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thebarneschronicles · 2 months ago

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A Quiet Escape

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Synopsis: During a holiday stay at Clint Barton’s home, you’ve been desperately trying to steal a moment alone with Bucky—your super-soldier boyfriend—but the Avengers are constantly interrupting. Between Clint’s kids, Steve’s “bromantic” grocery runs, and Nat pulling Bucky into sparring sessions, it feels like you’re constantly fighting for his attention. Frustration finally boils over when you confront Bucky about your lack of privacy, only to discover he’s just as eager for some alone time as you are - and willing to do anything to get it.

Word Count: 6.3k

A/N: This is barely a holiday fic with Bucky - it’s mostly smut with barely any plot. I just had a vision. Don’t consider the MCU timeline - everyone is alive and together in this. And Clint’s kids are a little older but still proper kids.

—

You told him no.

The word hit the air like a thunderclap—sharp, unexpected, and rare enough to make his icy blue eyes narrow in disbelief. Then they widened, a flicker of surprise breaking through his usual calm.

Slowly, his hands retreated, leaving the curve of your waist, hot and cold pulling away at once. Arms lifted, palms open, as if surrendering to the sharp finality in your voice.

“Did I… do something?” Bucky’s voice was low, rough around the edges, his frown deepening as a steady breath expanded his chest.

“No,” you said again, firmer this time, though your heart stuttered at the flicker of hurt that crossed his features. Your gaze darted past him, locking onto the narrow crack of the door behind his towering frame. Three sets of eyes stared back, wide and unblinking, from the shadows of the barely open door.

“I don’t get it, doll,” Bucky murmured, confusion twisting his expression. His metal hand lifted toward your hip, the motion almost instinctive, only to grip empty air as you leaned back and pressed both palms flat against his solid chest.

“Bucky,” you hissed, nodding toward the door. “We’ve got company.”

He blinked, brows knitting together, before his head swiveled to follow your line of sight. The moment he turned, the door slammed shut with a loud bang, and the sound of frantic footsteps thundered away on the other side. Three pairs of little feet, retreating as fast as they’d been caught.

A low growl rumbled in his throat as realization dawned, but you couldn’t help the way your lips twitched upward, a mix of exasperation and amusement bubbling in your chest.

Company. There was always company.

At least, there had been for the past week, ever since you’d been swept into the whirlwind that was Clint Barton’s home. What had once been a cozy haven for his family had turned into a buzzing hive of activity, packed with super-soldiers, gods, and genetically—or technologically—enhanced heroes. The Avengers had descended, and while the world might have known them as Earth’s mightiest protectors, to you, they were beginning to feel like the world’s nosiest roommates.

It was the holidays, and by some miracle—perhaps one granted by Saint Nick himself—the planet wasn’t teetering on the edge of destruction. No alien invasions, no terrorist plots, no missiles hurtling toward oblivion, and, to your immense relief, no Hydra agents lurking in the shadows.

For once, it was a somewhat normal holiday season. If you ignored the superpowers and the enhanced DNA floating around the house, that is. More importantly, you were finally getting to see Bucky in an everyday, domestic setting.

And you loved it.

You’d caught him horsing around with Clint’s kids—Cooper, Lila, and Nathaniel—who had taken an almost unhealthy fascination with his metal arm. Your normally stoic, brooding boyfriend had become their favorite jungle gym. You’d walked into the living room one afternoon to find all three of them hanging off his arm like little monkeys, giggling uncontrollably as he lifted them effortlessly.

You’d marveled at the sight of him brewing your coffee in the mornings, the way his lips twitched into a subtle smile when he handed you the mug, the steam curling between you. He shoveled snow off the driveway with Clint, laughing at the older man’s dad jokes, and indulged the kids in their never-ending demands to walk the family dog. While they chattered away endlessly, he listened with that quiet patience of his, nodding and occasionally chuckling.

But as much as you adored seeing Bucky like this—calm, grounded, happy—you couldn’t help but notice one glaring downside: you hadn’t had a moment alone together.

Not one.

Between Clint’s kids, Steve dragging Bucky out for “quick” trips to the store (which were never quick), and Nat luring him into sparring sessions when she couldn’t sit still anymore, your time with him had been thoroughly hijacked. And Lila—sweet, mischievous Lila—had an uncanny knack for giving you the stink eye every time you got too close to Bucky.

You were losing your mind.

It had been a month since you’d had real time alone with him. Work had pulled you apart, his responsibilities to the team had swallowed every spare moment, and now, what you’d thought would be your chance to reconnect had turned into a holiday circus.

You’d imagined this trip differently. Romantic walks in the snow, cozy kisses by the fire, maybe even some stolen, steamy nights in the attic of Clint’s house. But those dreams had been systematically dismantled by the chaos around you.

Everyone wanted a piece of Bucky—or you—or both of you. And while the holidays were supposed to be about togetherness, you were starting to think that all this togetherness might drive you both completely insane.

You let out a frustrated sigh, closing your eyes as you leaned back against the door of your shared attic bedroom. From down the hall, the giggles of your boyfriend's three tiny shadows echoed, fading into the room they’d darted into.

The sound of your frustration pulled Bucky closer to you, his hand finding the doorknob near your hip. With a gentle turn, he pushed the door open and guided you inside. The soft glow of the moon coming in through the large window spilled across his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his features as he quietly shut the door behind you both.

“Alright,” he started, his voice low but edged with concern. “You’ve been sighing like that for three days now, doll. What’s eating at you?”

You tilted your head to look at him, folding your arms. “Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that I haven’t had you to myself in weeks. Or that every time I even think about kissing you, someone—usually under four feet tall—pops up like a whack-a-mole.”

You pointed toward the direction of the room where the kids were hidden, having interrupted you and Bucky’s rare alone time for the millionth time today alone. You didn’t miss the way Bucky’s lips twitched, as if he was trying not to smile, and it just aggravated you further.

“They’re kids, sweetheart. What am I supposed to do? Ignore them?”

“No,” you grumbled, seemingly for the thousandth time, dragging your hands down your face. “But I didn’t realize signing up to be your girlfriend also meant being a full-time babysitter, snow-shoveling assistant, and third wheel to Steve freaking Rogers on your bromantic grocery runs.”

That did it—he laughed, a low, rich sound that made your annoyance falter for a moment.

“Don’t laugh. I’m serious!” you snapped, shooting him a glare, dropping down at the edge of the bed, both hands sliding into your hair, a clear sign of the frustration that seemed to be pouring out of your pores.

“I know, I know,” he said, holding up both hands in mock surrender. “I get it. This… isn’t how I pictured this trip either.” He crossed the room to sit beside you, his weight making the mattress dip. His flesh hand reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, and you couldn’t help but lean into his touch. “I miss you too, doll.”

You softened at his words but refused to let go of your irritation entirely. “Then do something about it, Barnes. You’re a super soldier, a former trained assassin, a ghost agent—surely you can figure out how to steal your girlfriend away for five minutes without someone barging in.”

His eyes gleamed mischievously. “You think I haven’t been trying? Clint’s kids are like little spies. Lila’s practically Natasha junior. And Steve? Forget it. Guy has a radar for when I’m about to kiss you.”

“Of course he does,” you groaned, flopping back onto the bed. “He’s Captain America. Always watching. Always judging. It’s like dating a guy whose best friend is a giant Boy Scout.”

