#it may be too surreal and removed from normalcy | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

themusicplayedherlife · 3 years

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Some Sugar

5. it’s just manners to pretend

pairing: sugar daddy!steve rogers x reader characters: reader, steve rogers, others word count: 7k+ warnings: fluff, dom!steve?, mild smut, 18+ situations, exhibition kink?, dirty talk summary: everything has been perfect for you and Steve; on the night of gala things get a little steamy, but the bliss doesn’t last as long as you had hoped. a/n: yikes. It’s been half a year since I’ve updated and i apologize. 2020 hasn’t been the kindest to me or my family and I’m still reeling from everything that happened and is happening. i hope you guys enjoy this chapter and I’m sorry for any mistakes, will be revising it again soon just to make sure I got all of them out of the way! warning: there is mild smut near the end!

Esmeralda watches you from her place on the sofa, the remote in her hand jiggling and occasionally hitting her lips. It’s unnerving how intensely she’s staring at you.

Lifting your eyes momentarily from the daal you’re preparing for your mom, you ask, “What?”

“Nothing,” she says with a shrug, a little smile on her face.

You taste the tomato and the seasoning, finding it blander than you usually make it, but it’ll be perfect for your mom’s current taste-buds. “I know that look and that look doesn’t mean nothing.”

She sits up and makes her way over to you. “It’s just—I’m happy.”

You glance up at her and find her standing behind you. “Yeah?”

Her arms wrap around you and she nods into your back. “Having you and mom home, having a new place, it’s surreal.”

You exhale softly, the warm spices and the vegetables lingering in your nostrils as you maneuver Esmeralda to your side instead of having her cling to your back. “I know what you mean.”

“I hope it lasts.”

“It will.” You squeeze her, pressing a kiss to the top of her curls. “I promise it will.”

“I believe you.” She looks up at you, eyes narrowing, pout forming. “Just promise you won’t do anything stupid to keep it.”

You grin toothily, making another promise that she accepts by digging deeper into your side.

The sounds of the kitchen fill the air, Esmeralda sticking to your side, never leaving it even when you need to drain the lentils.

Your mom pads into the kitchen and upon seeing you two, she also presses herself against your other side; the three of you laugh and argue as they try to steal bites before you can even add the lemon juice into the dish.

It’s normalcy; a normalcy you haven’t been able to experience in such a long time. And you wouldn’t let anyone take that away from you, not anymore.

“Are you sure you can be out here?” you ask Steve, keeping a, what you hope is inconspicuous, eye out as the escalator takes you downward onto the second floor.

The mall is full of people shopping and taking advantage of the current sales, something you were also hoping to take advantage of, but now with Steve’s hand in yours, his warmth pressed to your side, you’re not sure it was such a good idea.

“We’ll be fine, sweetheart,” he promises softly into your ear, leaning down to press a kiss to the tip of it.

You look up at him and he smiles down at you, beautiful blue eyes still obstructed by stupid sunglasses. “We check out one store and then we leave okay?”

The corner of his pretty pink lips pull down into frown. “Don’t you want to take your time?”

Maybe in other circumstances you would’ve, but the thought of Steve being recognized while being with you, it has your little hairs on edge, practically standing with a life of their own.

“No,” you squeeze his hand, “I’ve got a dress in mind.” You had seen it online as you casually scrolled through the options Selena had helped you find, it was also the only one she added a message to—easy access? Just kidding! But seriously, isn’t this dress gorgeous? I think you’ll look lovely ❤️

The price was a little steep and a little out of your budget, but your mind wouldn’t stop picturing you in it—seeing that the store was having a sale only solidified your decision.

Stepping away from the escalator, he tugs you as close as he can get you, eyes ever vigilant like the soldier he is. It’s something you’ve noticed whenever you’re outside of the safety of his car, and you guess it comes with being an Avenger. But you’re starting to think it might be—more often than not—for your benefit, because any time someone so happens to take a candid picture of him with one of the other Avengers, he doesn’t seem to be this alert.

You squeeze his hand and when he glances down at you, his mouth relaxes into a soft smile, one that makes you push up on your toes and press a light kiss to. He chases after you when you pull away, pouting when you teasingly refuse to meet his lips once more.

“Baby,” he whines, soft and sweet and all you do is smile, tugging him towards your destination.

The store you chose is more of a boutique, less of a chain store. A lot of their dresses are unique to them, carrying only a few name brand items like Marc Jacobs, Chanel, Dior and a few other names you don’t recognize such as Bouchra Jarrar.

Unlike the surrounding area, the store is quiet with a low hum of music playing from their speakers. Strong perfume attacks your nostrils the very moment Steve opens the door for you, and you’re not sure whether you like the smell or not. It’s not sweet like the ones you’d usually smell at a Macy’s or JCPenny, but it’s not dry either—jasmine, maybe?

“Welcome,” a woman dressed in black immediately greets you, a practiced polite smile already in place over her smooth skin. “Is there anything I could help you with?”

It’s a little intimidating the way she seems to stare into you, as if she knows you’re not the type of person to usually walk into stores like this one, but you push that thought away, instead taking on a smile to mirror hers. “Yes, thank you. I’m actually looking for a blue dress—lantern sleeves and tulle gown?”

“We may have the dress you’re looking for.” Her eyes light up with recognition and she leads you further in where there are a few lingering customers and employees. Steve pays them no mind, ignoring the blatant stares to his physique as he removes and pockets his sunglasses and instead keeps close to you and occasionally surveying the store and it’s wares.

She asks you your size, and once you give her your measurements, asks you and Steve to wait for a moment, disappearing into the back where you assume they keep their dresses not on display and their variety of sizes.

Wrapping an arm around Steve, you find him glancing around still, a little stiff, only relaxing when his eyes settle on yours.

“Mind taking the dress home with you?”

“Why?” He frowns, curious as to why you wouldn’t want to take it with you.

You reach up to run your thumb over a corner of his lips, saying, “Esme has a tendency to go through my things.”

“Trying to steal your clothes?” he asks, lips lifting into a half smirk.

“She’s too tiny to fit into my clothes.” You laugh and shake your head. “She’s just used to having to go through my things to find hers. It’s a habit that comes with having to share a space.”

His gaze softens and he cups your jaw. “What about now?”

“She sometimes sneaks into my bed in the middle of the night.” You sigh with exasperated fondness. “But I can’t say I mind. It’s weird having so much space to myself now.”

His thumb brushes over your cheekbone. “A good weird?”

“A good weird,” you assure him, leaning into his touch.

“Good.”

