeches, first dance, the two of you taking a moment outside during the evening. It was nice to remember a whole year ago.
It looked beautiful. Exactly how you pictured your anniversary going. You stood back, smiling at the display. He was going to love it.
By midday, he still wasn't home. No further texts or calls. You tried not to overthink it, he was working, he disappeared into music sometimes, and you loved that about him but today just felt different. Maybe it was because today wasn't just any day, it was your first anniversary. You can still imagine the moment in your head, as soon as you left the venue and finally it was just the two of you, he started crying, whispering "I can't believe you're my wife".
3pm, nothing.
6pm, nothing.
By 7pm, the excitement was gone. The balloons felt stupid, the cake sat untouched, gift still wrapped. You'd stopped checking the window every time a car door slammed outside because it was never him. You sat curled in the armchair with a book open on your lap but hadn't turned a page in nearly forty minutes. Your thoughts wouldn't stop, maybe he'd genuinely forgotten, the idea hurting more than you wanted to admit. The past few months you'd talked about starting a family, having kids, moving into a bigger place, the future, you'd even joked that this could be your last anniversary as just the two of you. Yet somehow here you were, alone, on your first wedding anniversary. Eating disappointment for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
At 8:30pm you ordered Thai takeout for yourself because what else were you supposed to do? The delivery driver even wished you a lovely evening, you nearly laughed. Instead you thanked him and closed the door. You ate on the sofa while some terrible romcom played in the background, the irony wasn't lost on you. Onscreen, some woman's husband had arranged an elaborate anniversary surprise, you rolled your eyes and shoved another bite of food into your mouth. Tears threatened, but you refused to let them fall, but by 10pm alone in the house, it was hard not too. You couldn't pretend anymore. You switched the TV off, the balloons swaying in the darkness as you walked past them, the cake still intact, his card laying exactly where you left it and the gift he had been eyeing up for months still wrapped. All the excitement you had when you woke up, gone. Just gone. The lump in your throat became impossible to ignore as you stared at one of the wedding photos laid on the counter, one of your favourites of Joe looking at you like nothing you'd ever seen before. Your eyes blurred by the second, filling with tears as they slipped down your cheek.
"Happy anniversary" you whispered bitterly to the empty apartment, voice cracking towards the end. That was what finally broke you, a sob escaping your mouth, filled with heartbreak. This wasn't how today was supposed to go. You were supposed to spend the day tangled together in bed after endless rounds of sex, or out exploring a new city, getting dressed up for dinner, or cutting cake and laughing over wedding memories, not sitting alone wondering why your husband hadn't even wished you a happy birthday.
By 11pm, exhaustion had finally won. You left everything exactly where it was. If Joe came home tonight, he could see it all for himself, see how much effort you'd put in, see what he'd missed. You climbed into bed alone, the same way you'd woken up except instead of the smile that was plastered on your face, now your chest hurt. You turned off the bedside lamp and curled on to your side, tears dampening the pillow as you stared at the empty space beside you, and as sleep finally began to pull you under, one thought echoed louder than all the others. How could he forget?
Sometime after midnight, you were pulled from an uneasy sleep by the sound of the front door closing and keys clanking together. Your eyes opened instantly, but you just laid still, staring into the darkness. He was finally home. You listened, the familiar sounds of him moving around the apartment floated down the hallway, keys dropped onto the counter, a cupboard opening, footsteps, then the rustle of something being moved followed by silence. "Fuck". The word echoed through the apartment as you squeezed your eyes shut. He's seen the evidence waiting for him on the side, your anniversary.
A tear slipped silently down your cheek again, but quickly wiping it away but another followed by another. This morning you convinced yourself there was a surprise, and that he was planning something romantic, or he'd walk through the door with flowers and apologise for disappearing all day, except he'd forgotten and only remembered because you'd left reminders scattered across the kitchen. The humiliation of the whole situation settled heavily in your chest. You turned onto your side and pulled the blanket tighter around yourself trying desperately to pretend you were asleep and trying desperately to stop crying.
Out in the apartment you could hear movement again but slower this time like he was standing there taking it all in. You imagined his face, reading the card, opening the gift you'd spent weeks hunting down because he mentioned wanting it months ago, your throat tightening. The bedroom door opened quietly, a thin strip of light from the hallway widening across the floor before disappearing again as the door eased shut followed by cautious footsteps. You could practically feel his eyes on you, but you kept yours closed.
"Babe?" His voice was soft in whisper, like he already knew.
You didn't answer. You wanted to continue pretending you was asleep, if you said something you'd start crying all over again. The mattress dipped slightly as he sat on the edge next to you, not speaking for a while as it was like he was thinking how he was going to do this, till his voice came again, "Are you awake?".
A fresh tear escaped despite your efforts to try remain asleep. Joe had finally realised what day it was and it was already over. You could hear him breathing in the quiet of the room, just sitting there with his eyes on you still. There wasn't really anything he could have said right now that would give you today back. Your first wedding anniversary had been and gone, and you'd spent it alone.
Eventually Joe let out a shaky exhale, "Babe..." His voice cracked slightly.
You squeezed your eyes shut tighter but the tears were still slipping out despite your best efforts, followed by a weep that left your lips. He knew you was awake now.
"I am such an idiot" The words came out quietly, "I forgot".
No excuses. No attempt to pretend otherwise. Truth, and hearing him say it out loud made your chest ache. A small sob escaped before you could stop it, your hand automatically covering your mouth.
The sound seemed to destroy him, "Oh, baby". You felt him move closer, not touching you just sitting nearer, like he wanted to reach for you but didn't think he'd earned it. "I actually forgot and I am so, so sorry. And I know sorry doesn't cut it".
You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling. Joe was sitting beside you, shoulders slumped, looking completely devastated. A laugh escaped you, the kind that comes right before properly crying, "I spent all day waiting for you to come home to me".
Joe immediately closed his eyes, seeing the pain flash across his face.
"I woke up thinking maybe you'd made plans for us. I thought maybe there'd be flowers".
His head dropped, "I got carried away..."
"Or breakfast, dinner" Another tear slid into your hairline, "Or literally anything".
Joe looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole, his eyes were fixed on the blanket. Unable to look at you or defend himself. You sat up slowly, back against the headboard, the movement making him finally look at you. He turned the bedside lamp on so he could see you a little better, your face blotchy from crying and his expression immediately crumpled, you had never seen guilt hit somebody so visibly.
"I printed photos" Your voice wobbled, "I got your gift weeks ago. I got the cake made the exact same from the same bakery". His eyes flickered shut and his shoulders sagged further. You looked away, suddenly unable to stand seeing how miserable he looked. Despite everything, you knew Joe. You knew he didn't have a cruel bone in his body, he loved you so so much and you knew if he remembered then none of this would have happened, but that almost made the entire situation harder because if somebody doesn't care, forgetting makes sense. Joe cared yet he forgot anyway.
He whispered, "What time did you wake up?"
You frowned, "What?"
"What time did you get up this morning?"
"About eight"
Joe nodded slowly, like he was calculating how long he had to remember, to text, to call and come home to his wife on their anniversary. "Fuck sake..." He dragged both hands down his face. "I saw the balloons, the cake, the photos, the card. Everything" His voice barely audible. "I don't think I've ever hated myself more" as a tear rolled down his cheek.
You wanted to stay angry, part of you was angry but hearing the genuine self loathing in his voice made something ache inside you. Joe wasn't sitting there trying to get out of trouble, he was sitting there looking like he'd broken his own heart too. After a long silence, he finally looked at you with glassy eyes, "I'm really sorry darling. I am so sorry".
You looked at him for a moment,at the exhaustion on his face, the regret, the shame. He hadn't come into the room with excuses ready, or talking his way out of this, the second he walked into the apartment and seen everything waiting for him, he understood there was nothing he could say that could fix this. Only that he had hurt you. Joe slowly reached for your hand, but he stopped halfway. Waiting and giving you the choice to pull away, but when you didn't, his fingers finally wrapped around yours. "I know I can't fix today" His voice broke, "But if you let me..." He swallowed hard, "I'll spend the rest of my life making sure I never make you feel like this again". And for the first time since he'd come home, you saw him sob like never before.
jas, on a scale of 1 - 10, how touchy are the djolings ??
(Steve probably breaks the scale with his love language being physical touch lol, but still)
steve harrington could not seem to go more than a few seconds without touching you. that man was insatiable when it came to physical touch. he always either had his arm around you or a hand on your waist, your hip, or your ass if no one was looking. steve was just loved touching you. he loved kissing you even if you were mid sentence, even if robin was nearby and would inevitably tell him to keep it in his pants. he just couldn’t help himself—he just loved you and wasn’t afraid to show it.
gator tillman was touchy in his own kind of way. he definitely had his hands somewhere on your body when you were out together, just to make sure that any men nearby knew you were taken (despite the fact no one would dare even look at gator’s girl). otherwise, gator wasn’t really the hand holding kind of guy. sometimes he would sling an arm around your shoulder but otherwise gator kept his touchy nature strictly behind closed doors. when you were alone this man would not leave you alone. always grabbing you so he could kiss you, always slapping your ass just because. he also secretly loved to cuddle but he’d never admit it.
teacake was shameless when it came to physical touch. he was never subtle about it and always had an arm slung around your shoulder when walking down a busy street, a hand on your waist so he could tug you onto his lap when at a bar or kissing you until you were breathless in the back row of a cinema. you definitely got called out for too much pda but teacake smiled and said “sorry, my girl’s just irresistible.”
keys was much more subtle but still just as touchy. he tended to keep his touches simple—a steady hand on your lower back or his pinky linking with yours when you were out at dinner. keys just liked the feeling of your skin against his and he loved seeing you trying to fight back a smile whenever he’d touch you. when you were alone, he was incredibly touchy. he loved standing behind you while you made tea, loved pulling you in for a big cuddle after work. your touch just bought him a sense of serenity that he so desperately needed after a long day in the office.
kurt would probably not be content until he was surgically attached to you. this man was the definition of touchy. it was like he was made of velcro. he was always clinging to you as though he was scared you might run off if he let go, always squeezing your hand as though making sure you were real. he often asked you if he was being too much, if he was too touchy or if you found him annoying but you always reassured him that you loved how affectionate he was.
To the Windowww, To the Wall | Bucky Barnes x f!reader.
Pairings: Stay-at-home Bucky Barnes x f!Reader.
Themes: funny? Bucky being a sad puppy that you had to leave him.
Summary: You had to leave for a few days, leaving Bucky alone by himself. See, Bucky doesn't know what to do without you around and he finds a way to keep himself entertained.
A/N: Totally not inspired by Sebastian's singing clips.
Bucky leaned against the doorframe, blue eyes tracing the car that slowly backed out of the driveway. He tried to keep his expression neutral—really, he did—but the moment you waved at him through the window with a sheepish smile, his mouth curved down into the most pitiful pout.
“Call me as soon as you get there,” he called out, voice loud enough to carry over the crunch of gravel. “And text me when you’re at the hotel, okay? I wanna know you’re safe.”
“I will, I will,” you promised, shaking your head at his intensity. “It’s only two days, Bucky. I’ll be back before you know it.”
He gave you a half-hearted wave as the car pulled away, standing there long after the taillights disappeared down the street. With a defeated sigh, Bucky trudged back into the house, the place already feeling too empty without you. He stared at the closed door, then sighed dramatically.
“Hey, Google,” he called, slumping onto the couch, staring at the ceiling with a forlorn expression. “Play something… uplifting.”
The house assistant processed the request before responding cheerfully, “Sure. Playing ‘Take On Me’ by a-ha.” The iconic 80s tune burst through the speakers, and Bucky groaned, already reaching for the bottle of red wine you’d left on the counter.
“Take on me, huh?” he muttered to himself, rolling his eyes as he unscrewed the cap. He poured a dangerously generous glass, filled it nearly to the rim, and took a long gulp. “Whatever, let’s do this.”
The song picked up tempo, and before Bucky knew it, his foot was tapping against the hardwood floor. He took another sip—more like a gulp—and suddenly, it wasn’t so bad. He could be alone for two days. He was fine. Totally fine.
“Take on meeeee!” he belted, raising his glass in salute to the empty room, swaying with the music. He spun on his heel, shuffling over to the kitchen, letting his voice warble with mock sincerity, “Take me onnnnn!”
Feeling the buzz of wine, the song swapped to “Hungry Eyes” next, holding his glass like a delicate flower. He glanced at his reflection in the kitchen window, grinning at how absolutely ridiculous he looked.
“Hungry eyes…” He set the glass on the coffee table, swaying his hips with exaggerated movements that definitely didn’t match the beat.
“One look at you and I can’t disguise…” His voice faltered as he noticed just how lonely the living room seemed without you. He grabbed the bottle again and poured himself another glass.
Screw it, he thought. If he couldn’t be with you, he could at least dance away the emptiness.
He threw himself onto the couch, raising his glass high above his head as the final chords faded.
“Google,” he shouted, half-expecting the AI to be annoyed by his demands, “play ‘Get Low’ by Lil Jon & The East Side Boyz.’”
The house assistant complied, and the second the familiar booming beat and crunk vocals hit, Bucky perked up, a smirk tugging at his lips.
“To the windowwww to the wall!” he sang, throwing his hands up and letting his hips sway. The buzz of the wine, coupled with the absurdity of dancing alone in their living room, made him throw caution—and dignity—to the wind.
He got up, spinning in place like he was at a crowded club instead of a silent, empty house. Bucky shimmied to the center of the living room, red wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he started to get into the groove.
“Til the sweat drop down my balls! Til all you bitches crawl!” he bellowed, bounced to the beat. Pretending to taunt an invisible person with gun fingers.
He leaned forward, a playful grin stretching across his face as he started lowering himself closer to the ground, hips rolling in tight circles. “Ahh skeet skeet motherfuckuhhh” he growled, then laughed at how ridiculous he sounded.
He jumped back up, still swaying his hips in rhythm to the chorus, then decided—because why the hell not?—to try his best attempt at Lil Jon’s vocal growl. “Ahh skeet skeet goddamn!”
Feeling a surge of confidence, Bucky planted his feet, rolling his shoulders back. “Get low, get low, get low, get low!” he sang, then reached out to slap the air like he was hitting someone’s backside.
He burst out laughing at his own antics but kept moving, thrusting his hips forward and back with exaggerated flair.
“To the windowww, to the wall!” he shouted, holding the final word until his voice cracked.
Glancing over his shoulder, his hips swinging from side to side. He brought his hands to his hips, then began moving in small, tight circles, thrusting forward with more energy than was probably necessary. He was completely lost in the rhythm, the absurdity of it all driving away the loneliness—at least temporarily.
“Drop that ass, aye, shake it fast, aye,
pop that ass to the left and the right, aye!”
