Superman Desperately Scanning The Street During A Fight To Find The Most Morally Acceptable Car To Throw

my man is so thoughtful

— Anthony Mackie reacts to Captain America action figure and thanks his teachers

I'm actually tearing up😭😭😭 i'm so happy for her. excellent ending 10/10

Witness : 34/Epilogue

Epilogue

Character(s): dark!Bucky, dark!Steve, too

Masterlist

Warnings: this is a dark!fic, it contains non/dubious-consent elements. Some violence as well at the beginning. It goes without (and with) that this is 18+.

Summary: The end. That’s it…

Notes: So this is the epilogue (it’s pretty short). I feel it leaves the window open but with a little closure for our reader. Thank you to everyone and this is the final goodbye to Witness and this version of Bucky and Steve. Thank you all. I really can’t put into words how special you made this fic for me. I love you!

Before you left New York, you drained your bank account and texted your mom her instructions from your drafts folder. Your old phone was tossed in a city dumpster and you hid your hair under a ballcap. You drove for Chicago first. There, you traded your car for a VIN-less one and pocketed the money from that. You left in the direction of the West Coast before turning back towards the east, heading to Detroit where your mother waited for you.

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I'm not friends with you because you serve a purpose to me, I'm friends with you because I just like you. That is to say, there is no one who can do what you do for me because what you do for me is just be you

just yes. yes to everything about this

by the grit of sandpaper {first impressions}

Pairing: Jackson! Joel Miller x Patrol Partner! Reader

Summary: The town is in a tizzy as Joel Miller returns and you finally meet the man everyone is gossiping about.

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: canon typical violence, canon typical language, joel a little mean in this, patrol partnership, use of guns, one infected encounter, lots of feelings, angst, hurt and comfort, mentions of blood (brief), reader has a commonly used nickname but no assigned name, reader has anxiety, reader has a stutter, reader gets overwhelmed, lemme know if i missed anything! SET BRIEFLY BEFORE THE FIRST CHAPTER

A/N: jackson joel holds my entire heart. so here's this little thing that's been in my drafts for some time now. it was nice to write for these two again ♡

ao3 link || series masterlist || navigation || ko-fi

It was silent, the only hint of your whereabouts was the clop clop clop of hooves on the hard ground outside the settlement walls. It was the perimeter patrol, your normal route. But what wasn’t normal was the broad man sitting astride a horse beside you. The first time you and him are beyond the walls together and you’d be the first to say it’s completely out of your comfort zone.

He was intimidating, to say the least. He had rolled into town one day last year, in the middle of winter with a snarky, lively teenage girl in tow. Tommy had come to you that evening, confiding in you that it was his brother, the one Maria had been worried about keeping in contact with. Having known Maria longer than him, you trusted her judgement at the time. Even if you and Tommy were friendly enough on your own, the rapport built over time. But the confliction of Tommy saying to you that his silence worried his brother to the point of trekking across the country for a glimpse of him admittedly softened your heart for both men.

Your heart had stuttered through the entire first exchange you had with the man. He had been short, like he wasn’t sure how to interact with people anymore. The rumors flying about him returning with a more subdued Ellie half shielded behind him. Whispered words of the things he had done before his time here and how it had been a long debate on what his contributions would be from the council.

It was a quiet morning, you were sitting in the mess hall after a particularly hectic shift. Something had gotten into the supplies the night before, dwindling down the stock enough to affect the meal plan you had drawn up for this week’s menu. But you had managed to get enough breakfast stuff made for those who relied on the mess hall for their meals. Sighing, you settled at a small table underneath a window in the kitchen, coffee steaming from a mug in front of you as you looked over the list of remaining supplies and tried to adjust your plan until the next batch.

“Joel, I wanted to formally introduce you to someone.” Tommy’s voice was…different as it flowed through the open space. Was he…nervous? His normally calm voice edged with a twang was a little higher pitched than normal. “Now, I want you to just keep an open mind, yeah?”

“Mind’s open.” A gruff voice that was similar in accent, but it was one you’ve never heard this close before.

“Honey?” Tommy’s voice projected as his eyes roved over the empty mess hall, over the chairs and cleaned tables until they landed on you bent over your notebook and an outline of the community garden. There was also a map of the town taking up the rest of the table, the walls outlined in a thick red marker and you were outlining sections in green and yellow. Tommy’s furrowed brow relaxing when he came up to the empty side and faced you head on, but not by much. “I wanted you to meet my brother. Would you prefer-“

“Oh! Olive is okay, you know that Tommy.” You don’t look up from the line you’re making on the larger map, but once you cap the marker and look up, your eyes widen just a bit at the image of the two brothers standing beside each other.

“Just wanted to make sure, the nickname is kinda my thing. Not that your actual name isn’t just as pretty as you are.” Lips quirked, he winked at you. His light-hearted teasing and harmless flirting nothing new for you, but Joel didn’t seem amused with the casual air between you both. His mouth was a firm line and the tension in his shoulders put you on edge- he looked ready to storm off.

“You’re married, aren’t you?” Before Tommy could turn around to motion to him, the man doubled down, letting you both know where his thoughts were. “With a baby on the way.”

“It’s har-harmmless, I swear. I wouldn’t even think of doing an-anything to interfere with him and Maria, they make the most darling couple!” You defended, feeling heat bloom in your chest at the insinuation there was anything more than friendship between you and Tommy. Maria was your friend and you wouldn’t dare betray her or anyone like that.

“Joel, this is Olive. My friend.” Tommy emphasized, your heart fluttering at the label. You knew you were friendly with both him and Maria, but to hear it said so plainly made you happy in a way that was bittersweet.  Like a stone in your middle, both filling and overwhelming.

“You do this everyday?” Joel’s hand waved over the maps. “What exactly is this?”

“O-oh, I’m outlining possible crop locations. I help out here in the kitchen and garden, b-but I al-also-“

“You patrol?” His words stung, like he didn’t believe for a second that you were capable, that you had the know how to properly pull your weight for the town. And he just got here. Shame and guilt flare, making you duck your head and begin to gather up everything sprawled over the table top.

“Menial work.” He states clearly, eyes clocking the book on plants you have stacked beside your notebook. It sounds like a judgement, like he’s reminding you that it’s all you’re worthy of doing, even if you’re just meeting him for the first time. His thoughts are already so aligned with the rest of the town, it’s obvious how useless you are- even to a complete stranger. “Seems more your speed.”

“E-everyday I’m not on patrol, yes.”

“’s a lotta work.”

“It is, but it’s where I’m needed so-so, um, I don’t mind.”

“Hmm.” It doesn’t sound like he likes the thought of you out beyond the gate, like he can’t see the reason for it if you’ve got the knowledge for the crops. As you get everything shoved into your bag, you hear Tommy say Joel’s name like a warning. But you walk away from them both while they seem to silently communicate with a shared hard look.

The memory hurts, no more words spoken between you two. His eyes moved down the paper you handed him with the information he needed- the patrol rotation, the walkie system that was still being worked out and not completely reliable yet as there weren’t enough for everyone, the check points, the horses that were available and the ones that weren’t. It was better than stumbling through explaining it to him out loud, even if he might already know the general ropes of the task at hand.

You were cautious, slightly paranoid, but definitely just wanted to help. Written words were better, despite the risk of someone getting their hands on it. Your stutter getting worse the more you shut yourself into your home and the kitchen, the gardens, kept to yourself. And he made you nervous, to be honest- it felt like he didn’t like you but you knew realistically that you probably weren’t even on his radar and in his thoughts.

They had settled on patrol and aiding Tommy and the handful of people with construction knowledge to help repair and build the town. Something the man had leaned into, taking on any projects he could to earn his keep. It was admirable, the way he devoted himself to the preservation and expansion of the settlement. His skills seemingly endless as he outlined new buildings, repaired damaged ones, mended leaking or broken pipelines and so much more while acclimating not only himself but Ellie to the new environment.

“You can relax a little, Mr. Miller, I’m not going to ask you any questions.” You internally commended yourself for not stuttering as you tried to console the brooding man just behind you. The horses were quiet, their heavy breathing and the hush of the leaves against their legs the only sounds between you since the gates closed behind you both.

“Ain’t no mister.”

“Okay…well rest assured I’m not going to force small talk if you don’t want it.” You aimed a small smile at him from your own horse, a beautiful appaloosa named Lowry, not wanting him to wait with bated breath for the questions you wouldn’t be bothering him with. He dealt with that from the rest of the town as he settled in and found his place among them. He had done his patrols with Tommy until this point. A handful of them, but Maria was nearing the end of her pregnancy and Tommy had approached you about becoming his partner until things calmed down.

“Jus’ want to focus on the task at hand, no need for talk when we should be surveying the land.”

“O-okay.”

You feel his eyes on you, heavy and hard. But you do your best to ignore it as you take point and gently lead your horse through the trail hidden in the trees. You reach to tug your wide brimmed hat lower, over the back of your head, tilting it to keep your eyesight clear. That’s when you hear it, a faint sound that had nothing to do with the nature surrounding you. A strangled voice.

He doesn’t seem to catch the echo of the sound off to your right. You hold up a hand, palm closed signaling him to stop just as you pull on the reigns in your hand to do the same. A flash of faint orange between the green foliage has you quietly slinging your shotgun around to your front.

