Another Self-Ascribed Writer Who Likes Magic

Then there was big personal (familial) drama, which I'm usually aligned with the philosophy of being open and honest as sharing my experience(s) could help others feel less alone, but I don't think this blog is the place for that (and Idk, it wouldn't sit right with me to only share my biased perspective, even if I tried my darndest to remain fair). Sorry, I hope y'all understand. I'll just say it's generational daddy issues in here; I'm sure that painted enough of a picture. I'm good, I'm fine, I'm safe; it's the same cycles of behavior that I've been dealing with basically my entire life, so nothing new🤷‍♂️. It just vastly caught me off guard since I thought this time we finally saw eye-to-eye and he actually took me seriously for once, but nah, that was too big of a wish I guess. Go figure that's what'll happens when you deal with an emotionally constipated man-child who doesn't know what accountability is and more than likely doesn't want to change out of fear either.

The reason why my break started (which y'all already know) was because in April I simply just had way too many papers to get done, then after May, I gave myself a break to decompress after my finals finished. Turns out that "break" hasn't ended yet, as you all are well aware with the tumbleweed silence in this blog😭. I actually wanted to come back sometime by mid-June, and I actually was making some progress on the Kiss and Make Up Series: Part One fic (think it's about < 2k words so far? iirc), but then an overwhelming amount of life hit me all at once.

First, I am going to be applying for my Master's in the upcoming Fall semester. It feels so sudden (because it is), and I realized I was so unprepared in every sense of the word, so I put my writing to the side and got to the only thing that'll soothe my overthinking mess of a mind: researching and organizing. If anyone has ever tried looking into a Master's program, just to see what you could possibly be getting yourself into, it ain't fun in the slightest bit. Not to say universities/colleges make it difficult to find on purpose (although I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case🫩), but there's for sure a learning curve in knowing what keywords to use when Googling this stuff. And holy, there's an overwhelming amount of text and too many webpages open for a single program to comb through, but it also doesn't feel like enough information either😭. I digress, by the near end of June I had enough of that, and have a much clearer idea on what the process is going to be like and where and what I should be applying to (which I don't want to give credit to the current state of the world💀, but it's definitely helped knowing how shit everything is and how I need to be playing things safe rather than do too much and commit to more than I should be (even though my academic advisor is really pushing for me to jump ahead and apply to a Doctorate program... he'll understand I'm sure)). I'm sure I'll be totally fine be fine now when I cross the rest of the bridge later🫠.

Sometime between mid-June to really last week to be honest, I was also completing my semi-annual spiral with my sexuality:). It's always fun, and it isn't like I begin anew at the same loop of conversation every time because I compared myself too much to others:). Literally come back to the same conclusion in the end and everything: still gay (that's never changing), and still roughly 90% sure that I'm also demisexual🤷‍♂️. Y'all, remember that everyone's "normal" is different and that should be the recognized standard since we ain't meant to be one and the same. I know this is a controversial quote, but:

"Comparison is the thief of joy."

- Theodore Roosevelt

I also started my Summer part-time in the 2nd week of July. Apart from it being slightly unorganized, it's actually been really helpful for giving me back some semblance of structure that I so desperately crave. That's been a nice positive :).

And lastly, I finally, finally, finally found out that all these "headaches" I've been getting nearly daily (during the worst periods throughout the years) for 8-9 years have actually been migraines... which, technically they were also chronic migraines (at least during those absurd periods). And, I only found out because I at last gave in and went to an Ear, Nose, and Throat Specialist, where I found out (after getting a CT scan) that both my septums are deviated (like a 5/10 in badness), but I don't have sinusitis as the inflammation in my nose is very minor (like a 2/10). However, the doc did circle back to the jaw pain I noted as actually being a product of my right temporomandibular joint being pointed - it's supposed to be shaven/rounded, meaning that I'm more sensitive to pressure or tension against/within my face. This is what my doc inferred is causing my endless migraines. So, now I finally got migraine medication (that I'm still testing to see if it's for me), and I'm also trying to take it a step further by ridding some of my poor sleeping habits. Y'all, stomach sleeping is so bad for you if you don't have the correct pillow😭. And even with the appropriate pillow, the diaphragm isn't fully allowed to expand, leading to not entering deep and/or REM sleep (causing sluggishness, not feeling rejuvenated, and possibly even minor headaches)!! Who would've known all this, because I for sure didn't😭, but now years too late I feel like I can teach class on sleep, sleeping habits, and the good & bad that come with how one sleeps. From all this though, I'm trying to be proactive and re-train my body to sleep on my side (doing the whole shabang by hugging a pillow to my chest to create that same "safe" pressure feeling that I'm accustomed to/my body/psyche need to feel relaxed to enter sleep, and have a pillow between my legs so I don't roll back over onto my stomach and cause strain/keep blood circulating), but it also means my sleep has been tanking a few hits too😭 (which isn't new by any means😭).

There's probably more that I'm forgetting about, but it wasn't like I wanted to get into the nitty-gritty anyway (this is already long enough). By all means, this isn't meant to get me any sympathy or take any of the blame away for not posting for so long, because there have been moments when I am absolutely blowing my time off and choosing not to write; however, I chose to post my work on this very interactive and very public hellsite for a reason, and now it's bigger than me. And even if writing is one of my fun little hobbies, I am also responsible to y'all who chose to support me (to an extent, of course, this is still my blog and I still hold the reins).

But all of this is finally one less cretin looming over my head. And since you got this far, you can know that I'm feeling pretty confident that I will start posting again in August :DD (gonna be real rusty but I've gotta get over the hurdle somehow after so long). Wish I could have been completing all this positive personal development, AND also write, but on most days it was just too much and there are only so many hours in a day.

You leaned against the far wall, the prop table somewhere off to your right with its scattered arrangement of spotlessly fake martini glasses, an x-large white dog cone left open from the unstuck velcro, a herd of orange rubber tennis balls, a thick medical black arm sling, and a stack of unopened fake chocolate bars. From this angle - in a not meticulously chosen position, as you told yourself - a row of bright, white GVM LED lights crowded in a huddle that blocked most of the scene, but with a tilt of your head, you were able to catch the connected screen that displayed the capturing footage from the recording Canon video camera being handled by some poor college-aged intern.

A brunette man playfully shook his head back and forth with a plush Dalmatian-patterned - white with black spots - bow-shaped chew toy gripped between his teeth as he craned himself, so it was just out of reach of the yellow Labrador retriever puppy's curious head. You felt your heart warm at the scene, eyes repeatedly trailing back to the man's high-spirited demeanor, his nose slightly scrunched with a singular setting wrinkle across the bridge, and cute crow's feet marking the edges of his focused eyes. This might have been a commercial being shot, and your priority solely lay with the safety and well-being of the yellow Labrador retrievers, but you were not blind. The brunette man was easy on the eyes, and you noticed with the minimal adjustments to the filming equipment that the cameras agreed.

The dotted scruff of the actor's barely noticeable beard and connecting mustache softened the edges of his jawline - the on-set stylists decided to make him look more approachable and highlight his dimples. It was all a part of the craft; you didn't even want to think about the amount of pre-planning this less-than-a-minute-long commercial had gone through. Not only had there been countless hours spent on designing his full-body burning-orange colored two-piece suit and the custom-built comical brown dog ears and tail to match his dark hair, but you had also been on the receiving end of the team's sharp eyes.

You remember two weeks ago, when you pulled up to the shoot with a variety of curious barks and yips from the thrilled puppies of different breeds tugging you along down the halls. As per the director's words, the 'chemistry screening' was essential in not only guaranteeing that the male actor and the chosen puppy would mesh well together personality-wise, but in verifying their assumption that the breed they had in mind would be their candidate of choice. You were heavily biased, falling a little bit in love with all the animals you've worked with on sets, and after the few weeks of training you had with these adorable pups - to at the minimum make sure they wouldn't run off stage, were used to the presence of so many prying eyes and crowding equipment, and were potty trained - they definitely had become some of your favorite to work with. There really wasn't a competition in hindsight; yellow labs were fundamentally the United States' favorite dog breed, as they were often confused with the preferred golden retriever that came with the aforementioned white picket fence, wife, and 2.4 children.

You scoffed at the allegedly reachable dream while a young beagle was trying to lick off the grimace from your face, the noise catching the insurance company's executives' attention as they briefly turned your way with disdain, impatience, and a shared raised eyebrow. You just faked a laugh until they all turned back around to continue watching the other puppies interact, the beagle in your arms still tickling your cheek with kisses to further sell the act. You couldn't bring yourself to say it aloud - not that the dogs would ever understand your tongue - but she was your favorite out of the bunch. She was a little more reserved than the five other pups, which was why you were on the concrete floor with her, the two of you watching everything unfold with enough distance that kept her comfortable and unstressed, and you close enough to step in at a moment's notice if need be. Not that it seems like the crew members, team, or executives cared about your presence once you unleashed the puppies.

Some time later, and many whispered comments you weren't meant to hear, you had begun to collect a row of napping dogs around you. There were two of them that personal assistants had handed to you with a soft, apologetic smile, and the other two had slowly crawled over to you, deeming their trek close enough to you when they reached your shoes from your outstretched legs and got comfortable in a sprawl against the cool ground. In between the snores surrounding you, the excited howls from the remaining yellow lab running back and forth at the attention it wasn't able to distinguish, and the rising chatter from the executives to ignore the puppy's pleas at their feet, you turned your head into the room's entrance as you heard the approaching footsteps. It seemed like you weren't the only one either.

A loud, delighted bark filled the room as the pup weaved through shocked legs, and he jumped up into the man's awaiting arms. You had watched the sequence play out, letting the cuteness twinkle and etch into your conscience for a few moments until you remembered that you were still on duty. You shot up, sleeping beagle still within your arms, and stepped around the others with a hopefully believable, shy smile. You ignored the stunned look that the commercial director had, as if lightning had just struck him as a result of a magnum opus stepping into the light. Or stood in front of the doorway.

"I am so sorry about him, he gets excited easily," you say once you reach the brunette man.

"It's no problem, the little guy is adorable," the man responds, a deep baritone soothingly alluring. You don't catch him watching your movements as you hike up the floppy-eared dog further up your arm so she can rest your head on your shoulder, nor do you note how his hazel eyes wander down your figure in an appreciative once-over. His voice slows, like he didn't want anyone but you to hear him say, "I get excited easily, too, especially when someone like you is standing before me."

Your head snaps back up too late, the brunette playing off the flirty comment by looking down at the pup in his arms, a short yawn finally emitting from the yellow lab. Finally taking him in, you thought the man looked ridiculous with the full orange suit and fake dog ears. And yet, you couldn't ignore how it seemed to match him, his evident handsomeness still shining through his accentuated physical features. Together, the sight of him met somewhere in the middle - hunky attractiveness mixing with wackiness to find magnetic, enticing charm. Is this the commercial's actor? you asked yourself.

Your eyes met again, a small smirk tugging at his lips when he caught you already staring at him. You go to ask him your thought, when you hear shuffling nearing. "Sir, you're the actor, correct?" the director's asks with glee like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it anyway.

The brunette's gaze flickers between the two of you, steadying back onto your face as he answers. "Yes, sir, I am."

"Great, because if you weren't, then I would have had to fire that other guy we already hired! You and this young lab are perfect for this commercial! Oh, I could envision it now..." the director trails off, mentioning potential shared scenes for the two of them. He calls out for his intern, a young college-aged man, who whips his head and takes his clipboard with him as he finishes writing down what the director had said, almost acting more like a personal assistant, even though you felt like that wasn't what the guy had initially signed up for when he took up this position. The brunette beside you didn't pay either of the two mind as he found you much more worthwhile to pay attention to, if the skip in his heart had anything to say.

You turn back, continuing your conversation with the actor. "So, you are the actor."

"I'm the actor, fur real." His face doesn't show it, but he hopes he didn't project his internal cringe at the pun.

The absurdity of the dog-related humor shocks a quiet laugh out of you, powering through and cutting off the shuddering cringe you instinctively would've normally gone through in the past when men flirted with you once they learned of your profession. It felt real, authentic in a way that you assumed matched his personality. That he's not just using this joke on you because of your profession, but because of the situation you both found yourselves in - mirroring the other with an adorable puppy resting within your arms.

"They are paying you to say that, even while off the clock?"

"Nope, that's an original." His face beams while admitting, "I tend to speak before I think when I'm in front of a man as fetching as yourself."

This time, you couldn't hold back your recoiling flinch, the brunette tilting his head from amusement at your reaction. You say with a shake of your head, "Wow," dragging out the syllable. "Nope. I could stomach the first pun. But that. Never call me that again. Does this usually work out for you?"

"Never seen anyone like yourself before, so I can't be paw-sitive. You're the first," the dog-earned man reveals without hesitation. Cautiously, you scan his face, focused and prepared to detect a crack that could grant you access to the truth - a twitch from his nose, a gnaw at his bottom lip, a half-second falter in his smile, or a shift in his eyebrow. No matter how hard you try, you don't find anything. And that's when your skin begins to tingle, an overwhelming crash of simmering heat dances upon the flush. Eyes widening at the recognition that you've been practically ogling the man for way too long, and his stunning face hadn't turned away for even a moment, hazel eyes attentively absorbed in watching you back. Like he desired your attention.

You hear the director shout your name somewhere behind you, slicing through the tender tension much to each of your hearts' contention. Shoulders stiffening, you miss the brunette's quick pout while you shut your eyes to gather yourself and relax a fraction enough to slip back into professional mode. "Sounds like they need me," you tell him, craning your head over your shoulder when you remember that your arms were still preoccupied with the sound asleep young beagle. "I should take him off your hands. I've gotta put this girl down with the rest anyway." It's the least you could do, you think.

"I should be the one telling you that. You're the one juggling too many responsibilities," he says, voice still low like he wanted you both to be transported back into that bubble before it was popped from the disruption. He takes a step forward to close the distance and shifts his crossed arms to make enough space for the pup in your arms to also fit comfortably. "Just hand her over and let me know where I should leave them."

The effort is cute, you note as you shake your head, turning around to walk the tens of feet across the studio where the rest of the puppies were still sprawled against the floor in their exhaustion. You feel him follow you with haste that you could only imagine he's trying to play off as suave. You feel his suit jacket brush against your side with each step he takes, nerves activating from even the briefest contact. As you pass the mostly empty craft services' table, your breath hitches as he leans over to whisper against your ear, "Please. I still insist."

You don't respond. You can't, not yet. It was dumb, really, how much he tried, especially when the remaining puppies were less than ten strides away. When you finally crouch to gently lay the beagle down, you are a bit surprised when the actor doesn't delay in handing over the yellow lab in a cautious relay onto your outstretched arms. His hands linger many moments after the puppy's body is safely in your grasp, and you're the one to pull away when also laying down the dog. He has a triumphant smile as you rise, fingers incrementally curling into fists like he needed to rid himself of the buzzing energy without you noticing the effect you had on him.

"Don't you think you're coming off strong?" you teasingly question.

"Maybe." And with a tilt to his head, he produces one of the most natural puppy eyes - the fake ears no doubt carrying a massive amount of his effort. "Is it working?"

"I don't fall for anyone too easily. I hope you can keep this up," you remark, patting his right shoulder before walking away to catch up to the patiently awaiting director in the middle of the room. Hazel eyes follow your figure, but his body remains stuck standing next to the sleeping puppies. There's a burning determination that brightens behind his eyes, heart ascending like the blush blooming beneath his cheeks as all he heard was that he very much had a chance with you. If you wanted him to work his charming magic, that's what he would do.

And so for the past thirteen days, the actor had found you time and time again. Either he would bump into you while crossing paths on set, while he was on his way over from his makeshift dressing room to the hair and makeup stylists, and you had to scramble to keep the yellow lab from leaping out of your arms and into his. "What? I don't get any pets, too?" he would make the same joke every morning, eyes ensnared on your mouth as you would look down to hide your snicker and half-smile, fingers repeatedly booping the puppy's cute little nose to keep its attention on you.

It was that initial day after he met you, he greeted you with his hair tousled, vest left open, his white undershirt beneath also missing a few top buttons connected to intentionally reveal some of the skin of his toned chest, bowtie loosely hanging against his collar, but his fake dog ears were the only feature that rested seamlessly in his hair. He greatly took that snicker as a secured win, and even when he couldn't find you in the morning because his tiny co-star took an extra few hours of sleep and wouldn't arrive on set with you until after noon, he'd dress himself the same. His stylists were confused and thought he was another pretentious actor who couldn't do anything for themselves, until after a few days, when one of them caught the bounce in his step and your retreating figure in the opposite direction and put two and two together.

Then there were the late afternoons, when - with a leash hanging around your neck - you would head onto set, picking up a yawning puppy who somehow always ended up half-asleep on the faded black couch and took his position and maneuvering him to lie on your lap. If the brunette knew any better, it seemed like the young lab was in on getting you together. Wiping a stray bead of sweat from his forehead, the bright artificial film lights finally clicked off - the filming for the day having concluded. "Ruff day?" he'd ask, head already watching you since you sat down, and body slightly following his left arm stretching across the back to reach you - a few feet always left in between his hand and your shoulder because he wanted to give you plenty of space. He didn't want to force anything onto you or cross any boundaries without your permission.

He was always eager when you turned the question back onto him with some hesitance, though he didn't know you had been practically watching everything he did all day. Albeit, of course, it was a part of your responsibility to keenly keep an eye on the furry co-star, and that's all he needed to know for now. His smirk would shift into a toothy smile when you would roll your eyes, but nonetheless, take his palm in hand as he eased you off the couch. He'd trail behind you, looking like a puppy even with his fake dog ears and clip-on tail in his grasp, as you would softly settle the yellow lab into the blue plush cushion inside his carrier and file away some documents into a folder that you would nudge with the rest in your satchel bag. You both would naturally pause in the hallway, the brunette actor taking the opportunity to ask if you wanted to get dinner or coffee with him. His face would fall momentarily when you would tell him that you couldn't - that you needed to get your daily report done and needed to hand it in before you could be done for the day. "I'll see you tomorrow," he would hear you say, the squeeze from your hand on his shoulder a reinvigorating burst of energy shooting from his racing heart.

And between it all, the actor would intentionally create bloopers where he would add one too many dog-related puns when the script wouldn't call for it and would wink at the camera in between takes, almost like he knew you were still watching him. Like he wanted to hear your laugh somewhere beyond the set. There were times when he'd stand beside you out in the hall as you both kept an eye on his puppy co-star as he zoomed back and forth, not a word said between either of you. The solid silence felt the most intimate to him, more than your shoulders brushing, more than the afternoon check-ins, almost on the same level as the lunches he would share with you, back pressed against the uncomfortable wall as he sat with you, ignoring how the dust and dirt were sticking onto his orange apparel. You always poured out the puppy kibble first and watched the young dog lap at his bowl before you would pull out your own lunch. The yellow lab would always step over your lap to reach the brunette man, legs stretching as he tried to nuzzle his face against his open hand. The actor would hear you playfully act appalled at how the puppy seemed to prefer his company.

"You jealous?" his low voice failed to hide the tinge of amusement from your comment.

You swallow the bite before continuing, "I'm the one who feeds him, walks him, and plays with him. And yet, there's something about you that he prefers."

"Don't worry," he starts, his voice slowing as he turns up his charm. The yellow lab tilts his head when he feels his fluffy ears covered by the man's hands. "There are plenty of things that I like about you. I much prefer you over him."

"Alright, everyone! We'll have a quick thirty-minute break, then we should be able to wrap up the final shot," the young personal assistant's voice booms across the room. You assumed he must've finally been able to convince the director one late night, having taken much more responsibility over the last few days. Much to a huff of agreement and a shaking head plastered with a small smile, you even relayed the thought yesterday during another of your shared lunches.

You fold over the manila folder, papers tightly trapped, pen clipped like a hanging seal, and your fingers curling through the rest of your folders within your messenger bag to rightfully place back. Your heart strained at the sound of the velcro sticking, a faint finality that lingered with each action in your surroundings. Everyone else was happily chatting about the project coming to a close, but you were stuck in place, frozen about an everlasting question.

Where does that leave us? you ponder trying to find the man in that same orange suit you thought looked ridiculous and handsome on him, poorly failing discretion. Not that anyone else seemed to notice - troves of people leaving the set. That shade of orange that earnestly invaded your heart, absent.

A breath of air is expelled from your lungs, and your fingers fiddle with agitated jitters against the messenger's strap of fabric. You shut your eyes as your thoughts berate you. Had you been too harsh on him? One too many refusals of invitations made him believe that your flirting denial added too much distance. Did he think you didn't want him back? You looked forward to the small moments you shared, seeing those stupid fake furry ears atop his head, and how the two of you had practically become dog dads to the yellow pup. But maybe you took too long in reflecting back his affection, and now he could just believe that you were stringing him along.

And all at once. "Hey," you hear that reassuringly deep voice in front of you, a suavely courteous expression bright on his face. There seemed to be a buzz about him that he was trying to stow away; was it nervousness? Not once had you ever associated the actor with that feeling. There had been many last-minute additions to the script - inserting scenes that forced him to make a fool of himself, and yet he didn't bat an eye. He took it all with a confident stride and also voluntarily made his job harder with all those forced outtakes just so he could get you to smile.

"Look, we need to talk, I- I didn't mean to- I'm sorry for-" you try to coherently get out, but your confidence is quickly slipping.

"Don't terrier-self over me," he interjects, smile smoothing into a serious line. "I know you like me, too, don't worry."

"You don't think less of me for stringing you along? For keeping my guard up these two weeks?"

"It was all a part of our game. I was more than content to play whatever part you wanted me to - this long game or us making out behind one of our cars in the parking lot on that very same day."

You drop your forehead against the smooth material of his suit covering his shoulder and groan against him. "Am I an idiot?" you voice your thought in a muffle.

"Just a tad," he whispers, immediately feeling your hand push against his chest in what was supposed to be a slap, but it seemed like you gave up when his words were followed by a kiss against your head. And slowly, the actor feels your walls crumble against him. Your shoulders slump from loosening strain, the hand not pressed against his chest grips onto his midsection with your arm encircling him, and somewhere along the way, you pull him closer.

You both rest there for minutes, your back supported against the wall with his squeezing arms wrapped around you. You can feel the steady beating of his heart; it's draining you in a way that has you feeling secure, a lost state you've misplaced long ago. This is how you knew, you can trust him.

When you pull away from his shoulder, the brunette's palm shoots up to your head to intercept before it gets too far away for his liking, his own head dropping and tucking into the crook of your neck. He breathes you in, nose nudging closer until his lips and your skin meet in a never-ending kiss. He couldn't let you go, didn't want to. Not now that he finally has you in his arms. Not since he was so close to never seeing you again.

"I think I need you." Your words pierce through your shared paradise, but didn't go further than your corner of the empty room. You feel the tension envelop his body, arms rigid, not because of the tightness of the suit.

He pulls back, a gulp bobs his Adam's apple, and his hazel eyes never once leave yours. "Are you sure? You don't have to if-"

"I want to," you barely let out as he's already kissing you, sparks shooting between you from the well-worth release of pent-up passion. He lets you push back against him, relinquishing the battle when he was delighted just to have you within his arms. You pull back, and even while panting for air, he presses three quick kisses against your open mouth like he wanted to suck the air out of you. Once you are able to focus enough again to breathe through your nose, you exclaim, "Whoa, Rover!"

He grins at the name, an appreciative flutter at the joke he'll keep in his pocket for as long as you have him. "Good one," he laughs, the baritone vibrating.

He follows you out into the hallway, your bodies tethered by the vice grip you have on his wrist. He shuts his dressing room door behind him, the echoing click of the lock gearing into place, granting you two a cocoon of intimate privacy. At least for the next twenty-something minutes. Knowing that your window of opportunity was diminishing, you hold onto his collar, keeping him at a distance as he tries to lap at your neck. Your heart swells at the attempt, but affectionate foreplay in the form of worshipping will have to wait for another day. Your fingers trace down his figure, and you can feel sturdy hills of muscles beneath his orange layers, faint lines of almost-there abs that shake when he sucks in a shuddering breath. When your hand lands on his hefty bulge straining against his crotch, his supposed-to-be curses sound more like breathy whimpers.

"We don't have much time," you remind him, and he nods straight away, jaw clenched in restraint and nostrils flaring in forced short breaths. You think you could've said anything, and he would've agreed with a devoted certainty. It only takes him moments to immediately start reclaiming your lips in needy tongue-filled kisses, his body following your lead and maneuvering backwards until his calves hit the edge of the weirdly out of place mint green tuxedo sofa. His legs spread out, giving your body ample room to fit between his knees as you kneel in front of him. Even before you could raise your arm, you notice his bulge twitch twice, and out of your periphery, you can recognize that familiar drag of his lips and half-lidded eyes - the same look you memorized the few times he repeated for the shot when he was practically eye fucking the chocolate bar.