You paused, raising an eyebrow. “Wait—do you think Steve’s ever even been kissed?”

Bucky snorted, the sound so uncharacteristic it made you glance up. “What? You think I’d know that?”

The furtive way he avoided your eyes told you he did.

“C’mon, you’ve known him forever.” You leaned forward, narrowing your eyes. “He gives me virgin energy, Buck.”

“Virgin energy?” Bucky repeated, a smile spreading over his lips despite himself. “Doll, you’re gonna kill me.”

“I’m serious!” you said, barely stifling your own laugh. “The guy probably spent the ’40s too busy punching Nazis to even hold someone’s hand. And now? Forget it. I bet if you kissed me in front of him, he’d faint on the spot.”

Bucky dragged a hand over his face, unable to hide his amusement. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You know I’m right,” you teased, nudging him lightly with your foot. Your stomach tightened as his flesh hand wrapped around your ankle, tugging you closer. “It explains so much,” you went on, voice faltering slightly when he dragged his hand up your inner thigh, sending a shiver through you. “He’s probably the reason we never get a moment alone,” you added, squirming under his touch. His hand settled firmly on your hip, his chest solid against you as he laid beside you, his head propped up on his metal hand, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“What, because he’s a cock block?” Bucky asked, voice dropping lower.

“Exactly!” you exclaimed, shifting to allow his one leg between yours, ignoring the intense burn that settled low in your belly. “Think about it—if he’s not getting any, there’s no way he’s letting anyone else get laid. Misery loves company.”

Bucky shook his head, his grin making your heart flutter. “You’ve officially lost it, doll.”

“And yet, here we are. Still not kissing,” you shot back, looking at him pointedly, lifting yourself up onto your elbows so you could tilt your head up, lips ghosting over his.

“I’m done talking about Steve and his virginity,” he said, icy blue eyes dropping to your lips, his nose dragging over yours. “And for the record, doll, you’re the only one I want to see faint when I kiss you.”

“Oh, smooth recovery, Barnes,” you said, rolling your eyes but smiling despite yourself, breathing shakily with his proximity.

He leaned closer, brushing his lips against yours, voice low and rumbly in his chest, sending a surge of heat from your toes all the way to the center of your body. “How about this? Tomorrow morning, we sneak out. Just you and me. We’ll take the bike, get some coffee, and maybe… I don’t know… find a spot where no one can find us for a few hours.”

You stared up at him, your annoyance giving way to hope. “Promise?”

His frown softened into something more sincere, understanding. “Promise. I’ll even turn my phone off. No Avengers. No interruptions. Just us.”

“Okay,” you whispered, allowing yourself to relax into the idea.

But just as his lips brushed yours, the door creaked open, and a small voice called out.

“Bucky?”

You both froze, and he let out a soft curse under his breath. “Yeah, Nate?”

“Can you come read us a story? Lila said you promised!”

You turned your head, glaring at the ceiling while Bucky sighed, standing up. He glanced back at you with a sheepish smile. “Rain check?”

“Nate,” you called out, loud enough for the little boy to hear. “When you’re older, remind me to teach you about boundaries.”

His laughter followed Bucky out the door, leaving you to bury your face in the pillow, groaning dramatically.

When he returned fifteen minutes later, you were still face-down, your muffled voice rising from the comforter. “Why are you a children magnet? It’s like you’re Santa Claus, and they’re all lining up for their turn.”

Bucky chuckled, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I guess I’m just irresistible.”

You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. “You used to be scary. Remember those days? Big, brooding Winter Soldier? People crossed the street to avoid you. I miss that guy.”

He leaned down, grinning as he kissed the top of your head. “That guy never would’ve gotten you to fall for him.”

“Yeah, well, that guy wouldn’t be getting interrupted every five minutes either,” you muttered, pulling the pillow back over your head.

The first rays of sunlight peeked through the attic window, casting a warm glow over the small room. You stirred at the soft sound of movement, the creak of the floorboards familiar enough to pull you from sleep. Cracking one eye open, you saw Bucky crouched by the foot of the bed, lacing up his boots.

“Where do you think you’re going?” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep as you pushed yourself up on your elbows. The room is warm and you can smell the soap and shampoo coming out of the bathroom, the steam of Bucky’s shower still rolling out under the door even after he’d gotten out of it.

He glanced over his shoulder, wet hair dropping onto his forehead, his dog tags dangling from his neck, a sly smile playing on his lips. “You, me, the bike, and some much-needed alone time, remember?”

You blinked, processing his words, before groaning and flopping back onto the bed. “It’s too early, Barnes.”

“It’s not. You just want to stay in bed,” he teased, leaning over you, his lips brushing your temple. “C’mon, doll. Coffee awaits. And I’ve got a spot picked out where no one will find us. Not even Steve.”

“Not even Steve?” you repeated, hope warming your heart, cracking a smile despite yourself. “That’s ambitious.”

Bucky chuckled, his fingers trailing lightly over your arm. “Trust me, I’ve planned this escape like a military op. Now get dressed before Clint’s kids wake up and ruin everything.”

The mention of his tiny shadows jolted you awake. You sat up, pushing your hair out of your face. “Fine, but if one of them catches us sneaking out, I’m blaming you.”

“Deal,” he said, grinning as he stepped back to let you get ready.

Half an hour later, you were showered and wrapped in your warmest coat and scarf, perched on the back of Bucky’s motorcycle as it roared to life. The crisp morning air nipped at your cheeks as you sped away from the Barton farmhouse, the sound of the engine loud enough to drown out any lingering holiday chaos.

“Where are we going?” you shouted over the wind, your arms tightening around his waist.

“You’ll see,” he called back, his voice filled with a levity you hadn’t heard in days.

After about half an hour, he pulled off onto a narrow dirt road that wound through a dense forest. The bike came to a stop in a clearing, where a small cabin stood sturdy and welcoming, the promise of warmth, quiet, and alone time beckoning you inside.

The cabin was nestled among tall pines, their branches heavy with snow that caught the early morning light, casting a soft glow over the place. The structure was rustic, with a large stone chimney rising above the roof, smoke curling lazily into the pale blue sky. The wooden exterior, darkened by age, gave off a comforting, lived-in feel, as if it had been waiting just for this moment. The windows glowed faintly from within, a sign of the warmth that awaited inside.

Bucky killed the engine and swung off the bike, turning to help you down. “What do you think?”

You looked around, taking in the serene beauty of the scene, the stillness of the forest enveloping the cabin like a protective embrace. “It’s perfect,” you said, your voice full of awe.

He grabbed the large bag he’d stuck on the bike’s saddlebag and handed it to you. “Coffee, as promised. Some other things as well. And no interruptions. Just us.”

You felt the warmth seep through you, both from the shee relief you felt and the way he was looking at you, his eyes soft with affection. “Okay, Barnes. I’ll admit it. You nailed this one.”

“Damn right I did,” he said, tugging you closer, lips brushing against your temple. His arm wrapped around your shoulder as the two of you headed towards your little safe haven. A satisfied smirk played on his lips, and you could feel the tension in his body ease as you walked together, just the two of you, heading toward the cozy cabin.

When you stepped inside, the scent of wood and pine mixed with something warm and comforting. The interior was just as inviting as the outside. The open space was simple but cozy, with a stone fireplace built into one wall. There was a leather couch near the hearth, a soft rug underfoot, and shelves stacked with books and a few family heirlooms - you didn’t have to ask him who it belonged to, the pictures lining the shelves told you you and Bucky weren’t the only couple who sometimes needed a reprieve from the Barton household.