Someone clears their throat and you and Steve are slow to detach yourselves from one another, in no complete hurry to face the saleswoman. It’s a little embarrassing having been caught in such an intimate position, but looking around the store, it makes you realize that you might’ve been caught a long time ago and neither of you noticed.

Steve just makes it so easy to forget your surroundings when he looks at you, makes you feel like you’re in a space of your own. It’s such a weird thing to say about someone you met only a few weeks ago, but it’s true. Whether you’re at the bar, or in his car, or even talking on the phone, it’s as if you’re the only two people in the room.

That’s a little dangerous when you think about it, but it doesn’t really matter to you. You like feeling like you’re the center of his universe and he probably likes being the center of yours too, if the way he squeezed you to him is of any indication.

“May this be the dress you’re looking for?”

Your eyes widen as she brandishes the gown, holding it up for you to see it. “Yes!”

Steve chuckles and you look up at him in question, finding him looking down at you with delight.

“You’re vibrating,” he teases you. “It’s cute.”

Light embarrassment overcomes you, but you still face the lady. “May I try it on?”

“Of course! This way, ma’am.”

You’re quick to follow her, excusing yourself from Steve and he lets you go reluctantly, promising to wait by the loveseats. You don’t leave without a quick kiss to his cheek.

It takes a minute to get on the dress and you absolutely adore it! It looks amazing on you! There’s some changes that need to be done to the bodice, but other than that—

“You look phenomenal,” the sales lady gushes as soon as you step out.

But you don’t really care what she thinks, instead you focus on Steve, and your heart just about does somersaults at the way his gaze drinks you in—shades of blue glowing bright as they take down the length of your body, the tips of his ears turning red, and pretty pink lips smacking together.

“What do you think?” you murmur, unsure if he’d heard you, but he does, of course he does.

“Beautiful,” is his one word reply, said in one breath and you practically melt. “So beautiful.”

“Yeah?” You shyly duck your head, grabbing the tulle skirt and pulling slightly to show off the slit a bit more. “Not too much?”

“It’s just right, baby,” he says, soft and sweet. “Let me get it for you?”

“No,” you respond with a shake of your head, already heading into the dressing room to change. “I’m paying for it! Besides they’ll probably need to do some alterations first.”

“We may need to adjust the bodice,” the lady helping you informs him, slipping into the room with you, measuring tape in hand and is quick to have you stand still and write down your measurements. “And the length of the sleeve.”

She steps out and you change into your day wear hastily when you hear Steve and the lady murmuring behind the closed door.

“Steve,” you start, barging out of the room to find him standing alone, flashing you a shit eating grin. You groan internally, narrowing your eyes in his direction.

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t give me that look.”

“You paid for it.” Not a question, but a fact, one he doesn’t deny.

“Paid a little extra to have the dress done on time and to have it delivered to my place, too.” And he says it so proudly.

“Steve!”

“It’ll be easier this way.” He shushes you, collecting you into his arms and leads you to the front of the store where the lady is ringing him up. “We can get ready at my place, maybe have a bit of dinner and then head out.”

You sigh, knowing there’s no point in arguing with him; the deed’s done and he’s not about to change his mind. “Fine,” you relent, leaning into him and smiling up at him, “but only if I get to make dinner.”

“We’ll both make dinner,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple, lacing his fingers with yours.

“I can’t believe you’re going to a gala,” Selena says, her voice filtering through your earphones as you climb up the stairs of the station and out into the streets of Brooklyn. “A Stark gala no less! Remember when we thought that was impossible?”

“Still is, Sel.”

“For me maybe, not for you.” She snorts.

“Yeah, but for how long?” You sigh heavily. “You overestimate this arrangement.”

“Oh, shut it! You’re not already thinking of ending it with Steve, are you?”

“Of course not,” you sputter, ignoring the glare a bald man with a scar on his lip sends you after bumping into you. Seriously, why get mad at you when he’s the one that bumped in to you?

“I would surely hope not, my love.” There's some shifting on her end and her voice lowers, “You need this. And according to what you’ve told me, he needs this too.”

“I know,” you agree, keeping your voice low. “This has been good, I think.”

“Not you think, it definitely has been.” She sighs dreamily. “I’m so happy for you. Things are starting to look up!”

A siren suddenly whirls to life, a cop car zooming by you in the opposite direction.

“Heads up, though—” you hum in response, checking the address Steve sent you again—“Esme is a little suspicious.”

That makes you pause, lifting your gaze from your phone. “What do you mean?”

“She doesn’t believe your story about the house.”

Your heart drops to your stomach. “Are you sure?” You thought she had bought it! But you should’ve known Esme would catch on. Everything about the move was too smooth and sudden. You let out a frustrated groan. “Please tell me—“

She doesn’t need to let you finish to know what you’re asking. “Who do you think I am? Of course I didn’t.” You know she wouldn’t, but Esmeralda can be pretty relentless when she wants to be. “I doubled down and backed you up.”

You let out a sigh of relief. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too.” She laughs, but it dies down with a sigh of her own. “But be careful. Esme is smart, ridiculously smart. She’s not going to let this go. She’s bound to find out and I still think you should tell her before she does.”

“I—I know. I just… I don’t want her to think badly of me.”

“Darl’, that little girl has always looked up to you,” she coos. “Nothing you do will ever change that. You could probably murder someone and she’d help you get rid of the body and destroy any evidence that could possibly convict you without you needing to ask.”

You laugh and bite your lip. “She would, wouldn’t she?”

“Of course! And besides, being a sugar baby is nothing to be ashamed of. She’d probably be cheering you on with me!”

You really hope so.

“She loves her family.” That’s… not entirely true.

“JC?” You mostly say it out of jest, but there’s truth in you questioning her affections towards JC. She has strong feelings towards him, not exactly the kind that are positive. When she found out JC was gone, seven year old Esme called him a coward and told you not to cry for him, that you didn’t need him when you had her.

God. No seven year old should feel the need to say that or even feel that way to begin with. Not about their big brother who should be protecting her.

She sighs. “Your brother is an asshole and your sister never really knew him, not like you.” She’s right, but you can’t help but worry still. You don’t want to disappoint her. Not like he did. “Speaking of him… has your aunt mentioned him again? Have you seen her?”

“No to both,” you admit. Thankfully. “Not since I paid off mom’s loan. Probably doesn’t even know we moved.”

“Good. Let's hope it stays that way.”

“Do you—do you think she could’ve been lying?”

She’s silent for a moment, enough to make you think the connection might’ve dropped. “From what you’ve told me about her, your aunt would do anything to rile you up. That’s probably why your dad kept her at arm's length.”