While you pull him out of his confines, the thick, long cock slaps against the orange vest covering his waist, his handle rustles in his left pocket, pulling out a small, thin square of wrapping. You look up at him, taken aback by how prepared he was. "How long have you been carrying a condom with you?"

"The day after I met you," he answers as if it were the most normal action ever.

You shake your head to not burst out laughing. "You're such a dog."

"If that's what you want, then I'll be your dog," he says honestly.

"Slow down, Rover. You still have to take me out on a proper date," you tease, patting his thigh.

His cock jolts, a soft thudded fall against his waist when the nickname enters his ears. The brunette growls as he rips open the packet with his teeth, tossing the wrapping somewhere behind him as he sheathes his large cock. His free hand reaches back into his pocket, plucking out a slim blue bottle of water-based lube that he generously lathers over himself. You take back control, grip stroking him to spread the lubricant further around, his cock convulsing, and the dark red at his mushroom head seeping down his shaft in a meeting with the drumming pump of blood. You pick yourself back up, unbuckling and unzipping your jeans, and stepping out of them to neatly fold and place them on the empty cushion beside the actor. You kick your shoes off, and your underwear follows your jeans.

The brunette is frozen solid, holding his breath as you carry yourself over him, anchoring yourself on the meat of his shoulders. He's hopelessly entranced by your figure, by you needing him just as much as he needs you, and by what the two of you were about to do. Your thighs bracket around his, the smooth fabric from the suit tickling your skin. His hands palm at your thighs, a reassuring squeeze on your left, while his thumb strokes small circles on your right. His cock jolts, a quick kiss against your awaiting rim as you carefully lower yourself, a gasp escaping when his tip begins to squeeze past. The pace is slow, too much so for the brunette's need to feel you completely around him, his entire body flexing from the exceeding restraint. And yet, his heart is fluttering without a care.

A minute passes before you're fully sitting on him; another sixty seconds follow, filled with sequential groaning shared between you as you wait for the pain to subside. The dog-eared man leans forward, the sweet press of his lips pleasantly shocking the nerves at your chin, hazel eyes mesmerized by the slowing comfort that blankets across your scrunched-up features. Once the pain has drained into tolerability, your first rise and fall has your hand shoot up into his hair as you feel him overwhelmingly fill you anew. Through your haze, you ask him if he's okay with hair pulling, and he agrees vehemently, wordlessly, with a rapid nod.

"Praise me," he requests, a following plea getting lost in the room as you begin to slam down onto him, the loud slaps of your ass meeting his thighs with each rough descent stuffed the small room just as much as when his enormity pressed against the small button of your prostate.

"You feel so big in me."

"Yeah?" he groans.

"Yeah, you're such a good boy."

The moment those words left your mouth, his hands seized your waist, a tight, bruising grip that ceased your movements. You look down at him, his pupils blown out, and your palm feels the guttural vibrations reverberating up his chest. His cock doesn't stop twitching, the girth of him expanding in you further. You don't need him to say anything; the title clearly has an immense effect on him.

"You like it when I call you good boy?" you ask anyway, a tug at his hair getting him to open his eyes.

"I won't be able to handle it anymore if you call me that again," he says through his gritted teeth.

"You're my good boy."

His neck cranes as he smashes his lips against yours, and you relinquish all control over to him. After shifting you on his lap, he starts to fuck up into you, the slaps of his thighs louder now. It was too much to handle, the searingly passionate kiss with the equally intense feel of his shaft plunging into you, so you let go, your release splattering onto his orange suit before you could even try to revert it. His release hounds after you, with one final drive that has his balls meeting your cheeks, and his load pumps into the plastic covering him. His thighs continue to lift, his pelvis gyrating with limited ability to try and dig deeper into you as he continues to shoot and shoot.

It feels too soon for both of you when you lift yourself off of him, his cock falling into a streak of your cum, and the sight has him twitching one final time. You settle on his left thigh, trying to ignore the impending pain you're sure to feel as your hand smooths through the waves of his dark hair, head resting on his left shoulder.

A realization causes you to shoot up. "Where's our pup?" you ask, too fucked out to carefully choose your words.

He grins up at you. "Our dog," he emphasizes the first word intentionally, "is with the groomer. She wanted to make sure that he looked all dapper for the TikTok we have to shoot later."

That calms you down a bit, your hand leaning down onto his thigh until your brows furrow at the sound of crinkling paper in his pocket. He doesn't say anything, a mischievous glint in his eyes giving away his guilt. You smooth the edges of a document - an adoption paper. Your mouth hangs open, the surprise leaving you more breathless than the fucking.

"Do you want to explain this document to me?"

"Well, I know I couldn't trap you with me, no matter how much I breed you," he jokes. A hearty chuckle fills the space between you when you roll your eyes. "So, I figured the next best thing was this. We're dog dads."

"I don't even live with you!"

"You want our first date for me to help you move in? Preferably tonight?"

God, this charming man, you think, your heart already agrees with wanting to move in.

Author's Note 2: Here are the commercials/ads/promotions! Again, I do not have any affiliation with Spot Pet Insurance, nor do they with me.

Remember to like, comment, and reblog :D! Any and all support is much appreciated!

© 2026 magicae-writes-stars

The open sky poured the bright heat across the begrudgingly melting landscape. Skid marks and parts of the tops of hills arose from the weakening clutches of Winter's claim with each passing hour as that designated faithful season of Spring's bloom nears. You peer up against the harsh light, considering whether Spring had already begun. Time wasn't the easiest dimension to keep track of when it was just you, Billy, and your shared supplies strapped behind you on your faithful bona fide stallions, stuck between watching the same boringly plain white environment or up into the recent, peacefully speckless blue ceiling. If you had to keep count, you would say it's been a few weeks since you stopped at that tiny, in-between port town.

The huff of air and shake of her head, your horse's call of annoyance brought you back down to Earth. Moving your hand's position to grip both leather straps, you brush through the horse's black mane to ease her worry. You hear Billy chuckle on your left, his toned figure leaning to the right as he settles his horse's pace to match yours, a little too close for the horses' liking. Usually, throwing a fuss over it since the two breeds were still getting used to the companionship that you two had sprung upon them, though they seemed to ignore it for today. You grin down at the two steeds, thinking about how maybe they were getting used to your joined party.

A year hasn't even passed since that faithful night when too many longing looks and brushed shoulders in numerous tightly packed taverns culminated in Billy grasping your wrist, dashing behind the old, abandoned barn, and with the witness of the voiceless twinkling stars within the nightscape, you were pressed against the creaking wood as the infamous outlaw insistently claimed your mouth with his in a frantic mess of moans, groans, and lapping tongues. By morning, the two of you had vanished on top of your racing stallions, the only evidence you left behind was the pair of receding stomping hooves growing distant with each passing second.

Your gaze wanders back over to Billy. Your partner, your lover. Your ride or die, just as you are his. He's not only put himself in harm's way in countless duels that he insisted he needed to do on your behalf because he said you were his partner and not the other way around, with a charming wink every single time, much to your annoyance, but he has also rightfully freed back herds and herds of cattle in rustles that ended with celebrations from the group of townsfolk and sheriffs shouting angrily as you both had a head start at putting some distance between yourselves. The brunette would always maintain his pace behind you, keeping your figure in his line of sight as he put his body between you and the frenetic fire from pistols. You would often turn back when everything behind you felt too eerily silent and would be relieved minutes later when Billy's riding figure emerged from the tree line as he joined you again, a too proud grin on his ruggedly beautiful face at the easy success of losing the deputies yet again.

Coming up to the edge of an oak and hickory sprawling forest, you notice Billy lightly tug twice on his mare's reins, the horse coming to a measured stop in front of you. You follow his lead; intrigue littered in disguised confusion. "Why'd we stop?" you ask as your eyes follow the creased brim of Billy's flat black gambler hat trail further into the tree line. You pet your steed a couple of times to soothe its nerves, even though she really could've cared less about the situation when she was busy sniffing at the lively green near her hooves, a few sprouting dandelions that swayed gently with each of her breaths.

When you turn to hop off, you stop finding the outlaw's extended arm and a cheeky grin that failed to hide his mischievous intentions. You had known Billy long enough to know that his arm held firmly behind his back was a façade of gentlemanly politeness, the slight upward tip in his hat a measure of how he already ran through this unseen provision at least twice before he deemed it to be worthy of execution, and the slightest tremble in his Adam's apple and the tense rise of his wide shoulders and firm chest heralding the snowballing intense adrenaline that is shooting through his blood. "Darling," Billy's drawl was rugged and piercing as he tipped his head, a pair of midnight blue somehow caving deeper into your gaze. His face softens when he gently helps you off your horse, brushing indiscernible dirt off your shoulders when you were busy stretching your legs from the long hours.

He already is leading your own mare before you could even think about doing it, his other arm wrapped around your neck, the heat from his gloved hand pressing against your clothed shoulder. You walk side-by-side, huddling together like your jackets were stuck with blots of superfluous honey. You already had a reputation that shouted your presence before you could even give yourself away when you would stand next to a wanted poster in another town and critique the poor rendition. Maybe that's what drew the infamous outlaw to you, currently squeezing your arm like he needed the reminder that he was still alive - that he hadn't been shot and gone to his version of the afterlife, where he can spend the rest of his eternity chasing thrills with you.

"I was thinking 'bout what you said earlier."

"You thinkin'? That's not a good sign," you snicker playfully. You hear him release a short, deep chuckle, not noticing that he glanced over a few times as his attention flickers between his desire next to him and the passing tall trees, the white fur of his stationed horse creeping into the periphery of his vision. "What did I say again?"

You stand a few paces behind Billy, his hands seamlessly tying a knot that anchors your steed to a tree in a matter of seconds. He had made sure to pick a branch that gave the two horses ample space to roam without getting too close and possibly becoming aggressive. The two of you didn't need that distraction, Billy thought. He nods and brushes a hand through your horse's mane once, turning around with a vigorously ardent electricity painting his eyes darker as with everything settled, all that was left was you. The serene, nonjudgmental forest, melting piles of slushy snow from the cracks of sunlight that peeked through the lush canopy, the faraway chunking of a downy woodpecker rapidly pecking against bark, and the carnal heat pooling south and tightening Billy's buckskin leather pants that had nothing to do with nature of the fabric.

He lunges forward, capturing your lips in a rough, eager kiss, instantly tracing your lips with his tongue when he feels you try to push back against him. One of his arms ensnares you against him in a fierce initiative, the brunette's hips expeditiously thrusting against you, causing a low groan to dispel into your mouth before going back to exploring your kisser from his dominant victory. You feel his covered hand snake into your hair, taking the brunt of the impact from the tree behind you with reverent valor, and even in this biting cold, you wish he would rip them off so you could feel more of his calloused skin.

You both part, red lips glistening and bodies shaking with a buzz that doesn't go away with each panting breath you take. Billy laughs, the brim of his gambler following his lean, encasing the top of his face in a dark shade - eyes blown out and with a predatory glint as he takes you in. Instead of his forehead, his hat creases against your head, his short puffs of air warming the bridge of your nose. "You still don't remember, Darling?"

"No," you answer with a shake of your head, noses barely sweeping.

He releases another groan, a cascading cold shiver converting into a hot wave of fuel that feeds multiple straining twitches against the restraining buckskin leather. "Really? I thought you were 'sposed to be the brains between us." A chaste kiss prevents your ensuing eye roll. Billy must pull back even sooner when the grind of his pelvis forces a rumble to emit from his chest. "Don't worry, Darling, I've got ya'. You'll know shortly."

Your hands latch onto his shoulders when he steps back, wanting him to stay impossibly close and continue to kiss you senseless. The tender itch from the thick wool of his fir-colored overcoat tried to soothe the pinching nerves that tingled dottily across your skin, but nothing could compare to the man in front of you. It was all you could get at the moment, and you would nurture the feeling for as long as Billy stood. You can't get rid of me easily, the outlaw thought, his gaze tracing a triangle between your eyes and your plump lips. His teeth scrape at his bottom lip, the smothering action just holding him back - every limb stock-still except for his long, impatient member.

He looks down your figure, dark eyes snapping up, and his hard-set jaw motioning down at the thick rod stalking down his left thigh. You feel Billy grab your wrist and lower them to your sides, whispering even though you were the only two people around for miles, "You understand now?"

Your intoxicated nod of approval - you would've agreed to anything he said - burns his heart in an exhilarating passion. Before you could even begin to lower yourself, Billy rips his overcoat off his arms, the thick wool drapes between your two sets of boots. It's covering some dirty slush that would've stained your tan trousers. "This is for you, pretty boy. I'll still take care of ya'," the brunette hums. Your breath catches at the consideration, and you immediately fall to your knees, head tilting up to maintain eye contact.

Your breath warms in an equal reflection of the heat radiating from his bulge and your readiness. Billy doesn't wait another second, the click of detaching metal and the quick, rugged pull of leather as his pants loosen an inch and his fly opens. His gloved hands twitch apprehensively at his sides when your cool skin touches his waist at the launch of your dominant hand that digs into his pants. The outlaw drags out multiple grunts when your hand grabs at his thick base; you feel his crashing pulse sharpen and his cock jolt in an instinctive raunchy retaliation. You hear him suck in a breath when his cock strains against his garments in your effort to free him; he knows it's nothing like how he'll feel in a moment, but it still feels addictive. It was still your touch, you still beneath him. And that's what drove him mad.

Even though a warm haze filled his senses, his body racked uncontrollably, cock jolting in an unintentional slap against your cheek. You raise the large cock, your free hand pulling out his balls in a simple tug over the bunched-up garments that are accentuating the toned muscles of his thighs up to his hips and pelvis. Tongue stuck out, you lick a few times at his hanging nuts, and transition into a drag against the underside of him that has him closing his eyes and whipping his head back. As you kiss his bulbous head, Billy forces his hips to still as he barely even feels the wet warmth seep against him each time your lips part.

"Enough teasing, pretty boy," he utters with a snapping dominance, though you could still hear that smitten drawl that he only uses with you. His teeth gnaw at the flimsy edges beyond his fingers, and he spits out the black glove somewhere on the snow next to you, the skin of his hand immediately digging into your head to palm your head. With his eyes closed, he misses your open mouth a few times, his cock driving up your face. Billy's eyes shoot open, and his head whips down when he feels you grab at his cock to just catch the beauty that is your mouth enveloping around him. "That's it, so perfect for me," he moans.

You perfectly time a suck of breath as his rod plunges further, deeper into the recesses of your mouth, which has your jaw straining from his thick width. He thrusts continuously short, never going further than the inches that are still wrapped by your palm. Billy knows you could take all of him; you've done so on many occasions that he's relived time and time again in his dreams, but he didn't want to force it. He knew that when you were prepared, your hand would unclamp and shift over to grasp onto the toned muscle of his thigh. For now, for multiple minutes, you and Billy flow between a cycle of you catching your breath, his cock diving back into you, your tongue digging up into the sensitive ridge of his head, his hand - that he at some point also ripped off the glove from and spit onto the snow - pressing against your bulging cheek to feel himself twitching that has his heart soaring, and his other gripping your hair to ground himself. You swallow the pooling precum leftover on your taste buds after he incrementally pulls back; the hard rod jerking in the space between you and his pelvis, Billy waiting gentlemanly to repeat the sequence. Again, and again.

"Always so warm and wet," the outlaw says, the words hard to hear between the squelching drag reverberating and echoing sequentially to your thrumming heartbeat in your ears. Billy's grin beams down at you, though you were too preoccupied to even feel it, your mouth reminding him of another erotic scene he memorized frame-by-frame. "Feels like that humid afternoon when I first took you in that abandoned settlement near that bog."

At last, he feels your hand slip and latch onto the yellow flap that's still covering most of his thigh in a bruising grip as you arrange yourself sturdy for the rest of Billy, your other hand mirroring this action after tugging one final time on his swinging sack. Not that Billy minded. He angles his hips, large tip smearing your puffy lips in his white juices, chest heaving at the thought of finally being able to be completely inside you.

Just as you open back up his lips, a large breath of air replenishes your expanding lungs as the outlaw instantly thrusts all the way in. His long rod fills you completely too much; a hard throb from his meaty weight bounds against your overwhelmed tongue, the tip brushing the back of your throat in an addictive ticklish itch. Head raised to the green canopy shading you both, one hand wrinkling his black gambler hat in a forceful shove against his head to hold it still, and the other easing your skull forward with each thrust. Billy switches between deep, rapid plunges that has himself drenching in your overflowing saliva as you gag and slow, sensual drags that has your nose digging into his happy trail that his cock smoothing down the back of your tight enclosing throat. He doesn't know which one feels better, both are heaven to his senses. "Better than heaven, partner," the brunette doesn't realize he said aloud.

The sentiment motivates you, your nostrils flaring as you suck in more air to continue. The coil in the pit of his stomach rapidly scorches as he begins to lose himself, forcing a groan that sounds more like a breathy whine and fueling his irradicate thrusts. His fingers crush the elastic fibers of his gambler, removing it from his head and positioning it on your head, immediately flattening the hat as his hands forcefully stack on top of each other. His pelvis grinds against your face, hips rising and angling to dig deeper down your throat in one last push.

"Fucking sard!" Billy exclaims, his rugged, charming voice straining. "Can't hold on any longer, darling." He tries to pull out, he does, but he's about halfway out when the first pump of his thick load jets out, the white substance catching you off guard as the thick weight jolts in your mouth. Luckily, the outlaw is able to begrudgingly free himself with a pop and drool soaking his large cock, jaw clenching and teeth gritting as his whole body shudders in the overwhelming amount of restraint he's forcing upon himself. He told himself that this was never about him. This was for you. You - his cute and handsome outlaw partner. His ride or die. His lover.

With two fingers, he tilts back his hat, your stunning face now in full view. He strokes himself, once, twice, and brushes the bulbous head with his thumb in an intense and instant activation of release. As the rest of his pent-up load sprays on your face, the warm viscosity that hits your lips, cheeks, and even the joint between your forehead and the brim of Billy's hat feels similar to the slush surrounding you, he grunts, "Here's your snow, pretty boy."

Pupils blown and his heart passionately fluttering at the sight beneath him, he continues to thrust against his fist, making sure that he completely empties himself. You are both a panting mess by the time Billy's playfully brushing his load with his spent cock against your skin like he was painting a canvas. Laughing, he pats your head once before already collecting himself with his large fingers, so his load wouldn't freeze on your skin. Even with your knees aching, you stay still as you let Billy take care of you, allowing the moment to settle somewhere deep between your ribs.

As Billy gathers the last of his load that painted your cheek white on his thumb and feeds it to you, he says, "I would never not fulfill your desires, partner. Always remember that." The infamous outlaw lifts you onto your shaky feet, arms stabilizing your frame with a hug. Hands smoothing against his chest, you kiss the underside of his jaw after you swallow back the last of him, the shaved hairs lighting up your fluttering nerves. "Just let me know when you miss snow again. Whenever, wherever. Whatever you want, if it's all for you."

Author's Note 2: I really have no excuse😭, this shouldn't have taken me as long as it did. Apologies y'all!!

Remember to like, comment, and reblog :D! Any and all support is much appreciated!

© 2026 magicae-writes-stars

The Avengers Tower was quiet, an accompaniment of dancing shadows and sun rays beaming through the expansive windows. Those were the only forms that walked the endless halls during the desolate weeks between Christmas and mid-January. Tony had declared an order for the team to take a much-needed break from their hero-ing duty, going on and on with research-backed references to many global crime statistics that backed his claim. Even Steve, with faint darkening eye bags, had agreed to the Avengers taking a short vacation. You had tried reasoning with the group, reminding them that alien overlords and egotistical dimension-warping villains didn't play by Earth's customs or fall into the same behavioral patterns, but your reasoning fell on deaf ears and tired faces. Tony quickly dismissed you with some flaps of his hand, calling you a "Gloomy Gus", and everyone quickly disbanded from the conference room in a heaping pile, with Natasha slipping through with ease and Tony and Clint butting shoulders. A newfound energy sprang in their steps as they split and got ready to leave.

On the way out, Steve had patted your shoulder, acknowledging your point but also letting you know that it was okay to take some time off. Not to worry. He gives a small, indignant wave to Bucky as a goodbye to his best friend, who had been sitting in the chair next to you during the meeting. He nodded back, returning to watch your face for a few seconds, scanning and analyzing your furrowed eyebrows and how you bit the inside of your cheek. You're trying to hold steady, trying to maintain your composure, which should have been simple; everyone else had instantly clicked into vacation mode. But you couldn't simply ask the ingrained training of many countless years working at S.H.I.E.L.D. to just stop. There's always some vogue criminal. It wasn't a when, it's a where.

Scraping rolling wheels and the bounce in the leather cushion from the energized metal springs registered you back into reality. Bucky, now standing at his full height, went to put out his right arm before he faltered, switched his footing, and the glint of his open metal palm came into view. "You need a hand, Darling?" the brunette asked, your eyes noting the way his chest swelled under his tight red shirt when the nickname rolled off his tongue.

The cool press of his vibranium hand against yours resets your thoughts, finally bringing you back to the present. Bucky easily lifts you, giving a soft push against your chair with his boot to clear space for you, and if you weren't too worried still, you would've thought he was showing off for you. When a thud is heard from the chair rebounding against the wall, Bucky smirks. He's always trying to impress me, you deny your thought instantly with a terminating, short scoff, wishing you were back lost in the labyrinth of pessimism instead of stuck watching yourself complete mental gymnastics over whether the super soldier even leaned the same way.

"You not gonna head out?" Bucky asks, voice rough but quiet as he leans closer into your space. He doesn't feel the need to raise his voice, not when it's only you two. Neither did he ever want to alarm you, scare you off, especially right now when you're still clearly on high alert and must feel unheard.

Am I? you question yourself first, your response still buried deep beneath the onslaught of revitalized decaying what-ifs. "I think... I'm going to stay in the tower," you answer after a moment, the words first slipping shakily like you were still deciding mid-sentence.

Bucky waits patiently, knowing that you had more to say. He crosses his arms over his chest, the shiny glint from his metal arm catching your attention. You choose to stare at it, keeping your head down, rather than look up and have Bucky catch you staring at his flexed chest.

"Don't get me wrong, I need the vacation. We all do," you continue. Bucky nods along and gives a short hum when he notices you still haven't looked back up. "It's just that- I already took the time to visit my family for Thanksgiving, so there isn't an immediate need to return again so soon. Not immediate like here..."

"You think something bad's gonna happen?" You return Bucky's gaze at his question, catching him grazing his bottom lip with his tongue. Maybe there was another reason why you innately wanted to stay. A much more important and six-foot-shaped motive.

"No," you say plainly, the truth finally free. Bucky's eyebrow rises, his head tilting in surprise at your honesty. "At least that's what pre-S.H.I.E.L.D. me is saying. Quietly."

"I understand where you are coming from, Darling," he says, resting his right hand on your shoulder, maintaining eye contact. "It's difficult to deprogram yourself from behavior that has repeatedly been drilled into your head with sweat and blood. Day in, day out. For years."

Right, shit, here you are complaining about not wanting to go on a vacation because of some small aching worry you can't shake, and Bucky's been through much, much worse. But you couldn't help but begin to unpack, to sheathe away your weapon and unravel your wounds when you were around the Brooklyn-born man. Ever since Bucky joined the team - only a few months after your promotion - he has always tried to ease you by cutting through all your mental noise with the simplest resolutions.

"You know, I don't think I'm going to head anywhere either," Bucky finishes, his voice a husk whisper that warms your bones.

"You're also staying in the tower?"

"Yeah," he answers breathlessly, inching his face closer. "I think it's just going to be you, me, and Friday left in the tower."

"Just us," you mutter to yourself, the realization causing your heart to soar. Fortunately, your years in S.H.I.E.L.D. had inadvertently schooled you into a steely resting expression.

Bucky catches your words but doesn't say anything. Instead, he falls in step behind you as you both walk out and into the long hallway of the executive sector. If any average citizen passed by, they would have assumed that the tall, stoic, beefy man beside was your bodyguard. Bucky couldn't shake the defensive soldier march, especially not when you couldn't notice him doing it. When you can't call him out for it, not that you would. He knew he had come a long way from his torture as The Winter Soldier under Hydra's commands, so there was only one other important reason why he was acting this way. And although he wished it wasn't the back of your head he was staring after, the sight still made his palm sweat - undistinguishable as he stepped with his fists clenched like he was instantly prepared to sock a criminal that leaped out from a corner - and a loaded, heavy weight sinking into the pits of his stomach that deployed endearing, affectionate heat.

The everyday noise of laughing, bickering, and commands was already fading as the building began to settle against the approaching New York chill. A brief intermission of quickly condensing heat flooded your senses as you walked by an open vent. Bucky drew closer after he noticed the smallest shake rattle across your body, his swaying arm occasionally skimming against yours. The minute sensation of your skin against his induces a smirk to tug against his mechanical expression.

