Angsty April

You try to brush it off as just a strange dream, but it’s no use. The images won’t fade. She’s there in your thoughts when you least expect it, her presence like a shadow trailing behind you. You shake the thoughts out of your head as you step onto the train, the rhythm of the commute a small comfort in the chaos of your mind. As the train jerks to life, you grip the pole, trying to ground yourself in reality.

You stumble slightly, shoulder knocking into your neighbor. You look up, and your breath catches in your throat.

Wanda’s wide eyes meet yours, her face flickering with something between shock and recognition. She grips the pole a little tighter, knuckles going white. Her voice is barely above a whisper, uncertain, but warm, when she finally speaks.

“...Do I... know you?”

You can’t tear your gaze away. Her eyes are filled with something familiar, like she’s been waiting for you, like she knows exactly who you are. But you’ve never met her.

“I… I know you,” you whisper before you can stop yourself, the words slipping out. She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she studies you, a flicker of recognition crossing her face.

It’s strange, this feeling of knowing her intimately, yet never having met her. Her features are seared into your memory, the same ones you have been seeing in your dreams.

Her eyebrows knit together, her gaze searching your face. She seems to recognize you too, like this should make sense but it doesn’t. Slowly, her free hand reaches out, hovering just over your arm, hesitant, as if she’s scared you’ll flinch if she touches you.

“We’ve never..met, right?” You ask, your eyes bouncing to her hand.

She shakes her head. “No. We haven’t. Not here, anyways.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You blink, and the train stops. Several people get on while more get off, but your eyes don’t move from hers.

Her lips part, like she wants to explain, but the words won’t come. The train lurches forward again, and she stumbles slightly, her fingers instinctively curling around your arm to steady herself.

The second she touches you-

A sharp rush. A flicker of images, her smiling at you in sunlight, fingers tangled with yours… a battlefield… a whispered promise in the dark. And then it’s gone as fast as it came.

Wanda jerks back like she felt it too, eyes blown wide with shock. “You saw that.”

“I-” you’re breathing too hard, too quickly, and you step away. “My head hurts.”

“You- I..” Wanda stutters, and her eyes are wet as she inhales shakily. “I should go.”

She turns to the sliding doors, like she can will them to open and you pale. As confused as you are, the last thing you need for her is to leave. You take a step closer, and she smells like roses.

“Please don’t go,” you whisper as the train slows. “What is this?”

Wanda hesitates. You can see the war behind her eyes, conflicted and confused, just like you, a painful sense of longing dancing across her features.

She turns back to you, her eyes locked with yours. Her fingers fidget restlessly, but they seem to want to reach for you again—like she’s craving it, even though she just felt it. And it seems to hurt her that she can’t. “Punishment. you…the false memories. you’re haven’t them, aren’t you?”

You can’t breathe. Can’t move, your feet stuck to the dirty train floor.

She blinks hard with wet eyes, her mouth twisting. “You need to forget me.”

“But I don’t even know you.” You whisper.

But you do. Somewhere in you, where your atoms combine and your blood twists, your heart knows hers. Your mouth has been upon the pink lips you stare at now, your voice the reason for her laugh. You know it, deep in your bones.

You see her chin tremble, see the way her eyes burn, because she knows it too. She shakes her head, and she looks so unbearably sad.

You feel your heart twisting painfully in your chest. This feeling, the way you ache as she stares at you with that tortured sadness, it isn’t something you should be feeling for a stranger.

But there’s no denying it. You know this girl. Your body and every part of you remember her.

“Don’t make me lose you, when I don’t even know you.” She whispers, and the words crack against you like a whip. You shake your head, reaching for her again, but she’s faster. “Not anymore.”

Her hands slides forward, finger tips pressing to your forehead. Your eyes meet hers for one, fleeting moment, and you think you may have loved her in a life before.

And then your mind goes blank. x

Wanda Maximoff blurbs

AA Masterlist

Tommy stands at the doorway, his posture tense, jaw clenched. The only thing that moves is his breathing, sharp and uneven. You feel the room grow colder despite the warmth of the fire crackling behind you.

“Tommy,” you whisper, but it feels like the words don’t reach him. His eyes, darker than usual, flicker to you, and for a brief second, you think you see something soft, something real. But then it’s gone, replaced by the hard edge of frustration that’s been building between the two of you for weeks.

His voice cuts through the silence, low but vicious. “All you do is fuck things up! Why do I even keep you around?”

You freeze. Your heart stutters, but the words spill out before you can stop them, a defense mechanism to protect yourself, even if it won’t help. “Well, for starters, you’re unbearably lonely without me, and you think I’m cute, which gives me more value than you like to pretend.”

The words are a knife to the chest, but they’re the only ones that fit. You bite back the tears that threaten to spill, and Tommy’s face softens for a moment, a flicker of something regretful flashing behind his eyes. He swallows hard, fists clenching at his sides.

“I don’t need you,” he mutters, but the way his shoulders sag betrays him. He’s lying. He does need you, he just doesn’t know how to admit it, how to reach out when everything around him is falling apart.

“You do,” you reply, your voice quieter now, a tremor you can’t hide creeping in. You take a slow step forward, careful, like you’re approaching a wild animal. You know Tommy, and you know the rage inside him—it’s a fire he can’t seem to put out, even when all he wants is peace. “You just can’t stand it. You’re too damn proud to admit it, but you’re miserable without me, Tommy.”

His gaze hardens, but the way his hands shake gives him away. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know more than you think,” you answer, your voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t let anyone close enough to really see you, but I do. I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. I know you’re scared. But you push me away like you think it’ll make everything better.”

The room creaks again, as if the house itself is trying to hold the two of you together, its old bones bearing witness to the mess you’ve both created. Tommy’s expression falters for just a second before he turns his back to you.

“You’re right,” he says finally, barely audible, his voice cracking. “I’m scared. I’m scared of losing you. I’m scared of how much I need you, even if I won’t show it.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. Your heart aches, a dull pain that fills your chest with something like longing, regret, and maybe love. But all you can do is stand before him, frozen, waiting for him to face you again.

When he turns back around, it’s as though the fight has drained out of him, leaving only the vulnerability that both terrifies and draws you in.

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he admits, his voice quieter now. “But I know I can’t let you go.”

The words hang in the air, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t have to say anything at all. The silence speaks louder than anything either of you could put into words.

You step forward, closing the distance between you. Tommy doesn’t pull away. Instead, he lets you in, letting the cracks in his walls show as he finally gives in to the quiet ache that’s been building between you both.

The house creaks again, but this time, it feels different. Like maybe you’re both holding it together.

x

Angsty April masterlist

Tommy M Blurbs

The cold air bites at his skin, but it doesn’t numb the feeling settling in his chest. He walks a few steps ahead, head lowered, fists clenched at his sides. His usual confidence is gone, and you follow a few steps behind, your heart tight with worry. His silence is impenetrable, like a wall that’s built up between you. You want to reach out, to offer comfort, but tonight feels different. He’s not himself. There’s a simmering anger in him, barely contained.

“Dean,” you call softly, your voice the only sound in the otherwise silent night. You reach out, your hand brushing his arm, but he flinches, pulling away from your touch.

When he turns to face you, his eyes are stormy, dark with frustration. “I don’t need your pity,” he snaps, his voice sharp. “Why do you always—space, alright? I need space.”

His words hit you like a punch, stealing your breath. “I just wanted to help.”

“Well, don’t,” he fires back, bitterness dripping from every word. “I don’t need you to fix me. I don’t need anything from you.”

You stare at him. He glares back.

Dean turns away, walking into the dark, leaving you standing alone as the night wraps itself around you.

-

Days blur into weeks. You give him the space he demands, each step away from him feeling like you’re losing a part of yourself. You stop waiting for him after hunts. You stop texting him just to check in. You stop reaching out, and with each action, you feel yourself becoming more and more distant, like a ghost that haunts the edges of his life.

But Dean notices. He feels the absence in the room, in the way you sit on the opposite side of the couch, the distance between you growing wider with every passing day. He sees the way your laughter doesn’t reach your eyes anymore. Conversations feel empty, words hollow, silences strained. He watches you, but it’s like you’re no longer the same person to him.

When he fucks you, you turn away, pressing your face into the pillow as his hands grip your hips. He kisses you, or tries to, but your lips stay shut, cold, and your moans are more reflective than actual pleasure.

“This okay?” He mumbles against your neck, and you nod, closing your eyes. You want to savor this, the feeling of his skin on yours, before eventually this fragile thing breaks.

It’s nearly a month when he’s finally had enough of the unbearable silence. He watches you from across the room, your head bowed, fingers nervously working over a gun as you clean its metal. You seem smaller, like you’re collapsing in on yourself.

“I… I’ve been a jerk,” Dean says, his voice softer than you expect, hesitant.

You look up, surprise flashing across your face. “It’s fine,” you say, but your words sound empty, robotic.

“No, it’s not.” He steps closer, his frustration finally breaking through. “That hunt… I messed up. I let someone get hurt. I pushed you away when all you did was try to help. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean any of it.”

You don’t answer right away, your gaze dropping to the floor. The silence between you stretches, thick and heavy with everything left unsaid. You feel the gap between you both, the distance that has only grown.

“I know that,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “Maybe you’ve outgrown me.”

“No,” Dean says immediately. “Nuhuh, no. I could never, that- no.”

He’s breathing hard as you blink up at him, pain cracking across your face before you stand up, walking to the opposite side of the room and away from him. You need space to think, to digest.

Dean’s breath catches in his chest. The guilt, the realization of what he’s done, hits him like a freight train. “I miss you,” he admits, his voice barely a whisper. “I miss us.”

He walks up to you, pausing for a moment before his fingers brush against yours. “You’re…fading. Disappearing and I know that’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until the tear falls to your chin. You swipe at it quickly before folding your arms across your abdomen. “I’m the one who stayed. Not you. I’m right here. I just wanted to be there for you,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I wanted to help you. I didn’t realize I’d become such a burden.