“Yeah…”

You turn into a quiet neighborhood of beautiful brownstones, like the ones you’d see on TV or in random searches on Zillow worth over millions of dollars. It’s like being hit by whiplash walking through this neighborhood—too clean, too quiet, too nice, so many trees too.

It’s almost eerie.

You scoff silently at yourself—it’s just a neighborhood. Sure, a quiet one and nothing like your old bustling neighborhood full of yells and laughter, smells of platano frito, pan dulce, costilla de puerco en salsa verde, and all types of cuisine filling the air, but Steve wouldn’t live around this area if he didn’t think it were secure.

“Why don’t we change the subject, huh? Are you ready for tonight?”

“Nervous,” you admit, fiddling with the cord of your earphones.

This is a huge event, one full of Avengers and many other influential people. Any wrong move on your part will put not only you, but Steve under scrutiny. But Steve had assured you that you’ll do fine. He’ll be by your side all evening and if it becomes too much, you’ll both leave.

“We’re a team,” he had said after you opposed leaving just because you weren’t comfortable. “The moment something or someone makes you feel uncomfortable, you let me know and we’ll get out of there—no questions asked.”

“But also excited,” you whisper, almost afraid of the fact that you are excited. There’s been a bubbling in your chest since the moment you woke up that you couldn’t quite distinguish as nerves, excitement, or both.

When Selena mentioned how you and her used to talk about attending a Stark event as big as a gala one day, she was putting it lightly.

You both used to spend hours scrolling through the university computers and dream of what you’d wear, make jokes about how you’ll talk and walk and try to fit in for a night—until you’d both get warned by one of the computer lab workers that you were being too loud.

But they were just that, dreams. Now, here you were, about to get ready for one and not only that, you were going to attend the event with one of the most eligible bachelors known to man. And you’d be lying to yourself if you’d say you weren’t excited.

“I bet!” She laughs and she suddenly grows quiet on her end, barely heard murmuring reaching your ears. She sighs. “Unfortunately, I have to go, but you will update me tomorrow!”

“I promise.”

“Enjoy the night for the both of us, please! Love you!”

Laughing, you wish her a good evening and “love you, too,” before hanging up. It doesn’t take you long to find Steve’s place soon after that.

His brownstone home is identical to the others except for maybe being a darker shade of brick. Climbing up the steps, you dig out the key Steve had given you the other day and let yourself in.

Immediately you’re hit by the smell of seasoned chicken and the sounds of sizzling—of course he started cooking without you. Always wanting to take care of you.

“Steve?” You call for him, removing your belongings and hanging them up on the mounted coat rack.

“Kitchen, sweetheart!

You shake your head and eye the foyer, noticing the rack of shoes by the bay window and place your own shoes next to Steve’s. Your sock covered feet pad against the light wood flooring.

“You started without me?”

“Just the chicken!” He calls back as you move past the living room and dining room—they're simple and modern, sleek designs that compliment each other. The walls, however, are empty.

It hardly looks lived in. There’s nothing out of place, except for maybe the jacket hanging over the back of the sofa, but that’s it. Reminds you a little bit of those Architectural Digest home tours you see on YouTube or like a staged home for sale.

You frown. Maybe Steve just likes it all very clean?

Steve’s back is to you, keeping an eye on the chicken on the pan. He only turns his head when you wrap your arms around him.

“Hey, sweetheart, find the place all right?”

“Yep!” You hum, leaning slightly to get a peek of the chicken—golden and with little specks of Italian seasoning. Looks so good! “Your place is really nice.”

“It’s okay.” He chuckles, doing his best to press a kiss to the top of your head, and you help him by standing on your toes. “Most of the furniture was picked out by Natasha and Tony.” Ah, well that makes sense. “Guess I should thank them for it.”

“You should.” Untangling yourself from him, you walk over to the kitchen’s island where the sink is and wash your hands. “What do you need help with?”

“Salad.” He motions to the veggies placed on the countertop. “The pasta can wait for a bit longer.”

“Yea, sir.” You nod and dry your hands with his light blue hand towel.

You both work in tandem and dinner is served in no time, the two of you sitting at the island instead of the dining table.

“Bucky and Sam live here part time,” Steve tells you after a leisure sip of his wine. “Well, Bucky does. Sam is slowly starting to move into Sharon’s. The house was too big for me when I first got it and Bucky and Sam jumped in to be roommates.”

“That’s pretty sweet.” You crack a smile.

He chuckles, eyes falling to his clean plate, having eaten more than one serving. “It’s not much different from living on the compound.”

“Wait, you live there too?”

He nods. “It’s easier, more practical. Sometimes a mission takes too much time and can be pretty tiring.” That also makes sense. “I guess I also only live here part time.

“I was actually going to offer you and your family to live here, but I thought since it might be a little weird to explain to your family two Avengers coming and going at random intervals wouldn’t be ideal,” he admits, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “Sam actually helped find the place you’re currently living in. The owner is an old friend of his, who was looking to rent.”

You watch him carefully, the way his eyes waver from you to the plate, the tip of his ears burning—not able to keep his gaze on you for long.

“What if I told Esme?”

He finally meets your gaze, eyebrow raised.

“About you—us—our arrangement,” you stumble over your words, trying to pick them correctly, but you’re not very good at it. “I know you’re okay with it, but we did agree not to tell anyone. Then again, Selena knows.”

He nods slowly, already aware that your best friend knows. “And most of the team knows, too.” Which is still completely wild to you.

“It’s a little odd explaining this.” You push your empty plate away and bite your lip, gesturing to him and you. “I wouldn’t know how to tell my mom, but Esme…”

“If it’s what you want, I think you should.” He smiles reassuringly, his large hand settling on top of yours on the marble top and covering it completely with his warmth.

“It is.” You turn your palm over to intertwine your fingers with his. “And—and I think she’d like you.”

You know she would. All Esme has ever wanted for you is the best and your happiness, so you know she would.

“And I’m sure I’ll like her.” He grins.

Steve’s shower is amazing. It’s basically a warm waterfall drenching you fully as you wash away the day’s grime. Steve had told you it was his favorite part of the master bathroom and you now know why. Your plan to spend a short amount of time cleaning up is completely thrown out the window the moment you turned it on.

But you force yourself to hurry—you have plans, and although you would like to spend hours in the shower, it’s best to start getting ready for the night.

You wrap yourself up in the fluffy towel Steve set out for you and promptly dry yourself.

Steve makes noise as he moves around in the other room, the hallway walk-in-closet, as you first called it when Steve led you through it from the master bedroom to the bathroom.

You do your best to get ready in a timely manner, drying your hair and doing something quick, easy, but still elegant enough that no one will notice you were in a rush. As for makeup, you also go with something easy. You do your usual routine, but add in a bit more color to your lids and lips, and even dramatic, fake lashes to make your eyes pop. With a few spritz of setting spray, you deem yourself almost presentable.