“Now back, back, back it up!” he sang, doing a quick little shuffle steps backward, “Now, stop! Then wiggle with it.” He reached out with one hand, smacking the air as if it were someone’s backside again, then immediately snapped his hips forward with a grin.
He didn’t even notice when the front door creaked open.
“What the hell… are you doing?” Your voice cut through the blaring music, startling Bucky so badly that he nearly dropped the glass. He whipped around, his face flushing a deep shade of crimson.
You stood at the doorway, arms crossed, eyebrows raised in a look of pure amusement. He blinked once, then twice, his stance frozen in mid-thrust as if he’d been caught in the middle of a crime.
“I… I thought you left,” he stammered, wide eyes darting to the door and back to you. He stared at you for a second longer, then glanced down at himself—knees bent, hands hovering in the air like he was about to grab something. “This… this isn’t what it looks like.”
You blinked, glancing from his face to his ridiculous dance stance and then back up. “It looks like you’re dancing to ‘Get Low’ and smacking an invisible ass.”
Bucky opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, he straightened up with as much dignity as he could muster and cleared his throat, smoothing his shirt like it would somehow erase the last few minutes of embarrassing dancing.
“Um…” He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, I… missed you.”
“I was gone for ten minutes,” you pointed out, stifling a laugh as you stepped closer.
Bucky shrugged, eyes darting around the room like he could somehow come up with a reasonable excuse for what you just walked in on.
“Yeah, but… it felt longer.”
You shook your head, a fond smile tugging at your lips as you reached up to cup his cheek.
“Well, I’m here for a little while longer… I guess we can share a drink.” Your grin widened as you glanced around the mess of the living room. “And maybe, if you’re nice enough, I’ll join you for one last dance before I go.”
His face lit up immediately, his grin matching yours. “You don’t have to ask me twice.”
He pulled you into his arms, the ridiculous music still blaring as he spun you around the room, your laughter blending perfectly with the beat.
When the song changed to a new beat, you pulled away, raising a brow as you glanced at him. “How about I show you some real moves?”
Bucky’s grin widened as he stepped back, giving you space. “Prove it.”
With that, you took a deep breath and started moving, your body flowing smoothly with the rhythm. You rolled your hips, your arms swaying in sync, and when the beat dropped, you dipped low, popping back up in a fluid wave that left Bucky staring, mouth slightly agape.
“Damn,” he muttered, shaking his head with a disbelieving laugh. “I had no idea.”
You laughed softly, giving him a playful shrug. “I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve.”
Bucky’s gaze softened as he took a step forward, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” you replied, stepping back before he could pull you close again. “But, I really do need to go.”
His face fell slightly, but he nodded, understanding. “Alright.”
“Don’t worry,” you said, giving him a warm smile. “I’ll be back.”
Before he could respond, you backed up a few steps and—making sure his eyes were still glued to you—you dropped low again, this time adding a playful shake as you swayed back up, your movements teasing.
Bucky choked on a laugh, his hand flying to his mouth as he watched you with an almost comically wide-eyed stare. “That’s just unfair.”
You blew him a kiss. “See you later, Bucky.”
And with a quick, last little shimmy, you were out the door, leaving him standing there, a goofy grin plastered on his face as he shook his head, wondering how the hell he got so lucky.
like Steve and reader (established relationship) coming home after a long day of work and socialising
and Steve’s mission is to get reader fed and into bed. He won’t let her lift a finger and basically lulls her to sleep
basicallt I just want to cuddle Steve and fall asleep 😵💫😴
Operation Sleepyhead
Steve Harrington x fem!reader 800 words
Warnings: fluff, caregiving, exhaustion
After a long day, Steve refuses to let you lift a finger as long as he’s the one taking care of you
The second Steve got the front door open, you wasted no time in melting against him. The day had been long and work dragged on forever, every conversation taking just a little too much energy. By the time you stumbled into your shared home, your feet hurt, your eyes hurt, and the only thing keeping you upright was Steve’s arm around your weight.
“My poor girl,” Steve murmured as you leaned your forehead against his shoulder. “They’ve turned her into a zombie.”
You made a noise that was somewhere between a groan and a complaint, Steve laughed softly. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you back to normal as long as you promise not to bite me.”
Before you could even think about taking your shoes off, he was already crouching in front of you. “Steve—”
“Nope.” He started untying the laces.
“I can do it.” You placed a hand on his shoulder.
“I know you can.” He said while sliding your foot out of your left shoe. “But you’re not going to.”
You watched through half-lidded eyes as he took the other one off and lined them neatly by the door. Then he stood and took off your jacket around your shoulders, all the while managing to steer you towards the couch without you moving a muscle.
“Stay.” Steve instructed with his hand on his hips.
You furrowed your brows at him, but sank into the cushions begrudgingly. “Are you talking to me like a dog?”
“Maybe,” he shrugged and when you were about to get up he pointed at you.
“Stay.” He repeated, and nodded approvingly at your compliance. “Good girl.”
Your face heated despite your exhaustion and Steve grinned as he disappeared into the kitchen. You rested your eyes at the sound of cabinets opening and closing, listening to him moving around the kitchen was comforting.
A few minutes later, Steve returned carrying a bowl of Mac and Cheese, straight out of the box, your favorite kind. When you didn’t make any move to take it from him, he picked up the fork to stab at a bite and bring it up to your mouth.
You happily accepted, Steve felt himself smiling at your relaxed state. “Good?” He asked.
“Mhm,” you hummed with your mouth full. But sleep was aching away at your bones, and by the fifth bite your eyes were already drifting shut.
Steve brought a hand to your jaw to keep you grounded. “Baby, you have to stay awake long enough to eat.”
You sighed, “I’m trying.”
He brushed a few stray hairs from out of your face, tucking them back behind your ears. “You absolutely are not trying.” But the words only made you giggle in response, and the sound made Steve’s expression soften immediately.
God, he loved you, and he loved taking care of you even more. The moments like this when the world finally stopped demanding things from you and he finally got to put all his attention into making sure his girl was okay.
When the bowl was finally empty, he stood up silently and extended his hand, you took it graciously. Every step felt heavier than the last, and when you finally caught your bed in sight, you face-planted onto the mattress.
“Sweetheart,” Steve chuckled, but you only let out a muffled sound. “You still need to change your clothes.”
A moment later, after he shuffled through the closet, he appeared beside you holding up his own oversized ties, the one that reached the middle of your thighs and made you look adorable.
“Arms up.” You obeyed automatically, Steve helped you change with practiced ease, smoothing your hair afterward and pressing a kiss to your forehead.
You lifted your chin so he could pepper you with more kisses greedily, the final one right on your brow where your head ached the most.
Steve pulled back the blankets and guided you underneath them, the second your head touched the pillow you let out a contented sigh. You forced yourself to stay awake as he left to go to the bathroom, coming back after brushing his teeth and shedding his shirt.
The room was dark except for the warm glow of your bedside lamp, Steve climbed into the bed and you instantly rolled toward him like he was the center of gravity. His arms opened up before you even reached him, allowing you to curl up on his chest and wrap both arms around you, rubbing your back softly.
You breathed him in, he smelled fondly of laundry detergent and the shampoo he’s been using since high school, exactly like your Steve. The safest smell in the world.
“Thank you for taking care of me.” You mumbled, sounding incoherent.
A smile spread across his face, you should’ve known by now there was no cost for Steve’s affection, as long as you let him love you, you could have everything in the world.
“You take care of me too.” He whispered, but you were already asleep, the last thing you felt were his fingers carding through your hair, his lips pressing so gently against your head you weren’t even sure if you actually felt it, or if you were dreaming.
“Goodnight, baby.” And even after you’d started snoring, his hand kept stroking your hair for a little while longer.
Girl i need one where the reader and joe got into a fight bec he forgot something so she just ignores him and when it’s time to go to bed you make like a pillow wall between you and tell him he won’t touch u untill he remembers things you planned first so he is like well what if i do this and throws the pillows and hold and you try to get out of his hold but you can’t and you can’t help but laugh and just tell him let go so he says are you sure and then suddenly he lets go and you fall of the bed and you start laughing harder and you just get a pillow and put it under your head and take the cover and tell him that you will sleep on the floor then so jumps out of bed and get on the floor too so she just gives up and they both end up sleeping on the floor
Girl, your wish is my actual command.
Defeaning Silence And Loud Thuds
Joe Keery x Reader
Content: Idiot Joe, slight angst then fluff
Word Count: 2,9k
Synopsis: You and Joe have fought over stupid things before, but nothing hurt you like repeatedly noticing the same things happening and nothing hurt him more than your silence.
The second you opened the washing machine, you knew something was wrong. At first it was subtle, just a strange pinkish tint that surprised you as you reached in for one of your white shirts.
Then your stomach dropped.
“Oh my God”, you gasped, finally processing the damage. You pulled it out fully, staring at what used to be a white oversized tee and was now very aggressively, unsalvageably pink.
The red thrifted shirt Joe had come home with earlier immediately came to mind.
The one he’d proudly shown off after a stroll with the guys, the one you distinctly remembered telling him not to wash with anything light until you knew the dye wouldn’t bleed.
You stood there silently for a moment, slowly pulling piece after piece from the machine like each one might somehow get less pink than the last. They did not.
By the time Joe wandered into the laundry room, humming to himself with zero awareness of the crime scene awaiting him, you were sitting on the floor surrounded by ruined clothes.
Joe blinked once, twice and by the third time you watched the realization hit him in real time.
“Oh no”
Silence.
“Baby…”
You reached into the washer again and pulled out one of your favorite white sweaters, now streaked with uneven reddish patches.
Joe looked genuinely horrified as he joined your side, dropping to his knees and holding out a confused hand. “Wait, no, no, no, I didn’t think the shirt...”, he trailed off.
“Right”, you mutter, your jaw clenched tightly. “Because you never actually think about things before you do them”
Joe visibly flinched, because you rarely talked to him like that, but this time, you genuinely couldn't help yourself. You were tired. Tired of repeating yourself and tired of him doing things carelessly and apologizing after like that would magically fix things.
“I just chucked it in before you turned it on”, he says weakly, scratching the back of his head nervously, “I thought one shirt wouldn’t matter”
“Oh, you thought so”, you repeat flatly, holding up one of your ruined work shirts, before chucking it into the laundry basket along with the rest of your clothes, all except his red shirt that you flung at his chest as you got up from the floor.
You bit your lip in frustration, trying to keep your emotions under control but frankly, you felt like crying.
At the sight of you, he opened his mouth again, but you brushed past him before he could say anything else, leaving behind a helpless Joe who knew he had messed up badly.
The rest of the evening was just awful. Joe tried everything. Hovering near you while you cooked. Offering to help with about anything. Apologizing every twenty minutes in increasingly pathetic ways.
You barely acknowledged any of it. You've never been this silent in your entire life and it sort of scared Joe quite a bit. By bedtime, the apartment felt heavy with it.
You climbed into bed without a word while Joe lingered near the dresser, watching you stack pillows between the two of you. A full wall down the middle of the bed.
Joe stared at it for a long moment. “Seriously?”, he asks, though he was already preparing for another monologue. You hadn't talked to him all night and he couldn't say he blamed you for it. He knew how much you loved that sweater.
“You’re putting me in quarantine?”, he tried again, but he was met with nothing. “Baby, c’mon”
“No.”
“I said I was sorry”, he speaks immediately, a little surprised and hurt by the fact that the first thing you'd said to him in hours felt so defeating.
“And I’m still upset”
Joe rubbed a hand over his face. “I know I messed up.”
“You always know after”, you mutter out tiredly.
It shut him up momentarily, a small breath leaving his lips as he leaned on the dresser behind him. Your back was turned to him now and he stared at it, feeling like utter crap, as if you couldn't even stand to look at him right now.
The little light on your nightstand filled the room with an orange hue, but it didn't offer any warmth.
“I’ll replace everything”, he steps closer to the bed, glancing down at the pillows you'd put up, taking in your silence with a small nod.
“I’ll rebuy every single thing, I'll even make a list.”
“You can’t”, you snap now. “Some of it was thrifted. But that sweater...my aunt made it for me. Shit, Joe, I told you how much it meant to me”
Joe swallowed hard. You did tell him. He knew.
“I’ll try, I— I call her first thing in the morning”
You stare at the wall instead of him, not bothering to turn around. He knew it was stupid to call her. Joe also knew that even if your aunt recreated it, it wouldn't feel the same as a sweater you'd worn for years, something that was part of you and gave you so much comfort.
“I will, I promise. And I’ll do the laundry for a month.”
That almost made you scoff.
“Yeah well, actually, I'd rather you not do it ever again. You can't even separate fabrics properly.”
“I’ll learn.”
“You said that the last time and shrunk my favourite tote bag”
Joe exhaled through his nose slowly, because unfortunately, you were right. Absolutely right. As usual.
The issue wasn’t that he was malicious. It was that he was careless. Sometimes thoughtless in that absentminded Joe way that usually came off charming until it didn’t.
And tonight it really didn’t.
“I know”, he admits quietly. “I know I keep messing up"
The honesty of it makes your chest tighten annoyingly. You hated when he sounded genuinely upset with himself. Joe had always been his own worst critic when it came to anything. One wrong note during rehearsal and he’d replay it in his head for days, one bad set and he’d pick himself apart before anyone else even had the chance to comment on it.
Usually, that softened you almost immediately. The second you noticed that tone creeping into his voice, the frustration gave way to concern because you knew how quickly he could spiral into tearing himself apart over something everyone else would’ve moved past already.
But tonight you were too upset to offer him that grace, because this wasn’t some unavoidable accident. You told him. Repeatedly.
Separate colors.
Don’t throw random thrifted clothes into washes without checking them first.
Especially not vibrant colours with loads of dye woven into the fabric.
It wasn't science, it was common sense and yet he still did it anyway, with that same absentminded confidence he always had right before making a completely avoidable mistake.
That was the part really getting to you now.
Not even the ruined clothes themselves, though that absolutely sucked, but the feeling that half the time Joe listened to you only after things went wrong.
He'd trust the process, but half the time there wasn't even any process to be trusted, he just didn't think about it at all.
There was never any actual learning process. At least not when it came to the damn laundry. No point where the conversation seemed to stick long term. He’d apologize, genuinely mean it, feel horrible about it for a while and then somehow still end up repeating the exact same dumb mistake.
And you were done explaining yourself over and over again only to feel ignored the second he stopped actively thinking about it.
Right now you couldn’t really bring yourself to feel bad about him looking and sounding guilty, because you felt unheard.
“You pay attention to everything, Joe. Literally everything. You remember things I mentioned in passing six months ago, you notice when my mood changes before I even say anything, you’re careful with your guitars, your pedals, your work, your friends”, you shake your head slightly. “So when it comes to this, I genuinely don’t understand why it's so hard for you to get it right”
His face twists a little at that.
