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small drabble inspired by this confession taken from @nastyakotsk, who kindly allowed me to take inspiration from it. Confessions are intimate and one-off by nature, so this is not a prompt fill just a respectful reinterpretation !!!!!! full credit to the original anon. enjoy!!!
The road from The Reach to the Stormlands was mostly going in a straight line to the east, since Ashford and Storm’s End were practically at the same level. Or at least that is what the map that Lyonel shows you says.
Tourneys were something he loved, and for whatever reason, you did too. And after all the events that went down on it, you were grateful to have him breathing and by your side.
"My sweet girl can't let me go away one second" he’d say to anyone around.
That meant you were clingy, and needy, demanding to be by his side at all times. More so after the events of the third day of tourney, and those slain in combat. So, it was not strange that when your two were in the wheelhouse, you undid his breeches quietly and decided to ride him. His cock was half hard, but after a few strokes with your hand (after he chuckled because of your neediness) Lyonel was hard, and you wasted no time to sit down on his dick.
“My muscles are all sore” he grumbles, yet he’s not unkind. There is still that amused, almost saccharine tone to his words. “I feel like i am still drunk”
“Then i’ll ride you” you say simply.
Lyonel squeezes your hips, as you let out a sigh, your cunt fluttering around his cock. You craved him more than usual, holding onto the relief he was here with you. As you move your hips upwards, feeling the delicious drag of his cock slipping almost all the way out, he stops you.
“Nay” He simply says “You have been glued to m’side. Fussing around as if i was a babe”
He doesn’t actually sound annoyed, but he leaves to disapproving pats to the flesh on your hip.
“I was worried because of the trial-” You try to remind him.
“None of that. you’ll stay still with that pretty mouth of yours shut.” He says, patting the side of your ass. “And stay all the way to Strom’s End put in your place.”
You whine, trying to get your way out of this. The rocking of the carriage as the horses gallop in he way, or when small rocks get in the way that made you jump unintentionally, made you more needy.
“Just warm up my cock, aye? When we get home, I’ll fuck you proper.” He says, moving to press a loud smooch to your cheek, as his cock is nestled deep inside you. “I bet it feels so good to have my cock inside you, rubbing your pussy like that. You were eager for this, weren't you?"
It is going to be a long ride until you reach what you desire.
Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, Emotional Infidelity, Past Infidelity, Canon-Typical Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Angst, Smut, Age Difference, Masturbation, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Minor Character Death, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Abuse
Summary
Lady Dorea Martens and Lyonel Baratheon, the Laughing Storm, have known one another since their youth. She was younger—charming, fiercely independent, sharp-witted, and beautiful. He was drawn to her warmth, her honesty, and the restless spark she carried within herself at all times. Despite his best intentions, Lyonel fell in love with her—and she with him.
There was only one problem: Lyonel was already married.
At the time their feelings took root, Dorea served Lady Elia Baratheon as a lady-in-waiting. To spare them both, Lyonel sent Dorea away to Horn Hill to wed Ser Harlan Tarly, a nobleman of the Reach. She became his wife and bore him two healthy children—Edwyn and Bryanna. Though Harlan was once kind and gentle, over the years he grew distant, spending his days drinking, gambling, and whoring, leaving Dorea increasingly alone.
Six years later, at the Tourney of Ashford, Lady Dorea Tarly accompanies her husband—only to learn that the recently widowed Lyonel Baratheon intends to strike Harlan down in the lists, and in doing so, set her free.
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Synopsis: On the eve of the tourney, you slip away from the festivities for a quiet bath—only for Lyonel to find you, turn tenderness into mischief, and quite literally join you, fur, helm, and all.
Warnings: Nudity, involvement of Lyonel being a slight exhibitionist.
Pairings: Lyonel Baratheon / wife! reader
Authors note: This was well received in the first part— so I decided to do a second! Also I will be posting a story involving Cutler Beckett so be on the lookout for that! And again, thank you all for the amazing comments and likes, it really does make me feel better about my writing, im glad so many of you enjoy my rants.
Part one can be found here!
The Baratheon tent rang with noise.
Laughter crashed against the canvas walls like surf against stone, tankards thudding down on tables, voices overlapping in good-natured argument. Smoke from roasting meat curled upward, mingling with the scent of ale and rain-damp wool. Someone was already to some random off-key limerick wit) women and swords.
You sat beside Lyonel long enough to be seen—long enough to smile politely, to accept greetings, to endure three separate toasts made in his honor before the tourney had even begun.
….Then Dunk arrived.
Ser Duncan the Tall barely fit beneath the tent’s ridgepole, his broad shoulders ducking automatically as he entered. Lyonel’s face lit at once.
“There you are, sir Knight!” he boomed, already on his feet. “Come, come, you great oaf—drink with me!”
One cup turned into two, which turned into Lyonel forcing Dunk up by the wrist as the musicians struck up something fast and entirely unsuited for grace.
You slipped away then, unnoticed in the chaos. One of your ladies caught your eye and nodded—everything was ready.
The bath tent was quieter, warmer. Steam curled lazily toward the low ceiling, copper tubs gleaming in candlelight. Your helping ladies moved efficiently, murmuring to one another as they poured heated water and added oils that scented the air with crushed berries and herbs.
Once you were settled, they withdrew, leaving you alone with a goblet of sweet wine and a new book—fresh leather, pages still stiff beneath your fingers.
For a blissful while, there was only the soft lap of water against the tub and the low hum of distant revelry. You sipped, read a line twice without realizing, felt the day finally begin to loosen its hold on you.
Then—
The tent flap burst open.
“Ahhh! There you are.”
You startled, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the goblet as Lyonel Baratheon filled the doorway. His hair was already loosened, tunic unlaced at the throat, a fur-lined coat draped carelessly over his shoulders. His helm dangled from one hand. “You have to stop disappearing, lovely.”
His eyes found you immediately, bright with wine and something warmer.
“And you’ve been sooo far away,” he said mournfully.
“I’ve been abandoned. Forsaken.”
“You were dancing, husband,” you replied, trying—and failing—not to smile. “With Ser Duncan.”
“Aye,” he said, stepping closer. “And it was terrible.”
“I thought you were enjoying yourself.”
“I was,” he admitted cheerfully. “But I enjoy you more.”
Without further warning, he kicked off his boots haphazardly and climbed straight into the tub with you
Water surged, sloshing over the sides as his weight settled opposite yours. You yelped, laughing as warm water soaked your arms.
“Lyonel!” you scolded. “You’ll flood the whole tent… you-you thick headed man!”
“Nonsense,” he said, entirely unconcerned. “It’s sturdy enough. Like me, eh?” He let out a chuckle.
Before you could protest further, he lifted his helm and set it atop your head—crooked, oversized, sliding immediately over one eye.
“There,” he declared. “Beautiful as always, my love!”
You laughed outright, reaching up to steady it. “I can’t see.”
“You don’t need to.” He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your cheek. Then another. Then your temple. “I’ll guide you.”
Your legs slid naturally around his waist, drawing him closer. The fur at his shoulders brushed your skin, dampening at the edges. He hummed happily, arms coming around you, hands warm and certain at your back.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he murmured between kisses. “Everywhere. Asked three men and a dog.”
“And?”
“One of them cried, if you’d believe it.”
You snorted. “I doubt that.”
“I’m very intimidating I’ll have you know,” he said solemnly, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Especially when deprived.”
“Deprived of what?” you teased.
“Of this.” He kissed your jaw, your shoulder, wherever he could reach. “You vanished, and suddenly the wine tasted dull, the meat dry. And Dunk stepped on my foot.”
“That sounds like a personal grievance.”
“It is.” He pulled back just enough to look at you properly, eyes soft now beneath the mischief. “You should not wander so far from me.”
“I was hardly far,” you said. “Just bathing.”
“I could have joined sooner.” A whine left the grown man’s lips as he pressed further into you.
“Mhm, well you could drown you’re so drunk,”
“…I am very buoyant.”
You laughed again, resting your forehead against his. The helm slipped further, and he adjusted it with surprising care.
“Keep it,” he said. “For luck.”
“For me or you?”
“For me,” he sighed. “Tomorrow I’ll ride out, and everyone will see me—but I’ll know who I belong to.”
His voice was lighter than it had been that morning, but there was truth under it all the same.
You kissed him then, slow and familiar. He sighed into it, content, arms tightening briefly before relaxing again.
Outside, the supper roared on, unaware that its lord had abandoned it for warmer company.
The water had settled finally with warmth curling around you both like a living thing. Lyonel’s hands roamed with lazy confidence now, thumbs brushing slow circles at your sides, his mouth lingering wherever skin met steam.
“You smell like summer,” he murmured, lips skimming your shoulder. “Like rain on warm stone.”
“That would be the bath,” you said, though your voice wavered as his beard scraped pleasantly against your neck.
“And you,” he added, nipping gently, “are still a.. a terrible distraction.”
“You climbed into my tub,” you reminded him.
“Ah, but it was a calculated risk, my love.”
His hands slid lower, possessive but unhurried, and you tugged the fur at his shoulders closer, laughing softly when it slipped further into the water.
“Your coat will never dry.”
“I’ll buy another.”
“Very lordly of you.”
He grinned against your skin. “That’s why they keep me.”
You were just leaning in again—helm still crooked on your head, Lyonel’s fingers idly caressing your shoulders when a shadow fell across the tent wall.
A voice followed.
“Lord Baratheon?”
You froze.
Lyonel did not.
“Ah,” he called pleasantly. “Yes?”
There was a pause. A shuffle of boots. And a quiet gasp from you that was muffled by Lyonels wet shoulder.
“I— I was told you’d disappeared,” Dunk said, somewhere just outside the tent. “They said you’d gone—”
He pulled the flap open.
Silence.
Steam rolled out lazily. Candlelight gleamed off water, copper, and a fur-clad Storm Lord sitting chest-deep in a bath with his wife wrapped around him—wearing his helm.
Dunk stared.
You stared back.
Lyonel beamed.
“Well,” Lyonel said cheerfully, “this explains the confusion.”
Dunk’s ears went red clear down to his neck. “I— I didn’t mean— I’ll just—”
“Don’t be shy!” Lyonel boomed. “You’re already here.”
You buried your face against Lyonel’s shoulder, laughter shaking you before you could stop it.
Gif by the lovely @loveu2themoonandtosaturn, dividers by @/cursed-carmin
Eddie Munson x Cheerleader!Reader
Summary: It was a normal day for Eddie. Arriving at school late, getting to class late, leaving lunch late. But then an anonymous note, inked in glittery pink gel, fluttered from his locker. And he knew whose it was. No doubt about it. Because it was the same handwriting as the short message on the last page of his junior yearbook. Carved in glitter, color faded from the amount of times his thumb had traced every curved letter, every dotted ‘i’ and crossed ‘t’. It was yours. It was you. Calling him to the forest behind the school. And he had never been so early.
Or
You seek Eddie out, maybe for a little herbal relief, maybe for something more. And who is he to turn down such a pretty girl? But how will he fare having to skirt the edges of your loose-lipped truths?
Word Count: 11.1k
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, PiV unprotected sex, semi-public sex, cream pie, virginity loss, dirty talk, nipple stim, fingering, oral (f rec), mention of masturbation (m), insinuated hypothetical pregnancy, virgin!Reader, semi-experienced!Eddie, fluff, mild angst, very mild dubcon (both R & E are high), Eddie’s POV, drug usage (weed), feelings, insecurity, fem pronouns, if I missed anything lmk!
Song Recs: Evie by Shoe, Palomino by FINNEAS, I Want Somebody Badly by Jeff Buckley
A/N: Everyone say thank you and kiss this anon’s forehead for the idea. Also, it’s been a minute since I’ve freshly written a full fic and not just posted a draft from the summer, so be nice to me.
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“You’re pretty.”
The words catch Eddie off guard. Especially since you haven’t spoken in two minutes, utterly transfixed by the sky above. Or maybe it was the falling leaves that stole your attention; scarlet and gold floating on the autumn breeze. Delicate. Pretty.
Either way, he hadn’t expected to hear such a sentiment from the Hawkins High cheer captain.
Although, he hadn’t expected to be here with you, at all, as a matter of fact.
Not in the woods behind the school.
And definitely not alone.
It’s unnatural.
You, laid out on top of the picnic table. Him, hunched on the seat below, straddling the old plank of wood. Too close.
Closer than he’s ever been.
It’s aberrant, really.
But maybe, just for today, everything is topsy-turvy.
Maybe it will go back to normal soon. You in your bubble, him in his. Two separate worlds. Two separate planets orbiting the same rust-bucket town. The same miserable high school. At least for a few more months.
Then he’ll get the hell out of this place. Just drive and drive and drive until the scent of manure no longer singes his nose hairs. Until the cornfields turn into beaches. Or mountains. Or shit, even swamp lands. He’s not picky.
And you’ll be off at some college, probably.
Find a braincell-deficient jock and pop out a couple of kids. He’s picturing a picket fence somewhere there, too. Possibly a station wagon with that dumb wooden interior. He hates that wooden interior.
And you’ll forget he ever existed.
And he’ll—
“So pretty.”
It’s lower this time. A whisper. Like it was only meant to stay inside your head. Like you weren’t even aware you said it.
And maybe you aren’t aware. Maybe the weed is hitting you hard. Too hard. It’s only your first time.
So maybe he should pretend like he didn’t hear. Just continue to act like the metal box in front of him needs reorganizing.
Re-reorganizing, even.
Whatever it takes to not notice the way your pleated skirt has ridden up, bunched at the tops of your thighs.
Because he hasn’t noticed.
No, he’s not aware of how smooth your skin looks, or how the cherry blossom scent of your lotion seems to intoxicate him more than the shared joint, now forgotten, smoldering between your fingers.
He has no idea what color panties you’re wearing, and absolutely no clue what powder blue fabric looks like when it darkens.
Baggies to the left. Try to prop them up against each other. Bottles to the right. Line them up. Shit, the baggies won’t sit upright. Maybe lay them flat? Then, if he moves the tin—
“Do you think I’m pretty, too?”
Fuck.
Your heavy-lidded gaze is directed at him now, and he finally feels the high. Or maybe it’s just your effect; the kind of haze that leaves him wondering what new strain has him seeing a real life angel. The kind of feeling that sends his heart away at a dead sprint and his mind swimming in a tank of molasses.
Everything is muffled. And there’s only you. And those eyes. Waiting.
“Y-Yeah,” he chokes, hoping you don’t see the heat blooming beneath his cheeks. “You’re pretty. ‘S kinda your thing.” He shrugs. “Popular and pretty.”
It’s a deflection. It’s bitter. It’s crashing through the bubble with an unceremonious pop.
Because yes, you’re pretty. Everyone knows it. Everyone.
Him noticing isn’t any different.
You blink. “But do you think I’m pretty? Just pretty.”
He pauses, wondering, for only a split second, if this was all some kind of elaborate rouse to incriminate him. If, any minute now, Andy and Jason are going to step out from behind one of these trees, itching for a fight. Because Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson is tainting the precious queen of Hawkins High. His no-good, low-life, burn-out presence might as well stain your skin like black tar.
But he nods, nonetheless. A calculated risk; it’s shaky, not insincere.
And that seems to be enough because your painted lips twitch into a small smile. It’s a breath of fresh air. If only his heart would stop pounding against his ribs like it’s trying to get out. To get to you.
“I told my friends, once, and they didn’t talk to me for a day and a half.”
Your smile is gone now. And your gaze is empty as you turn back to the tree tops.
Eddie shifts in his seat, feeling more and more like he’s fallen through the looking glass.
“T-Told them what?”
He’s not sure he wants the clarification. Not sure he wants to understand. Because it doesn’t seem like it’ll work. Like he’ll never truly understand if you say what he—
“That I think you’re pretty,” you mutter, turning to him again, a simple pout weighing your features down.
Fuck.
“We were talking about crushes, and they said theirs. And they were so…excited…. And Heather was trying to convince Jackie S. to tell Patrick how she felt. And I wanted to feel it too.”
He can barely breathe, so he stays silent, just letting you speak to no one in particular. Because he’s not here.
Not now.
Not on this planet.
Not in the same reality as the girl he’s pretended not to watch since the middle school talent show. The girl whose perfume somehow lives in his mind, though he’s never bathed in it longer than a shoulder brush through the halls. Not that girl, not in this reality.