“You were never a burden,” he says urgently, his hands running up your arms and you shiver. “It was, a lot and I took it out on you. I shouldn’t have.”

Tears streak down your face, relentless, as if your soul is being cracked open with each drop. “Do you know what it’s like?” you whisper, voice trembling and barely above a breath, “To feel like you’re never enough? To give everything you have, and still be told you’re too much?” The words hang heavy between you, thick with a rawness that rips at your chest. “All I ever wanted was to love you.”

Dean’s breath hitches at your words, a crack of pain slicing through his chest. His grip on your hand tightens, desperate and aching. His voice is thick as he leans forward, and your back presses into the chipped drywall.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, the weight of his guilt crushing him. “I’m so damn sorry.”

The room is still, save for the sound of your breathing. He pulls you into his arms, and you don’t fight him, his chin slipping atop your head like it was made to.

“You were never too much,” he whispers, his voice soft against your hair, the weight of his words heavy with regret. “I’ll make it right. I swear, I will.”

You lift your eyes to his, your voice barely a breath. “I don’t know how to go back to what we had.”

His hand cups your face gently, his touch steady and warm, as though trying to ground you both in the midst of everything falling apart. “We’ll find a way,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving yours, filled with a quiet determination. “We’ll rebuild, piece by piece.”

Dean leans in, his forehead resting against yours, the once suffocating silence melting into something hopeful. When his lips meet yours, it’s slower. A tender press, a quick swipe of his tongue that sends a shiver to your spine.

He’s asking for forgiveness.

You wonder if you can give it.

“I need you,” he breathes when he pulls back, his voice like ground up chalk. “More than anything. Come back to me.”

Tears still cling to your lashes, but a small, trembling smile forms despite the ache in your chest. “We’ll be okay,” you whisper, your voice a quiet resolve. “It won’t be easy, but… I want to try.”

“Yeah?” His eyes have a gleam of hope that makes your stomach flutter. You nod, and encircle his waist once more.

“I do.”

x

Dean W Blurbs

His gaze locks with yours, and that familiar spark of recognition flickers in his eyes. You take a step forward, heart pounding despite the peace that surrounds you. He smiles, a small but genuine thing, like he’s been waiting for you, like he never truly left.

“You made it.” Eddie says, his voice steady but full of that unshakable warmth. You move closer, tentative, unsure of what’s real and what isn’t. He reaches out, the distance between you shrinking until it’s just him, the softness of his hands, the scent of his denim jacket. His fingers brush your skin, a whisper of forever in a place where time no longer matters.

“I missed you.” you whisper, not knowing if he heard you, but it doesn’t matter. He’s here, you’re with him again. Everything is exactly as it should be.

x

Eddie Munson blurbs

AA ML

Your fingers twitch at your side, nails digging into your palms as you fight the urge to approach him. You know better than that. You’ve learned to stay in the background, hidden in plain sight. The way his eyes flicker with laughter as Steve jokes, the sound of his deep, warm laugh that you could recognize anywhere. It fills your chest with a tight, hollow feeling.

You hate that feeling, and yet you crave it.

They leave the bar together, Steve slinging an arm around Bucky’s shoulder. You stay back, follow at a distance, watching the two of them laugh and joke, just like you once did. Your mind fills with images of what could be, if he only noticed you. If he only saw you for what you could be for him. But you know those thoughts are nothing more than fantasy, just like your dreams of when you were together.

You tell yourself you’re not obsessed, that it’s just a harmless admiration, but then you find yourself at his apartment door again. You don’t have to knock. You know when he’s home. You’ve memorized the pattern of his comings and goings. He’s inside now, sitting in his kitchen, unaware that you’re standing just outside, hidden in the shadows.

It’s always like this. Watching, waiting. You can’t help yourself. The desire gnaws at you, an ache that you try to ignore, but it’s too much to suppress.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you jerk slightly, startled. You glance down at the screen. It’s a message from Steve.

Bucky asked about you today.

You smile faintly, your heart skipping a beat. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance. But then reality sets in, and the bitter truth cuts through the fleeting hope, because Steve is lying. He knows how hard the breakup hit you, how difficult you found it to move on. He doesn’t know that you haven’t moved on; not really.

Still, you can’t help but think of that small flicker of hope — the thought that Bucky has noticed you. That maybe he’s wondered about you. But you know it’s a stretch. It’s always been a stretch.

You wait for him to leave the apartment in the morning, as you always do. As the sun rises, painting the city in pale light, you watch him walk, the heavy weight of his boots echoing on the stairs as he walks toward the alley. You count the steps, memorizing his every movement. You’re careful not to get too close, not to let him see you.

But today is different. Today, when he walks past your hiding spot, he pauses. His eyes flicker over you, and you freeze. Your breath hitches in your throat.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, guarded. He says your name, and you swear your heart sings.

You blink, startled. The sound of his voice, directed at you, sends a jolt through you. You force yourself to smile, to appear casual, to seem like you’re not dying inside, but you can feel the tremor in your fingers, the rush of blood to your head. “Hi,” you say, your voice steady despite the chaos inside you.

He tilts his head slightly, studying you with a curiosity you’ve never seen before. It’s a feeling you’re not used to. It’s not affection, not yet, but it’s something. A flicker of something you’ve only dreamed of.

“You’ve been around here a lot,” he says, his voice a little softer now. There’s no suspicion in his tone, just a simple observation, and you realize he’s known, this entire time.

You nod slowly. “I like the neighborhood. It’s… quiet.”

He watches you for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly. You can’t read him, can’t tell what he’s thinking, but you know that this is your moment. The moment you’ve been waiting for, that you’ve been dreaming of, your chance to win him back.

“I should get going,” he says, his voice trailing off. “You should get some sleep.”

Your heart plummets, but you’ve learned how to bury it. You’ve learned how to hold it together when all you want to do is scream. You watch him walk away, wishing you could reach out, grab his sleeve, pull him into your arms. Tell him everything. Tell him how much you’ve missed him, that you’ve watched him for so long, how you know him better than anyone, but you don’t. You never do.

You watch until he disappears around the corner, and then you turn back to the alley where you always wait.

You know that you can’t keep doing this. The ache in your chest is too strong, too painful. You know it’s unhealthy, this obsession, this need. But you can’t stop it. You can’t stop yourself from wanting him, from needing him in ways you know he’ll never understand.

Maybe one day, he’ll look at you and see more than just an ex. Maybe one day, he’ll see you for who you truly are, but until then, you’ll keep watching.

That’s enough. For now.

x

Angsty April masterlist

Bucky Barnes blurbs ML

You shake your head, pressing your lips together. “I’m staying right here.”

His fingers twitch weakly in your grip as he lets out a hoarse chuckle, though there's no real humor behind it. “Stubborn as hell... Always were.”

A sharp intake of breath as another wave of pain hits him, jaw clenching hard enough to make the muscle jump. But even now his gaze locks onto yours with that same stupid, stubborn intensity. “...Fine. But if I start turnin’ into one of those things, you better put me down before I embarrass myself.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up slightly, just for you.

“You’re not. You- no. They’ll figure something out. Sherry-”

“It’s my end of days, gorgeous,” his voice is cracked as his eyes find yours. “Don’t start lying to me now.”

“Leon,” you whisper, blinking hard because he can’t die. Not now. Not like this. “Please.”

His thumb brushes weakly over your knuckles—gentle, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of them. “Hey... I've cheated death more times than I can count. Maybe it was always gonna catch up.”

A ragged breath, then his voice drops lower—barely there, but still steady. “But listen... You don't beg for me. Not ever.” His grip tightens slightly, as if he could will strength into you through touch alone. “You walk outta here when it's done. Alive. That's the deal.”

The faintest smirk tugs at his lips again, even as his eyes start to lose focus, always having to have the last word.

“You can’t, Leon you can’t just- not when I-” you stop, because you hadn’t said the words yet. You hadn’t been brave enough, and even now as death stared at you through his eyes the words caught on your tongue.

“I know,” he murmurs, his eyes closing. “S’okay baby. You don’t have to say a thing.”

“I want to,” you whisper. “I really do.”

He lets out a bitter laugh turned ragged by another sudden wave of pain, eyes squeezed shut as he leans his head back against the pillow for a moment. It feels like eternity while you wait for the wave to pass. When he finally looks at you again, there's a softness there—pain, yes, but something like tenderness, too.

His hand lifts to brush a strand of hair away from your face, the calloused pad his thumb tracing along your cheekbone.

“Hey... I can be selfish, right...?”

“Be selfish with me,” you whisper, clasping his hand and keeping it to your face. You scoot closer to the bed with your chair, your knees pressing to the edge of the mattress. “Fight for me. Don’t die, for me. Fuck umbrella, and Racoon city, and everyone that made this world your problem. Be selfish, and love me.”

“I already do.”

His response is quick, a knee jerk reply, and you still, your eyes widening and his hand is warm on your cheek as it keeps a grasp on your face. His expression softens further, his gaze never leaving yours, steady and intense, that familiar stubbornness in it, even now. It makes your chest ache, because he never changed and you don't want him to. He'll always be Leon.

He's quiet for a moment, just studying your face, his thumb stroking gently over your skin with what must be the last of his strength.

Then in a hoarse whisper, he's making a demand. “Come closer.”

You lean forward, pressing your elbows to the mattress so you can lean on your palms, your face closer to his. The tears prick at your eyes before you inhale, finding the scent that is so clearly him under the gun powder and antiseptic.

His breath hitches, just once, as your face hovers just above his, his grip tightening ever so slightly in your hair before he exhales.

“Tell you what,” he murmurs, rough with pain but still so warm. “If I make it through this... you better be ready to say those words back to me.” His smirk is weak now, but it's there, barely. Teasing. Like always.

Before you can answer, he tugs your face down the last inch and kisses you like he's got nothing left to lose.