“I thought shrinking Jake’s hoodie and him giving you shit for it would’ve been enough for it to finally land. Or me explaining why certain dyes bleed. Or me literally separating the piles in front of you every single time”
Joe drops his gaze to the mattress, fiddling with the bedding as if to distract himself.
“At this point it almost feels intentional”, you laugh as a single tear dripped down onto your pillow.
His head lifts immediately, almost as if he could sense it and his hand drops back to his side. “It’s not.”
“Look, I’m not trying to be mean”, you sniff slightly, “but it makes me feel invisible to you when I keep explaining the same thing and nothing changes”
Joe gulps at the sound of your little sniffle. "Baby no, I'm sorry. I never meant to—", he immediately leans over, one knee on the bed as he tries to touch you, but you shove him off immediately.
Joe startles back, his gaze dropping as he processed you reaction, before glancing back at you. “You're clearly upset and you seriously won’t let me touch you?”
“No, because you're the reason I'm upset”, you bark back, though it came out as a broken sob.
“Not even a little?”
“No.”
He stared at your back for another few seconds. He understood where you came from, he really did.
Then suddenly he lunged forward.
You yelp as the entire pillow wall gets shoved off the bed in one dramatic sweep before Joe grabs you around the waist and drags you against him.
“Joe!”
“Nope”, he says immediately, locking both arms around you. “I’m not sleeping when my girlfriend is this upset with me”
“Joe, let go of me.”
“You’re crying and you seriously believe that I'll let you be?”
“You ruined my clothes!”
“I know”, he sighs, burying his face into your shoulder. “I know, I’m stupid, I know. And you have every right to be mad at me, okay? But I won't sit here and let you think I'm some kind of asshole who wants to make your life harder than it needs to be. Quite the opposite actually”
You try wriggling free, but he only tightens his hold with a pathetic little whine. You elbow him in the stomach lightly, not trying to hurt him, but trying to get him to let go. “Joe, seriously, let go of me. Right now.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
The idiot releases you instantly, which would’ve been fine if you weren’t actively pushing against him at the exact same moment. You slipped straight off the side of the bed with a loud thud and Joe’s eyes widened in horror.
"Shit, babe—"
And then one fatal cackle escaped you before you could stop it.
Just one. A breathless little laugh that escaped you out of sheer surprise, but it was enough to make Joe’s entire face light up immediately. “Oh, thank god”
You grab one of the discarded pillows and throw it at him before shoving another under your head instead.
“Fine. I’m sleeping down here.”
Joe watches you turn around, your back facing him once more. Then, without hesitation, he climbs off the bed too.
“What are you doing?”, you grumble as he squeezes himself into the small space between you and the bed frame.
“If you’re sleeping on the floor because I’m an idiot, then I’m sleeping on the floor because I’m an idiot.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does in my head.”
You sigh dramatically as he settles beside you, immediately reaching for your waist again. This time, you let him, because as stupid as he was, it was also sort of endearing.
Joe presses a kiss into your shoulder carefully. “M'really sorry. I am listening to you and I'll prove it. I'm doing the laundry from now on, I'll be washing every day if I have to. I'll be able to recite every damn tag in the closet”
“I swear to god Joe...if this happens again, I’m leaving you.”
Joe snorts softly, pulling you in with one hand, before blindly reaching up to grab the blanket off the bed and draping it over your tangled bodies. “That’s fair honestly.”
synopsis: After you confided in Bucky about your past, he began to ice you out - shooting you dirty looks instead of his usual smiles... especially when he sees you blushing for Steve.
warnings: 18+, angst, smut (fingering, oral - f receiving, masturbation, dirty talk, softdom!bucky, possessive sex, maybe slight size kink ish? but about bucky being big, blushing kink? is that a thing? if it is, bucky has it), references to past violence committed by bucky and accidental destruction / injury caused by reader, cursing, jealous!bucky, shy!reader, panic attacks, no use of y/n, eventual fluff, reader is down so bad for bucky
word count: 12.2k
note: i have just started using tumblr in the last few weeks and this is my first ever time writing an x reader fic / smut so please be kind, this is scary!! if i have done anything wrong in terms of formatting, tagging etc. please let me know bc i am still learning the ropes!
Bucky had shown you something like kindness once. Being the newest recruit to the team and joining under the circumstances that you did, it had seemed like he understood you and your baggage better than the others did back then. Not that there were ever any grand gestures of goodwill; there never was with Bucky. But he would pick you up something for lunch without you having to ask, make you a coffee in the morning, ask how you were doing. And when you told him, he listened - as in, actually listened. Thinking back on everything you told him made you feel so brainless and short-sighted; made you feel like you had given up something deeply personal you couldn’t now claim back.
Nowadays, he brushed off any attempt at conversation. He wasn’t the most forthcoming conversationalist with anyone but he was particularly cold towards you, sometimes going so far as to completely blank you when you would ask him a direct question. And that was fine - just fine. But you couldn’t quite pretend you didn’t still look for him in every room. Couldn’t pretend you didn’t look at him first when anything significant happened, even when it hurt.
“Maybe you should spar with Steve today,” Natasha suggested not-quite-indifferently, popping a hand on her hip. “Change things up a bit, you know.”
You felt the traitorous heat flood to your face before you had even really processed the comment. You knew the formula by now; someone would make a teasing comment about Steve, your entire face would light up red with heat, the whole team would try to suppress a smirk (or pretend to try), and then Steve or Wanda would show mercy by changing the subject.
You hated Bucky more than ever in those moments. Because your eyes would instinctively move to him, in time to see the disgusted expression on his face, as if he couldn’t believe anyone was entertaining the idea of you and Steve. You hated him, but you also hated yourself. Because of how inferior it made you feel - because of how far under his thumb you were, even after all of his stony silence.
“She’ll be training with me again,” Wanda said, voice light and airy, before turning to you. “You’re not free of me until you move that damn elevator.” You jumped on the escape she offered with a reply about the assignment, your face pink and body numb with embarrassment. You could hear Nat and Sam snickering behind you as you walked with her toward the back of the room. Steve was shushing them about as effectively as a substitute teacher.
“Such an open book.” Wanda laughed as you both came to a stop by the elevator, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear affectionately. “Now let’s try to open your mind.”
You focused your attention on the elevator - prodded the corners of it with your mind, felt its crushing weight on your tongue… and pushed.
Your telekinesis hadn’t suddenly appeared the night you tore down your college dorms. You had been in the business of ignoring it and covering it up throughout your childhood and young adulthood; hoping it would just go away. But it didn’t. It lingered and grew like a tumour until it was no longer possible to shut your eyes to it. The day your old life ended - that day in the NYU dorms - was the worst of your life. It wasn’t just the calamity and ruin - the total destruction of the building - and it wasn’t even the subsequent confinement by SHIELD. It was those endless, agonising hours that you spent in your own dorm room, books and stationery flying everywhere, feeling that the pot was boiling over, feeling that the force inside you was reaching a glorious, devastating crescendo and trying your best to stop it.
Wanda had been trying to help you tame this force, turn it into something palatable that SHIELD could bend to its own will. But Wanda’s powers were different to your own - easier to manage. You couldn’t yet say how well this taming was working.
“You almost had it. Try again.”
You sighed, bone-tired after the mental gymnastics of attempting to send a ten-ton freight elevator up 80 stories without the adrenaline rush of being on the field. You stretched your shoulders and glanced around, eyes catching Steve and Bucky sparring at the opposite end of the gym. Bucky barked a loud, rough laugh watching Steve charge at him. He moved as rapidly as an arrow from a bow, sending Steve flying past him. He turned swiftly to kick his backside on the way. Steve stumbled and Bucky smirked wickedly.
There was something wolf-like about Bucky. His fierce, blue eyes maybe, or his stern bearing. But looking at him now, with his wide-mouth grin, shoulders loose and his eyes soft with no fixed gaze - he looked more like a playful dog. You had never seen him look that way before, not even when you first joined the team. He was all dark clouds and edges sharp enough to cut yourself on, but right now it all cleared up for just a moment. He was beautiful. It sent the breath right out of your lungs.
You had hardly committed the view to memory when Bucky caught your gaze. He stopped short, caught off-balance, and the two of you stood on opposite ends of a long hall, staring for just the blink of an eye. And then his expression changed; the relaxed grin turning to a straight line, the brilliant gleam in his eye extinguishing. You were met with that revolted expression he seemed to save especially for you.
You caught fire. You could feel your veins bulging, straining against the skin on your temple - fury and humiliation congealing to replace any awe or admiration you had been experiencing. The injustice of the whole affair was gnawing at your insides.
You remembered what it was like to confess everything to Bucky. You laid bare all your sins - some that you hadn’t even been able to mention in your court-mandated therapy sessions. You remembered the look of understanding and empathy that had bloomed in his blue eyes that night, only for him to give you the cold shoulder the very next day.
A throbbing rage was working its way up your gullet. Hadn’t he said that he understood? That he, of all people, knew what it was like to live with the remorse and agony of inflicting pain and suffering to others against your will. You hated him. You hated him.
“You did it!”
The fire died immediately. You swung round to look at Wanda who was ogling you in wonder and exhilaration. It was only then that you noticed the digital indicator above the elevator displayed the number 80. You had moved it up without even realising. Without even trying.
“Yeah, finally.” You smiled tightly at her. She was beaming at you with pride that made it impossible to admit that it had been a fluke.
“I’m so proud of you,” she gushed, grabbing you into a hug. “Go to your room for a nap, you must be exhausted. We’ll practice again tomorrow.”
You didn’t hesitate.
“To recap, the objective is simple: kill the power, get inside, reach the 40th floor and extract the data from the mainframe - quietly. Leave no trace, no noise, not even a shadow. Needs to be clean and tight. You will have a team, led by Garcia, but they’ll all be offsite. You’ll be going in alone.”
Bucky shot up abruptly from the meeting room table. “With all due respect…” he said, throat bobbing up and down while he seemingly considered his words. “I think I might need someone with a little more experience on this one. Doesn’t sound like we can risk anything here.”
You bit your cheek and watched the pen in front of you twitch and shake of its own volition. You focused on not sending it flying across the room.
“No.” Maria said. “You have both been picked specifically for this mission. The stairwell is monitored by cameras that are run by backup power systems so the stairs is not an option. Once that power goes out, you’ll need someone who can move that elevator up to your floor. And like I said, you will have Garcia with you remotely.”
Daniel Garcia, a non-commissioned army sergeant around your own age, stood at the back of the room, nodding resolutely to confirm his confidence in the plan.
“Well then maybe Steve-“
“No.” she repeated with finality. “You have been assigned this mission for your stealth. We can’t afford any loose ends. You’ll get the detailed brief after the meeting.”
You saw as Bucky cringed at the word ‘stealth’. His clean-up jobs as the Winter Soldier had been plenty stealthy. He knew that was what she was referring to. Everyone did. A beat passed while he seemed to weigh up his options and then he sat down.
You willed away the humiliation that sat heavy in your stomach and forced yourself to keep your face impassive. You could feel the eyes around the table trying to catch a subtle look at you.
You had moved the elevator a few more times since your first accidental success, but never with ease and never in the timeframe specified by Maria just now. As Maria moved on to discuss the next mission, you glanced over at Wanda, who was looking at you with absolute confidence you wished you could have a share of.
You had done the regular SHIELD field training - they had practically kept you in solitary confinement for three years after the NYU disaster, which gave you plenty of time to learn the ropes. But you had never been assigned a mission that relied solely on your ‘powers’, as they called it. Sure, it came in handy to be able to throw someone around like a ragdoll in combat without lifting a finger, or drop a car on someone who was about to let it rip with a machine gun. But if all else failed, you could still go on like a regular field agent. Your telekinesis had never been an absolute requirement for the success of a mission before and you wondered what might happen if, in the critical moment, you simply couldn’t. You looked over at Bucky who was already staring directly at you, and you knew he was already thinking the same thing.
Bucky, along with most others on the team, was clued into just how unpredictable this power of yours was. Before you had begun to train with Wanda, it appeared exclusively in times of emotional turmoil, which made it difficult to control or forecast. Even now after all of your training, those times were still when the power was at its highest… strong enough to bring down an entire building, brick by brick.
And therein lay the crux of the issue.
You knew the reason why everyone wanted you to be with Steve, even if nobody would say it out loud. He was so boyish, so All-American. His stable, grounded nature - it would make sense to put you both together. He would always make sure you don’t fly off the handle. He would know how to tame that little troublesome force of yours, would be able to subdue it with nothing but soft smiles and reassurance. And recently, you had been considering it.
You blushed at the team’s comments about Steve only out of embarrassment and diffidence. But you caught the way Steve had been suppressing a smile recently when the teasing started, even while trying to change the subject. The way he had been targeting you with those boyish smiles more frequently, as if waiting for you to be brave enough to smile back in the same way. And you started thinking maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to spend more time with someone like Steve - someone who could help you domesticate that creature inside you.
But if coming clean to Bucky had changed him from a friend to someone who detests you so abruptly, you didn’t want to think about the reception you would get from someone as pure and good Steve. Bucky’s body had been used for almost seventy years to murder targets and civilians alike - but you could still feel the look of disgust from the far end of the table slithering up your spine.
The heat in Serbia was utterly oppressive. It was the middle of the night, but the heat still pressed on you like a weight, sizzling all your nerve ends and heightening your agitation. Dampness collected at the back of your neck, curling those small hairs that were not long enough to be tied into your neat plait. You had woken up in a Belgrade hotel that morning, sheets soaked and eyes crusted shut with perspiration. It had only become hotter since.
You had been searching despairingly for something to say to Bucky for the last hour, but everything you thought of came off as a bit desperate and the heat was making you flustered. So you just kept your mouth shut instead. Bucky was wired like a barbed fence - you worried one wrong move would make you bleed. And besides, he would have to say something eventually.
Minutes passed. Every second was fraught with tension - you both knew this was it, you two would have to speak for the first time in weeks. You were both standing alone in a blind spot, four blocks away from the building you were targeting.
He puffed out a breath. “Into position. They’re ready for us.”
You gave him a curt nod. How goddamn anticlimactic. You trailed behind him as the team in your ear got ready to shut out the power to the building.
“Get movin’.” he barked at you without looking in your direction. You scowled to yourself.
“Shut up,” you whispered, not intending to be heard. He shot you an unforgiving look - his stern brow furrowing intimidatingly. It made your cheeks flame and you sped up, embarrassment settling in. Just like a child who had cursed under their breath. You noticed Bucky grinning slightly in your peripherals but you were too sheepish to feel at all astonished.
The tower you stopped in front of was robust and imposing; it wasn’t half the size of Stark Tower, but looked far more intimidating. It stood tall, brutal and grey, asserting itself proudly amongst the other smaller buildings. Your heart thumped out of sync with the rest of your body as you glanced upwards.