Through the large windows, you could still see the vast expanse of the snow-covered forest, but inside, it felt like you were in a world of your own.

Bucky dropped the bag at the kitchen counter and turned to you, his expression softer now that you were finally alone. “How does it feel? No Steve, no Clint, no kids…”

“Perfect,” you murmured, crossing the room to stand by the fire, arms crossed over your chest.

Bucky followed you, his hands finding your waist as he pressed himself gently against your back. The cold of his clothes from the sharp wind outside sent a shiver down your spine, but the heat of his touch, his body against yours, was enough to make your heart race. The tension between you was palpable, growing bigger with each mile you put between you and the Barton farmhouse, unwinding itself as the space grew and crackling in the air like an electric current.

His hands, one cold and one warm, were steady on your hips, anchoring you in a way that made you feel safe and desired all at once. It wasn’t just the fire in front of you that made the room warm—it was the pull between you two, the undeniable chemistry that neither of you could ignore.

You tilted your head back slightly, allowing him to place a kiss on your neck, his warmth seeping into you, the fire’s crackle making the moment feel even more intimate. “This was exactly what we needed”, you hummed, eyes fluttering shut.

“Exactly,” he agreed, his breath warm against your skin. “Now, where were we before we got interrupted last night?”

You smiled, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. “I think you were about to make me faint.”

His amused laugh was the only sound that filled the space between you two, a low, warm chuckle that made your heart flutter. Then, before you could react, his hands turned you around gently, pulling you into him as his lips captured yours in a deep, consuming kiss. For the first time in what felt like forever, there were no distractions—just the two of you, wrapped in the fire of the moment.

His tongue traced the curve of your bottom lip, a teasing stroke that made your breath hitch, and then he deepened the kiss, pulling you closer. His hands slipped beneath your jacket, finding the soft, heated skin of your hip, and you sighed into his mouth, a sound full of longing and need. You melted against him, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck, your head tilting to the side to allow him more access. The taste of him overwhelmed your senses, the familiar warmth of his mouth, the intensity of his touch, and you felt your legs grow weak, trembling with the hunger that surged between you.

Every inch of your body seemed to respond to him, to the press of his chest against yours, the way his hands moved with a quiet urgency that matched the pounding of your heart. You lost yourself in the kiss, in the feeling of his lips, his touch, as if everything outside of this moment didn’t exist. There was nothing but him and the intoxicating pull of his affection, and you knew, in that instant, that nothing else mattered but being with him—your Bucky, in the most intimate way you’d ever shared.

It had been so long—too long—since you’d been able to be this close to him, to feel his body against yours without hesitation. The longing, the quiet yearning that had built up between you, was finally starting to break free. You could feel the weight of it in every touch, in the way his fingers brushed over your skin, as if he was finally letting go of the last remnants of his walls. It was like you were rediscovering each other in this moment—his warmth, his presence—reminding you of the man he was when he allowed himself to be vulnerable with you.

His breath was warm against the back of your neck, and you could feel him trembling ever so slightly as you turned toward him, your eyes meeting his. In his gaze, you saw the storm of emotions—desire, need, love—that he rarely let others see, let alone act upon. The man you loved, the man who had once been a stranger even to himself, was now standing in front of you, and for the first time, he wasn’t pulling away. His lips hovered just above yours, the anticipation between you two thick, hanging like a breath waiting to be taken.

It hadn’t always been like this—him, so open, so ready to let you in. There was a time when he had been reluctant to trust, when the thought of giving his heart to someone had been suffocating, terrifying, downright impossible. But you had weathered the storm with him, through the nightmares, the quiet doubts, the fear that he wasn’t worthy of love. And with every touch, every word, you had proven to him that you could be his anchor. You were his safe place. His refuge. And now, he let you in, fully, in ways he had never allowed before.

His lips found yours in a longer kiss that was soft at first, a gentle exploration, but the hunger, the need, was undeniable. You could feel it in the way his hands tightened around you, the urgency behind his lips a testament to the desperation you shared throughout all the weeks you had been deprived of each other’s bodies, each other’s skin. He kissed as if he feared this moment would slip away, like so many had when friends had knocked on closed doors and children had tugged him away for a snow fight.

You responded in kind, deepening the kiss, pulling him closer, needing him just as much. The world outside, all of it faded into the background. There was only this—him, you, the electric tension that had been building for so long, and the quiet promise that this was just the beginning.

As his hand slid up your side, tracing the curve of your body, you could feel the weight of everything between you both—the time it had taken to get here, the quiet moments of trust and understanding, the slow building of love. But now, in the heat of the moment, all that mattered was the connection. The way he held you like you were the only thing that mattered, the way his touch seemed to ignite something inside you that you couldn’t explain.

He undressed you in a way that could only be described as deliberate—although his mouth was hungry, his hands took their time with every piece of clothing, hot and cold dragging over every inch of skin he managed to uncover. It was maddening, really, the calm he could have in certain moments where all you wanted was for him to lose control.

You pulled away from him slightly, your lips curling into a teasing smile. “You know,” you said, your voice low and sultry, “if you keep undressing me like that, I’m going to start thinking you’re waiting for someone to interrupt us… or that you’re torturing me on purpose.”

His grin was slow, all confidence and mischief. “Maybe I am,” he teased, his voice rougher now. “Maybe I like making you wait.”

You raised an eyebrow, your fingers running lightly down the front of his leather jacket, lingering on the zipper. “You know, I could make you wait too,” you purred, fingers pulling on the zipper until it opened, enough for you to drag your hand under the sweater he had underneath, his skin blazing.

He could’ve once been called the Winter Soldier, but there was nothing cold about Bucky. The icy blue of his eyes sent wild fires burning through your skin, his own skin always running a few degrees hotter than yours… you always joked he was your personal furnace, but it made it all the more true as you dragged your icy fingers under the thick knit that covered his torso.

Bucky’s breath hitched slightly, his hands tightening around your waist as if he was fighting the urge to pull you closer, to devour you. “Doll–” he said in warning, the edge of longing crystal clear in his voice.

You leaned in closer, lips grazing his ear as you whispered, “Maybe… maybe I’ll make you wait. Maybe I won’t let you touch me… maybe I’ll go back to the house and leave you like you did me… desperate, warm and so wet… Let’s see how you like that…”

You could feel him shudder at the words, the tension between you two growing thicker with every second. “You have no idea, Bucky… no idea how empty I’ve been, how much I’ve been aching–”

Before you could continue, he pressed his lips back to yours, deeper this time, more urgent. He didn’t hold back, his hands roaming over your body, tugging you closer, as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded. You could feel the heat of his body against yours, the fire building in both of you.

"God, I’ve missed you," Bucky breathed against your lips, his voice strained with need, his words sending a shiver down your spine. “You have no idea how much.”

You laughed softly, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, the feel of him intoxicating. “Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea,” you replied, your lips brushing over his, teasing, before pulling back slightly, your hands working quickly to push his jacket off. "But I guess we can talk about it later..."

His grip on you tightened, the words barely leaving his mouth before his lips moved to your neck, trailing hot, desperate kisses down your skin. “Later?” His voice was rough, his breath a heated whisper against your throat. "You think I can wait any longer?"