As you reach the elevator, Bucky outstretched past you to push the up button before you were even able to make a move. His figure lingered, leaning against you, his face even closer than it was earlier. Even though the expansive hallways could easily fit three superheroes side-by-side, he decided to stick behind you. You can feel the warmth exude from him in reassuring troves from his thick upper-body muscles pressed against your back. You glance sideways at the super soldier to no reaction. When you raised an eyebrow at him, his eyes wouldn't even budge from the electronic display counting down as the elevator descended.

The ding of the elevator causes Bucky to hesitantly, but firmly, pull back, instantly returning to his previous stance as he follows you inside. You press the button this time, the elevator lifts to the main floor, and the small metal box witnesses the awkward shuffling between you and the ex-soldier as you await your destination.

In your stupor, you shoved Bucky back onto the sofa as he offered to get you a snack from the kitchen to accompany the half-completed bottle of eggnog, poorly stabilized and leaning drunkenly against a round, plush cushion. With a breathless chuckle, Bucky followed you anyway, his shin banging against the coffee table and rattling the champagne glasses you decided were the best vessels for the Christmas-themed alcohol.

As you made your way across the sweeping room, Bucky pressed his side against you, and when he noticed you didn't pull away, he intertwined your arms. He didn't understand why his brain was buzzing, and his heart felt a little numb when his super soldier metabolism never usually allowed any standard alcohol to really affect him in the past. The brunette wasn't worried about that though, not when his tipsiness made him feel a notch bolder and braver and had you neatly wrapped around his vibranium arm.

"Always the gentleman, Barnes," he hears you say, the tease tunneling through his ears and practically squeezing at the edges of his heart. He turned away when he felt you look over, shyly closing his eyes and smiling at a passing potted fern.

He thinks he mumbles, "Only for you, Handsome," but it comes out louder than he intended. He turns back to you, still scanning your face even in this buzzing state, trying to observe every minute change in your expression as he makes sure that he didn't cross any line. A small whine escapes you as you feel Bucky shift beside you, his arm releasing yours as he instead reaches for your shoulder to lean you against his shoulder. You almost walked headfirst into the kitchen doorway.

For a moment the two Avengers paused in the entryway, your right shoulder treading against Bucky's left pec as the scrunched-up fabric of his maroon long-sleeved dressed arm tickled the back of your neck, his metal bicep flexing slightly over your shoulder. Your gazes trailed along the many cabinets until your eyes met, a telltale blush highlighting the complexity in his melting ice blue eyes. You hoped that your face hadn't reacted similarly. Initially overwhelmed by the number of options you had, now you were glad your body stopped you.

This was it! both your hearts sang. After too long a wait, you finally were going to kiss your superhero coworker. You'll finally know that in the initial months that Steve had assigned Bucky under your wing - always your partner in all different types of missions, even ones that didn't necessarily match his abilities - met something to him as well. The too many close calls that had forced both of you to immediately trust each other blindly, his devotion in always putting himself in harm's way, much to many arguments on the ride back to the tower, and the insurmountable instances you'd catch him staring across the room, sometimes even glaring in conferences when another Avenger took his seat beside you. But never at you.

Bucky raised his right arm, large palm cradling your jaw like you were a fragile doll made of glass, and he didn't want to drop you, especially in his drunken, less precise, and more clumsy-prone daze. He was reminiscing on the first mission you shared with him when Steve and Tony had practically placed him into your care. You only found out when you entered the mini Quinjet and found him staring blankly against the opposite wall. You didn't question it, never made him feel like a burden, as you immediately rolled with it. Needless to say, it was awkward at first. He kept to himself and tried to make his bulky frame look smaller as he mostly stayed hunched over himself on the ride over to the Niagara Falls border. Even then, his heart recorded every time you had tried to open him up with superficial questions and checked in with him on his thoughts with your plan.

It wasn't until the debrief that you were told by Tony and Steve that Bucky would be under your care - something about the most recent rookie showing the ropes to the newest - that he began to open up to you. It didn't make much sense, but it seemed like Steve couldn't argue against it as he shook his head and sighed against his palm. Either way, you had asked him to join you that evening at a local coffee shop, knowing that you two had to get close one way or another, and his aversion to crowds limited your options outside the tower. Something about that question ameliorated his icy walls protecting himself; the follow-up on whether that was alright with him and how you looked at him like his opinion and feelings truly mattered, made it so he couldn't say no to you.

You became his emergency contact; he'd reluctantly toss and turn in his make-shift floor bed as he grappled with whether to bother you after he woke up sweating and scared from another nightmare until eventually, he gave in again. He barely winced when he took bullets for you, his vibranium arm shining in a purple glaze as most of the shots ricocheted off. It wasn't until the Hydra agents were all dealt with that you noticed the large blot of blood seeping through his suit, and that was when he noticed how cute you looked when you dotted over his well-being. And somewhere in between then and now, Bucky turned up his charm whenever he was around you.

"What do you want, Buck?" he hears you say about six feet in front of him, rustling through the snack pantry and the refrigerator to your left, wide open. He looks back at the empty space where you were before, his arms straining as they no longer have your support to combat gravity's pull. When did you walk away from him? Was he that enthralled walking down his hall of memories that he hadn't noticed your real presence gone? Did he imagine it all? Was he more drunk than he recognized?

The super soldier shook his head, placing his right hand against the chilling marble countertop - the planned shiver resetting his thoughts. He took another moment to find the confidence he had lost and finally said, "I want you, Darling."

You knew you weren't supposed to, but you laugh - the joyful vibrations bouncing off the many cabinets. Bucky pouts as you pull two processed snack-filled boxes that Steve definitely wouldn't have approved of. You turn between them, saying, "I'm talking about snacks, James. You think it'd be too much for me to chop up a charcuterie spread?" With a loud crease that the super soldier would never intentionally make under normal circumstances, the brunette rushes over to you, now leaning against the fridge, when he notices your falter, his arms hovering around you just in case. "It won't be no standard board, but I'm sure we can make do with what's left."

He narrowly steps aside as you toss a packet of prosciutto that slams against the kitchen island with a loud slap. He watches with a tilt to his head as you continuously cycle between the pantry and the fridge, grumbling to yourself when you question where the item you had just seen has gone when it was still within your grip. Clearly, the eggnog had taken a stronger effect on you. Bucky had seen you drink before, even having joined you at a local bar a few weeks ago after a tough mission where he nursed a single shot of whiskey all night while he kept a careful eye on you and the collection of empty cheap beer bottles. But you hadn't been this way then. How old was that eggnog the two of you were sharing?

The super soldier only stepped in when he saw the sharp knife in your hand. He grabbed it and your attention all at once. "Hi, Charmer," you beam at Bucky, almost like you forgot he was still in the kitchen, only a handful of feet away.

The ex-soldier pushed through the tinging embarrassment, free hand gripping your soldier to maintain your focus on him, and the other slotting the knife back inside the walnut block in two tries. "Think we should call it a night, Darling. You need to sleep off the alcohol."

"But I need to finish crafting this charcuterie board. I was finally goin' to ask you out with it," you respond with pure honesty as the inebriation released all your inhibitions. Your initial skepticism was correct: the eggnog wasn't from three weeks ago; it was well past its expiration, with three years passing. He should've listened to you.

Bucky's breath hitches, the sincere sentiment immediately sobering him up. You were going to ask him out. You wanted him back. You felt the same as he did for you. A wave of overflowing love drenches through his body; Bucky tries his darndest to cherish the feeling. He can't, though. At least not right now, when you deserve more of his support. He suppresses his treasured desire with a long blink that seals away the memory somewhere on a pristine pedestal near his heart. It's now forever near and dear and will definitely be brought up randomly in a few months after a difficult mission - grime smeared across his sharp face with blood rushing out of the bullet hole in his shoulder, but he can't feel any of the damage with the dopey grin he has when he mentions to you this moment in great detail. Breaking the news to you that, in your drunken stupor, you confessed first. It will always be worth it to see the red flush burn under your skin as you try to backtrack.

You squeeze Bucky's shoulder, mirroring his action in an attempt to distract him long enough to re-grab the knife block that he moved behind his figure and completely out of your reach. Chests smushed together and your chin hooked over his shoulder, the hand shifting lower and tightening against his hip to try and get better leverage. He lowly says your name with obvious affection now that he knows you won't remember any of this come the morning. "I can make you your charcuterie board tomorrow, Darling. Right now, I am going to bring you to bed. Is it all right if I carry you?"

Even through the maroon fabric, he feels the pressure from your lips kissing the junction of his shoulder and neck, barely even a centimeter away from open skin that you were trying to reach but missed. He takes the affection as a form of agreement. The super soldier first lifts your hand attached to his hip and stretches the arm around his neck to meet your other hand. In a single maneuver, his arm hugs both of your thighs in a strength-ridden grip that would need Bucky to be killed for him to let go of you, lifting you with no real effort. He would've lugged you over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes, but he knew that wasn't the best idea with the alcohol buzzing through your system. He grins at the thought that he could do that with you another day.

While carrying you, his vibranium palm covers your head, both soothingly scraping your scalp in a continuous minute motion and tugging your head against the side of his neck. Simmering heat laps against your skin from each kiss you press into the scruff of his handsome beard. And oh, does Bucky wish you would stop for his sanity. It was overwhelming his senses with your body in his arms, your confession circling his thoughts like a flaming phoenix that rose up from his chest, and the physical affection you adorned his body. He passes the half-finished bottle of eggnog - the white alcohol being the sole factor that caused everything in the past thirty minutes. He'll thank it in the morning by launching the drink down the trash chute.

All at once, you still in his arms - your body shutting down against the warmth plush of the ex-soldier's muscular frame. Once Bucky feels your soft breathing ghost slowly across his cheek, his hand ceases its movements through your hair - grip tightening a fraction more at your increased vulnerability. As he stops in front of the metal, he shifts ever so slightly to kiss your forehead and bumps his shoulder against the down button - careful not to jostle you. He almost curses when the elevator's metallic ding causes you to stir as the doors open. Stepping inside, he whispers sweet nothing into your ear even after you've settled back into slumber. Even long after the elevator doors close and the metal box descends.

You come to in the wee hours of the morning, eyes shutting immediately from the first glimmers of the sunrise filtering through the eastern window. Your body felt stiffer, like how you often felt when resorting to sleeping overnight at a trashy, run-down motel during multiple-day stakeouts. At least in the last year, there was an upside to those missions - you always shared a room with Bucky, even if nothing ever happened. The dull throb within your forehead made it hard for you to think further.

Wait. This doesn't feel like your bed. You wouldn't have complained otherwise as Tony installed each of the team members' and his workers' private rooms with bed frames and mattresses that were each worth an otherworldly absurd amount that was common change for the billionaire philanthropist. And you didn't have an eastern window, as you preferred to enjoy your sleep without needing to worry about the sun's beautiful shine waking you. This throw blanket wasn't even yours; the texture and color were wildly different.

Why did it smell like Bucky mixed with remnants of spoiled eggnog? You wildly spring up into a sitting position and take in the mattress you were sprawled over before your eyes widened when you recognized the super soldier's minimally decorated room. Oh, fuck. You were in Bucky's room, under his sheets, and resting on his floor mattress next to his open metal bed frame. The heat that rushes up your neck relieves the creeping headache momentarily, your body now too focused on your embarrassment as your folded arms rested on top of your inclined knees, forehead digging into your thighs.

Where was Bucky? you asked yourself, even though you would prefer to never know. You try to rack your brain for any semblance of recollection from the events of last night, but you kept drawing blanks after you and Bucky stepped into the kitchen. After Bucky saved you from a possible concussion when he drew your side against his. There was the awkward shuffling in that elevator ride up after everyone split, Bucky teasingly scoffing at your worry over whether the unopened bottle of eggnog you found hidden in the back of the fridge was something you saw from Sam three weeks ago or three years ago, and how adventurous and worry-free you began to feel after the second glass. But nothing vibrant comes to mind after remembering how you were really hankering for the decadent sprawl of a charcuterie board. Why? And where was Bucky?!

Did you mess things up? Make a fool of yourself? No. You must've confessed that must be it. Bucky must have taken pity on you after you blacked out, you assume, and lent you refuge in his room, as it was a few floors above yours and thus closer.

Speaking of the charming soldier, his large frame concealed in shadows blocks the entryway as he tries to shut the door without it making any noise, lest he wake you. Bucky would beat himself silly if he were responsible for doing something like that to you. He turns around, his eyes widening because you were wide awake staring up at him, and yours enlarging because the modifying stream of light showcased the large brunette's figure - his upper body bare. The black gym shorts hung deliciously low below his hips, the lightest graze of a recently shaved trail of dark hair climbing up his torso to his extensively paved abs, and his bulging and thick arms and chest were somehow accentuated without even needing to flex, all on display.

Behind your still propped-up legs, you pinch your side. Ow. Nope, not dreaming. What did you say last night that got you so lucky to see Bucky in his entirety?

"You ain't dreaming, Handsome," he says after attentively noting your wince. "How you feeling?"

"Like I never want to see eggnog ever again," you groan. As Bucky lowers to sit on the edge of his mattress, giving you plenty of distance, he nods, his wondrous light blue eyes never leaving yours. Always patient. Always attentive. "Did we do anything last night?" you ask.

"No, Darling," he responds with a deep finality that immediately eases your worries. His face hard-set and serious, close to a glare, but you've watched his expressions for too many hours to know the differences quite well. At least not yet, future Mr. Barnes, Bucky can't help the thought, tucking it away for later.

"I hope you liked the bed," Bucky says conflictedly, scratching the back of his neck with nervousness, you believe. He cleared his throat, continuing. "And, I also hope you don't mind the change of clothes. I knew it wouldn't be comfortable to stay in the suit you were wearing all day, but I didn't overstep either. So, yeah, uh- I hope you like the shirt," Bucky trails off at the end, pointing at your collar as you think you can almost see his ears flushed with deepening red.

You lift up your arms, the same maroon shirt that Bucky was wearing yesterday is now covering your frame in surplus, with it being two or three sizes too big. You were in Bucky's clothes, even if just his shirt. The same one that collected his musk and held within its fabric the memories of yesterday's events. You were starting to wish the dull headache would come back so you could focus on that rather than your racing heart and sweaty palms. "Thank you, Buck. The effort was sweet," you compliment the man and his head whips in your direction, mouth agape and at a loss for words. "Though if I'm being honest, your floor mattress isn't the most comfy."

"No?" The super soldier crawls across his makeshift bed and shimmies under the blanket to join you. You yelp as his muscular arm pulls your shoulder until you're pulled and turned into his side, and your head is resting on his beefy shoulder. He smiles down at you, small but still full of more than enough love, and his lips press against yours in a short but sweet kiss. "I think I've got the solution for that, Mr. Barnes," he breathes against your skin.

"Mr. Barnes?"

"Don't worry about it, Handsome," he whispers as he closes his eyes and mushes your bodies closer. "Let's get some more rest, yeah?"

Even though you wanted to ask again, exhaustion suddenly weighs heavily against your eyelids, a yawn emphasizing how good of an idea Bucky had. And even though Bucky first shut his eyes, he only waited until he heard your breath even and felt your heartbeat sync with his before he followed you back into sleep. With you back in his arms, your confession still swirling in his conscience, and the inevitable what are we conversation he'll finally get to have with you, he was admittedly glad you found that more-than-likely expired bottle of eggnog.

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"Shit," you grumble through the scarf, bearing the brunt of the force from the slapping winds. You shove your shoulder further against your screen door, creating the smoothest path of snow that was level with your doorway. At a stiff angle, your body stops as the screen door groans in protest - a clumpy, thick pile of snow lodged against the wall, not from Mother Nature but from your own doing. You can hear the distant click from your central heating switching on in the heart of your home. Moments later, a charging wave of heat creeps against your back, inviting you back into the comfort. With the cold whipping against your front half, your body was stuck between the radically different temperatures. Just take a step back, pull back the screen, and shut the door. The snow will melt eventually, you logically tell yourself.

You grab the door handle behind you in one hand, the other reaching forward for the metal paneling, and take a cautious step out of your home. The snug heat collapses against the shut side door, thin flurries barely sticking together and rapidly dissipating into scattering drops of rain. Another crunch echoes into the silent Winter's afternoon, your boot buried under the snow as your gloved hand gripped tightly against the chipped railing leading you down the staircase. You hear the screen door snap behind you, trickles of rain bouncing against the smooth polyester fabric of your winter jacket, trying to find a centimeter of open skin to soak into. You hiked the wrapped scarf further up your nose, pinching the bridge as you reached the edge of your house.

In front of you rested the dormant mass machination of your 24-inch-wide snow blower, its usually slick black frame and orange body were caked in piles of barely balancing snow. You brush it off the handles and the body, flipping the switch to On, and reel back your arm holding onto the recoil starter. It takes a few attempts, but eventually the machine's low whirring awakens. You sigh, pulling back the snow blower to begin clearing away the foot of snow on your driveway, only for you to freeze when the machine suddenly stops. Weird. This hasn't happened before, you think to yourself, eyebrows scrunching in confusion. You restart the blower with another rip, the engine running for not even thirty seconds before, again, it turns off. With each attempt, the seconds seem to quicken as it takes less and less time for the machine to abruptly lose consciousness until it simply doesn't work anymore, no matter how hard or fast you tug at the recoil starter.

"Fucking damn it!" you scream into the Winter's abyss; there still wasn't sight of any movement from your other neighbors, if the occasional dancing trail of white dust that fluttered in front of empty sidewalks and smooth snow leveled on yards was anything to go by, at least in this corner of your street. You release a groan as you lean forward and rest your elbows against the machine's handles, forcing yourself to take a deep breath against the palms of your wool-covered hands. The bits of snow and moisture feel relieving against the inevitable headache you know will set in the moment you step back into your home after the labor-intensive shoveling. What could've taken you maybe less than forty minutes is now going to take you- you don't even want to imagine the number of hours this is all going to take you. You and the actively taunting plastic shovel leaning against the side of your house over your shoulder.

What other choice did you have? It will be a tremendous waste of time and effort to continue trying your snow blower - the poor thing is numerous years old and has been a loyal tool that cleaned away feet and feet of snow - and you recognized how the shifting into fully rain will only further compress and make the snow even harder to work with once the storm concludes. You repeatedly tell yourself, "It's gonna be worse later," as you wheel the bulky machine back to its original position and peel off the shovel with your dominant hand. Striking against the only clear portion of your driveway that the snow blower was able to redirect before it faltered, you add more white clumps and simply begin to shovel away.

You start off strong, tackling the task by splitting the 12 inches in half as you jut out your shovel and carry the snow over to toss it into your yard. At first, everything is running smoothly, more and more dark pavement entering your field of vision, and you begin to step further out from the side of your house, edging closer and closer toward the street. There's a determined fire energizing your muscles and keeping you focused on picking up the next pile of snow. Back taut and knees bent slightly, you take a moment with one arm to readjust your beanie to maintain your ears covered against the soft drizzle of descending precipitation.

Usually, you enjoyed the rain - the soft rhythmic pelting and shaded skies soothed you every time this weather rolled around, as if Mother Nature had noticed, acknowledged you, and gave you a break - but the exception to this favoritism is on days like this one. You wanted to enjoy it, you did, but how could you when the dripping wetness made you more susceptible to the freezing temperatures already snapping against your uncovered skin? Even through the multiple layers you were wearing, creeping strident goosebumps temporarily litter your limbs, starting with a slow climb up your back and crashing down your arms and legs all at once.

You think it's only been half an hour, a small part of you trying to convince yourself that the amount of snow you have been able to move, which hasn't been much, only about a fourth of the snow cleared, is adequate to the time spent, but really, it's been well over an hour by now. Somewhere through the deliberate deep breaths, the crumbling of snow forming into an elevating mountain on the driveway's edge, and the thuds from your boots when you stomp to remove every so often sticking snow, you could hear around you another shovel scraping. Although you aren't able to tell from which direction the noise originates, you're too focused to care about which of your neighbors decided to join you in their own endeavors. If you looked, it would distract you. You needed a break soon, nothing more than a handful of minutes to momentarily stretch, catch your breath, and stare angrily against the clouds like they could somehow suck back up the snowfall. Not yet, you tell yourself, pushing aside that thought as you scrape against the pavement to pick up the small leftover remnants.

Embraced in a foggy-gray trench coat that accentuates his wide shoulders and hulking 6' 4" frame, Sam pushed back his chocolate cherry hair, ignoring the seeping rain as he looked up over to you in your driveway. He had been engrossed in a textbook on the Salem Witch Trials, another left-open tome on indigenous American folk medicine - supposed alchemy - lay dormant in front of him on his desk, when he heard what he thought was the cracking of snow on his roof. It wasn't until he completed the chapter and put aside the journal he had with all his notes that the brunette man peered over to the window in his study and caught the glint of metal from your shovel mid-strike. He immediately rushed into his room, throwing on his coat and loosely wrapping a dusty charcoal gray, thin scarf between the lapels and his neck. If he had known sooner, he would've joined you outside earlier. By now, he would've been able to clear his walkway enough to make it to you and offer his services.

Sam was still intentionally making sure that his path was free from snow, at times heavy boots stomping through sheens of ice. The tall man could have easily stepped through the snow, the white blankets barely scraping his knee when he bent them to pick up the snow, but he also knew that you would deny him from helping if you were to look over and find his home uncleared. So, in a matter of five minutes, Sam made his way down his front steps and stood in front of his crooked mailbox in another ten before taking a sharp left turn, continuing to pile away the impeding white fluff that kept him from you. Much to the disagreement from his skipping heart at each long stride, he was getting closer to you. The brunette man didn't know what you two were.

He had been on this street longer than you, already renting his large two-story home for a few years. While Sam had spent his first few months settling in, by the time he was finally done unfolding his final move-in box, the neighbors next door had already listed their home for sale and left for another state less than a year later. Tucked into the street's nook, the brunette man had spent the next year and a half enjoying the quiet serenity that was only temporarily broken when Dean came to visit him periodically. Not that you were a noisy neighbor yourself when you finally moved in next door. Initially, he hardly noticed that he had a new neighbor - the only clues being your parked 2001 Mazda 626 covering a portion of the months-long empty asphalt pavement and the reclaimed white and red "For Sale" yard signpost. At the end of the month, when the cold began to lick away and paint the leaves a blossoming red, he heard a tentative knock at his door and found you balancing a home-baked pumpkin pie and still steaming chocolate chip cookies.

After that, the two of you slowly burned your way through a budding relationship, beginning with acclimating acquaintances who would share a quick greeting whenever either of you happened to be stepping out to run an errand or coming back from work. It was like this for months, something simple and yet comfortably stable - neither of you realizing how much you cherished these numerous small moments. Then it was suddenly like the universe wanted the two of you to get closer, getting bored with watching the same interactions over and over again, and for one circumstance or another, you had to rely on each other.

At least bi-weekly, you needed to momentarily step into each other's homes, nothing longer than a handful of minutes while waiting for the missing ingredient that you needed. More months passed, and abruptly your car broke down, it needed six-to-eight weeks in the body shop due to how backed up they happened to be. The manager said there wasn't much they could do, that it was that time of the year after all. You were just trying to rack your brain to figure out who you should call when your phone vibrated in your hand, Sam's caller ID filling the screen. Like he knew you needed him. Just another coincidence, you told yourself before picking up.

The last few weeks had brought the two of you exponentially closer together; you didn't even mind that you were without your car. A trivial part of you wanted to force your phone to stay on do-not-disturb; to shut off any chance for the body shop to call you back and let you know that your car was up and running again, ready to leave the lot and inadvertently conclude the forced proximity you've had at least six days out of the week.

Sam felt similarly, the repeated ringing from your phone conditioning his body to tense and his grip on the leather wheel to tighten into a strong clamp, expecting the body shop disguised as an unknown number to whisk you away. When he had the chance to safely watch the side of your face, every time he released a held breath and his heart relaxed, recognizing that you were talking to a friend or family member. He didn't know what to expect after these conditions were over, hoping that you two would still remain close, though he did know that you had finally made him feel normal. What were simple check-ins evolving into fond discussions filled with laughter and vulnerability, all the same, lasting hours of you two sitting in his parked car until his driveway was glossed in the beautiful array of the setting sun. And the intelligent man will do anything to maintain it.

You freeze mid-movement and lift your head when you hear your name called from that familiarly profound baritone. "Hey!" the hulking man stood at the edge of your driveway, his shovel looking small compared to his large frame. When he noticed you look past him to note the man-made piles of snow stacked across your yard's perimeter, he boyishly grinned. "It looked like you could use some help."

"Yeah, I do," you admit. How could you not when you couldn't tell any more whether your skin was damp from the rain or sweat? Your muscles ached, and you still had about half of your driveway to do before you could even think about heading back inside if you were to ignore your front walkway. "You should worry about your own snow, though. I can handle this," you stubbornly backtrack, turning away to lift and dump more snow and not to hide the creeping blush.