“You ready?” Bucky asked, searching you intently with his eyes as you approached a side entrance. You just blinked back at him. You hadn’t been expecting that.
If you were surprised by the question, you were immensely more so when Bucky refused to move. Like he was really waiting for your answer. His eyes held yours steadily, with none of the usual revulsion. You just nodded at him once, not able to manage much more.
He searched your expression one last time before nodding back and shooting a quick ’Now’ to Garcia in his ear. He waited for the red light on the door handle to go out and pushed it open.
The building was pitch black, but still cool from the AC that had been running seconds prior. The drastic change in temperature induced small bumps to surface over your arms.
There were still a few people in the building - security and late workers. You could hear a few of them call out in surprise in the otherwise deathly quiet. Maria had briefed you both to expect this. Bucky didn’t delay for a second, following the directions he had been provided with certainty, even in the complete absence of light. You followed closely after him, the tactical light on his gun showing you the way.
It took you a second to realise you had made it to the elevator hall when Bucky stopped. You looked around at them all and felt them with your mind, working your way around their edges and weighing them up: 6 options, all passenger lifts, all 2 tons or less.
Easy. If Bucky would stop looking at you.
You focused your attention to one of the elevators and attempted to pick it up with your mind. But at each attempt you struggled to blot him out. You could see him without looking, gazing at you with thinly veiled disapprobation and judging the worth of your abilities on these few seconds. It weakened your will.
“Performance anxiety?”
“Shut up,” you snapped, eyes flicking over to him. “You’re being intimidating on purpose.”
“Am I really that scary, darlin’?”
Your breath caught. Something about the way he said it - low and dangerous - made your stomach wound tight, betraying your own brain. His eyes were boring into you in the same stony way as always - but in that moment, in the darkness of that hall, it didn’t look like disgust or disapproval. It looked more like hunger.
He was closer to you than you had noticed. You could hear his breath, coming out in steady puffs. Could feel the heat radiating from his body in waves and caressing your skin. You wanted - you needed him to be closer. You trembled under the intensity of the gaze, feeling that familiar heat rushing to your cheeks. His eyes followed it, pupils dilating - blowing so wide as if trying to swallow the picture. You couldn’t help it - you let out a breathy gasp. It was quiet, probably imperceptible to anyone but Bucky. But something snapped. You watched as the look in his eyes went from hunger to all-out desire. There was no denying it anymore. You watched his hand twitch, as if deciding whether to reach out and touch -
There was a shout in the distance. Something in Serbian. You did not understand but Bucky seemed to.
“Get the lift.” he said, his voice low and cold. “I won’t look.”
You blinked dumbly at his composure. Your body was still in flames while his had turned to stone in an instant. You could already see his jaw twitching with impatience as you gathered yourself. Your breath was coming out in mortifying pants.
It did not take you long to summon the elevator this time. You pried apart the doors with ease, stepped in with Bucky, and sent it up to floor 40. You were still too dazed to even feel a sense of accomplishment after stepping out.
Bucky stalked over to the mainframe immediately while you hung self-consciously by the elevator, holding it up where it was with practiced ease. You tried not to think about him - about what just happened between the two of you, but you couldn’t help but be hyper aware of him. You weren’t even looking at him but you could feel him. Could almost still feel the heat radiating from him.
You were in agony as the seconds dripped by steadily. You had your back to Bucky, holding your breath - somewhere between stillness and frenzy. You waited to hear a soft sound, a step, a thought. But he worked quickly and silently before returning to your side, tucking the small hard drive into a pocket. It must have taken him less than five minutes in total.
You were about to say something - you weren’t even sure what it was - but booming male voices emerged nearby. In immediate and blind panic, you let go of the elevator and listened to it rattle, tumble and fall 40 floors to the ground. You froze for a beat, processing what you had just done.
Bucky grabbed your waist with bruising strength and jostled you into a corner. You weren’t completely out of sight but it was all you had time for. Three men - two of them burly and one thin - came sprinting to the platform and peered down the elevator shaft, shining industrial flashlights at it and speaking in rapid Serbian. You couldn’t understand what they were saying - it was all that you could do to lock eyes desperately with Bucky, grasping at any shape of composure while anxiety clawed its way up your chest. He was staring right back, maintaining your gaze steadily. His strong hands were still on your waist, gripping you tightly, as if he thought you might run if given the chance.
The darkness of the building was your best friend. If any of them moved their heads just slightly to the right, they would have seen you. And then it would all be over. Not that you would be in any danger, necessarily. Bucky could take all three out so quickly and so quietly, it would hardly cause even the slightest fuss.
But that wasn’t the objective. The objective was to keep it clean, tight, quiet. You had already fucked that up. Royally.
Something appeared to have been decided and the three men darted to a door across the hall. Bucky immediately dislodged himself from where he held you in the corner and took your hand gently instead to pull you out in front of the elevators again. The adrenaline was withdrawing from your body so rapidly that you felt faint.
“They think the elevator plummeted because of the power outage but they’re going down to the ground floor to take a look. We gotta get down there before them or we will be stuck here. I need you to call up another elevator. You think you can do that for me, doll?”
You think it was the confidence and calm in Bucky’s face that gave you the strength to rally. You weren’t entirely certain that he wasn’t faking it, but if he could watch you mess up so badly and still be able to appear to have faith in you, then you should be able to suck it up.
You nodded once and moved on autopilot. The elevator was summoned, the doors were pried apart and the two of you went hurling at breakneck speed towards the ground floor. Once you got to the platform, you made sure to close both doors behind you - leaving no trace, though you supposed it hardly mattered at this point. Bucky grabbed your hand again and the two of you went sprinting through the same door you came in.
The journey back to your hotel was a dim and blurry haze. You allowed Bucky to communicate with the team while you focused on your shame alone and tried not to let it swallow you whole. There was nothing to be said between the two of you; everything was perfectly understood. You had compromised the two of you and Bucky had been forced to save both the mission and your skins. The moment you shared before any of it went down felt like another timeline now - all you could think was that you had now finally proved to him once and for all that you had earned his disgust and distrust.
You were trembling by the time you made it back to your hotel room, hanging on to your emotions by the smallest thread that was slipping through your grasp by the second. When you opened the door to the dingy apartment, you hadn’t expected to see Bucky marching in behind you as you went to close the door. He was still chatting busily on the phone.
“Yes. Yeah, all secure. No complications in that regard. Can’t we discuss this in the brief once we’re back, Garcia?”
You glanced at him warily and you saw him glance warily back. You hadn’t heard him bring up your fuck-up yet, but there was always time to think about that later. Right now, you just needed him out.
“No, it’s fine. Ok. Talk later.”
With the phone back in his pocket, yourself and Bucky both blinked at each other. The silence was unrolling itself across the two of you - stretched, thin, awkward.
“I’d like to be alone, please.” you said. Your voice sounded pathetic and small even to yourself.
Bucky shifted on his feet, blue eyes flitting across the room. “They thought it was the power outage that caused it. I heard them say it.”
You didn’t have the patience to be comforted awkwardly by Bucky out of obligation right now - or the time. You could feel that familiar pot threatening to boil over, felt unreleased energy sparking in your temples and fingertips. You needed him gone before he could witness whatever it was that was about to burst forth.
You could have borne it, maybe, could have folded up the shame and tidied it away to deal with later - had it been anyone else there with you but him. But knowing how well acquainted he was with your sins and the guilt that they inspired meant you couldn’t hide from him. He had even heard it told from your own lips - long before he became a ghost to you.
He saw you for what you were. You felt it in every glance he shot your way, his face plastered with resentment. In the long, cold silences. In his unadulterated horror at even the smallest suggestion of a relationship between you and his friend. You didn’t need him to tell you what he saw; you already knew.
“I’d like to be alone, please.” you repeated. Your voice didn’t waver this time, but you could feel your eyes lose focus - becoming glazed with your blind panic.
“You might wanna be, but it doesn’t look like you should be.” was his gruff response.
The energy in your temples was spreading its way down your throat and to your chest - electricity was sizzling and bubbling inside you. “Why are you here? We’re not friends.”
You were snapping at him now. You needed him gone.
A clothes hanger soared out of the open wardrobe and you knew it was too late. Knew there was no time now to get him to leave.
You sat on the end of the bed and brought your knees to your chest, pressing your forehead to the top of your knees, allowing your face to touch the bare and warm skin below the hem of your shorts.
You tried this every time. It never worked.
The bedside lockers began to inch forward, as if being drawn by an attached rope. You didn’t see or hear this, all you could hear was a whirring - but you could feel yourself doing it with your mind. As if you were pulling them with your own hands by no choice of your own.
Bucky’s hands - warm and calloused - pulled your face free from where it was locked to your thighs. He cradled your cheeks with both hands and forced your eyes to his own.
“I’m gonna need you to calm down for me, doll. Can you do that?”
His hands were rough on your skin, the kind that belonged to years killing - but they cradled your face like you were something sacred. It struck you sideways, the strangeness and gentleness of it, before a vase went pummeling to the floor and the panic pulled you back under.
“You don’t need to be nice.” you forced out, your voice muffled and strange. “Just let me deal with it.”
The speed was picking up. The framed posters were flying from the walls, clothes were shooting out from your suitcase. Trying to stop it from exploding was the worst part. You knew you were trying to fight the inevitable but it seemed that to just resign yourself to it would be unforgivable, even if it was like trying to plug a river with your thumb.
Bucky’s hands moved from your face to your hands, clutching them with a numbing grip. You were briefly surprised to glance up and find him unshaken. His jaw was clenched, but you couldn’t see any other signs of unease. His blue eyes were trained on you with unaffected calmness and care. His voice was low and subdued, almost a whisper, when he spoke.
“It’s not your fault, darlin’. Shit happens and we deal with it. You got us outta there, didn’t you? We got it done, didn’t we?”
A beat passed while you just looked at him.
He slowly let go of your hands, bringing his flesh arm to your back and metal arm to the underside of your knees. The metal was pleasantly cool against your skin. Lifting you with impossible ease, Bucky tentatively brought you to his lap. Slowly, giving you plenty of time to look or sound an objection, he covered you in an embrace.
Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around him and breathed him in, suppressed shakes and sobs escaping from your body. You scramble to get closer, to feel his body beneath your touch - warm and solid. Bucky didn’t say much - he murmured a few encouraging words, repeating that it is not your fault, repeating that you got them out of there. But it felt like he was holding all your pent up silence, your pain, your guilt, just for a few moments. It felt like you were able to put it down and let him take it on for you temporarily.
You weren’t sure when the objects stopped flying across the room. You surrendered your power to Bucky, and sobbed into his shoulder until you were worn out.
When you woke up, everything was put back into its rightful place. The objects you broke were either mended or cleared out. You found yourself beneath the duvet.
And Bucky was gone.
Bucky had been extracted from Serbia early.
There were still some loose ends to tie up in Belgrade but this was evidently below his paygrade. You were left to wrap up the mission with the rest of the team.
Dan Garcia was more than happy to keep your mind occupied with conversation while his team worked. You found that it was no wonder he worked his way up the army ladder so young, being as he was; handsome, charming, and very personable. You could admit, however, that his charm as it was applied to you sometimes tested the bounds of friendliness or professionalism, and you sometimes came away from the workday with a headache that was not only induced by the Serbian heat. But at least it kept you busy.
You knew your own feelings well enough to identify that emptiness you felt when you discovered Bucky had left the hotel room and the country.
You were in love with him.
You thought maybe you always had been, since the very first day he took you under his wing at Stark Tower.
You hated him for it, but hated yourself more.
If you were pathetic enough to let a love like this survive the cold-shoulder Bucky had been giving you, maybe you needed a bit of a reality check.
In a way, you supposed it was better like this. You needed a few days to get your head around what had happened between the two of you anyway and steel yourself to the fact that it will never mean anything. Because you’re still you and he’s still disgusted by all your baggage and guilt and yes, okay, maybe somewhere in the darkest recesses of your brain, you sometimes thought that you shouldn’t really be allowed to love someone and be loved back anyway. The force with which you wanted him was humiliating and unrelenting, but at least in Serbia you didn’t have to dread bumping into him over breakfast.
By the time you did make it back to Stark Tower, you were all anxious uncertainty. Not only about how Bucky would react after your episode, but also about what the team knew of the events. You knew Bucky would have told them about the elevator but the hotel? Would he have said anything about that?
When, however, you walked into the kitchen on the evening of that first day and were met with a host of congratulations, coupled with some not-very-subtle digs at Bucky for initially doubting you, you knew he hadn’t said a word about any of it. Not the elevator, not the hotel. Nothing.
You weren’t sure if this concealment was a wise decision on his part, but as the decision was already made (and admittedly because it yielded the best outcome for you), you elected to say nothing of the events to anyone else.
Bucky hung back while you spoke to the rest of the team. You were sure that he had concealed the events in Serbia for your benefit, but you could not reconcile this man who refused to even look in your direction with one that would be so kind to you. You could reconcile this man even less with the one who held you close to him just a few short days ago.
He didn’t sit down at the table with the rest of the team and the message was clear. Nothing had changed.
When Steve winked at you and said, “It was all my training, of course.”, Bucky audibly scoffed from where was standing. The team pretended not to notice, but you could see the way their movements slowed down. Sam looked over at Bucky, perplexed. Bruce kept his eyes to his food but didn't eat. You were worried Bucky would say something - expose your failure from Serbia - when Wanda contributed a second scoff. “You wish, Rogers.”
You smiled and took a swig of your drink, but it felt like razorblades going down.
You saw Dan Garcia walking past the door to the kitchen as you were finishing up your meal. He peered in the door to smile at you and a sense of obligation, as well as a desire to escape Bucky’s presence, propelled you out of the room to greet him.
“Hey. Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“Maria called me in to deliver the report.” he said, holding up a thick manilla envelope for display. “I guess email feels too impersonal.”
He was on the wrong floor for that, but you didn’t point it out.
“Right,” you laughed. “Maybe she wants to do some team bonding.”
He rolled his eyes, a smile etching itself on his face.
“Hope you’re getting the hero’s welcome you deserve,” he said.
You shifted. “That’s a bit generous.”
“Come on,” he pressed on, not catching the way your eyes were flitting towards the door. “You did a great job. You deserve a bit of credit.”
He was clearly also not aware of the elevator incident. You paused, hoping he would change the subject. When he didn’t, you simply said, “Couldn’t have done it without you, Garcia.” because no other response was immediately coming to you.
He dismissed this and emitted a booming laugh, but the compliment was felt. He lost a fight against a grin and stood straighter, his chest puffing forward like a pigeon.
“Please,” he scoffed. “I sat in a truck talking to a pretty girl who knew exactly what she was doing. Very humbling.”
Your face went hot. You hadn’t meant to embolden him with the compliment - had rather meant to change the focus away from your own fake accomplishments.