You nodded, a teasing smile curling on your lips, but it faltered when he pushed you back onto the leather couch, his lips never leaving your skin. You didn’t mind. Not one bit. This was finally your moment—just the two of you. The cabin, the fire, the stolen time, and all the teasing, the tension, the pure want that had been simmering between you two for so long.

"I want your mouth busy with something else," you gasped, voice shaking as he kissed a path lower down your skin.

Bucky's eyes darkened with desire, his lips pulling into a wicked smile as he moved, doing exactly what you suggested. "I think I like the sound of that”, his voice low and teasing. His hands had already stripped your jacket away somewhere along the way to the couch, and now they were eager, pulling your top up, inch by inch, exposing more of your skin. His mouth followed, leaving heated kisses down your stomach as his hands worked to unfasten the waistband of your pants.

Your breath caught in your throat when his teeth grazed the spot just below your belly button, and you could feel your body tightening in anticipation. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your pants, and you instinctively arched your back, urging him on, breathing getting harder as he exposed the top of your knickers, the skin of your thighs, your knees, little by little until he finally took away your pants like the obstacle they have been - with a violent sway of his arm, that landed the garment in a heap across the room. “Bucky…” you whispered.

He wasn’t gentle when he maneuvered you, grabbing you by the backs of your thighs and moving your body until he was kneeling between your open legs, hands pushing your knees back until he could spread you further, eyes hooded as he took you in.

You know he could see the damp, dark spot on your knickers - the one you had purposefully picked in the hopes you’d both find a bathroom somewhere and take advantage of it - but you couldn’t be self conscious about it. Never in your wildest dreams you had expected him to find a place for you to fully enjoy each other’s bodies and as he dragged the fingers of his metal arm down your covered slit, you silently thanked Clint and Laura for having a sex drive.

“Bucky–” you repeated, whiny and desperate, eyes stuck on where he’d slipped his fingertips on the side of your bottons, gliding slowly up and down, the cold of the vibranium pressing to your heated folds and sending goosebumps all over your body. “Quit teasing me!” you gasped, breath catching as he pulled on the damp fabric until he could finally see your glistening slit, his lips parting in awe, eyes darkening and filled with promise.

He smiled, the sight making your stomach twist, sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through your veins. "Teasing you? Baby, I’m just getting started," he murmured, his hands slid up and down your thighs with deliberate slowness, savoring the way you trembled beneath his touch, his mouth pressed to the inside of your knee as he leaned in.

You shivered, your hands reaching up to tug at the back of his hair, a muffled growl leaving his lips as he traveled further down your body, until his mouth was hovering over your aching cunt. "I swear, if you don't get on me, I—"

"Or what?" he teased, leaning down to brush his lips against your slit, just barely grazing them before he pressed a kiss to your mound. "You think you can fight me?” His voice was thick with amusement, but there was a rough quality to it that made your pulse race.

“I could strangle you… with my thighs…” You threatened with no real intent behind it, eyes closed for a moment as you tried to steady yourself, swallowing thickly against a gasp when you felt his flesh fingers spread you open, exposing more of your dripping core to him.

“And I’d die a happy man”, Bucky breathes, his brow furrowed in concentration as he licks his lips. “A very happy man…” he adds before he pulls your clit between his lips with the softest of sucks.

When you first started dating, the sheer idea of having Bucky’s mouth between your legs had been comical to you. The broody super soldier, the stoic, serious, impenetrable walls he’d put up made you believe he hadn’t been capable of this kind of passion - had he even had time to learn what giving head was?

You knew he wasn’t totally oblivious - you’ve read the files, you knew he was a ladies man in the 40s, the kind to run away from armed daddies who caught him with a hand up their daughter’s skirts. But with everything he’d gone through, the many years he’d spend locked away - from his body and his mind - you had no idea how far his… sexual education (or should you say experience) had gone.

So it is an understatement to say you were shocked when he first begged to get his mouth on you… and how much he enjoyed it. Every time he did you’d praise his skill, his eagerness, his urge to please and you’d get paid double the effort, double the delight.

This time was no different, as he dragged his tongue up and down your slit, humming when his lips closed around your aching clit. He was thorough, leaving no spot untouched, tongue dipping into your weepy entrance as he buried his face closer, unashamed and unabashed.

All you can do is moan and scratch his scalp, pulling his hair whenever his cheeks hollow and he suckles harshly against you. Every time Bucky puts his mouth on you, you can’t pick what you like most: when he’s lapping at your entrance with greed or sucking at the sensitive bundle of nerves, but either way your toes curl and you pull him closer as he feasts as if it’s his last meal.

He’s so lost in it at times, he’s almost sloppy in his technique, choosing to lie there and taste your cunt and smell you. You’re lost in the sensations when he lazily probes your entrance before he pushing two of his fingers in and spreading them, exploring you gently, and you swallow back a moan.

“Bucky, please,” you whisper, face scrunching and you bite your lip, one of your heels digging into the couch. You’re begging for him, his body, his cock, because this? This is torture.

Because you haven’t had him in weeks and you feel everything - from the insistent licking of his tongue against your clit to the scissoring of his fingers - and it’s coming quicker than you had expected. He’d been between your legs for all of five minutes, but you’re barely able to take the combination of his eagerness and your needs, all of it stretching the elastic band that is your orgasm farther and farther, until you’re ready to snap.

“I don’t—“ you gulp, trying to push him off with your foot but he grabs you by the ankle with his free hand, icy metal fingers wrapping around your ankle with a tight hold. “I— fuck me, you’re gonna make me c-cum!”

Your words are supposed to deter him - to stop the assault on your swollen cunt, to stop the ballooning of pleasure building deep in your belly from the way his fingers work you - but he presses his face closer, because that’s what he wants. He won’t be able to do this again, not when you’re in a house full of children and heroes and people who can’t seem to understand what privacy is. This is what he wants to hold with him and carry with him when he’s got a long night with you laying by his side, unable to touch you how he so desperately needs, how he’s so sure both of you want. He wants to be able to bite his lip and still find ways to taste you from his memory.

Bucky pulls away with a filthy wet noise, lowering his forehead to your thigh, his voice suddenly raw. “I’ve wanted this for so long. Wanted you,” he confessed, his hands gently spreading your thighs further, his touch reverent, as if he couldn’t believe this was finally happening. “I’ve missed being this close to you.” His lips brushed your opening, a smacking kiss making your thighs tremble before he licks deeper, more fervent than the last.

“Me too,” you cry out, hips lifting up towards his mouth, sweat slicking down the back of your neck. The urgency in your body mirrored the way he gripped you tighter, his hands firm around your hips, pulling you closer, never wanting to let go.

“Fuck, Bucky, come on–”, you cry out, both hands shooting down to grab at his hair. “This isn’t how I wanted– I want you in me”, you beg, unabashed, and he groans against you, the vibrations of it pushing you closer to the edge.

“Give me a good one,” he breathes out, pulling away for a second to nuzzle at your clit. “Just one good one and I’ll give you my cock, doll. How’s that?”

It’s a delicate negotiation, but he never falters. Not until you’re biting down hard on the heel of your hand, desperately trying to silence the scream clawing its way up your throat, shaking thighs closing around his head as he brings you to your orgasm, your other hand twisting into the shoulder of his sweater.