Sam shook his head, following your movements to continue shoveling, faster and more snow on his broad, flat head. "No need to worry about that, Sunshine, I can get to that later." The new nickname short-circuited your automatic response, the prepared words dropping back down your throat as you can feel the pulsing artery pumping against your neck. The word echoed in your mind until its weight felt heavy against your consciousness, as if it were Sam who intruded on your space. You felt brash - akin to a teenager who had shared the briefest look between his crush in the hallway.

You pull down your scarf, it haphazardly rests against your jacket, clear your throat, and say, "I was just thinking what's best for you. I don't want you to overwork yourself, Old Man." You fell back into friendly banter, knowing that it was the easiest environment to comfortably toe the line between what you know and something more. You wanted it to be more, more than anything, but even within your older age, you couldn't break the ice or force the expected conversation like you should have been able to.

Sam laughs, a hearty chuckle filling the space between you. The air stills for a moment, rain subsiding as if it were waiting for something more while the brunette man longingly stares at your figure. "You know, I'm not that much older than you. You've got what, a few months until you're also thirty?"

"Exactly. I'm still not thirty, meaning my body can last much longer than yours," you chortle.

You miss how his breath catches, his taut chest rising and pushing against the layer of fabrics, and the challenging glint in his eye. You were too focused on removing the slush stuck to your shovel to realize the concealed weight your words held. But Sam clearly heard it, really, it's going to be the only thing he hears for the next week when he's sprawled against his bed and should have been asleep an hour ago. "Think you'd be surprised," he smirks, stepping another row closer to you, more snow accumulating into small walls along the border.

Filled with comfortable silence, broken with the occasional teasing comment, another twenty minutes pass. You're both standing side-by-side now, your bodies unnecessarily closer than needed as your shovels irregularly clash, toppling more snow onto the ground that Sam would apologize for and pick up with his shovel before walking back to you. Still close. You can feel the inviting heat emanating from his side pressed against yours, gloved hands brushing together, and they would be touching if neither of your hands were obstructed by the wool.

You toss your shovel into the snow barricade and cry out to the sky in utter joy when Sam packs down the last of the snow, not wanting a crumb to fall back down onto the clearing. Even still prepared with his shovel in hand, the tall man shyly looks down with a small smile, hoping you won't notice the effect you have on him. His gaze trails back up at your figure before settling onto your expression, both fully prepared to stand with you here in this closed distance and to potentially hear you groan about your sidewalk and walkway so he could instinctively reassure you that he's got that covered. Arms descending from palming the clouds, you catch Sam's look - he doesn't look away, and neither do you.

"So," you drag out the syllable for each inch apart the two of you stood. The brunette nods, attentively waiting for you to continue. "What now?"

"Whatever you want, Gorgeous," Sam responds, voice tight and gruff that you've only heard recently in those early mornings and late afternoons spent in his car.

Sam watches you turn away from him, wishing that he couldn't just see your side profile while you look in the direction of his house. You turn back to face him when you declare, "I could help you clear your snow."

The taller man's face scrunches at that idea. He can't reasonably understand why you would bring that up. "Absolutely not," Sam breathes, taking a single stride forward, his large frame towering over you. You've already done too much, Pumpkin, he thinks to himself. "That's my yard, you don't have to worry about it."

"Sam- You helped me. It's only fair that I help you."

"I wanted to help you," Sam whispered. His free hand twitches at his side. You were finally so close, and all he wanted to do was somehow pull you even closer from any part of you that you'd allow him to touch. "You don't need to feel in debt."

Before you can open your mouth to rebuttal, you feel Sam's index finger press against your lips, and a lulling shush escapes his own mouth. You hadn't even noticed when the brunette had peeled off his glove, sizzling sparks shooting between you, accelerating your heartbeat. There wasn't any way for you to escape, any way for you to hide, so you knew that Sam saw the rising blush spread across your face. But as you survey his face, you don't see disgust or fear - only assuredness mixed with longing adoration. Sam, too, felt heavy heat sink into his gut, sparks bouncing through his arm and down his body, awakening the long-dormant kaleidoscope of butterflies.

"Please," the word was barely audible, sounding more like deep vibrations. He says your name like it's his favorite word, "You've already done more than enough. Please, go inside. I can handle everything else on my own."

You shakily nod your head, a chill running down your back at the more authoritative tone. But you both still stand there, illuminated under the white streetlamp's light, seconds turning into minutes and the moment stretching to feel like an everlasting perpetuity. It's almost like another one of your teasing challenges, though the two of you were too stubbornly awestruck from all the held-back shared emotions to give in this time. You feel a minuscule splash from a lonely raindrop, and all at once a steady drizzle begins anew, slashing through the more than platonic tension. You pull away, wiping away the rain from your face as you shut your eyes momentarily, missing Sam's pout.

You had been restless inside - finickily pacing in front of the drawn curtains of your living room's large window. You knew Sam was still out there; you could still hear the scraping of his shovel - initially getting louder as he first cleared away your sidewalk and walkway, like the gentleman he was, before the sound grew more distant as he reluctantly turned back to his own mounds of snow. You resorted to firmly crossing your arms over your chest to prevent yourself from peeking outside and possibly getting caught by Sam for watching him. For some reason, you just had this enveloping thought that the instant you crane your head in between the fabric and pane is when Sam will turn around, not the thought that you would be the one to find him already peering over like he's been doing every so often during one of his heaves. Never. What a naive thought.

Eventually, you couldn't handle it anymore, grumbling to yourself as you poorly balance on one foot while removing your boot, then the other. You pass the jumble of your winter gear tossed over one of your dining room chairs, and your eyes trail over to the intentionally still unlocked side door. Automatically gliding across your kitchen, you pull open a cabinet door, grab an item, and kick it closed behind you as an assortment of ingredients and pots and pans for sugar cookies fill your countertop.

Baking, really? you ask yourself as you cut a form-fitting piece of wax paper to cover the baking tray. It felt too on the nose for you to be baking again - making cookies like you had done almost two years ago when you had first officially met the tall brunette. But you didn't have much else left in your pantry to work with, and the simplicity of making the classic, sugary treat forced you into a daze that blocked you from thinking about your neighbor. About how his singular finger felt against your lips. How you were so close that you could feel his body's heat. How you wanted to tenderly caress his face before pulling him down to escape into an endless kiss.

You pull back the oven door as soon as the appliance beeps - the preheat reaches the proper 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Leaning with your back against your oven, you sigh at your ceiling for what to do now. Already, thoughts of the moose-of-a-man replenish the filtering out of the baking haze. Instead of glancing over at the door to your right or your winter gear directly in front of you, you forced your gaze to center on the leftover stains of vanilla and shimmering dust of sugar on your counter, the few dirty dishes in your sink calling out to your deaf ears. The quiet ticking from the mixer-shaped timer somewhere behind you did little to soothe your senses, foot anxiously patting in time with the passing seconds. Think of it as a reward; you already start to plan out what your explanation will be to Sam when you show up with a Tupperware full of freshly baked sugar cookies. Who doesn't like them? I do. Sam does. Heck, everyone does! So, what more is there? you tell yourself, a pop breaks through your home's silence from your unenthusiastic leaky faucet.

Outside, Sam laments his earlier choice to first finish shoveling the rest of the snow, as he now doesn't really have the best grounds to knock on your door. He must've already noticed, the inducement already persuading his logical mind. And now, he stood on his worn welcome mat plastered with hard-to-remove snowfluff, facing the shiny stained-glass window. He struck his shovel head against the stone steps one final time to sweep off the last of the obstructive snow - it having morphed into a mushy concoction from the pounding precipitation - and flipped it upside down to lean in between the doorbell and railing. As he relents, an unknown held breath of air fogs against the multi-colored fragments of glass, his gloved hand reaching for his doorknob until he notices a shift. The previously vibrant stained-glass dulled, and so did the world around him.

Sam turns around, eyes widening when he's met with inescapable darkness, the streetlights faintly flickering as they try to conserve their remaining power. There was a blackout! He nearly whooped into the abyss, a poorly held back cheer obvious from the eager grin as he took the steps two at a time. He effortlessly crossed the distance back to your driveway and up your side steps, splashing through a few thin puddles that he didn't care about in that moment. All he cared about was how there happened to be another well-timed coincidence that led him back to you. This was plenty enough of a reason to see you again, even if only less than an hour had passed.

A creening scream scraped the air as the large man pulled back your screen door. He knocks once, and midway through his second, your side door flies open, your figure filling the open space. Both of you were breathless, not from physical exertion but from your unknowingly synced racing hearts and the rattling nerves that swarmed up from your stomachs and enclosed your throats. Behind you, Sam catches the flickering glow from a burning candle, the cinnamon-y aroma fusing with sugar cookies? Sam feels you grab his gloved hand, pulling him deeper into your kitchen, and he internally curses himself for still keeping the wool on. His hand shoots out to your wrist, holding you in place as you turn away from him. "Stay," he says quietly with a tilt to his face that makes him look more like a concerned puppy than a moose-of-a-man.

"Moose," his pout softens, and the tension in his shoulder eases at the nickname. Sam thought the new word sounded sonically beautiful when it came from you. "I'm not going anywhere. Just need to lock the door and pull out the sugar cookies."

Sam's thumb brushes over the back of your hand, his inviting brown eyes never leaving yours as he gently lifts your arm and meets halfway to press a chaste, promising kiss for more to come. He lets go, crosses his arms as his body tenses at not following you, instead leaning against the back of one of your dining room chairs, the wood frame almost grounding him. A locking click settles against the house's walls, endless ticking that sounded like rambunctious clucking from the miniature chicken, almost making him snort from how cute you were.

The brunette scarcely remembers to turn away when you open the oven, bend over to pull out the cookie tray with a hand rag, and in tandem re-close the appliance and straighten your posture as you place the quickly cooling, flat metal on your stove top. Satisfied with their forms and color - even with the power out for the last few minutes, the oven's heat maintained enough to bake the dessert - you pat the chicken; it releases a last ticking cluck before loving silence overpowers your ears.

"All done," you say more to yourself as you breach the distance. You look up at the taller man and hold his cheeks as he parallels your movement and wraps his hands around your waist. When he presses your pelvises together, you gasp, fingers sweeping over the corner of his lip and climbing higher to do the same to the beauty mark adorning his perfectly handsome face to the left of his nose.

And finally, after way too long, you seal your lips together in a kiss. It's better than anything either of you could have imagined, hearts finally calming down even though sweet electricity pulses across your blushing faces. Not breaking the kiss, Sam lowers his hands to palm the back of your thighs and easily scoops you into the air, walking briefly to the side to carefully sit you on the counter. Only because he needs to breathe, Sam pulls away while trying to gulp down air quickly, forehead resting against yours.

"You don't even know how long I've been waiting to do that," Sam's warm breath dissipating across your cheek. His hands caress your sides up and down until he's memorized your form and lock onto your hips to steady you.

"Me too, Sam. Me too," you murmur honestly. You share another kiss, a stinging shiver coasts down your body, causing Sam to tighten his grip, trying to force his warmth to pass onto you. "Moose, it's getting colder."

He kisses your forehead, saying, "I know a way to keep us both warm, Gorgeous. But I'll only go as far as you want me to."

"I want to," is all you say, and Sam re-lifts you up. Your legs lock around his lower back, his long, muscular arms flexing as he carries you across your home, and you can feel his firm chest expand slightly with each steady breath he takes. He lays you against your couch, his towering figure looking down at you as he rushes to take off his trench coat, gloves, and scarf, all forgotten on the floor nearby. His boots barely clatter before he lies over you, his frame carefully hovering over you with his forearms beside your head. Mouths pressed together, warmth blooming in your cores as you grind each other, finally relishing in this long-awaited intimacy.

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The blank, boring white walls of the quickly repurposed room shone brighter as the A-list actor was draped across the old, sandy-brown couch, legs propped on one end. His head was supported on the couch's other arm, careful not to mess up his warm, rich chestnut hair that his hairstylists completed five minutes earlier, though Glen was preoccupied with the device in his hands. His phone covers the beaming light directly above him, brightness tweaked up two levels in compensation, the gallery app open.

Scrolling through an album titled Sweeter than Honey, pictures of you and him - well, mostly you - in tiny squares over the years were both endless and still not enough for the man. There are many side profiles that he snuck of you, you cuddling with Brisket, and some videos you took of yourself reacting to Glen's interviews or him on the Red Carpet in numerous hotel rooms when you two were still not out. But the picture that captured his breath was of you two under the white arch, layered with Asiatic lilies at its climax, blue sapphire orchids descending, the warm orange half-set sun painting the ocean's waiting waters. Tapping on it and enlarging to fill out the not-large-enough screen, he focused on you in your sharp white tuxedo staring back at him in his black tuxedo, just like he did back then, the moment he saw you. His mother had personally taken the photo. It's still his favorite.

"Thirty seconds, Mr. Powell," Annie calls out, entering the actor's room, her heels clanking as she looks down, seemingly distracted by the message she's mid-way through sending. She doesn't wait, the personal assistant turns around, repositioning her purse on her shoulder and pocketing her phone after making sure that the individual she had been texting didn't respond back.

"I'm up. I'm up," Glen says, still fully busy staring at you. He feels sweat beads at his hairline's margin from the spreading warm affection ignited from the thought of having you as his husband. How you've been with him as close friends before his breakout role, during the few years when you were secretly dating, your engagement four years ago, wedding nearly three years ago, and even more recently, two years ago, when he abruptly dropped during a press tour interview for Twisters that he was happily married.

Of course, it was intentionally planned after a long talk about how even through the immense scrutiny that you will be propelled into, and will also now follow your husband for being open about your relationship and his sexuality. Still, the realization that the impact of having more representation on-screen, especially with such an A-list actor like your husband, made it more than worth it. As soon as he had a break, he posted the pre-drafted Instagram post that hard launched your relationship - a collage of photos, including the same wedding photo he's still staring at, with the caption "My Better Half" and your handle. You both have really been through a lot, Glen thinks as he caresses your digital face with his thumb.

Annie sighs, picks up the white hand towel from the side table near the doorway, and walks over to the brunette, sticking it between his face and his phone. Glen blinks - caught off guard by not having you in his field of vision anymore. "You'll see him soon enough," Annie reassures, holding back a chuckle.

Glen thinks she's referring to your planned Valentine's date later, so he clears his throat and says, "Right." He clicks off his phone, still frozen on the picture, pockets it, and takes the hand towel to wipe his forehead. "Did you double-check that the reservation didn't get cancelled?"

"Everything is clear and good to go. I even called your chauffeur to be prepared twenty minutes before your originally stated time."

"Perfect," Glen smiles, fiddling with the towel before Annie places out her hand. He hands it to her, finally getting up from the couch and stepping out of the room while feeling the restless weight of his phone pressed against the dark slacks covering his thick thigh. Fading glowing heat cooled as he steeled his expression, ceasing his itching fingers that want nothing more than to re-open his phone and stare at that picture of you until his phone runs out of battery. It's the closest he'll get to you: his other half that he knew has been true, years before your marriage; his love that fuels him every day; his biggest support that rivals his mother; and his Valentine's date. He shouldn't be putting so much thought - so much worry - into what, your tenth shared Valentine's Day. But he couldn't help feeling the swelling guilt in his stomach's basement for having to work and leave you today, on the one day where partners are meant to be inseparably lovey-dovey. Two more hours, honey, and I'll be back with you.

Out in the hallway, no longer hidden in the safe confines of a closed room, Glen turns on his public personality to eleven as he walks past a shut door with another shiny star like his. Must be the interviewer, Glen thinks. For whatever reason, the video's director wanted the two not to meet beforehand. No explanations, rundowns, introductions, or even brief formalities. As an actor, he knew how to put on a performance - how to fake a raw reaction like he was just meeting the individual for the first time. He's done it plenty of times over the years. Strange.

Glen stops right behind the red curtain - the final barrier that separates the backstage from the spotlight. He takes one last breath, shoving the curtain to the side, and lifts an arm at the in-studio audience. As the brunette takes a seat at his designated chair to the right, Annie hears the crowd's rambunctious applause die down as she shuts Glen's door and raps her knuckles against the other star's door before entering. The smile that she was holding in for the past few minutes finally lifted. In front of her, you were standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror as you put the final touches to your appearance - positioning the black bow tie perfectly horizontal under your chin.

"How do I look?" you ask Annie, turning to face her and opening your arms so she can look at all of you.

"You look nice. The stylists did a number on you," she answers, leaning against the doorway. She stands as a barrier between you and the bustling backstage crew and nosy reporters, knowing that this is the first time you have done anything like this before. She wanted for both your recent developing friendship that has only sprouted further after Glen broke the news, and your husband's sake, for you to stay safe.

"Thanks," you chuckle, dropping your arms. "I actually dismissed them early, told them that I wanted to look just presentable - more natural than glammed up."

"Does he know?" you ask her, referring to Glen. For a brief moment, the ever-expanding prickling needles traveling through your bloodstream dulls and your heart grows not out of jitteriness but undying love for your husband.

"Not a single ounce of suspicion. Told him that the director wanted the interviewer and him not to meet before the shoot so they could capture his raw reaction. He nodded instantly, not questioning it. Then he was occupied by lovingly staring at pictures of you," she explains as you take one final glance at your reflection.

"Good to note. I can ask him about that in the interview," you respond, devoid of the front of enthusiasm that you wished to perform. Be funny; Play your part until the exaggeration is unnotably indifferent; You don't have the right personality, were some of your inner monologue's rambling that thrashed inside your head.

Annie catches you nervously brushing your shoulders. At nothing. "How do you feel, though?"

Your nerves flare, and your body freezes, stopping your ministrations. She read you like a children's book - clear and simple to follow. You step closer to her as you say, "I know sooner or later other producers are going to invite me to guest star with him, whether I want to or not. And I know Glen has been saying that his PR team has also been telling him that my inclusion is the best way to drive more support for him. It'll be a new trend to have an actor's and an actress's partners to interview them..."

You grimace as you trail off, remembering your husband muttering under his breath, "To humanize us," sandwiched between quiet curses as he restocked the pantry full of an assortment of protein bars for himself and Goldfish and Cheez-Its that he wasn't meant to touch, or at least he never brought up the truth to his personal trainer. "But, I also want to rip off the Band-Aid. I do. I know he won't let me flounder out there all by myself," you finish as tiny sparks burst from simmering determination.

"Good, 'cause I didn't want to fill in your shoes and have to explain your disappearance to the director," Annie jokes. She juts out her elbow, and you link arms as you share a laugh. Together, you take the thankfully brief walk to the same red curtain that your husband walked through no more than three minutes ago. Annie leads you to breathe with her - holding in the air for four seconds and exhaling for six - until you nod at her that you are now okay. She pats your shoulder and turns around to join the rest of Glen's team as they watch the live footage behind the scenes. It is only when you no longer hear the clacking of her heels that you push aside the hanging fabric and step on stage. Wow, it's bright.

Glen hears the crowd erupt around him, a wave of collective applause and short side comments at the figure entering. The camera swiftly turns as you step out, squinting, but you quickly recover into a bright smile. Your heart is racing, though you feel a slight sense of comfort at the warm reception, and you are a bit surprised by the cheers of people who recognized you. As you walk out of the coating bright light, the camera switches to focus on Glen's small smile, capturing his reddening face and the change in expression as he finally recognizes you walking closer to him. He briefly turns to face the camera, his smile falling, as he hopes it played into the joke of his shock at being set up.

The camera refocuses, zooming out to perfectly fit you standing next to your chair. You stare at your shocked husband, waiting for him to recuperate as you turn to the still cheering crowd with a mischievous grin. Brain malfunctioning, the brunette grounds himself by glancing you up and down. You were almost like an adorable penguin with your white button-down untucked over your black khakis. God, he couldn't wait to rip that dark bowtie off you. You lock eyes after a few moments, and it revitalizes Glen.

As you go to pull out your chair, he coolly springs up, chair scraping in disagreement, and walks around you to pull it out for you. He easily tucks you closer to the table, and you express your gratitude with a quiet, "Thank you," though you know that your mic still picked up.

Glen presses an insufficient kiss against your cheek, sea-blue eyes lidded. "Anything for you, sweetheart," he responds, breath fanning against the sensitive skin of your ear. Out of all of your thoughts, you ignore the many that want you to turn your head and press back into him as he leans over you, and you chew on the one that's focused on whether the camera is picking up the rising blush on your neck.

You hear a crew member in the back shout an unwithheld frustration, "You're ruining the shot," as your husband purposely blocks the camera's lens - his strappingly large frame covering you. He presses a minuscule button under his red lapel - where his tiny mic was secretly clipped to - and motions for you to do the same. The second your mic also shuts off; his shoulder's visible relax.

The brunette ignores the hundred or so fans in the audience that are either ogling each of your movements or dissecting the disposition of space and your changing facial expressions to break their completely credited revelations on Twitter. He can feel the restrained confusion blocked by his manager's patience; the years of working together have built a sturdy foundation of trust to look past this mistake, at least momentarily. And yet, your husband is proud to be your shield - to be the catalyst for a possible controversy because it would mean that fewer people online will focus on you. He'll take any and all online harassment if it means it would keep you safe.

His smile shifts when he says, "I'm here if you need me." It isn't the usual overly bright, pearly smile; rather, it is the softer, more genuine expression reserved for the late nights spent together cuddling. "Just be yourself, honey. They'll love you. I know I do."

When he follows you into a brief peck, he knows that it's going to get him an earful from his manager for keeping the intimate action between you, himself, and the audience in the stands, which are, again, freaking out and desirous that they still had their phones on them and weren't currently locked away in the lobby. As you pull away, you each flicker back on the other's mic. For the camera, Glen angles his frame and lifts up your hand to kiss the back of your left hand. He lingers for a moment, allowing the affection to heighten as your husband winks at you with a sly spark in his look. In less than two minutes total, Glen scrapes forward his chair as at last the video footage reflects both of you sitting together.

The table is draped in a wrinkle-free red sheet, adorned with three fake, flickering wax candles at its center. In front of where each of you is sitting, there's the shiniest silverware placed next to a white ceramic plate semi-covered in a folded pink napkin. Neither of you will be eating, at least it wasn't mentioned by Annie when she broke down the theme of this interview: Valentine's Day. She said overall it would be questions that prod at the details of your relationship. Nothing about movies. Solely focusing on Glen, you, and your love.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Powell," you say professionally, though you can't help the widening grin. The room's surrounding lights dim, practically shrouding the audience in darkness, so that you can only make out the whites of their eyes from your periphery.

Your husband shakes his head, chuckling. "You can call me Glen, sugar," his deep-seated country drawl in full force, "you really blindsided me. I thought I wouldn't see you until later. And here you are, handsome-as-ever."

"Alright, Glen, it is then. But please refer to me as Mr. Powell. I would like to keep it professional," you answer, the tension in your body easing. You still feel rigid, but as you focus on the brunette across from you and the way he's staring back at you like he still couldn't believe you were his interviewer, your heart settles incrementally into the standard semi-skipped beat around your husband.

He clears his throat before responding, deciding to play into the flirty dynamic. So, a usual afternoon. "No promises, sweetheart," he tones back his Southern accent, and winks again at you.

You hear approaching footsteps and turn as an intern brings you a stack of laminated cards. You thank him before grabbing the stack of interview questions, and he departs the stage. Glen follows his retreating figure, eyes snapping back onto you when you lay the hold the cards perpendicular to the table. You briskly shuffle through the questions to get a better idea of where this interview could end up, and you stop at one that forces you to hold back a laugh. Oh, let's see how this goes, you think. "Alright, Glen-" But the brunette man cuts you off.

"That's it, hon? You ain't gonna introduce yourself?"

"Oh, I don't need to introduce myself. I'm sure the audience will learn plenty about me from how much you choose to spill." However, you still raise your hand to show off the rings that your husband proposed and married you with. Your engagement band is a simple tungsten ring with a thick gold stripe around its center, while your marriage band is a matching fully dark obsidian-colored tungsten ring with the words "My Better Half" engraved inside. Glen also holds up his hand, an identical tungsten ring displayed next to his tilted head, and is poorly maintaining his smirk as it turns into a small, but powerfully affectionate, smile. "After all, this is an interview disguised as a date."

"We've already gone through these 21 questions on our first date," he lies. He reaches across the table and gently interlocks your hand - that isn't holding the interview cards - with his larger palm. "Think we've been together long enough to skip to the fun part."

You must power through, maintaining eye contact as you bite your tongue and feel the heat pool against your face from his innuendo. "Please, Mr. Powell, the questions." You pause briefly and give in. "Maybe later, though, you'll get lucky with your husband," you tease. It causes his eyes to widen, constructing a lustful challenge involving the endless possibilities he could have with you behind closed doors to celebrate Valentine's.

"So, if you will, Glen," he lifts his arms up in innocence and nods at you to continue. Your eyes drift to the bulging muscles stacked on his large arms from the movement, so you lift the cards higher to hopefully hide the blooming blush. "Let's start simple. How long have we been together?"