Not you. Telling him he’s pretty. No way—
“—wanted to hear what they’d say. Like if they would tell me we’d look cute together, or they’d say they’ve seen you looking at me, or something, and maybe there’s a chance.”
Fuck, he’s low on E.
And these damn baggies don’t organize well—he should really label them. And Reefer Rick has probably laced this new, stupid supply with something because there’s simply no conceivable way—
“But they just looked at me like I said something insane. Asked me if I was joking. They didn’t believe me at first—”
He snorts, twisting the skull ring around his finger until the skin underneath starts to heat. You’re silent now, and he almost doesn’t want to look. But he has to. So he does.
Your polished nails, the lipstick stained joint, thousands of wool fibers bending and yielding to the curves of your body. Then that pout, your eyes. A frown.
The baggies of pills, the weathered wood; carved initials giving way to new grain.
“You don’t believe me, either?”
It’s so broken sounding, he has half a mind to lie and say of course he does. Of course he believes you, resident queen of Hawkins High—the girl who prances through school with five guys, minimum, trailing after her, lovesick and delusionally hormonal—are telling the God’s-honest truth. That you have somehow taken a liking to the town pariah.
The people’s princess has woken up this day and decided she’d like to bestow upon him, of all people, the greatest charity he could never repay, nor even begin to deserve.
And you’d say this exact thing stone-cold sober. Sure.
He could say that.
“Um—” he clears his throat, repeatedly dragging a dirty Reebok on the ground until a pile of curled leaves starts to grow, “I believe…uh, we’ve probably had enough.”
Before you can make a move to stop him, he plucks the joint from between your fingers, ignoring the shock of your touch.
The faint sizzle of embers being extinguished on old wood is the only sound that fills the air. That, and the rustle of wind through the trees.
He can feel your eyes on him as he licks his fingers and pinches the end of the roll. It may very well be laced, but he’s not the wasteful type.
And anyway, he’s got plans later. A date with his right hand and the well-loved porno mag he’s made some…changes…to. All while he pretends not to remember how your lips wrapped around the very same joint he hopes will last him long enough.
You sit up suddenly, swinging your legs over the edge of the picnic table. He nearly knocks his metal lunchbox off the seat, scrambling to avoid the brush of your skin.
“Do you not like me?”
The words are filled with accusation, woven by insecurity, and Eddie feels insane. Clinically. Terminally, even. That’s not a thing, but given his luck, he could be the first man, ever, to die from a hot chick coming onto him.
Because what the actual fuck? You’re looking at him like his very existence is a puzzle to you. As if you can’t imagine why in the world he’d be second-guessing your confession.
He clears his throat, again, but chokes on his breath the second you slide down next to him, your skirt creeping impossibly higher before settling properly. And he’s up in a flash, like only the heat of you near him is all it takes to burn. And God, does it burn.
“N-No! No, I, um, I—I just don’t know you.” He shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. “Basically just met you today, really.”
He could almost kick himself, the way his voice jumps an octave he’s certain only liars can reach. And you seem to hold the same belief, your eyes all but say as much as you stand to follow him.
Leaves crunch under his shuffling footsteps, and you pause, as if realizing the space between is carefully set.
It’s a choice he’s fighting to make, just as he’s fighting not to look at you. Though, one is admittedly easier than the other.
“I mean, not really. We’ve been going to the same school since, like, sixth grade—”
He shakes his head, correcting, “Your sixth; my eighth.”
Bewilderment overtakes your frown, and he understands the semantics appear meaningless to you, but they keep him up at night. When the hours tick by and delusion creeps into the edges of his foggy mind, thoughts of fate start to sound more and more sane.
“My mom even made you that casserole when your uncle was sick.”
Oh, yeah.
That.
He remembers that day. Thinks about it when the delusion turns sour and his conscience wants to remind him what an embarrassment he is.
He remembers perfectly how he heard your heels clicking from down the hall. How he took one look through the small hospital window, saw you in your Sunday best and booked it to the en suite bathroom.
How he left Wayne to fend for himself in a state of utter confusion, never having seen his nephew move so fast. How he hid in the small space, surrounded by porcelain and that chemical smell that still makes his skin crawl. Just so he wouldn’t have to face you.
So he wouldn’t have to watch you charm his uncle, lift his spirits like you do everyone.
No, he only had to listen and imagine what shade of lipstick you chose to match with your outfit. Because that was way easier than seeing the cruel fluorescent lights fail to hollow you out like it did everyone who entered that godforsaken room.
Yeah, hearing the raspy laugh of his uncle, followed by your airy giggles through the surprisingly thin walls was a cakewalk compared to what it would have been had he been forced to smile and nod along.
Act as if you and he lived the same kind of life. As if one wasn’t a plunder and the other a jaunt through the daisies.
Eddie paces, unable to let his twitching muscles rest. “Yeah, but what does it really mean to know someone, you know? Uh oh! I’m gettin’ philosophical now!” He chuckles, but it’s strained, and your frown comes back, unmovable this time. “Probably the weed.”
His words are stilted, and you seem too aware of this performance, but he will press on with forced amusement until you believe him. Or at least until you let him be; go on back to your bubble. Leave him to suffocate in his.
“Are you high? I’m high. I think we’re both really high. It’s so funny, it’s like I don’t even know what I’m saying— Blah!” He flails about, already planning on checking himself into Pennhurst after this. “This is so crazy! We probably make no sense right now.”
You cross your arms, trudging back to the picnic table. The breeze lifts your skirt as you plop down, and Eddie turns away. Because he has to.
“I’m not that high and neither are you.”
It’s that damn pout that’s going to do him in.
Curls twist around his fingers as he tries to hide behind his hair. “No…no, I’m pretty high.” He nods. “‘Miss Hawkins 1982’ is sitting here, tellin’ me she’s got, like, what—a crush on me?”
“‘S more than a crush,” you mumble petulantly, but for his sanity, he elects to ignore it.
“I mean, shit! I didn’t think weed had hallucinogenic properties, but you know.” His shoulders shrug in defeat, and he still can’t look at you. “Learn somethin’ new every day!”
Your head cocks to the side. “So you don’t believe me?”
Eyes wide as saucers, he wonders if this is what it would feel like to explain the sky to a mole.
“Of course I don’t believe you! You sound crazy! I mean you’re…” He searches for the words, but how does one sum up almost a decade of watching? Of wanting— “You. …And I’m me.”
It’s softer. Lower. Just where he should be. Because really, you’re the sky. And he’s just a burrower. Too afraid to leave the caverns he’s carved in his mind, even for warmth. For light. For a smile that doesn’t shine—
“Right…” Your mouth pulls, dim, and the huff of breath sounds derisive, like you can’t possibly pass it for a laugh, but still, you try. “You’re you, and I’m me—”
He nods along, internalizing the sound of his own words on your lips. If you believe it, that will be enough. It will be enough.
“Just boring…me—”
The sentence drips with resignation. As if it’s a truth you’ve cuddled up to long enough for the feelings to subside. Roommates with your own distaste. A years-long relationship molded into resentment. He feels sick.
“What?”
You resituate yourself, pulling inward, and if you could transform the atoms in the air, Eddie thinks there’d be a wall already reaching above the highest branches.
“No, I just— It makes sense.” You tug at your sweater until your hands are almost hidden, and regret nips at his bare skin, colder than the breeze. “It’s totally true; you’re so cool—”
He swallows the words, but they catch in his throat. Unusual and untrue. And despite his quiet, “Cool?” that slips out, coated in disbelief, you carry on, adding brick after brick.
“You’ve got your band, and that game you love to play—”
Now that’s just strange.
“D&D?” he mutters, blanching at the sentiment. Because, yeah, he thinks it’s cool. But he can count on one hand how many other Hawkins residents think the same.
You perk up a bit, and he feasts on the split-second of sunlight. “Yeah! That’s the one. And you literally run a club for it. That’s, like, the definition of cool.”
It’s the high. It’s the marijauna in your system. Either that, or you and he have vastly different definitions of cool—
“And your music taste! I hear you drive up to school all the time; you’re always blasting that metal stuff! It’s so…” your eyes wander, as if searching for the right word and his mind fills in the usual blanks: loud, shitty, annoying, satanic. “unique!”
You’re too good. He’s decided it. Not because of the popularity, like he had chalked it up to before. This is different. It’s pure.
And he’s tar.
“You know, if I had a nickel for every time someone told me my music taste was…unique, I’d be broke,” he huffs, crossing his arms like the act will protect against your budding smile, growing back like the first bloom of May flowers.
“Well, I’m sure they just haven’t tried it yet.” And you’re so sure. He can hear the optimism in your voice and it’s deafening.
But then, it’s like time reverses, and in comes the April shower to drown the delicate bud; you retreat into yourself, again. Smile fading, insecurity rearing.
“I’ve never… I mean— I’ve never really tried it before, either.”
Now you won’t look at him, and the insinuation of your words alone is enough to haunt him.
With a sigh, he closes the distance, sitting beside you on the bench. For a moment, he only listens to his own pulse. The rushing in his ears. He waits for the confidence to speak, unaware it’s a bus that will never come.
But impatience gets the best of him, and he decides to walk it.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you feel— It’s just— I just—” He groans, watching the thoughts pass him by while he fails to hang onto even one. His skin feels too tight and he’s certain the only solution is to peel it off his miserable bones. “I don’t know why I am the way that I am.”
The admission rings out like a shot in the autumn air, and the silence that follows lands like an atom bomb, breaking the sound barrier in a mushroom cloud of mortifying truth.
He doesn’t know why he said it.
Why he thought cutting himself down while you’re bleeding makes some sort of difference. How it could possibly count as some kind of balm to your wounds.
But you wear your wounds well. And truth leaks from you without loss. It pools without inhibition. Not yielding, but seeping. Filling the cracks in him—the tunnels that quake—with something malleable and pure. Not viscous and sticky. Not like tar.
His head hangs low, eyes following the way your thumb smooths over your wool skirt. Then his gaze tracks downward, and he wishes it wouldn’t. But your skin looks so soft, and he traces the curving terrain until he sees your pearly-white Keds digging into the dirt.
You could probably make it to China before he finds the right words to fix this.
“You know, I’ve never had to convince a girl not to like me.” The quirk of his lips doesn’t change the tone, despite his best efforts.
You cross your ankles, old wood creaking under you. “No?”
It’s simple. Gentle. You’re humoring him. And it’s a kindness he can’t afford, but you give it to him anyway, charity case that he is.
“No.” He huffs, something like a snicker but without the joke. “Usually, it’s the opposite.”
More atomic silence. And he starts to wonder if he ever actually learned how to behave properly. If he fundamentally misunderstands how to have a conversation.
Or maybe he was just swapped at birth with an alien whose sole purpose is to elicit discomfort. And maybe there’s a human version of him out there, travelling among the stars, charming and suave, dripping with bravado. Yeah, that’s probably it. That’s what he’ll—
“What’s the argument then?”
His brows furrow, and he swings his head to look at you. But the second his eyes meet yours, he has to force himself not to flee. Not to make a coward’s retreat.
“What?”
“The argument,” you respond coolly. “How are you gonna persuade me not to like you?”
God, he wishes you’d stop saying it. Maybe it’d be easier to hear if it didn’t sound so earnest. If it didn’t sound like it came from a well of truth.
His foot taps on the ground as he thinks, hands flexing restlessly. “Well…I guess I kind of thought the everything about me was argument enough.”
You stare silently, and his flesh might as well be made of a cellophane the way your gaze seems to expertly track the gears turning in his mind.
“But clearly not,” he murmurs.
Your lips quirk. “Nope.”
The glint in your eyes should scare him. Should shake him to his core. Because there’s something about this particular glimmer…
With the determination of a predator poised to attack, or a vulture itching to pick him apart, you watch. Quietly. Waiting. It’s the kind of look only the helpless are on the other side of. He should be terrified.
But he’s not. His hands aren’t shaking out of fear, and his stomach doesn’t flip out of nerves.
No, it’s something else entirely.
Your chin tips, and your smile curls around the words. “To ensure a fair hearing, the court must consider all evidence; Mr. Munson, you may proceed.”
His grin stretches, and he turns his body the slightest bit towards you.
“Okay,” he nods, pondering the laundry list of reasons he has locked and loaded, ready to go. Who’s the lucky winner? What’s the bare minimum he can share without mortally wounding his pride—well, more than it already is. “Alright, well, sometimes I forget to wear deodorant, and I end up smelling really bad.”
Before he has a chance to regret his choice, your laugh drowns out every doubt. It cracks through him with an unbearable weight, leaving behind splintered shards of bone instead of prison bars. His heartbeat sounds louder now.
And for a moment—only a moment—he forgets why he said anything at all. He forgets the point. He forgets that the melody floating from your lips doesn’t belong in his dysfunctional orchestra.
But the urge is there. To hear it again. To be the cause.
Your eyes squint from the size of your smile. “Shut up.”
Locked in your gravitational pull, he moves closer—minutely, and he wouldn’t if he could help it.
“No, I’m serious! It’s bad! That’s why I gotta leave school early sometimes, I start to smell like vegetable soup by 2 p.m.”
His grin is stuck as he watches your head fall back, the melody growing stronger, lodging somewhere deep in his brain. Between cobwebs and old, out-of-tune earworms. He imagines bottling the sound and building a shelf just to hold it.
“You’re an idiot,” you huff breathlessly, the word not carrying the same sting it usually would if it came from anyone else. Because there’s no bite to it. No teeth, even.
He leans in before he can stop himself. “Ah, see, that’s a good one, too! I’m an idiot!”
But the melody quiets, and the violins screech a nasty response as your smile starts to fall.
“No, you’re not.”
It’s firm and final, like you truly believed it even before it slipped from your lips.
“Yes, I am,” he says, soft yet steadfast. “I’m a three-time super senior army crawling my way to a ‘D’ in Mrs. O’Donnell’s class. And I’ve had two full tries at it.”
You cock your head, eyeing him closely. Then—
“Well, practice makes perfect. Plus, I think it’s totally your year.”
Your smile is back and so is the warmth in Eddie’s body. If he had any sense, he’d steer the conversation elsewhere, because somehow, you’ve managed to flirt with him over his tragic academic history. You’re too powerful. You and your honeyed words, so sweet and thick, he could choke if he’s not careful.
He shifts, but can’t bring himself to move away. “Okay…what about this—I wanna do music.”
Your brows raise and he can tell you see through his pitiful attempt.
“Well…you’re in a band,” you shrug. “I kind of already knew that—”
“No, like, professionally. That’s what I wanna do. I wanna go to L.A. and, I don’t know, like, get a record deal and shit, and just make music.” The light still shines in your eyes and he knows you’re not getting it. “No college for me, no office job, no suburbs—no picket fence kind of life.”
Your gaze never strays from his. “Eddie, that’s not a bad thing. That’s—that’s inspiring.”
God, you’re making this hard. Especially when you look at him like that—like he’s something to be enamored by. Something worth looking at. Something pretty…
“No,” he shakes his head, clinging to the reality where you aren’t leaning closer to him, where your soft, perfumed skin doesn’t brush against his rough, bargain-bin jeans. “No, it’s a pipedream. It’s basically me begging to live in a van for the rest of my life because you and I both know it will never—”
“Eddie,” you cut in, grabbing his hand, “let me save you the energy. There’s nothing you can say that will stop how I feel. This isn’t a new thing. I’m not going through a phase. It’s not just a blip or a crush— I like you, Eddie Munson.”
His heartbeat slows, skipping every third thud like an old record, and he now knows the weight of your hand in his.
And for the first time since his fingers brushed yours while passing the joint, he can’t look away. No amount of self-control or misplaced willpower can drag him up from the depths of your imploring gaze.
“I like you a lot. You’re sweet,” and his face must’ve twitched because you grin and add, “When you’re not trying to act all tough and broody.”
Cellophane. He’s complete cellophane around you. Weak and pliant and see-through. His posturing means nothing, and he wonders if you always knew that.
If every snide comment to the jocks came with a footnote in the smallest print only you could read: I’m jealous they get your time. They don’t deserve it.
If every breezy look elsewhere gave him away as you’d walk past his table in the lunchroom, swaying skirt billowing in the winds of his repression.
“—and you make me laugh, and you’re honest.” Your hand squeezes his and he can’t quite bring himself to hold it yet. To open up. To keel over and admit defeat. “I just feel like everyone here…pretends to live the life they think they should live. But you don’t do that. You just live. And I think that’s beautiful.”