Slipping on your dress, you reach as best as you can and try to zip yourself up, but it’s futile, you need help.

“Steve!” He answers you with a loud, “yeah?” “Can you come here for a minute?” The door opens and he walks in, completely focused on fiddling with his cuff link. “Do you mind—“ your question trails off when his gaze lifts to your form and comes to a sudden halt.

But you hardly notice his gawking, your own eyes trailing over his dressed form—Fuck. He looks good. Too good. Can’t keep my hands to myself, good. His royal blue dress shirt matches your dress and it absolutely looks delicious on his toned body. And those dress pants? God, they’re clinging to his thighs.

“You look like an absolute dream, baby.” Arms wrap around your form and he slowly zips you up, his eyes trapping you in place.

“So do you.” Your breath hitches when his eyes drop to your lips and back up to your eyes.

“If I told you we should stay in and have our own party—“ his forehead falls to yours—“what would you say?”

“We have plans, soldier.” You wrap your arms around his neck and laugh under your breath. “Can’t just drop them.”

He groans and the sound punches you in the ovaries, a little mewl escaping your lips and he pulls you closer to him—chest to chest. “Can I at least kiss you before we leave?”

“You can kiss me anytime, Cap.”

He does and it’s mind blowing, a mess of teeth and tongues and he makes it so hard to breathe, but you don’t want to pull away, instead you sink your hands into his hair, his once perfectly well done hair, and tug firmly. He groans into the kiss, chest rumbling against yours and he pulls away, leaving you chasing him in disappointment.

“Sorry, honey.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all, in fact, he sounds pleased. That little shit, he’s enjoying teasing you! His fingers trace your bottom lip and you refuse to open your eyes. You have a feeling if you catch sigh of him, you won’t want to let him go. “I’d love to kiss you all night, but you’re right, we have plans.”

“Is it too late to change my answer?” you joke as his thumb leaves your lip and you finally open your eyes only to regret it. His lips look so pretty swollen and red, eyes absolutely dark and delicious—blues of his eyes only a thin ring. Would he mind if you just tackled him to the ground and took him right there and then?

“The car should be here any minute now.” He chuckles, slowly stepping away from you.

And although you’re both getting ready to leave, you can’t help but think tonight might be the night.

Your leg bounces as the Compound comes into view. Your eyes are practically glued to the window, watching the line of cars and all the glamorous people that step out of each one. They all look so sophisticated and well put together, and here you are, a sugar baby trying to fit in.

Shit. Maybe you’re more nervous than you thought you were. Is it too late to turn the car around now?

Warmth wraps around your hand and lifts it, surprising you and finally pulling you away from the window.

Lines are apparent on his forehead, but there’s a reassuring smile on his lips as he kisses the back of your hand. “You’ll do fine, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your shoulders sagging. “I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

“Do you want to head back?” His lips tug down into a frown and he squeezes your hand. “I can ask the driver to—“

“No, no!” You quickly shake your head. “I’m fine—I’ll be fine,” you correct when he raises an eyebrow. “I just—don’t let go of my hand?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he tells you softly, pressing another kiss to your hand. “Remember, if at any moment you feel uncomfortable, we can leave.”

“I know.” You smile and kiss him tenderly, pulling away with a soft smack. “And I will, promise.”

He studies you for a moment and then nods. He keeps you preoccupied until you’re at the front, playing with your fingers and tugging at them as he asks you questions about your family. It puts you at ease enough that when he’s helping you out of the car, you don’t recoil away from the flash of the mandatory picture of each guest.

He leads you into the sleek, large building, hooking your arm in his and resting his other arm over your hand. You follow closely, but he makes it easy by keeping his strides short and easy for you.

The main room is full of people milling about and seemingly flashing their checkbooks around with how they’re dressed to the nines in brand names.

Compared to what they’re wearing, the decorations are pretty simple—elegant, but simple: golds, oranges and yellows with silvers and blues—all warm colors to make people more at ease and enjoy their time with a hint of cold colors to contrast.

You let Steve maneuver you around, eyes on you the moment you step into their line of vision—you can almost see the questions on the tip of their tongue as their eyes follow you. But Steve ignores them and so do you.

“Captain Rogers!” A man calls out and Steve squeezes your hand before letting go and shaking the hand of the approaching man.

“Secretary Ross,” Steve greets him stiffly.

“Ah, I see you brought a date,” he says, as if noticing you for the first time and you smile at him, ready to introduce yourself but he continues, “And here I was hoping I could finally convince you to take my daughter out on a date.”

Your eyebrows furrow—what is that supposed to mean? It’s a subtle jab, that much is obvious, but for what reason?

Steve’s arm flexes under your hand and his jaw ticks as he introduces you since the douche didn’t even allow you to do so yourself. “As you can see, Secretary, I’m in very good company.”

“We do hope you find the perfect date for your daughter by the end of the night, Secretary Ross.” You smile placidly—at least, you hope you do.

He frowns as if you’ve just insulted him and his next of kin, but you just continue to smile. “Yes, well, I do hope you enjoy the night.” He excuses himself, probably to bother a different guest.

“What was that about?” you wait until he’s gone to ask, keeping your voice low.

“His daughter Betty is with Bruce—Hulk, I mean,” he explains softly. “He’s never approved and is constantly trying to push her onto someone else.”

“That someone else being you?” What a dick of a father. Shouldn't he be glad his daughter is with someone she loves and loves her in return?

“Unfortunately.”

“And that man is our Secretary of State?” You ask with distaste. “How does he even handle foreign affairs?”

“Not very well,” Steve answers without missing a beat. “He's made many questionable decisions in the past and continues to do so.” He leads you further into the room. “He drafted the Sokovia Accords and almost divided the team, even wanted to lock up Wanda, deeming her too dangerous.” He sighs heavily. “It was an ordeal, but thanks to T’Challa we were somehow able to stand united.”

“You took a stand.” You can’t say you know much about the Accords, you were too busy watching your grade slip and debating on whether or not to focus on work and drop out of school. “Giving government's power over controlling super powered humans and trained assassins is always a spell for disaster.”

“You have no idea,” he mutters. “I’m sorry about the way he acted.”

“It’s fine.” You wave it away, not wanting to dwell too long on it.

“It’s not fine, but this probably won’t be the last exchange like this.”

“I figured.” You sigh. “I can handle it, Steve, I’ve worked customer service for years. If I can deal with a few self-entitled customers, I can deal with self-entitled rich people for a night.”

He chuckles, eyes brightening. “You won’t be handling it alone, I’m right here with you.”