Which, well... he might not, but hell if that stops him from making sure you do.

You close your eyes, committing the feel of his lips on yours to memory. They’re chapped but smooth, cool against your warm ones. Even with the pain and the fever, he still kisses you so gently, almost reverently. As if you're something fragile or delicate, instead of a trained agent who can put a bullet in a zombie's head at a hundred feet, but then, he's always treated you as if you were something rare. Something he never deserved.

He breaks the kiss but only just, his forehead presses against yours, a shaky exhale leaving him as he breathes in the scent of you, one that reminds him always of home.

You’re crying now, salty tears slipping down your cheeks and wetting his skin. He makes a soft sound, shaking his head. “Don’t cry for me.”

“Can’t help it.” You pull back, taking in his face, the lines of black that crawl up his neck and your eyes crinkle as you blink rapidly. “I love you. Oh god, Leon I love you.” Your voice cracks and you break, your head falling to his chest as you sob. “Please. Please don’t do this.”

His arm comes around you, weak but insistent, pulling you as close as he can manage, his hand cradling the back of your head like he's trying to shield you from all of this.

“Damn it,” he rasps, pressing a rough kiss into your hair. “Not how I wanted to hear that for the first time.”

You can feel his heartbeat under your cheek, too fast, too uneven, but still there. Still fighting, because Leon Kennedy doesn’t know how to do anything else.

“We can fight this,” you whisper into his chest. “I know we can. The doctors said-”

“Doctors don’t know everything,” he says softly and you sit up, wiping at your eyes. “They’re guessing, at best.”

“They could be right,” you insist. “And I’m not giving up. Not on you, never on you.”

His gaze sharpens, a flicker of that old fire in his exhausted eyes, and he exhales through his nose like you're being particularly difficult.

“Stubborn as hell,” he mutters, but fondness laces his tone.

With a slow inhale, he nods once, sharp and decisive. “Fine. We try, but if this shit goes south…” His thumb brushes under your eye again, wiping away another stray tear before it can fall. “You still walk out alive. You still live.”

You chew at your lip but nod nonetheless.

Leon Kennedy never was good at surrender; not even now.

So maybe, just maybe, neither are you.

x

Angsty April ML

Leon Kennedy Blurbs

“You’ve been texting her again,” Wanda’s voice breaks the silence, her tone heavy with something you can’t place. It’s not anger, but it feels like something worse. Something cold.

You turn to face her, your heart sinking at the look on her face. Her arms are crossed, her eyes narrow as she waits for you to explain, to offer something, anything, that will make her understand.

“She’s just a friend, Wanda,” you begin, your voice soft, but there’s a hesitation you can’t shake. “I’ve told you that.”

“Just a friend,” she repeats, her laugh devoid of humor. “How many times do I have to hear that? You’ve been texting her in secret, behind my back. And now I’m just supposed to believe it’s nothing?”

“I didn’t mean to keep it a secret,” you rush to say, stepping closer to her. “I never wanted to hurt you. I didn’t think it mattered. It’s just—”

“Just what?” Wanda’s voice rises, cutting you off. “It matters. Why wouldn’t it matter? You’re telling me you didn’t think I’d care? That I wouldn’t wonder why you’re still keeping in touch with someone who hurt you? With your ex?”

You take a breath, the words sticking in your throat. “I didn’t think about it like that. It’s just… we’ve talked a few times, as friends. She’s not the same person she used to be. And—”

“And you didn’t tell me,” Wanda interrupts, her voice thick with the weight of her disappointment. Her eyes glimmer with something close to betrayal. “You didn’t think I deserved to know? Or maybe you didn’t trust me enough to be honest about it?”

The sting of her words cuts deeper than you expected. The room feels smaller now, the space between you filled with unsaid things. The tension suffocates you both.

“I never meant to make you feel like that,” you say quietly, taking a step forward, hoping she’ll let you in, that she’ll let you explain. “I should have told you. I should have been honest from the start. But it wasn’t anything. I promise. Just texting, checking in. That’s all.”

“But it’s something,” Wanda snaps, her hands trembling as she reaches up to push her hair out of her face. “You hid it from me. And that something makes me wonder if there’s more you’re hiding. If there’s more I should be worried about.”

You swallow hard, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m not hiding anything, Wanda. Not from you.”

She looks at you, eyes full of hurt, and the sadness in her gaze is almost more than you can bear. “How can I ever trust you again when you keep things from me? When you don’t even give me the chance to understand? How could I?”

Her words hang in the air like a challenge. Your heart aches, the knot in your stomach tightening with every second that passes. You step toward her again, this time more carefully, not wanting to push her away any further.

“I know I messed up,” you admit, your voice rough. “I should have told you. I should’ve trusted you with everything. You deserve that. You deserve my honesty. All of it. And I’m sorry for making you feel like you didn’t.”

Wanda’s gaze softens for a split second before it hardens again, and she shakes her head. “It’s not just about the texts. It’s about trust. It’s about knowing you’re not going to hide things from me, even if you think they’re small. I need to know you’re with me, that you’re all in.”

You bite your lip, fighting back the tears that threaten to fall. “I am, Wanda. I am all in. I want to be with you. I just—I didn’t want to make you feel insecure about something that wasn’t anything.”

She looks down at the floor, her chest rising and falling with each breath. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter, almost a whisper. “I don’t know if I can believe you. Not right now. You’ve given me no reason to.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, and you feel your world slipping, the weight of the truth settling in your bones. You can’t undo the hurt, can’t take back the lies, but you have to try. You have to show her that she’s worth the fight, that you’re ready to be honest with her, no matter how hard it is.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust again,” you promise, your voice shaky but determined. “I swear to you, Wanda, I’ll make it right.”

She doesn’t respond right away, and the silence stretches between you both like a chasm. But then, after what feels like an eternity, she looks up at you, her face softening.

“I need time,” she says, her voice quiet but firm. “I don’t know if I can just forgive you for this. Not yet.”

You nod, the hurt still fresh, but you understand. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait for you.”

She gives you a sad, thin smile. “Don’t hold your breath.”

x

Wanda Blurbs

Angsty April ML

His eyes. Bright, red flames dancing in the dark. The same eyes that watch you from across the throne room while you clean. The same eyes that hover above you as he stuffed you full.

Zuko says nothing, just watches you as if he’s reading your sleep-addled brain.

You sit up, confusion and fear mixing in your chest. “Zuko?” Your voice is barely a whisper, as if saying his name out loud will make him disappear.

He doesn’t move at first, scanning the room like he’s making sure it’s safe to stay. His movements to you are slow, and when he kneels at your bedside, his knees hit the floor hard. He doesn’t wince.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice trembling, more fear than surprise in your tone.

Zuko’s gaze flickers toward the window, toward the distant mountains, and something in his eyes shifts; pain, guilt, and a whole lot of regret. “I’m being banished,” he says, the words almost flat, like he’s said them a thousand times in his head but never aloud to anyone else. “Again.”

You blink, your chest tightening. “Banished?” you repeat softly, almost disbelieving. “But… why? You’re the goddamn Firelord. They can’t just-“

He looks away, jaw tightening. “It’s not up to me. The Fire Nation has spoken. I’ve done too much… failed too many times. This is the price. It was a unanimous vote.”

You watch him closely, his words sinking in like stones in your stomach. His shoulders are slumped, the fire in his eyes dimmer than you’ve ever seen it. You want to ask him how long he’s known this was coming, how long he’s been carrying this on his own, but the words feel too heavy, too final.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, your voice breaking slightly, a lump forming in your throat. “I wish I could help.”

His eyes meet yours, his hand trembling slightly as it hovers near your fingers, like he’s unsure if he should touch you.

“I never wanted this,” he murmurs, the regret and sorrow so thick in his voice it nearly cracks. He raises his hand, his fingers brush against your cheek, a soft, fleeting touch. “I only wanted you.”

He stands, steps back slightly as if to put some distance between you. You lean forward, grasping the sleeve on his arm and you shake your head.

“You’ll come back,” You whisper. “You always do.”

“Will I?”

The knot in your throat is so large you find it hard to swallow, to speak, so you simply nod. His brows knit and he hinges at the waist, his movements slow before his lips gently brush the corner of your mouth in a kiss so light, so careful, that you almost don’t believe it happened at all.

The tenderness of it hits you harder than any words could and you freeze, your heart pounding, your breath hitching as you stare at him in shock. But Zuko doesn’t give you time to speak, doesn’t give you time to process.

“I’ll never forget you,” he says, his voice low and broken, like he’s saying goodbye to more than just you. “Take care of yourself.”

He turns away, his footsteps quiet but purposeful as he fades into the shadows, leaving you alone with the aching emptiness of his absence, a kiss still lingering on your skin, and a heart shattered by the one thing you couldn’t stop; loving him.

x

angsty April ML

You think you got it from her, your dislike of camping. Or maybe it was the clickers, or the fact that your mom couldn’t go camping anymore because she was buried in an unmarked grave only four months ago.

It was probably that.

The rain pelting down is hard. It smells of pine, sticky and earthy, and you tug your knees closer to your chest. Ellie doesn’t seem to register the rain, or the cold. Her nimble hands move over her gun as she cleans it with a dirty rag, her elbow brushing your sleeve occasionally. The water has soaked her head, her short hair sticking to the nape of her neck.

“Think it’ll let up soon?” Ellie asks, and you blink, realizing you were staring and she had caught you said staring.

“Ah, I dunno,” you whisper. “I hope so.”

Ellie hums lowly as she finishes up with cleaning her pistol. She sets it down on her lap, turning to look at you in the low light. The rain makes everything harder to see; the forest seems to stretch on forever.

She bumps her shoulder into yours. “You’re pretty quiet tonight.”

You shrug, licking the water from your top lip, and you wonder why you feel frazzled that she noticed. “Nothing to say I guess.”

Ellie glances at you sideways. “Heard about your mom.”