You floundered a bit and Garcia, likely mistaking this for flattery, puffed his pigeon chest out a little bit more.
You hadn’t taken any heed of Bucky walking towards you - not until he was standing directly in front of you.
All 6 feet and 5 inches of Bucky’s figure was imposing and intimidating. It was always stupefying to see him and feel the power of his presence, no matter how accustomed to him you were. You were also well used to his formidable glares, but you weren’t used to seeing them directed at someone else. Garcia didn’t notice that anything was amiss, still smiling at you.
“Hi, Barnes. How’s it going?”
“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice sharp enough to cut glass.
Now, Garcia looked at him properly. You could identify the second that he registered Bucky’s severe countenance, losing his smile, chest deflating. He blinked.
“Have to drop a report to Maria.” he said, smiling with forced ease.
“Better get to it then.” It was a command. A dismissal, flat and unmistakable.
You watched Garcia’s mouth open and close. Bucky wasn’t like this with him, ever. You had seen the way they got along. He treated the agents well - always steady, calm, fair, even when annoyed. He never pulled rank on him like this.
Garcia turned to you with a tight, polite smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “See you later.”
You murmured a goodbye and watched him take off down the hall, shoulders tense.
Yourself and Bucky stood across from each other as his footsteps faded, neither of you speaking. Bucky’s cold expression attached itself to you in the absence of Garcia, and you waited for him to explain what had just happened.
Instead of explaining and without even offering an excuse, Bucky took one last glance at you before taking off down the opposite corridor. You watched him go with astonishment - had almost let him disappear out of sight - but your legs moved quicker than your mind.
He was a fast walker. You ran to keep up.
“What the fuck, Bucky? What was that?”
He didn’t look at you, just continued walking down the corridor. You felt your blood pressure spike, a rattling pain entering into your head and your vision blurred with anger. You felt you might have started screaming at him, then and there - demanding explanations and apologies - but he spoke.
“He shouldn’t be here. This is our floor.”
You rolled your eyes.
“When has that mattered before? We get visitors up here all the time.”
“Visitors are invited.” he snapped. “He isn’t wanted here.”
Bucky made it to a door and began to open it, but you slammed it shut again using your mind. It wasn’t necessary - you knew that - but you put so much weight behind that slam, it physically pushed him back. For just a beat, his eyebrows raised and he looked at you in complete astonishment.
You refused to feel embarrassed anymore. You refused to keep playing on his terms.
“Why do you get to decide that he wasn’t wanted here? Why do you get to make that call?” You were cracking open now; the boards of your restraint were splintering. You weren’t really talking about Garcia anymore - didn’t give a damn about him - but Bucky chose not to notice.
“Don’t be stupid.” he barked. Energy was surrounding you both, whirling around the two of you and capturing you both in a bubble. His voice lowered now, sending your heart rate skyrocketing. He came closer, towered above you.
He was looking at you with a deep heat that settled in your bones and warmed you from the inside. His eyes looked the same way they did in Serbia, that moment before the world came crashing down. Hungry.
Your entire body flushed. You wished more than anything that you could control your reaction to him - wish you could fight that pierce of want he sent through you.
“You really think he was here for paperwork? I know what those sergeants are like, doll. I used to be one of them. He was here for you.”
Your courage was leaving you fast. Your face tingled and went pink with heat as you felt his words low in your abdomen. You watched his sharp, stubbled jaw twitch as he focused on the blush on your cheeks, his eyes blowing dark and wide.
Oh…
Something about the way he was entranced by your blush was lighting a fire in your skin and coiling something up tight in your belly.
“What if that’s what I want?” you managed cautiously. You were bluffing.
He reached out and finally - finally - touched you, his large, calloused hand enveloping your face and running his thumb over your blushing cheek. The warmth of his hand travelled to your stomach and nestled low. You fought to stay still, to hide how badly you wanted him, but tremors were running through you.
“It’s not though, is it darlin’?.” he whispered, his low voice spreading over your body like honey.
You felt completely bare and exposed to him - you couldn’t hide anything from him, couldn’t pretend any longer.
“Kills me to see you give those pretty little blushes away to Steve but I can almost believe he deserves them. They aren’t meant for boys like Garcia.”
He leaned closer before you could process his words and placed a featherlight kiss on the edge of your neck. You gasped, the feeling of his warm lips sending shockwaves all the way down to your navel.
Bucky pulled away from you, breathing heavily and completely broken. You blinked back at him, struck dumb by the feeling of him so close and desperate for him to continue. It took you a second to realise that you were surrounded by broken ceramic.
You glanced dimly at the now-broken vase on the floor. It had flown from the table and hit the wall less than ten feet from you. You could feel small, beige pieces of clay crunch beneath your shoes as you shifted uncomfortably. A sudden chill came over you, wiping out all the heat left by Bucky’s kiss to your neck. You recognised it as the same Japandi sculptural vase that littered every floor on the building - nothing special or irreplaceable about it. But the moment was over.
You stumbled awkwardly away from Bucky, watching his metal fingers twitch, as if aching to grab you again. It was almost comical how quickly you had gone from wanting him closer - willing to do anything to have him - to wishing he was a million miles away.
You squirmed for a bit, reluctantly looking over at him. He was now also looking at the fragments on the carpeted floor. You struggled to get a read on him, like he was retreating into himself and going to a place you could no longer reach. If anything, he just looked tired.
This was too much. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to force your mind blank, squashing down your embarrassment and shame. The last thing you wanted was to send the table flying with it.
“I’ll, um…” you staggered out, “I better go ask someone to help clean that up.”
You shuffled down the corridor quickly, ignoring Bucky’s voice calling your name behind you and thanking your blessings that he did not decide to follow.
You were wretched. Completely immoveable.
Steve’s text inviting you to join the team for some beers in the communal area had been unanswered for the last hour. You didn’t consider the offer for even a second but you did wonder if Bucky was down there with them. You doubted it.
You didn’t even have the energy for your telekinesis to play up and throw some shit around. All you had the energy to do was to replay your conversation with Bucky over and over again - the arguing, the look he gave you when you blushed, his lips on your neck. You could still feel it as if it left a bruise.
His words: Kills me to see you give those pretty little blushes away to Steve but I can almost believe he deserves them.
What did that mean?
You thought maybe you knew but it felt too ludicrous, like something you invented to make yourself feel better. Your stomach capsized each time you replayed it.
You couldn’t understand what his feelings were - maybe it was pointless to even try.
He could pretend that nothing happened between the two of you in front of the elevators in Serbia. Could even say that the way he held you in your hotel room that night meant nothing - that he was just doing his job. But he couldn’t pretend now - not after his lips had touched you the way they did.
Your phone lit up from your pillow.
STEVE: Come on down
STEVE: Don’t make me come get you!
You sighed.
You couldn’t really fool yourself into believing you ever felt anything more than friendship for Steve, but it was nice to think about sometimes. Like, the thought of being with someone who actually wanted you back made you feel hopeful about your future. The idea that some day you could fall for someone who didn’t look at you with disgust while thinking of your past transgressions - like you could be normal.
Damn Bucky for ruining that for you. One sentence from him and now you can’t even think of anyone else without a dull ache forming in your chest.
You didn’t even know how long you had been horizontal for, but it was too long. You fought every muscle in your body to haul yourself out of your bed and to the kitchenette. You knew there was nothing in your fridge worth eating but you looked anyway: sour cream, half a jar of pasta sauce and some peaches that were probably gone off. Nope.
A knock at your door made you stand up straight, closing the fridge. Annoyance prickled at your skin.
“I’m tired, Steve.” you called out, hoping it would be enough to deter him but doubting it. “I think I’ll stay in.”
“Maybe later.” you added gently when you didn’t get a response.
Dead silence from outside your door. You rolled your eyes and mouthed a silent ‘Fuck this’. Begrudgingly, you trudged over to the door, ready to shoot down his ploy to get you out the door.
Bucky stood in front of you, somber and irritable. He looked down at you grumpily, his jaw clenched and a wrinkle between his brows. His hair was mussed up, like he had been running his hands through it. Your heart lurched.
“Not Steve. Sorry to disappoint.” he grumbled.
You were stunned. You fumbled for a bit, feeling awkward and out of place in your own skin, but could eventually do nothing but absently step aside and allow him to enter.
He crossed the threshold hesitantly and when you closed the door behind him, you turned to observe him. It was so bizarre to see him in your room. He was almost too big for it, towering over everything and taking up your space. You watched his eyes travel around the studio, fixing themselves to your recently-vacated bed, to the books on your shelf, to the pictures on the walls of your loved ones who you hadn’t called in far too long, to the dishes in your sink.
You wondered if this was just as strange for him. You wondered if he had ever pictured what your room might look like. You had imagined his. In your mind, Bucky’s room had no pictures or posters. His shelf was filled with books - modern classics and sci-fi - which kept his mind occupied when insomnia had its grips on him. It was neat and tidy aside from a leather jacket draped over the arm of his sofa and a lazily made bed.
Bucky fixed his sullen stare on you.
“I wanted to apologise.”
You weren’t sure what you were expecting. Not that.
“What for?”
“For…” You had never seen him in as much discomfort before. And you had seen him get shot. “I shouldn’t have gotten close to you… like that. Earlier.”
“You shouldn’t have got-? Oh fuck you, Bucky.”
You could think of plenty of things he could apologise for, but that wasn’t one of them. For a moment, you just stared at his astonishment. He was surprised by the fury and humiliation he found buried in your voice. It almost made you more enraged that he was surprised. Like he didn’t know what he was doing when you were feeling every bit of the blow he just dealt you.
The anger was helping you ignore the brutal chasm in your chest but didn’t quite do enough to fend off the humiliated tears.
“Do you think I’m some sort of machine? That I don’t have feelings? I know what I’ve done, I know what you think of me. I don’t need you to make me pay for it every day - it haunts me enough, Bucky! Do you think I am heartless enough to not feel this by myself? Because you’re wrong. I have as much heart as you, and if I can see yours past everything you have done, then you should be able to see mine too.”
You didn’t fully know what you were saying. If you had been thinking, you might have regretted bringing up his past but all you could think about was your own pain. You could hear glass smash somewhere behind you but you didn’t look. Bucky was startled, his blue eyes distraught, hands reaching out for you.
“I don’t expect anything from you, but this is cruel, Bucky, it’s not fair.” you wailed, squirming to evade his grasp. “You can’t play with my feelings like this and expect me to- let me go!”
You could see Bucky through blurry eyes, even as you did your best to wiggle out of his grasp. He said your name like a plea, but you could barely hear him. He had gone pale, face awash with panic and mouth ajar.
“No, that’s not-” he ushered out, desperately. His eyes were searching for yours but they wouldn’t meet him. “I never thought less of you for anything that happened in your past. How could you think that? Me, of all people.”
You froze finally, slightly dazed.
“What?” you tried to say, but it came out as a croak.
““I can’t help but want you, but I can’t let myself have you. I’m no good for you, sweetheart. No good for anyone, but definitely not you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I love you.”
The words fell in front of you and landed at your feet.
You finally looked at him. He was looking down at you, brooding and handsome. You had never seen him like this, so hopeless and scared - it terrified you. Your mouth filled with cotton.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know,” he laughed bitterly, with a sad, resigned smile. You hated how cavalier he was being about this. Was this some sort of joke to him?
His grip on your forearms loosened as he became sure that you wouldn’t bolt, but he didn’t drop them.
“If you… then why…” you couldn’t get the words out. Your tongue suddenly weighed a ton in your mouth.
“You gave me a look, couple months ago.” Bucky said, mouth twitching at how ridiculous it sounded. “When you were telling me about your past. Looked at me like I could… I dunno, kiss the pain away or something. Killed me, darlin’. Because I know I’ll just make it worse. I’ve got too much shit to…”
Bucky was struggling. You could see him grapple with his words, force them out. He was so pathetic and beautiful, you had to stop yourself from leaning into him.
“Because you should be with someone like Steve. Someone who’s good, all the time.” he said coldly and his brow furrowed like he didn’t want to admit it. “You said you wanted to feel normal again. That’s not something I can help with.”
You bit your cheek hard until a bitter, metallic taste flooded your mouth. Something was blooming inside you as much as you tried to suppress it.
All that shame, all the ruminating over how you had shared too much… all for nothing. He loved you.
“You’re idiotic.” you breathed.
An attractive little line formed in between his brows and he pouted, uncharacteristically boyish.
“I don’t want Steve. Never have.” you said. “I can’t feel normal around someone who is good all the time - it makes me feel, like, some freak of nature or something. I have only ever felt normal when I’m with you.”
The words swim between you for a moment.
Bucky was ravaged. His pretty, blue eyes met yours in what you now recognised to be adoration. He was almost dazed at your confession. You could tell he was uncertain of how to act, what to do. You looked at him for a beat.
“Did you have to choose that day to go cold on me?” you continued. “I spilled my guts and you just… I thought…” you couldn’t finish your thought because his face crumpled as he seemed to understand all at once. The way his constant rejection retraumatised you, made you feel subhuman.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” he said, voice low and gravelly. His face was twisted with agony and he wiped a large hand over his face. “I never meant to make you feel that way, I just thought you would be better off with space. Every time I looked at you, I just thought about how you would be happier with someone else and it made me feel sick. Jesus, I’m sorry. Nothing you said changed how I feel about you. I think nothing could.”
It was too late for this, right? It should be, but…
You stepped closer to him, shoes touching and faces a hair’s breadth apart. Slowly, hesitantly, your hand travelled up between the two of you. Bucky’s throat bobbed up and down as he watched it move and you felt a shallow gasp escape him when it landed on the side of his neck, gently cupping the skin there. His eyes fluttered closed, like he had been waiting for this for years.
You stood there for a second, bathing in the reaction he had to your touch.
You wished you could have made him sweat a bit more, maybe even beg. But you knew this would be the outcome whatever way you swung it. Knew it would end up with his hot skin on yours, and you had waited for that long enough. You couldn’t help it. Something about him was made just for you, molded specifically for you to love and keep.
“I love you too.” you whispered.
He leaned forward to kiss you then, his hand guiding your face to his carefully and pressing his lips to yours with great restraint. The other hand went to your waist and pulled you towards him.
The feeling of his coarse lips, the scrape of his dark stubble against your jaw - it was unearthly. Your heart was pounding and you knew he could hear it. Your lips moved tentatively against his at first. Slowly.
You couldn’t quite believe that this was happening. It felt like something from one of your dreams. You almost expected to wake up, bedsheets soaked and a hollow throb wracking your body.
His lips were so sweet against yours and you thought you could feel every ounce of his love in the gesture. You wanted to stand there with him - just like this - all night.
But the heat in your stomach slowly melted its way between your legs. Your brain went haywire. You couldn’t think - couldn’t even feel anything except his hands, his lips, his body against yours. He was overwhelming your senses and sending you into overdrive.