Before either of you could take a full breath, you’re lining up your shot gun and firing it. The screech of an Infected echoes all around, the horrifying sound bouncing off of the thick bark of every tree. The horses stop their hooves, and you pat a comforting hand over Lowry’s neck as you strain your ears for any other signs of life.

When there’s no more movement, you reset your gun and sling it back over your shoulder. His eyes are heavy on you and you swear you can sense his distaste for your actions. The lack of communication you exhibited. You dare a glance back at him and he’s frowning, his brow furrowed. The twitch of his jaw is enough to have you turn forward again, clicking your tongue to get Lowry to continue on the path.

He doesn’t say anything, either positive or negative. As if he’s stewing in his thoughts. You’re on high alert, focused as you both guide your horses through the rest of the trail. The sun beats down on you both, oppressive in the way it’s starting to become hot as the day progresses, taking you closer to the summer season with each hour.

“I can tell Tommy to put you with someone else.” The words are flat, polite despite the way your chest aches and your jaw aches from clenching the entire ride back. The horses are back in their stables and you both step back out into the sunshine. His boots plant firmly, and he turns to you with a frown.

“Why would you do that?” He seems…taken aback by your words. Well, what little his brows raise makes it seem so.

“Because you don’t trust me, a-and, and that’s okay.” You don’t look at him, you can’t. You don’t want to see the distrust that is surely there. For acting without proper communication, for giving him the paper rather than talking over the protocols, for…being the one he was stuck with when he obviously doesn’t think you’re suitable for the task.

“Don’t wanna patrol with someone else.” Your head flies up and his eyes connect with yours. He’s standing in front of you now, directly but not blocking. Your breath catches in your throat as your own flicker between both of his, searching. They haven’t softened, there’s something behind them, but it strikes you still all the same. Because you don’t know him.

“Mr. Miller, you obviously have a problem with…me. With my skills. So it’s okay, no hard feelings.” You dip your gaze as you feel heat build up behind your cheeks, at the back of your neck. Nerves lighting up and making your fingers tingle as you feel exposed.

“Hey,” His hand reaches for you and you step back quickly, heart racing. He raises them both in front of him, palms open in a signal that he realizes the mistake of going to touch you. “Okay, okay. Not gonna- not gonna hurt you, I swear.”

“Tommy can find someone better suited for you.” Vision tunneling, you know you’re overwhelmed. A flash of memories swarm you- blood splatter, a deafening gunshot, the weight of a body going slack in your arms. The loss hits you all over again, like slamming into a wall and you swear your lungs aren’t capable of working anymore.

“You suit me just fine.” And oh, his voice is so soft. It’s like a flip is switched when his face focuses through the haze of emotions and suddenly you can breathe again. He’s crouched down a little, his palms over your shoulders and he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what just happened. He urges you to breathe along with him as he inhales deeply, holds it, and then slowly lets it out. You match him a few times before your body feels like your own again. “I trust you, you heard that stalker before I even knew it was on our tail.”

The smile he offers you is a little firm, but it means so much more than he can ever know.

“Now let’s go sign out of patrol, put down the trail was cleared. That’s the final step on your list, right?”

chapter one

taglist: @mari-positas @morning-star-joy @sawymredfox @pascalpvnk

@littlemisspascal @merz-8 @orcasoul @sabmat @dreamingofleon @keylimebeag

@picassopedro @tuquoquebrute @alejaa-a @jessthebaker @joeloverture

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@ohhellotherebumblebee @koshkaj-blog @amyispxnk @wand-erer5 @jessthebaker

it feels like my heart got ripped out of my chest and then put back 😭😭😭

𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐡𝐞𝐦

𝙍𝙤𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙩 “𝘽𝙤𝙗” 𝙍𝙚𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙨 𝙭 𝘾𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙣!𝙁𝙚𝙢!𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 – 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨. 𝙈𝙖𝙮𝙗𝙚 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙝𝙨—𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩’𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙜𝙚𝙩. 𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙙𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙜 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬, 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙗𝙮𝙚. 𝙃𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙙𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙙, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙖 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙒.𝘾. – 7.5𝙆

𝙂𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚 – 𝙎𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙘 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩/𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩, 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙮, 𝙥𝙨𝙮𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙢𝙖, 𝙙𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙘𝙮, 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚.

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 – 𝙏𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 (𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙡𝙚-𝙣𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙧), angst, 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩 (𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙪𝙖𝙡, 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙚, 𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙙), fluff, 𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 (𝙨𝙮𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙤𝙢𝙨, 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙨𝙖𝙡, 𝙚𝙣𝙙-𝙤𝙛-𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚), 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙑𝙤𝙞𝙙, 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙙 possible 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙪𝙢𝙖, 𝙖𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮, 𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙫𝙪𝙡𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙋𝙏𝙎𝘿 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙜𝙜𝙡𝙚𝙨 (𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘽𝙤𝙗’𝙨), 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚, 𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙛𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛, 𝙠𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙖𝙣𝙨, 𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚.

𝘼/𝙉 - 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙬𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜—𝙄 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙤’𝙨 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛, 𝙤𝙧 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮.

This one is for you, babes @asxgard 🫵🏻👀❤️‍🩹

The folding chairs in the community room at St. Margaret’s Recovery Center were mismatched and creaky, and the fluorescent lights hummed overhead in a way that made Bob Reynolds’ skin itch. But he sat anyway, long limbs tucked in uncomfortably, a cup of instant coffee cooling in his hands.

He was here for them. The others.

A man named Luis was shakily recounting the time he stole a car stereo to buy fentanyl, his voice cracking when he mentioned how he hadn’t seen his daughter in five years. The room stayed quiet and kind. No one judged. That’s why Bob came. It wasn’t always about what he said—it was about the fact that he showed up at all.

The door opened mid-share, a breeze of cold air cutting in.

“Sorry, sorry,” a woman whispered as she ducked in, clutching a canvas tote and a pet carrier, with a dark furball sleeping in it. She looked like she hadn’t slept well, wrapped in a threadbare gray hoodie and baggy jeans. She didn’t smell like perfume—more like laundry detergent and the faintest trace of cat.

Bob looked up briefly, then down again. Something about her felt like gravity.

She sat at the back, exchanging a quiet nod with one of the staff. Her friend, Bob assumed.

After the circle broke and people began to gather in twos and threes—plastic cups refilled, someone passed around store-bought cookies—Bob drifted toward the coffee table. So did she.

They reached for the same sugar packet at the same time. Their fingers brushed.

What a fucking cliché.

“Oh—sorry,” she said, a small smile flickering across her lips. “I’m not actually in the group. I just came with Jules—she works here,” she blurted, as she played with a sugar pocket. “She invited me to come—well, more like she forced me. To leave the house.”

Bob looked at her, really looked this time.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m just here to listen.”

She tilted her head. “You volunteer?”

“I guess. You could say that.” He paused. “It helps me stay grounded.”

She nodded as if that made perfect sense. “For-former nursing student,” she offered after a beat. “Used to volunteer, then work nights in a nursing home. Gave good sponge baths, terrible coffee. Dreams of truly becoming a nurse.” She glanced away. “Had to… shelve that.”

Bob’s brow furrowed just slightly. “Why?”

She shrugged, a gesture so simple it hurt. “Life,” she said. “And a body that didn’t keep up.”

A pause stretched between them.

Bob opened his mouth to say something—anything—but her friend Jules called her over. “Hey! We’ve got to be out in five!”

“Duty calls,” she said with a breath of humor. She turned to go, then glanced over her shoulder. “Take care, Bob-the-volunteer.”

He blinked. “Wait—I didn’t catch your name.”

“I guess you didn’t,” she said with a grin.

Then she was gone.

────୨ৎ────

A few weeks later, Bob was standing in line at a small neighborhood pet store near the New Avengers’ Watchtower, holding a giant bag of salmon-flavored kibble that Alpine—Bucky’s very opinionated cat—had decided was the only food she’d touch while Bucky was away on mission. He had offered to take care of her, since of almost all the members of the group, she felt most attached to him after Buck.

As he reached the front, he heard a familiar voice ahead of him at the counter.

“No, not the chicken pâté, the one with the little pumpkin blend. Mayhem gets picky when she’s stressed.”

Bob looked up. And there she was.

She turned, startled, as if she could sense him.

“Oh my god,” she said, grinning. “Salmon man,” she pointed out to the bag of kibble.

He raised an eyebrow. “You again.”

She laughed softly, then noticed what he was carrying. “So you’re cat-sitting?”

“Alpine,” he said. “My friend’s cat. She has opinions.”

“Mayhem’s the same. She’s one of my latest fosters.” She gestured to the small carrier at her feet. A pair of tiny black ears and vivid green eyes peered out from the shadows.

“Foster?” Bob asked.

“I don’t work anymore. So I take care of kittens for the shelter. Temporary residents at my place.” She looked down, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve. “Figured if I can’t save people, maybe I can save hairballs, with no thoughts behind those striking eyes.”

The way she said it—like it wasn’t meant to sound sad, but it kind of was—knocked something loose in Bob’s chest.

“I never got your name,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Nope. Still haven’t.”

He laughed. “I’m Bob.”

“I know, Bob-the-volunteer.” She smiled at him before telling him her name.

There was a pause. Bob swallowed.