You look down, staring at your water stained shoes. You don’t want to talk about your mom, not with your scouting partner. Not with anyone.

“Yeah.” You say quietly, because it’s too fresh, too new, but you’re still annoyed when the tears prick your eyes.

Ellie hesitates for a split second, as though not sure what to do. She shifts a little, opening her mouth like she’s about to speak, but she says nothing.

Instead, her hand comes down on yours, and she gives it a gentle squeeze. Her touch is warm, surprisingly so.

She doesn’t say a word, doesn’t offer you any empty promises. She just offers her silent support, sitting beside you in silence as the world seems to slow down in the pouring rain. Your brows tighten, bottom lip trembling and you slip it between your teeth. With slow movements you turn your hand, flexing your fingers as hers slide between yours, intertwining.

Ellie seems to relax a little, her shoulders dropping and her body slumping back against the tree trunk. Her thumb rubs soft, gentle circles on the back of your hand, her fingertips brushing your skin.

“Sometimes I think it’s not worth it,” you say softly. “surviving. or trying to.”

The rain continues to fall heavily around you, drumming a steady beat against the leaves above your heads. You can just make out the outline of her face in the darkness, the pale skin and the sharp line of her jaw, the freckles that smatter across her nose.

“I get that,” she says after a moment. “Can’t lie I sometimes think that too.”

You exhale softly through your nose, the scent of pine clinging to your nostrils.

You fall silent after that, both of you just listening to the rain. Her touch is the only thing preventing you from feeling completely numb, the weight of your grief and the world crashing down like the heavy rain around you.

Eventually, she speaks again. Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper.

“I'm sorry though, about your mom.” she says, and you know that her words are genuine. You nod, squeezing your eyes shut. It's not enough, not nearly enough, but it's all she can give, and you’re more than willing to take it.

“Thank you.” You whisper, your throat thick and your eyes stinging. She shuffles closer, her back leaning against the trunk of the tree, and you move back, laying your head on her shoulder.

Ellie tenses for a split second at the contact, but she relaxes quickly. She shifts a little so that you're more comfortable, her arm coming up and circling your shoulders.

Her body is warm and solid against yours, and you can feel the steady rise and fall of her chest each time she breathes. She says nothing, just lets you lean against her, a silent support.

You close your eyes, taking in a deep breath, ignoring the way the pine clings to your nose, and instead focus on her scent. You press your nose to her collar, and her cheek lays lightly atop your hair.

You inhale, and Ellie smells like peaches. A droplet of water runs down your temple, and a smile pulls at your mouth.

x

Ellie W Blurb list

Tommy’s hands are on your waist, the warmth of his skin seeping through the cotton of your flannel despite the winter cold. His thumb rubs a pattern that he probably thinks is soothing, grounding, but all it makes you think is how it’s the wrong rhyme, the wrong pressure.

You shake your head, blinking quickly. “No, I want to.”

He says your name softly, like he’s tired, like he knows you don’t actually want to kiss him. The thing is you do. Kind of. You just want this part, the part where you kiss someone else, to be over.

“I’m not my brother,” Tommy says and you’re surprised at how patient he sounds. “You know that, right?”

“I know.”

“Just because you broke up doesn’t mean he won’t come back, you don’t have to settle for me.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m not settling. I-I like you, Tommy.”

He doesn’t look convinced. Your mouth twists and you exhale through your nose. “I do. I’m just- nervous.”

At this his face cracks, a boyish grin not unlike the one you love displaying on his features. The siblings had incredibly similar facial expressions that it makes you a little winded as he speaks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you murmur, and one of your hands drifts up to his neck. “I do.”

And then, for the first time in your life, you kiss a boy who isn’t named Joel Miller.

x

Angsty April masterlist

Joel Miller blurbs

Tommy miller blurbs

The shift had run late, and you may or may not have taken the longer route to get home. You weren’t in a rush to get back to your husband.

You had expected to come to a messy apartment, his beer bottles piled up. Maybe he’d be asleep on the couch, or in a rage the moment you passed the threshold. You hadn’t expected the broken glass and the blood, and you certainly hadn’t expected your neighbor to be standing in the middle of it, blonde hair soaked red.

He turns slowly, his boots squeaking in the blood and your fingers tighten around the carton of cigarettes.

“Tony,” you whisper, hoping you aren’t going to be sick. “What’re you doing?”

He looks perplexed for a moment, blonde brows furrowing but then he smiles, and you feel your veins thinning with fear under your skin.

“Tony, right,” he says, and shrugs a shoulder. “Forgot about that name change.”

“Name change?” You squeak, your eyes dropping to your husband. Your very dead husband.

“I’ve been trying it out,” he continues, like his shoes aren’t coated in blood, like he isn’t standing in your apartment. You still aren’t sure how he got in. “I thought Tony was better than Alfred.”

“So your name isn’t Tony.” You whisper, and what the fuck are you saying? You must be in shock. You have to be.

Not-Tony walks straight up to you, and sticks out his hand for you to shake but you step back, eyes widening.

“I’m Ben. Most call me Dex,” his smile turns a little sheepish. “You can call me Dex if you want.”

“What’re you doing in my house, Dex?” Your voice is so small you wonder if he heard you.

Dex motions to your husband, laying on his back with glazed eyes staring at the ceiling. “Oh. Right. Well I was doing you a favor.”

“A favor?”

“Your husband a cheater,” he explains. “And aside from that, I wasn’t a huge fan of how he hit you.” You pause, now completely thrown for a loop. Dex takes in your confused expression, his jaw twitching as he shakes his head. “The walls are thin. I could hear you. The yelling and-“

“So you killed him?” You cut in, hoping Dex hadn’t heard everything. Ever bicker, every fight. Every slap. You want it buried, gone. And it was. It had died with your husband.

Dex nods. “Yes. I did.”

You look from him to your husband and back again. “How did it feel?”

“To take his life?” Dex asks, and if he’s surprised by your question he doesn’t show it. “Good. Because he was a sack of shit.”

You laugh, unexpectedly and hollowly. The bruise on your ribs aches from the action. “That he was.”

Dex steps forward, and you consider stepping back, but he cocks his head and you pause.

“He needed to go.”

You nod. “Yes.”

Dex blinks slowly. “You wanted him to go.”

“Yes.” The truth is like battery acid on your tongue. You had wanted this, had prayed for this. For the pain to end and for him to experience just a little of what he had put you through, of what you had felt. The humiliation and fear to be put on him.

Dex reaches forward and with clumsy fingers grips your face between his thumb and middle finger. He turns your head to the left and then to the right, his eyes narrowing.

“You have it too,” he mutters. “That…need.”

“Need for what?”

He drops his hand. “For justice.”

Side stepping, Dex moves around you, walking past and out the front door. You don’t watch him leave, instead you wait for the click of the door, but it never comes.

“If you ever want to feel that again,” Dex murmurs, his voice smooth. “the rush of getting even, you know where to find me.”

The latch clicks and you release the breath you’d been holding. You glance at the closed door, at the half bloodied footprints he had left behind, and then your gaze finds its way back to the body.

It takes you nearly five hours to clean up the mess.

It takes you nearly six days to build up the courage to knock at Dex’s door.

You don’t know why you expected to be covered in blood like the last time you saw him, but when he opens the door and he’s clean it catches you off guard.

“Dex.”

“Howdy neighbor.”

He smiles and you can’t help but smile back. You’ve felt lighter than you have in years this past week. More at peace.

You had to file a missing persons report because others would notice your husband missing, but when the police came by you told them what you knew, which was basically nothing. They didn’t seem suspicious of you, cataloging you as a frail young wife, and you directed them back to his job. They had left without much fuss.

“The police came by.”

Dex raises a brow, his arms exposed in the skin tight wide beater he wears. He doesn’t speak, and you realize he’s waiting for you to continue. Your cheeks pinken.

“I filed a missing persons report.”

“Will he be found?” Dex asks, and you shift under his gaze.

“Don’t think so.”

“Will he be missed?”

You look up at him through your lashes, and he tilts his head before pushing open his door wider. You walk past, your shoulder brushing his chest and electricity bubbles under your skin.

“He won’t be missed,” you whisper, taking his immaculately tidy apartment before turning to look at him. “Not by me.”

Dex closes the door to the apartment, and the air shifts. You feel nervously euphoric, almost drunk at the way he’s looking at you, like you’re a goal he’s been working towards and finally obtained.

He takes a step forward.

You do the same.

“I’ve been thinking-“

He cuts you off with a look, those blue hazy eyes narrowing before he’s right in-front of you, backing you into the armrest of the couch. You sit on it, and he steps between your legs. One hand slides up your thigh, rough palm dragging your skirt higher, fingers brushing the damp fabric of your panties.

“I know. Too much thinking.” He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your underwear and raises a brow, waiting for you to nod. You bob your head quickly and he yanks them down, letting them pool at your ankles. Cool air hits your exposed slit, making you gasp, folds slick and puffy from the past few days of thinking of him.

He shimmies down his jeans to his knees, freeing his cock, thick and heavy, veins pulsing along the length. Your mouth waters, and you reach for him because it had been too long since you’d had Dex’s cock in your mouth, but he doesn’t let you fall to your knees. Instead, his spins you around, bending you on the armrest. He rubs his head along your slit and hums, his other hand braced on your hip.

“Been too long,” he mutters. “For me and for you, apparently, and yet you’re still so ready.”

He pushes in slowly, lets you acclimate. You sigh, fingers digging into the couch cushions, pushing back on him. Leaning up, you drag his head to yours, pressing your lips to his in a sloppy kiss, your skin heating at the fact that he tastes just like you remember.

The affair had started four months ago. A stolen moment between two neighbors who are more strangers than friends. You had smiled when you saw him, but the walls around you had been high—built to shield you from a home you couldn’t escape. One night, after the bruises on your ribs had been too dark to hide, you couldn’t pretend anymore. When Dex had seen the evidence, he had kissed you softly, tenderly, but the fire in his eyes had grown hotter.