Glen tactfully responds with, "Married for 2 years, 7 months, and 18 days; 3 years, 5 months, and 14 days since our engagement; and our first date was on December 24th, 2016, so 9 years, 1 month, and 21 days since then. Which one were you lookin' for, sweetheart?" He feels you squeeze his palm, and he knows he read through the trick question.

"Next question, what's a meal you'd love for me to cook for you?"

"Skip."

"Skip? Glen, you can't skip a question."

"Hon, I can't answer that without havin' my trainer use the video evidence against me," he explains, turning to the camera with an incredulous look. "And it would mean even less time spent together."

"Alright, fine, but you used your only pass. You don't get any more." You can hear the slight creaking as the camera swaps angles as you flip through a few more questions. You ignore the brunette's puppy eyes and pout. "What's your favorite way we spend a lazy day together?"

You brace yourself, thinking he's going to answer something inappropriate, but he tricks you. He says in a wistfully deep gruff, "However you wish to spend it, sugar." The brushes against your knuckles are faster and a bit rougher - he's trying to ground himself rather than soothe you. It takes him a moment, and you watch him to analyze whether it'd be better if you move past the subject. He continues, "I know I'm always busy... It's only getting worse with every year that passes. If I'm not filming, then I'm training, preparing for another audition, or grabbing a flight. I can only bring you with me so often on set if you aren't busy with your job as well.

"Hell, even today on Valentine's I got roped into working," Glen's voice waivers off, a rare frown deeply embedded. He looks up at you when you squeeze his hand, his eyes are glassy with thin red lines snaking to eat his handsome blues. Without speaking, you ask him if he needs to step away with a tilt of your head. He can't help but chuckle - face lifting - since he's the one who should be asking you that. You are completely out of your element, and yet you eased into the interviewer role easily. You smile at him, and it's enough for him to find the missing words and flip his guilt. The brunette pulls back his hand with a final squeeze and clasps them under the table. He sniffles, setting up the shot, before he reverently looks up at you with intense affection and says, "I was thrilled when I saw you walk in. It meant today wasn't a total loss."

"It never is, Glen. Not with you."

You don't pull away from his gaze, not yet; you allow the moment to linger. You didn't do it for a strong emphasis to conclude the scene, no, you couldn't care less about the video produced from this. You needed to reassure your husband that there wasn't an ounce of doubt in your words, that with your whole heart you meant every word.

The rest of the hour passes with more teasing and boyish grins. You purposely start slowly, choosing simple questions that focus on yourself and your past with Glen. He describes the first time you ran into each other, literally, how endless apologies slipped out of your mouth, and you asked if you could make up to him by buying him a new coffee. He even tells how he didn't know it then, but followed the unconscious feeling that he wanted himself to be your friend, so he agreed and wrote down his number on your receipt.

You both laugh after the brunette jumped to retell your disastrous first date. Glen - wanting to impress you - had the bright idea of picking you up from your apartment with his newly purchased luxurious car. Well, for more than three hours you had been circling the crowded New York streets for even the tightest parking spot and came up just short time and time again. When you had turned to the brunette to call it quits, your reservation having long passed more than an hour ago, the plastic and wrapping paper cradling the bouquet of roses crinkled in your lap, and you placed your hand on his knee to tell him so. You ended that retelling by highlighting how the date wasn't a total waste, as you had grabbed some takeout Chinese food and put on a movie. The full memory resurfacing, he adds that that was the start of some of the best sleep of his life.

"Glen, we were hunched over each other all night, and when we woke, we both complained of feeling sore in joints we didn't know we had," you point out.

"Yeah," he says breathlessly, and it wasn't from the laughter. "Well worth it to have you so close."

You asked him about the small moments, about other silly instances that will get him to break out of a slump on his off days, the cute small gestures that mean more than anything, his favorite inside joke of yours, and what he thinks the most dashing compliment he has ever given you has been. When he lifts an eyebrow at you, and before the words could smoothly glide in the space between you, you stop him. You hide behind the question cards, even though you know the camera can still capture you, as you verbalize that no matter what he was going to say would've made you blush.

"It wouldn't count."

"Think I shoulda just said I don't need words. Right, hon?" You don't agree, at least not verbally. You can feel your heart drumming against the cartilage prison of your ribs, starstruck from the gallantly dashing smirk and the spotlights casting a warm tan glow with emerging sweat descending his sharp cheeks and coating the scruff of his beard.

The final question for the interview has you ask Glen about the future. You could've asked him about what a time-jump twenty years in the future would look like, what upcoming trip he has planned, or if there were any adventures with you from the past that he would like to resurface. No, you know the answers to all of those already. Instead, you ask, "What is a change you wish to implement this year?"

"I want to spend more time with you," he winks with that same radiant smile. This isn't an exaggeration nor a play into his persona; he was being genuine. "And with Brisket, of course."

After the audience files out in wavering droves, the surrounding lights re-emerge, and you two are left alone with a handful of crew members. You both pose for a few promotional pictures, Glen's favorite of the three, which you are definitely going to get Annie to send you later, is of him kneeling with his hands raised as he practically worships your figure. He's going to make that his phone's next wallpaper. And when the camera crew looked away, they missed the perfect accompanying shot of Glen kissing your ring. Luckily, Annie didn't.

You head back to Glen's room as he filmed a few extra scenes for promotional clips of your video. He almost asked for you to also be in them, but you pulled away from him and gave him a look that both said, "It's fine" and "I'm tired anyway," which assured him enough to drop it. Five minutes turn to ten minutes, you pass the agonizing period by awkwardly switching between uncomfortable positions against and on the lumpy couch before you compose yourself unknowingly in the exact same position that Glen was in a few hours ago. Down to the similarly replicated blockage of the room's harsh, bright light with your held phone. It's only when you no longer hear the grounding vibrations from your husband's brisk steps that you pull away from your screen. What a sight you were met with.

Before you stood Glen, grinning, his massive figure imposing. The maroon fabric of his shirt was forced forward as his heaves jutted in tandem with his buff chest. His wide, sturdy shoulders made the shirt look a size too small, which it might honestly be. Directly next to your head was the barely overhanging hem, a black leather belt accentuating his toned waist, and in between was the brush of brown of his happy trail that paved up to his ripped abs. You're ogling at this point, but you wouldn't - couldn't rip your eyes away.

"Later, sugar," he said, voice reaching a deeper octave now that you're both out of the public's eye, dragging out the last syllable in the pet name. He outstretches his arm, and you finally look away; however, you must rapidly blink away to not trail and linger over his bulging bicep, even when not flexing. He lifts you to your feet easily, and with an arm on your waist molding you into his side, you walk out the back entrance of the filming studio. Fortunately, it seemed like all the crew members were busy, or more than likely, had already gone home to their partners after being dismissed early. You both were able to briefly catch Annie, thanking her for the support, before the three of you parted ways.

Entering the shiny black limousine felt like a striking whiplash. Never-ending differences between New York's dirty, crowded, and yet still familiarly memorable streets, when compared to the soft fuzz of the velvet seats with the faint lingering odor of the overly abundant arrangements of orchids, lavenders, and roses. One rested in your lap - just like that same first date almost a decade ago in Glen's car - and the rest created a wall on the seats across from you two. Even through it all, some things never seemed to change.

The limousine constantly stopped, the supposed thirty-minute commute taking more than an hour. But you and Glen didn't mind. Hidden behind the deeply tinted opaque windows, the mobile confine was filled with your shared soft - nearly inaudible - voices, half-full champagne glasses, and the messy streaks of gooey chocolate on your fingertips as you plucked pieces from the ginormous heart-shaped container and fed each other.

When the limousine finally reached your destination, you could clearly hear past the quiet hum of the engine a cacophony of waiting fans and demanding paparazzi. You tilted your head on your husband's shoulder to catch his reaction when he too heard the first snap of a camera. A tidal wave of roaring flashes that sounded like professional tap dancing followed. Glen's eyebrows furrowed, slight creases etching out the corners of his eyes, and he tightened his hold around your waist. Even after all these years, he still doesn't understand how reporters and paparazzi were able to find him when he never left a visible trace to predict. He hadn't even taken you out to this restaurant before.

"I'll step out first," he says more to himself, psyching himself up to put back on his cheery mask for the public. He stops midway through pulling the door's handle, he looks back at you, and gives your right arm one final squeeze with his free hand. You nod, a genuinely appreciative smile displayed for you and only you. It's enough for him to play into the public's devoted attention, standing on the curve and raising his arm for the surrounding cameras. He turns back to the limousine, bending over to tug you out of the vehicle. Selfishly, his voice booms as he excuses the two of you and instantly starts pulling you behind him and into the restaurant.

He looks back at you constantly, his large frame assertively forcing its way through the enclosing crowd. He has a death grip on your wrist that tightens incrementally with each shoulder that knocks into his. The shutting doors behind you eases his tension, but even as he releases a held breath, he still refuses to unlatch his hand. The hostess leads you behind a red satin curtain reserved for the private room held solely for celebrities and walks away after telling you two that your waiter will be with you shortly.

Glen hadn't unlatched himself from your figure ever since the elevator doors closed, finally blocking the public eye and granting you two the needed privacy after too many hours. The date had run smoothly, filled with delicious, decadent cuisine and teasing banter, first about the interview until your husband shut the gates on talking about work to ask you about yourself. The space felt light, familiar, and all too adoring as he devotedly listened to you talk about anything but.

The elevator dinged as it rose past another floor, the increasing number's red light illuminating the brunette's actions against your neck. Sensual kisses that had peaking nibbles against your pulse point, his arms seized around your waist, tense from the strain as you could feel his thick pecs pressed against your back. You knew he had been holding himself back all day. You knew he wanted to make this day perfect for you to pour all his love into you. Honestly, you're surprised he had waited so long, as you noticed his body buzzing in the limousine ride back, endless and dutiful restraint. Perhaps he would've snapped and lost himself in lust sooner if the paparazzi had found you two on your way out of the restaurant. You will definitely need to go back to that restaurant again and personally thank that waiter for mentioning the secret entrance in the back early in your meal.

You felt the rough glide of Glen's jean-covered pelvis grind against the dip of your lower back, his tree-trunk-like thighs knocking against you as he tried to find the best position to let you feel all of him. There is an insurmountable amount of desire that is fueling him, like a starved man finally allowed to give in. He drags you back into his muscular form as you try to pull forward, since the doors creak open to the hallway of your penthouse suite. You try again, stop when you feel the deep vibrations from his chest echoing into you as he doesn't let go.

"Glen, this is our stop," you explain, voice quiet as you didn't want to burst the intimate bubble.

His head cranes further, beard scratching pleasantly, and warm huffs of air fanning over your neck as he tries to dig deeper into you. His forearms graze up your body as he shifts and locks them in a compact, tense hug around your chest. You feel him kiss the underside of your jaw, approving you to move forward. Together, you awkwardly shuffle together with the large man practically dwarfing you as he leans most of his weight on your back, each step a challenging reminder of the inevitable. Your heart's racing, you were both so lucky to not have any surrounding neighbors. In the distance, you can hear the elevator shut and descend as another tenant called for it, probably on their way out to drink their grief away at a local bar.

You nearly fall forward as you twist and push open your door, the slight change in angle causing Glen to somehow pull you even closer, finally feeling his hardening length. He grunts, a wave of chills sliding down his limbs from the brief touch. Letting go of you only momentarily, and only partially, the brunette swipes at the door, grabs the keys from your palm, clicks the lock back into place, reaches up to sheath the golden chain lock, and turns on the suite's security system. He turns back into you, arm rewrapping around your shoulder to tilt your head and begin an assault of kisses and licks in a trail from your jaw down to your chin and finally up to your lips. He doesn't reach the final destination as he pauses, hearing the pitter-patter and a couple of yips from Brisket as he walks in from the couch, you presume.

"Hi, Brisket," you can feel the widening grin against your cheek. The terrier-poodle looked up at his two dads, tilting his golden head as if he was trying to decipher why his Padre - as Glen refers to himself - was glued to your back.

As soon as you feel Glen's grip start to loosen, you crouch to give plenty of pets to Brisket. He licks the air near your face out of blissful enjoyment. "What have you been up to? Huh?" you teasingly ask your dog as you cascade your palm through the long, luscious fur. Your husband's lust subsides temporarily, too enamored with the view of seeing his two important and favorite men together. It produced a familiar warmth that nudged into the crevices of his bones, especially pooling at his pelvis. The brief interaction ended as Brisket got bored and decided to trot over to sunbathe in the corner of the living room before the sun kissed the sky good night, splitting the intense passion with mind-numbing love.

After the past few minutes, you finally face each other again, and at the moment you stand straight, he lunges forward and kisses you. His large hands scramble to grab at any piece of you as he deepens the kiss, never settling as he goes back and forth between your shoulders and hips. You feel him licking your bottom lip, asking for permission, and immediately entering the cavern of your mouth when your lips part. When his hands settle against your clothed waist, patiently waiting for the soft skin there, he leads you past the kitchen and through the small hallway into your bedroom.

Your tongues dance, an equal part of concentrated vigorousness, as Glen doesn't take charge. At least not for tonight. He lets you push and pull his head whichever direction your heart desires as your hands hold fistfuls of brown locks. The wet smacks are louder when the brunette kicks the door closed. Your eyes close as you fully trust your husband as he leads you back into the California king-sized bed, not that his eyes were open either. It's a gentle fall as he carries most of your weight, lips still attached to yours, and he follows you.

Leaning on his forearms over you, to not crush you with his weight, at least not yet, the position gives him the perfect position to grind against you. Warm puffs of air, tongues twisting and pushing in perfect symmetry, and the grinding draws out your hearts to pump faster and faster. But it could only feel so good, with the clothes preserving the raw feel of your skin like armor. His hardening, trapped cock pulsed harshly, needing to be freed and feel you against him. It wasn't a desire; it was vital.

"Mr. Powell, I need you," Glen huskily whispers against your right ear, a momentary tease that will soon be forgotten as he circles back to the professional title you asked him to use earlier.

"What are you waiting for, Mr. Powell?" you tease back, hands raising to cup his face. As much as he wishes to cuddle against your palms and continue to gaze at you like you were the moon itself, Glen rips away from you.

The two of you shuck off your clothes, socks first, as both your shoes were left somewhere forgotten in the hallway when you kicked them off. When he tugs over his maroon shirt, he crawls back over to you to help you unbutton your white shirt. He chuckles when he finds your bowtie already on the ground. "I wanted to take that off you," he grumbles as he unbuckles and cleanly unfastens his belt. You mirror each other as you both kick off your pants and pull down your underwear. His darkening eyes just about vibrate as he ogles your naked figure. You take him in, too, mountains of muscles on every inch of his tanned skin from the simmering heat of his desires.

His length swells, thickening when his eyes lock on your half-hard member. You sprawled out under him like you were a feast to be served to feed a king pulls him back into you. This time, your lips only meet once, a sweet reminder that has him form a small smile, before he trails kisses down your form: chin, jaw, shoulder, chest, your heart multiple times until he feels it skip a beat from his affection, ribs, and stomach. He gives a quick, all too brief, playful kiss against the head of your cock, your body jolting from the tease. His large fingers brush against your inner thighs before he shuffles back and lifts them up to rest your calves against his sturdy shoulders. You wish you weren't in the middle of taking a deep breath as the air catches in your throat when your husband begins to repeatedly lick against your taint.

He groans when he feels your hand back in his hair, tugging him down lower. He obliges, his lips barely opening as his tongue swirls around your hole, diving deeper when he hears you whimper a few times, your fingers scrunching and scraping against his skull. Head a buzz from hearing your cute reactions, he lets go of one of your thighs and grabs his rock-hard rod that's been jumping impatiently against the smooth quilt's fabric. Instantly warm shocks shoot up beyond his core as he tugs himself, his hand nothing comparable to one of your own, but enough for tonight, as he roughly pulls at his cock in preparation of being inside you, every so often twisting and flicking his thumb over the precum leaking from the head's slit to coat himself. As his tongue digs deeper into your folds, his arm moves faster, unrelenting. The constant hours working out in the gym have caused his stamina to increase tenfold over the years, but if he wasn't careful, he would blow too soon. He could never do that to you, especially not tonight.

All at once, he pulls back, lips puffy and chin covered in some of his slobber, your hole clenching against the cool empty air. He can't help the growing grin on his face, even as he lets go of his large cock, the rigid veins pumping blood, forcing him to shake from the lack of movement and pressure, the mushroom head a deep, angry red. Kneeling with your heels digging into his shoulders, his abs flex and deflate in prevention before the irresistible view. Even though he's still left with abundant energy, his light panting expands his massive figure as he towers over you.

"Glen," you murmur. His dark Caribbean-blue eyes lock onto yours, his cock twitching in a mix of glee from you seeking his attention and abstemiousness. Before you can lift your head, Glen is already there - his handsome face centimeters from yours, that brushes momentarily when he tucks a pillow under your head. You whisper, "I need you."

His face scrunches, biting back a groan as he feels your cocks touch from his twitching. It's difficult to collect himself, heart exuberantly racing, still partly panting, and his skin readily overcharged as his body hesitantly hovers over yours. He forces a deep breath before saying, "I know, sweetheart. But I still need to prep you first."

He tucks his face against your cheek, warmth tickling your right ear as he raises his left hand and sticks two fingers into his mouth. It's intentional; he wants you to hear the rough noises he's making for you as he laps at his three thick fingers. You know he isn't playing it up, forcing it, putting on an act or a show for you - this is your husband passionately wanting you to understand even an ounce of the catastrophe of emotions that you stir inside him. With a quiet pop, his fingers break away, a tiny line of drool webbing between his wet lips and a digit. You shiver and groan when you feel him lick at his drool that dripped onto your cheek.

Like he did with his tongue, he circles around your hole teasingly, then plunges a single large digit in. He peppers kisses on different parts of your face, trying to distract you as he works his finger deeper until it reaches his knuckle. He knows there isn't a point at the moment, but he wiggles the finger, seeking your prostate to no avail. Though he does think your shaking is cute. To prepare for a second finger, he kisses you on the lips, knowing that the electricity shared between you is enough for the other finger to join the first. As soon as he starts to scissor your clenching folds, your lips part in a whimper that forces him to deepen the kiss, to try and swallow how he's making you feel.

His cock jumps, slapping against the margin against his flexing abs as he gets to feel first-hand how much pleasure he's giving you. By the time he's ready to plunge his third necessary digit, your body is covered in a thin veil of sweat, fire-y hot, and uncontrollably trembling. This time, he does get to swallow your whimper and the many following as he continues to stretch you. You tap against the side of his neck, a sign that he knows means you were prepared enough and want to feel him - the hot, heavy, hard, and thick length of his cock.

He steadily pulls away, mouth leaving yours first, so he could hear the breathless moan when his fingers leave you empty. His body shudders when he pulls away from your close proximity, kneeling as he strokes himself a few more times to reapply his precum thoroughly across his glistening, large rod, eyes never leaving yours. With his free hand, he plucks another pillow from behind you, easily lifts your lower body, and inserts it under your lower back, slightly angling you while supporting your hips. He wanted to love you, not hurt you.

You lather your fingers in some of the precum that pooled onto and surrounding your cock, it jumped at the small touch of attention, and you reach further down to grab his length. His groan is loud, bounding from deep within the chasms deep in his chest and filling the room when he finally feels your hand wrap around his cock. He can't help the poorly held back thrusts that has your grip sliding back and forth across him, an insistent pulse flooding each of the protruding veins from feeling you. Glen re-grabs your calves, lifting them off his shoulder and bending your legs forward until your knees are inches away from your shoulders.

He groans your name, "Come on. Guide me into you."

His chest rumbles, and you stop breathing when you feel his bulbous head poke repeatedly against your awaiting hole. After all that time and preparation, it's still humongous, bigger than your stretched hole. He eases his hips forward, the further stretch shooting tendrils of pain that currently conceal your pleasure. Glen moves his hands lower, now holding onto the junction between your knees and thighs as he works himself farther and farther into you. His large frame covers yours, beads of sweat dripping onto you from his expanding large chest covered in stubble of dark hair. He stops for a minute when he's halfway through, his cock twitches angrily in disagreement. Your husband waits until your body's grip turns from a push to a pull, signifying that the pain has finally subsided.

He apologizes against your skin and pushes the rest of the way in, causing you to scream from the intrusion's pleasure. The full feeling doesn't last too long as Glen already begins to glide back and forth, his cock's lust shouting louder than the logical thoughts that try to break through his overworked heart. For no more than a second, you feel his pelvis grind into you - a delicious scratch against your ass from the shaven hairs surrounding his pubic bone - before his cock pulls back again to restart the cycle. You don't know what's causing you more pleasure, it all blurs together as the thrusts steadily pick up in their pace.

Glen pulls out for too long; he shifts his body as his hand curls into a fist that holds himself in this new angle. He circles his hips, smearing more precum against your entrance before plunging back all the way, hitting your prostate directly. You gasp, neck snapping forward from the surge of pleasure to rest your forehead against your husband's wide, tense right shoulder. Bingo, Glen praises himself. He presses a long kiss against the dip between your eyebrows, pressing your head back against the plush pillow beneath you. Grinning down at you until a groan escapes his lips, he continues to shove deeper, quicker into you, all thrusts directed toward that little spot inside you.

Your rushed breathing is in sync, both your hearts trying to break through your chests, and your shared gaze never faltering from the other's contact. Glen begins to jackhammer into you, his cock barely maneuvering out of you as he shifts into rapid, deep thrusts against your prostate. As your body clenches tighter against his cock, your folds morph into a perfect vice grip that pulls against the large length's steel ridges. The sound of Glen's thick thighs slapping against your ass causes your hazy mind to remind you how lucky it was that you two didn't have any neighbors.

You revert back to whimpers and gasps when Glen shifts lower again to hold your legs down with his shoulders, head directly above yours, and his free hand pulls at your length. It's like your body was waiting for your husband's contact, as you suddenly feel that familiar, ready-to-burst coil in the pit of your stomach. When you break eye contact from the brunette, gaze trailing further and further up as the sensations feel too much - your husband's passionate jackhammering, the hand around your cock, and the close, dedicated, secure proximity. But he couldn't help it, no, not tonight. Glen cranes his neck up, following you until you're looking back into his dark eyes as he pours every ounce of love that he has for you into you. More than he needed to feel you against him, he needed the constant reinforcement that you were blissfully loving every second, every touch, every bit of him against you.

He groans out your name for a second time, "I need you to let go, please. Can you do that for me, sugar?"

And with the loud slaps, the overwhelming fullness, the jolting waves of pleasure, you do. You throb against his large palm, shooting your cum over your stomach as you scream. The first actually landed against Glen's abs, your warm liquid immediately trying to seep its way past his skin to join his being. He continues to jerk you through your high until your body convulses and your limbs feel like heavy pudding from the lack of strength. You shake when he pulls his hand away, looking down at the remnants of your pleasure streaking his fingers. The sight is enough to break him.

Glen's breathing picks up, his heart pounding in his ears as he uses your body for his pleasure. Your hole is slick from the insurmountable amount of leaking precum that has been coating into you through his thrusting. His low-hanging, hairless, robust balls slap against your ass cheeks as he pushes and pushes into you furiously as he chases his own pleasure. Your shared memories, the special occasions, and the spur from the hopeful future he has in mind with you blur the feeling of his heart and soul as he drives in again and again. The shiny glint from the ring on your finger is what causes him to snap.

Your husband spills into you with a deep groan against your neck, the pleasure all too much and yet still not enough. He doesn't stop pounding into you as your body clenches tight against him again when you feel his load continuously shoot and spread into you. For what feels like a euphoric eternity for Glen, he continues to cum and jackhammer into you for another minute as he makes sure that he has absolutely nothing left to give to you. In his last thrust, his bulbous head presses against your prostate in a loving reminder and a kiss. He chuckles at hearing your heart rate spike, his muscular figure finally giving in and lying over you. You feel all of him, his exuding heat, the muscles, and his familiar weight.

Together you both lay there for a handful of minutes, both not wanting to come down from the thrilling, enchanting, hazy daze and not wanting to pull apart just yet. You feel your chests pressed against each other, your hearts cheerfully applauding at how close the two of you finally are. Glen is the one to break the intimacy; he reluctantly pulls his softening length out of you. When you hiss from the emptiness and the breach of chilling air, the brunette wraps his arms around your shoulders - just beneath the pillow - and his hands span across your back in soothing, hopefully distracting, random drawings.

You pull his frame back against you when you feel the damp warmth of his skin fleetingly retract. "Stay," you whisper against the silent night.

He smiles against your cheek, heart leaping at your singular spoken word. "Hon, I'll be right back. I've gotta clean you up," he replies, voice low and still that octave deeper when it's just you two in private without an accompanying audience. "I'm going to step over to our bathroom and grab a towel for you. Is that okay?"

You almost wanted to make out with him and get him reinvigorated enough to get him back in you from that final question. Almost. He always put you first, like his heart was beating inside your chest instead of his. Instead, you say, "Yeah. That sounds perfect," with a nod.