“Would you want to grab dinner sometime?” he asked. “I mean, if you’re not busy saving kittens.”

Her smile softened. “That’s kind of you. But, I… don’t date. Not anymore.”

His face fell slightly, but he nodded. “Okay. Just thought I’d ask.”

They paid, made small talk. She loaded the kitten into a cloth sling at her chest like a sleepy baby. Big green eyes looking around.

As she turned to leave, she hesitated.

“If we ever run into each other here again,” she said, voice low, “maybe we could get that dinner. One dinner. Just so it’s not awkward. T-the hypothetical next time we bump into each other?”

Bob smiled. “Deal.”

He couldn’t stop thinking about her, not until, they did, in fact, bump into each other again four days later.

Their ‘one dinner’ was at a quiet Lebanese place tucked between a laundromat and a bodega. Low lighting, cracked leather booths, and music so soft it barely registered. She picked it because it was close to her apartment and she knew the servers—they gave her free tea when she brought the kittens in to visit.

Bob showed up with his hands in his jacket pockets and an awkward, quiet sort of hope in his eyes.

She wore a simple black cardigan, a bit of color on her lips, and a hesitation that hovered between every breath.

“No flowers?” she joked gently, eyeing his empty hands.

“I figured you wouldn’t want the cliché,” he said, lips twitching. “Besides, I read somewhere lilies are for funerals.”

Her brow lifted. “Morbid.”

“You started it.”

And just like that, the tension cracked.

They ordered too much food. She stole falafel off his plate; he didn’t even pretend to protest. They talked about cats. About movies they loved. About stupid jobs they’d had as teenagers. She told him about the time she had to chase down a dementia patient, while volunteering at the home, who escaped in a hospital gown and fuzzy slippers. He told her about working at Alfredo's Bail Bonds, wearing a chicken suit as the restaurant's mascot.

But near the end, as the check came and the plates sat nearly empty, her smile faltered.

“I need to be honest,” she said, tracing the rim of her glass.

He looked up immediately, attentive.

“I wasn’t joking, that day. About my body not keeping up.”

His posture shifted, ever so slightly. “Okay.”

“I have metastatic breast cancer,” she said plainly. “Triple-negative. Aggressive. It’s already spread. They gave me a timeline.”

Silence settled around the table like dust.

“I’m not in treatment,” she went on. “I tried once. Chemo nearly killed me faster than the cancer. It came back anyway. I decided not to do it again. So—what I’m saying is—I’m dying. And I don’t want pity, or a savior. I don’t want to be someone’s heartbreak project. I want to focus on Mayhem, find her a good family.”

Bob’s face didn’t change in the way she expected. No flinch. No sharp intake of breath. Just quiet understanding. Deep. Anchored.

“You thought that would scare me off,” he said gently.

She met his gaze. “Wouldn’t it scare you? Come on, I've just practically dropped a bomb on you.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “I’ve lived through a lot of endings. But I don’t think I’ve ever really lived through love.”

“To drop the word 'love' to a person you've seen only a handful of times, that's intense stuff, Bob."

“Friendship, then. Maybe?”

A pause.

“You don’t have to give me forever,” he said. “Just give me now.”

She looked at him, long and hard. “You say that now. But when I’m in pain, when I’m not able to walk far, or eat, or breathe without help… You’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“Maybe,” he said honestly. “But I’ll still want to be there.”

She didn’t answer. But when they stepped outside into the cold night air, she didn’t pull away when his hand brushed hers.

────୨ৎ────

They began to see each other once or twice a week. Always her place—small, second floor, plants in the windowsill, and a kitten in various states of chaos. Mayhem, claimed Bob’s lap immediately.

They built rituals.

Tea with honey every evening she had energy. Rooibos for her. Chamomile for him.

Late-night walks, slow ones. She got winded easily, so he adjusted his pace without her ever asking.

Rooftop stargazing on the crumbling building above her apartment. She brought a threadbare blanket. He brought the good thermos. Sometimes they didn’t speak at all.

He never pushed.

He stayed even when she warned him again, softly, that she was already slipping. “The decline starts slow,” she said one night. “You’ll notice the tiredness before anything else. Then the brain fog, the forgetting, when this thing gets to my already mushy brain. I’ll start losing my grip on the good days.”

Bob listened. Always. Quietly.

One night, they sat on her couch, her head on his shoulder. Mayhem curled up between them.

“Why don’t you run?” she asked suddenly.

“Because running never got me anywhere good,” he replied. “And because I don’t want to.”

“I’m not your redemption story, you know?”

“I don’t need you to be.”

She looked at him, eyes burning.

“You’re going to love me, and I’m going to die. How is that fair to you?”

Bob’s voice was quiet. “How is it fair to anyone, ever, to love someone and lose them? But we still do it. Because the loving part matters. The caring for someone does.”

And then—frustrated, scared, aching—she said, “You should go. You should find someone whole. Someone—“

He didn’t move.

“Dammit, Bob. Don’t you get it!?” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you to matter.”

He looked at her—soft, steady.

“You didn’t want to matter either,” he said. “But you do, woman.”

And in the silence that followed, she kissed him. Fierce, trembling, like trying to stop the tide with her hands.

He kissed her back like she was something sacred.

When she pulled away, she muttered, “You’re so idiotic—so damn stupid for doing this.”

“Maybe,” he whispered. “But I’m here.”

────୨ৎ────

She didn’t say “I love you.”

She thought it sometimes. Quietly. When he curled around her at night like he could guard her from what was coming. When he hummed to Mayhem in the kitchen while scooping kibble into a bowl. When he kissed her wrist instead of her mouth on the days her breath was short and her mouth tasted like metal. She thought it when he stayed past midnight cleaning up after a nosebleed, never flinching. Never backing away.

But she didn’t say it.

Saying it felt like handing him the knife and asking him to hold it to his own chest.

It wasn’t fair. It would never be.

So instead, she said things like “I like you being here,” and “I sleep better when you’re around.”

Bob understood. He didn’t push.

He just stayed.

────୨ৎ────

The first time she collapsed, it was a Tuesday.

She was walking from the kitchen to the bedroom with a mug of tea in hand, and then she wasn’t. She was on the floor, blinking up at the ceiling, breath shallow and mug shattered beside her.

Bob had been in the bathroom trimming his beard. He ran to her like the floor had opened beneath him.

“No—hey, hey, I’ve got you, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

She was shaking. Disoriented. Embarrassed.

“Blood pressure,” she whispered. “Too low, again. It’s happened before, nothing new.”

He carried her to the couch, got her a cool cloth, and knelt beside her like a soldier kneeling before his commander.

When she was lucid again, she found his hands trembling. His eyes red-rimmed.

“You shouldn’t have to see this,” she said, voice hoarse.

“I want to see it,” he said. “I want to be here for all of it. The good and the shit. You don’t get to push me out just because it’s scary.”

She reached up and touched his cheek, thumb swiping the faint trace of moisture.

“I’m not scared for me,” she said. “I’m scared for you. This is not fair, Robby.”

Robby.

He leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

“I’ve survived worse,” he whispered. “But I won’t survive walking away.”

After that, he started staying over more often.

At first, she called it “a couple nights a week.”

Then it became most nights.

He never made a big deal of it. He brought his favorite hoodie and a spare toothbrush, quietly folded his missions around her appointments, slipped into her world like he’d always belonged.

It became their home.

On good days, they walked to the little corner market together. On really good days, they danced in the kitchen to Nina Simone and Otis Redding while Mayhem batted at their feet—she was so chaotic and mischievous, such a little demon, that requests to adopt her were almost conspicuous by their absence.

On bad days, he read to her—his voice low and calm—even when she couldn’t keep her eyes open. On worse days, he held her hair back while she vomited into the sink and said, “You’re okay. I’ve got you,” over and over like a prayer.

And sometimes—just sometimes—when his hands started to tremble, or his vision narrowed, or a news headline triggered something in him he couldn’t name, she would pull him down into her lap and run her fingers through his hair, slow and steady, until the shaking stopped.

They carried each other like sacred things.

────୨ৎ────

The first time they made love was on a soft night in early spring.

The window was cracked open just enough to let in the cool breeze, and the smell of rain that had passed through earlier still clung faintly to the world outside. The sky was that deep blue right before dusk settles into true night, and in the kitchen, warm light pooled around her as she plated dinner—just pasta and roasted vegetables, simple and comforting, the only kind of cooking she felt up for lately. She wore a soft sweater that slipped off one shoulder and a pair of threadbare leggings. The scent of basil and garlic clung to her skin.

Bob arrived just as she was lighting a candle for the table—unnecessary, but it made the room feel gentler, like time had slowed. He carried a bundle of fresh lavender tied up with kitchen string, and a tiny paper bag from the bakery she loved, the one with the lemon cookies dusted in sugar.

“You’re spoiling me,” she said, smiling.

“I like watching you smile,” he said simply. “Figured I’d give myself a gift.”

He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes, the kind that didn’t just come from sleep deprivation. A faint bruise bloomed near his collarbone, just above the neckline of his shirt—he’d been on a mission the day before, one that had gone sideways, he said, but it was fine now, nothing to worry about. Still, his eyes lingered on her like she was the only soft place left in a world made of sharp edges. She caught him staring at her once, halfway through dinner, and he didn’t look away.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Now I am,” he murmured, and reached for her hand across the table.