“He doesn’t deserve you,” Dex had whispered, his voice sharp in the dead of night. His eyes had meet yours with a promise in them, one you hadn’t dared to hope. “I’ll take care of your little problem.”

And he had.

“That’s good,” he mutters as you slowly push and pull back against his length. “Real good.”

His hands grip your hips harder, pulling you back as he thrusts forward, bottoming out with a grunt. The fullness has your eyes rolling, your pussy clenching greedily around him before he sets a steady rhythm. His breath fans your ear, cheek pressed to your hair and you moan, knuckles white.

His free hand dipped between your legs, fingers finding your swollen clit, circling with rough precision. “C’mon, I gotcha.”

It hits you like a wave, the orgasm crashing as your pussy spasmes around his length, and his hand comes up to clamp over your mouth, muffling your sound.

Wouldn’t want the neighbors to hear, after all, the walls are incredibly thin.

“Mhm, that’s it,” he rasps, burying himself to the hilt one last time. You feel the spurts of hot cum flood you, painting your walls deep in only a way he knows how to reach. Dex holds you there, still buried, his cock soaked in you before he slowly withdraws.

You stand on shaky legs, leaning into his chest and his arm comes around to hold your middle. You exhale hard, turning your head to look at him and he kisses you, lips warm before the spread into a grin.

“You really sold me,” you whisper. “When I walked in on the scene.”

“Well I had to,” he replies, pulling up his jeans as you straighten your skirt. “In case anyone heard or-“

“Or I pussied out.” You interrupt and he rolls his eyes before pinching the flesh of your ass.

“No, not pussied out. I meant more…if you changed your mind.”

“I wouldn’t change my mind,” you murmur, and tilt your face, watching as his eyes drop to your mouth. “Not about this. Not about us.”

He grins, a slow lazy expression and cups the back of your neck, dragging you closer to him.

“He needed to go.” Dex whispers, breath fanning over your face. You shut your eyes as his lips ghosting across yours as you repeat his words.

“Yeah, Dex. He needed to go.”

x

Angsty April ML

It feels like a time capsule, frozen somewhere in the 1940s, with its mismatched furniture and vintage accents that never quite went out of style. The worn-out armchair in the corner, the old-fashioned lamp casting a soft glow, and the ticking of a clock on the wall all create a sense of quiet nostalgia. It’s not fancy, but there’s something incredibly Steve about it — simple, practical, and full of little details that feel like they’ve been left untouched by time. The faint smell of coffee always lingers in the air, and the radio sits on a side table, never turned off, always playing softly in the background, just like it always has.

The space smells like coffee and the faint antiseptic tang of rubbing alcohol. You’re sitting on the edge of Steve’s couch, your arm propped up on the rest, fingers shifting and you scold yourself, because why are you nervous? It’s him, and well…he’s your favorite.

Steve’s still adjusting to the new world, uncertain of his place in it. The things he’s seeing, the people, the technology, it all feels overwhelming. It’s been nearly two years since he came out of the ice, and you’ve been by his side the entire time. You’ve fallen head over heels for him, but you’re unsure if he feels the same. You can see it in his eyes, the way he looks at things as if they’re both familiar and foreign. There’s a gentleness in the way he moves, a hesitance, as if he’s afraid of being too much or too little. But the way he watches you, the small moments where his hand brushes yours or his gaze lingers, makes your heart race. You’ve never been sure if he feels the same, but with Steve, everything is nearly hidden, and yet somehow, it feels like you’ve already shared everything.

Recently, Steve has picked up tattooing as a hobby. What started as a distraction has turned into something he’s passionate about, and it’s become a part of his daily routine. You’ve watched him practice on fake skin ordered from Amazon, on the old furniture, even on his own ankles, hidden away, and is becoming surprisingly skilled with each attempt.

You’ve asked him a few times to tattoo you, but always hesitated to make it a serious request. Today, however, you find the courage. The idea hits you like a flash—an ‘SR’ tattoo, right on the inside of your wrist. You tell him it’s for your brother, a small tribute to someone close to you, but in reality, it’s for Steve. It’s his initials. You can’t bring yourself to tell him, not yet.

He looks at you, a bit hesitant. “You sure about this?” His voice is low, like he’s uncertain whether he’s ready for the responsibility of marking you permanently. Your unoccupied hand drums on the rim of your plastic coffee cup, a leftover from your shift.

“I’m sure,” you say, your heart beating faster than you care to admit. You trust him, and more than that, you need him to understand that you want to keep him close, even if it’s just through something small like this. “I trust you.”

Steve nods, moving to set up his tattoo station. You watch as he arranges the tools, his face focused and serious, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes, something a little shy. He’s not used to this—letting someone else trust him like this.

“Okay, let’s get started.” He gestures for you to sit up, your wrist outstretched. He’s been practicing a lot, and yet, the seriousness of the moment feels different now. As he prepares, you can see him taking a deep breath, as if this is a big step, not just for you, but for him too.

“I’ll be quick,” he says softly. You lie back, your pulse racing slightly, both from the closeness and the finality of what you’re asking him to do.

He places the needle gently on your skin, and you wince slightly, the feeling sharp but bearable. The tattoo machine hums quietly as he works, his touch surprisingly gentle as he traces the lines of the ‘SR’ on your wrist. It’s a simple design, but it means everything to you. You’re focused on the feeling of his hands on your skin, the quiet concentration on his face, and the way his brows furrow as he works.

“Doing okay?” Steve asks, his voice steady, though there’s a hint of concern.

“Yeah,” you whisper, your voice thick. “It’s perfect.”

Minutes pass, and Steve’s hand brushes against yours as he wipes away the excess ink. There’s an intimacy to the way he works, a tenderness that makes your chest ache. When he finishes, he gently applies some ointment and wraps your wrist in plastic, his fingers lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

“Done,” he says quietly, sitting back. “You want to see?”

You sit up, and he wipes his hands. The ‘SR’ is clean and sharp, just as you imagined, a tiny but permanent reminder of him. You swallow hard, trying to keep the smile from twisting too wide on your face.

“Steve…” you start, your voice trembling. “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He gives you a shy smile, his fingers brushing over the tattoo once more. “You’re welcome.” Then, with a soft laugh, he adds, “That wasn’t so bad, right?”

You grin back at him, your heart pounding and wether it’s from him or the coffee, you don’t want to address. “No. It’s not bad at all.”

Steve’s eyes soften, and for a moment, it feels like everything between you clicks into place. He clears his throat, pulling his hand back. “I have to ask…” He hesitates, looking down at the tattoo. “Is that for me?”

You look at him, caught in the sincerity of his gaze. You want to tell him, want to say the words you’ve been holding back for so long, but instead, you just take his hand in yours and squeeze it. He doesn’t need to know yet, not right now, but somehow, he already does.

“I’m not…upset about it, or anything,” he says quickly, glancing down at your hand again. “I kind of…like it. Seeing me on you.”

You feel your cheeks heat, warmth pricking your skin and you look down at the tattoo as well. It’s stark agaisnt your skin, the simple letters meaning more than they appear.

“It is,” you whisper, and though the words are simple, they feel like everything. Steve doesn’t say anything, but the look he gives you, soft and searching, and you feel closer to him than ever before.

Blinking a few times, he reaches out, his hand gently cupping the side of your face. The warmth of his touch sends a flutter through your chest, and you breathe out slowly through your nose, the tension in your body melting just a little bit.

“I-I don’t want to be too much for you,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. “I know you’ve been through so much already, and I don’t want to add any pressure on you. I just… I don’t know what to do with how I feel, Steve.”

He looks at you with those deep blue eyes, the ones that have seen so much, yet still seem to hold a kindness that makes your heart ache. “You’re not too much,” he says softly, his voice a little rough but steady. “You could never be too much for me.”

You inhale sharply, as if you’ve been holding your breath all this time, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself truly believe him.

Steve leans in then, his thumb brushing your cheek with the kind of care that makes you feel like the world could be quiet for a while, just for the two of you. He presses a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering there for a moment before his nose gently brushes against yours, a gesture so intimate that it makes your chest tighten in a way you can’t explain.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, his voice a low promise against your skin.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of his touch sink in, the warmth of his presence settling in your heart. “Good,” you whisper, your voice shaky but your chest full. “I’m glad.”

x

Angsty April ML

Steve Rogers blurbs

“Nah, this one’s from the front yard,” you reply, and gingerly you release the plant into the new pot, hoping its fruits will enjoy its new home. “ hopefully it’ll stick.” You stand, brushing off your soil-covered fingers on your jeans. “You hungry?”

The sun from the setting day casts a warm glow through the window, illuminating the specks of dirt on your face, your hands, and the floor beneath you. He doesn’t mind. It’s part of you, part of this life you’ve built together—this quiet, simple life.

“I could eat,” he says, pushing off from the door and walking toward you. His boots clack on the tile floor, the sound grounding you in the moment as he closes the distance. His rough hands, calloused from the farm, gently tug you into his arms. The heat from his skin, still sticky with sweat from the day’s work, feels comforting.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur, feeling the tension in his muscles as you run your fingers along his shoulders. “How was the field today?”

“Same as always,” he replies, but his voice has a hint of something else in it. A weariness, maybe, or the weight of another long day spent tilling the earth, feeding the animals, working hard for what you both cherish. “But it’s worth it, coming home to this.”

You smile up at him, brushing a strand of hair from his face, his dark, sweat-dampened locks sticking to his forehead. “You’re the hardest-working man I know,” you say, your voice filled with a quiet reverence for him and the life he’s chosen.

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Not as hard as you, garden queen,” he teases, and you can hear the affection in his words.

You both laugh softly, a shared, intimate sound that fills the space between you.

“Alright,” you say, stepping out of his embrace to grab a towel. “Let’s get dinner started. I think I’m in the mood for something simple tonight—maybe a stew?”