Your chin tips low and he has a near physical reaction from losing the heat of your attention.
“I think you’re beautiful.”
His mind whirs, sirens blare, but they’re silent. Unhelpful. Useless. Exactly what he feels like in the wake of your confession. And the only thought he can hold onto long enough to realize it’s just as useless is: he should buy a lottery ticket, or something.
“I—”
He watches you shift, doesn’t hear you breathe.
“I…think you stole my line…”
The pitiful excuse for a chuckle comes too late. Too weak to sound genuine, but just strong enough to deflect. Because that’s what he’s good at, right? Deflecting? Distracting?
Rejecting, apparently. At least that’s how you seem to take it, the way your hand slips from his so easily. The way your shoulders hunch and your legs squeeze together.
Small. You’re making yourself small for him.
And he’s just too unsteady. He’s not firing on all cylinders, not since you clipped his wires a ways back. Somewhere around you’re pretty and I like you. Just left of I told my friends and down the street from you’re cool.
“Sorry. That was…a lot. God.” Your frown is back and you turn to say something, then give up before you even start. A beat. Then, “I—I’m sorry if I scared you off with all of that.”
You say it as if the moment’s done. As if he’s not still clinging to your words with a white-knuckled grip.
And you retreat.
Not in any real way.
No, you’re still sitting next to him, still closer than ever before, but now, chipping away at your nail polish seems to be far more interesting than anything he could offer.
“Well…I’m still here…” he tries, unsure.
“Yeah…. You’re still here,” you echo quietly.
Showing mercy to your manicure, you shove your hands into your lap, twisting your fingers up. He recognizes the movement. The attempt to banish the need. The need to touch. He’s felt it too. Feels it now.
The bricks stack higher as your wall grows; a structure never meant to be scaled.
But he’s a burrower.
“You know…” he ponders, forcing the humor from his tone. “I’m starting to think maybe it’s not the weed…”
That gets you.
He hears the melody again, sees your wry smile.
“Shut up,” you whine, shoving his chest.
He moves fast and with grace as he traps your hand with his, holding your palm just over where your first laugh torpedoed his ribcage. Where the prisoner waits.
“Your heart’s beating so fast,” you whisper, voice full of awe—the kind that quickly begins to carve away at his weakened flesh.
He huffs, low and earnest. “Yeah…. The prettiest girl in Hawkins just told me she likes me and there’s nothing I can do about it. You’re lucky I haven’t gone into cardiac arrest over this.”
You smirk, and he thinks it might just kill him. Like actually.
“Hm, well, now I feel like I’m kind of missing out on that…”
He snorts, his grin stretching wide. “Oh, yeah? You want me to keel over right here, right now?”
Your smile turns demure and he knows it’s a lie. Then, you give an innocent shrug that can’t even fool him.
“I mean, I’m not saying I wouldn’t be extremely flattered—”
He jolts suddenly, grunting and groaning, curling his fingers tighter around your hand as he falls back against the edge of the wooden picnic top.
You gasp, turning to prop a knee on the bench as you lean over his stiff body. “Oh my God, medic!” Your empty call echoes in the air, amusement bubbling just beneath the surface. Then, your voice falls to a low mutter. “Ohh, what do I do, what do I do? Damnit, I should’ve paid more attention in First Aid.”
Eddie convulses some, really driving the near Oscar-worthy performance home. Then he peeks an eye open, choking out, “M-Mmm-mouth.”
Your mask slips as you smirk, leaning closer. “Sorry, what was that? I didn’t quite catch it over all the dying.”
He slumps even more, the table digging beneath his shoulderblades as he sputters, “Mmm-mouth-to-mouth—”
You sit back, chewing the inside of your cheek and leveling him with an assessing stare as he twitches. “No…that can’t be it…”
Both eyes open as he brokenly utters, “No, it definitely is— With tongue! The tongue helps—”
You snicker, “Oh, yeah? It’s a necessity?”
He squeezes your hand. “Yeah, big—big necessity.”
You lean in, so close, and his mind turns to static as your perfume invades his senses.
This is it. It’s going to happen. Almost a decade of dreams that left him waking up in sticky discomfort, and he’s going to know the taste of—
“See, I just don’t remember that in the course,” you shrug, pulling away abruptly. “Mouth-to-mouth, sure, but adding tongue?”
One last shot, he reaches into the sky dramatically, convulses, then slackens in a lifeless heap, accented by his best death rattle.
He hears you call out, some half-assed plea that wouldn’t convince a soul, but then everything stops. Your lips slot against his, soft and plush and timid, and you might as well have used the paddles, the way his system shocks into action.
His hand finally releases yours, but you don’t move it, and he settles a gentle grip on the back of your head. Heavy enough to beg for more, soft enough to leave room for an escape, if you so choose.
But you don’t. Instead, your tongue glides along his top lip—a teasing kind of sweetness he accepts gladly, thankfully. He responds in kind—in hunger.
He can taste your cherry lip gloss, hear your surprised hum. It’s a tiny sort of sound he swallows with a groan of his own.
Then the pressure is gone. The taste, the noises—all gone. The music has stopped and the dizzying dance comes to an end with a blinding grin.
“Oh my God, it’s a miracle,” you pant, smoothing your palm up his chest until you reach skin.
He sits up, dazed, and you don’t move away, just letting him hover close like the proximity isn’t debilitating.
His next words slur out before he has a chance to think of a smoother line— “Have you ever considered becoming a doctor?”
And you laugh. And he’s learning that maybe you don’t want smooth. Because if you did, he certainly wouldn’t be your first call, and you wouldn’t be so quick to serenade every dumb comment of his.
So he thanks whoever rents the big house in the sky that you have a thing for burnouts and tries not to choke as you slide onto his lap, your pretty skirt splaying out across worn fabric.
Your lips find his again, your fingers get lost in his hair, you don’t bother hovering, and he starts writing a mental Last Will and Testament.
Jeff will get his Sweetheart, Mike will get his D&D manuals, Dustin will get his cassette tapes, and Gareth will finally get those twenty bucks he’s been whining about since last summer. He’ll leave it to Grant to dispose of his stash, and in payment, he can have the stack of porno mags under his bed.
Though, he might just give them away whether he dies or not, because he’s pretty sure, with the way you’re pressing down on him, they’ll soon be rendered useless.
Goosebumps rise along heated skin and something prickles up his spine as your nails rake through his curls. His mouth works against yours, a mind of its own as its aim widens, and he’s suddenly nipping down your jaw, tasting the tang of perfume on your neck.
Your chest racks with heavy, panting breaths and noises that sound like earnest attempts at his name. It’s intoxicating. His lips swell from struggling to keep up with his greed, but he can’t stop. There’s a burning kind of ache deep within him, and it’s growing.
His hands find their way to your hips, and he can’t tell if it’s you who moves freely, grinding down like you’re searching for something, or if it’s him and the ravenous need he’s not certain can be controlled.
“Fuck—”
“Eddie,” you call, tightening the grip on his hair until he groans. His cock flexes, straining against the oppressive zipper of his jeans and missing a kind of warmth he’s itching to know.
“Hm?” he grunts into your neck, barely aware. He’s pretty sure he could devour you whole. But then again, he’d much rather savor you, pick you apart and feast on your supple flesh for ages. The smallest little bites until your sweet noises grow louder and louder; scratchy and desperate like the mindless roll of your hips against denim.
“E-Eddie—”
Your voice pitches up, his name breaking on the crest of your movements, and you hunch toward him like the pleasure is a weight your shoulders can’t possibly bear.
And something twists in his gut then, something raw and hungry.
He wants to hear that again. Hear his name shatter on your tongue as his hands explore beneath your dainty skirt. He wants to feel the vibrations of your moans as he kisses every inch of you.
“Mm, yeah, baby?”
“I want— Want you,” you grit out, like the words take effort you can barely muster.
“Fuck— I know, I wan’ you, too. So bad. So fuckin’ bad.”
If it were any other time, he might feign control. Might deepen his voice with a confidence he doesn’t have. But this is not just any other time. It’s you, in his lap, whispering needy little pleas into the air like it’s obvious. Simple necessity. Like he’s not just a warm body and you’re not picturing someone else.
His fingers curl into the waistband of your skirt, and it’s as if you remembered there was more to be said because your hips stall and you press against his chest.
He swallows the disgruntled whine, and accepts your direction. Doubt creeps into the fog of his mind, but you don’t leave him time to get lost when your thumbs smooth over the stubble on his jaw, the worry in your eyes outweighing his.
“Eddie, I, um, I want—you,” you finish stiltedly, looking at him like you’re waiting for the penny to drop. “But, I, uh, I’ve ne—” It spins. “I don’t really—” And spins. “I mean, not that I’m, like—” And spins. “I’ve just never really—”
It drops, a metallic clang bouncing off the walls of his skull, and suddenly he feels like he shouldn’t touch you at all. His hands hover over your hips and the something-molten deep in his gut turns out to be much more familiar than he thought. Hot, bubbling, careless and incessant in its need to stain. To contaminate.
“Never?” His brows furrow, trying to decipher the discomfort on your face. If it’s him—if it’s the tar—he might just leave town now. Screw graduation. Screw a diploma— “Like never ever?”
Stupid question. At this rate, he should look into surgically removing his foot from his mouth before he tries to speak next—
“Guess I was just…waiting,” you shrug, thumbing the hem of his shirt. Then your movements become less innocent as your nails trail against his skin. So light, if he weren’t acutely aware of everything you do, if his stomach didn’t twitch in time with his restless cock, he wouldn’t have caught it.
“Sweetheart,” he almost warns, feeling like he misconstrued this moment for something serious, when clearly, you’re toying with him, spreading your palms along his waistband like you can’t see him shiver. Like you can’t feel his length straining beneath you, flexing against its jean prison, reaching for the warmth of your core.
“S-Sweetheart,” he repeats, the endearment sounding more and more like a plea as you rake your nails through the wiry curls just below his navel.
You go on, apparently undeterred by his fraying control. “I’ve been on dates—”
He doesn’t care. His eyes track yours and the glide of your tongue along kiss-bitten lips.
“Guys have tried—”
Okay, he cares. What?
“I’ve just never really—wanted to.”
Fuck.
You grind down, passing the motion off as adjusting your position, but Eddie doesn’t trust that gleam in your eyes. And you confirm it in the way your palms smooth down his arms until you press his hands to your hips. Making him touch you. Contaminate you. You encourage it, even. Wrapping your grip around his wrists as you guide his hands beneath your wool top.
“But it’s different with you.”
He shudders.
“Sweetheart.”
It’s certainly a plea, now. A cry for mercy as your fingers return to the sensitive skin just above his waistband, travelling up, up, up until he’s entirely covered in goosebumps, and he worries you can feel the pitiful call of the convict in his chest.
“I don’t want to. That’s not what it feels like—”
God damnit, he’s so confused and all the blood rushed from his brain long ago. There’s nothing up there anymore.
“‘S not like that. ‘S like,” you lean in close, letting him feel the words against his lips before he ever hears them, “a need. Like there’s something missing right now.” You roll your hips and he chokes on the breath he was holding. “And I think— No, I know, if I could just—feel you…inside me—I would be okay again. Better.”
“Oh, f-fuck,” he groans, thrusting up with the coordination of a muscle spasm. He lets his forehead fall against yours in an attempt to gather control. “You—you can’t just say shit like that.”
You peck his lips and he chases the small affection. “But it’s true. I don’t wan’ anyone else. Just want you. Inside me.”
“Jesus Christ,” he grits out, trapping you in a kiss that borders on consumption more than anything sweet.
He can feel you everywhere: on top of him, in his hair, under his shirt, sinking claws into his sides; your touch is kindling to the fire raging low inside him.
Suddenly, he’s reminded of the foiled condom he removed from his wallet just the other day. The old thing was practically useless, worn down and crumpled from years of sitting idle in between the folds of cracked leather. But something is better than nothing, and now he’s cursing his past-self for his terminal case of realism.
The clink of metal draws his attention back, and he hadn’t noticed your lips leave his or how your hands have grown eager, already past his belt and now fiddling with the button on his jeans.
“Wanna feel you, Eddie. I need to,” your honeyed whines wash over his body, sending a buzz through his veins. But then the purring sound of his zipper sliding open reminds him—
“Shit,” his hand wraps around your wrist. “Wait, I don’t— I don’t have anything,” he admits lowly, miserably.
You smile, kissing around his mouth like you’re drawing the shame out, and him in. “It’s okay…. I just want you,” you repeat, firmer this time. “All of you.”
And something inside him rumbles, something sick and starving. Once-weak, but now growing in strength. It’s mean and sharp, with teeth that can cut through steel and an appetite that can devour innocence whole.
It’s not unfamiliar, this beast. He’s known it for ages. It’s an old friend. A confidant. Something to speak to in the darkest moments, but never to trust. Something to surrender to during the sweatiest nights, when his hand cramps but the need still aches. Still hungers.
It’s got an imagination, too. Twisted as can be, it preens at the thought of possession, of staying. Of skin stretching and bones shifting, of curly-haired children that have your eyes and his smile. Soccer practice between label meetings, the sun beating down on hot sand as little feet kick at his back. A ring with weight and a necklace to match.
It’s like a plague on his thoughts. But it’s not. Not really. Because he doesn’t have to fear the lies anymore. The want. The bubbles are melding, his world is clashing with yours. And the beast tells the truth, now.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters against your lips, the words sounding more like a warning than anything.
“Mmm,” you hum, trailing your affection down his neck. “Been there, done that. I’d rather keep you alive for this.”
And you’ve crossed his wires so expertly, he’s practically sparking beneath your touch.
Imbued with a new kind of power, he slides you from his lap before shucking his leather jacket off and swinging it onto the table’s surface. His shirt follows with, finding a strategic home among the layers.
You seem to catch on because you climb onto the table, laying yourself out just like before. He grins, helping you out of your top, only to fold it up and leave it where your head can rest.
Both of you pause, taking just a moment to stare. Openly.
He tracks your gaze as it trails across his chest, noting each tattoo. Then his eyes widen as you distractedly remove your bra like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t fucked his fist to the thought of this very moment.
The material slides down your arms and you settle back, pretty as a picture, laid out all for him.
“Jesus…Christ, sweetheart, fuck.”
You smirk, and there’s that gleam again. Evil and conniving and he’s a willing victim, first in line, and hopefully last.
“See anything you like?”
He gulps, kneeling on the bench below, itching to touch you, but holding onto manners with a white-knuckled grip. “Yeah. See a whole lot.”
“Then what are you waiting for?” You grab his hand, guiding it to your breast with a squeeze. “This isn’t a museum, you can touch.”
“Oh, s-shit,” he stutters, losing all decorum as his other hand joins in, kneading the supple skin. Your sighs possess him, and before he can overthink it, his mouth closes around your nipple, tongue circling and laving at the tightening peak.
“E-Eddie!” Your hand flies to his curls and he groans, parting his lips wider, needing to feel more of you in his mouth.
You writhe beneath him, a victim of a fiendish kind of gluttony as he moves to your other breast, tweaking the wet peak he left behind.
He explores your body zealously, taking his time tasting and nipping every bit he can reach until you start tugging at the roots of his hair, forcing him up.
“Need you,” you huff breathlessly, yanking at his jeans. “Now.”
“W-Wait—” his hands land on yours, slowing your movements.
Your mouth parts as you look up at him, wide-eyed and completely desperate, and he feels his control unspooling like flimsy yarn.
“No, Eddie, I already told you—”
“It’s not that,” he shakes his head, kissing you quiet. “I just— We can’t just…”
You watch him patiently, clinging onto every half-thought he struggles to produce.
“I gotta— No, I—want to make this good for you…obviously,” he grunts, cringing at the lack of suavity. “And to do that, um, we can’t just…”
You nod, encouraging him as his face grows hot. There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell he’ll be able to explain the concept of foreplay to you right now. Not when you’re looking at him like that, bare and ready for him.
So he sighs and kisses you once more, this time slow and careful. Full of things he can’t quite say, but he hopes you understand.
“You trust me, right?”
“Of course,” you respond instantly, eyes shining so bright.
He swallows, rubbing a thumb along your cheek. “And you’ll let me take care o’ you?”
You lean into his touch, almost shy as you nod. “Yeah. Yes…please.”
And a piece of him breaks off, then.