Later, in bed, the hush between them was reverent, like the air before a storm or a cathedral at dusk.

They kissed for a long time first, half-under the covers, half-tangled in each other’s limbs. The kind of kissing that made the world drop away—slow and searching, a conversation of mouths and sighs. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone, grounding her. She curled her fingers into his shirt, then under it, dragging her nails across his back in a silent ask.

He groaned, quiet and breathy, like he didn’t mean to let it out.

When they undressed each other, it wasn’t rushed—there was no tearing or frantic fumbling. Just gentle discovery. Reverence. Her sweater caught at her elbow and he helped her out of it, kissing the bare skin of her shoulder as it was revealed. She pushed his shirt up slowly and pressed her lips to the bruise just below his collarbone, lingering there like she could kiss the pain away.

“You sure?” she asked again, barely above a whisper, searching his face.

“I want everything,” he said, voice low and steady. “I want you. You have no idea how fucking much.” He almost whimpered, shaking in need now.

“Did you just whimpered—? Fuck, that was hot.” She pulled him down to her again.

Their bodies met in slow, tender rhythm, the kind that built not from urgency but from knowing. He started above her, hands braced on either side of her head, his forehead resting against hers as they moved together, breath synced. Her legs curled around his waist and she arched up into him, gasping when he filled her—stretching and grounding her in equal measure. Her nails dug lightly into the backs of his shoulders, not from pain, but from the sheer feeling of it.

He kissed her through every shiver and sigh. Her mouth, her jaw, the spot just beneath her ear that made her whimper. She bit his shoulder once, playful and unthinking, and he huffed a soft laugh before groaning, grinding deeper into her like it undid him.

“Damn, you’re gonna kill me,” he murmured against her throat.

“Good—well, maybe not.” she breathed, smiling, and kissed him hard.

At some point, she rolled him onto his back, straddling his hips, bracing herself on his chest. Her hair spilled over her shoulder and tickled his face. He looked up at her like she was a miracle. Like he couldn’t believe she was real and here and choosing him.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said, running his hands over her thighs, up her waist. His thumbs traced the curve of her hipbones like they were holy.

“Right back at you, cowboy.”

She rode him slow, their movements fluid and unhurried, more about closeness than climax. He sat up halfway to meet her, one hand splayed across her lower back, holding her to him as he kissed her again—deep and aching.

Then, they increased their pace, making it a bit messy and rough, but not too much.

When she gasped, he caught it with his mouth. When she moaned, he kissed it into something sacred. His fingers found the back of her neck, the curve of her lower spine, the soft place where her pulse fluttered.

She leaned forward, and he caught her lower lip between his fingers, caressing it with a gentleness that nearly undid her. His thumb brushed across it, then he leaned up and kissed her again—tender at first, then deeper, nibbling gently until she gasped against his tongue.

They moved again—sideways this time, shifting instinctively into something even softer. She lay on her side, back to his chest, and he curled around her like a shelter, one arm under her head, the other cupping her hip, guiding her with slow, rolling thrusts that made her tremble and whisper his name like it was a secret.

Tears slipped from her eyes—she didn’t even know why. Maybe because it felt too good. Too real. Too much like something she’d never get to keep.

Bob kissed them away, murmuring against her skin, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

When they finally fell apart together, it wasn’t fireworks—it was warmth and stillness, a kind of peaceful unraveling. She pressed her forehead to his and breathed with him until everything settled.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, her head on his chest, their legs still knotted. His fingers traced circles on her bare shoulder, and she played lazily with the ends of his hair. Her skin felt tender, loved. So did her heart.

“I wish we had more time,” she whispered into the silence.

Bob didn’t lie. He never did. He just kissed her temple and whispered, “Then let’s live the hell out of the time we do have.”

She nodded against his chest, a soft hum of agreement.

And in that quiet, candlelit room, under the hush of spring, it felt—for a moment—like time had finally decided to wait for them.

────୨ৎ────

It was in the way her hands trembled while trying to stir the honey into her tea.

How she missed words sometimes, reaching mid-sentence into silence with furrowed brows and a quiet, “What was I saying?”

It was in the bruises that bloomed easier, darker, as if her skin was giving up secrets before her lips did.

Her body betrayed her first.

And she tried to keep it quiet at first—playing it down, calling the fatigue a “bad day,” brushing off the coughing fits and the bruises, the slurred words, the fall she swore “was nothing.”

But Bob saw it. He saw it all.

One night she collapsed in the hallway between the bathroom and the bedroom. He heard the soft thump—barely audible, like a pillow hitting the floor—but his instincts kicked in like a lightning bolt.

He was on his knees beside her in seconds.

“I’m fine,” she gasped, flushed, breath short, one wrist already swelling. “I just got dizzy. I—”

“You’re not fine,” he said, voice breaking. “And it’s okay.”

He held her close. She cried into his shoulder.

He carried her to bed, and stayed up watching her chest rise and fall all night long, counting every breath like a sacred vow.

The hospital stays began after that.

Short ones at first. A few nights for dehydration, an infection that wouldn’t clear, a chemo-related complication even though she wasn’t on chemo anymore. Then there was a seizure scare—brain metastases, they said gently, words wrapped in sterile white light and soft voices.

Bob hated hospitals. He hated the smell, the sounds, the memories. The taste of too many days lost in places just like this.

But he sat by her side every time. Brought Mayhem’s favorite blanket. Taped a drawing she made on the IV pole—a stick figure of a black kitten with heart that said, “still here.”

He read to her when she was too tired to talk. He played music on his phone, soft old jazz, classic rock, movies soundtracks, warm indie folk. He made bad jokes about hospital food and wonky bed remotes. He brought chamomile tea from home because she swore hospital tea tasted like regret and piss.

When she was lucid, they talked.

Really talked.

About death. About what came after. About what didn’t.

“I’m not scared of dying,” she said one night, voice fragile in the hospital dark. “I’m scared of leaving too little behind. About leaving you behind, Robby.”

Bob took her hand, thumb grazing her wrist.

“You’ve already left more than most people ever do,” he whispered. “You made me want to live, darling.”

At home, she wrote letters.

One for Bob. One for Mayhem: “To be read by your next forever mom or dad, you rascal”, it said. One for her friend Jules, who dragged her to that recovery center meeting where she met him. A few for other patients she’d met during her own cancer journey—notes of hope, humor, brutal honesty.

The one for Bob took the longest.

She kept it in a small envelope, hidden inside a book she knew he would read after—the one they read aloud together some nights, alternating pages, voices low and tender.

She never told him she was writing them.

He found out later. Much later.

────୨ৎ────

The night she said “I love you,” it came out of a dream.

She woke up gasping, hand clenched in the sheets, tears wet on her cheeks.

Bob sat up instantly, heart hammering, reaching for her.

“I’m here. I’m here.”

She blinked at him, disoriented. Scared.

“I was… I was gone. And you were still looking for me.”

He held her face gently, thumbs brushing her temples.

“I’ll never stop looking for you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers.

And then she said it. “I love you.”

It wasn’t a whisper. It was fragile and clear and raw, like cracked porcelain cradled between them.

Bob leaned in and kissed her forehead, “I love you,” he replied, voice thick. “Since the pet store. Since the first night you gave me your favorite mug and told me to not drop it.”

She laughed a little, hiccupping, and pulled him down until they lay curled around each other like the world might break but this moment wouldn’t.

────୨ৎ────

He didn’t propose marriage. He proposed presence.

It was one evening, while they sat on the rooftop wrapped in layers of blankets, stars blurry through light pollution but still there.

She was thinner now. Color draining from her skin, as the days went by. Her voice came and went, rough and hoarse. But her fingers were warm when he held them.

“I know you’re still trying to protect me,” he said, quiet, without accusation. “But it’s not about sparing me. It’s about what I want, too.”

She looked at him, tired but still sharp.

“And what do you want?”

“You,” he said. “To the end.”

He didn’t need a ceremony or rings. Just permission.

After a long pause, she nodded. “You already have me,” she said. “But okay. You can stay. Even when it gets really bad.”

He kissed her knuckles.

“It’s already really bad,” he said softly. “But it’s also the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

They lived the hell out of the time they had left.

He held her when she cried. She steadied him when his mind frayed. They watched stars when she could, and on the nights she couldn’t leave the bed, he pointed out constellations from memory on the ceiling with his fingers, drawing them in the air. Sometimes he would make them up.

She told him once that she didn’t think she could ever feel lucky again.

Then she looked at him: “But then you walked in.”

“And I stayed, which has been the greatest honor of my life.”

────୨ৎ────

The day before she died was a good day.

The kind of day that had become rare—precious. She woke up without nausea. Her hands trembled, but not so badly she couldn’t hold a spoon. Bob made tea and toast while Mayhem patrolled the windowsills like a sleepy little gremlin, her mews grumpy and loud.

“Ekekek-“ she would chirp as she watched with frustration a bird in the other side of the window.

They watched an old movie—one she loved and half-quoted even though her voice was slower now, her sentences softer, occasionally trailing into silence when fatigue crept in. Bob didn’t mind. He filled in the lines when she forgot them.