Bucky moves toward the kitchen, peeling off his muddy shirt and tossing it into the laundry basket. You watch him for a moment, taking in the way his muscles flex as he moves, the raw strength of him that makes your heart swell.

As you both fall into the rhythm of preparing dinner, chopping vegetables, stirring the pot, it feels easy. Quiet. No words are needed between you, just the soft sounds of the kitchen and the occasional hum of a song playing in the background. You move around one another with practiced ease, each movement comfortable, familiar. There’s a peacefulness in it that you treasure, a calm that comes with knowing you’ve found your person.

“Hey, Bucky?” you ask softly, handing him a bowl of chopped carrots.

“Yeah?” He looks over his shoulder, his blue eyes catching yours with that soft, tender gaze.

“I’m really happy,” you admit, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “I’m just really happy with this. With you. This life.”

Bucky's eyes linger on you for a few moments after you speak, his gaze filled with a deep affection. He sets the vegetables aside, turning fully to face you.

“I’m happy too.”

His voice is quiet, but there's a note of sincerity that makes your heart flutter. He takes a step closer to you, his hands finding your hips, pulling you gently to him. The smell of sweat and dirt hangs in the air, an earthy, natural scent that reminds you of the hard work he does on the farm.

“You know, sweetheart…” His thumb brushes away a smudge of soil from your cheek, the roughness of his skin a stark contrast to the softness of yours. “Sometimes I look at you,” he says quietly, his voice a soft rumble. “And I just... I can't believe we get to have this. This gift.”

His gaze drifts around the room, taking in the cozy kitchen with its worn-in furniture, the pot simmering on the stove, the plants you've dotted throughout the house.

You smile at the softness in his voice, feeling a warmth spread through you at the sincerity in his words. His gaze lingers on the life you’ve built together, and you can see how much it means to him.

“You make it so easy,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s all these little moments that make it so perfect.” You reach up, your hand cupping his rough cheek, feeling the slight stubble beneath your fingertips. “I never imagined life could feel this right… with you.”

Bucky leans in, his forehead brushing against yours, his eyes closing for a brief second as if savoring the moment. “I didn’t either.”

You can feel your heart swell with the simple truth of it all. The quiet moments, the subtle exchanges, they were everything you needed.

“Together, we’re building something perfect,” you whisper, your thumb tracing along his jaw, a quiet promise in your touch. “And I’m so grateful to be here, with you.”

His lips curve into a soft smile, his hand gently brushing through your hair as he pulls you in for a kiss, one that speaks louder than any words ever could. The kiss is slow, the kind that tastes like home. When he pulls back, his expression is so tender it makes your chest ache.

“Me too,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours again. His fingers trace idle patterns along your waist, calloused but impossibly gentle. “Every damn day.”

A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the bubbling of the stew on the stove and the distant chirp of crickets outside. After a moment, he presses another quick kiss to your lips before turning back to the counter with a small, content sigh. “Better finish this stew before we burn it,” he teases lightly, picking up the knife again.

You watch him for a second, the way his shoulders relax when he's happy, the quiet rhythm of his movements, before joining him, your side brushing against his as you reach for the spices.

“Oh god.” You whisper, your chest bubbling and Bucky looks at you, his brows raised.

“What?”

You smile, feeling breathless. “Nothing. I just- god I love you.”

He had been through so much. Too much. Sometimes when you think about it it makes you dizzy, knowing the pain he went through. The fear. But looking at him now, it makes your heart skip a beat.

Bucky smiles, full and bright, and when he reaches for you, he murmurs against your lips. “I love you too.”

x

Angst April masterlist

Bucky Barnes Blurbs

You didn’t really blame your boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. He wasn’t well versed in the act either, and you both had been eachothers first when you fell into his bed three years ago.

He had tried…you think.

As you stuff your cunt full with your fingers, you realize you’re just as bad at trying as he was.

It’s hopeless and your fingers ache from all the different speeds and angles you had tried and with an irritated groan, you shove of your blankets from around your waist and ready yourself for the day.

You’re still aching, or you think you are, still swollen in your underwear, and you have to hold back frustrated groans as you walk back and forth, carrying the disease-ridden corpses to the large fire in the middle of the square.

When you break for lunch, you’re sweaty, pent and beyond irritated. Picking at your lunch tray, you press your chin into your palm, trying to ignore the way the brush of your denim sends jolts down your spine.

“All day.”

You pause, the unfamiliar voice catching you off guard and you look up, squinting in the summer sunlight at the figure that stands across the wooden table.

Joel is easily recognizable. You can’t say you know him but you know of him, a prominent worker and figure in the QZ. He’s broad, the fabric of his shirt spreading over his shoulders tight, the line of his mouth pressed even tighter.

“Huh?” You say after a moment when he doesn’t reply, just stares at you. Joel’s frown deepens.

“You got dumped,” he states, and you can see his fingers flex within his pockets. “What, nearly three weeks ago?”

“A-a month,” you whisper, bewildered as to why he’s talking to you and how he even knows that. “Why?”

“A month.” Joel hums, and sits down across from you. Beneath the wood, his knee brushes yours and you jolt, fingers tightening around your fork, and he pauses before templing his hands infront of his face.

“What?” You snap after several long seconds of silence, and Joel blinks, slow and contemplative.

“I have a good nose,” he says, dropping his hands. “Always have. And I’ve been smelling you all day.”

Your cheeks heat, and you subtly dip your nose to your arm. Joel laughs, the sound gravely and odd coming from a man like him. “I don’t mean like that.”

“What?” You say again and you feel stupid. Joel leans forward, a hand braced on the table as his eyes move up and down your frame.

“That stickiness between your thighs,” he murmurs, his voice now low so only you hear. “Been smellin’ it all day, darling. Guess you haven’t been properly fucked in a month.”

His words send you realing, your heart lodging into your throat and any type of response is lost to you. You stare at him, and he stares back, his jaw working as he drinks you in.

A smile spreads across his skin.

“Or maybe you haven’t been properly fucked, ever.”

You can feel the embarrassment crawl up your neck and you release your fork, folding your arms and shifting. You have to school your features not to display the buzz that jolts between your legs.

From his tan skin and seasoned eyes, you know Joel could, in his words, ‘properly fuck’. You aren’t sure why but you know this is a fact, you know his woman rarely leaves the bed unsatisfied and you’re suddenly too warm, too swollen under his gaze.

He raises an eyebrow. “Guess I’m right.”

“Could you do better?”

You aren’t sure where the boldness came from. You just know that you need to know the answer.

Joel doesn’t respond right away, but there’s a shimmer in his eyes as he rises to the bait. “Would you like to find out?”

You don’t give yourself a chance to think about your answer, about the consequences it could invoke. You nod, a singular movement of your head. He tilts his head, a small grin pulling at the corner of his mouth and your skin is practically buzzing.

“Mine or yours?” You ask, if not just to make the silence not so thick.

His grin grows wider, a lazy expression that has your blood heating. “Yours. I’ll be there around eight.”

Joel stands up just as easy as he sat down, and when he tosses you a wink, your thighs clench.

-

True to his word, Joel is in your bedroom, his head tilted and hands in his pocket as he stares at you at 8:03.

You’re dressed in cotton shorts and a buttoned up flannel, and despite the night air, you’re sweating. He stares at you like you’re already bare, already naked for him, and you shift uncontrollably under his gaze.

“Honey,” Joel says and it’s the softest he’s ever spoken. “You don’t have to do this.”

You shake your head. “No I- want to. I just- um. Don’t know a lot.”

Joel exhales through his nose, slow and measured, like he’s fighting the urge to roll his eyes—but not at you. At himself. “Yeah, I figured,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. Then his voice drops lower, rough but careful. “We don't have to do shit you don't want.”

His hands stay in his pockets as he takes a step closer. He moves like it’s nothing, like this isn’t making your heart thud so loud you're sure he can hear it.

“Tell me what you know.” he says instead of touching you right away. His voice is gravel under boots, quiet but impossible to ignore.

You swallow hard against the dryness in your throat before answering: “...Not much.” It's honest if nothing else.

Joel hums again like this isn’t news either before nodding toward the bed behind him with a jerk of his chin, sit down. When your legs carry you there on autopilot, wooden steps until fabric meets bare thighs, Joel drags one knee onto the mattress beside yours and pauses just long enough for nerves or anticipation, you can't tell which, to coil tight in your gut.

“First rule.” His fingers catch under your jaw without warning,not hard enough to hurt but firm enough that flinching doesn’t free it from him either when warmth floods up beneath skin where callouses scrape against softness there instead; thumb pressing gently along pulse point beneath ear while dark eyes hold yours prisoner just as easily. “Don't lie about what feels good.”

The words settle heavy between breaths drawn too quick already because Christ alive even this simple touch burns hotter than anything else has ever had.

Exhaling through his nose, Joel raises his hand to your face, fingers brushing your lower jaw before settling onto your neck. He’s warm, the callouses on his hand rough on your skin as he angles your face to the side, eyes tracking up the column of your throat.

“Breathe.” he commands, and he dips his face, his nose brushing your neck. You shiver, your spine ramrod straight.

“I am.” Your voice is a squeak of a whisper, and you think you can feel him smile against your skin.

Joel hums, amused, like he knows you’re lying. His breath is warm against your neck as his thumb presses a little harder into your pulse point, making your breath hitch again.

“No, you ain’t.” He murmurs the words right against your skin before pulling back just enough to catch your eye again. His gaze is dark, unreadable except for the faintest glint of something that makes heat pool low in your stomach. “You’re holdin’ it all in like someone’s gonna hear.” His other hand comes up and drags a single fingertip down the side of your throat until it rests over the hollow at its base. “Breathe,” he repeats softly before adding with just enough roughness to make you tremble: “Or I'll make ya.”

And God help you if that doesn't send another jolt straight through you. You exhale fully, breathing out your mouth and he runs his thumb along your jaw in quiet praise.