His fingers are just as insatiable as his mouth and you’re panting, crying out his name pulling him closer and pushing him away until the waves of pleasure, one after the other, have subsided and your vision - that had gone dark, stars dancing behind your closed eyelids - is less blurry.

“That’s it,” Bucky breathes, teeth closing on the supple skin of your thigh, his chin, nose and lips glistening with your slick. “That’s my girl.”

Your fingers are shaky but insistent as you pull him upwards, profanities leaving your mouth as he drags himself until he’s settled between your spread legs, jean covered cock pressing against your swollen cunt. He’s still wearing the damned sweater and you nearly scratch him raw in your desperate attempt to pull it off, seeking bare skin and intimacy you had been craving.

When he finally pulls it off and settles on top of you, you taste yourself on his tongue, fingers dragging over the expanse of his broad back, the kiss animalistic and unbidden. “God, I love your mouth–”, you confess, heat pinking up your cheeks at the sincerity.

“Just my mouth?”, Bucky questions, muttering against your neck. You can feel his smile on your skin and you can’t but bite into your bottom lip.

“Your stamina too,” you whisper, moaning when he ruts against your core, the shape of his cock clear even under the fabric of his pants. “Cause I’m not done with you”, you shake your head, accepting the kiss he licks into your mouth.

"You’ve waited long enough, doll”, His eyes locked with yours, a playful yet intense look in them, his lips curling into a smile that spoke of things only the two of you understood. “I’m not going to stop now.”

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky x you #bucky fanfic #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader smut

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thewidowsledger · 2 days ago

Text

Closer

Pairings: Dark!Wanda Maximoff x SHIELD Detective!Female Reader

Word count: 8k

Tags | Warnings: +18 smut, angst, top!Wanda, bottom!reader, Wanda being a perv criminal, fingering (r), enchanted strap (r), dubcon, breeding kink, pregnancy, comic/tarot reading inaccuracies (I did try my best searching about them), jealousy if you squint, friendzoned!Nat

Author's note: This is set after the MoM, Wanda being stuck on Earth-818, where she is a multiversal criminal after killing the Illuminati—the planet's mightiest heroes. Title inspired from the song Closer by NIN. I have another a/n at the end of the fic.

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ᱬ

"Do you know this girl?"

Wanda lets out a small huff, then leans on the table, her sore cuffed hands resting on the cold surface.

"I'll tell you if you tell me what color those pretty little panties of yours are."

ᱬ

She had killed the Illuminati, the very protectors of your universe. You couldn't understand why she would go after them, they were the ones who were keeping your universe safe and sound. It seemed that the only reason she had for doing this was to gain more power somehow and that's the only thing you got as of now.

But you couldn't help but wonder if she's up to something…more or personal? If she isn't after more power, then what is she up to? She could be plotting something far more sinister than anyone could imagine.

Or something she just lost.

As you stand in front of the interrogation room door, your heart is pounding fast, your hands are cold and your breathing hitched.

"I'll get you to talk." You murmured to yourself.

You then took a deep breath before signaling the agents that you are ready, then you watched as the door slowly opened before you. Sitting behind a desk facing you was the most wanted criminal on your planet.

As you stepped inside you examined her, you noticed that her body was covered in a number of devices which were meant to restrain her from using her magical powers. There's something on her temple, something that looked like an electric device. She also had the same thing collared around her neck and in her cuffed hands, you also took note of her blackened fingers. But both her feet seem to be free and in full display. She seemed to be unfazed by all the devices though, despite the fact she looks restrained in almost all parts of her body.

You were one of the top detectives in your field, but you had never seen any of this stuff, let alone be in a high security room with the most wanted criminal in your universe.

"Worried about me? Detective?" She asked as if she could read your mind.

"Comfortable with those on your body?" You huffed lightly, you hoped that you were able to keep a straight face while asking that question. You were doing your best to keep your cool, but it wasn't easy with her looking at you like that. "Sadly, you can only have those removed if you cooperate with me."

Wanda's face started to form a smirk before letting out a small chuckle as if to torment you even more. It was as if she knew exactly what kind of effect she was having on you.

"What about you? I don't think those clothes are comfortable on you…" she spoke with a wolfish grin, "want me to remove them?"

You force yourself to look away from Wanda, your heart rate slightly elevated. You take a deep, subtle breath, trying to compose yourself completely, focusing instead on your mission. There is no room for any distractions right now.

But God, this woman is a breathing distraction.

"Wanda Maximoff, is that your name?" you started, putting down the files you were pretending to fix a while back.

"Yes."

"Where are you from, Wanda?"

Silence.

You pressed on with the same question rephased, "Could you tell me where exactly you came from?"

She still didn't respond. Her eyes were like ice, cold and emotionless. You sighed disappointingly that now made the woman curve her lips upward.

Now, you began to lay out the facts, "You're not from here," you stated. "We've figured that one out. You're not from our universe and you killed our heroes." You slid a photo in front of her, the sound of the paper touching the cold metal table. "Do you know who that is?" It was a cropped photo of her. She was wearing a sweater and wide pants. She had a soft and gentle expression on her face, unlike the cold and emotionless looks she had been giving you so far. You observed how she looked at the photo and there is something you can't put a finger on her expression as she stared at it—jealousy?

"That's me."

"Wrong," you said firmly. You saw her eyes shot through you faster than the lightning. You were pleased that you were finally getting some sort of reaction from her. You could tell that you had caught her off guard. It seems like she wasn't used to being contradicted like this, you'll take note of that.

As a detective, if you cannot get an answer from your culprit you will get a reaction out of them. It was a fun game for you.

You held up another photo, before sliding it down on the table. This one is a closeup shot of her looking eye to eye at one of the monitors of Illuminati headquarters that was recovered. She was covered in blood and her eyes were glowing red.

The photo that has been haunting you since this case was given to you.

She just stared at it like a mirror. Then slowly, she began to tilt her head to the side, imitating the pose in the photo—taunting you. You could feel her eyes piercing into your soul.

Before you could lose yourself at her stare, you slammed your fingers down the photos. "This is not you, this is the Wanda Maximoff of this universe." You pointed at the photo of her variant with the soft and gentle expression on her face. You slid it towards you before grabbing the photo that is left, which was a photo of her showering in blood, "This…this is you."

Silence.

"Happy," you flick the photo of the happy Wanda. "And miserable." You pout, putting down the bloody Wanda in front of her.

Well, your tactics seemed to be not working. Because silence is all you got.

You took a deep breath and spoke again, trying to keep your frustration in check. "I'm going to ask you again, why are you here in my universe?" You stared at her expectantly, hoping for some kind of response this time. But Wanda remained silent, her face impassive as she stared back at you.

You were just starting, you just got here for like twenty minutes. Usually, during this part of interrogation you aren't frustrated yet unless you didn't have your pack of gummies before you started. You still should be cool and calm, but right now? You don't think you are at all.

She seemed to relish in your frustration. Taking pleasure in watching you struggle to get a straight answer out of her. This only added to your growing annoyance, making you wonder how long you could keep up this interrogation without losing your temper completely.

"Don't breathe too hard, detka."

You swear to your dead grandparents, you are going to lose it.

Your face flushed red like a fool, stomach was in knots as you tried to ignore the growing feeling of something you will slap yourself about.