Splintered by your soft words, the plea that landed like a hammer on his scuffed lacquer.
One single chip in the barrier, and the beast rises in a crashing escape.
His lips find yours—messy, needy.
Wanton greed curls around every cracked rib, reaching out like smoke unfurling. Searching for something to envelop, to take. To take and take and take. Your breath, your taste, you. It wants it all.
He wants it all.
The words tumble out too easily. “Such pretty manners, huh?”
You shudder, hiding your face in the curve of his jaw.
“Pretty manners in a pretty girl,” he practically purrs, letting his hands slip down your body until his fingers invade the waistband of your pleated skirt. “Gonna let me take care o’ you, hm? Gonna let me get you all nice and ready?”
Your breathy sigh warms his neck as he shimmies the fabric down your legs, laying you back, gently.
You squirm beneath his gaze, squeezing your thighs together. “Eddie…”
“Shh, patience, pretty,” he murmurs, trailing a finger along your curving terrain until he’s toying with the powder blue fabric. “Gotta be good for me. Think you can do that?”
“Mhm,” you hum, choking on the note as he softly pushes your legs apart.
“Ohh, look at you…” His eyes darken and he thinks he could get used to this. To seeing you all laid out for him like a meal. A feast that could last him forty days and forty nights.
You shift, almost imperceptibly, as he drags your panties down, but he noticed. He always does with you. “Be good,” he warns lowly.
“I’m trying.”
Your whine falls to static as he watches a single string of arousal cling to the blue gusset with a fragile strength he aches to snap.
The trees rustle overhead and the sun peeks through, lending a perfect spotlight to your wet folds, and he groans, pocketing your underwear with little consideration.
“Fuck, you’re so god damn gorgeous, baby, think I’m losin’ my mind,” he mutters, kneading the fat of your thighs.
“Eddie,” you call, wiggling into his grip, and he’s never been more certain that you’re a temptress put on this earth to destroy him and everything that he tries to be. Controlled. Polite. Genetlemanly.
Every stuttering breath, every twitch of your hips, every slow blink—you’re chiseling away at the lacquer, unaware of all that lies beneath.
“Eddie, pl—ease!”
His middle and ring fingers glide through your folds while his opposite hand holds your hips down as you try to grind onto him.
“Knew you’d make the prettiest sounds. …Pretty sounds, pretty manners, pretty girl,” he chants the words like a mantra, entranced as he raises his fingers up to watch your arousal glisten in the evening light. “Pretty.”
You whimper, and suddenly it feels like he’s been pulled from the depths as he stares down at your face, pinched in pleasure. You’re waiting as patiently as you can and he has to reward that.
He spreads your folds once more, listening intently as he slips a finger inside. Your broken moan speaks almost directly to his cock, and he can feel a stream of precum soaking his boxers.
You call his name again, your chest moving in perfect time with the pulse of your warm walls. He responds to your plea for more with a second finger, and your nails sink into his wrist.
“Doin’ so good for me, baby. So good,” he utters restlessly, leaning closer to your soaked cunt. He glances up, notes your closed eyes, and decides to feed the beast.
With one stolen moment, he breathes deep, cataloguing the scent. Your perfume, your cherry lotion, and now you. The most intimate of all. And he can’t stop now.
He knows your touch, your heady scent; he wants to know your taste, too. The real thing. Not just your lip gloss or your languid tongue in his mouth. He needs to know you deeply, fervently.
His fingers drag inside you, a slight curl every time you buck your hips. He hears your whines, sees you dripping down his hand, shimmery and inviting.
Then he pulls out, much to your loud chagrin. And before he can scrounge up any last attempt at control, his fingers are in his mouth and he’s groaning at the taste—so sweet, he could choke.
“Oh, fuck,” he grumbles, mouth full as you stare at him. He almost feels the need to apologize. He robbed you of the friction you were so desperately seeking just so he could be selfish. Though, he feels like he might never stop being selfish around you, so maybe he’ll allow the precedent.
He’ll blame the beast. It’s not really him.
It’s not him who wants to drown in you, force you to ride his face until he passes out. It’s not him who wants to leave bite marks along your quivering thighs until salt coats your cheeks and you beg him just to fuck you.
It’s not him who wants to live in your sweltering heat, carve out a place for himself. Make your walls know the shape of his cock, feel you milk him dry until something takes and you’re his and a part of him is yours.
It’s not him, it’s the rotted want.
The need that grows hot, like a wound that has festered long enough. A gash you cut into him sometime ago.
Bleeding for years and he never even knew it.
The infection has driven him mad.
But he’s beginning to think maybe you’re suffering just the same. Fevered skin and heavy limbs, weak from the wait. Like him. Withered and hungry. So long watching the have’s, resolved to be a have not—
“Eddie, please, I need you.” Your hips search for him, for pleasure, for friction, and he drops lower, his breath spreading over your fluttering folds.
“I know, sweets, I know. But I gotta get you all ready, gotta make it good for you,” he whispers, staring as fresh arousal glints in the golden rays. It’s like you’re trying to entice, to coax.
“‘S already good,” you slur, and it sounds like the words are burning to ash on your tongue. He can feel you overheating. “‘S so good, please, just—”
“Said you trust me, right?” He smooths a hand up your body until he finds your breast, kneading it some more.
“Yes,” you huff, scooting closer to him.
He licks his lips, and the lie comes quicker than he’d like. “Just a little bit more. Wanna make sure you’re all re—”
His voice becomes muffled as he presses his face against your cunt like a starved, rabid thing. Your fingers thread deep through his curls—a knee-jerk reaction—and he laps at you with open-mouthed kisses and agonizingly precise flicks of his tongue.
You squeal and your thighs threaten to close around his head, but his fingers sink into the supple flesh, prying you open as his tongue breaches your slit with pointed thrusts.
Your back bows, arching high off the table and he pulls you closer to him, finally satisfying what has felt like an insatiable ache.
Because it’s different with you. He’s never felt this…full. Every pulse, every lewd slurp, fills him; he gorges himself on you. On your taste, on the way your moans crash over themselves like waves trying to drag you both under.
His fingers slip in once more and your body goes rigid—the perfect picture of marbleized ecstasy. His tongue circles your clit and pleasure carves into your every curve, sculpting a release that courses through you like rolling thunder.
His name dies a thousand times on your parted lips, and your hips begin to flee.
“O-Oh, God!”
He slows to a stop, smoothing a thumb over your twitching muscles. “Fuck, you taste so good— Knew you would,” he pants, sucking his fingers clean. He settles over you, whispering against your mouth. “Knew you would—”
“Tell me I’m yours.”
It’s sudden. An order.
Every syllable hammers into him, shattering something fragile. Shards of control—of disbelief, of belonging—bite at his skin. He’s paralyzed by it, a nerve punctured somewhere deep inside.
And you look worried, like that simple sentence wasn’t meant to land so heavy, but you don’t take it back. Instead, “Tell me I can be yours.”
He swallows hard, nearly choking on nothing.
He has wanted. Longer than you, he thinks.
But it’s all been in vain.
Then you show up, move mountains and shift worlds with only your audacious honesty and a quarter of a joint for courage. He could really learn a thing or two from you—
“Yeah,” he whispers, staring into eyes he never thought he’d see this close. “You’re mine.”
With a shuddering breath and a kiss so gentle, he’s almost certain reality falls away, his mind latches onto the moment your hands blindly find his jeans, urging the material down his thighs.
He helps you, watching intently as you take him in—all of him—his cock weeping and flexing, reaching for something he never imagined asking for.
You don’t speak, but he sees a reflection in the shine of your iris. It’s familiar. It commands. It guides as you drag your fingers along corded muscle with a level of reverence that leaves him dizzy.
Peering down, he holds back every sound, his chest heaving from the marathon of your touch.
You’re pacing yourself. Exploring—testing, in a way, like you’re figuring out what makes him tick.
Confidently kneading here, a delicate brush there.
Sinew twitching, his length jumping, stomach flipping.
Your nails rake through the dark curls at his navel and you follow the trail until it grows coarse, an observant hum at his body’s reaction.
“Pretty,” you mutter lowly.
His frame trembles, the single word falling from your lips like a ton of bricks.
As your hands wander, you don’t bother with permission and that almost makes him double over.
There’s no question of can I? There’s only the surety of being yours, like an apodictic artifact you’ve excavated from a shallow grave.
Because he did lay it to rest.
So many times.
Every morning his head lifted from his pillow, he buried it again. Every time your skirt caressed his desk, he threw roses. Every laugh he never caused, he said a prayer.
But he could not abide an eternity of peace.
Darkness would fall and he’d dig and dig and dig, the dirt already loose and the trees whispering their greetings. He’d drag up old ghosts—truths only meant for the moon—and dance with them all night.
Then, like clockwork, golden light would send him reaching for the shovel; the sun would rise and he was resolved to live without.
Now it’s you who has disturbed the holy ground and it’s freeing. To be exposed. To be known.
Your gaze settles on his face, and he wishes he could understand the thoughts in your mind, the ramblings behind your eyes.
For a second, he thinks he recognizes the quiet curve of your lips, but—
“So pretty.”
He chokes, his body jerking as your hand circles his cock, firm, yet gentle. Possessive.
Your unwavering attention and innocent smile turns the blood in his veins molten. His hips buck into your grip, unintentionally coating your soft palm in the sticky precum dribbling from his tip.
“S-Shit, sweetheart—”
He hunches over, weathered wood scratching against his knees as he tries to warn, to caution you on just how easy he is. How little effort it’d take him to lose it, to let himself fuck your hand like a poor, desperate slip of a thing.
“I’m ready,” you say, leading him down. “Please.”
He allows your thighs to hitch onto his hips, allows you to hold him, and he allows himself to be this close. To find purchase between your legs, to indulge in the heat of your core.
He memorizes your features—the determined furrow of your brow, the flutter of your lashes. The version of you before him.
He so badly wants to tell you what he sees.
“God, you’re— Fuck!”
Your breath hitches as you press his cock to your folds, and he tries for coherence, but it all falls away when he feels you. Soft and wet and so inviting; you’re killing him slowly.
“Please, Eddie,” you huff, your hips rolling like you mean to catch him. “Need to feel you, I swear to—”
The sentence shatters on a sharp moan the moment he takes control, letting his length glide against your slit. He’s coated in no time, practically drowning in you, but he doesn’t stop.
It’s like a trance, the way he moves, watching fresh drops of precum mix with your arousal. He wants to taste that, too. You and him, together. He wants to know.
You don’t seem to notice his paralysis, instead focusing on bucking your hips just right, and when his tip catches on your entrance, something shocks him into motion.
Your body wraps around him shallowly, sucking the blunt edge of him in. He doesn’t fight it, doesn’t ignore your babbled pleas for more.
For once in his life, he allows himself to take. It’s not begrudging permission, not shameful resignation to his more selfish nature. It’s enthusiastic, it’s encouraged, it’s accepted.
He pushes into you slowly, meeting your parted lips with ragged breaths, and your walls cling to him in a joyous welcome. Your pulse drums against his length, squeezing him in a sudden clench; he thinks he mutters advice, something about relaxing, but he’s not sure.
Reality is bending and he’s thought about this so much, imagined this very moment countless times, and yet, nothing could have prepared him for how your nails take a chunk out of him, how you’re trying with all your might to pull his hips closer, huffing in impatience and cracking under the need.
You’re just like him.
He hadn’t realized it until now.
He saw shadows, heard the strain of your voice.
But he hadn’t looked in your eyes, hadn’t been near enough to hear the call.
The call of the hungry and withered. Of the wanton and greedy.
He hears it now. Loud and clear.
Responding in a bellowing groan, he sinks into you fully. His lips flutter over your face, savoring your once-delicate features as they warp in pleasure.
“F-Fuck! Ed— Eddie, more,” you cry, squirming for friction.
“More,” he echoes mindlessly, latching onto the order. A real kiss, sweet and loaded like a gun soon to go off, then, “More. The pretty girl wants more— Gets what she wants.”
The words fall from his tongue with little thought—little care. Static whirs in his brain, blocking out everything but you.
Drawing back steadily, he steals one more glance at you—checking in—then drops down in a sudden snap, guided by your fingers digging into the taut muscle of his ass.
Sweat beads at his spine as his skin sticks to yours on every impact. His arms hook under your knees, changing the angle just to hear that shrill whine he’s quickly growing addicted to.
All you manage to say is his name, over and over again like his thrusts are evicting every syllable from your chest.
The shadows rise, spreading rapidly, and it feels much like possession coursing through him.
He shudders, his stuttered breaths syncopating with the pulse of your cunt, choking him on every shove in. Your eyes have rolled back now, and your body moves with him, pliant, as if his to mold—to inflict upon, however he sees fit.
A malleable offering of sheer innocence, laid at his altar.
And it was your idea.
The lamb’s idea to come to slaughter.
“F-Feels good, huh?” he grits, watching you surrender to him so beautifully.
Your response catches, snagged halfway up your throat, clawed back by a resounding whimper as you nod.
“Yeah, it feels good,” he parrots, fighting back the raging fire deep in his gut—the one that threatens to engulf you, too. Because he’s not done yet. Not nearly.
His hips pound into you, cock dragging along your walls at a punishing pace. The beast hums and he smirks as you try to form sentences.
“S-So— Agh! I— Mmmph!”
He nods like he understands every unspoken word. “Now you see why I had to get you all ready? Hm? You were so cute, thinkin’ you could just take it. So brave, comin’ here, all sweet on the freak.”
“Eddie!”
You have the audacity to paw at him, to pull, to try to meet his strokes in crumbling desperation. He drops your legs, shoving your hands above your head as he presses down onto you, pinning you against the picnic table, the structure rocking with the movement.
His long, rhythmic thrusts dwindle to swift, sharp ruts, the action bordering on animalistic.
“But now look at you. All mine,” he huffs, dark eyes roving over your trembling body. Then his gaze travels lower, where his cock burrows into you—where you take him so easily, opening up like he said the magic word a thousand times over. “Practically made f’me, fuckin’ look at you. Stretched full and so damn pretty, too. We fit real nice together, don’t we, baby?”
You whine and he maneuvers your wrists into one hand, helping to prop your head up with the other.
“Look at you,” he repeats, firmer this time. “So wet, you’re drownin’ me, sweetheart.”
Something splinters on your face and he follows your eyeline, notices it fixed on the milky ring that circles the base of his thick shaft and the matted down curls you couldn’t stop admiring earlier.
“Oh,” he drawls, a wicked, wolfish grin stretching his lips. “You like that?”
You nod and he practically preens. You are just like him.
“Like seein’ me covered in you? Marked?”
Your response is nothing more than a brittle whimper and he can feel you clench around him, already so close to falling into the after—the space in time where you will know what it feels like to be thoroughly picked apart, to be undone. By him.
“You’re markin’ me,” he growls into your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses along your jugular, trying not to bite. “Think it’s only fair you let me do the same, hm? What do you say, pretty girl? Gonna let me really fill you up?”
“P-Please! Oh, God, please, Eddie—”
His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight, practiced circles on the swollen bud and you freeze, arching into his chest, searing your sweat-soaked flesh to his. Your cries fall silent as you gape, convulsing at every third swipe he makes.
Your walls trap him in a vice grip, fluttering and milking rope after rope of cum from his flexing length. He shivers uncontrollably, feeling his warm spend flood the tight space until it leaks, shoveled out by his now-pitiful ruts.
He tries to prolong it. Tries to steal the moment from time itself and live in it; play house with the present. But then his body finally gives out, muscles slackening, and your arms are there to catch him, welcoming the iron hold he traps you in.
Raspy whispers are muttered into your neck, tattooed by the heat of his breath; quiet sentiments he’s not certain you hear over the noise of two settling souls. And maybe it’s better that way. Maybe they’re things to hoard—at least for a little while longer.
He trails kisses up your jaw, blindly searching for your lips, only to find them unresponsive. Worry fills him immediately.
Maybe he was too rough. He did notice the half-moon marks scattered along your thighs.
Maybe he was too mouthy. He can never think straight when it comes to you.
Maybe he was just too much—
“Eddie,” you call gently, pulling him from somewhere deep and dark.
He meets your eyes, surprised to see them wide and wanting, shining with that honest gleam that makes him feel so exposed.
“You are mine.”
So you heard.
He wasn’t cautious and he said the words meant for an empty bedroom out loud. And you heard.
Your fingers thread through his curls, dragging his wavering attention back to you.