“And I appreciate it.” You beam up at him and lean your head on his shoulder.

“Steve,” another voice calls out, but this one is much more raspier and feminine.

“Natasha,” Steve greets her with a friendly smile, “this is—“

“I know.” Natasha is one word: intimidating. Her eyes are studying you, taking you in—sizing you up. Not that you blame her.

You’re a complete stranger, someone outside of their world, and here you are, in her space while clinging to the arm of a man she most likely considers a brother.

“You handled Secretary Ross well.” Her analyzing breaks with a smile, and somehow, that’s even more nerve wrecking. “Most people would have been intimidated by a man with his influence.”

“You aren’t,” you find yourself muttering and she quirks an eyebrow up in amusement.

“No, no I’m not.” She turns to Steve. “I like her.” She then turns to you with narrowed eyes full of amusement. “I like you.”

“Thank you?” That’s surprising, but you’ll take it.

Steve chuckles, squeezing your hand resting on his bicep.

“Tony and Pepper are by the stage with the others, they’re all waiting to meet you,” she informs you with a crooked smile. “Steve hasn’t stopped talking about you for weeks now, so everyone's a little curious about you.”

“Oh.” You blink. “Should we go over then?”

By the end of the night, you’re already making plans for a girl’s night with the women of the Team. They’re all so kind to you, especially Wanda, who just radiates warmth. She becomes your favorite Avenger, aside from Steve, of course. You just don’t understand how someone would want to lock her up, brand her as a danger to society.

She smiles shyly at you as she tells you about her current culinary adventures. It’s sweet, she’s sweet.

Clint and Sam are an absolute hoot, making you cramp up in laughter and Bucky is a little guarded, but he also makes you laugh with a couple insults he throws their way.

He raises his eyebrows at you and makes a motion to Clint and Sam, mouthing, “Idiots.”

Tony, however, surprises you. Your dad used to tell you stories about him, how he hardly ever spent time at either branches of Stark Industries and if he were ever present, he always seemed to be bored and in his own world. But seeing him here, with his arm around Pepper, a beautiful engagement ring on her finger, he doesn’t match the description he gave you. Tony watches over the group with an almost father-like gaze, completely relaxed by their presence even if he cracks a few jokes at their expense.

“Welcome to the circus,” he had told you, deadpanned, but his eyes danced with joy and a calm you don’t think he would ever be equated to.

When you had called them Steve’s family, you hadn’t realized how deep their bonds truly went. There’s no denying they care for each other and view one another as a large family that just keeps growing bigger with every new addition. You admire and envy them for that, being able to stay together no matter what.

Most of the guests are gone midnight—thank god because you were tired of having to smile at them and listen to their judgmental tones as they took you in—and your group retires to the commons area by their residential—or so Steve tells you. By this point, after two glasses of champagne and walking around greeting guests, you’re completely lost and tired.

“Want to rest?” Steve asks you, when your eyes flutter close multiple times, your breath evening out steadily. And you nod, both of you excusing yourselves for the night.

His room is dark, the city lights barely filtering in through the thin, white curtains. He doesn’t close the door behind him as he steps in after you, he doesn’t even say anything, just allows you to take in his room—large king bed low enough to touch the floor covered by a blue and grey duvet and different pillows of navy blue and white; light, wooden headboard matching the two night stands on either side and simple dresser to your right across from the bed and next to a door that most likely leads to a private bathroom; large, white rug, covering the floor and muting the clinking of your heels; blue armchair next to a standing lamp and a small bookcase drilled into the wall in the corner of the room—almost identical to the one back in Brooklyn, just a little more personal and lived in.

You’re much more awake now as you sit on the navy blue ottoman pressed against the end of the bed. “It’s simple,” you murmur. Much more lived in than his Brooklyn home, however.

“What were you expecting?” He asks, amusement laced into his words as your eyes drift over to him still standing by the door, watching you fondly.

“I don’t know? American flags, memorabilia, you know, the usual for an old man like you,” you tease and he chuckles, shoving his hands into the pockets of his dress pants. You watch him as the room falls into silence and he just stands there, eyes never staying on you for too long. The grip on your clutch tightens and you feel the question you’ve been wanting to ask build up in your throat, blood pumping as you try to push it out. “Do you—are we—“

You feel like an idiot, an awkward teen about to have sex for the first time with their long time crush.

“We don’t have to,” he says, gentle and firm. It’s reassurance, he’s trying to reassure you like he did when he first came to you with this whole proposition—sex is optional. “I, ah, I had a room prepared for you just in case.”

“You didn’t have to,” you whisper, gaze dropping to your black heels.

“I wanted to,” he tells you, your eyes lifting to meet his as he walks over to you. “I want you to feel comfortable with… this—with me. I know none of this is easy—“

You’re aware that if it weren’t for the prospects of being able to give Esme a better chance at life, of telling your aunt off, of being able to pay for your mom’s medical bills, you wouldn’t have accepted any of this.

But you did sign up for this, you’re being paid for this.

Now, however, it’s become much more than that. If it hadn't been for Steve—sweet and willing Steve—trying to make this worthwhile for you, never pressuring you to do things that might make you uncomfortable, protecting you and defending you in lieu of jealous gossip and snarky comments, you would have crumbled under the pressure already.

Would sleeping with Captain America be the worst thing to happen to you? No. No, it wouldn’t. Not when it’s Steve Rogers behind the cowl.

He stands in front of you now, gaze soft and full of assurance that has your breath stalling in your throat. “—that I’m asking a lot out of you, but you’ve been nothing but patient, and I—I want you to know that your safety, your feelings, are important—“

“I want to sleep with you,” you breathe out as you stand, words coming out jumbled and pressed together.

His eyebrows knit together, weaving in confusion and he pauses, trying to process and make sense of what you’ve just babbled. It takes a minute, but soon his expression clears and he just stares down at you, breath fanning over your lips and eyes searching for something in yours. “Are you sure?” he asks, voice low and heavy, unsure and wanton.

Your eyes lower to his pink lips and back up, his blue eyes hazy and dark now, the light streaming into the room lighting them in a way that has heat pooling in your stomach and rising to your chest and cheeks. “Yes.”

He cups your jaw in his hand, thumb caressing your cheeks gingerly. “Tell me what you want, darlin’.”

“You. I want you, Steve. I want all of you.”

And that’s all it takes for his lips to descend on yours hungrily, arms falling to wrap around your waist and tug you impossibly close to his chest, hips snug against his. His large hand smooths up and down your bare back, no longer teasing you like earlier. His fingertips warm as they trail over your exposed back and you take hold of the lapels of his jacket.