His face is tight, eyebrows scrunched, and eyes narrowed in that concentrated look when he fully lowers your body down and steps off the body. He wants to give in and fall back into your arms, but chooses to feed that thought by looking past you and into the attached bathroom. He walks no more than fifteen feet to your left, but for both of you, it feels like you're continents apart. You hear him shut off the faucet's water and twist the towel to squeeze out a majority of the water; you also hear the rushing water of your bathtub filling. That sounds nice right about now.

Glen walks back in with one of your extra grey hand towels, looking disheveled, and you know you must look something similar. His chestnut waves are a tired mess, his lips swollen with drying saliva in surrounding spots, the tan skin of his shoulders, arms, and chest is highlighted in a thinning red from the simmering heat, and his pelvis, cock, balls, and thighs have smears and streaks of his drying cum. He stands beside the bed as he wipes himself off first, smiling brighter than the bathroom's white light. He's extra gentle when he glides the towel over your stomach, cock, and around and over your puffy entrance.

When he's done, he rhetorically asks you, "Do you think you could stand?" He knows you can't, but still his following vibrant laugh causes your eyes to well with tears rather than roll them, like you had done too often at the start of your relationship. "I've got you," he says, wrapping an arm under your thighs and another supporting your back as he carries you into the bathroom.

Glen tests the water with his big toe, deeming the temperature soothingly warm for you as he carefully maneuvers you into the tub. You lean forward, Glen steps in behind you, and he pulls you back into his thick chest once he settles in with his muscular legs, entrapping you between him. The next twenty minutes are difficult to recall, your brain rapidly shutting down for the night as you focus on your husband's steady heartbeat against your back. He was behind you, and that's all that mattered. Glen didn't mind taking care of you as he tenderly washed your body as you rested between the state of consciousness and unconsciousness.

His voice sounded distant when you hear him whisper your name against the shell of your ear. "Can you stand? Think I'll drop ya' if I try to get us both out of here at once."

Still half in a daze, you listen to your husband's voice. You peel off him, stand, and your feet plant against the soft fabric of the bathroom's rectangular rug. You didn't notice, but Glen's hands followed your body's movements - ready to catch and save you if need be. The brunette stands, pulls the bathtub's plug, and steps out to join you on the carpet. He pats your shoulder twice, both to ground himself and make sure that you stay awake for the moment, before walking around you to grab a towel. The plush fabric drags through your hair, then falls up and down the rest of your body until Glen deems you dry enough for you to finally rest in peace.

He's very quick to work through his own hair and muscular form, tossing the wet towel into the hamper beside the doorway. You ignore the feeling of the room spinning, pressing further into the meat of Glen's pec while he carries you back to the bed. Your husband pushes aside the two leftover pillows, rips off a corner of the quilt, and tucks you in. He followed right behind you, pulling the quilt back up over you two, latching against your side as you share the same pillow.

"I love you," you mumble.

"Love you more." Your husband's lips press against the back of your head, eyes closing in quiet contentment. "Happy Valentine's Day, sweetheart."

Author's Note 2: I DON'T KNOW WHERE THAT BIT OF SLIGHT ANGST CAME FROM. I APOLOGIZE. (I love how these have just turned into my reactions of my work, like I wasn't there writing it💀).

Remember to like, comment, and reblog :D! Any and all support is much appreciated!

© 2026 magicae-writes-stars

The air in your apartment was still, holding a breath as the walls watched you intently. Blaring switching lights reached into the corners of the room as some trash reality TV played in the background. The remote control toppled off the suede couch after you had run back in with your laptop in your hands and jumped back to resume in your spot. The muted thick silence worsened your anxiety; your heart caught in your throat, and nerves tinged with a buzz that was restlessly crawling through your skin, desperately hoping for an escape. You wanted to run - throw on a jacket, lock your apartment behind you as you throw the keys into the side alley, and never look back as you find yourself trampling into the heart of a forest. At least then you could be free, away from it all.

But then you remember your boyfriend, Joaquín Torres. And for a split second, you grin as you think about how he would follow you into the woods if that's what you truly wanted. It wouldn't be a pretty or easy transition: it'd first be cute and feel like a getaway for a week until the responsibility of living and meeting basic needs, like building a shelter, would shove aside the illusion of fun. Realistically, you think that both of you could make it a month, right when novelty begins to turn into a set routine, before Joaquín brings up how the world still needs him, an acknowledgement that he's been holding back and chewing with for weeks now. You would tell him to leave, back to him as you hide away your tears from the unnerving amount of love you have for him, knowing that if he even saw your eyes welling up with ready-to-shed tears, he would instantly cross the distance, tug you into his arms, and never let you go as he postpones his departure, again.

You huff, the corner of your lips upturn, heart rate descending only barely until your mind re-focuses onto the thin screen displayed on your coffee table. Right, you had too many stakes that bound you back to this asylum-of-a-society. You choose to crumple up the plan instead of setting it alight, a just-in-case procedure.

In the bottom right corner of the display, a simple number one blinks and bounces occasionally on the envelope icon. You were hoping it wasn't from who you were thinking it was, even though just the night before, you had been telling Joaquín how the anxiety from not hearing anything back was going to kill you. No, this was going to kill you.

Opening the app, a list of all the emails in your inbox is presented. And at the very top is one that's highlighted. You rush to close the window, breath-hitching because your mind has already recognized and memorized the user's address. As the cursor floats above the now red, dread-filled X in the top corner of the screen, your hand trembles, and for an instant you think that you closed the app. You fold over, try to steady your breathing while rubbing your palms up and down your face. It isn't soothing, but you don't know what else to do.

Moments, seconds, and a total of four minutes pass before you feel fine enough to rip your hands away from your face. Blinking rapidly as you adjust to the bright light pouring in from the afternoon sun glaring nosily through the window on your left. "Fuck it," you mumble to the computer, opening the months-longly expected email from the publishing company. Your eyes widen, mind working overtime to absorb the wall of words.

The first paragraph is slow, tedious, and is a professional ramble of null blanket statements. No hints or clues. You jump back up to the subject line, re-read it twice, and all it says is - "Important Response! Please Read!" - that could very well go in either direction. If this were your friend, you would've laughed at the absurdity of it all before you would wrap an arm across their shoulder. Instead, you curse.

You swallow, the gravity of the situation making it feel like you're trying to breathe through sludge, as you return to the second paragraph. It's a transition from the supposed-to-be-pleasurable formalities in the introduction, trying to sound more down-to-earth by bringing up common writing habits and how motivation is a drug that never seems to last long enough before finishing a piece. It isn't working; you know the messenger who wrote this is lapping away at the unlimited free coffee in the office, thirteen stories above the street-level, making way too much money as they spend their days switching between tossing up a crumbled-up piece of paper, playing solitaire, and spinning around at their desk. You have half a mind left to scroll down and continue reading through furrowed squinting. Throbbing pulses from the artery in your neck remind you you're still breathing.

The third paragraph is short, only two sentences in length:

Congratulations! The editors have chosen your second poem out of your six submissions for publication in this year's poetry collection.

And you know exactly which of your works the email's referring to. Having spent restless days and sleepless nights writing your submissions, you could recite them word-for-word in the exact order that you sent them. Ironically, it was the black sheep of the set. Much shorter. Much more positive. The singular work that doesn't directly reflect your experiences, your character, and the deep recesses of your soul. Sure, it was tied to you through sharing the same belief, blatant theme out of the sixteen-lined ode, but it's too simple. And that's what's detaching you from reality.

Finally, the last paragraph explains in too many repeated words how it is diligently important for you to respond in a timely manner - how the company, editors, are under an extreme time crunch to receive everyone's approval, make the necessary edits, and send everything over to be printed. There's a release date of late April - early May at the latest, if any "severe issues" present themselves, with everything on your (the submitter's) end concluding by mid-March. Another repeated line about needing your confirmation to move forward, and a thank you for "your participation" in this year's submissions.

"One. That's it," the words shrink as your voice rots against the floor. "There isn't a reason," you tell yourself, you know this, but you re-read the entire email again, once, twice, three times. Each instance, your body jerks back when your eyes catch the two sentences in the third paragraph in your frenzy. A punch to the gut for wanting to feel hope, a hand twisting your heart for its naivety, and a slap in the face for not thinking more clearly sooner.

You should be happy, shouldn't you? But you don't know whether you would have felt better if nothing had been accepted. At least then you wouldn't have a thread to unravel. The email could've been shorter, colder, and straight-to-the-point. A bleak dismissal of your works would have felt familiar, something you knew all too well. No, this was different. Worse.

Your laptop darkens into a black mirror, and you see yourself in the reflection. It should be the final volt of electricity that will shock you into death, but rather the sight reinvigorates you. Seeing yourself move out of frame before your mind catches up, jaw clenching, and your fists balling as you tread across your apartment. You pick apart some writing supplies and grab the green Post-it notes from the bottom of the pile. Patting yourself down, feeling for the pen you always carry, you snag it from your jeans' pocket and scribble a short, rushed message. You re-pocket the essentials, stick the green note onto the corner of the knee-high, wooden table. You hope it reads more sweet than suspicious.

"This is a stupid idea," you say. And yet, you don't stop marching as you hear the apartment door slam shut.

Joaquín, trying to land on the fire escape outside your apartment without making noise, fails. A reverberating thud echoes as he winces when his metal boots land. He had been out on his early afternoon patrol, New York seeming calmer than usual, with him just helping get a couple of adorable cats out of trees and looking away at some vandalism taking place on an advertisement for Bucky's congressman opponent. He had gotten Redwing to take a few pictures and was going to send them over to Bucky, but wanted to show them to you first.

He lifts the window with ease, knowing that you always leave it unlocked for him while he's on patrol, and steps into the small living room. Helmet now in his arms, he's met with the still air of your apartment. Alarm bells immediately rang inside his head, with the half-scrambled mess in front of him. The TV screen was a shade of vibrant blue from non-use for too long, the remote control was scattered on the floor in front of the couch, and the couch and coffee table both tilted - breaking the perfect parallel order that you often chastise him for disrupting.

You're okay, he tries to reason with himself. You're alright. You are capable. You are strong. You can fend for yourself. Joaquín knows this because he trained you himself a few months after you began dating. A few techniques and a simple but effective training regime to prepare you for the life he brought you into. He had wanted to wait longer - a year if he was listening to his brain and six months at most if he was listening to his lovesick heart - but there was a close call with Red Hulk, and he had confessed it all when you recognized his warm chestnut eyes through the orange hue of his visor. He promised to keep you safe.

Joaquín craned his head into the thin hallway, scanning your shared bedroom. The comforter was still bunched into the corner from the morning when he had to peel himself off of you to go on his morning run. Almost half-a-day later, and there was still the plush imprint of your cuddling figures, his side being noticeably deeper from his larger, muscular form. In the corner, your writing desk is a collaborative mess. Is that the standard organized mess? he asked himself.

"Clear," he mumbles, unable to raise his voice louder, his lurching heart's beating expanding and exploding rapidly in his eardrums. He swears the apartment is also vibrating.

Rigidly stopping next to the couch, he puts his hands on his hips and instantly moves an arm to tug at his brunette hair. His usual curls had smushed into flat plains from his helmet. The blue light had transformed into a black screen with a white square TV logo, occasionally changing colors when it bounded off a wall. Joaquín gasps, finally catching the olive-green sticky note stuck to the edge of the wooden table. He needlessly hops over the upholstery, yanks the green square, and stands with his back to the sun, to the same window he entered not even two minutes earlier, as the afternoon light illuminates the dark writing.

Lover boy, I had to step out. It shouldn't take too long. Love,

Joaquín brings the note close to his heart, sighing as his heart finally starts to slow. The adrenaline subsides, and his internal alarm shuts off.

"Why didn't he text me?" He reaches back into the hidden compartment in his Falcon suit, which he added to carry his phone, wedged into the crevice between his wings and his back. Your sleeping figure with your laptop half-open resting on your chest fills the lockscreen. Nothing. No new messages from you. "Vida, what was so important?"

He looks back at the note, flips it around, and lifts back up his phone. That's when your laptop greets him, blinking awake as a new notification pops up. He couldn't, Joaquín didn't like to snoop through your belongings, especially not your work laptop. He longed for the serene moments where he could spend the evening hours between dinner and bed with you as you both fill the space with your hushed voices, recounting your days. He couldn't get the full story, not without the voice he loves so much and your captivating narration. But the nudging lure of knowing overtakes his sense.

The couch groans as Joaquín sits down and unlocks your computer. A tight looping circle chases its tail before the screen lifts. Dark pixels fill out into a display of your emails; at the top, there's a new rectangle highlighted in blue - a scam email that should be in your spam. The bigger, right portion of the screen is already open on an email from earlier, Joaquín could only assume. The publishing company. Joaquín's eyes widen, and he holds back a celebratory cheer that would've had him leap off the couch. He reads further, brows furrowing in concentration at the tugging, simmering worry. Sourness and bitterness pool in his throat that seems to worsen as he swallows. Then, he reads:

Congratulations! The editors have chosen your second poem out of your six submissions for publication in this year's poetry collection.

"Oh," Joaquín releases.

At last, everything clicks into place. He kicks himself for having arrived back too late. If he had been there with you, he would have straight away collected you in his big arms, pulling you deeply against his warm, strong chest. He would fill your ears with genuine whispered sweet nothings and would not stop until his voice went hoarse. Just like he wants to do right now. But he was too late. You must've gone out to take a quick walk around the block, clearing your head and making sense of the gravity and power that those handfuls of words had over your set fate. Or.

"Mierda!" Joaquín exclaims. He leaps up, pocketing his phone, and shoves his Falcon helmet back over his head. You hadn't stepped out to clear your mind, at least not just by walking. No, you're currently at the publisher's office giving them more than a piece of your mind. Joaquín just hopes he can get there in time before you release an insult that will get you blacklisted from ever getting anything published again.

The fire escape's fence rattles, and a creaking groan resounded as he swings his weight over the metal divide. In the air, instantly the suit's wings extend and Joaquín jets across New York's clear skies. He weaves between the city's infrastructure, the cars below looking like crawling bugs. His visor magnifies the passing street names in short flashes, and grunts in disapproval as none of them sound familiar as he tries to retrieve the memory of your voice's handsome tune announcing the building's directions. In his internal journey, he gets stopped short by too many other saved recollections resurfacing.

He freezes mid-air, thrusters rotating vertically to hinder his momentum. The honking traffic blares beyond the ground, and the hero lifts two fingers to push against the side of his visor. "Falco, location," he commands.

"The establishment you are referring to is two blocks behind you and on your left," a deep robotic voice answers, a lilt of a Spanish accent present. The embedded AI was a new addition to the suit, much to Sam's strong disapproval. But Joaquín knew that he needed the upgrade if he wanted to keep up with everyone else, so he spent a weekend with Peter coding Falco. He brought you, too, of course, but you mostly stayed in the tower's lounge, explaining that the bird's eye view was bountifully mesmerizing enough for inspiration. Those two days, he took many breaks to check in with you, and if any of the other Avengers were to have walked in and questioned his presence outside of the lab, his excuse always revolved around your well-being, but they knew his words were rubbish as he was cuddling against you, seeking your attention. Falco was ultimately Peter's AI, which Joaquín happens to use.

"Why didn't you say something sooner!" Joaquín shouts. If anyone were to have looked up at the moment, they would have seen one of their superheroes arguing with the wind as he stressed the importance to the AI that they were a team.

"You didn't ask, Halcón," Falco shortly responds, annoyed.

God, he still needed to make some adjustments to Falco's code. Shaking his head, he spots the publisher's logo. Citizens begin to crowd his descending figure, phones raised and recording as he braces against the sidewalk. Joaquín can't help the grin, even as his heart tries to kick against his ribs to try to get him to focus as he tries to make sure to wave at all of the phones. He was in a rush but still wanted to give each of them a perfect shot of the hero to post later and gush about. Crouching down, he raises his metal hand to let the kids come forward and give him a high-five, before he finally turns around and parts through the crowd.

"Sorry, everyone important hero business! I'm in a rush," Joaquín reports loudly, voice deep for emphasis. He pushes open the glass doors, takes a few steps forward, and stops. He peeks his head back outside, finding the citizens still recording him. "But everything is okay. No need to worry!"

Joaquín grimaces, temporarily allowing his hero mask to slip. Maybe it was a bad idea to come as the Falcon.

Your marching comes to a halt as you stand in front of a solid wooden door. There was a certain polish and shine to the wood and handle that meant it was cleaned often. Not even an inch to the right, a large golden plaque is bolted into the side paneling, and the room's large window to look out into the endless maze of cubicles was covered in thick black drapes. Wonder if they've ever been drawn open, you rhetorically tell yourself. You roll your eyes, the divide obvious.

Many young interns and stressed workers look appalled as you yank open the publisher's door; you hear behind you a few gasps erupt. The created distance shattering, a pooling diverse cast of laughs launches past the room's boundaries, dissipating beyond. A large conference table fills the room, four old publishers slumping in their chairs as they all huddle within one side of the table - leaning forward and resting on their arms, honing directly to a singular black corded landline phone. You can hear a gruffy man - definitely worn down from over fifty years of a smoking addiction that began in his teenage stupidity - exacerbate a retelling of simple events, from last weekend, you pick up on. Must be their boss, you think, and instantly confirm as they continue to lap up his meaningless jargon like they weren't flopping in their chairs trying to lick up the drool they're leaving behind on their boss's boots.

You knock twice against the metal frame of the doorway - confident and thoroughly sure. "If you didn't want anyone to enter, you should've locked the door," you say with a tilt to your head, crossing your arms as you get their attention. They look completely baffled with wide, shaking eyes as they peer between your face and the open door. It only takes a single quick hard glance from one of the older white men into the larger workspace for the workers to hustle back to their cubicles - you hear the shuffling of scattering bodies without looking back. "Hi," you re-announce your presence.

You walk slowly and steadily, pass the threshold, and switch your determined gaze between each of the publisher's for just enough milliseconds to memorize their features, finally removing the anonymous masks. You snicker to yourself at how easy the action was - I mean, they all looked like the most basic old white men who are currently going through a divorce, as characterized by their poorly placed toupees that were given away from the grossly mismatched leftover white hair on their sides. Leaning forward against the table, your eyes track down to the gruff voice of their boss rattling through the flipped-on-its-back corded phone. They still haven't said anything, perfect, you tell yourself.

The repeated tapping of wood still doesn't activate any of the men, so you lift your head at the man in a dull red tie and direct him to the phone. "Sir," he interrupts his boss's commotion, "we are going to have to call you back, sir-" And you hang up the phone with a cutting click.

"Thank you for your attention. It is much appreciated," you say, straightening your posture to force the men to look up at you from their chairs. You notice the four men shift in their chairs, the wheels carrying them a few barely-there inches back in with a spinning whirl as they too try to copy your action. Their shoulders tighten, hands interlocking on the table, but they still need to look up.

"Who let you in?" the man in the green tie, to the right of the red tie man, asked. His forehead was scrunched in frustration, revealing many layers of wrinkles.

"Well..." you begin as you lightly scratch against your chin to feign thought. "The door was just unlocked. If you really didn't want anyone walking into the sanctity of your office, you should've locked it."

Three of the men blankly stare at you, as the man furthest to your left in a blue tie scoffs, scolding himself at the realization. "But truly, I am no snitch. Though I must say, the receptionist at the front desk is beyond charming. Answered all my questions and gave explicit directions that led me in front of your door. She deserves a raise and a lovely gift basket for her dedication to the publishing company," you reveal, purposefully omitting the receptionist's names so they wouldn't know who exactly you were referring to.

"What do you want?" red tie cuts to the chase.

"I'm just here to talk," you rest a hand against your chest, holding your heart. "You can consider it a rooted discussion if it goes well, like I hope it will. But, if it doesn't, well, I guess then our talk will become a long monologue. I do not wish for it to come to that, though."

Even in your confidence, you stifle a shiver, feeling multiple sets of eyes rake over your figure from above the cubicles' walls. Your brief falter is caught by the man with a red tie; however, it seems that he's the only one, the rest of the men still puzzledly oblivious.

He slowly says, "Speak, boy," resting his head against his raised fist. "We don't have all day."

"Clearly," you mumble, before continuing. "I am here discussing the fact that you four are cruel, conniving men who demonstrate the broken system that writers are forced into. Do you care? Really, do you even know what you do to us?

"Has it really been that long since any of you touched a pen, had an ounce of creativity that you wished to share with the world? Or has your pen run dry in more than one way? Taking out your internal frustrations on others below you just because you miss having the power held in your grasp.

"What happened to decency? To even a drop of respect? Isn't that what you all are constantly slurring about in the corner of your family gatherings, where no one else wants you there, but you still continue to show up to anyway?

"Do you get it!? Huh?" you start to lose yourself. The four men are stone-cold and rigid, eyes affixed like they're just waiting for your speech to be over. It's not effective; you ignore the thought. "You four are currently sitting in the second-largest office room, just one level in value behind your boss' suite. And yet, because you are in this room, you are still attached to the rest of the office. You don't have your own luxurious floor like he does. But you think you are him, acting like cold executives when you're really closer in rank to these workers outside your office than you'll ever be to him. You all think you aren't expendable? As if the way you comfortably lounge around all day - clocking in and out after spending eight hours doing nothing but vegging away at the free donuts and coffee - couldn't be replaced instantaneously.

"Outside of these four walls, there are people who pour their lives - blood, sweat, and tears - into their craft, and what you, you all just continue to sit there like you've never been in their shoes. Empathy depleted, and all you are left with are sad old men who think that you deserve it all. Do you know how I-"

But you stop yourself as you feel an immovable, strong, familiar presence behind you. At last, the four men stifle in shock at the hero behind you. Joaquín tilts himself even closer toward you, leaning down so he could whisper into your ear, "Mi autor, did you say anything revealing?"

You lean towards him, sure that the men don't have enough attention in their child-like daze to notice your brief interaction. "No, I didn't get there. Yet. You stepped in just at the right time."

"Good," Joaquín says, holding himself back from kissing your cheek - not wanting to give these men any more reason to light the fuse that could end your life as a writer. He really wanted too though.

"Gentlemen, if you excuse me, I must take this citizen away. I'm sure he has sufficiently gotten his point across, right?" Joaquín asks in his reserved Falcon - deeper and more serious than death - voice, the question sounding more like a statement. Hidden behind your form, he lifts his armored hand to gently rest against the curve of your lower back.

"Yes, of course!" The four men all scramble to answer, practically reverting to animated children now that they're in front of the presence of an Avenger. You begin to wonder how they would've reacted if your boyfriend had shown up as himself. He probably would have needed to toss you over his shoulder, hoping that the image was enough for them to forget about your monologue. It's a good thing he wore the suit.

Joaquín nods, not believing them for a second. He holds back his biting comments, Spanish insults swirling rampantly like a whirlpool in his head, saying instead, "Right. Under official Avenger's business, I am going to need this conversation with this lovely man to never pass between us. Not a single word. Is that understood?"

He doesn't wait for them to respond, already turning you both around as he sticks half a step behind you to shield you from the publishers' view. Even as you notice them scramble from their seats, Joaquín kicks the door shut behind him. The slam causes an eruption of cheers from the cubicles. You and Joaquín share a look, not knowing if they broke into an ovation over the Falcon's presence or your speech. Either way, your boyfriend slips back on his hero's mask, a handsome, wide grin displayed for your audience. As he tugs your body forward with a heavy arm laid across your shoulders, a few people come forward with their phones to try to get a picture with your superhero boyfriend.

"Sorry, folks, maybe next time. But we're currently in a rush," Joaquín says, his eyes never leaving yours. He stops mid-step, turns around, and easily rips the golden plaque off the wall, bolts clanking when they hit the floor. He hands it over to the closest employee, who looks at it like the single action has changed her life immensely for the better. I hope they share the profits amongst themselves, Joaquín thinks as the elevator beeps, opens, and you both step into it. It was luckily empty.

Finally, in private, at least momentarily, you settle against your boyfriend's side - the cold metal isn't comfortable, not like his radiantly warm figure, but you still know it's him. And that's enough. for now. "Thank you, Joaquín."

"Don't mention it yet, amor. I'm not done saving you. Never will be," he whispers the last words as he trails off, voice husky and accent heavy. He's now standing a step in front of you, putting himself behind you as if there was danger imminent, impending. Before the elevator could ding and open, you steal a quick kiss, smooching his orange visor, missing on purpose his exposed lips. He grumbles, squeezing your waist playfully to not get you to notice his faint blush. The elevator's doors slide open, and he's back to being the valiant boyfriend he can pretend is just his hero persona.