Bucky made a low, dark sound against your lips, feeling you respond to him, and you stilled. You parted from him for just a second, breathing heavy. His eyes were dark, glassy, focused on you - traveling your face and heavy with desire. He was a man possessed. You knew there was no going back now. Couldn’t if you tried.
When you kissed him again, there was nothing tentative about it. It was messy and raw. Hands reaching to his neck, chest pressing up against him, thighs pressing together, desperate for friction. Closer, closer, closer. The need for him was building in you. You were afraid to ever stop, in case he walked away again.
“Tryin’ to be a gentleman here.” he said between kisses. You didn’t stop.
You could feel Bucky’s restraint breaking. His hands travelled downwards and you could feel the imprint of each individual finger grip possessively on your hips and he pulled you closer and, shit, his hands felt beautiful on the flesh of your hips. He lifted you with almost impossible ease and you instinctively wrapped your thighs around his waist. You could feel him stiff against you when he sat you both down on your unmade bed, you now straddling his lap. It sent a thrill up your spine, your whole body wired with nothing but pure want while his hands stroked and squeezed your bare thighs.
The way his mouth moved against yours was sinful and he felt so big and broad against your touch. You had thought about him like this almost obsessively. You wanted more. You wanted everything he had to give you.
The thumb of his metal hand dipped into your loose lounge shorts and caressed a line where your abdomen cascades down to your groin. You gasped at the sudden cold sensation, pulling out of his kiss and throwing your head back. He attacked your neck, lathering kisses there instead. Lips, tongue, teeth.
You had lost all sense of yourself, completely immersed in him. You jumped, feeling his hand enter your underwear and his thumb brush your clit lightly. It knocked the wind out of you - forced a moan from your lips. A frame came crashing down from the wall with a loud thud but neither of you paid it any attention. Bucky responded with a groan of his own and ground his finger down harder. The metal ridges on his hand created a friction you had never before in your life experienced.
Bucky raised his head. “Can you feel how wet you are, sweetheart?” he murmured, eyes half-lidded and hazy with desire.
You could. You were dripping. You could see the evidence on his jean-clad thighs.
He continued to rub loving shapes inside the now-transparent fabric of your underwear. You saw stars. “Making such a mess. I’ve barely touched you yet.”
Yet.
“Look at that.” he murmured, brushing a finger of his unoccupied hand over the heat that was blooming in your cheek. “Going all pink for me.”
You squirmed and whined and bucked desperately for him, hips canting and gyrating, feeling completely out of your mind. You were embarrassed by Bucky’s vulgar words and his probing focus on your face but you didn’t have the power to hide anything from him.
He slipped a finger inside you and you felt a streak of white-hot pleasure burst through you. You gripped him and grinded down, almost against your own will. The cool metal finger was delicious against your warmth. Bucky sighed and you felt the gust of breath hit your mouth. You kissed him again.
“You should see yourself right now, baby. Cute and shy and blushing while you wiggle around, trying to take my finger deeper. So perfect.”
He was torturing you. He smiled wickedly and refused to move a muscle, basking in how you whined and twitched for him. You knew he was waiting for you to beg for him to move but you couldn’t form words.
You were past embarrassment, too far-gone. You grabbed his large shoulders and began to grind your hips up and down pathetically, whimpering his name.
Bucky was clearly not expecting this. His eyes blew wide as he watched you feverishly, drinking in your movements. “So pretty fucking yourself on my finger.” he whispered and you were suddenly landing softly on the bed.
Bucky was standing above you, towering over. You hadn’t really thought about how you might be affecting him, too focused on the bruising pleasure he was sending through your veins. But he looked wrecked. Messy hair, swollen lips, dark eyes piercing through yours with desire. You could see the large, hard outline of him through his jeans, his crotch and thighs now wet and sticky with the evidence of your burning need for him. All traces of that cocky superiority were gone, replaced with a sort of desperation.
“Can I make you feel good? Please?” It came out as a plea.
You thought about teasing him, saying something cheeky and coquettish, making him beg. But he had already knocked any resemblance of control out of your head. You weren’t even sure if you could pretend anymore. You just nodded.
With painful leisurliness and precision, Bucky lifted you into the centre of the bed. His strength was always a surprise to you, even knowing that he was a super soldier. He lifted your entire body like you weighed no more than a feather.
You tugged at the fabric of his t-shirt and he pulled away to raise an eyebrow at you, but lifted it off, followed by his jeans. He was left in only a pair of black briefs. You had been around Bucky while he was shirtless before, but had never been brave enough to let yourself look for more than a few seconds at a time. His arms supported his weight as he covered your body with his own on the bed, hills and valleys of huge, tanned muscles pulled tight. You let your eyes fall to his chest, where his dog tags sat, wet with perspiration, between huge pectoral muscles. His thighs were large and all muscle and you pictured yourself sitting on them. But it was his underwear that caught your attention, really. The black fabric was straining against the giant outline of his cock. You couldn’t look at it too long - you were already shaking with want. He was so big and pretty and yours.
He smiled at your wandering gaze and pressed his lips to yours again, swallowing each noise you made hungrily. You sank your head into the pillow and let him kiss you, feeling lightheaded and gooey at the reverence you could feel coming from him in waves. His mouth felt so right on yours, it almost made you angry. How could he have made you wait so long for this?
You would give him hell later, maybe. Right now, he was moving his kisses down your neck, leaving a trail of sizzling skin behind him. When he reached the top of your crewneck, he played with the hem, eyes looking up to you for a split-second for permission. Your lips twitched into a smile. His finger had already been inside you.
He seemed to understand and pulled your top over your head gently, under which your breasts were bare. Reaching down with both hands, he slid your drenched shorts and panties down your legs until you were completely bare before him.
He pulled up onto his knees to stare at you like this for a moment, drinking you in lazily with dark eyes. His eyes paused at your breasts and travelled down your stomach slowly before catching on your glistening heat. He made a strangled noise at the back of his throat as he saw it properly for the first time. You flushed under his gaze, a hint of self-consciousness tugging at you suddenly.
“I love it so much when you blush for me, sweetheart. Hated seeing you get all hot and bothered for Steve. I’ll keep this pretty pussy so busy, you’ll never think about him again.”
You hadn’t noticed his arm moving down until his hand found your clit again, calloused fingers clutching and rubbing with jealous vigour on your clit. You were so wet, he had to grind down hard to find the right friction.
You cried out and heard a loud crash somewhere in your apartment, making Bucky chuckle.
“Never felt like this for Steve.” you said, voice breathy and whiney. “Was just- ah- was just embarrassed. By everyone…”
You couldn’t finish your sentence. Bucky was grinning wide at you, possessive and wolfish, rewarding you for your confession by sliding one finger into you and then two. You thought your eyes might have rolled back momentarily but you weren’t sure.
“Thought you got sick of waiting for me. Moved on to Steve.” he growled, pushing his fingers in and out of you with punishing languidness. “But the whole time you were just mine, weren’t you?”
“Yours.” you agreed, nodding frantically.
“Fuck.” he moaned, wide eyed, flushed, desperate. “I’ll give you everything you want. I love you.”
You thought you might want to hear that again, and again, and again.
Bucky pulled you to the edge of the bed and got to his knees in front of you. He began to kiss your breasts, taking each nipple into his mouth briefly before continuing on his way down your stomach, nipping the skin there lightly with each kiss. You lay back and could feel his cold dogtags trailing against your skin. When he lingered for a second on the basement of your stomach, you could feel them knocking against the heat between your legs. You shivered.
Finally, finally, he looked up at you, caught your eyes, and lowered his beautiful mouth to where you needed him most.
The sounds you made were obscene but you had no control over them. Instinctively, you tried to close your thighs, feeling overwhelmed by the pleasure he was affording you, but he pried them apart instantly while licking a stripe up your pussy.
You felt his finger probe your entrance lightly, teasing you with just one inch while he latched on to your clit and sucked.
He could have made you come apart at the seams in a matter of seconds and he knew it, slowing down or stopping when your moans became a little too whiney.
“I think about seeing you like this all the time.” he admitted in between kisses and licks to your clit. He gave you another few inches of his finger and stroked your walls. “Legs spread and whining for me like a brat. Can’t sleep without thinking about making you come on my tongue.”
The image of Bucky alone in bed, thinking about you like this with a metal hand on his cock, had you gasping. Your mind instinctively tossed over your bedside locker. It landed on its side with a loud thud. It sounded like the leg might have snapped off.
Bucky barked out a laugh, seeing it collapse beside him where he was kneeling at the floor. For probably the first time in your life, you laughed at this strange, troublesome power of yours too.
It lasted only a second.
Bucky pulled his finger out completely before adding another, pushing both in to the hilt. They were so long and thick - you all but screamed at the sudden fullness. A dish exploded in the sink.
“So responsive.” he said, awe-struck. “You only have two of my fingers, sweetheart. Can’t wait to see how you take my cock. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll fill you up so good.”
His words were striking you dumb. It occurred to you briefly in your pleasure-drunk haze that you would probably never again be able to be with anybody but him. Not after feeling what it was like with Bucky. It wasn’t like this with anyone else. This was it.
“I love you.” you whispered to him, brushing your hand through his dark hair. The look he gave you in return was so adoring and soft, it almost made you burst into tears. You didn’t know you could be loved like this.
But then he was grinding his fingers in and out of you and you yelped at his exquisite, excruciating pace. You grinded down further on his fingers and you were speaking in tongues, babbling nonsense.
“I love you, I’m yours, Bucky. All yours. I love you, please, feels so good, I love- ah”
You suddenly jerked on his fingers, laying up on your elbows and noticing that Bucky had his unoccupied hand in his underwear, stroking himself to the sight of you, the feel of you, your words.
The hand Bucky had inside you slowed - almost stopped - to prevent you from coming. You were so close. You wanted to see what he was doing under his briefs. Wanted his tongue back on you. Wanted to come. But you didn’t have the words, your debilitating shyness overriding anything.
He saw your flustered state and smirked, continuing to stroke himself at a brisk pace, almost gloating.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? You want my tongue back? Gonna have to use your words.”
“Bucky, please.” you begged.
“Please what?” he mocked you, throwing his head back at the pleasure he was giving himself.
You flashed red and he breathed a laugh. Irritation flashed through you quickly and before you could think about it, your mind was probing out gently. With great carefulness, you used all your concentration to slowly and gently push Bucky’s head downwards.
All amusement fleeted from his face and was replaced immediately with a dark kind of astonishment. “Fuck, baby,” he sighed, completely ruined. “Not so shy when you need me this bad, huh?” You saw his hand grip himself tighter. He surrendered himself to your power.
He allowed his head to be pushed down, immediately pressing his tongue flat and sloppy against your clit, circling. His fingers sped up inside you, pistoning in and out with a desperate and mismeasured pace.
“You’re so messy, sweet girl.” You felt his words vibrate against you.
You looked down. A mix of your slick and Bucky’s spit was spilling all the way down your trembling thighs and onto the floor. You might have cared even a few moments ago but you were too far gone, slurring praises and ‘I love you’s.
“You gonna come, baby?”
You nodded, not checking whether he saw. He was making beautiful noises against your clit.
“Good. I’m about to spill into my underwear at the taste of you.”
Your vision went white and you fell apart. When your orgasm took you, you grabbed his hair instinctively and screamed, cunt pulsing and squeezing around his fingers, bucking your hips up to grind against his mouth. You dimly heard furniture and decorations and tableware crashing around you but you barely noticed it. If anything, it just reinforced that the world was crashing down around you with the intensity of the experience.
He was talking you through it, telling you how good and messy and pretty you were. He continued to make out with your pussy as he spilled into his underwear, muttering filthy praises about how good you tasted.
It took you a moment to come to. When you finally opened your eyes, you saw he had moved you back into the bed and under the covers. The room was in tatters, clothes strewn everywhere, furniture in pieces, broken glass on the floor.
Bucky let out a throaty laugh, watching you look around the room in astonishment. “You made a mess in more ways than one.”
Heat began to bloom in your abdomen and face again at his words and he laughed again. “Give this old man a chance to recover, sweetheart.”
You giggled and looked at him with shy interest, not sure where exactly to go from here. You wanted him closer but didn’t know how to ask.
Bucky smiled, staring down at you with such a loving gaze, it made you feel like you were floating. “Still shy? After all that?”
“Stop.” you groaned, slapping his bicep. You forced him closer using your mind, and he slipped towards you with a yelp, blue eyes wide with fascination. “I’ll never get used to that.”
“I’ll never get used to this.” you sighed, nuzzling into his chest and breathing in his smell.
“Well you better.” He placed a kiss on the top of your head and you melted. “Because I’m done with all that self-sacrificing bullshit. I’m all yours now. But I think we better fuck in a padded room from now on.”
When you sat down at breakfast with the team the next day, you affected a casual indifference. You didn’t arrive with a pep in your step, didn’t send any moonstruck looks Bucky’s way, didn’t chat any more or less than normal. You sat beside Steve, same as always. Chatted with Wanda, same as always. Ignored Bucky, same as always.
It was inevitable that the team would eventually find out about yourself and Bucky. But, for now, it felt like an electric, intoxicating secret - something just for the two of you.
Bucky wasn’t quite as good as you at hiding his stares. You felt his stare prickle and light up your skin, but nobody else seemed to notice.
Sam called for your attention and you turned to him, still laughing at something Wanda had said. “What the hell did you do to Steve?”
“When?” you asked, raising a perplexed eyebrow.
“Last night. He went to go get you for beers with all of us. Poor guy came back without you, red as Tony’s goddamn suit. Wouldn’t tell us anything except that you were busy.”
Your head snapped over to Steve who was sinking in his chair, looking like he wanted to slip and melt into the ground.
Your face exploded with heat and your eyes shot to Bucky instinctively.
All eyes one-by-one followed yours to Bucky, who was leaning back in his chair with a self-satisfied smirk dancing on his lips.
could you please write a fic where the reader had surgery and is nervous for joe to see her scars when they’re intimate? just had a breast reduction surgery and scared what the reaction of my next partner will be.
firstly, thank you so much for trusting me with something this personal lovely <3
i've heard from a lot of people how life-changing breast reduction can be physically whilst also being surprisingly emotional afterwards. i can completely understand why showing somebody those scars for the first time would feel vulnerable, especially when it's attached to so much uncertainty about how they'll react.
for what it's worth, i genuinely think the right person won't see them as something they need to "look past". they'll just see them as part of you. and i think joe, in particular, would be far more concerned about the fact you're worried than he would ever be about the scars themselves.
sending you lots of love and hope the recovery is smooth.
hope you enjoy the fic <3
let me see you
Joe Keery x reader
Summary: Reader spends weeks worrying about Joe seeing her surgery scars for the first time, only to discover he's never viewed them as a problem in the first place.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, new relationship, post breast reduction surgery, surgery scars, body image insecurity, vulnerability, first time being seen after surgery, emotional intimacy, illusions to smut, comfort fic, gentle joe keery, reassurance, fluff, discussions of recovery and scarring, soft romance (lmk if i missed anything)
W/C: 3.2k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
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The surgery happened eight months ago.