He drinks your blissful sigh, responding with a groan of his own as the hand that held your hips to his slips down to the curve of your ass, kneading and caressing as his hip juts forward.

You gasp at the feel of his growing bulge grinding against you and you pull away from his kiss to throw your head back in a quiet moan. His lips latch onto your chin, trailing down to your neck and nibbling—his hips, his hands, they’re all too much and yet too little. You want more. You want to feel more of him—see more of him.

Your hands slip under his jacket and he understands, briefly pulling away to shrug the article of clothing off swiftly, before pressing himself against you again. You make quick work of his belt, clumsy fingers untucking his shirt and undoing buttons. Teeth clash and tongues dance as he slips the straps of your dress down your shoulders.

Noise coming from outside registers in your mind between the moaning and groaning, and you’re suddenly acutely aware of the open door and your disheveled appearance. “Door,” you rasp out, lips brushing against his.

“Why not keep it open?” he teases and chuckles when your eyes widen, your already heated skin getting hotter.

He’s a fucking menace.

His lips trail to your earlobe and you suppress a squeal as he presses kisses and nibbles on it. “Imagine someone passing by and just hearing those cute little moans you make when I touch you just right.” He bunches the skirt of your dress over your ass, hand slipping into your panties and gripping your flesh tightly. “Their curiosity getting the better of them right at the moment you come undone by my fingers.”

“Steve,” you mewl. Who knew Captain America was so dirty?

His thumb smooths over your swollen lip as his fingers gripping your ass dip lower. You let out a whimper and grip his open shirt tightly in your fists as they tease at your entrance.

“But then again, you make the sexiest expressions and I don’t want anyone other than me to see them,” he murmurs. A long, thick finger slips in and you just about keel over, his arm quickly wraps around your waist to hold you in place as he chuckles darkly. He nudges your cheek with his nose to make you look up at him, and shy eyes meet his heated ones. Sucking in a breath, he kisses you softly, and whispers, “Definitely not letting anyone see.”

You groan, rolling over and searching for the warmth that had been encasing you into the late hours of the night. But it’s gone, and that has you sitting up urgently, your breath coming out ragged as you try to blink through your sleepy haze.

Steve is nowhere to be found, room abnormally quiet without his light snores. You call for him softly. When you get no answer, you call for him again, louder this time.

“If you’re looking for Captain Rogers, he is in the commons area.”

“Fuck!” You startle almost rolling off the bed, hands flying to your racing heart to steady yourself. “You scared me Friday.”

“I’m sorry, Miss, it was not my intention.”

“No, uh, you’re good,” you tell the AI, a little awkwardly and unsure of how to speak to it—her? “Thank you for letting me know—about Steve, I mean.”

“Of course.”

Your bare feet touch the ground and pad against the cold flooring of the Compound, the sweet ache between your legs making you move slowly. You find a random hoodie in his closet and throw it on along with a pair of his boxers. You look ridiculous, but you’re not about to wear your dress from last night.

You slip out of his room, following the path that Steve led you through last night. You’re pretty sure this was the way to the commons area from last—you pause, eyes landing on Steve’s back and the other members of the Avengers surrounding a blue light.

“And you’re sure these schematics aren’t familiar to you?”

“Hate to break it to you, Capsicle. But I’m not the only one who's dealt with weapons dealing,” Tony moves away from the table, grumbling.

Oh, shit. Are they having a meeting? Friday did not tell you the Avengers were having a secret meeting that you should probably not be eavesdropping on, maybe it’s best to—wait. Those blueprints—they can’t be—

Steve quickly turns around at the small gasp that escapes your lips and approaches you, ready to turn you around. “Sweetheart? What are you doing—“

You ignore Steve, sidestepping him to stand right in front of the hologram of the hovering weapon, spinning in place, blue light illuminating your face. Your eyes rove over the equations and the break down of each part and—no, it can’t be! “Where did you get these?”

“Uh, mission?” Clint answers, looking around the room.

“You’ve seen ‘em before?” Bucky asks, calculating blue eyes on you, watching every minuscule gesture you make and any emotion that might flash over your face.

You swallow harshly, eyes never leaving the familiar blueprints—the ones your dad spent hours pouring over. But they’re different, the kinetic energy intake and output, the trigger—a bomb? “They were my father’s.”

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #Steve rogers x you #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers reader insert #reader insert #marvel imagine #Steve rogers

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overdrivels · 7 years

Text

Forge

For years after he has been on the run, Genji has always maintained his own sword, Ryuuichimonji. It was his greatest treasure—carefully crafted by the greatest swordsmith in Hanamura for his twentieth birthday. It was made specially to focus the power of the dragons, the material was intended to withstand fierce battles and harsh weather.

Though, as with all things, it isn’t able to withstand the stress of time. After a harrowing mission and the usual deflection technique, a stray bullet managed to catch the very edge of his sword to take off a piece with it. To the others, it’s a chip no bigger than the width of a needle’s eye, but to Genji, it may as well had been a chasm.

He mulls over it for hours and hours—if he sharpens the sword, the entire edge will be cut back and that could cost him his life (or others) if he makes a mistake in judging distance. If he keeps going as is, the chip could catch on something and it could break. His options were few, and he has missions coming up. Torbjörn had offered to fix a little too eagerly, but Genji easily deflected the offer—there were other swords he could use, no need to mind this one.

Even though that’s what he said, whenever Genji looks at his sword and sees the crack, his heart aches just a little. The glow is weaker than usual, and even though swords are not alive, it just seems so sad and defeated. It doesn’t take long for him to give in.

When Genji attempts to contact the smith, he gets a message from the smithery that the person he is trying to contact has long passed and has been succeeded by one of his disciples. When he reads the name, he hadn’t expected to know it. As a Shimada heir, there were many people who has passed him by, often just once with no reason to remember them. However, he remembers why he recognizes the name, and cringes so hard that he can feel his face cramp.

The message continues and says that his request to service a damage sword will be accepted, and to please negotiate the appointment as soon as possible. It takes him several days before he comes to term with the fact that the swordsmith is dead and not repairing the sword is not an option, and another one to accept the fact that he should probably suck it up and just go. That’s how, nearly a week later, with some encouragement from Zenyatta, he finds himself back at Hanamura, getting led around the old smithery by an apprentice swordsmith he does not recognize.

The spacious property, surrounded by wooden fences, contains the main house which seems more like a dojo or a low key temple and looks exactly as it did nearly over a decade ago. He could see the smoke billowing from behind the large house—the forges. Inside, the same calligraphy scrolls that hung on the walls were maybe more impressive than he remembered, but the long, dimly lit hallways still managed to make him feel as though he were about to arrive at a boss fight.