Now, you managed to compose yourself back again, it's your turn to be silent. Fun games for you to play—the silent game where you'll sit on your chair while the culprit moves themselves in every way they could think of, walk, sit on the floor until their ass gets sore while you sit comfortably on your chair and this will go on for long painful hours. You've got to have years of training before you can master it.

So you sat comfortably, not saying anything. You waited to see what she would say or do next. But it seems like she was playing a waiting game as well, trying to see who would break first.

The two of you only sat in silence but the tension was too obvious in the small suffocating metal room.

You looked up from your file folder over and over again, taking notes of everything you got so far and that is the unknown name she had given you—detka. Now, you blinked as you realized how much time had passed. Your eyes shifted to Wanda and you noticed that she was tapping her blackened fingers impatiently on the table. It was clear that she was growing restless.

Good, you told yourself before getting back to your papers. One thing you're sure about is you have been here over and over, you had sat in a small cramped room for ten to twenty four hours half of your life. You're used to it. You do it for a living.

You'll last longer than she will.

"Detective Y/L/N, we got something for you." You heard through the comms of the suffocating room.

You got up and went to the door, waiting as a folder was delivered through a small opening of the door. As you walked back to the table, you couldn't shake off the feeling that Wanda was watching you intently. You tried to ignore it, focusing on the folder in front of you. But the weight of her gaze made the hairs on your neck rise. You glanced up at her, and sure enough, she was staring at you, a smirk written all over her face.

"It's quite disappointing I am not unwrapping something," she commented suggestively as she watched you unwrap the manila envelope on your hands. Then, her gaze drifted up to your lips and to your chest, your cleavage showing slightly on your low cut blouse that seemed to be taunting her from the moment you had stepped into the room.

Your jaw tensed as you tried to ignore the effect her nonsense comments were having on you, you tried to remain focused and professional, but you couldn't deny the heat building between your thighs.

You shame yourself.

You crossed your legs awkwardly, trying to conceal your discomfort. Wanda's smirk only grew wider when she noticed your movement. You could feel her eyes on you, and you wondered if she could tell how this back-and-forth was affecting you. Your mind raced, trying to come up with a way to regain control of the situation without giving her any more satisfaction. So you just decided to shift the focus of the conversation back to the interrogation. You examined a photo of a young girl wearing a denim jacket, taking note of a slight glow on her knuckles before showing it to Wanda.

"Do you know this girl?"

Wanda lets out a small huff, then leans on the table, her sore cuffed hands resting on the cold surface.

"I'll tell you if you tell me what color those pretty little panties of yours are."

"Who is this man?" you pushed another photo towards her that you weren't even able to see first just so you could dismiss her painful teasing, hoping to shift the conversation back to your hands because clearly, it's in hers.

"You want answers? Come on, detective, it's a simple question. Red? Black? Maybe something a little more innocent, like pin—"

"If stupidity is the only thing that will come out of your dirty mouth, then don't talk to me or don't speak, at all." You finally snapped, "I had asked you simple questions as well but I think you're too dumb to answer them since you're all silent." You knew that this was a low blow, but you couldn't help but feel a sense of gratification as you threw her own words back at her.

But still, you didn't last long.

You gathered the papers, folders, and envelopes in front of you, you couldn't help but feel Wanda's venomous glare burning into you. When you glanced up at her, you gulped by the sight of her face. Her expression was a picture of barely contained fury, suddenly feeling like prey being stalked by a predator—like the photo of her showering in blood. You immediately avoided her fiery gaze, you swore you saw it flicker red. You shake your head and take a hold of your documents.

You couldn't believe she had gotten the best of you in this interrogation and you only got defeated and frustrated. All you can do is huff, straightening your collar and smoothing your hair as you try to regain a sense of composure and the little shame that this investigation left you. You glanced towards the two-way mirror, knowing that the other agents and your colleagues were watching this whole ordeal unfold. They watched as you got humiliated by this multiversal criminal.

Taking a deep breath, you spoke up, your voice firm and decisive. "I think I am done here," you said, signaling them to open the door for you. But before you could even step outside, Wanda suddenly spoke up, her voice cutting through the tension in the room like a knife.

"It's not stupidity if it's all true," her words dripping with a cold and thick accent you are not familiar with that sent shivers down your spine.

You knit your brows together but you didn't turn around because you knew you would only see the annoying smirk plastered on her face.

"Victoria's secret, it's lacy and has a floral pattern, scarlet. And it's wet."

You clenched your jaw tightly, your nostrils flaring in anger. Now, you felt violated and humiliated, she had really gotten under your skin in a way that no one else had ever managed before.

As the door shut behind you, you felt a sense of relief at finally getting some distance from her, and you took a few deep breaths to try and calm yourself down—a routine you usually do.

"You okay?" Natasha immediately asked, removing her leather jacket and placing it on your shoulders, "I swear, allow me to do this."

Wanda rose from her chair and tried her best to stretch, trying to pop and shift some bones in her restrained neck and her back. Her movements were slow and deliberate, as if she was savoring the moment. Then, she walked towards the one-way glass mirror.

"No, Nat. If I allow that to happen one of you will come out in that room in a body bag." You walked to put your files down briefly staring at Wanda who was now hovering closely to the mirror.

Natasha then grabbed you by your right arm, her face dangerously close on yours. She clearly didn't like how this multiversal criminal talked to you. "And who do you think that will be?" Natasha asked intimidatingly.

You just huffed playfully, rolling your eyes on her making Natasha let out a few laugh.

"Are you sure those devices are really working on her?"

"Well, we don't know where she's from or what entity she really is. So we don't really know what else she can do," Natasha said and you already know that fact. "As of now it is the highest and most secure restraining device that they have. At least that's what they told me. Why?"

Well, you don't think it is working or restraining her powers at all.

Natasha didn't speak as if she already knew what's going on in your mind. "So it's true?"

"What is?" You asked as you crouched down to your bag, stuffing all the heavy documents you had dragged to and fro wherever you go.

"What she said."

"Natasha, she said nothing but taunt and—"

"Eye fuck you, yes."

Humiliate, humiliate is what you were going to say.

"The last thing she said, was it true?"

Natasha's question hung in the air, you found yourself frozen in place, your mind racing to come up with an appropriate response. You then slowly turned around and your eyes first landed on Wanda. You still have no idea if she can hear or see everything despite her being locked inside, but you can see her staring right at you as if she can see you through the one-way mirror. Now, you are both staring at each other even with the glass standing against the two of you.

Guess there is only one way to find out.

"Why don't you drop by later and find out, agent?"

You stepped back, almost like a flinch as you watched Wanda hit the mirror with her cuffed hands, her jaw shaking and her eyes flickering with a terrifying red glow, as if the rage within her had taken on a life of its own.

Now that you know how much effect you have on her, and how you figured out how she plays—you will play her game with your own hands.

Play the game or the game plays you.

ᱬ

Your fingers flew over the keyboard of your laptop as you delved into the files that had been recovered from the headquarters of the Illuminati. The video footage was particularly compelling, showing Wanda's abilities at their most devastating. You watched in horror as she unleashed a barrage of powerful magic, tearing through the ranks of the Illuminati with ease.

Black Bolt was killed having his mouth covered.

Captain Carter was cut in half with her shield.

Reed Richard was grated to death.

Photon was blasted with her own powers and was crushed by a statue.

And Professor X's neck was snapped by Wanda after what you think was a telepathic duel.

"Why did you do all this, Wanda Maximoff?" You whispered to yourself.