“You are mine,” you repeat, softer but no less confident.
He wonders how something so delicate could detonate something so sturdy. Years and years of denial, blown to smithereens in three words.
And you make it look easy.
Make it sound plausible.
That he could be yours, just as much as you want to be his.
He nods, hanging onto you like a lifesaver as debris from the wreckage floats by. He swallows and his voice barely forms around the letters, breaking under the weight of it all.
“O-Okay.”
And he surrenders.
He believes you.
A/N: For the love of god, please be sweet and talk to me about this fic. I think I looked at it for too long and now I don’t know if it’s maybe the worst thing I’ve ever written or if I’m just too close to it rn, I’m being so for real.
summary_ Hanno, the man you loved, was getting married, you left Numidia and when he found you again, you were married to one of the emperors of Rome.
warnings_ historical inaccuracy, vague semi public sex, angst, sexism and misogyny, fluff but angst, a lot of canon divergence bc I said so, FLUFF, no proofread.
notes_ pls listen to mermaids and queen of peace from Florence + The Machine, there’s so many Paul Mescal type of vibe songs
✰ Index (+ fics here)
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The sun burned your skin, often leaving carmine splotches across your shoulders, arms, and neck. But you loved collecting shells and finding pearls to sell. The water was warm as well but soothed the heat of the sun.
Loneliness wasn’t a stranger. Being a kid in the sandy streets all alone, with no family made you judgmental.
It was a fluke that you knew how to speak in Masri, Etruscan, and Latin. With an uncertain origin, you could only guess that you might have come from Egypt or Etruria Padana.
As a teenager, you arrived in Numidia, where you found a job that made you a pioneer in the waters.
Everyone let their hands get wet to fish. But barely, they took the time to dig deeper and for a longer period to collect shells, oysters, and fascinating underwater treasures.
Over the years, you earned the names of “siren” or “sea foam woman”. The children enjoyed your stories of mermaids and sailors in mysterious waters, making you a trustworthy friend to almost everyone in Numidia.
“Imagine the sunset as if someone had splotched pink, orange, and purple over the aquamarine sea,” you say pointing at the shore. “That’s when all of the mermaids swam to the surface and played”
The children giggle and you chuckle, feeling that you shake as doing so, you quickly look down at the sleeping baby in your arms, wondering if you have woken him up. False alarm. Her mother, Nessarea, was a good friend of yours and she trusted you enough to leave her kid as she worked trimming satin in the market.
“But when they looked around, they found a big ship full of sailors. The mermaids got scared and hid…”
“Did the sailors hurt them?” A little girl with braids asked.
“No, dear. The sailors proposed a deal. They would visit the mermaids once a year and take one of them. In exchange, treasures would be given”
“And that’s why you’re here, y/n! You’re a mermaid and the sailors took you!” Soon an adult masculine laugh was mixed with yours, making you frown and look around. Only to find an unmistakable pair of blue eyes looking at you. That makes your smile grow and your heart to warmth.
“I’m not certain about that, little one” The boy makes a pout and at a certain distance you hear a bamboo flute. The sign of mothers calling their children to go home.
“No, y/n. You have to tell us who was the first mermaid to go with the sailors. Or else we’ll assume it was you “
“I’ll keep it a secret for tonight” you finalize, standing up and saying goodbye to each child. You watch them run away, to the village. And it’s only you and the baby in your arms, who started squirming and stretching.
And your dear Hanno.
“Parents will come and complain to you…” he says, remaining seated on a big rock and looking in awe at you.
“Let the children believe in fantasy while they can” you answer, tending the baby and smiling at his tiny hands forming fists. “Soon they’ll understand I am no mermaid”
“Hardly. Every day there’s a sea foam woman on the shore…” you glare at him with disdain, only to laugh again. He made space for you to sit beside him. And for some minutes he would only look at you taking care of the baby.
“How did you know I was here?” You ask eyeing him. Subtly he blushes.
“It isn’t a secret you gather all the children to tell them tells” you chuckle.
“Like a star chases the sun…” you say resting your head on his shoulder. Which he finds lovely. “You always find me, Hanno”
“And I will always will…”
Hanno was a reserved man. You met him years ago when he also arrived in Numidia. He was lonely like you, rarely spoke about his past, and claimed to be centered in the present.
“Here… I brought you something” he said, digging his hand under the pocket of his tunic. He took out a necklace. Made with shells you had collected.
“Hanno… this is beautiful. It must have costed a lot. You shouldn’t…” you almost whisper, holding the piece of art with one hand and looking at it in love.
Just like you were with him.
“It’s a present, y/n. No inquires in the cost”
“Thanks. I truly love it…” he nods, urging you to lift your hair so he can place the necklace around your neck.
You look at the shore again, now almost in complete darkness. But soon you get lost as you feel his calloused fingers in your exposed skin. He was a farmer, with tanned skin, burnt blonde hair, and a beard that made him look like a Roman prince.
It was a mystery the day you fell in love with him. As well as when you would confess it.
“What is he doing?” Hanno asks after putting the necklace around you. You frown confused but soon you understand. The baby in your arms wanted to grab his beard. “Ajay likes you, Hanno”
The man looks carefully at the baby. He wasn’t around children very often. But he enjoyed how well you handled them. It made him want a family. And he often wondered if you wanted the same. With him…
Little Ajay wrapped his tiny hand around Hanno’s finger and it made your heart swell.
“I’m getting a piece of the land where we have the green sprouts” he announces and it makes you squeal in happiness. “Hanno, that’s the most exciting news!”
“I’m having a home” he realized as you were ushering to hug him, slightly sandwiching Ajay.
Hanno bit his tongue, almost saying what he dreamed. Asking if you wanted to be part of his home.
…
When rain fell upon the dry and arid land of Numidia, you felt superstitious, feeling it was a bad omen.
You hadn’t seen Hanno in a couple of days. The last time you saw him he said he would come and visit you. The spring nights you spent together made you realize how in love you were. It was uncertain if Hanno loved you back but you thought it might have been mutual. Because of the way his eyes locked on yours, the way his hands carefully traced some spots on your body, the smiles that felt very personal to you.
Hanno made you feel special. He was your best friend. The person you would sacrifice for and the one who could take out your heart as dramatic as it sounded.
“You’ve waited for him for days, y/n,” Nessarea said, rocking Ajay in her arms as she patted your shoulder. “Are you gonna tell him about the matron?”
“It depends…” you answer, sighing, looking at the valley in front of you. The clothes hanging, waiting to get dry swayed with the warm air.
“On what?”
“I’m telling him I love him. If Hanno loves me back, I will forget about the matron” The old woman from the elite saw you dancing and asked if you knew how to write and read. You knew the minimum because Hanno taught you, but you needed more. She claimed she could educate you, but not in Numidia. She didn’t tell you where.
“You really love him that much?” Nessarea asked.
“So much that I would remain in ignorance just to be with him”
“I would’ve done the same for Calisto” Your friend had lost his husband before Ajay was born. You felt terrible for her, as she had also been in love.
“You can love again, Nessarea. Calisto will always be yours. But you can be happy again, Ajay too…” you say kissing the baby’s head.
When you turn around, you see Hanno walking through the hanging clothes and a smile appears.
“He’s here!” You announce, literally running outside the little hut, straight to his arms.
He accepts your embrace and you hear him chuckling.
“You worried me, Hanno!” you say after breaking the hug, giving him a little punch on his strong chest. “You took so long to come over”
“I’m sorry” he didn’t look as happy as he was when he first saw you. You sensed he even looked nervous. “I’ve been busy”
“Let’s go inside, it’s raining” You take his hand but he doesn’t follow you. Which makes you turn around and look again at him, expectantly.
“I’m getting married to Arishat” the oxygen drained from your lungs. Your smile disappeared and Hanno noticed it. “Her father made the offer last night and I couldn’t say no”
Arishat was a couple of years older than you, the same age as Hanno. Her father was a warrior and they were native from Numidia but they were away for some time. They arrived back a couple of months ago and Hanno started working with his father, where he met the woman.
“You couldn’t say no? Hanno, you can’t marry someone you don’t love”
“I guess I’ll learn to love her. Because it is-….” he was so close to saying that the one he loved was you.
“A matron saw me dancing a couple of days ago. We met and she wants to educate me” The decision was taken, Hanno had decided. Rage filled you, taking a step back, marking the distance between you and the man.
“A matron? Likely a filthy Roman scum” you frown at his words, crossing your arms.
“You’re not happy that I’m getting educated? That I’ll stop being just a woman that gets wet to put a damn piece of bread on that creaky table?” You spat out, pointing at the table that could be seen inside the hut.
“You know it’s not like that, y/n…” Hanno sighed, brushing his hair in exasperation. “You’re perfect just like you are, with the things you do…”
“Well, I want more” Hanno could feel the venom in your voice, he could see the coldness growing in your eyes and the distance you had placed.
You sigh, knowing it’s over. He’s getting married to a strong woman, one that everyone loved and praised along her family, and he would be happy as time passed. If he agreed to marry someone he barely knew was because he didn’t love you as you thought. Just as a friend…
“Congratulations on the engagement,” you say leaning to grab your empty basket, ready to go and collect shells, even in the pouring rain. “I truly hope you’re very happy with her”
“Come back, y/n…” you hear him calling you as your steps grow further. Tears swell in your eyes and you grab the basket even harder, hoping it would dissipate your need to scream in agony. “Please, y/n…”
Your figure slowly disappeared through the meadows, no longer a picture in the valley.
He screamed that he loved you. Hoping you would come back.
But you didn’t.
And hopefully this time he wouldn’t find you.
That night Hanno came back, willing to break the proposal and stay with you, but Nessarea opened the door with teary eyes, revealing you were gone. You promised to keep her and Ajay safe. Hanno found your basket of shells, all of them cracked, and only one of them remained untouched.
He wanted to cry out in desperation. If he would’ve said it when he had you in front of him, if he had chosen better words, if he had run faster, but he kept that cream iridescent shell under his tunic. Promising to hold on to your memory.
…
Promicia was the name of the matron that took you under her wing. After a month by her side, your hair was trimmed, and your skin felt like silk, unburnt. Your body was covered in fine fabrics, and she even arranged to get you a pair of earrings made of gold.
Promicia was cold, even heartless. But she was willing to make you shine just to make her name go even up higher leagues.
And she did it.
She made you forget everything you knew about Numidia. The siren everyone claimed to know actually turned into sea foam, to never be seen again. She washed away, melting away, to overseas.
“Keep your chin up and shoulders straight, girl,” Promicia said coldly. “I want you to look perfect when we arrive at the palace”
“Yes, dominus”
Even when you forgot who you were before arriving in Rome, you constantly remembered Nessarea as well as Ajay.
And Hanno. But as soon as you were reminded that he married, that he already had a home. Your blood boiled, to then succumb into sadness. Hence why you preferred to avoid his memory. Only resulting in pain.
And when Promicia announced that one of the emperors of Rome was interested in you, you had no time to go back to the past.
Your steps were confident as you ascended through the stairs of the most exotic and ostentatious place you’ve ever been to. The guards had luxurious uniforms, the carpets were perfectly handmade and when you reached the top, two red-haired men were standing there.
One was taller, with fine makeup around his eyes and cheekbones. The other had messy hair, a crown with leaves, and a little monkey resting on his shoulder. Their names are Geta and Caracalla.
You wondered which of the two twins was the one that wanted you.
Promicia ushered you to wait behind. She walked towards the twins and knelt, talking in Latin with them. You understood she was saying you came from Egypt, that you could read, write, sing, play the lyre, and dance as well as speak three languages.
You had no desire to fall in love again but if Promicia could secure you would have a shiny future, with power and security, you would give in.
“Come closer, girl…” the old woman called you and you obeyed. “Kneel down in respect of our emperors…”
You do as she says, your cream dress pooling on the floor. You look down, completely nervous but eager to know what will happen.
The fabric with dark blue and embroidered golden details appear in your view. You understand it’s Geta the one that is interested in you.
“Look at me, says” You raise your head slowly, matching his brown eyes. “What do you want?” Emperor Geta asked, his fingers resting on your chin, with his cold rings sending shivers down your spine.
“Mercy I implore…” he smiles at you and it’s evil, but loving at the same time. Like he has found something he could win over his twin brother.
And to you, it meant leaving the sea foam woman behind. A mermaid was taken away from the island, her teeth sharpening, ready to sink in whoever’s men tried to defy her. Even when it was the Roman Empire.
…
The count was lost after the third fig you ate. It was hot and dry and it made you feel irritated.
One day ago Acacius returned to Rome after conquering Numidia. Which led to having a doting husband that was beyond happy.
“Today we’ll see the new gladiators in the celebration and tomorrow the games will begin” Geta announced stepping behind the chair you were sitting at. Your eyes wandered into the mausoleum that was visible from the terrace of the palace, but soon you were distracted by the lips of your husband, leaving a trail of kisses. From your cheek to your neck.
“You’re excited, vita mea,” you say, tilting your head, giving him more space to wander. He pretends to innocently stop his kisses near your cleavage. Making you huff.
“You seem excited too…” he said chuckling, oblivious that you cared for him, but what you enjoyed with him was far from being devoted. “We’re leaving early today, y/n. Just after the entertainment…”
You hated Roman entertainment. You couldn’t feel nor see the thrill of witnessing death, violence, and chaos. But your husband loved it.
It wasn’t perfect, both of you often argued. But you always find a way to make up: with sex.
“Sure, my dear,” you say, turning around to kiss him on the lips. He soon leaves with a giant smile on his face.
Geta was head over heels for you. Sometimes he would use you to show off, especially to his brother.
But he stopped getting involved in orgies or requesting whores just because of you. He was extremely possessive but tender. Always make time for yourself and value your opinion. Which you took advantage of.
Weeks ago, when you learned Geta and Caracalla would send their army to Numidia. You had to beg General Acacius to take a longer route. Only that way your message to Nessarea would arrive in time for her to escape. The General was hesitant but as soon you got naked he changed his mind.
Upon his return, you cherished him with a hot and steamy welcome, sneaking out of the strong grip of your husband.
You wondered if Hanno made it alive. He was always good at self-defense, but if he tried to go against the Roman Empire, he would lose. You even prayed for General Acacius to survive the attack, above your once dear Hanno.
And you had grown fond of Geta. A weak emperor like his brother. Often clueless about what to do with the power they had. Making them a naïve pair. But he was nice to you, treating you like an empress.
You barely looked at the gladiators fighting and tearing the fancy tables filled with food. You hated looking at violence with no point, no reason to be. So you moved away, sneaking through the people to get the side of your husband.
Geta praised the anger of the gladiators. And he was very interested in one brought from Numidia. You heard he was insatiable, biting animals and killing without mercy.
So hearing Geta applauding to the spectacle said man had done, made you roll your eyes as you passed through people that mostly made reverences to you.
You had no desire to look up and see who was the man that had half of Rome intrigued.
Until he started reciting poetry. It made your steps slower, it made you feel cautious and spied on.
“Smooth is the descent, and easy is the way…”
“Psyche followed a path to prove her love to Eros. Like a star chases the sun…” you suddenly gasp. Turning to where the voice came from. You look terrified when you meet the eyes of the gladiator speaking. Saying the story you always loved.
Hanno is there, breathing for air, sweating, with blood dripping. He looks hurt, tired, enraged. But he had eyed you before you did, transmitting some hope and shock to you.
And it didn’t go unnoticed by your husband.
“What nonsense is this poet saying?” Geta asks with anger well hidden, possessively hurrying to grab you by the waist.
“He bit a monkey, he might have caught a disease, Amica mea” you whisper, acting stupid, pretending to be careless and clueless, like you don’t know the bloody man steps away from you was never important to you.
Hanno looks disappointed by your reaction. He stepped back, looking lost.
“Hmm…” Geta is not convinced, but you calm him well enough to let the matter die.
But you are in shambles. As soon as the celebration is over, you send Geta to wait for you in the palace. But you go straight to Macrinus, who was almost gone.
“I would like to talk to your gladiator” he turns around and smiles proudly.
“He put on a show today. How did you like it?” you have to force a smile and pretend to be excited.
“Oh, it was marvelous. I can’t wait to see what he’s doing tomorrow on the first day of the games. Because you’re bringing him, right?” Macrinus nods. “Of course, your highness”
“Good. I wish to see him. The poetry he recited was very touching. I must know where it comes to that charm” Macrinus believes your lie and nods again.