“Aint gonna rush,” he mutters, and his teeth graze your skin. “Unless that’s what you like.”

“I don’t know what I like,” you whisper, and you feel the shame of inexperience coloring your cheeks. “Not really.”

Joel pauses at that, pulling back just enough to study your face. His fingers stay where they are—anchoring, rough in a way that shouldn’t be soothing but somehow is.

“Then we figure it out,” he says simply, like it’s that easy. Like he hasn’t just taken the weight of your uncertainty and shouldered it without blinking. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, testing, before his voice drops lower: “You tell me to stop anytime.”

The way he says it isn't a request or even really an order; more like a fact carved into stone between you both.

He waits until you nod before sliding his hand from your jaw to the back of your neck instead, firm but not unkind as he guides you forward into a first real kiss shared between basically strangers.

Joel tastes like coffee, his lips a little chapped but softer than you would’ve thought. He cradles your face, almost tenderly, and you open your jaw, licking at his tongue as he licks at yours and you feel the heat pooling in your belly, the need rising like a palpable thing on your skin. When he pulls back, his eyes are glassy and he stares at you. You blink back, uncertainty like an electric charge over you.

“I- sorry,” you whisper. “Was that bad?”

The edges of his lips kick up as he lets out a huff of a laugh, not unkindly. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, staring at you for a long moment, something in his eyes you can't quite decipher—then he shakes his head, a smile still playing at the corner of his mouth. “You ain't got no idea just how pretty you look like this, do you?”

He runs his hand through your hair before cupping the side of your face again. “Don't go apologizing for nothing just yet.”

His hands move to your shoulders and he pushes you down until you’re on your back, skirting over your hips and squeezing. You watch him quietly, chewing at your lip as his thumb brushes the skin of your lower stomach.

Your breath hitches, and his eyes flick to yours.

He’s really handsome. Like you just realized that fact.

Joel’s palm slides under the fabric of your flannel, cupping your ribs just below your breast and you exhale with a shaky breath. He removes his hand, fingers dipping to the buttons of your shirt.

Joel works the buttons open with a kind of easy efficiency that you can only get with practice, and it hits you that this is something he probably *is* practiced in—that your inexperience isn't going to make him shy away. His eyes roam over you hungrily, like he's studying every inch of skin he reveals. He's silent, too. Silent and focused. His fingers work with single-minded precision, until your shirt hangs open and he slides his palms up your belly, warm and firm. His hands are rough and big—callouses scraping softly against your skin as he spreads them flat against your ribs.

He lets out a low whistle at your naked chest, and you hope you aren’t blushing.

“Knew you’d be pretty.” he murmurs, and you are barely able to digest his words before his head dips and he takes a nipple into his mouth.

His lips are soft as the suckle, releasing with a light pop before his tongue licks slow strips on the skin. You gasp, hands gripping the sheets by your sides and his eyes track the movement. He pauses before shaking his head.

“Nuh uh,” he hums, and grabs your hands, moving them to his hair. “Hold here.”

“Oh.” You whisper, because words are hard to gather when he kisses and licks your skin like that.

You grip his hair without being told twice, fingers tangling in the strands. Joel hums against your skin, his hands moving lower as he trails kisses down to your belly button. He circles it with his tongue, his fingers playing lightly across the soft expanse of skin at the edge of your shorts, before his gaze flicks to yours again: “Lift your hips.”

His voice is a little rougher this time, his dark eyes darkening even further as you do exactly as you're told.

Joel removes your shorts and panties in one clean tug, and you’re naked beneath him while he’s still fully dressed. “This doesn’t seem fair.”

He glances down at himself, a smile on his lips as he sits up and tugs off his shirt. You sit up, and are nearly on autopilot as you run a hand down his bare chest.

He’s tanned and scarred but beautiful.

Warm to the touch, there’s a healed cut from his shoulder to the top of his peck, and you run your fingers over it lightly. You’re so enthralled with touching him that you forget you’re bare, forget that he’s watching you and that he’s only the second person in your life to see you naked.

Joel's eyes follow your touch, an almost indulgent gleam in them as he watches you trace the map of his skin, tracing every mark and scar without judgement, only curiosity. He doesn't say anything, doesn't tease you like a man with his ego might, he just lets you look. Lets you touch.

But when your fingers brush the waistband of his jeans, his hand catches your wrist, stopping you. The gesture is gentle but firm, and he tilts his head to meet your gaze, his voice even but lower than before: “Not yet.”

“Oh,” you breath, feeling exposed under his gaze. “Okay.”

You lay back down, your eyes never leaving his and Joel releases a slow breath. One hand on either of your knees, he slowly separates your legs, exposing your center to the night air.

You flush red hot, arms instinctively coming up to hide some part of yourself, and his mouth quirks.

“Don't,” he says simply, and it's hard to argue with that gravelly voice of his when it dips into an order you find yourself wanting to follow. His hands tighten on your knees, just enough to keep your legs where they are. His eyes are fixed on you, watching every nuance in your expression. “Don't cover yourself.”

You let your head fall back, staring at the ceiling above as your chest rises and falls too quickly. Your heart is beating so fast you're sure he can see it through your skin.

His left hand skates down your inner thigh, pausing before his eyes flick to yours and you break.

“Joel?”

“Hm?”

“Talk to me.”

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest as his fingers trace idle patterns on your thigh—close enough to where you want him that it’s maddening, but not close enough yet.

“Talk to you?” His thumb brushes higher, teasing along the crease of your leg before dipping just barely inward, not quite touching where you need him, but close enough to make your breath hitch. “What d'you wanna hear? That you're goddamn pretty laid out like this? That I've been thinkin' about how you'd sound when I finally got my mouth on ya?”

His other hand slides up to grip your hip as he leans down slightly, still watching you.

“Or,” he murmurs against the inside of your knee before nipping lightly there and making heat spike straight through already-overheated skin below. “How bad I want ya shaking before we're done.”

A moan slips past your lips, quiet and shaken and you squeeze your eyes shut. You barely knew him, and yet he was face first in your most intimate place. You want to please him. You want him to want you.

“Is it good?”

Joel exhales against your skin, warm, damp, so close to where you need him, before answering in a voice rough enough to drag shivers down your spine: “Fuckin' perfect.”

His thumb presses firm just below where you ache most before dragging upward in one slow stroke that makes your hips jerk off the mattress. He clicks his tongue at the movement but doesn’t scold, just tightens his grip on your thigh with a low, “Easy.”

He leans down and licks a slow stripe up through slick heat like he’s savoring it. His groan vibrates straight into you as he does it again, slower this time before pausing to murmur against trembling skin: “Yeah. You taste good too. Think you don’t?”

You’re panting, and you look down at him between your thighs. His pupils are blown and he’s so handsome you wonder how you never noticed before.

“I-“ you swallow, not sure if you should share this because it’s too emotional. Joel is here for your body, not your feelings. You squeeze your eyes shut. “N-nothing.”

His attention flicks back up to your face, sharp and focused in a way that makes the air feel too heavy to breathe. “Bullshit,” He says flatly. “Look at me.”

You open your eyes, and Joel is staring at you, gaze steady and dark. He's watching you with a kind of intensity you can't remember a man ever giving you before. “You were about to say something.” His voice is even, but there's an edge to it now, a command. “Say it.”

He's got you spread wide open on the bed, knees pushed apart, completely exposed for his hungry gaze.

“He wouldn’t say things like that,” you whisper, and you hate having this conversation while his tongue is inches from your cunt. “He talked but not, not like you.”

Joel stills completely for a heartbeat before exhaling sharply through his nose. His grip on your thigh tightens just enough to make you aware of the strength in those calloused hands before he deliberately relaxes it again.

“What’d he say?”

Your cheeks burn and you exhale, rushing the words out. “wasn’t good enough. I was never good enough at things like this,” You don’t look at him, letting your head fall back and your thighs shake in his hold. “but you’re nothing like that.”

“Good.” The word is rough, almost guttural as he leans back in without breaking eye contact. “Ain't him here right now.” His mouth brushes against overheated skin, making your breath catch all over again before adding with a low hum. “And I ain't ever gonna half-ass this for ya.”

Then he does what his words promise, shuts you up thoroughly by dragging his tongue through slick heat slow enough that you feel every damn second of it, pausing only to murmur against wet flesh when your hips jerk helplessly upward: “Yeah... there ya go.”

Joel doesn’t rush to get you off. Hes slow, taking his sweet, filthy time with long, deliberate licks that catch every nerve ending.

You squirm beneath him, your lips parted and eyes tight as his large arm drapes over your waist, pinning you in place. Chin lifting he stares at your puffy slit, fingers spreading you open so he can see just how needy you are.

“Look at ya,” he murmurs, a southern drawl rearing its head. “Absolutely good enough.”

He plants a closed-mouthed kiss to your cunt before working up your frame, his beard scraping your chest and chin before his lips slide over yours. You can taste yourself on his tongue.

His hand cups your jaw as he deepens the kiss, his other sliding down between your bodies. His fingers are rough as they trace your folds again—testing, teasing, before circling tight over where you need him most.

“Joel…” Your voice cracks on his name when he rubs slow circles just right, pressure toeing the line between not enough and too much. Slow, lazy strokes. No rhythm that would finish you, just selfish enjoyment of how your body responds to his touch. He swallows every sound you make like it's something special.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs against your lips—but his fingers don't stop moving. “Use them pretty words.”

Your head is fuzzy.

You blink, try to string words together in a coherent fashion. “Inside.”

“Inside?” He hums, withdrawing his fingers and pressing his hips to yours. He’s hard in his pants, and you give a broken echo of a moan at the pressure before you nod.

Joel exhales sharply at the nod, something hot and primal flashing in his eyes as he leans back just enough to yank open his belt buckle with one hand, teeth gritted. The sound of leather sliding free is loud in the quiet room.

“Yeah,” he rumbles, eyes dropping when denim finally gives way, shoving fabric down just enough to free himself without breaking contact for longer than absolutely necessary before pressing close again: “Inside where, sweetheart?”