Long enough ago that, on paper at least, you're recovered. The scars have healed, the follow-up appointments have become increasingly infrequent, and the collection of recovery bras that once dominated an entire drawer have gradually been pushed further and further out of sight. The sharpest edges of the experience have softened with time, settling into something less immediate, less consuming. Most people assume that means you're fine now.
The problem is that recovery and acceptance aren't quite the same thing.
Physically, your body has healed. Emotionally, however, things are a little more complicated. Because whilst you've grown accustomed to seeing the scars yourself, seeing them and showing them to somebody else feel like two entirely different challenges. Looking in the mirror is one thing. Letting somebody you love look at you feels like something else entirely.
Particularly when that somebody is Joe.
At first, he doesn't notice the actual problem.
Or rather, he notices dozens of tiny things without ever quite connecting them together. He notices that you always seem to disappear into the bathroom to change instead of doing it casually in the bedroom. He notices that lights which were previously on somehow end up switched off whenever clothes start coming off. He notices that your bra has developed a remarkable tendency to remain firmly in place long after it would normally have been discarded somewhere on the floor.
Individually, none of those things seem particularly significant.
Together, however, they begin to form a pattern.
Mostly, though, Joe notices the hesitation.
The way you sometimes seem perfectly relaxed right up until a certain point before something changes almost imperceptibly in your expression. The way your shoulders tense slightly. The way your confidence seems to retreat by half a step. Not dramatically. Not enough to stop anything. Just enough for somebody paying close attention to realise there's something happening beneath the surface.
Unfortunately for you, Joe pays attention.
An irritating amount of attention.
It's one of the things you love most about him and one of the things that occasionally makes you want to launch a cushion directly at his head.
Because once Joe notices something, he notices it properly.
He doesn't push. Doesn't interrogate you. Doesn't corner you into conversations you aren't ready to have. Instead, he gives you space, trusting that if something matters, you'll tell him when you're ready. Weeks pass like that, Joe quietly observing and you quietly avoiding the subject, both of you orbiting around a conversation neither of you quite knows how to start.
If anything, his patience makes it worse.
Because every time he chooses not to push, the guilt grows slightly heavier. Every time he gives you another opportunity to tell him on your own terms, you become more aware that you're not taking it.
Eventually, though, curiosity wins.
Not because Joe is impatient.
Because by this point he's stopped wondering whether something is wrong and started wondering why you're carrying it alone.
It's a Tuesday.
A completely ordinary Tuesday, which somehow makes the conversation feel even more unfair. There are no dramatic circumstances forcing it into the open. No argument. No emotional confrontation. No particularly significant event. The two of you are simply stretched out at opposite ends of the sofa, half watching a film and half talking over it in the way couples inevitably do once they've seen enough films together to stop pretending they're paying full attention.
You don't even notice anything is wrong until Joe reaches for the remote and mutes the television halfway through a sentence.
Immediately, your eyes narrow.
"That's never a good sign."
A small smile appears at the corner of his mouth.
"Can I ask you something?"
Your stomach drops so fast it almost feels physical.
Because somehow, impossibly, you already know.
Not the exact question. Not the wording. Just the subject.
The feeling arrives before the thought does, a sudden certainty settling heavily in your chest.
You don't know how. You just do.
"What?"
Joe shifts slightly, turning towards you. The movement itself is casual enough, but there's nothing casual about the expression on his face. He's trying very hard to look relaxed, which unfortunately only makes it more obvious that he's been thinking about this for a while.
"You know you can tell me if something's bothering you, right?"
The reaction is immediate. Your chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts.
Because there it is. The conversation you've spent months avoiding. The one you've successfully sidestepped every single time it threatened to surface.
You let out a weak laugh.
"That's a terrifyingly broad question."
Joe smiles. "Then I'll narrow it down."
Immediately, you become fascinated by the coffee table. The grain of the wood. The coaster sitting beside your drink. Literally anything except the man currently waiting for an answer.
Unfortunately, Joe is patient. Painfully patient. The kind of patient that simply sits there and waits for you to arrive at the truth yourself rather than rescuing you from it.
Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, he sighs softly.
"Baby."
You close your eyes. "Yeah?"
His voice is gentle when he finally asks. Not accusatory. Not frustrated. Just curious.
"Why do you seem scared every time I see you without clothes on?"
The silence that follows lands heavily between you.
Your throat closes immediately. Because hearing it out loud somehow makes it real in a way it wasn't before.
For months, the fear has existed mostly inside your own head. Private. Contained. Easy enough to ignore when nobody else acknowledged it.
Now it's sitting between you on the sofa. Visible. Real.
Neither of you speaks for a moment.
Joe doesn't rush to fill the silence. Doesn't backtrack. Doesn't try to soften the question.
He simply waits.
And because you've spent eight months carrying this around by yourself, the words finally start coming.
"I know it sounds stupid."
Joe immediately shakes his head. "Not a great start."
Despite everything, a laugh escapes you. Small and unsteady.
You stare down at your hands.
"It's not the surgery," The words emerge slowly now, each one chosen carefully, as though you're afraid the wrong phrasing might somehow make the whole thing collapse. "I'm glad I had it."
Joe nods immediately.
You continue.
"My back doesn't hurt all the time anymore. I can actually exercise without feeling miserable. Clothes fit properly. It genuinely improved my life."
"Okay."
You swallow.
"The scars are just..."
The sentence trails off. Not because you don't know what you're trying to say, but because you don't know how to say it.
Joe waits.
Eventually you settle on, "Different."
The word feels woefully inadequate. Tiny and insufficient. A single word attempting to carry the weight of months of complicated feelings.
You stare at your lap instead. At your fingers twisting together. At anything except him.
"I got used to them eventually," your voice softens. "At least when it's just me."
Joe doesn't interrupt. Doesn't try to finish your sentences.
So you keep going.
"But then we started dating," a humourless laugh slips out, "and suddenly I realised somebody else was going to see them."
The room feels strangely quiet.
The film continues playing silently in the background, forgotten by both of you.
"I know they're not a big deal." You stop, immediately shaking your head. "Actually, that's not true." Your throat tightens. "They are a big deal to me."
Something in Joe's expression softens instantly, and you have to look away before it can affect you too much.
"It's weird." The confession feels embarrassingly vulnerable. "It feels like looking at somebody else's body sometimes."
The words hang there. Raw and unfiltered. More honest than you'd originally intended to be.
You swallow hard, then try again.
"I just..." The sentence falls apart. You start over. "I don't know what you're going to think when you see them."
The second the words leave your mouth, you want them back. Because they sound childish. Insecure. Like something you should have outgrown by now.
Instead, Joe just looks at you, and something in his face shifts. Not because of the scars. Not because of the surgery. Because of the fear. Because suddenly he understands that this isn't about what your body looks like.
It's about how terrified you've been of what he might see when he looks at it.
"Oh, sweetheart."
The words leave him so quietly they almost hurt.
Immediately, you look away.
Joe shifts closer on the sofa. Not enough to crowd you. Not enough to make you feel trapped. Just enough that his knee brushes yours.
"Is that what you've been worried about this whole time?"
You let out a weak laugh. "Only for the better part of a year."
To your complete surprise, Joe looks genuinely offended. Not upset with you. Offended on your behalf.
You blink. "What?"
He shakes his head, then laughs softly through his nose.
Not because he's mocking you, but because he seems genuinely unable to believe you've been carrying this around alone.
"Baby." He runs a hand through his hair. "I think you're giving me way too much credit if you think I've somehow developed a detailed opinion about your chest."
The laugh escapes before you can stop it.
Joe immediately points at you. "See?"
You roll your eyes. "Joe."
"There she is."
The grin fades gradually, something gentler taking its place.
"I'm serious." His gaze doesn't waver. "You had surgery." A pause. "You have scars." Another. Then he shrugs. "And?"
The simplicity of it almost irritates you. Because you've spent months building this moment into something enormous. Something capable of changing everything.
Joe reduces it to a single word. And?
You stare at him. He stares right back. Entirely sincere. No performance. No carefully rehearsed reassurance. No attempt to say the perfect thing.
The realisation lands slowly that he's not trying to comfort you. He's genuinely confused.
As far as Joe is concerned, you've just described a surgery that improved your quality of life and left behind scars.
That's the entire story.
Nothing about it changes the way he sees you. Nothing about it changes how much he wants you. Nothing about it changes anything.
And for the first time since the surgery, you begin to suspect that maybe the person who has been hardest on you this entire time has been yourself.
The first time he sees them properly happens later that evening.
Not because Joe pushes. Not because he asks. Simply because, for the first time since the surgery, you find yourself wanting something more than you want to hide.
The conversation from earlier lingers between you, softening something that has been held painfully tight for months. By the time you're curled up together in bed, the room lit only by the warm glow of a bedside lamp, the fear is still there, but it no longer feels quite so overwhelming.
You're sitting in his lap when it happens.
Not deliberately.
Neither of you has planned for this moment.
One minute you're talking quietly about nothing in particular, your arms looped loosely around his shoulders, and the next you're acutely aware of your own heartbeat thudding against your ribs.
Joe notices immediately, because of course he does.
His hands settle gently against your waist.
"Hey." The word is barely above a whisper.
You look down and Joe's expression softens.
"Only if you want to."
The knot in your throat tightens instantly.
Because that's the thing about Joe. He never makes it feel like a test. Never makes it feel like he's waiting for you to prove something.
The choice is always yours. Entirely yours.
You nod once, then immediately feel ridiculous for nodding, then nod again anyway.
Joe doesn't move. Doesn't rush forward. Doesn't reach for you.
He simply waits. Patient as ever. Giving you all the time in the world.
Your hands shake slightly as you reach for the clasp.
You hate that they shake. Hate that something you've rehearsed a hundred times in your head still has the power to make your stomach twist itself into knots.
Joe notices. He notices everything.
Without a word, one of his hands slips over yours briefly, squeezing gently. Not stopping you. Not helping. Just reminding you that he's there.
The gesture almost undoes you.
Eventually, after one final deep breath, you let yourself stop hiding.
For a moment, the room feels impossibly still. The kind of stillness that only exists when you're waiting for something important.
Your heart manages to fit months of anxiety into a handful of seconds. You brace instinctively. For surprise. For awkwardness. For that split second of hesitation you've been imagining ever since the surgery.
Instead, Joe just looks at you.
And then, "Wow."
The word escapes him before he can stop it. Soft. Almost breathless. Not because he's shocked. Not because he's staring. Just because something in his expression shifts so openly that you can see it happen. Affection. Wonder. Love. All arriving at once.
Your stomach drops. "What?"
The question comes out smaller than you intended.
Joe blinks, as though he's only just realised he's said something out loud.
Then he smiles. Slowly and warmly. The same smile you've seen a hundred times before. The one that always makes him look a little softer around the edges.
"Nothing." His thumb brushes gently along your side. "You just look beautiful."
The tears arrive so quickly it's embarrassing. Because that wasn't supposed to be the difficult part. You'd prepared yourself for questions, for explanations, for reactions. You hadn't prepared yourself for normality. For Joe looking at you exactly the same way he always does. Like you're the best thing he's seen all day.
His gaze drifts lower for a moment. Not lingering. Not analysing. Simply seeing.
The scars are there. Visible. Undeniable. Part of you. And somehow that seems to be the important part. Not the scars themselves. You.
Joe lifts one hand, giving you every opportunity to pull away.
When you don't, his fingers brush lightly across your skin, impossibly gentle. The touch is careful without being cautious. Tender without being fragile. As though he's trying to communicate something words aren't quite capable of carrying.
His forehead rests briefly against yours. The space between you disappears.
For a few moments neither of you says anything. You can feel his breathing. Feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your hands. Feel the certainty in the way he's holding you.
And suddenly you realise you've spent months waiting for a reaction that was never coming.
Nothing has changed. Joe is still Joe. Looking at you exactly the same way he did yesterday. Exactly the same way he did the day before that. Exactly the same way he has since the moment he fell in love with you.
The thing that finally undoes you isn't what he says.
It's what he doesn't.
No hesitation. No discomfort. No disappointment. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
And somehow that feels more reassuring than any speech ever could.
Hours later, you're lying in bed with your head tucked beneath Joe's chin when he speaks again.
The room is almost completely dark now, illuminated only by the faint orange glow of a streetlamp filtering through the curtains. Rain continues to tap softly against the windows, steady and rhythmic enough to blur into the background, whilst Joe's fingers drift lazily through your hair in absent-minded patterns. Every so often, his hand pauses to smooth a strand behind your ear before starting again, as though touching you has become something he does without conscious thought.
You can feel sleep beginning to pull at you.
The emotional exhaustion of the evening has settled into something softer now, leaving you warm and heavy against his chest, listening to the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your ear.
For a while, neither of you says anything.
Then Joe breaks the silence.
"Can I tell you something?"
The question is so quiet that you almost miss it.
You hum in response, too comfortable to properly lift your head, your cheek pressed against his t-shirt while his heartbeat thuds steadily beneath it.
For a moment, he doesn't continue.
You can feel his chest rise beneath you as he takes a breath.
Then, "Do you know what I saw?"
That gets your attention. You lift your head slightly, blinking up at him through the darkness.
"What?"
Joe's hand settles against the back of your neck immediately, warm and familiar, his thumb brushing slowly across your skin.
For a second, he simply looks at you.
And then he says, "I saw somebody I love showing me something that scared her."
The tears arrive instantly. Completely without permission. You actually let out a frustrated noise before burying your face back against his chest.
"Oh, for fuck's sake."
Joe laughs softly above you. Not mocking. Just fond. The sound vibrates through his chest beneath your ear.
"I'm serious."
"I know."
"No, really."
His hand slides up into your hair again, fingers threading gently through it before he tips your chin upwards just enough that you're forced to meet his gaze.
Even in the darkness, you can see how earnest he looks. How completely sincere.
"The scars weren't the important part."
Your throat tightens immediately, because somewhere deep down, you'd spent so long assuming they were the entire story that hearing otherwise feels almost disorientating.
Joe's thumb brushes across your cheek. Slowly and carefully. As though he's trying to make sure you're actually listening.
"I know you've been thinking about them for months." His voice remains quiet. Gentle. "But that's not what I was looking at."
Something in your chest twists.
Joe leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. Not rushed or absent-minded. Deliberate. The kind of kiss that feels less like affection and more like a promise.
"You were."
The words settle between you. Simple. Certain. Impossible to argue with.