“Of course, follow me…”
…
You ended up in a bathhouse. Macrinus said Hanno was given a private room since he won the fight. Also said he was having a meeting and then would come back for his gladiators. So you didn’t have enough time.
And with four guards that had the order of not letting anyone inside until you came out, you reunited every strength you had to step inside.
A door creaked and soon you heard the sound of water splashing. When you looked up, you pulled your cloak down and finally met the man who had you in crisis.
“Y/n…” his voice echoed, sounding deeper and hypnotizing.
“Why are you here?” Your clumsy steps made you look nervous, which Hanno quickly noticed. “Who sent you to Macrinus?”
“Numidia was conquered” he simply replied, eyeing at you. Realizing how much you had changed. Your once-free hair was trapped in a weird hairstyle and a crown of leaves and flowers. Your dress looked expensive and your skin was in perfect condition. Certainly looks like royalty.
“I know that”
“Perhaps because you formed part of the decision” that makes you frown.
“I’m not involved in the military issues of Rome” you coldly answer.
“You married the emperor?” He asks, mocking you. But you could also play the same game. Even if it didn’t have an effect on him. Or so you thought.
“Where’s your lady?” He looks down, visibly pissed off.
“She didn’t make it...” you cannot feel anything. “Your beloved General commanded her death under the call of your husband and his brother”
“I’m sorry” you lie.
“No, you don’t. You’ve joined their cause. You became empress of an empire that is ruled by violence and blood” You roll your eyes.
“You know who was in my head when the opportunity presented?” You ask sharply, causing Hanno to remain quiet. “Nessarea and Ajay”
Your statement makes the place turn into eternal silence. He is thinking and it makes you anxious.
“I would do anything to go back to that day and say what I actually wanted…” he doesn’t add more details because is not necessary. “And stop you from leaving”
“I wouldn’t be alive” you answer quickly, opting to not pry about what he wanted to say the day you left. You were unable to fight, and if Rome had attacked with you there, you would’ve died or ended up as a whore, servant or slave. “And my friend with her baby neither”
“Where is she?” Hanno asks with curiosity.
“She settled to the north. Where snow falls in the winter and foreign widows are welcome” With honesty, Hanno felt happiness for the woman and his kid. And that made him feel guilty. Because maybe, deep down, under the ostentatious look you carried, there was the sea foam woman he met. Forced to forget who she was.
“I never asked why you knew all that poetry…” Hanno smirks, ending with a sad smile. “You just know half the truth, y/n”
“That’s why you wanted my attention back at the celebration?” Your voice holds a lot of resentment towards him. Hanno can’t say he doesn’t understand why. But he was also mad at you for becoming a full Roman woman.
“I made you a promise. To always find you no matter what” You walk closer, but as soon as you realize he’s naked underwater, you stop and look away, to the stone wall.
“What’s the point? You’re basically a slave and even if you buy your freedom, I married an emperor” his blood boils. His visible hand forms a fist and it makes you question if he was jealous.
“He doesn’t love you” you chuckle, ignoring your previous shame and taking a seat on the edge of the pool. You would see if you could push some of his buttons.
“Oh, he does love me. He treats me like a queen and always asks for my opinion. He kisses me with adoration and fucks me with devotion…” his jaw tenses at your words and you have to hide your grin.
Both of you are killing each other with your looks. He taps his index finger against the warm edge of the pool, angered. And when you least expect it, his arms come out and drag you down into the water, making you gasp in shock.
“You foolish idiot!” He possessively grabs you by the waist and makes you straddle him, colliding with his chest.
Your dress and hair are drenched, you feel heavy but you don’t miss the way he was holding you. And you know it’s sudden but you have to know something.
“Tell me the truth. You’re the missing prince? The son of Lucilla?” you whisper in his lips, he nods, holding your hips in place. “Hanno is not your real name”
“No. My name is Lucius Verus Aurelius” The shock is great, taking you in the curve. “You have to be very careful”
“I don’t care. But I can’t stand looking at you by the arm of that witless man. I don’t want the General touching you, I don’t want that emperor claiming you his” you smirk.
“But I’m not yours…” he leans forward, eyeing you with a deep gaze that makes you shiver.
“You were mine since the day we met” and he kissed you. “I was a fool for not saying how much I loved you”
“What?” You ask, freezing. “What are you saying?”
“That I love you. I always did” he admits proudly, but also slightly shy. “I wanted to make you part of the home I built. Every time I saw you with Ajay and the other kids, I thought of a family with you. I came back after we argued, willing to break my engagement because I wanted to be with you. But you were gone”
It’s too much. You feel the tears rolling down and before you can clean them, Lucius does it.
“Don’t cry, satis. Now I realize it’s all my fault” his broken smile tears your heart, suddenly making you feel disgusted with what you have become. “But is the truth, my dear y/n”
“Damn you, Lucius Verus Aurelius” you curse between sobs, leaning to kiss him again. His hand softly traced your cheek and the other caressed the skin of your hips.
You let him throw the dress to the floor, the heavy wet sound drenching the carpet.
And as Lucius makes love to you, you realize you’ll never let him go. And you’ll hardly see him dying in the arena.
“I’ll come up with something. But we won’t die separated, love” you say before moaning, midway through his deep thrusts.
You realize no one felt the same way he did. No one filled you well enough, no one worshiped you like him.
He rests his forehead against yours, loving the way you looked on top of him, like an actual siren that gave him the luck of a passionate encounter.
Lucius is sure he will win his freedom. He will kill whoever he needs to make you free as well. He has no hopes of seeing you again but he realizes he had you saying his real name like a mantra. And he kisses you, swallowing your loud moan as you came on his cock.
“Gods, I love you, Lucius” you admit sighing, catching your breath and feeling how he spilled his seed deep within your walls.
“I love you too” he admits, kissing your lips with passion, and love and making a mess of saliva. He would’ve wanted to take you under different circumstances. In a bed, in peace, being free…
Soon a guard pokes his head and looks at the floor, keeping his loyal and respectful status clean.
“Your majesty, we must leave now before Emperor Geta suspects…” you sigh, looking back at Lucius.
“Hold on, Bellator meus” Grabbing his chin, trembling at the itchy feeling of his beard, he nods “Promise me to survive”
“Like a star chases the sun. I will always find my way to you, dear y/n” Giving him a quick peck, you get out of the pool. You put on the dress that was almost completely dry again.
“We’ll be together, Lucius” he nods leaning into the edge of the pool. “I know…”
“I’ll come back to see you tomorrow after the games” and with a last look, you reciprocate the smile he gave you and quickly leave the bathhouse.
That night, in his filthy cell, Lucius pleasantly sleeps, with his hand clutching the shell he kept from you. Knowing all of those nights thinking of you and praying to see you again without hope, were worth it.
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I slammed the fridge door harder than I meant to. The bottles rattled inside and one nearly toppled over, but I didn’t care. My pulse thudded unevenly beneath my skin, anger prickling up the back of my neck.
“You can’t be serious,” I said, voice tight.
Joseph stood in the kitchen doorway, fingers raked through his curls, jaw clenched. He looked exhausted not physically, but that deep emotional tiredness that comes from repeating the same argument too many times.
“I’m serious,” he replied quietly, which made it infinitely worse. “I told you, didn’t I?”
“No,” I snapped. “You didn’t tell me. You casually mentioned you were leaving for two months in a text message, Joseph. Two months. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.”
His head jerked back as if I’d slapped him.
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s the truth.”
He shook his head, laughing once in disbelief, hands dropping to his sides. “Y/N, you know what this job is. You know how unpredictable everything is.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t deserve respect.”
“I respect you more than anyone.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me face-to-face?”
Silence.
It spoke louder than any excuse could have.
I folded my arms, heart pounding in a painful rhythm. “We live together. We share a life. I thought we were building something, and you just...you go and make plans without me like I don’t matter.”
Joseph took a step forward, frustrated hands flung wide. “I didn’t want it to turn into this!”
“Oh, congratulations,” I said sharply. “It did anyway.”
“You’re twisting this.”
“I’m not twisting anything. You’re the one twisting.”
His eyes snapped to mine, dark and smouldering. “Twisting what?”
“The truth.”
He laughed again, angrier this time. “I wasn’t hiding it from you. I was trying to find the right moment.”
“And you never did.”
“That’s because something else always came up!”
“You make it sound like I’m an inconvenience.”
He blinked at that then whispered, “You really think I see you like that?”
I stared at him and didn’t answer.
His nostrils flared. “Wow. Fucking wow.”
I turned away, leaning on the counter so I wouldn’t shake. “You can’t just disappear on me, Joseph.”
“I’m not disappearing, I’m working.”
“It feels the same!”
The air crackled. His voice rose.
“I can’t be in two places at once!”
“And I can’t keep pretending I’m fine with being in second place,” I shot back.
That one landed.
Pain flashed across his face.
“Second place,” he repeated, voice low. “That’s what I am to you?”
“No,” I whispered. “You’re everything to me. That’s the problem.”
He stared at me like the world went blurry behind him.
“You know,” he said slowly, voice rough, “it’s always the same thing. I try to protect you from stress, from worrying, and somehow that makes me the bad guy.”
I looked up sharply.
His gaze locked onto mine, fire in every vein.
“You want me to be the villain?” he asked.
I froze.
He moved closer, chest heaving, eyes practically glowing.
“I can be the villain, baby.”
Everything inside me stopped.
My heart. My breath. My anger.
I folded.
Completely. Happily. Stupidly.
Heat rolled down my spine so quickly I thought my knees might give out. My mind went utterly blank except for one repeating truth
God, that was attractive.
My lips parted, words long forgotten. I wasn’t angry anymore not even a little bit. I was something else entirely, and he knew it.
Joseph’s eyebrows lifted slowly when he saw my reaction. His voice softened, velvet smooth.
“What happened to the shouting?”
“I... um” I swallowed. “I forgot what we were fighting about.”
He laughed, properly laughed, head tilting back in disbelief. “Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his aftershave of sandalwood and cedar and my brain melted even further.
“So one sentence fixes everything?”
“It wasn’t just a sentence.” My voice was embarrassingly breathless. “It was the delivery.”
He grinned, wicked and fond. “Baby.”
My legs actually wobbled at that.
Joseph brushed my hair away from my face, fingertips grazing my cheekbone. The tension between us shifted anger dissolving into something warm, magnetic.
“You terrify me,” I whispered.
“I terrify myself,” he admitted. “Especially when it comes to you.”
He pressed his forehead to mine. Our breathing synced automatically.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” he whispered.
“I don’t either.”
“Good,” he said quietly. “Because this distance thing… it hurts me too. Leaving you isn’t easy. Following my career isn’t simple. But you’re not second place. You’re the reason I want to come home.”
I blinked, throat tightening. “I just want to feel included. Not pushed out of decisions.”
“I know,” he murmured. “And I’m sorry. I should have told you with time to process it, not thrown it at you like scraps.”
I cupped his jaw gently, thumb brushing his lower lip. “I don’t want to be someone you protect from stress. I want to be someone you share it with.”
He inhaled sharply. “You are that person. I just… messed it up.”
I kissed him.
It wasn’t a heated kiss not at first. It was slow, soft, forgiving. He sighed into it, hands settling on my waist, pulling me closer like he’d been missing me even while I was standing right there.
When we broke apart, he rested his lips against my cheek.
“Still angry?” he whispered.
“No,” I admitted. “Mostly embarrassed.”
“Because you folded?”
“Yes.”
He smirked. “You didn’t just fold you evaporated.”
I shoved his shoulder, laughing helplessly. “You made it impossible not to.”
He slid his arms around me fully then, hugging me so tightly I melted into him. My face pressed into the warm skin of his neck, breathing him in.
Our argument felt miles away now insignificant compared to the feel of him holding me like I was home.
“Come here,” he whispered, guiding us towards the sofa.
I curled against his chest, and he draped a blanket over us, thumb brushing slow circles into my shoulder.
For a while, we just lay there in silence, the only sound our breathing.
Then he spoke again, voice low.
“Two months will go fast.”
I looked up at him. “I don’t care how long it is, as long as you still want me at the end of it.”
He cupped my face, eyes soft. “I want you now. Tomorrow. Ten years from now. On stage. On set. In the quiet bits in-between.”
Emotion pooled thickly in my chest.
“We’re messy,” I said quietly.
“God, yes,” he murmured. “But we’re real.”
I tucked myself tighter against him. “Promise me you’ll call me before you leave. Promise me we’ll talk instead of tiptoeing around things.”
He kissed the corner of my mouth. “Promise.”
“And promise me you’ll say that line again sometimes.”
He laughed. “Only if you’re nice to me.”
“No deal.”
Our laughter dissolved into another kiss deeper this time, teeth grazing, fingers threading through hair. His hands slid under my jumper, warm palms against bare skin, grounding me.
When we finally broke apart, breathless, he whispered, “Still think I’m the villain?”
I smiled, tracing his lips with my thumb.
“No,” I murmured. “You’re my hero who pretends he’s the villain because he knows what it does to me.”
He flushed, cheeks pink.
“That’s criminally unfair,” he said.
“I know.”
He kissed me again, slower, more meaningful the kind of kiss that erased every trace of doubt.
I had exactly three regrets as I walked towards Hyde Park.
One- agreeing to a blind date.
Two- agreeing to a blind date in public.
Three- agreeing to a blind date in public at Winter Wonderland, which, on a Saturday a week before Christmas, was basically a swirling vortex of screaming children, couples in matching bobble hats, and mulled-wine-fumes strong enough to take the paint off a car.
But my best friend Hannah had insisted. “You’ll love him,” she’d said, shoving a glittery phone screen under my nose. “He’s gorgeous, he’s funny, he’s genuinely nice,” she’d continued.
Now I stood at the entrance to Winter Wonderland, breath turning to mist, hands shoved into my coat pockets as cinnamon and roasted chestnut smells wafted through the air. Fairy lights twinkled across the park like someone had shaken the world’s poshest snow globe.
And then I saw him.
Joseph Quinn - scarf wrapped round his neck, curls poking out from beneath a black beanie, cheeks flushed pink from the cold.
He was standing beneath a giant inflatable snowman, squinting at his phone like the snowman was heckling him.
My stomach flipped so hard I nearly spat out the mint I’d been nervously chewing.
As I approached, he looked up.
And smiled.
God help me. That smile could end wars.
“You must be Y/N,” he said, walking forward. His voice was warm and low, curling around my name like he’d practised it.
“I hope so,” I joked and he laughed.
“Right,” he said, clapping his gloved hands together, “if we’re both sure we’re the correct people, shall we…?”
He gestured grandly to the glowing expanse of Winter Wonderland.
And just like that, the nerves loosened.
We walked side by side into the madness fairy lights, music, the smell of churros and the awkward first-date tension I’d feared simply didn’t arrive.
“So,” I said, nudging him gently, “how did Hannah force you into this?”
Joseph pulled a tragic face. “She told me you were brilliant. Then bribed me with baked goods.”
“Ah,” I nodded solemnly, “the classic technique.”
“To be fair,” he added, glancing at me sideways, “I didn’t need that much convincing.”
I inhaled sharply. He smiled like he knew exactly what that sentence had done to me.
We reached the first food stall giant steaming cups of mulled wine.
“Two?” Joseph asked.
“I’ve never had mulled wine,” I admitted.
He gasped. “Right. That’s it. Our only goal tonight is to educate you.”
We each grabbed a cup, the warmth seeping into my fingers.
I took a sip sweet, spicy, hot enough to sting my lips and groaned embarrassingly loud.
“Oh my god.”
Joseph raised his eyebrows. “Was that a good groan or…?”
“It tastes like Christmas in a cup” I said. “Comforting and emotionally overwhelming.”
He laughed so hard he sloshed cider onto his coat. “Brilliant. I am absolutely stealing that.”
We wandered through the markets rows of wooden huts selling scarves, candles, handmade jewellery, and inexplicably expensive cheese.
Joseph stopped at a stall decorated with fairy lights and carved wooden ornaments. He picked up a little hand-painted angel.
“This looks like you,” he said casually.
I rolled my eyes. “I do not look like a Christmas angel.”
“Oh I don’t know,” he teased. “You’ve got that glow.”
“Joseph.”
“Y/N.”
We stared at each other, and the air between us shimmered with possibility.
Then a toddler ran head-first into Joseph’s legs.