His palm drags up your thigh possessively while calloused fingers tip your chin up, forcing you to meet that dark stare even as heat floods deeper between already-slick thighs below from sheer tone alone. No room left for doubt now about what exactly kind of man has crawled into bed with you.

“Say it.”

“Me,” you whisper, and he grips his length, the head red in his fist. “Inside me.”

Joel groans, a ragged, gravelly sound that makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck, He's watching you like he's ready to eat you—will eat you, if he has his way—and the thought makes your skin tingle in all the best ways, and all the worst.

He adjusts positions, hand moving from your jaw to your neck, calloused thumb brushing over your throat as he leans down over you, lips just a breath away from yours.

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he murmurs, shifting closer until you can feel the heat of his skin against your inner thighs. “That what you want? Wanna feel me in you?”

The blunt head of his cock brushes over your clit and you jolt, mouth falling open and then he’s pushing in, your walls cradling him like a vice.

You choke on a gasp, feeling a stretch you hadn’t felt in weeks. It’s different than with your ex, and you feel warmer, tighter, brighter as Joel begins to move his hips. A hand braces by your head while the other paws at your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers.

You have to look away, the intensity of his gaze, the look in his eyes—it's like he's trying to memorize every detail of how you look in that moment, searing the image into his mind—and it's like he's reaching right into your chest to grasp at something in you—the words escape against your will, “God, why are you so…?”

The hand at your breast moves to your chin, guiding it back to him, making you look at him. “No, don't hide from me.”

You scrunch up your nose because you don’t know him. He’s a neighbor, a passerby, a fellow survival. Someone you’d never considered all that deeply til now. Now he’s all you can feel; all you can want.

He kisses you and you close your eyes, bathing in the touch of his affections, your legs wrapping around his waist.

His mouth moves and he kisses and licks and bites everywhere he can reach, like he's trying to consume you through skin instead of food, desperate to get every scrap of everything he can from this. His hand slides down your body and you can feel callouses, rough and warm everywhere he touches. He pushes your leg higher, changing his angle so he can get deeper.

The kiss is more teeth than tongue, but you don't mind. It's everything you want, everything you didn’t know sex could be.

Theres a heat at the base of your spine, and your thigh twitches, your nails scraping lightly down his chest and he lowers himself, balancing on his elbow so he’s closer.

“Come on, sweet girl,” he murmurs into your hairline. “I know you’re close.”

You're shaking, hips twitching, begging in silence, but Joel just hums and keeps kissing you, completely lost in the filthy bliss of touching, stretching, and causation of making you this wet. This needy.

He's all coiled-up muscle, a coiled-up beast of a man, and you can feel how much he's trying to restrain himself, to not let it go too fast.

He nips and nibbles at your jaw and your throat, and his body is all heat and friction and power and weight, pressing you into the mattress. His hand finds its way back to your breast, his hand fitting over the curve of it as if it's made to be there and you snap.

Your legs tighten and back arches as waves and waves of pleasure explode over your skin. You’ve never felt an orgasm like this, not with your ex and certainly not with yourself. Water pricks at your eyes and you moan, loud and deep and Joel murmurs into your ear, praising you quietly as he fucks you though it.

Joel is murmuring things that barely register through your haze, telling you you're ‘so good’ and ‘so pretty’ and ‘can take it like such a good girl’, and you can feel yourself getting overwhelmed again, getting lost in him in a way you don't quite understand.

He kisses you again, and you can feel the change in his movements—from gentle to taking, his breath coming out a ragged rasp against your mouth, and you can't think about anything besides him, all his weight pressing on you, all you can feel is you’ve never felt this good.

“Thought I’d last longer, sweetheart,” Joel murmurs, and his thrusts become ragged. “Didn’t know you’d be so damn sweet.”

He groans, and your lashes flutter as you crane your neck, nipping at his lower lip. Pressing his face into your neck and braving one hand by your head, Joel pulls from you, his opposite hand fisting his cock until his spend shoots on your thigh.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is your mingled breathing—heavy and uneven. Joel exhales roughly against your skin before lifting his head to look at you. His dark eyes are still glazed over, but there's something soft in them now too.

“Alright?” He murmurs as he drags a thumb through the mess on your thigh, almost absently, like he can't help touching you even now.

You nod dumbly because words still feel impossible when he's looking at you like that. Like he’s seeing something more than just skin-deep.

Joel hums approvingly before shifting off of you, but instead of getting up or rolling away completely, his arm tugs you into him until your back is pressed against his chest. His fingers trace idle patterns over the bare skin of your hip like this is normal—like falling asleep tangled together after sex isn’t entirely new territory for both of you.

It’s quiet for a beat, and your heart begins to slow, your temperature returning to normal as understanding begins to dawn on you.

You had just fucked an essential stranger.

And it had been the best sex of your life.

You squirm, his arm warm around you and Joel grunts. “What?”

“Nothing,” you whisper, too quickly, and you feel him pause. “I just- that was-“

Joel makes a low sound in his throat as his nose brushes behind your ear. “Good, huh?”

There's a smugness in his voice beneath a rough, rumbling quality. You can feel his chest rumble with what might be a silent laugh as you squirm, and his hand tightens on your hip.

“yes.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder as he says, “Just 'good’?”

It had been amazing.

“No, not just good,” you murmur, and you turn in his arms to face him. “But I think you know that.”

Joel grins, the expression stretching lazily over his features. You smile back before sitting up and tugging your flannel over your arms, button the first few to give yourself a little bit of decency.

“And…me?” You keep your tone quiet and your eyes down lest his disappointment be evident on his face.

Joel watches your fingers fumble with the buttons before catching your wrist, a grounding weight. His thumb strokes over your pulse point absently as he studies you.

“Better'n good,” he says simply, like that's all there is to it. But then his voice drops lower, rougher: “Didn't expect you to feel like that either.”

It's not flowery praise or sweet nothings—just honesty that lands somewhere deep in your chest anyway because Joel Miller doesn't seem like the kind of man who lies about things like this. His hand releases yours only to push back into his own hair with a tired sigh before falling back against the pillows behind him—but when you shift uncertainly beside him, half-wondering if this is where polite strangers say their goodbyes, one arm snakes out and drags you firmly against his side again without ceremony.

“Stay put,” he mutters into the dark. “Christ.”

You laugh lightly, and lay your cheek atop his shoulder. “You don’t um, have to stay. If you don’t want to. You don’t..owe me anything.”

Joel snorts, the sound rough with amusement, or maybe just exhaustion, as his arm tightens around you. “Ain't about owing.”

He shifts slightly beneath you, his free hand coming up to brush a thumb over your cheek in what might be an absent gesture if it weren’t so deliberate.

“I’ll stay," he mutters, quieter this time. Like it's that simple for him too.

Maybe it is.

The room settles into something quiet, the kind of silence that doesn’t demand filling as Joel’s breathing evens out next to you, warm against the back of your neck while calloused fingers trace idle shapes over the fabric of your flannel where it rides up at the waist.

Your eyelids grow heavy, and before you begin to drift, you feel his lips press a kiss to the slope of your neck, and you bite back a smile as you close your eyes.

x

Angsty April ML

Joel Miller ML

She closes her eyes, and for a fleeting moment, she’s back with him. She can almost feel the warmth of his hand, tenderly caressing her cheek, his cool fingers brushing against her skin as if grounding her to the present. His eyes—those deep, intelligent eyes—would always soften when he looked at her. “I love you,” he had whispered once, in that quiet, peaceful way he did, as though no one else existed in that moment but them. The memory lingers like a sweet, aching melody in her mind.

The ache in her chest intensifies with every thought of him, of the love they shared, so pure and undeniable. How many times had she leaned into his touch, how many nights had she fallen asleep in his arms, safe in the knowledge that he was by her side? The tears threaten, but she fights them back. She had once believed that no distance could sever what they had, but here she is, alone, floating through the universe, searching for a glimpse of him in the stars.

She opens her eyes and stares into the endless dark, wishing, hoping, believing. She imagines him out there, somewhere, his steady gaze watching over her even now. With every light in the sky, she whispers into the void, hoping her words will reach him. “I’ll find you, Vision. I won’t stop until I do.”

X

Angsty April ML

Wanda Blurbs ML

When he offers you a ride home, a quiet voice inside you warns against it, but exhaustion and the isolation of the city streets pull you toward him. There’s something about the warmth of his car, the low rumble of the engine, that feels safer than the cold night air.

You thank him, your voice hesitant, unsure how many times you’ve said the words since you climbed into the passenger seat. Each ‘thank you’ feels hollow, but it’s all you can manage. Frank doesn’t reply, his expression unreadable, only acknowledging your gratitude with a brief, silent nod.

You’ve seen him once or twice around the prescient, before the murders. Before he lost everything.

He’s different now, you can tell even though you’re a stranger. He’s tauter, sharper. Devastated.

The ride to your apartment is quiet, filled with a tension that neither of you dares to break. You give him directions, your words stilted, trying to keep the silence from overwhelming you.

When he pulls up outside your building, you feel a sudden rush of gratitude mixed with reluctance. You’re about to open the door when Frank’s deep voice stops you.

“I’m gonna be blunt,” he says, his tone direct, unwavering. “You’re… well, you’re a sight. Too pretty to be on your own like this. So I’m telling you to get a gun.”

The words catch you off guard. You blink, unsure of what to say, your heart skipping in a strange rhythm. “I have no one to teach me to shoot.”

He doesn’t hesitate, his gaze unwavering as he reaches across, turning your palm upward with a deliberate gentleness. His fingers trace over your skin, and with a fluid motion, he writes his number inside your hand. “I will.”

You stare at the number as you walk inside, feeling the heat of his touch still burning through your palm, your chest tightening before you close your fingers, the blunts of your nails digging into where his hands had touched.

x

Frank castle blurbs masterlist