You knew that what had happened there was unprecedented and that the implications were far-reaching. Another set of evidence was given to you stating where this multiversal criminal was, Earth-616—from a different reality. With the Illuminati gone, multiversal travel was impossible, and the potential for catastrophic consequences seemed to loom around every turn with her being in your reality.

You watched another video footage of a young girl who was clearly in the throes of something far beyond her control. The way she was running and in a second she was being consumed by a star-figured portal she made herself, as if her own power was turning on her, devouring her from within.

A theory now begins to take shape in your mind. You theorized that perhaps Wanda was here in your universe because of the young girl. But again, it would always fall back onto why Wanda killed your world's mightiest heroes.

"Think, Y/N. C'mon."

As a seasoned detective, you couldn't help but consider all angles and possibilities. Then, another theory popped, what if Wanda used the girl to get to your universe? But the question that nagged at you this time was why she would do such a thing. What was her motive? Was she trying to escape from her own universe or did she have some greater purpose in mind? The uncertainty of it all made your mind tangle, as you desperately tried to piece together the puzzle that was Wanda Maximoff of Earth-616.

"What do you want?" You whispered, your gaze was locked repeating the footage of Wanda going on to Illuminati one by one.

ᱬ

"Thank you for meeting me."

Wanda nodded in acknowledgement, as she locked the door of the cafe behind you. You carefully watched her actions and movements as you followed her. And as a detective yourself it was your nature to observe and it was clear that she was a bit nervous, a far cry from the confident and aggressive that is her variant.

She led you to a small table for two, as you two finally settled in, you spoke.

"So, uhm. I'm detective Y/N and I think you kno—"

"I-I know who you are, I know what happened," Wanda interjected, cutting you off mid-sentence. Her tone was sharp and clipped, as if she had already anticipated your attempt to broach the topic of the devastating events that had transpired within the week. "You don't need to repeat it all over again," she said with finality.

It was all over the news for days now, hell it would be for the next few years. The death of the World's mightiest heroes and footage of the one who killed them, which was her—not technically her but her variant from another universe.

"I have received threats and so are my children. I had to close my shop since then," your gaze darted around the surroundings. Before you got in, you'd seen the words "murderer, witch, killer, anti-hero," painted on the shop's windows in bold, aggressive strokes.

"But…I have nothing to do with it," Wanda's voice trembled with emotion, you could hear the undeniable anguish in her words. "There would be times that I can't control my powers and it frightens me. My body was present but my mind was something else...someone else," she continued, her voice growing fainter, almost like a distant echo. "I had glimpses of a star…more like a portal, a shattered mirror and a book. But it's…I swear, it's not me I have nothing to do with it."

"Hey, it's—" you carefully edge in. But she quickly stopped you.

"No, I want to get this over with. I just want my children to be safe." She looked at you with glossy eyes. She looks so tired and defeated. "I used to dream every night," she continued, her words tumbling out rapidly, "I was…I was happy, I was with my children, I was in control of everything. But then it's gone. I put my kids to sleep then everything slowly started to disappear, I watched it. I watched everything I created, everything I loved disappear right in front of me."

"You lost your children…" you whispered unintentionally.

"Not me, I'm with my children," Wanda shook her head lightly before looking at you.

"It's not you who lost them…"

It struck you deeply, and suddenly, the pieces started to fall into place.

"What we see in our dreams are what is happening on our alternative selves. They may not be our exact selves, but they're our counterparts from different universes, and when we sleep, we inadvertently tap into their experiences."

"H-how sure are you about that?"

"I came to my old mentor, I told her everything about it. She might give you better answers than I do, I stopped learning more about my powers since I retired," She paused briefly, her gaze dropping to the ground. "Besides, I…I'm just a sitting duck variant here."

"Hey—" you blinked when she handed you a piece of paper. Stopping your attempt to comfort once again.

"I don't need it. Here is the address if you still need answers. That's all I can give you."

She stood and you panicked, you hurried after her. As she reached the door, she turned to face you for a brief moment, her expression unreadable. Before you could utter a polite goodbye, she had already shut the door behind you, leaving you standing in the cold street.

You took an exasperated sigh, then, you quickly pulled out your phone and dialed Natasha's number, asking her to send some SHIELD agents to keep an eye on Wanda and her kids for protection. After the call, you felt lost, it's like you're close to hitting a brick wall, but then you remembered the paper Wanda gave you.

"This sounds like a sham."

ᱬ

"What are you doing here in our universe?" Natasha asked for God knows how many times now. But Wanda remained silent.

She unbuttons her suit jacket, revealing her holstered gun. She watches Wanda's silent form, she is unfazed—unthreatened. She wishes you were here, with how easily you extracted information just using your eyes and laughter. How your disarming smiles could crack even the hardest facades, including hers.

"Was I right?" Natasha freezes, surprised by Wanda's sudden voice.

"What?" Natasha responds sharply, trying to hide her shock. "What did you say?" She watches Wanda closely. Her eyes are no longer empty. They're stormy and intense. "Right about what?"

"C'mon you know what I am talking about." Wanda's eyes crinkled to the side. And Natasha's eyebrows furrowed in confusion at the smirk, remembering the last thing this criminal had said about you before you got out of the first interrogation. Natasha catches herself slowly smirking as well before she can stop it, leaning back confidently in her chair. She hoped this play of hers would look natural.

"Not going to lie, it was impressive 'cause you were right about it. Saw it upclose, it was black, lacy Victoria's Secret, and it's wet—for me."

"It's red." Wanda immediately corrected, the colors of Natasha's face started to drain in embarrassment. "Dark red," She emphasizes, "Almost burgundy, like wine...or blood." She grins mischievously, enjoying how the agent in front of her clenched her jaw.

Natasha intended for it to look like she indeed saw what you were wearing that day. You even told her to come to your place and find out even though she knew it was just a play to get something out of this criminal, only for the two of you to do nothing but investigate and investigate. She even bought wine! But since then you had made it clear to her, that you two cannot be a thing—that she's just a friend.

"Listen here, you twisted criminal," Natasha strided and grabbed Wanda by the collar of her prison suit, pulling her closer. "Try to disrespect her like that once again, you will never be back in your universe again."

Wanda laughed despite Natasha's threat. "In just one snap I can go through your mind and see the very not-so-respectful things your twisted brain has thought of doing to your boss," she spoke calmly, unfazed by Natasha's grip on her collar and how close their faces were to each other.

"Give me your boss or you'll get nothing from me."

ᱬ

You find yourself standing in front of a quaint, old-fashioned shop, nestled between two larger buildings. The sign above the door reads "Madam Calderu's Psychic Readings" in a flowery, Victorian script. As you push open the heavy wooden door, a bell chimes merrily, announcing your arrival. The shop is dimly lit, filled with an eclectic mix of incense burners, crystal balls on a small, round table.

Before you can take in your surroundings properly, you hear a sudden scream.

Your hand goes for your holster, gun drawn instinctively. The woman freezes, seeing the gun pointed at her. "Wait!" She throws up her hands, the shawl falling back to reveal a middle-aged woman with sharp features and piercing dark eyes. The woman's gaze locks onto yours, and for a moment, it's as if she's peering right through you, seeing something that only she can comprehend. Her eyes widen slightly, and she takes a step closer, her voice dropping to a hushed whisper.