He yelped. I snorted wine up my nose. The child laughed manically before sprinting away into the crowd.
Joseph brushed himself off. “Well,” he said, deadpan, “I’m glad I’m irresistible to at least one demographic tonight.”
“You’re very approachable,” I teased. “For toddlers.”
“Which is exactly the confidence boost I needed.”
We moved towards the fairground rides. Bright lights spun. Screams echoed down the aisles. A rollercoaster rattled overhead, making me jump.
Joseph noticed immediately.
“You alright?” he asked.
“Perfectly fine,” I lied. “Just… you know… mildly terrified.”
He stopped in front of a giant neon sign reading:
ICE KINGDOM MAZE
ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!
“Oh no,” I groaned. “No way.”
Joseph grinned wickedly. “You scared?”
“Of course not,” I said bravely. “I just don’t trust you at all.”
He offered his hand. “Come on, angel.”
My heart did a dramatic gymnastics routine. But I took his hand.
Warm, steady, confident.
Inside, the maze was freezing carved ice walls, glittering blue light, fake snow falling from hidden vents.
“This is stunning,” I whispered.
“It is,” he agreed but he was looking at me.
I pretended not to notice.
Halfway through, Joseph declared he knew the perfect shortcut.
He did not.
We got so lost we walked past the same ice sculpture five times.
“That polar bear is judging us,” I muttered.
Joseph studied it. “It does seem disappointed.”
My teeth began chattering. “We’re going to die in here.”
“If we die,” he said solemnly, “I want you to know I’ve always admired your coat.”
“Is that a joke or the hypothermia talking?”
A pause him pretend thinking “Bit of both.”
We burst into laughter so hard a nearby couple glared at us. Finally, mercifully, we reached the exit.
Cold and triumphant, Joseph held up his hands. “Success!”
“We failed every single part,” I pointed out.
“Yes,” he admitted, grinning, “but we failed together.”
My cheeks heated not from the cold this time.
We headed to the ice-skating rink. Music drifted across the shimmering ice, couples twirling underneath fairy-light netting.
“Fancy it?” he asked.
“Oh god,” I said. “You don’t want to see me skate.”
He smirked. “Actually, I really do.”
“You’re evil.”
“So I’ve been told.”
Minutes later, skates on, I clung to the barrier like it was the last helicopter out of a war zone.
Joseph glided out confidently, graceful to the point of insult.
He skated back to me, holding both hands out.
“Trust me.”
And somehow I did.
He pulled me onto the ice, my legs wobbling like newborn deer, and I shrieked, grabbing onto his coat.
Joseph was laughing, eyes crinkled. “You’re doing brilliantly!”
“I am clinging to you like a koala,” I yelled.
“Yes,” he said cheerfully, “and it’s adorable.”
We skated well, he skated and dragged me around the rink. Every time I attempted independence, I nearly died. At one point I swung so wildly my scarf flew off and hit a stranger in the face.
Joseph was crying with laughter. “I’m serious,” he gasped. “I think this may be the best night of my life.”
I nearly fell again. He caught me arms around my waist, face inches from mine.
The world slowed. The fairy lights blurred.
“See?” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”
My heart absolutely melted. If he’d asked, I would have proposed right there on the ice in front of two hundred tourists.
After forty minutes of near-death experiences, we escaped, limbs intact.
“Worth it?” he asked.
I leaned against him as we walked out. “Shockingly… yes.”
We browsed more stalls he bought us chocolate-dipped strawberries, I forced him to try a candied apple which immediately stuck to his curls.
He swore poetically while I doubled over laughing.
“You could help,” he complained.
“And miss this? Never.”
He shook his head, smiling helplessly.
The night air grew colder and our steps slowed.
Somehow our hands found each other again fingers lacing easily, as though they’d been meant to.
“Can I admit something?” he said, voice quieter now.
“Always.”
“I was terrified before I arrived.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “You’re… gorgeous. And funny. And you walked up like you actually believed in yourself.”
I laughed softly. “I nearly turned around twice.”
He squeezed my hand. “Thank god you didn’t.”
We drifted to a quieter corner of Hyde Park stalls thinning out, music distant, snow beginning to fall, soft and perfect.
Under a string of glowing lights, Joseph stopped walking.
I turned to him. Chest tight.
He brushed snow from my hair, fingers gentle.
“I had a feeling,” he murmured, “you’d be something special.”
My breath caught. “And…?”
“And I was right.”
Silence stretched warm, charged, full of possibility.
Then he leaned in. Slowly, giving me time to pull away.
I didn’t.
Our lips met soft, warm, tasting faintly of cinnamon and cider.
Everything around us blurred away.
When we finally broke apart, I was grinning like an idiot.
“Well,” I whispered, “that was nice.”
He laughed, forehead resting against mine. “Nice?”
“Alright,” I corrected, “life-changing.”
“Better.”
We walked back through the twinkling lights hand-in-hand.
At the park exit, we both paused not wanting to leave the magic behind.
Joseph turned to me.
“So…” he said casually, “second date?”
“Definitely.”
He kissed my cheek softly. “Good. Because I’m already planning it.”
“Confident, are we?”
“Extremely.”
We stepped apart slowly reluctant, smiling, hearts full.
“Goodnight, angel,” he murmured.
“Goodnight, Joseph.”
I walked away through the falling snow, cheeks burning, chest glowing, feeling like every Christmas song had suddenly started making sense.
I never thought my rock bottom moment would involve sprinting down a communal hallway in slippers, banging on my neighbour’s door at nine o’clock on Christmas morning.
But here I was.
Knuckles on cheap wood. Hair in chaos. Heart in full panic mode.
“Eddie!” I hissed, knocking again, harder. “Eddie, open the bloody door!”
From inside I heard a muffled groan. Something clattered. A curse.
Then the door opened a crack.
Eddie Munson stood there in pyjama bottoms, shirtless, curls tangled, eyes heavy with sleep.
My brain genuinely stopped working.
“What,” he rasped, rubbing his face, “is on fire now?”
“Me,” I whispered, because apparently every brain cell I had melted the second I saw him half-clothed.
His eyebrows lifted. “Interesting. Elaborate?”
I took a breath. Right. Focus.
“It’s Christmas lunch today. My entire family is already at my parents’ house. And my brother…”
I swallowed.
“My brother invited my ex.”
Eddie blinked slowly. “Your ex. Luke?”
Oh god.
“Yes.”
“The one who ‘forgot’ your birthday?” Eddie asked, using air quotes aggressively.
“Yes.”
“The one who called you ‘clingy’ because you asked for the bare minimum?”
“Yes.”
“The one who said your cooking tasted like an old grandma made it”
I nodded. “He meant it lovingly.”
Eddie stared at me. “He absolutely didn’t.”
A beat passed.
“My family won’t let it go,” I rushed on. “They think I’m heartbroken and pathetic and unable to move on, and I just...”
My voice cracked. “I told them I was dating someone.”
Eddie stared blankly. “Oh.”
“And I may have said that someone was… you.”
Silence.
He blinked once...Twice.
“You told your family we’re dating.”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“Since I saw the guest list and panicked.”
He leaned against the doorframe, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m flattered you think I’d make convincing boyfriend material.”
“Oh please,” I groaned. “You’re the best looking person I know.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Well now I definitely need coffee.”
I clasped my hands together dramatically. “Please, Eddie. Pretend to be my boyfriend. Just for today. Just until dessert. Or until my grandmother falls asleep and stops interrogating me about my womb. Either way.”
Eddie let out a low laugh, warm and gravelly.
“You’re unbelievable.”
He paused.
Then “What time do we leave?”
I blinked. “Seriously?”
He shrugged, casual, but his eyes were soft. “Wouldn’t let you face the wolves alone, sweetheart.”
My stomach absolutely somersaulted.
“Also,” he continued, smirking, “I want to see your ex’s face when he realises you’ve upgraded.”
I shoved him lightly, cheeks burning. “We need to get dressed. And… we need boundaries. Rules.”
Eddie stepped closer, voice low. “I’m an excellent rule-breaker.”
I pretended not to react to that.
By midday we were standing outside my parents’ house white Christmas lights strung across the roof, wreath on the door, fake snowflakes dangling from the windows.
Eddie looked stupidly good.
Black jeans, black shirt, leather jacket, hair half-tied, rings glinting, smelling faintly of vanilla and tobacco.
“You ready?” he asked.
“No,” I whispered.
He squeezed my hand.
“Too late.”
He rang the bell.
The door flew open.
My mother pulled me into a hug, then froze when she saw Eddie.
“Oh my!” she gasped, eyes sparkling. “You didn’t tell me your boyfriend was so handsome!”
I could feel my soul leave my body.
“Thank you, Mrs Y/L/N,” he said politely.
My mother giggled. Like actually giggled.
Dad appeared, eyeing Eddie up like he was preparing to interrogate him with a lie detector.
“So,” Dad said gruffly, “you’re the musician.”
“Yes, sir.” Eddie nodded.
“You make money doing that?”
“Dad!” I hissed.
Eddie grinned. “Enough to feed myself and fund my shampoo addiction.”
Dad choked on his drink laughing.
So far? Success.
Then I heard it.
Luke’s voice.
“Y/N?”
My stomach dropped.
I turned.
There he was. Blonde hair. Pastel jumper. Smug smirk permanently attached to his face.
Standing beside my brother.
Luke whistled. “I didn’t realise you moved on so… dramatically.”
I felt Eddie straighten beside me. His hand slid around my waist, pulling me against him.
“Dramatically?” Eddie repeated politely.
Luke chuckled. “Look at you, mate. Tattoos. Jewellery. Leather. It’s like someone ordered ‘Rebellion’ off Amazon.”
Eddie’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Well,” he said softly, “at least I wasn’t returned within thirty days.”
My brother snorted cider through his nose.
Luke looked personally victimised.
I grinned.
This was going to be fun.
Lunch was chaos.
Eight adults squeezed around a table for six. Christmas crackers, gravy spillages, Dad insisting he didn’t snore while Mum rolled her eyes.
I introduced Eddie to my grandparents.
Nana clasped his hand. “You’re beautiful,” she declared.
He flushed red. “Thank you.”
“And fertile-looking,” she added loudly.
Eddie choked on his wine.
Luke snorted.
I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me.
Eddie leaned close, whispering: “I’m trying to decide if I feel complimented or incredibly endangered.”
I giggled into my napkin.
Throughout dinner Eddie played his role perfectly hand on my knee, thumb brushing circles, leaning in to kiss my cheek occasionally.
Each touch felt… real.
The room buzzed with warmth and Christmas music and chatter, and somewhere between roast potatoes and trifle, I forgot we were pretending.
He whispered jokes in my ear. Saved me from awkward conversations. Stole bites from my plate.
And every time I looked at him, he was already looking at me.
After dessert, Mum put on old family videos.
Eddie sat beside me on the sofa, arm draped across the back, fingers brushing my shoulder.
Luke plopped himself on the floor, far too close.
“So, Eddie,” Luke said, “how did you two meet?”
Eddie didn’t even blink. “Laundry room,” he replied.
“She couldn’t reach the top shelf. I rescued her favourite jumper.”
I stared at him. We’d never discussed this.
“And then,” Eddie continued smoothly, “she asked me out and made me lasagne on our second date. Best I ever had.”
Luke scoffed. “She can’t cook.”
Eddie turned ice cold. "She absolutely can.”
I stared down at my lap, throat tight.
Luke shrugged.“Well. I’m just saying.”
Eddie leaned forward. “A piece of advice, mate.”
Luke raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Next time,” Eddie said quietly, “don’t throw away a good woman and then act shocked when someone better picks her up.”
The room fell silent.
My heart thudded painfully.
Luke looked away.
Mum mouthed “wow.”
Grandad whispered, “I like him.”
Eddie brushed his fingers through my hair, gentle.
I stopped breathing.
Did he mean that?
Later on, after presents and alcohol and more embarrassment, Eddie tugged my coat sleeve.
“Walk with me?”
We slipped out into the cold December air, fairy lights lining the street, snowflakes drifting lazily.
Everything smelled like pine and smoke and Christmas.
Eddie shoved his hands in his pockets. “So,” he began, “did today help?”
I let out a long breath. “Yes. More than you know.”
He nodded.
He silent for a bit before speaking “You really okay… seeing him?” he asked gently.
I swallowed. “It hurt. But having you there made it so much easier.”
His jaw clenched. “I wanted to punch him.”
“I noticed.”
“He would deserve it.”
More silence.
Then, voice lower: “I wasn’t acting, you know.”
I froze. “What?”
He turned to face me. Moonlight now turning his eyes molten.
“I didn’t pretend anything today,” he said.
My heart hammered. “Eddie…”
“I’ve been in love with you for ages.”
My breath caught. “I... what?”
He laughed softly, nervous. “You come to my flat at three in the morning asking to borrow milk and smile like i'm handing you diamonds. You smell like rose and rasberry. You listen to the stupid song drafts I panic about. You fix my broken mic stands with duct tape and a threat. You make the building feel like home.”
He looked away. “I fell for you, and I couldn’t do a thing about it.”
The world tilted.
“You… never said anything.”
“You were with him,” Eddie whispered. “And then you were sad. And I didn’t want to be a replacement. I wanted to be… right.”
I stepped closer. “So pretending today… hurt you?”
He shook his head. “No. It was the best Christmas gift I’ve ever had.”
My chest felt too full.
“And you?” he asked quietly. “How do you feel?”
I stared up at him, snow collecting in his curls.
“I feel…” I swallowed. “…angry.”
His face fell. “Oh.”
“Angry that I wasted time on someone like Luke,” I continued, voice trembling, “when you were right next door the whole time.”
Eddie’s breath hitched. He blinked once, slowly.
Then he laughed a soft, stunned sound before stepping forward and gripping my waist.
“Say it again.”
I smiled. “You’re better than him in every way.”
His forehead pressed to mine. “Y/N.”
“Yeah?”
“Can I kiss you for real this time?”
I didn’t even speak. I just grabbed his jacket and pulled him in.
The kiss was slow and warm and deep, tasting like winter air and stolen moments and years of unspoken feeling.
His hands slid into my hair, mine wrapped around his shoulders, and for the first time all day I felt whole.
When we finally pulled apart, breathless and laughing, he whispered:
“So… can I be your boyfriend for real?”
I grinned. “Yes.”
He kissed me again.
“Oh,” he added between kisses, “and next year… I get to tell Nana I’m as fertile as I look.”
I shoved him playfully. He laughed against my mouth.
Summary : In the most inconvenient moment, Bucky realizes that he is happiest when he’s with you.
Pairing : Bucky Barnes x agent! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : snowed in trope, kinda forced proximity trope, cuddle for warmth trope, fluff, cursing, confession fic. (Let me know if I missed anything!)
Word count : 2.7k
Note : Have a wonderful Christmas to those who celebrate. Enjoy!
The mission had gone well.
The intel was solid for once. You and Bucky had successfully invaded a splinter Hydra cell embedded in an abandoned communications outpost near the border, with minimal guards and encrypted hard drives secured in the lower level. You and Bucky slipped in at noon, neutralized the perimeter in silence, and extracted everything before anyone even realized they’d been compromised.
It should’ve ended there.
But as you stepped back into the forest, the first snowflakes began to fall.
“Seriously?” you said under your breath, tilting your head up as the flakes melted against your lips.
Bucky adjusted the strap of his rifle across his chest, eyes already scanning the tree line. “Weather report said light snow.”
You snorted. “Yeah, well, is ten inches of snow considered ‘“light?’”
Within minutes, the flakes thickened, swirling faster, heavier, catching in your hair and Bucky’s. The forest grew more and more silent with every step, sound dampened by the snow blanketing the ground. The path you’d taken in was already disappearing behind you, footprints swallowed whole by the sheets of white.
Comms crackled uselessly in your ear.
“Repeat, signal’s breaking—” You tapped the side of your earpiece. “Control, say again.”
No one answered.
Bucky slowed down, waiting for you to catch up.
“Storm’s killing the signal,” he said. “We’re on our own until it passes.”
“Safe house is still five clicks north,” you said, pulling up the map on your wrist display. The screen flickered, but thank god it held in the long run. “If we stay on bearing, we should hit it before dark.”
Bucky glanced up at the sky. The clouds looked thick and angry, pressing down the ground like a lid on the earth. “If visibility doesn’t get worse.”