They danced again. Barely more than swaying, her arms around his waist, face tucked against his chest.

“I don’t want it to end yet,” she murmured, her voice nearly inaudible beneath the low hum of the record spinning in the corner. The soft crackle of vinyl filled the space between words like breath between heartbeats. “I know I don’t have much time left.”

Bob held her tighter, arms wrapped fully around her as they swayed gently in the living room. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, right over his heart.

“Then don’t go,” he said, his voice attempting levity—but it cracked slightly at the edges.

She laughed against his shirt, a quiet exhale that sounded like surrender and affection and inevitability all braided into one.

That night, she reached for his hand as he cleared the mugs from their late tea. Her fingers curled around his, tugging him toward the bedroom. “Come to bed early,” she said softly.

He tilted his head, a gentle smile tugging at his mouth. “Tired?”

She shook her head. “Not because I’m tired,” she murmured, and something flickered in her eyes—mischief, desire, memory. “Because I want you. Like that. How can I not? I mean—have you seen yourself lately? That stubble of yours is driving me crazy, my love.”

Bob chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You like that, huh?”

She leaned up on her toes, brushing her lips against the scratch of his jaw. “I love it,” she whispered. “And I need to feel… me. Just for a little while. Not sick. Not dying. Just a woman who wants her man.”

And he understood. God, he understood. She wanted to reclaim her body, her desires. To feel like herself again—not the version disappearing by inches, but the one who still craved closeness, who still chose him. Not as her nurse, or guardian, or someone just waiting for the end—but as her partner. Her love.

Their lovemaking that night was quiet. Reverent. Like a prayer whispered beneath blankets, made of skin and breath and memory.

He touched her slowly, taking his time with every inch of her. Not out of caution—but out of reverence. His fingertips traced the curve of her shoulder, down her arm, across her ribs—delicate, yes, but still her. Still strong. Still alive. When his hand moved over her stomach and down between her legs, he watched her face the entire time, gauging every flutter of her breath.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice deep and low, hoarse with emotion. “We can stop.”

She shook her head immediately, voice trembling but sure. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please—don’t you dare.”

Bob nodded, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Okay. I won’t.”

He undressed her gently, peeling away fabric like it was woven from moonlight. Her body had changed—softer in some places, thinner in others—but she was still breathtaking. Her eyes locked onto his as she undid his shirt, her hands slow and certain, brushing over his chest, down the trail of hair toward his waistband. He caught her lower lip between his fingers, tracing it once with his thumb, then leaned in and kissed her—first sweet, then deeper, until she sighed into him, her hands rising to cradle his face.

Their bodies moved together slowly, wrapped in soft linens, her legs around his hips, her hands tangled in his hair. She arched under him with a quiet gasp when he entered her, her mouth falling open. He kissed her then, deeper, his fingers laced with hers as he moved in rhythm with her breath, with the ache between them. She bit his neck once, playfully, and he groaned softly, grinning into the kiss. He bit her lip once again, in the same way.

“I missed this,” she whispered. “I missed you like this, Robby.”

“I’m right here,” he said, voice thick. “I never left.”

She kissed him again, deeper now—urgent, not desperate. Her fingers traced his jaw, moved across his chest, down his back like she was trying to memorize every inch of him all over again. Her body trembled beneath his, but it was strength, not weakness. Willpower. Want.

When he whispered, “I love you,” into her mouth, she didn’t answer in words. Her eyes brimmed with tears instead, her lips pressing harder against his like she could pour the truth back into him without speaking.

After, they lay tangled in the quiet, their skin warm from shared breath, her head nestled against his chest. Bob’s fingers moved slowly down the curve of her spine, over the small of her back. Every few moments, he leaned down to kiss her hair, just to prove to himself she was still there.

“I’m not scared tonight,” she whispered eventually, voice feather-soft.

He swallowed. His throat was tight. “I am,” he admitted into her hair.

She tilted her face up, eyes dark and tender, and pressed a kiss to his chin. “Then stay close,” she said.

And he did.

He held her as she drifted into sleep, her breathing slow and steady against his ribs. His arms wrapped around her completely, like if he held tight enough, the dawn might forget to come. And in that quiet, dark room, the only thing that existed was the warmth of her against him, and the fragile, sacred gift of still being here.

He didn’t sleep right away. Just watched her. Counted each slow rise of her chest. As if unconsciously he knew the end was near.

Didn’t expect that near.

It was Mayhem who told him something was wrong.

Bob woke to her frantic meows, paws nudging at his side, climbing over the blanket. At first, he thought she was being her usual chaos demon, demanding breakfast. She was relentless—pacing, pouncing, crying louder now.

He reached a hand across the bed. Her side was cool.

The light was strange. Early. Pale. Still.

Her body—still. Too still.

He turned.

She was facing him. Eyes closed. One hand curled loosely over his chest where it had been when she fell asleep.

Her lips parted. No breath.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Hey—baby, wake up. Darling?”

He touched her cheek. It was cold.

Her hand slipped from his chest like a leaf falling from a branch.

He didn’t cry. Not at first, but the will to do so was there.

He sat there, silent. A slow-motion fracture through the middle of his ribs.

He smoothed her hair back, kissed her temple, her forehead, the corner of her mouth. He rested his forehead against hers, as her head was resting on his pillow.

“I love you,” he whispered. Again. And again. And again. “Thank you. I love you. I love you. I-I love you, darling. Oh, baby.”

Mayhem settled beside her, tiny purring rumbling low and constant, a feline vigil.

Bob didn’t move her. He just stayed and clung to her as much as possible, to her naked, now cold form.

The sun rose. He didn’t notice. He didn’t care.

She was gone, and his gravitational axis, thrown completely off balance. Because of that small detail.

She was gone, truly gone.

────୨ৎ────

The funeral was small. Quiet. Her friend, Jules, gave the eulogy. Bob stood beside the casket, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t trust himself to. His teammates joined him, to support and care for him.

He moved part-time back into the Watchtower after. The apartment felt like walking barefoot across broken glass. Her slippers still tucked by the bed. Her favorite mug on the windowsill. The book she never finished halfway open on the coffee table.

Mayhem was his shadow. Always following him around.

One week later, the now adolescent cat, knocked down a stack of books from the nightstand, batting them one by one onto the floor with feral delight.

Bob sighed, kneeling to pick them up.

"You won't give a day's truce, eh, you little devil?"

A small, battered book they have half read together, slipped out and landed face down. Inside, tucked between the pages, was a folded letter.

His name in her handwriting.

He sat there for a long time, hands shaking, just staring at the curve of each letter.

He opened it.

“Hi, Bob. Robby, my love, lover boy, sweetheart, my darling.

If you’re reading this, then I guess Mayhem finally completed her villain origin story and brought down a bookshelf. Good for her. I hope she didn’t eat the corners of this letter. She tried once. I saw her. I told her no. She blinked at me and did it anyway. Absolute chaos. She’s your cat now. Sorry.

Also—yeah, I left this where I knew she’d eventually find it. Figured if anyone could make you laugh on a day like this, it’d be her.

So… hi. Deep breath. You, not me. I’m—you know. Past breathing now.

I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve said goodbye better. I hope I held on long enough that you weren’t alone. I hope you weren’t scared. I hope it was peaceful. I hope you know I didn’t want to go—not from you. Not from this.

I’ve been thinking about this letter for a long time, and still… no words feel big enough. Not for what we had. Not for what you gave me. But I need to try, so here it goes.

I love you.

God, I love you.

I loved you in a way that terrified me. In a way that healed me. In a way that made me feel more alive than any scan or countdown ever could. You didn’t look at me like I was dying. You looked at me like I was still here. Like I was worth staying for.

You gave me more than comfort, Bob.

You gave me days.

Real days. Golden, messy, stubbled, kitten-clawed days. Days with tea and laughter and record players and forehead kisses. You gave me mornings I wanted to wake up for. Nights I didn’t want to end. You gave me time that felt like living, not waiting. Not surviving. Just being. And loving. And being loved.

You never ran. Not when it got hard. Not when I got scared or small or angry or hollowed out by the chemo. You stayed. You chose me, over and over, even when I couldn’t have blamed you for needing to look away.

Especially then.

If you’re hurting now—and I know you are—it’s only because it was real. Because we were. And I hate that I’m the reason your chest aches right now, but… if it means we got to have this? I wouldn’t change a thing. Not for more time. Not even forever could make me trade what I had with you.

But I need to ask you something. One last thing.

Stay.

Stay here. Stay soft. Stay kind. Stay messy and honest and you.

Don’t shut yourself down just because this ended. Don’t pull away from love just because it hurts. Let it in. Let it hurt. Let it heal.

You carry light and ache in equal measure, Bob, and the world needs people like you. The world needs you.

Broken and trying. Soft and brave. Still showing up.

Cry when you need to. Laugh when it surprises you. Keep stargazing from rooftops. Put honey in your tea. Dance in the kitchen. Let someone hold your hand someday. Let them see you.

And take care of Mayhem, please.

She’s a menace, but she loves you.

She’ll sleep on your chest again. You’ll wake up to claws in your ribs and fur in your mouth and know she’s watching over you in her gremlin little way. Feed her the expensive treats. Not too often. She’ll get ideas.