When the doors to the main room open, Genji half expects to see the old, silver-haired man sitting near the back center of the room on his cushion, nursing a delicate cup of tea that, when offered to him and his father, he'd never drink. Instead, he sees you sitting in that same spot, on the same cushion, drinking a cup of tea and the very first thing you do is offer him a cup and a seat.

Genji's heart aches. He is torn between wanting to cry at the normalcy of it all and running away from the altered scene from the past. The press of the sword on his back reminds him of his purpose, and so he enters. When he sits on the cushion some ways before you, your apprentice politely pours him a cup and the smell--earthy with underlying floral notes that he now recognizes as a high quality sencha--slams him back to a far-off place.

He is Genji Shimada again, youngest son of the head of the Shimada clan, self-proclaimed master of the sword and shuriken, here for another tedious lesson on the mechanics of the sword, and about to refuse another cup of tea from the swordsmith who trained his father on the art.

Except you are no old man. You wear his happi across your shoulders, and your hair is touched with gray, but you are not the solemn old man who made his sword. He could barely connect you to the child behind the swordsmith. The disciple with a perpetual shadow cast over your eyes who glowered at everyone and lashed out at anyone who mentioned the limp sleeve hanging from your shoulder. But the lack of self-loathing and anger on your features makes him think that yes, time has passed, and does indeed heal all wounds. It’s a good look for you, he thinks. Unlike before.

Genji was left to practice sharpening on a fancy blade, whose importance was lost on him, under your supervision while his father and your master leave to discuss something important in the next room. You watched his sloppy technique with growing distain until you couldn't take it anymore.

"Shouldn't do that, damages the sword," you mumbled in displeasure. Genji scoffed.

"It's fine, I know what I'm doing."

He goes back to his technique of rubbing the stone too hard and too carelessly against the edge. Heat rooted itself in your chest and began to crawl up your neck and cheeks. The sound of the sword—it’s crying—grates on your ears.

"No, you don't. You're hurting it."

"Yes, I do. This is easy!"

“No, you don’t! Give it!”

You took quick strides toward him, hand outstretched to reach for the abused blade, but he was faster and sheathed it (incorrectly with too much drag that undoubtedly screws up the work he's just done even more), and kept it out of your range.

“I said, its fine! Quit nagging!”

"It is NOT! How can you say you're a master swordsman if you can't take care of one?"

“Well, how can you smith a sword if you only have one arm?! Bet you can't even hold a sword!”

Silence rung in your ears, and then they burned.

You lunged at him, screaming. You both fought like children, biting and scratching and hair tugging and unsophisticated blows to the face. The sword was thrown somewhere to the side, forgotten. The two of you were rolling on top of the other, trading blows and headbutts and insults.

The fight only lasts a few seconds, and was broken up by your returning master who hauled the two of you apart with his iron grip. Genji's father grabs his son by the collar even as Genji fights to escape his hold because how dare you, it’s not like he did anything wrong, he just stated the obvious. And you, face red and throat hoarse, continue to yell against your master's arm about how it’s not your fault that you lost your arm, and you don’t need pity or a new one, and you hope that he suffers the same way, too.

He cringes at the memory, and clenches both fists against his plated thighs. With how he is now, it was poetic justice, he supposed. His father did scold him and force him to apologize for the incident, though he was too young and proud to understand that he was in the wrong.

Your disciple makes her exit, and closes the door behind her, leaving the two of you to discuss this job.

You eye your guest carefully, and let your gaze linger on the kanji on his chest plate and bite back a laugh. Warrior God.

"So, omnic with a sword, huh?"

Genji pulls himself back from memory lane.

"Not quite. Cyborg. My name is…Zen. Yata, Zen.” It’s better than giving his real name while he’s in Hanamura. He’s half-tempted to use his brother’s name for laughs, but he might not make it out of here alive otherwise.

You hum thoughtfully, and put down your tea. “I see. So, Mr. Yata, I understand you would like me to service a sword of yours?”

You hold out your hand expectantly.

Genji removes the sword and sheath from his back for you to take. The moment it passes from his hands to yours, he feels as though you had taken the floor from underneath him as well. So frozen by the surreal sight of someone else with his sword, he does not move.

Without noticing your guest’s plight, you tuck the weapon under your armpit, and slide out the blade with a practiced ease that forces no sound. The first thing that catches your eye--it's hard not to--is that the edge is green. Glowing green like the rings on your guest. A weapon this flashy, but practical--without even checking the signature on the tang, you knew this could only be crafted by your late master. You drop the sheath next to you and smile wryly to yourself, a small burst of nostalgia goes off in your chest.

"So an old customer of my master, huh? He must've really liked you to use this material," you murmur, eyes tracing the elegant work. The entire weapon is well polished and maintained, but also very well used. Even at a glance, you can tell that the user really cares about it.

Genji laughs a bit sheepishly and returns to his seat. The sound prods something in your brain. "Yes, I knew him for a bit. But I'm not sure about liking me."

It always was hard to tell how the late smith really felt with his stoic face and rigid posture.

You chuckle to yourself. "Yeah, even I never knew if he liked me sometimes." You tighten your grip on the worn handle. "But then, here I am, seventh generation and his successor. Life is weird, huh?"

"You can say that again."

"Life is weird."

Again, Genji laughs. And again, a more insistent nudge at your mind comes, and you flit your eyes over at the cyborg. Something far away beckons you, something involving the way he laughs. You don't know if it infuriates you or livens you.

But you have a job to do, and so you pull your attention back from the deep end. Whatever it is that you are on the brink of remembering can wait. You pull out a sheet for the floor and your tools, then get to work on disassembling the sword. There are moments when you see the cyborg’s hands twitch to help, but you easily rebuff that. Years of having only one arm teaches you how to manage without help.

Genji can’t help but feel like he wants to knock the blade from your hands as you take it apart. The sheet starts to fill with organized pieces of his weapon. He clenches his fists and tries to assure himself that you are a master of your art and he shouldn’t worry. But he does for multiple reasons.

Genji becomes more and more painfully aware this endeavor was--is—risky with every piece that comes off, and breaks out in a metaphorical sweat as he watches you scrutinize the blade. He's alert for any changes to your face, waiting for your eyes to light up in recognition, ask him where he got a sword that was custom made for the Shimada clan (even though he has long sanded away the symbol during his own maintenance), put two and two together, and announce to all of Hanamura that Genji Shimada is still alive and needs to be killed a second time because you probably still remember him as an asshole.

But he endures and you complete your assessment with the same professionalism your predecessor had shown his father. By then, the entirety of his weapon lay broken down on the floor, barely even resembling his most trusted companion.