As if the universe took that as a challenge, the wind picked up, snow blowing sideways now against your cheeks. Trees loomed like shadows, their branches creaking and shedding snow in mini avalanches.
You trudged on, boots sinking deeper with every step. The cold seeped in insidiously, settling into your fingers and your toes all the same. Your breath came heavier now, each breath a cloud evaporating in the air.
“You good?” Bucky asked, falling back into step beside you.
“Fine,” you said without thinking.
He hummed in answer, clearly unconvinced but won’t push.
That was Bucky.
With you, he was always watching, always a half-step closer than necessary. You’d noticed it months ago, how he, more often than not, positioned himself between you and potential threats.
The terrain sloped upward, the forest thinning a bit. Bucky looked almost peaceful here, if not for the tension in his shoulders, the way his metal hand flexed as if the flesh that met vibranium was cold in his shoulders.
You adjusted your holster. “Remind me to request tropical missions from now on.”
He smiled faintly. “You say that every winter.”
“And yet here we are.”
Time blurred as the storm worsened. You lost track of how long you’d been walking, only that your legs burned and the cold was starting to bite deeper now, gnawing past muscle and straight into bone. The woods felt endless, as if the trees were repeating themselves like a bad dream.
Then Bucky stopped suddenly.
Your heart jumped. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped forward, pushing past a rise, focusing on a fixed point ahead.
You followed… and then you saw it.
Through the curtain of falling snow, barely visible between the trees, stood a small, weather-worn cabin.
The safe house.
You let out a deep breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.
Bucky’s shoulders eased just a bit.
“There,” he said. “Told you we’d make it.”
—
Bucky did the sweep first, like always.
You stood just behind him as he circled the cabin, rifle raised. The storm was still coming down hard, flakes sticking to your lashes and melting down the back of your neck in an unpleasant trickle.
“If there’s a bear in there,” you said through chattering teeth, “I’m filing a complaint.”
Bucky snorted. “You’d punch a bear.”
“I would not.”
“You punched a guy twice your size in Bucharest.”
“That guy deserved it. A bear is just… vibing.”
He checked the last window, peered inside, then nodded. “Clear.”
You didn’t wait for further instruction. The moment he opened the door, you stepped inside, boots thudding against the wooden floor.
“Oh wow,” you said, looking around. “Luxurious.”
The cabin was barely bigger than a studio apartment. One sagging couch shoved against the wall, a tiny kitchenette with a sink that looked like it had opinions, two cabinets, and a single-burner hot plate. No lights. No heat. No sign of anything cozy.
You shut the door and leaned against it dramatically. “Five star hotel.”
Bucky locked it behind you. “You wanna stay outside instead?”
You scoffed, shrugging off your pack. “Please. I’d survive outside.”
Your teeth clicked together immediately after.
Bucky paused and looked at you with an eyebrow lifted. “You sure about that?”
You straightened, rolling your shoulders like you weren’t currently being personally victimized by winter. “I am perfectly fine.”
He chose to ignore the lie, and scour the cabin to find a generator, only to find a busted up one.
“No power,” Bucky said after coming back from the back room. “The fireplace still works, though.”
“At least we won’t freeze to death,” you said, trying to be lighthearted.
“For now.” He gave you a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. You knew that look.
Mission mode. Soldier mode.
You shrugged away your feelings and looked at the wood piled up by the couch. “I’ll start a fire.”
Bucky paused, seeing your body shiver, your teeth chatter, and watching you for a moment before quietly tugging his own scarf off— the one you’d seen him wear on almost every cold-weather mission.
“You’re gonna need that,” you said.
He snorted. “I’ll be fine.”
“You always say that.”
“And I always am.”
In one smooth motion, he unwound the scarf and wrapped it around your neck instead. He adjusted it carefully, tugging it higher so it covered your throat and chin, fingers brushing your cheeks in the process.
“There,” he said. “Better.”
You froze, not from the temperature this time.
“Bucky,” you said, almost a whisper now. “You’ll get cold.”
He shrugged like it was nothing. “I’ll live.”
Before you could argue, he shrugged off his jacket too and draped it over your shoulders.
You stared at him. “You’re— Bucky, this is stupid.”
“Mmhmm,” he said. “Been called worse.”
You pulled the jacket closer around yourself despite your protest, warmth seeping in almost instantly as you waddled to the fireplace to start it.
—
The fire helped, but only barely. The cabin creaked as the wind howled outside, snow piling against the walls.
The flames crackled in the stone fireplace, more stubborn than strong, throwing faint orange light across the cabin walls. The heat didn’t reach far, but it was enough to keep the worst of the cold from going in too deep.
You and Bucky had abandoned the couch after realizing it did absolutely nothing to trap heat. Instead, now, you sat on the floor in front of the fireplace, backs against the couch, knees bent, shoulders close but not touching, like you were both pretending you didn’t notice how natural it would feel to lean in.
You were sharing a canteen of lukewarm coffee, passed back and forth like a peace offering.
“This is tragic,” you said after a sip, grimacing.
Bucky huffed, taking it anyway. “Better than nothing.”
“That’s your motto.”
“Kept me alive,” he replied.
The fire popped quietly, shadows dancing across his face. You watched him when you thought he wasn’t looking, when he was staring into the fire.
Before you knew it, time slipped away, and the blizzard only got worse from there.
It wasn’t until the fire burned lower, embers glowing more than flames, that you noticed.
Bucky was shifting in seat.
His shoulders were tight, drawn up. His hands flexed, metal fingers first, then flesh ones, opening and closing as if he were trying to wake them up. His teeth were pressed together hard enough that you could see the muscle twitch.
You frowned.
“You’re cold,” you observed.
He didn’t look at you. “No.”
You waited a second before scolding him. “Bucky.”
“I said I’m fine.”
You studied him for a while, taking in every tell he didn’t even realize he was giving away. The stiff posture. The shallow breaths. The way his knees were pulled just a little closer to his chest.
You could tell he was freezing, and he was absolutely not going to say it.
Without a word, you reached up and unwound the scarf from around your neck.
He noticed immediately. “What are you doing?”
“Relax,” you reassured, “I’m not giving it back.”
You shrugged out of the jackets layered over you, both his and yours, and laid them across both your laps, spreading them equally like blankets. You tugged the fabric until it covered his knees too, overlapping them so no cold air could sneak in between.
Bucky stared. “You’re gonna get cold.”
“Probably,” you said lightly.
Before he could argue further, you lifted the scarf and draped it loosely around both of you, letting it rest over his shoulder and yours. The fabric brushed your cheeks, warm from where it had been against your skin.
Your faces were closer now, close enough to feel his breath. Close enough to notice how his eyes looked down, just for a second, before snapping back up.
“There,” you said. “Problem solved.”
He swallowed.
“You were warm,” he said.
“I know.”
“And now you’re not.”
You smiled sincerely. “I’d rather be cold together than be warm alone.”
Oh.
Bucky didn’t move, nor speak. He just looked at you like he was afraid that if he said the wrong thing, the fragile moment might shatter.
Then, almost shyly, he said, “C’mere,” gently pulling at your arms. “I’ll help.”
You shifted closer, knees bumping his gently, then tucked yourself into his side. He adjusted instantly, like his body already knew what to do. One arm came around your shoulders, the other settling around your waist, pulling you in until you were pressed fully against him.
Warmth bloomed in your chest immediately.
He was radiating heat that felt deeper than just body warmth, even when his vibranium arm took the cold. His chin hovered near the top of your head, breath puffing warm against your hair. You felt his chest rise and fall beneath your cheek, hearing your heartbeat against your ear.
“Better?” he asked.
“Much better,” you said, sighing as your body finally relaxed.
He tightened his hold just a bit, like he was checking whether this was really okay to touch you like this. When you didn’t pull away, when you melted into him instead, he squeezed your body in his arms a tiny bit.
The fire crackled as snow continued to beat against the cabin, but inside, you both settled into place. Bucky stared into the fire, eyes unfocused. His heart was doing unfamiliar flips — and it felt terrifying and wonderful all at once. He hadn’t planned for this. Hadn’t planned for how right it would feel to hold you like this, or how easy it was to breathe when you were tucked in his arms.
He adjusted the jackets again with one hand, making sure they stayed over your legs. Then, almost without thinking, he nudged the scarf higher so it covered your neck better.
“You always do this,” he murmured.
You tilted your head to look up at him. “Do what?”
“Give things up for me,” he replied.
You smiled softly. “You do it, too.”
His lips twitched into a smile. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know,” you said. “So can I.”
That seemed to get him. His throat tightened, and he rested his cheek against your hair, eyes closing for just a second like he was allowing himself to live in the moment.
Curled together on the floor in front of a struggling fire, wrapped in two stupid blankets and a scarf, the world outside faded away. For now, in this small pocket of heat, you were exactly where you needed to be.
Bucky stared into the fire, watching the flames curl and flicker, but he wasn’t really seeing them.
That’s when he realised he hadn’t been this calm in years.
There were no mission parameters scrolling through his mind, no exit routes mapped out. Most importantly, there were no ghosts clawing at the back of his skull. Nothing was asking him to be anything other than here.
And he was… happy.
Happiness wasn’t something he trusted. It was fleeting, and it always seemed to vanish the moment he acknowledged it. But this felt different. This felt…. earned.
He moved a bit, careful not to wake you if you’d drifted off. But you hadn’t. You were still awake, curled against him like you belonged there. His arm tightened unconsciously around your shoulders, thumb brushing absent-minded circles against your sleeve.
It was ridiculous, how happy he felt in this moment. He was in a half-forgotten safe house with no power, a dying fire, and snowed in with no backup.
And yet, he had you.
Before he could stop himself, before doubt or fear or self-preservation could clamp down on his mouth, the words slipped out.
“I love you.”
They were just above a whisper, almost quieter than the fire.
But in the silence of the cabin, they rang louder than gunshot.
You froze.For half a heartbeat, the world seemed to stop entirely.
Bucky’s heart slammed into his ribs.
Oh God.
“I—” He sucked in a breath, panic flooding him all at once. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean— I mean, I did mean it, but—” He let out a shaky laugh and tightened his grip reflexively before forcing himself to loosen it again. “I made it weird, didn’t I?”
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
Your eyes were wide in shock, lips parting like your mouth haven’t caught up to your thoughts yet.
Bucky’s chest was starting to hurt.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” he rushed on, already backpedaling. “We’re cold and tired and— and I didn’t mean to put that on you. I just— I’ve been thinking about it for a while and it just— came out. I’m sorry. You don’t have to—”
“No,” you said quickly.
“No?” he echoed, barely daring to hope.
You swallowed, eyes flicking down to his mouth and back up again. “I was just… surprised.”
“Oh,” he said weakly. “Yeah. That makes sense.”
Bucky searched your face, bracing himself for rejection, for disappointment, for that familiar feeling of having reached for something he didn’t deserve.
“I didn’t think you’d ever say it out loud,” you admitted.
“You… knew?” he asked.
“No, I just…” you gave a small, nervous smile. “I kind of hoped.”
Hoped?
“I think,” you continued, voice more vulnerable now, “I love you too.”
For a moment, Bucky forgot how to breathe.
“You—” His voice broke. He cleared his throat and tried again. “You do?”
You nodded, eyes shining in the firelight.
Before he could overthink it, before fear could take over, his hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like he needed to make sure this wasn’t a dream. You leaned into the touch without hesitation, fluttering your eyes closed for just a second.
That was all the permission he needed.
He leaned in, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to. You didn’t.
His lips met your in a soft kiss that felt like a question.
Then you kissed him back.
The world narrowed to the warmth of your mouth, the way your fingers curled into his jacket, the sound you made when he deepened the kiss just a little. It was gentle and unhurried, like neither of you wanted to rush something that had been building for so long.
When you finally pulled back, foreheads resting together, breath mingling, you laughed a little.
Bucky smiled and pulled you back into his arms, holding you tighter than before.
Outside, the storm still raged. Inside, wrapped in each other’s arms by a dying fire, you’d never felt warmer in your life.
“Guess this is our life now,” he murmured, pressing a small kiss to your forehead. “Stuck in an old cabin. No heat. No power.”
You laughed, wrapping your arms around his side “Sounds terrible.”
He smiled against your temple. “Yeah,” he said. “I’ve never been happier.”
THE WIND'S FIERCE (1970) TERENCE "MARIO GIROTTI" HILL as Marco
"Hill was also on the verge of becoming famous in Europe and he gives a convincing portrayal of a stone-cold killer who begins to have a change of heart." (x)
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Description: Ray has teased the reader for years until she has enough and reveals something unexpected
Word Count:794
Request:Ray x Reader request where it’s the same ‘timeline’ as the marriage fics, but happens earlier - she’s the pretty girl in his village who’s quiet, and he comes across as sort of a bully to her but he’s really just acting out trying to get her attention. He always picks her up and throws her over his shoulder, teasing her about who in the village she’ll marry, and one day she decides to call his bluff and say she’d like to marry him, to see how he’ll react?
Her arms were crossed making her breasts seem push up as Ray Garraty teased her. She never spoke much, not to many at least and Ray was one of them that didn’t get the privilege of hearing her sweet voice all of the time. When he did get to hear her voice it was her telling him to stop teasing her and being mean to her for no reason.
Ray wasn’t the best with women, never had been and now being 18 he still didn’t have a clue on how to flirt or get women to like him so this was the best he got. He loved seeing her face turn red and her eyes roll as he teased her about her cute dress that she was wearing or the little makeup that she always has on.
“Ray, what are you doing here?” She asked as she took a walk in the village, trying to get some peace but the second he showed up that was impossible.
“What? I can’t take a walk with my good friend?” He asked with a smirk.
She rolled her eyes and muttered, “Hardly call this a friendship.”
“What was that pipsqueak?” She hated that name, she hated that he was taller than her, she hated that he followed her everywhere and teased her, she hated him.
Except she really didn’t, no she loved him but it seemed like he was just bored and wanted attention and nobody else would give it to him. She wished that she could ignore him but then he would stop and she truly didn’t want that. She stopped walking and turned to him, annoyed.
“What?” He asked and she wanted to hit him. He knew what.
“Can I walk in peace?” She asked, hoping this time he would leave her alone.
He shook his head, “Nah, actually you can’t walk at all.”
Before she could question what that meant he had thrown her over his shoulder.
She gasped out his name and started hitting and kicking at him, “Ray! Put me down!” She yelled but he carried her like she weighed nothing and kept walking, ignoring her.
He loved how easy she was to pick up and tease and how cute she was when she was mad.
“I wonder who’s going to put up with your attitude.” He joked, wishing that it was him.
She huffed and rolled her eyes, giving up as he kept walking. She had her chin on her hand as she rolled her eyes, he’s been walking for 5 minutes now.
“Ray, are you ever gonna let me down?” She asked, bored.
“Not with that attitude.” He said and smacked under her butt.
She gasped and managed to get free from his grip.
“Okay, what is your problem, Garraty? You constantly tease me and throw me around and you just said that you wonder who’s gonna put up with me? Well what if I want it to be you?” She yelled and he felt the world stop.
He opened his mouth but no words left, he was flabbergasted.
“What didn’t expect that?” She asked with a smirk.
“Cat got your tongue?”
Ray wasn’t sure what to say or do, he genuinely didn’t see that coming.
“You want me to be your husband?” He asked after a few minutes of silence.
She laughed a little and how long that took him.
“Is that a problem?” She asked and he shook his head.
“I’ve been teasing you since we were kids and you wanna marry me?” He was still so shocked and he couldn’t believe he’s hearing this.
“Yes, Ray.” She sighed but with a small smile.
He walked up to her and took her hands, “So you like me too?” He asked like the answer wasn’t obvious.
She glared at him and he nodded, “Right. So when should we plan the wedding?” Her eyes widened.
“Ray, we aren’t even dating yet!” She exclaimed and he sighed.
“But you just said you want me to be your husband. Why date if that’s already an establishment?"
She couldn’t believe that he was just willing to marry her just like that. He dropped to one knee and her jaw dropped.
“Ray!”
“Will you marry me?” He seemed serious and willing to do anything.
“I’ve loved you since I was 13 and if you want me to be your husband let’s skip a step or two.” It was more than a step or two but for some reason it felt right and yes she was aware that their parents would say it was too soon but she loved him.
“Then yes Ray Garraty, buy a ring and I'm yours forever.” She wanted a real proposal and Ray could do that.
“For you baby, anything.”
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