And when it gets too quiet—play the records I liked. Even the sappy ones.

Especially the sappy ones.

You were the last good thing I got to love.

The best part of my last chapter.

And if there’s more after this—for me, for you—I hope we find each other again.

I’ll be looking.

Thank you for loving me.

Thank you for letting me love you.

Thank you for making it all count.

I love you, my darling.

Always,

Yours.

Me

P.S. I love you. I love you.”

He laughed. It broke into a sob halfway out. He folded the letter against his heart and sobbed.

Something inside him cracked. And softened.

“Fucking hell…”

────୨ৎ────

Grieving was a funny thing. Unpredictable. Cruel. Soft. Sometimes it came in like a scream and other times like silence that wrapped around your throat.

But still—

He started showing up again.

It didn’t happen all at once. He didn’t wake up one morning and feel whole. But the ache didn’t stop him from moving, either. He just started.

First, it was the recovery center. Quiet mornings, soft hellos. He told stories now—not about gods or galaxies or things that shattered, but about people. About love that arrived like lightning and stayed like breath. About grief that cracked you open without warning. About the way someone’s laugh could still echo in your bones long after they were gone.

He never spoke her name to the group, but somehow everyone knew she existed.

He began visiting the oncology ward, too. Not for answers—he wasn’t that naïve anymore—but just to be. He brought warm things: fleece socks, old paperbacks, little packets of herbal tea she’d once loved. He didn’t try to fix anyone. He didn’t promise miracles. He sat by hospital beds, held hands when asked, and listened when silence was all there was to offer. Sometimes he’d hum under his breath. Sometimes he’d let them talk about the fear. Other times, they’d just breathe in tandem for a while.

Presence. That was enough.

He kept fostering kittens. More than he meant to. Sometimes naming them after her favorite old movies—one little tuxedo cat was dubbed “Ripley” and refused to sleep anywhere but on his back. Sometimes he let Mayhem decide. She was choosy, with opinions like firecrackers. If a kitten made it past her glare, it was a keeper.

He stayed in the apartment less. Too many ghosts in the shadows. Too many memories clinging to the mug she’d chipped, the blanket she’d wrapped around both of them, the spot on the floor where she’d once slow-danced him through tears.

Mayhem and Alpine struck an uneasy truce at the Watchtower. Alpine, regal and disdainful, ruled from the bookshelf with the air of a monarch. Mayhem, all teeth and chaos, played the part of court jester with far too much enthusiasm. They would never admit they liked each other. But more than once, Bob walked in to find them curled up together in a patch of sun, like the war between them had been forgotten for a few sacred hours.

And when it got too heavy—when the weight of her absence pressed in until he could barely breathe—he’d take out her letter. The paper was soft at the creases now, well-worn, well-loved. He knew every line by heart. Still, he’d read it again. Her voice rose in his mind like a tether, grounding him, keeping him from vanishing into the hollow places.

Stay, she had said.

So he did.

Some time passed. Weeks? Months? Grief made time slippery.

It was dusk when it happened—one of those golden, velvet evenings that stretched slow and soft. The light outside melted across the walls like spilled honey.

Bob sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, sorting through a shoebox labeled with her name in his blocky handwriting. Mayhem snoozed on the back of the couch, curled into a comma of contentment, tail twitching in her sleep. Alpine lounged on the armrest like a sphinx, judging everything in the room with half-lidded eyes.

He pulled out a photo—creased in the corner, a little blurry. She was laughing, mid-sentence, Mayhem tucked under one arm like a wriggling gremlin. Her hair was a little messy, sunlight caught in the strands, her smile so full it hurt to look at.

He smiled back at her.

“You’d yell at me for keeping your cracked mug,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the edge of the photo. “But I can’t toss it. Feels like tossing you.”

A soft chirp interrupted him. Mayhem stretched, yawned with drama, then launched herself like a missile under the table.

“Mayhem—don’t—don’t even think about chewing that cord—”

A crash. A thud. The wobble of something precious trying not to fall.

Bob groaned. “Mayhem, you diabolical little thing, the lights are on but no one’s home, huh?” He ducked under the table just in time to see her batting at a cable like it had personally insulted her. She blinked up at him, wide-eyed, unrepentant. “Hey—don’t bite me—”

He laughed. It broke out of him unguarded, warm and aching. “You’re a menace,” he said, scooping her up. She flailed briefly in protest before settling, purring like a tiny engine against his chest.

He stood there for a moment, arms around her, the photo still in his other hand. The light outside was soft, stained gold and blue. A plane passed overhead. Someone two floors down was playing a familiar song through their open window—one of hers. A quiet ache curled around his ribs, but it didn’t hollow him out this time. It held him.

He looked toward the window.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Not to the cat.

To her.

Always to her.

Then he tucked the photo back into the box, flicked on the lights, and carried Mayhem into the kitchen.

It was time for dinner.

And he was still here. Still staying. Still loving.

Just like she asked.

He didn’t know the storm that was coming.

Didn’t know the name Victor Von Doom.

Didn’t know the sky would split again, and this time, it might take him too. Maybe, then, she would welcome him.

But for now—

There was light. There was a cat.There was dinner.

And there was still time.

Just enough. Almost.

So about that ending—I’m sorry? 😃

@sarcazzzum @cupid4prez @qardasngan @kmc1989 @trelaney

love the final architecture series but i refuse to acknowledge the ending. solace and idris go on to live happily ever after and idris becomes a sleepy princess like me to make up for all the sleep he missed out on in the past

---

i died

Young One

Din Djarin x Poe Dameron

read on ao3

Masterlist : Star Wars Masterlist

My Ko-fi

Summary: Poe, a young spice runner is trying to figure out his place in this world when a mysterious helmeted man approaches him at a bar.

Warnings and content: Age gap (22 and mid 50's), Poe is not a virgin but not much more experienced. Poe had one (1) sexual experience with a man before that did not feel good and was painful, the helmet stays on, not an innocent kink situation as Din isn't neccecarily turned on by Poe being inexperienced (in and out of bed), but he does find Poe funny and likes guiding him. Anal sex, lots of fingers in mouths, praise.

AN: I've never written for Din! RARELY wrote for Poe, both facts would surprise anyone who knows me IRL. Usually in fics, Din is more inexperienced with reader, while Poe fics Poe is a slut (its canon). I wanted to play around with the idea of switching it due to age (and no reader)

An hour or something before I posted this, I saw @ivystoryweaver posted a Poe x reader, so i thought i'd share it here!

MAY THE FOURTH BE WITH YOU! (and with your spirit)

3.3k words

Divider by @dreamland-gallery

Being a spice runner was not as glamorous as he thought.

Don’t get him wrong, Poe Dameron was no idiot. He didn’t think it would be easy living by any means; it was illegal, after all. He knew there would be feast or famine. Still, he thought there’d be a little more feast… Stories of Han Solo, ones unable to be separated by fact or rumor due to the New Republic trying to clean up his image, lead him to believe there would a lot more fun, a lot more food, and frankly, a lot more sex.

Poe wasn’t a virgin, by any means, but he hadn’t exactly been around, either. Growing up, Poe didn’t get into much trouble. Zorii said she could tell he was raised by a grandparent, that he had that air about him, which Poe took a bit of offense to, if he was being honest. He hoped she’d fuck him, at least, but alas.

His stomach growled. Thinking to his credits, he should have enough money for some soup and still pay for the hotel in the morning. If not, he supposed he could just skip out. It was a seedy motel, the kind of place that didn’t want galactic authorities involved. 

Half a bowl of soup later, Poe at least didn’t feel lightheaded, but his senses were not about him enough to notice the stranger eyeing him until the helmeted man sat down at the bartop next to him. Poe raised a curious eyebrow, but given he had a mouthful of soup it was the man that spoke first.

“They let you eat on the job?” His voice was altered by the helmet, but there didn’t seem to be a voice modulated in use. It wasn’t particularly deep, but definitely male.

“I’m off the clock?” Why does this guy care if he eats?

“Then you might want to remove that bandana from your pocket, young one.”

This did not help matters for Poe, only adding to the confusion. Still, he reaches back, feeling the forest green bandana he used to keep sweat off his forehead hanging out his pocket. “What? Why? Oh gods, is this a gang thing? I swear, just a spice runner, I’m not a part of-”

But the man just chuckled, cutting Poe off. “Gods, how young are you? And when was the last time you ate real food?”

Feeling just a little indignant, Poe only answered half. “22, and I don’t think-”

Again, he was cut off by the man flagging down the bartender. “Get the boy a sandwich, a side of ahrisa and something to drink, on my tab. Put the soup on there too.”

“I don’t-”

“I can see your ribcage under your shirt, take the food. And, if I may, some words of advice.”

Sitting back against his chair, Poe picked up his cup of soup and lipped it to his mouth to sip before answering. He hoped he looked cool. This guy? This guy was cool. “Seems like you’re going to give it anyway.”

Another small chuckle through the helmet. It was shiny, as was his uniform. Beskar, if he were to guess. “First, don’t go around announcing to every stranger your age. You look like you could pass for 25, and aging yourself younger will make things worse. People worse than me are more than ready to take advantage. Also, don’t go telling everyone you run spice. I think that’s supposed to be day one of training. I could have been a cop. Don’t talk to cops. Lastly.” He grabs the headband out of Poe’s pocket, leaning in intimately close but not pulling away once the objective was achieved. He holds it up to Poe’s face. “Don’t let handkerchiefs hang out of your pocket. You're flagging.”