For a long moment afterwards, neither of you speaks. You simply lie there with your face tucked back against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and feeling his hand continue its slow journey through your hair. Outside, the rain continues falling. Somewhere down the street, a car passes. The world keeps moving exactly as it always has.
And yet something feels different.
Not enough to erase every insecurity overnight. The fear isn't gone. Maybe it never disappears completely. Maybe there will always be moments when it catches you off guard in mirrors or changing rooms or photographs taken from angles you weren't expecting. But it feels smaller now. Manageable. Like something you can finally carry instead of something carrying you.
Because the thing you've spent months preparing yourself for never happened. Joe never looked shocked. Never looked disappointed. Never looked uncomfortable. He never saw a problem to solve or a flaw to overlook or a reason to change his mind. He just saw you. The same person he'd been looking at since the beginning. The same person he'd fallen in love with long before either of you had this conversation.
And as sleep finally starts pulling you under, warm and safe beneath the weight of his arm around your waist, you find yourself thinking that perhaps the most surprising part of all this isn't that Joe accepted the scars.
It's that he never seemed to understand why you thought he wouldn't.
dividers: saradika-graphics
new taglist: @whispersoflost, @teheblue, @mr-joel-keeny, @simply-a-book-lover, @je33123, @eller41, @bluehexagon8
Idk if you write smut or not, havent ever seen you write it. But! I was thinking what if Steve and reader were having intercourse and it was her first time. Steve didn't know that so he just continued as it was just normal, but when he looks down and sees blood, he kinda freaks out. Then he feels guilty about doing it too hard and not knowing, then reader reassures him that it's okay.
Crimson Firsts
Steve Harrington x Virgin!Reader
Summary: When things finally heat up with Steve, you hide that it’s your first time. But he’s bigger than expected, and a rough, passionate thrust brings unexpected blood. Steve panics, thinking he hurt you until your shy confession changes everything.
Word count: 3.9K
Warnings: NSFW, smut, loss of virginity, bleeding during sex, Steve is a soft caring king
A/N: hope you enjoy the mix of heat and sweetness!
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Steve Harrington has always been a gentleman with you. From the very beginning, he never once presses the topic of sex, never makes you feel rushed or obligated. He follows your lead completely, content with stolen kisses, late-night cuddles on his couch, and the slow burn of building intimacy. Whether it is a gentle hand on your waist during a movie or a lingering goodnight kiss at your door, Steve is patient, respectful in a way that makes your heart ache with how much he cares. He never pressures you, never hints at wanting more than you are ready to give. That patience only makes you want him more, until the night everything finally ignites.
You are still a virgin, and Steve being… well, Steve makes you nervous. He is hung. You have felt him pressed against you plenty of times during heated make-outs, thick and heavy, and it always leaves you equal parts excited and anxious. What if I can’t take him? What if it hurts too much and I ruin everything?
Tonight, with his parents out of town, the big house feels like it belongs to just the two of you. A horror movie plays downstairs, but you have both stopped paying attention long ago. Steve’s hand slips under your shirt on the couch, and before you know it you are kissing your way upstairs, laughing softly between heated touches.
The dim glow of the bedside lamp in Steve’s room casts long shadows across the walls, painting the space in warm amber hues. The air is thick with the scent of his cologne, something woody and clean, like pine after rain, mingled with the faint, salty tang of summer sweat from the two of you. Your heart hammers against your ribs as Steve’s hands roam your sides, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric of your shirt. You have wanted this for so long. Months of stolen glances at the video store, late-night drives in his BMW where his laughter fills the car like music, and quiet moments on the couch where his knee brushes yours and lingers. King Steve, the boy who once ruled Hawkins High with effortless charm, now looks at you like you are the only thing in his universe.
His mouth tastes like the cherry cola you shared, sweet and fizzy, and his lips are soft yet insistent as they move against yours. You do not tell him it is your first time. Why ruin the moment? You have imagined this so vividly, touched yourself to thoughts of his strong hands and that cocky grin. You can handle it. You want him.
Steve pulls back slightly, his hazel eyes dark with desire, breaths coming in short, warm puffs against your cheek. “You sure about this?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. His thumb strokes your bottom lip, sending shivers racing down your spine.
You nod, pulling him back down. “Yes, Steve. Please.”
He groans softly, the sound vibrating through his chest into yours. Clothes come off in a haze of fumbling hands and breathless laughter. Your shirt first, then his, revealing the expanse of his toned chest, lightly dusted with hair that feels surprisingly soft under your palms. His skin is warm, almost feverish, and you press your lips to the hollow of his throat, tasting the salt there. He smells so good, like home and danger all at once.
Steve’s hands are gentle at first, exploring. He cups your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they pebble under his touch, drawing a gasp from your throat. The sensation is electric, a spark that travels straight between your legs. You arch into him, feeling the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his boxers. He is bigger than you imagined, thicker, longer, and a flicker of nerves twists in your belly, but you push it down.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispers, kissing down your neck, sucking lightly at the pulse point until you whimper. His mouth is hot, wet, leaving trails of cooling saliva that make your skin tingle. Lower, he goes, lips closing around one nipple, tongue flicking in lazy circles. The wet sounds of his mouth fill the room, obscene and intoxicating. Your fingers tangle in his famous hair, those chestnut strands silky and slightly damp with sweat.
You reach for him, palming the bulge in his boxers. He hisses, hips bucking into your hand. “Careful, honey. You keep that up and this’ll be over too fast.” His voice is strained, playful, but edged with raw need.
Pants and underwear join the pile on the floor. Naked now, the cool air of the room kisses your heated skin, raising goosebumps. Steve hovers over you, his body a wall of warmth. The size difference hits you then, his broad shoulders blocking out the light, his thighs thick and muscular bracketing yours. He is all man, solid and real, while you feel smaller, softer beneath him.
He takes his time with you, or tries to. Fingers dip between your legs, finding you slick and ready. “So wet already,” he murmurs approvingly, circling your clit with practiced ease. Pleasure blooms, hot and liquid, your thighs trembling. The scent of your arousal mixes with his, musky and intimate. You moan as one finger slides inside, then two, stretching you gently. It feels good, so good, the fullness, the curl of his fingers hitting that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. But you know it is not enough for what is coming.
“Steve… I need you,” you breathe, pulling him closer.
He positions himself, the blunt head of his cock nudging your entrance. It feels enormous, hot, velvety skin over steel. You bite your lip, willing your body to relax. He pushes in slowly at first, inch by inch, groaning deeply. “Fuck, you’re tight. So perfect.”
The stretch burns, a deep, aching pressure that makes your breath hitch. You grip his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle there. He is so big, filling you in ways you have never felt, the veins along his shaft dragging against your walls.
Halfway in, he pauses, panting. “You okay?” His eyes search yours, tender even in the haze of lust.
You nod, forcing a smile. “Don’t stop.”
He thrusts deeper, and the pain sharpens, a tearing sting that steals your breath. But beneath it, there is pleasure, coiling tight. You wrap your legs around his waist, urging him on. Steve loses himself then, hips snapping forward with more force. The bed creaks rhythmically, the headboard thumping softly against the wall. Skin slaps against skin, wet and loud. His cock drives deep, bottoming out with each thrust, the head kissing your cervix in a way that blurs pain and ecstasy.
You cry out, a mix of moan and whimper. The room smells of sex now, sweat, arousal, the faint metallic hint you do not yet register. His body covers yours completely, chest rubbing against your breasts, the friction delicious on your sensitive nipples. Every thrust sends jolts through you, his pubic bone grinding against your clit.
Steve’s pace quickens, lost in the feeling. “Shit, baby, you feel incredible,” he growls, voice husky. His hands grip your hips, fingers bruising in their hold as he pounds harder, deeper. The intensity builds, your body adjusting somewhat, pleasure cresting in waves.
But then, he pulls back and thrusts in particularly deep, and you feel it. A sharp pop inside, followed by warmth trickling. Steve freezes mid-thrust, his body going rigid.
“What the—?” He looks down between you, eyes widening in horror. Blood. A smear of red on his cock as he withdraws slightly, staining the sheets beneath you. It is not much, but in the lamplight, it is unmistakable, vivid against your skin and his.
“Oh god,” Steve gasps, pulling out completely. The sudden emptiness leaves you aching, a dull throb where he had been. He scrambles back, sitting on his heels, his erection flagging slightly in shock. Panic floods his face, those pretty hazel eyes wide and guilty. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I went too rough—I didn’t mean to… Are you okay? Shit, your period? I should’ve been more careful. I’m such an idiot.”
He reaches for you but hesitates, hands hovering like he is afraid to touch. The guilt in his voice is thick, raw. Steve Harrington, who has faced down monsters and survived, looks utterly devastated over this.
Your cheeks burn. The truth sits heavy on your tongue, shy and vulnerable. The blood is from your virginity breaking, not your cycle. You had not expected it to show so clearly, had not prepared for this moment. “Steve… it’s not my period,” you whisper, voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. The room feels too quiet now, the air heavy with the coppery scent of blood mixing with the musk of your bodies.
He blinks, confusion creasing his brow. “What? Then what—?”
“It’s… my first time.” The words come out in a rush, shy whisper turning into confession. You pull the sheet up slightly, covering yourself, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze. “I didn’t want to tell you because… I’ve wanted you for so long. I didn’t want it to change anything.”
Steve’s face crumples. Devastation hits him like a wave. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands. “Your first time? Oh god, honey… I ruined it. I wanted it to be perfect for you—romantic, slow, with candles or some shit. Not me jackhammering like a damn animal.” His voice cracks, thick with self-reproach. He looks at the blood on the sheets, then at you, eyes glistening. “I hurt you. Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
Tears prick your eyes, not from pain but from the overwhelming love in his reaction. You sit up, ignoring the twinge between your legs, and reach for him. “Steve, no. You didn’t ruin anything. I wanted this. I still do.”
He pulls you into his arms anyway, careful now, like you are made of glass. His embrace is warm, enveloping. You can feel his heartbeat, frantic against your cheek as he presses your head to his chest. “I should’ve known. You were so tight… I got lost in it. God, I’m the worst.” But his hands are gentle, stroking your back in soothing circles, fingertips tracing your spine with feather-light touches. The scent of him surrounds you, comforting, familiar.
You pull back enough to look at him, cupping his face. Stubble rasps under your palms. “It wasn’t perfect, but it’s us. Real. That’s what matters.” Your voice gains strength. “I trust you, Steve. Please don’t stop loving me over this.”
His eyes soften, the panic ebbing into something deeper: affection, protectiveness. “Love you? Yeah… I think I do.” The words hang between you, tender and new. He kisses your forehead, then your eyelids, tasting the salt of unshed tears. “We’re gonna do this right. Slow. Tell me if anything hurts.”
He lays you back down, propping pillows under your head. The sheets are cool where they have not been stained, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his body as he settles beside you, not over you. His hands explore again, but differently, reverent. He kisses every inch of skin he can reach: the dip of your collarbone, the soft swell of your breasts, the curve of your hip. Each press of his lips leaves a lingering warmth, his breath ghosting over sensitive areas and raising gooseflesh.
Between your legs, he is careful. A warm washcloth from the bathroom, damp and soothing, cleans the traces of blood and arousal. The water is just the right temperature, not shocking your overheated skin. “Does this hurt?” he asks each time, voice a low rumble.
“No,” you sigh, relaxing under his care. The sting has faded to a dull ache, overshadowed by the butterflies in your stomach.
Steve takes his time building you back up. Fingers return, slick with your renewed wetness and a bit of lube he fetches from the nightstand. The glide is easier now, two fingers scissoring gently, curling to find that spot again. Pleasure returns in slow waves, coiling low in your belly. You moan softly, the sound mingling with the wet, rhythmic sounds of his hand. His mouth joins, tongue lapping at your clit with long, flat strokes, warm, velvety, insistent. The taste of you on his tongue seems to drive him wild; he groans against you, vibrations adding to the sensation.
Your orgasm builds gradually, unlike the frantic climb before. It crashes over you in shudders, thighs clamping around his head as you cry out his name. Stars explode behind your eyes, body pulsing around his fingers. He does not stop until you are boneless, whimpering.
Only then does he move over you again, but slower. His cock nudges your entrance, slick and hot. “Tell me to stop if it’s too much,” he whispers, eyes locked on yours. The size difference is still there, his broad frame dwarfing yours but now it feels safe, protective.
He pushes in inch by inch, watching your face. The stretch returns, but gentler, the lube and your arousal easing the way. Fullness blooms, deep and satisfying. “Breathe, baby,” he coaches, pausing often. His hand intertwines with yours, thumb stroking your knuckles. Sweat slicks your joined bodies, making skin slide deliciously.
Fully seated, he stills, buried to the hilt. You feel every throb of him inside you, the heat, the girth. “So good,” you gasp, adjusting. The initial discomfort melts into pleasure as he begins to move, shallow rolls of his hips at first, grinding rather than thrusting.
The rhythm builds naturally. Steve’s breaths are ragged in your ear, hot and damp. “You feel like heaven,” he murmurs, kissing your neck. One hand supports his weight while the other caresses your breast, pinching lightly. Your bodies move together, slick sounds filling the air again, but softer, more intimate. The bed creaks in time with his thrusts, which grow deeper but controlled.
Pleasure mounts, different this time, fuller, more connected. You wrap your legs around him, heels digging into his lower back. His pubic hair tickles your skin with each meeting of hips. The scent is overwhelming: sex, sweat, Steve. You taste his skin when you kiss his shoulder, salty and warm.
“I’m close,” he groans, pace faltering slightly. His free hand slips between you, thumb circling your clit in perfect time. The dual sensation pushes you over first, orgasm ripping through you, walls clenching around his thick length. You moan loudly, nails raking down his back.
Steve follows with a deep, guttural sound, burying himself deep as he comes. Heat floods you, pulse after pulse, his cock twitching inside. He collapses carefully, not crushing you, face tucked into your neck.
For long minutes, you stay like that, connected, breathing each other in. His weight is comforting, grounding. Slowly, he pulls out, both of you hissing at the sensitivity. More cleanup, tender and unhurried. He fetches fresh sheets from the linen closet, the fabric cool and crisp as you help remake the bed, laughing softly at the awkwardness.
Lying together afterward, limbs tangled, Steve holds you close. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm, raising tiny shivers. “I’m still sorry it wasn’t perfect,” he says quietly, voice thick with emotion. “But damn… being with you like this? It’s the realest thing I’ve ever felt.”
You snuggle closer, inhaling his scent. “It was perfect because it was you.” Your hand rests over his heart, feeling its steady beat.
The night stretches on with more touches, soft kisses, whispered stories of how long you had wanted each other. Steve’s protectiveness shines through in every caress, every check-in. The size difference that had intimidated you now feels like shelter; his larger body curls around yours, one thigh thrown over your legs, arm draped possessively.