The sweet buttery aroma of fresh croissants and bitter brewing coffee surrounds the small café, even in the side alley. You turn around, giving your boyfriend unnecessary privacy, knowing that he's currently pouting as he changes out of his Falcon suit. Joaquín taps your shoulder as he steps around and stands in front of you, donning his favorite military-grade, muted basil-green jacket, his dark hair sweeping over his forehead. He's pouting like you knew he would be; nevertheless, his eyes are wide, enveloping, and surveying your body with the depth of a keen hawk's eye. He leans forward, waiting patiently for you to close the gap, his calming pants warming your face. You can hear Redwing woosh behind you as it takes off back to your apartment - carrying the folded Falcon suit in its steel-tight claws - as you kiss Joaquín. You pull your boyfriend closer by his collar, chests brushing together, and he holds your waist and shoulder. Protective, steady, and strong.

You don't pull apart until your throat begins to tighten. Stupid air, you think as you inch backwards, the lovestruck moment still fresh, buzzing, and ingraining into your thrumming heart. If anyone were to have walked by, they would have thought that you both were still kissing, barely noticeable that you had mere millimeters of separation. Well, it wasn't helping that Joaquín continues to peck your lips each time you try to briefly exhale. He tells himself he's making up for lost time, nothing different, but his racing heart wants to spill all his love into you to subside your grief.

"Torres," another two pecks undistinguishable as a bubbling laugh escapes you, "okay, you've got to stop. Anyone could walk by and catch us."

"Let them look, mi autor," your boyfriend says, breathless. He stops, though, opting to reach and grab your hands, squeezing so tight that you could feel the muscles in his arms tense from flexing. Grounding, you tell yourself.

You linger in the beat between his radiantly shining brown eyes and the wide grin that looks off - more forced. Not like your boyfriend. "Joaquín, why did you take me here? Why aren't we back in the apartment?"

All he says is, "Come on," and tugs you with his right hand clasped in your left. Exiting the alley, you are both greeted with a rather quiet sidewalk, only a young passing mom with her infant coddled in a stroller, and the street is empty - a New York miracle. You almost think that Joaquín must have opened an interdimensional portal during your flight. You look up at him as you both turn, and this time his smile is genuine - the internal conflict he must have had was squashed.

You gasp when you notice the small blackboard stand outside the coffee shop, the all too well-known name sprawled in a flowing rainbow of vibrant chalk. It was the same coffee shop you hunkered in for weeks when you thought for a brief period that the ambience of a café was the appropriate environment for productivity. You had finally given in to the sentiment shared by a couple of your friends, writers and non-writers alike. Your work didn't see much improvement, but that was because you were too busy overthinking about the tall, dark, Spanish, and handsome man who repeatedly came into the shop for a plain black coffee. It didn't help that he always came in with his skin glistening from the light sweat of a run he must've just finished. And it especially didn't help that on the fourth day of that week, he decided to join you with his boyish grin in a wonderful meet-cute that could only be paralleled in the fictitious events of a young-adult romance novel.

After grabbing your order, you both thank the lovely barista and Joaquín generously tips the worker. You walk side-by-side, in your grip is the brown paper bag filled with a croissant and a heart-shaped chocolate donut, and his arm over your shoulder with a large lemonade, and the other a towering frappé topped with a mountain of whipped cream and streaks of rich chocolate syrup. Your boyfriend tilts the drink up, the cookie straw poking the edge of your lips, and you follow it to swallow some of the bittersweet drink. He copies you, taking a sip of his bubbling lemonade as the sun's rays refract against his cup and paint your figure in an angelic glow. Briefly, the world paints you exactly like he always sees you.

When you tread away from his side to cross the small table to sit in the opposite stool, he almost tells you to join him in his stool, until flashes of the small stool toppled over with you both on the ground make him retract his idea. Barely. You take a bite from the croissant; the layered buttery dough relaxes your body. Joaquín watches you through it all as you take a second bite and sigh, while he takes a napkin to wrap his chocolate-y sweet treat and bites. Seconds pass into less than a handful of minutes, and you both just soak in the events of the day. In your measured disappointment, you acknowledge that you were this close to losing it all - to getting blacklisted by every publishing company in New York, maybe even the tri-state area. It felt good, just, but arguing with a bunch of old white men wasn't worth the trouble. It was the wrong way to go about it, you realize, even if there's still an angry, ready-to-brawl part of yourself. You'll have to get together with your friends who are writers to hopefully get their experiences. Like what you should've done from the start, you think.

Joaquín looks past you, for once, his eyes trailing after a pair of white doves. They're hopping across the sidewalk, scavenging for any lost crumbs. He likes to imagine that in a different universe, this would be you two: two pristine and majestic birds who are free to be together without any excess responsibilities or weights that chain you back into the inescapable confines of society. He's sure that these birds are you both when he notices that one of the doves lets the other feed first, a hop behind him as he watches his back while puffing out his chest. When the dove finalizes that the coast is clear, he turns to his mate to preen him, causing Joaquín to scrunch his face at the thought of him preening you, and he lingers on the thought of your back against his chest as he delicately washes you. He'd do it instantly. Your boyfriend only focuses back on you, present again, when you wave your hand across his field of vision.

"You alright?" The question finally settles into the air between you.

"I should be the one asking you that, Vida," Joaquín responds, grabbing your palm to toy with your distinctive etchings. He returns the question back at you, giving you an encouraging nod.

"Yes. I mean, no... I don't know," you tell Joaquín, voiced laced with fatigue as you can't bring yourself to look anywhere else but his palm holding yours. "I think I will be eventually. It's just fresh right now, you know?"

"That's okay, mi autor."

You snicker, "You've gotta stop calling me that, Joaquín."

"Why?" he laughs, small but a start. "It isn't like your writing has never been published before. And even so, I see how dedicated you are to your craft. Isn't that what matters? You are as much as any other author. If not more from the commentary and analysis you share of some of those poorly written books you read."

"Joaquín, that's just my opinion. If you were to read them, maybe you would enjoy them. But you could still learn from even a bad piece of writing," you say, squeezing his larger hand when the realization dawns on you.

"Can't do that, unless you read to me," Joaquín wiggles his eyebrows.

"I didn't even get farther than the first paragraph when you fell asleep on me, snoring like a freight train," you chomp at the now soggy wafer straw, removing it from the chocolate-coffee slush. Your frappé was more than halfway done, the setting sun increasingly melting the chocolate-coffee goodness into the air, at least that's what your reasoning with yourself.

"Vida," he drags out the pet name, "it isn't my fault that your voice is soothingly sweet. And hot."

You roll your eyes. "You are a writer, my love," Joaquín re-emphasizes, steady and confident. "From the moment I laid my eyes on you, you were always nose deep in a notepad or your laptop. The occasional book, too, of course. Since then, I've been an audience to your many rants, lore dumps, and your frustrations. You shifted, so did I, and together we spent many countless nights on your couch, leaning against me when you decided again to bathe in the glimmering moonlight because you weren't at a good place to stop. And, when you finally gave in to my pressure, allowing me permission to look through your old writing - pieces that show your humble beginnings - I knew I loved you."

"Is this meant to be comforting, Torres? I can't tell if you're reciting wedding vows or you're just listing my worst qualities," you blatantly point out with the sound of scratching air from your finished frappé.

"The point is, mi autor, I believe in you. There is little difference between you being a writer and an author. The divide becomes blurry when I know how dedicated you are to your craft. You wish for your pieces to be picked up, approved by sweaty old publishers, but what about you? How do you feel about what you submitted?" Joaquín says lovingly, tilting his head at an angle and inching closer. He swallows back his side comments about your future wedding. Later, he thinks, that isn't what matters right now.

"It isn't that. I like what I write, it's just-" you pause, racking your brain to try and find the right words. You feel Joaquín brushing his thumb against your knuckles in support. "The whole point of getting published is to, well, sort of, grant access to the larger public to these stories. My stories don't do much when they're either stuck in my head or imprisoned in many Word documents."

"So, what if you start uploading your writing online. Tumblr's still active, no?"

"Joaquín, love, that site is mainly for fanfiction. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but I am not going to write male reader inserts," you answer, your mind catching up to your words. "Wait, should I?"

You shake your head. "No, I can't. It'll ruin any future chances," you lie. "What I need to do is just get more feedback, understand what I need to improve, and just get back on that horse. I can't sit around and focus on invisible patterns."

I was prepared to be your first follower and biggest fan, Joaquín thinks. "Whatever you want to do, I'll support your decision," he says, paralleling the small smile creeping on your face.

It's bittersweet, but you feel that for now it's enough. This won't be the last time that you'll have this conversation; you're confident about that. Descending into a cycle of relentless longing for belonging, accumulating from people pleasing levels of self-worth until gravity flips and you're skyrocketing into the upper atmosphere with hurting, protective frustrations that will blossom your ego, even if momentarily and less often than the previous, longer period. You're tired, sluggish after the rollercoaster of emotions. Even still, you think it would have been worth it to rip into those old stooges.

Joaquín grabs your empty cup with his and tosses them into the shop's recycling bin. He stops back in front of you, reaches for the folded paper bag in the middle of the table in one hand, and lifts his other hand for you to grasp. When you plant your feet on the ground, steel stool scraping, your boyfriend tugs you into a tight embrace. His large arms wrap around you, and he dips his head, chin scratching against the back of your head. You feel the drumming beat against his chest, even through his many layers. A shuddering breath escapes his lips before he says, "Don't ever do that again. No more leaving notes. Text me, please. I-"

And for a moment, you break, eyes overflowing in streams of tears that coat your boyfriend's jacket. You nod rapidly, tightening your hold around his middle, feeling his toned stomach stutter from the vulnerability that he's been holding onto for hours and is still trying desperately to ward off. Always there for you. Your support. Your biggest fan. Your rock. Your hero.

"I was this close to alerting the Avengers," you barely catch him whispering. And he pronounces your name more clearly, digging his face further into your hair, trying to mend your bodies together in an irreversible mend.

You feel an easing rumble echo into your body from Joaquín's chest as you press a kiss against his heart. You trail upward, moving up from leaving kisses against his clothes to the pulse point against his neck and the cliff's edge of his sharp jaw. Craning your head, he shivers as you press your lips against the apples of his cheeks and finally lands against his own. While before Joaquín had been the one to be passionately overbearing in his assertive affection, you now needed to return your overwhelming appreciation and love for him. You wanted to.

"I promise," you breathe into him.

Hand-in-hand, arms brushing, trash thrown out, and the backdrop of inky darkness stirring from fleeting minuscule airplanes. You are exactly where you want - need - to be. Walking in separately together under the spotlights of the street's lamp posts back to your apartment. Neither of you speaks at first, allowing the city's ambience of aggressive honking, an argument from across the street, and the screeching of a lonely train to fill in the gaps of silence.

As you wait on the street's corner with the pitchy beeping and stark red from the perpendicular traffic light, you impede and ask Joaquín about the publishing company's security system and how they probably have not only you but also the employee he handed the plaque to on camera. He squeezes your hand and smirks at you, boasting about how he thought one step ahead and hacked and deactivated all the cameras during his ride up the elevator. You playfully shove against his side, causing him to realize how he needed to show you the vandalism from earlier. You watch him as he tries and fails to reach into each of his pockets with one hand. He tightens his grip when he feels you try to remove your hand, so you reassure him that you aren't going anywhere before slowly lifting your hand up his large arm to hold onto his elbow. You force yourself to ignore how your boyfriend's beefy, muscular arm flexes when he digs into his pockets with his now freer arm and hand.

"I left my phone in the Falcon suit," he groans, and you brush your thumb against the junction of his bicep. Abruptly, the world shifts horizontally, Joaquín's tan, sharp face much closer as he easily lifts you into his arms. You wrap your arms around his neck, and when your boyfriend takes one final look at you in his arms to make sure he won't drop you, he bolts across the street. You don't hear the warning beep with the now accompanying cacophony of loud honking, instinctively focusing on your boyfriend's steady heartbeat and anchored breathing.

A thick grey fleece blanket, edged in an encompassing black, drapes over your sleeping figures. A farm of bald American beech trees staggering in a huddled line while a singular large grey-white falcon is captured mid-flight in the foreground, beak open in a predatory screech and gliding. Joaquín had wanted to order a Falcon blanket he had found in ad that led him to Temu and you had to explain to your thrilled boyfriend that: 1) that was for sure a scam and wouldn't look like the picture at all, and; 2) you were not going to have sex with him on or under a blanket with his face on it. Instead, you took Joaquín out to a local flea market - disguised as a surprise date - and you happened to pass by the many fleece blanket stands. One thing led to another; he wanted to purchase all of them until you pulled out the falcon blanket, and he insisted to the seller to pay double the price. The merchant was appalled, very much used to all customers negotiating the price and not your selfless, wholesome boyfriend.

Slowly, you feel the soft ache in your body from the restful sleep, then realize in a quick blink that you regained consciousness. You're awake in your small bedroom. The distant clamoring of floorboards, shoes, and metal utensils could be heard through the thin walls. Outside, the sun was dulled, sheathed behind rows of endless nimbostratus clouds - the thumps of rain bombarding the fire escape. New York didn't care, of course, the many inhabitants barely batting an eye as they continued with their day. Really, they were annoyed by the prospect. And through it all, you feel Joaquín's large presence behind you, his muscular, hard chest stuck to your back.

His right arm droops over your body, hand dangling on your hip with an occasional twitch in his fingers like he was ready to pull you back from any danger at a moment's notice. You listen and home in on his faint snoring, relishing in the beautiful peace. You wait a minute and unhurriedly twist around to face your handsome boyfriend, careful to maintain contact with his arm in order to not wake him up. Still not awake, you note as his hand stays limp and you don't feel his fingers brush against your skin. Even in the darkness, Joaquín's figure looks like shining perfection - the small pool of drool against his piercing chin and dark curly hair ruffled against your shared pillow. It still amazes you how you got your hands on a man like him. A modern Greek god. You have half a mind to stop yourself from letting your hands wander further as you suppress the thought to trace the tan skin to map out all your heroic boyfriend's muscles.

Suddenly, the room brightens - only slightly - as a blue hue projects from the smaller printer resting on a mini shelf under your desk. You squint and carefully pick up your head to stare at your printer. It's on. That's weird. You retrace yesterday's events: the two of you instantly collapsing onto your bed, even though it was not even close to 9:00 o'clock; you skip past the afternoon; and even before opening your laptop in the morning, you can't recall when you used your printer.

You look back at Joaquín, scanning his face, analyzing and analyzing again until you feel sure that he's still asleep, and carefully you pull away from him. It's a struggle that you battle through to not inch back into him while you escape his warm, steady, strong presence. When you stand, a swear catches in your throat at the floorboard for the too loud creak, and you hear that Joaquín stirs. The increasing ruffling of sheets ceases when you press a comically large plush into his arms - a Mexican grey wolf that you had accidentally won for yourself when Joaquín failed one too many times at one of the scummy boardwalk games when he wanted to give you the quintessential stereotypical American date. He now holds a grudge with Lobo, naming the plushie simply the Spanish word for the animal out of spite, which only burns brighter when he knows that the wolf replaces his figure when he's away on a mission. Luckily, that means that at least for a bit, he won't register the stuffed animal's replacement because it still had traces of your scent.

Crossing the room, you crouch and click off the printer, the blue light dimming into shady nothingness once it shuts off. You grab the edge of your desk to steady yourself as you pull yourself back up, but. The stack of papers nabs your attention; they were a neat mess that looked out of place. New. Touching the corner of the first page, it feels cold - the thinnest layer of chill that befalls the world during dusk to dawn. You also notice from the crack of reaching sunlight the various colorful sticky notes that were hidden in the dimness. You peel and peel and peel back the pages, finding at least a few sticky notes attached to each page in random arrangements that would only make sense to the individual who attached them. But it made sense to you; your theory solidified when you read one of the Post-its. Joaquín Torres, the Falcon, and also your boyfriend.

You're stunned, frozen in place as a myriad of emotions flash over you. You don't know which to focus on and unpack as the tidal wave plunges you further into disarray. When? The question is insistently louder than your other scampering thoughts. Living with an Avenger has trained you to be prepared for anything at any time, prompting you to decode your once heavy sleep characteristic that always bustling New York forced onto you.

You spread out as many papers that can possibly fill the top of your desk, shifting some supplies to the upper shelf, placing others onto the empty chair, and holding onto the few leftovers. Your work is spread out in front of you: the six poems you submitted, and the first page of an unfinished short story. Eyes jumping between papers, the decision to choose which to start with seems unfeasible. You take a deep, albeit shuddering, breath and lock onto the initial page that landed on the top left corner of your desk. There are two olive-green sticky notes latched directly onto the middle of the paper. The first just says Joaquín's support, and the second says:

I'm not writing this as your boyfriend. I am writing this as a fan of your work (:

Of course, your golden retriever of a boyfriend knew you too well. He knew that even after all the times he's explained to you that he's simply not just expressing affection for ulterior motives or to fulfill some boyfriend obligation. No. He. Wants. To. Every. Single. Time. Because his heart squeezes, ready-to-burst, if he were to ever go a day without sharing his devoted, tender, immeasurable love for you. Missions where he must not only be away from you but also can't even text you - for his and, much more importantly, your safety - feel like the worst form of torture. "Oh, Torres," you whisper, pressing the Post-it against your lips too late.

And so, you read, rapidly blink back tears, and memorize all the notes. Joaquín's voice resonates within the corner of the room, creating a cocoon of warmth as you imagine his deep, husky voice. You can imagine him in this chair: sometime in between 11:00 p.m. and 1:00 a.m. after waking up determined to surprise you, carefully navigating between moving and making too much noise as he would too often look over his shoulder to gaze at you for too long - distracted, always having to re-read your work because he couldn't get himself to pay attention to the subtle elements of illusory story-telling the first time, and carefully choosing his words in his comments, analysis, critiques, and suggestions. It was all deliberately Joaquín, the side of him you only catch hints of when he retells the events of a mission. This is what he must've meant earlier, you realize. Somewhere near the end, there's one that's hanging loosely - another olive-green that purely explains why he decided to use sticky notes when he clearly printed copies of your work:

Wrote these on sticky-notes because I couldn't get myself to ruin these copies with a pen. They need to stay pristine (:

The final Post-it - a golden-yellow - joined to the last paper from the leftover stack in your grasp, that has been reassuringly scratching against your palm these past few minutes that has felt like an eternity you never wish to leave, reads:

Gonna tell Reed and Peter to build me a machine to live inside your beautifully creative brain, mi autor. Or, maybe even Strange has a spell?

It broke you. The papers flutter to the floor as, in your blurry vision, you climb back into the bed, toss the stuffed wolf off the bed, and rapidly push yourself into your boyfriend's large arms. You feel his hands twitch when a new weight settles in between them, but what bolts him awake is when he feels your tears run down the strong planes of his chest. He looks down at you, concerned written in bold in the way his palm encased your head to push you closer to his steady heart, the other arms snaking around your waist. Joaquín's grip tightens as he turns to lie on his back, your body comfortably sprawled over him.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you," you mumble against him, though he can't hear you as it sounds muffled against his chest. He tries to comprehend your words through the vibrations wiggling against and into his chest. Before he could ask you, he felt you repeatedly kiss his chest, your tears decreasing in frequency. A blossoming fire alights and mixes with refreshing shivers that traverse his body, making Joaquín hold back a groan, and his heart skips more beats than should be humanly possible. "Love you, love you, love you, love you, love you, love you, love you," you say in between the kisses, this time louder.

"Te amo," the brunette man quickly responds back. In his confused, anxious, and dazed state, his instincts took over.

Later, Joaquín will put two and two together when he heads out to your kitchen to make you both a hearty breakfast - skipping his morning run after the intimate hours you spent together - and notices his stack of papers once organized and now strewn off your desk. And even later, you'll revisit the dreaded topic of being a writer and the horrid publishing system. But for now, and the immediate eternity, you both are busy in each other's arms, hearts full and bodies warm.

Author's Note 2: If it wasn't obvious enough, I had like three different ways that I could've had the fic play out, and I felt the most comfortable with this version - kinda an amalgamation of them all, which is why it turned out so long. But, NEW FIC LIMIT REACHED!!!!!!!!! (Maybe one day I'll stop teasing and release a Joaquín fic that has an actual smut scene...)

Translations:

• vida = life

• mierda = shit

• Halcón = Falcon

• mi autor = my author

• amor = love

• lobo = wolf

• te amo = I love you

Remember to like, comment, and reblog :D! Any and all support is much appreciated!

© 2026 magicae-writes-stars

Your breath fogged against the clear pane, a blotch of white blurring the glass. Wiping it away with the sleeve of your hoodie, the scene in front of you still remained the same. Outside, in the front yard of Randy's home, the tall palm trees swayed in a slow dance with the falling puffy snow. The ground had a thin, minimal blanket of white that draped over the still-vibrant Californian grass. "It's still so strange," you mumble to yourself.

"Sweetheart," Randy's voice called from his kitchen, "the cocoa is almost done. Did you start up the movie?"

"No, not yet," you answer back. From across the room, you could hear the chocolate mixture begin to simmer, a murmuring, popping, bubbling that sounds similar to the snow scraping against the house's panels. "The VHS is still sheathed away on the coffee table where you last left it."

Randy shuts off the stove; a click emits, and the blue flame retreats into the burner. Rich, fragrant chocolate cooking with milk, combining into a delicious, familiar smell that reminded you of the many mornings from snow days off. "Well, why didn't ya? The Thing is an-"

"An underrated cinematic horror that will become a classic in the future. Just give it five more years..." you quote back at him, tapering off before your dorky boyfriend could continue with one of his many rants. You take one last look outside and turn away from the serene snowfall.

You lean forward against the marble countertop, cradling your head in your palms as your elbows hold your stance up. A small, sweet smile edges out as you let your eyes wander over your boyfriend's figure. He's wearing worn-out brown loafers, gray and black pajama pants with stripes that cleanly crisscross, and a fuzzy, ugly Christmas sweater in the shade of light evergreen fur. It was the first present you had bought for him a few weeks ago, having spent your first Christmas shared together while his parents were away on a perfectly timed cruise to the Bahamas. You know that behind you, tucked in the left corner of the living room, next to the overused, boxy Sony Trinitron CRT, was still the fake, messily adorned Christmas tree of the Meeks' residence. There were still a few wrapped presents from both you and Randy that were left for Martha when she got back from her trip to Lake Tahoe with her best friend's family.

Randy pushed up the warm sleeves as he began to spin the chocolate mixture, faint dark lines etching and swirling into the scalding brown liquid. "Am I doing this right?" the brunette asked as he took the long wooden spoon, held the stem between his two palms, and pushed and pulled the utensil like he wanted to create enough friction to start a fire. He edged himself to the right so you could see the pot filled with cocoa, making sure not to drop the spoon as he looked over his shoulder. Cool, glacial blue eyes widen as he quickly scans you over as if he still expected you to be staring out his window. "Since when have you been standing there, sweetheart?" Randy's voice pitches up, surprised and breathless when the last word lands.

You shoulder a laugh, enter the kitchen, and lean against Randy's side. He still hasn't stopped spinning the wooden spoon, even as you kiss the side of his lips and he releases an ounce of pressure. Wrong place, baby, he thinks, though doesn't have the courage to speak into existence. And it's like the world around you two stops, outside the world freezes with the snow ceasing, and your bodies in tandem comfortably pressed against each other as the blooming chocolate fills both your senses. But the warmth you too felt wasn't from the lingering heat emitted by the stove; it was from the blossoming love that swelled your hearts in beautiful synchronism. "Young love," Martha had mentioned in passing before she faked a gag after seeing her brother's gaze entranced at your figure on the floor, leaning over a large, wrinkly textbook on their coffee table.

You reach out and cover his hands, tightening your grip as you hear Randy softly gasp. It's awkward, and it would have been much easier if only one set of hands had completed the simple action, but you couldn't miss the opportunity to make your cute, dorky boyfriend squirm a bit. Still between both of your clenched hands, you guide the wooden spoon out and tap the head a few times against the pot's edge. A few drops of the warm chocolate mixture fall back within the rest, place the spoon to the side, and look up to find your boyfriend already staring back at you. Randy's in awe, lips parted and thoughts swirling and mixing like how the cocoa was a few minutes ago - this time, he was the cocoa, and you were the one stirring him up inside. The essence of blush marks his cheeks. Don't say it, genius, he scolds himself.

"Randy, the cocoa is done," you hear yourself say, still focused on figuring out how to dive into your boyfriend's blue eyes. He feels the same, not wanting to pull away, so he could analyze and re-analyze again and again how handsome your eyes look.

The lock unlatches, and Randy finally looks away when he feels you pull your hand away from his. The spoon rattles momentarily, mimicking the swaying, jumping of his heart. "Yeah, luv, I knew that," Randy says, falling back into his mock British accent. He usually used it when he was berating one of the other classmates who thought they knew better than your film-expert boyfriend. But it had slowly transformed into a habit that webbed its way whenever you were around. Even before you two began to date, you had picked up on this signifier of his nerves. You thought it was cute back then, still do, making the nerd even more charming than the stereotype wanted him to be.