Although he was certain it was making him sound more naive than he wanted to in front of the mysterious stranger, he asked, mouthful of soup again. Fuck he was hungry. “Flagging?”

He swore he heard a smile in the man’s voice. “Green handkerchief means your open for males to approach you for paid sex.”

Poe choked on his last bite and he had to pound his chest to cough up the bantha bite. “S-sex?!”

“Is it the paid part that scares you so bad, or the fact you’re attracting males?”

A blush crept up Poe’s neck and he hoped his upturned collar hid it, but it was doubtful. Poe had been around a time or two, one of those round trips being a less than stellar fumble with someone who also didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t mean badly, and they’d remained friends, but the memory hadn’t exactly made Poe gung-ho to  get anything put up inside him. Poe’s food came, and despite his embarrassment he couldn’t exactly say no to a nutrient dense meal right now.

“That’s why you approached me, isn’t it?”

“Smart boy.”

More blushing. “And… that’s why you bought me food?”

To his surprise, the man shook his head, voice a little softer, despite the shining helmet. “No.” It was firm, clear. He wanted to be understood. “I bought you food because I’ve been in the same position, young and hungry. Anything that happens is what you want to do.”

There was a beat while Poe processed the words, ashamed to say he was deepthroating the sandwich as he considered them. Thank god there was a band playing, otherwise the man might have heard a bread-muffled whimper, moan, or whatever he could call the noise that left his throat.

After he chewed a rather large bite (a process that took well over a minute, Poe and him making what he presumed to be straight-on eye contact through the black of the mask), Poe swolled, hard. “Anything that happens?”

He held out his hand. “Din Djarin. And what’s your name, young one?”

*

His mouth tasted of leather; a glove covered him, covering the sounds trying to escape his mouth as Din’s other hand palmed his fully erect hard-on.

“Impressive.” He complimented what Poe could only assume was his size, but he was too hazy to think too hard on it. He wanted to kiss him, to take off his helmet and taste him, but Din wouldn’t let him. “I got one rule, the helmet stays on. Understood?”

“Y-yeah” He didn’t care, as long as he got to cum. He was so hard, it was painful, much more so  than the hunger pains that bit at him earlier today. He definitely wasn’t sleeping with the mysterious older man because he bought him food, but the act had made him feel safe enough to engage with.

A tight squeeze through his pants, Din pressing his body against Poe’s so he could feel his hardness. The helmet felt cool against his burning cheek; foreign and enticing all at once. He clutched for the metal and the fabric between the plates, desperate for something to hold onto as he quickly began falling apart at the seems.

“And you?”

“Huh?”

Din buried the front of the helmet in Poe’s neck, and he swore he heard him smell him. Could he smell through the helmet? He’d heard of some sects of Mandolorians that wouldn’t remove their helmets, and now the pieces were coming together.

“Things you don’t do or don’t want. Like that.” Despite still being grovely, Din’s voice was encouraging.

Poe swallowed, trying not to cum in his pants right away and embarrass himself, but it was getting harder. “I uh- ohfuck, I don’t know?”

The movements still, and Din removed his hand from his cock, giving Poe a moment of reprieve and clarity of thought. He lifts his helmet to look at him. Both men aren’t too tall, Poe at 5’8 and and Din a few inches above, but Din has an authority to him, an air of power and confidence that makes him seem so much more as he angles his face down at the younger man.

Poe laments the loss of contact when Din’s body is off his, but as Din pulls off his glove  a finger at a time, drool builds in excitement for what’s to come. Hopefully. If Din decides he doesn’t want a scrawny inexperienced loser, he thinks he might simply die. Or his dick might explode. Either one. 

“Have you ever been touched, young one?”

Poe began to stammer. “I- Well, yes, it’s just, well a lot has been happening and, you know, my grandma kept a sharp eye-”

Thick fingers nudge at Poe’s lips, and he opens willingly. “Don’t talk about your grandma when I just had my hands on your cock, Poe.”

Unable to speak, Poe just nods and begins sucking on Din’s fingers.

“Now, I’m going to ask you yes or no questions. Just nod, or shake. Can your pretty head handle that?”

Poe starts to talk, but Din slides his two fingers in deeper, making Poe gag.

“I said, shake your head. Or nod. Or is that too complicated for you?”

Poe shakes his head, and another gloveless hand runs it’s fingers through Poe’s curls. “Good boy. Now. Have you been inside someone?”

Poe nods and sucks.

“Good. Now, has anyone been inside you.”

Despite being lulled by Din’s dominance, Poe winces a bit. He nods.

If Din noticed the wince, he didn’t say, but he did pause.

“And do you want me inside you.”

NODDING NODDING NODDING!

Din chuckles, then removes his hands from his mouth to begin undoing Poe’s buttons. “Now, you are going to tell me if there’s something you don’t like, or if you want to stop. I only want what you want, understand?”

Poe nods, and Din chuckles lowly again.

“You may speak, young one.”

His voice was sticky, dripping with his need and desire. “I understand.”

The last button undone, Din slides the shirt off him, letting it fall to the ground in disregard. He looks at his lover's body. 

“Beautiful.”

*

When Din had approached the young boy, he initially thought he was a hooker, just… a really bad one. Maybe that’s why he was so goddamn skinny, not getting any clients, and Johns certainly don’t pay a flat rate. He figured he’d feed him some good food, they both have a good time, he gets a warm bed to sleep in. Din had more than enough to buy him for the night, give them both a reprieve. He didn’t love sleeping with the helmet, but it was worth it for some skin to skin contact, a body to hold at night.

But after talking to him, realizing he wasn’t a hooker, just stupid, he still felt that same mix of pity and attraction he did when he saw him walk in the doors of the bar. He wasn’t joking, the button of his ribs showed.

Din’s fingers traced down the sides of his lover’s body, sat with Poe’s legs on either side  Both had gotten almost naked, Din’s helmet stayed on, and now Din wanted to assess what he was working with.

He felts the bones underneath his skin, fingertips tracing over the ridges and bumps. He really should eat more. Was the spice business really doing this poorly under the New Republic? Or had he joined a bad team? He’d probably do better as a hooker, the way he was blessed by the force with a perfect face, dark curls and soulful eyes. Could get any gender he wanted, could even be high class on Canto Bite… and yet, Poe was here with him, those eyes blown out with lust, cock absolutly dripping precum onto his thin stomach, just for him.

“Now tell me, Poe, when you were taken, was it unpleasant?” Din had seen the look on his face when he had recalled it, and wanted to know what he was working with. If it had been traumatic, Din wouldn’t deny the desperate boy if he truly wanted him. He was old enough to know what he wanted, even with an old man like him. He just needed to know how careful to be.

He looked like he was considering lying again, so Din encouraged him to tell the truth.

“It hurt.”

Something stirred in Din, something dangerously strong for a hookup. He wanted to protect him, to go back and harm whomever had harmed him. “They hurt you?”

“He didn’t mean to! Neither of us knew what we were doing. It was just…” Poe hesitated. “Awkward. Didn’t feel very good… then sometimes it did,but, I mean, putting something there I guess that’s normal.”

Din could not wait to show him how good it could be. He raised his hand to him again, loving the way he was so receptive, so willing and ready to listen. “Get it nice and wet.” Poe wrapped two hands around his wrist, holding him there as he licked and sucked and slobbered all over the hand for him. He bet his tongue would feel good on his cock, but that was for another day. Or not. He’d likely never see him again after this.

“Good boy.” He praised, then, scooting back and sliding a hand between his ss cheeks, Din slowly put two fingers inside him, watching the way Poe’s eyes rolled back. “It’s not supposed to hurt.” He assured. “A stretch, not pain. You will tell me if there’s pain, understood?”

He could only nod, turned into a mess in his bed. Din worked him over, opening his tight hole, scissoring him open. He would do this right, he would show the boy how good it was supposed to feel. He would not make it hurt. Poe’s fingers desperately gripped at the bedsheet, moaning and writhing all sprawled out before his eyes. Sweat was beginning to stick his curls to his scalp, but one long lock fell to his forehead. 

All the must of the cheap tavern couldn’t compare to the sweet smell of a man’s sweat, a man’s desperation; none of the clamor or noises outside could compare to the sounds Poe made now. All of that existed after him, elevating him, drawing Din’s senses not away, but to the treasure in front of him. His cock throbbed, begging Din to put it in to slam into his ass until he filled him with so much cum it would leak out of his for days as a reminder of what they shared, but it wasn’t until the third finger fit comfortably inside him, splaying the fingers open, that Din decided he was ready.

His uncut member nudged at Poe, Din’s hand sliding the foreskin back and forth as he touched himself. “It hurts, you tell me. Even if I’m about to cum, you want to stop, you will tell me.” It wasn’t a question, it wasn’t a suggestion. It was decided.

Poe's fingers were tight on the bed sheets, not in pain but pleasure. “Yes sir.”