"Based on my observations, the blade will need to be reforged, Mr. Yata," you say, putting down the last of your tools in its place. “Two weeks."

He nearly leaps to his feet. "Two—reforg—but why? Can't you just fix it?"

"This is fixing it."

Genji goes silent. He should have expected this outcome.

“You are sure you can do it?”

He realizes it too late when it leaves his mouth, winces when he sees you scowl. He already has an apology on his tongue when you interrupt.

“I assure you, Mr. Yata, I am very capable of doing so, as handicapped as I may seem.” You wave what’s remaining of your arm in the air.

“Sorry, I did not mea-”

“It’s fine.” You are more than used to your fair share of skepticism. “But if you’re unsure, how about you take a look through the workshop?”

Genji blinks. The workshop?

You grin at his silence. “Come with me.”

The workshop behind the house is full of red, hot furnaces and students in different stages of the creation process. As soon as he steps inside, his regulators at his shoulders already begin to release and hiss steadily. He wonders how you or any of your apprentices are able to work in here with such long sleeves and thick towels wrapped around your heads. He has no doubt the flames here could melt his armor if he stayed long enough.

You take off your happi and hang it by the door, giving Genji a better look at your missing arm that sticks out of your rolled-up sleeve. But he doesn’t get to see that for long when you open a box nearby and shove the contents onto your stub.

“Prosthetic…?”

You flex your newly attached metallic fingers to life and grin. “Yeah. It’s convenient. Still prefer working with my feet, but it’s bad for the students. They’ll learn it all wrong.”

Genji laughs in disbelief. Life really is strange. If he could go back in time to speak to your younger self now, he is sure that he’d get hit in the face with the stump and yelled at for thinking you’d be so weak as to give in to ‘fixing’ your disability.

You are in the midst of tying a towel around your head when his laughter distracts you again.

“This is my son, sixth. He will be under your tutelage in the ways of the sword, much like Hanzo was.”

Your master looms over the teen, who grins just as brightly as he laughs, unperturbed by the scrutiny.

“Yo, swords-guy.”

“Don’t talk to him like that,” you snapped. Genji jumped, unaware of your presence behind the smith.

“Who are you?” At least his recovery was quick.

“My apprentice.” Your master places a hand at your shoulder. You only scowl at the boy who has shown your teacher so much disrespect upon first meeting. You mumbled out your name, but was quickly overwhelmed by Genji appearing behind you, laughing.

“Got you back. From today, I guess I’ll be learning from you guys. My name—”

“Is everything all right?”

You blink slowly at the cyborg, who sounds as concerned as his synthetic vocal cords could. You muster a small laugh.

“Yes, I’m fine. Thanks.” You quickly compose yourself, and start with the process of introducing Genji to the workshop in order to ease his fears for his sword. It is common for sword owners to become afraid, confused, or even downright violent when the suggestion of ‘reforging’ arises. Sometimes it’s inevitable, and it’s almost like taking someone through the process of death. You sometimes just need to show the process and break it down so it’s less frightening, less emotional.

However, considering who your customer is this time, that might not be necessary. But a reminder never hurt.

“Here, we do everything from making the tamagahane, the metal”—you point to the two students who slowly pour what seems like molten lava into a channel—“to the polishing of a finished sword.”

“Master,” one of your disciples calls forlornly. “Could you appraise this?”

He watches you take one quick look at the red-hot steel on his station and ask for the disciple to pound on it. He does so and you shake your head. “Too many impurities are still in it. Keep at it.”

The student gives you a firm, “Yes, master!” before returning to work.

"Crap material, no matter how good the technique, still yields crap results," you say without prompting as you begin walking away. Genji tries not to think of the heavy implications those words could contain. “We try to keep that to a minimum, but as you probably know, recently Japan’s currently going through a resource shortage—”

He only half listens in on the explanation of the natural resource and importing situation in Japan, and how it affects your trade as his mind begins to slip somewhere unpleasant. Crap material. Crap results. A crap Shimada cast away by his crap family for his crap attitude to everything.

“Oi.”

Genji snaps his head up, ready to apologize for getting lost in his thoughts, but sees you addressing the students manning the smelting station.

“Make sure to separate the ores properly. You’re giving the forgers too much work to do.”

“Sorry, master!”

“We’ll do better on the next batch.”

“If the batch doesn’t come out right, send it over to that the arrowhead makers. They’ll know what to do with it.”

Genji furrows his brow. “Arrowhead?”

You shrug nonchalantly. “Sometimes the mixture for the tamagahane doesn’t come out the way we need it to. Rarely happens, but when it does, we send it off to someone else who can use it.”

You hold up a chunk of glittery rock. "Like this. It’s crap material to us because we're concerned about making swords and the ratio of metals. But for other things, this is perfect."

“But isn’t it too brittle for arrowheads?”

“Someone knows their stuff!”

You slap him on the back and instantly regret not using your metallic hand.

"Are you all right?" He asks, torn between checking on your injury and staying distant as to not repeat the incident. You hiss and wave your hand in the air.

“Fine, just fine. Guess something like you shouldn’t be walking around here, huh?”

He fidgets awkwardly and realizing your mistake, you wave it off.

“But back to the topic at hand. Material like this can be used by someone else. Arrowheads can afford to have a different level of steel because of their function.”

You go on to animatedly explain the subtle differences and practical uses of folded steel. Genji listens and in his mind, returns to the thought that this really is a good look for you. A little bit gray and older looking, but happier.

The rest of the tour continues on smoothly, with you demonstrating how the blade will have to be forged in excruciating detail that he’s already heard, having been here before and lectured by your predecessor. But he abstains and patiently accompanies you throughout the steaming workshop, falling into easy conversation about the logistics of sword-making. At the end of it, he has more than several dozen assurances from yourself and your students who all aim to return his sword to perfection.

The sun begins to set when he stands at your gates, negotiations on pricing, alterations, and expected turnaround long finished.

“So it’s agreed, then.”

“Yes, I…trust you to take care of it.”

You smile. “Not to worry, your sword is in good hands. But are you sure you don’t require a loaner, just in case?”

Genji waves that off. “Do not worry. I have several others. Thank you.” He bows, and you return it politely. When he turns to leave, you do the same.

“See you in two weeks, Genji.”

Genji whips around, but you are already swarmed by three apprentices who eagerly try to show off their latest creations. Despite it all, he laughs quietly to himself and makes himself scarce. He wonders if he should be mentally prepared to have the Shimada clan after him when he comes to pick up his sword.

#genji shimada #reader #Originally was supposed to be about sharpening because that's my actual hobby #but then this happened #my writing

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