"You're cute," you tell him, caressing the back of his neck. You scratch at the tufts of growing hair, wanting him to get closer. He does so slowly. Under this light, you can't help but compare the color of his dark brown hair to the rich chocolate beside you. When your lips touch, Randy braces himself before he falls victim to the soft, sweet kiss. He wraps an arm around your shoulders, turning your figure so he can pull you in closer. Eyes closed, but he feels like he can still see all of you. His hands help him, grip tightening on your shoulder to ground him while his other sprawling against your waist before rushing to move between your shoulder blades. There's too much of you to analyze, he thinks.

When he breaks away, the blush blossoms bigger and hotter. Catching his breath, he wants to make a quip, to cut through the moment with one of his many remarks, but he's at a loss for words. He knows you are dating, but even then, he still wants to charm you. To prove to himself that he's still got it, still has you. Quiet echoes of being relegated as one of the rejects.

You notice the developing storm behind his eyes and drag your thumb against his soft flesh. And you notice he's back, eyes steeling back into the cool blue you love. You pocket that distinction and save your worries for another day. He smiles, small but genuine, and you allow yourself to, as well.

Randy turns away, looking out into his backyard. "The snow stopped," he notes aloud.

"Yeah," you answer without turning your head away from your boyfriend.

He chuckles and squeezes your hip, "Luv, you aren't even looking."

"I don't need to. I trust you," you respond instantly. But you still turn, a half-baked idea brewing. When you do finally catch the outside's view, snowfall is nowhere to be found, and the grass is covered in a slightly thicker layer of snow. You needed to act quickly. Much to Randy's dismay, and dodging his reaching arm, you pull away and jog out of his kitchen.

"Where are you-"

"Just fill up my mug and set it down on the coffee table. Maybe even sprinkle some cinnamon. I'll be right back," you emphasize the last line as you are well aware of Randy's rules of horror movies. Sometimes you tease him about it just so you can hear him rant to you.

"Sweetheart," he drags out in a near whine, "you can't just say 'you'll be right back.' That's the third and most important rule-"

"Randy, this isn't a horror movie," you stop him. "Unless you want to discuss the horrors of two young queer men living in the state of the country post the Stonewall Riots, then you aren't going to stop my surprise."

He sighs, agreeing with you, opening the above cabinet to bring down two mugs. One was a sleek black mug that had messy painted-on renditions of some of Randy's favorite horror movies - such as Fright Night, Friday the 13th, Halloween, Evil Dead, Children of the Corn, and A Nightmare on Elm Street. The side profiles of their respective VHS tapes were stacked side-by-side with ample room left around the mug to paint on more movies. The other was a clean white mug that had one of Ash Williams' famous quotes - "Gimme some sugar, baby" - in red, blocked letters. Under the handle was the start of a chainsaw that was nowhere near distinguishable with its barely visible edges.

It was a date night activity that you had shared a few months ago after discussing with him that you two needed to do something other than watch movies together. He hadn't been the most excited at first, but he would later admit that he enjoyed the change of pace. He chuckled to himself, remembering how he spent nearly two hours ranting to you about what horror movie quote he thought was best for you, only to end up with the cheesy line. You sat with him through it all, looking back and forth at his collection of VHS tapes while still paying him enough attention to keep him going.

Stepping out of Randy's room, you zip up your windbreaker, tuck on a beanie to cover your ears, and spit out the black wool gloves that your mouth carried to keep your hands from freezing. Your boots stomp, and you briefly stop as you catch your boyfriend's gaze. In both hands, he carries your two artistic mugs, filled to the brim with still-steaming hot cocoa. He's careful not to spill any as he leans over and kisses your cheek.

"You gonna tell me what you're planning?" Randy whispers, his voice dropping into that intimate tone that he only shares when it's just the two of you. He didn't want to breach the closeness, pop the domestic intimacy.

"Nope," you answer him with a Cheshire cat wide grin. That's never a good sign, Randy tells himself.

"I should go with you," he says more to himself, like he was trying to get himself to agree with the sprouting thought. "Let me just put on my coat-"

"No, Randy," you respond, placing your hands on his shoulders to get him to look back at you. "Randy, it's fine. I'll be fine. I will just be outside in your front yard. No more than 5 minutes. Promise."

He re-picks up the two mugs from the countertop, before agreeing, "I'm holding you to the millisecond that the opening credits to the movie stops. I'm not gonna watch more without you."

"Deal," you emphasize your agreement with another kiss to his cheek.

It had been more than five minutes. Randy was growing impatient; the opening credits to The Thing had already been long completed a while ago, with the movie waiting to be unpaused. The quiet was gnawing away at his sanity. What was taking you so long? The first thought racked his brain until- What were you even doing out? voiced louder from his cautious, horror-filled brain.

Ash Williams' quote stared back at him from the coffee table, his own mug of hot chocolate weighed heavily in his hands. Luckily, they were still warm, but with his second hand on the mug's body, it was increasingly losing its delicious heat. He knew your drink was in a similar state. For the sixth time in the last minute, Randy re-scanned his collection of VHS tapes. Anything to distract himself from the cold, empty spot next to him on the couch.

"Alright," he declared to the audience of his dead living room. He had had enough, pushing his feet back into the loafers and half marching over to his open front door. The last barrier between him and the outside was the glass screen door. When he peered past the melting ice, all he found was his street, the sidewalk, and the front yard. A thin blanket of snow covering the ground, lying under the ceiling of still grey clouds. There was only a small wrinkle near the stone steps that led to the front door, not a single footprint that he could spot. Shit-

He shoves his mug of hot cocoa into his other hand before he pushes down the golden knob to open the screen door. He goes to break the eerier silence by calling out your name before- Whack. Randy's face reels from the force of the snowball. The cold seeps past his skin as it refuses to fall. He can't see you, eyes blocked behind a layer of ice, but he hears your laugh.

You stand tall, your figure unhidden behind the mini pine tree to Randy's right. "Sorry, Randy," you apologize through snickers you are trying to calm. "I can't believe that spot worked! I thought for sure you would've seen me."

You take the steps two at a time, closer to re-managing your breathing. Standing in front of him, he's rigid, and you notice the pile of snow still hasn't fallen off his face. The sight nearly makes you double over again. "Here, baby, let me get that off for you."

Randy feels your wool hand press flatly against his forehead, your fingers smooth against his skin as you wipe down and away the snow from his face. You try to be careful and get it all at once; however, a small thumb-sized pile of snow falls into Randy's cocoa. The splash of warm chocolate bounces and some lands on your cheek, beside your nose. It feels like deserved retaliation.

"Sweetheart," he begins, voice sounding loud against the backdrop of winter's silence, but you recognize there wasn't any bite to his words. "You had me wait for more than five minutes, stewing with the thoughts of not having you nearby. Wishing for you to come back inside, settle back against my side so we can watch The Thing. A cinematic horror classic!"

You try to explain yourself, but Randy continues, "You got snowball in my hot cocoa! It's ruined now. I mean, the ratio is now all wrong. I've got more water than chocolate to drink!"

"You done?" you ask. He nods, and with his free hand, he immediately tries to smudge out the chocolate drink blots that are rapidly drying against your skin. He licks his thumb and wipes away at you with such delicate care; you might as well be one of Randy's VHS tapes. You internally snicker and hold back that comment for later.

"Sorry, Randy. I wanted to surprise you. Take your mind off of things... And, I couldn't let the opportunity of this little bit of snow go to waste."

"Yeah, well... we could come back out after we finish the movie," he negotiates, lifting his pinky finger. Your smile widens as you shake his pinky with yours, and he nearly relents from ignoring the movie. Nearly. He does allow you to pull him back inside, shutting the door behind himself as you settle in your spot, white mug full of cocoa in your hands. Like it should've been more than five minutes ago.

Randy sighs as he finally takes the first sip of his chocolate-y drink, sitting down beside you. His free arm lies on top of the couch, a soft, comfortable, familiar weight behind your head. You take the hint from your boyfriend's hand nudging against your bicep, and you get comfortable against the soft fuzz that covers his chest. Randy unpauses the screen as Jed's barks filled the room, the Alaskan Malamute and wolf hybrid sprinting against the backdrop of thick white snow and ice as the chopper failed to chase him. You could feel the brunette's heart skip a beat, and it wasn't out of fear for the dog's fate. His eyes were watching your face - one final analysis. He only turns away to give the horror movie his full attention after pressing a kiss against your forehead.

Author's Note 2: Not to give away any future fics any more than I already am, but I might make a Part 2 of sorts that tackles Randy's insecurities that were briefly explored from this fic🫣.

Remember to like, comment, and reblog :D! Any and all support is much appreciated!

© 2026 magicae-writes-stars

(The Joaquín Torres fic is actually a hot-off-the-presses new edition that I'm gonna have to bump up for my sanity🙃). Expect the order to probs be Randy, then Joaquín, then Bucky, and lastly Sam.

Shutting the small Ma and Pa restaurant's glass door behind you, the chime of the entrance's new bell rings through the establishment's periphery. Of the short ten minutes that you had shortly waited inside, the snow had begun piling against the stone sidewalks of New York. Cute white fluff had turned into descending blobs of thick snow that landed with a splat. Your boots left sole-level imprints, marking your impact as you trekked back to your shared apartment.

I should've listened to Joaquín, you thought to yourself. Your boyfriend had told you to wear a thicker jacket, but you ignored his pleas and accepted that it wouldn't take long enough for the storm to get worse. Mother Nature proved you wrong.

"Shit," you mumbled to yourself, jutting out your chin to hold the brown paper bag as you scrambled to pull your hoodie further. The light fleece hoodie, not even a windbreaker, only had so much room to work with - only so much warmth to provide - before it reached its limit.

The snow beat against your back, rapidly melting into the fabric and soaking into your back. You picked up your pace, illegally crossing the street as you ran across the road. The black pavement's absorbed heat still maintained a clean surface, but it was beginning to dwindle as some spots of snow were starting to stick. A car blared a scream; a New York accent followed with a complaint at your recklessness. You didn't look back, not with your apartment finally in view.

Gripping the cold metal railing, goosebumps spiked up your left arm. You cursed, the takeout bag - your only source of warmth left that you've been maintaining between your right arm and side - nearly slipping into the pile of snow. You grab it before it lands. I should've also worn some gloves. Shoving the glass door with your shoulder, trying not to become even colder, you walk into the small room that divides the apartment from the outside world. Away from the cold, wet weather.

With a trembling hand, you pick at the locked door that opens to the rest of the complex. The door was old, white paint peeling back - it was probably never replaced with another newer door since the apartment was first built over a hundred years ago. The window began to fog as you tried to steady your breathing. You just ached to get back inside. To watch the beauty of the snowfall from afar within the comfort of your and Joaquín's tight living room.

Finally, the lock clicked and the handle twisted, the door opening to a narrow hallway - a dark wooden staircase stretches upward on the right for access to the upper floors. You shivered as you finally escaped the howling cold's grip, passing by shut doors until you reached the end of the hall. Even within the apartment's hallway, the cold still seeped as the place was too old to have heat for outside of the suites.

Peeling back the many keys to unlock your door, you stop as the door softly tugs. You hear Joaquín curse, the door barely leveraging space as the golden chain lock tightens. He must've heard you rustling with the key chain, quick to open the door, but forgot about your second safety feature.

"I could've been a robber, you know," you call out to Joaquín, shifting your takeout to lay on top of both of your palms.

You could only see half of his face, but you noticed his wide, bright grin. He's briefly blocked by the door, shutting it and unlatching the gold chain, before it widens to reveal him and your living room behind him. "You're too cute to be a robber, amor," Joaquín replies.

You shut the door behind you, placing the takeout bag on the wooden shelf on your left. "I do think you stole my heart," Joaquín continues after you throw your keys into the white bowl, a sharp clang emphasizing his genuineness.

Playing coy as you rip off your boots, you respond, "Really?"

"Of course, mi amor," Joaquín immediately answers, his Spanish accent heavy. You feel his gaze locked onto you, not needing to turn around to know that you have his undying attention. Fully and completely.

The remnants of snow on your clothes begin to melt as the heat from the nearby vent blasts at full force. You re-pick back up the takeout, the aroma of marinara sauce, gooey cheese, and seasoned grilled chicken combining to spread throughout the apartment. Here, you were finally safe, away from the cold. It was nice and toasty, manageable but not too warm in the room, but you couldn't shake off the cold. It latched onto your skin as if waiting for something. Or, maybe someone.

Wordlessly, Joaquín follows at your side as you both make it back to your plush brown couch, the flatscreen television brightening and dimming occasionally as some B-rated nonsense action movie played quietly. Joaquín waits patiently, swinging his large arms back and forth as he lets you choose your spot again.

You set aside the brown paper bag; it crinkled before it calmed again and sat down in the corner of the couch. It was the furthest spot away from the thin windows and closest to the air vent. But this still didn't settle your cold.

You shift, feeling invisible warmth radiate from your seat. You wait until he sprawls out on the middle cushion, left arm extending behind your head and his knee playfully bonking against yours, before calling out to him. "Joaquín, did you take my seat while I was away?"

"I missed you while you were away, mi vida," he says, trying to play it cool. His warmth betrays him.

You chuckle, of course, he did. "You know I was only gone no more than 15 minutes?"

"It was 15 minutes too long," he answers, breathlessly. You notice his eyes twinkle as they roam across your figure and feel his hand twitching near your head. He wanted to pull you in, get you close until you were back together. Finally, as one. Your eyes widen; it finally clicked what you were missing.

Joaquín shifts, ready to rip open the takeout until you push him back into the couch. A small gasp leaves him as he feels the force of your hand against the thumping of his heart. You get closer, your face directly in front of his as you take him. He does the same to you. He thinks that the atmosphere has shifted, something more profoundly intimate that could possibly lead to something more, if you want to. Anything for you, Joaquín thinks.

Instead, you descend a bit and latch onto Joaquín's midsection. As you feel immense, soft, loving warmth radiate from him, you pull yourself even closer against his body. His mind is running a hundred miles a minute, and he begins to worry that something bad happened while you were away. Or, did he do something? Joaquín tries to even his breathing, arms above his head as he still tries to deduce what's best to support you.

"Joaquín, hug me," you muffle against his chest. And that's all he needed. With newfound confidence, he wraps his large arms around you, engulfing you with his trained body. His warmth. And his love. He fights back a shiver, hoping you didn't notice it, as he tries to get you as warm as possible.

A soft, quiet melody plays from the TV, a perfect accompaniment to the moment. It's peaceful, safe, secure, loving, and warm in Joaquín's arms. All you could ever hope for, all you could ever dream of, was being with him. How lucky you were to have him as your partner, your boyfriend. And as someone who will just hold you if you were to just ask.

I'm so lucky to have you, Joaquín thinks as he squeezes your body briefly. He kisses the top of your hair; it's slow, soft, and full of more love than he could ever imagine. He shifts, spreading his legs further so he can pull you in more. You are now slotted in between his thick, warm thighs, your upper body pressed against his, face still pressing against the thin green cloth that covers his muscular chest. You noticed how his heart evened out, but was still determinedly beating for you to feel his passion, desire, love, and warmth.

He didn't want to ruin the moment. He couldn't, shouldn't have, but Joaquín speaks up, "Amor, you're cold."

"It feels warm in your arms, though."

And that settled that. Joaquín begins to smoothly rub circles against your back, radiating even more warmth into your body. The cold begins to settle, slowly, as if wanting for both of you to maintain contact as much as possible. It seemed like Mother Nature had been on your side, far enough in the line of fate. You sigh, reluctantly pulling yourself back to look up Joaquín. He's already looking at you, a goofy smile and heart eyes in full display.

Don't ruin the moment, this time you tell yourself. "You know," Joaquín's breath hitches, "you and Sam are going on the recon mission soon, and I won't be with you for a few days. If you couldn't handle 15 minutes, how are you going to maintain your sanity without me for more than 72 hours?" You know Joaquín can handle himself, and it wasn't like he was going out on his own, but you knew how he could get without you.

"It's an even better reason to hold you tighter while I still can," and he does, face inching closer to yours. His warm breath fans your face, and it's like your heart has forgotten anything but this intimate moment, the love you both are sharing, and the warmth that has overtaken the cold.

Outside, the dark sky is flickering with white as the wind whips with trails of snow. It's beautiful, from afar. But all Joaquín notices is you - equally handsome and beautiful in front of him. To his heart, brain, and eyes, you're handsome perfection. He grabs at your waist, standing up with you in his arms. He lifts and softly lays you back against the couch. He follows you, holding his bulky body above you easily with his strength as he covers you. The couch is barely wide enough to comfortably fit your form, but Joaquín ignores that. He cares about you being comfortable above himself - he can handle some strain and dull tensing pain throughout his sculpted body for all the immense love he's about to pour into you.

"The food can wait, amor," is all he says before he kisses you. You couldn't have agreed more easily, pushing forward and opening your mouth slightly, allowing Joaquín entrance into your mouth. A passionate dance between your tongues ensues, evoking a newfound, deeper sense of heat to bloom within your bodies. By the time Joaquín and you are resting again, you're both lying on your sides, damp sweat drying on your skin. The shared idea of dinner slowly growing, even if you would need to separate to warm up the long-gone cold subs - too long in Joaquín's opinion. And still the winter storm rages on, but inside your apartment and within Joaquín's massive arms, you still feel warm.

Joaquín groans, his large right palm gliding through his hair as he wishes for this debriefing to conclude. He's sitting within the conference room, Sam standing at the head of the table as he repeats his report to Val with the diligence of a military sergeant. Joaquín had heard from Bucky that Sam had reflected Steve's rigid, militaristic personality the most during debriefs. Though he never got to see the previous Captain America in action, so he took Bucky for his word. His chin sits within his hands, arms propped up on the edge of the sleek, clean wooden table, as his Falcon helmet rests not even a foot away on the table.

I've gotta clean this, Joaquín notes as he picks up his green helmet. He begins to toy with it, spinning it around and flipping it upside down as he finds gunk stuck behind the orange visor. It must've gotten there after he was knocked from his flight into the mud of the battle, the wet snow drenching the scene, and minimal light provided from the red ray blasts the Hydra agents had used. He's long been displaced from the conversation, from the present, his mind wandering into the unbound recesses of imagination. It led him back to one person, his love. You.

He couldn't get you out of his mind. Not after you saw him off and had to pull him away from you as he wished to turn your shared sweet kiss into something less appropriate. He had pouted then, even as he walked into the Quinjet and Sam called him a 'lover boy'. It made him regain his smile, agreeing that he was your lover boy, heart soaring at the new title. So, throughout the trip, he had a lingering thought - no, a need - for you to call him your lover boy when he got back. It was still there now, echoing with a delicate whisper in his head. It sounded so close to your voice, but not as beautiful as the real thing. He knew it wasn't possible to conjure your perfect essence; nothing could compare to the real you. He had tried for many sleepless nights before he had gained the courage to first ask you out.

"I'm his lover boy," Joaquín mumbled, his eyes reflecting into the golden tangerine visor. He purposely briefly tilted the helmet down as if to make it agree with him. Sam had heard him, though, stopping his explanation mid-sentence as he and Val both turned to the young Avenger.

Sam clears his throat, Joaquín finally looks up, and the realization hits him hard, with more force than his rocketed collision mid-battle. Shit, he places back down the armor against the table. He tries to steel back his expression, flicker back on his hero persona, but he fails as he cringes as the piece of metal clanks against the wood.

"You're who's lover boy?" Sam teases, his voice loud as he ignores that Valentina was still in the room. Joaquín turns away from her, only focusing on Sam as he pleads with his eyes for him not to explain himself. Val huffs, crossing her arms in annoyance.

With his large brown puppy eyes, Sam reluctantly gives in with a sigh. "Fine," he begins, his right hand creasing his forehead, "Joaquín, you are dismissed."

He stands instantly, barreling out of his chair at his friend's command. Joaquín tucks his helmet under his left arm and salutes Sam with his other as he rushes out into the crowded hallway. His ears slightly burn as he can barely make out the muffled complaints from Val over the frantic pulses of his heart. When he entered the tower's elevator and pressed the button for his, well, your floor, he continued to run in place - preparing to bolt directly to your door. 14th floor and 7th door on the left, he had memorized since the first time you had shown him your living quarters within the tower. It was a few days after he officially joined the Avengers, already having met you previously as your hero persona when he tagged along with you on a couple of side missions.

He's buzzing, heart rushing, and the nerves in his hands crawling with desperate anxiety. Breathing in, holding, and exhaling does little to calm Joaquín down. All that separates us is this single door. His brows furrow as the thought of whether he could break down the door with a single punch overtakes his sanity. He stills momentarily, genuinely thinking it over with disbelief.

In his haze, you open your door, freezing when you notice Joaquín gazing at his fist with a reverence like he was a Greek philosopher in deep, transcendent thought. You try to wait for him to look up, but he still doesn't, still not acknowledging that you were finally standing in front of him. "Hi, Joaquín," you try.

The recesses of his consciousness heard you, but your presence didn't reach much farther. Still, he asks, "Do you think I could punch through this door?"

You laugh, grabbing his fist carefully to also stare at it. He shivers. That's when his mind finally catches up, and he nearly gives himself whiplash to see you in front of him. You gaze at his large hand, studying the weight and feel of his fingers before also meeting his new fixation. He's already lost, but this time, he's glad he is.

"I think you'll need more training with the punching bag before you can break down my door with your bare hands," you joke. You knew, though, he was beyond capably strong enough to rip through a measly door. Joaquín mentally agreed, though in each of his scenarios, you happened to be trapped behind the door, screaming out for help. He shook his head, trying to erase the heart-stopping hypotheticals.

"Amor," his accent thick as the heat of the word brushes against your face. He couldn't believe it, mouth left agape. Three days had felt like an endless eternity without you.

You let go of his fist, and it immediately drops to his side, mirroring his other arm. Taking his helmet, you place it on the tall drawer on the right of the doorway. Beside it lies your mask, the two pieces of armor reunited - just like Joaquín and you were. In between was a framed photo - a picture of you and Joaquín at your first date, the shallow edge of a pier in the distance as the golden hues of the captured setting sun highlight both your figures as you were tucked away into Joaquín's muscular body in a cute side hug. You had thought it was the universe giving you its blessing for going on a date with Joaquín. Giving a glimpse at your future, and you never looked back since.

Joaquín hadn't moved from behind the doorway, still hadn't stepped past the invisible barrier. There was a small part of him that didn't want to ruin the moment, even though he knew that was the last thing he could ever do to you. His brown eyes widen, trying to re-memorize you - he already had you fully captured in his mind - when you turn back to him again.

With both arms free, you grab his large hands with yours and tug him into your room. Instinctively whipped to your every whim, he follows you. Your doorway still wide open, you step closer and pull Joaquín into a deep hug. He feels his body melt, the tension releasing from his shoulders, and the invisible weight slipping as his body descends into tired bliss. It feels like home in your arms. It feels warm.

Before he could reciprocate, he heard you say against his shoulder, "Joaquín, I love you, but can you take off your suit?"

He looks down, completely forgetting that he was still in his hero armor. "Right," he chuckles, "perdón, mi amor."

You step past him and shut your door as he pulls off his suit, revealing a hidden grin. His skin is met with a cool breeze that causes him to smirk. When you turn back, you gasp, finding your boyfriend only in his green boxers. "Joaquín, you weren't wearing anything under your suit?" you ask incredulously.

He nods toward his famous green sleeveless shirt, bunched next to the metal armor on your floor. "I missed you, vida," he works his dashing charm.

More than three days without Joaquín, you couldn't help yourself as passionate heat surfaces under your skin. His tan skin is glowing under your dimmed yellow light. He opens his arms, tugging his fingers back a few times as an invitation. His chest, even when stretched, looked so inviting. Within the power of Joaquín's immense frame, you only knew it as a vessel for his love and passion. For his warmth. You step forward, completing his hug as you press your face between the plush, muscular skin of his pecs. Feeling grounded, feeling finally at home, he sighs.

"Do you mind if we just hold each other a bit longer?" Joaquín asks, mushing his face against your hair, trying to breathe you in.

"That's all good with me, lover boy," you feel his heart swell beneath your cheek at the endearing. You didn't know how much and how long Joaquín had desperately wanted to hear you say that. He thinks he's fallen for you again, even though he's found himself repeating this sentiment over a dozen times since you began to date. "Can we shift over-"

You don't need to finish before Joaquín lifts you up with ease as he carries you over to your bed. This time, he doesn't lie you down; instead, he's the one to fall backwards onto the thick blanket, and you fall with him. Your chests are pressed together, faces inches apart as you both orient yourselves on your bed. He's still only in his boxers, skin pressing against your comfortable apparel. For now, you both ignore the inevitable rekindling and lie together in each other's arms. The warmth passing between the two young lovers and will soon fill the entire room.

Translations:

• amor = love

• mi amor = my love

• vida = life

• mi vida = my life

• perdón = sorry

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