He looked at his hands. “You’ll pull off the sheets” Din stated, with a ‘as a matter of fact’ tone. The sheets being pulled off didn’t really matter, but Din leaned over to take the white-knuckled grasp, threading their fingers together. He placed his other hand flat on Poe’s sternum, wanting to feel the skin on his, to feel his stomach move as he swallowed and lungs breath as he gasped. To feel human, to feel real.

He pushed inside, and Poe’s hands clutched his for stability, for comfort as his eyes rolled back in his head.

This is how it should feel, young one. Din thought to himself. It’s supposed to feel this good. Could be better. If I got to know you, helped you explore, learned what you like… You deserve someone that good to you.

But they had tonight, and he would make this count. He’d lay him so right that from now on, Poe would consider Din his first, not whoever it was that hurt him, accident or not. Being someone’s first is sacred, and Din did not take the task of repairing what was done lightly.

Din thrust inside him, feeling his cock swallowed to the hilt by his fluttering hole, watching Poe’s mouth fall open and that ringlet of a curl on his forehead bounce intime to his cock slapping on his stomach.

“Need you to breathe.” Din reminded him. “In when I squeeze your hand, out when I let go.” 

Poe nodded, and did what he said, breathing in and out until he relaxed, the tension leaving his body, his hole loosening and Poe was left with nothing but the feeling of being full.

“S-so good…” He moans, fucked-out face lost in lust, a haze around him as he grew closer and closer to his orgasm.

“Do I make you feel good, Poe?”  He slowly pulled out, them rammed his cock deep inside. And again. And again.

“So! Gorram! Good!”

Din wrapped his fist around Poe’s dick, jerking him off. He wanted to cum, to claim him in a primal way. “You will scream my name when you cum, young one” Fast, fast, his cock slicked with pre-cum and sweat. “Let them all know who-”

“DIN!!” Poe came in a leg shaking, bed rocking orgasm that overtook his whole body. The sweetest moan escaping from between those lips Din wanted to bite so bad. The lips he wanted to fuck. The lips he wanted all over his body…

His orgasm hit him like a speeder, and Din gripped Poe’s thighs so hard he worried he might bruise him, but Poe just moaned harder as his orgasm finished out, spilling rope after rope on his stomach and Din’s hand.

Din wanted to lick the white seed off his happy trail.

*

“Good” Poe responded when Din asked how he felt as he cleaned the boy’s mess. Good didn’t even begin to describe it, but he was so exhausted, he hoped his sleepy smile told the full story.

The wet rag whipped at his stomach. Poe had never made such a mess taking care of himself, it was like Din’s hands and cock were magic. He couldn’t imagine going back to masturbating after that, he didn’t want to. He was waiting for Din to say ‘okay, get the hell out of my room’ instead, it was,

“Do you want to stay tonight?” which surprised him. He never had someone bed him and ask him to stay.

“Oh, yeah but… i have a room, and my stuff is-”

Again, firmer. That tone Din uses when he wants Poe to be direct and clear. “Yes or no. Do you want to stay the night?”

“Yes. Yes I do.” He couldn’t imagine getting out of bed right now. Not when he was sooooooo cozy.

“Good. I’ll have your room canceled and refunded and gather your things.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I know, but I will. Now rest, sleep. Shower or bathe if you’d like, but don’t drink the tap water, it’s disgusting. Here.” Din handed him a bottle. “Drink this.” It wasn’t a question. “I’ll be back.”

*

When Din returned, Poe’s items packed neatly in his bag, he looked at the young boy sleeping on his bed. It’d been a long time since he’d bedded someone so handsome, but that attractiveness wasn’t all that was stirring something in him. He’d lived long enough to know what. Dressing down into night clothes, Din went to the bathroom to get some time without the helmet, to brush his teeth and wash up before returning to his lover, helmeted.

Crawling into bed, skin to skin again, Din pulled Poe close. The young man curled up in his arms, seemingly asleep until he muttered, “You’ll be here in the morning, Din?”

“Yes, now get some sleep, young one.”

“M’kay…” He mumbled. “Thank you.”

Din took a strong whiff of him, dizzy with the smell of sex and the musk of the hotel. “Goodnight, Poe.”

“Goodnight, Din.”

Listen. I already have ideas for more. Im obsessed with these two. If this part does well enough, i may write more after i kept up on some other series LIKE FUCKING FINISHING IYWBW

I'm not posting it here but 3 years ago i started writting this series for Han X OC, it was my first fic ever. got 27 chapters in before i got distracted by moon knight. Now im posting it on ao3. now that im doing these overnights and I can write more after school ends I plan on finishing it ;-; something like 10 chapters left? It han x oc, but there will be some poe x oc and kylo ren x oc

Also, I want to write dark!kylo ren x poe and poe x reader x han solo, so, stay tuned. we're returning to my star wars roots.

tagging those who asked and my usual peeps and one or two i thought might be interested. if its not for you, ignore! i wont be offended.

@avastrasposts @for-a-longlongtime (mel said to tag you lol ignore if its not for you!!!) @marshmallow--3 @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @missdictatorme @clawdee @campingwiththecharmings @alfiestreacle @miraclesabound

cute

Shameless Enjoyment

platonic Bucky Barnes x Alpine!reader

part of Companion Animal (see previous or series)

Image found on Pinterest by @ellethespaceunicorn who thought of Bucky bonding with his new kitty 😻 so OBVIOUSLY I had to run with it...

No warnings, just floofy fluff! Enjoy 😘 WC 625

It's because he has nightmares that he suddenly pops up to burn off unprovoked, fight-or-flight energy. Shirtless, metal arm whirring in strain, covered in sickly sweat, Bucky just goes and goes.

Hundreds of sit ups. Hundreds of pull ups. Hundreds of push ups until his muscles finally fail, and he can (maybe) go back to sleep.

You've watched with your own breed of fear and sadness a few times before, but not tonight. You need him to not feel alone, to notice there's someone (or something) here to help. You need to ease his pain in some small, tiny, probably insignificant way, but you have to try.

So you prop yourself up on his knees during the sit ups, you jump for his rising, crossed ankles during the pull ups, and you shimmy across the floor by the sleek hairs of you back, positioning yourself beneath his head during the push ups.

His eyes are glassy, unseeing of you, his face bobbing closer then farther on and on.

His dog tags clink on the floorboards only an inch away, but Bucky still notices absolutely nothing.

Well, you know how it goes, right? Hear a tink, tink, tink enough times (dozens and dozens so far), and we're all like to be driven a bit bonkers.

You attack them, pinching the flat steel between your paws and bunny-kicking the swinging string, deeply annoyed that you have no thumbs to grab them properly and rip them right off his neck.

Ok. Maybe you're tired and he did wake you from a proper sleep this time.

You bite at the tags, intent on making your own mark on the stamped metal.

Bucky stops, but you only notice when his body remains lowered to yours for longer than the regular beat.

You, in turn, stop mid-thrash.

"Pretty girl..." he growls playfully, though you are anything but 'pretty' with your fangs hammering an unyielding surface, your wide eyes angry and lopsided, and your body twisted to gain the leverage of one-twentieth Bucky's own size.

You pause then growl in kind.

"Are you mad at me? Did I disturb you?"

A back leg whacks at the chain again in defiance.

He chuckles, the harsh lines above his serious brow relaxing as he pushes up, dragging the necklace almost out of your reach.

The smooth plates slip from your paws, and it makes you furious, batting wildly to regain your hold of them.

Bucky seems very pleased with that reaction.

"There ya go, doll. Almost got it--" he lowers again "--yay! What about--" he pushes as far as his elbows will straighten "--now?"

A wet huff escapes your throat when the string goes entirely beyond the extension of your own fury limbs.

"Uh oh! Little higher, Alpine. You can do it," he coos.

Your screech is from genuine irritation, but it amuses Bucky to the point you wriggle some more...just for show.

"Okay, okay, here ya go." Bucky lowers the tags carefully to your chest, delighted by the feral display of savagery he sometimes wishes to impart on the symbols, too. You're sure he doesn't realize he says these things out loud, but you take his confessions as seriously as a priest.

You'll take on his burdens like a golem if that's what helps him sleep through the night.

A few hundred secrets. Let him push them out. And then let him dream of better things. Fluffier, pure white, happy things. If he lets you, you'll fight all the demons and fly from room to room scaring all the ghosts of his past away.

He can do this routine without shame. He's simply playing with his cat. Bucky's just enjoying his time with you...at any and all hours of the day.

[Next Part: 'Babygirl']

[Main Masterlist; Bucky Barnes Masterlist]

A/N: yes, Lexi's got zero chill. What of it? You all knew that!

@hisredheadedgoddess28 @irishhappiness @fallenxjas @ilovetaquitosmmmm @venunsgirl @fries11 @lovinglimerence @navs-bhat @creat0r-cat @yenzys-lucky-charm @bitchy-bi-trash @supraveng @patzammit @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @yiiiikesmish @ashesofblackroses @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @brandycranby @buckysprettybaby @ellethespaceunicorn @late-to-the-party-81 @bigtreefest @mistressmkay @astheskycries @veryprairieberry

I can't tell you how many fic drafts i have that are character sheets and then 2 scenes

a writer's nightmare is having the vision for one specific scene for a fic and having to come up with The Rest

i could be a doctor cuz i'd pass out if i saw this irl

THE PITT | 1.15