"You…"

Taking a deep breath, she forces a calming smile. "I apologize, dear. You just gave me quite the surprise. Please, have a seat. I am Madam Calderu."

Even though something about this feels off—hell, everything about this feels off, you holster your gun and take a seat at the nearest table. The smooth wood is cool to the touch, just like her hands when she places them palm-up on the table.

"What's your name, dear?"

Her eyes seem to pierce through you as she awaits your response. There's a strange intensity to her gaze, like she's trying to unravel the very fabric of your existence.

"Y/N…" you were about to get your badge to show her that you are a detective but she gently stopped you.

"Y/N, no need for that," She repeats softly as if she already knows what you really are.

The goosebumps you're feeling made you want to finish whatever this is. "I am here about Wanda Maximoff."

"Which one?" She asks, laying out a spread of cards you thought are tarot cards across the table.

"What? Wh-what do you mean which one? Hey I-I am not here for that." You rushed out, but she already flipped a card.

"The Fool. Bare…untouched, pure." You cringe slightly, what a nice way to say you are a virgin…which you truly are. "You are going to bring a new life."

"W-what?"

She turned to another card that was placed vertically. "The Hermit. You're in deep search for something. The Devil, upright. You are bound...constrained by circumstances beyond your control." Another card was flipped. "The Empress Meaning, upright. You are a vessel…meant to contain something immense, powerful. But you're unprepared. A fragile container for a force that could shatter you at any moment."

The last card made her eyes widened as she saw the image—a hanged man suspended upside down from a tree, with his right foot bound and his left foot free. "Someone is after you…" She mutters under her breath, then she looks at you who was in a deep frown, images of something red…a crown, something powerful flashed her mind that made her scream. You immediately took a hold of her hands with yours, as if you pulled her out of her nightmare, she stopped screaming but she was breathing hard.

"You wait here, young lady." She stood, shaking as she rushed from her seat disappearing through the string curtains.

The room grows silent again as you wait for Madame Calderu to return. Your phone suddenly rings, making you jump slightly. You pull it out, seeing Natasha's number.

"Romanoff."

"She wants you."

Realizing what she meant, you shifted on your seat in frustration. "Romanoff, I told you not to…" you didn't finish, sighing defeatedly knowing that scolding Natasha would get you nowhere. She had always been like this, stubborn and would sometimes go against you and your higher ups. "I'll be there." You say, ending the call and tucking the phone back into your pocket.

Madam Calderu came rushing back with a wooden rectangular sigil in her hand only to see a 20 dollar bill on top of the table.

You were gone.

ᱬ

"Y/N, I'm sorry." Natasha followed you behind as you strided toward the interrogation room. You have not been giving her any words or any blink of an eye as you arrived. And she has been apologizing, following you around like a lost puppy.

"I want you out of this case, Romanoff. This is not the only time you went against my orders." You say with finality before disappearing behind the door of the interrogation room, not wanting to hear any of her reactions.

You took deep breaths before you turned around and saw how the criminal had been staring at you. She was wearing a wolfish grin, elbows on top of the table while her cuffed hands together were in the air.

"How are you holding up?" You asked, much calmer like you were the first time.

"I'm good, detective." She said, simply. "I'm good now that you're here."

"I could say that." You quipped, making her let out a few chuckles that made your stomach flutter.

"I didn't like the attitude you have the last time we saw each other."

"Well, I didn't like how you didn't cooperate with me."

Wanda smirks teasingly, her black fingernails tapping against the metal table. "I missed you, detective," she purrs softly, her voice dropping an octave. She manspread her legs slightly under the table, unnoticed by you.

You respond in a neutral tone, your expression giving nothing away. "I could say that," you repeated, never breaking eye contact with the criminal.

She chuckles softly, her eyes sparkling with amusement. She leans forward slightly, the movement subtle yet intentional. "Didn't you miss me too?" She just threw you a bone, looking for a reaction—any reaction. She watches your face carefully, eyes picking up every tiny muscle twitch. She sees your jaw tighten slightly, your shoulders stiffen. She notes how you never left her gaze, how you keep your voice neutral and unreadable.

But then, you remained composed. Chuckling but you didn't give any response to her question, instead you answered with a question yourself.

"Wanda, have you had dreams?"

She frowned before huffing softly, but failed to hide the slight uptick in her lips. She leans back slightly, her gaze drifting away before slowly returning to meet yours.

"It's here, right in front of me."

As Wanda answered, a smirk tugged at the corners of your mouth draws Wanda's attention back to your face. She sees the genuine smile hiding behind the smirk, and it makes her pause. She's not used to seeing genuine smiles, especially not directed at her. Wanda's eyes linger on your smile, her gaze seeming to drink in the sight. She notices the way your indifference during the first interrogation melts away, replaced by something warmer. Something that makes Wanda's heart skip a beat.

"Have you lost someone?" You asked another question, much personal this time. But silence was the only answer you got back from Wanda. You expected for it to not work for now but you know that eventually, later on, you will get something out from her—you will make her say something.

"I used to have dreams, Wanda." When the words escape your lips, you see Wanda's eyes widen slightly, hanging onto each word. "I dream of my kids, and I dream about losing them every single time." You continued. Your dreams have become a nightly ritual, an obsession. Every night, you relive the same scene, sitting on the couch, surrounded by laughter, playful shouts and calls for you—their mommy. You're surrounded by your children, their faces blurry but their joy unmistakable. And then, next thing you know is you're awake in an empty bed, no signs of your children.

"Every time?" She asks, already knowing the answer.

You hesitate, then nod. "Like clockwork. I see them, hear them. They feel so real…" You trail off, smiling at the memories. "Then they're gone." You add softly, unconsciously wrapping your arms around yourself. Wanda swallows hard, her fingers twitching slightly. "It's funny because I don't even want kids, but after those dreams, when I wake up the first thing I expect to see is them beside me."

As she sits there, watching you wrestle with the ghosts of your dream children, she feels an unfamiliar pull. She's seen the same thing in her own dreams—blurry faces, laughter that turns to silence.

"Every night the same dream, every morning the same nightmare." She murmured under her breath.

For the first time since you've seen her, Wanda's mask completely slips.

"I can say the same, Y/N. I've lost people I loved…but I am here to get them back now."

Bingo.

Wanda blinks, momentarily taken aback as she watches you rise, a flicker of confusion passing over her face.

"I'm so sorry for your loss, Wanda." You say before disappearing, leaving her alone in the cold room.

ᱬ

Later that night, as the prison settles into a quiet routine, you find yourself back at your apartment.

You pour yourself a glass of wine, the cool liquid sliding down your throat as you relax on your couch. This case has been tough, but tonight, you finally made a huge progress. She had opened up, shown emotion. You smile smugly to yourself, confident that tomorrow, with your newfound insight, you'll finally break the case wide open.

You finish your glass of wine, feeling tired. You've had a long day of investigating and interrogating. You let out a breath, your body relaxing as you slide into bed in your silk nightgown. You close your eyes, ready for sleep. But you felt dizzy. As the room spins around you, suddenly, unmistakably, you hear it—laughter. The clear, joyous laughter of children echoes through your darkened bedroom. Your eyes fly open, but the sound doesn't stop. It surrounds you, bouncing off the walls, growing louder.

Figures begin to take shape right before your eyes. Two boys—the same children from your dreams. They're laughing, their faces fully visible this time, and they're reaching out their little hands towards you.

"Mommy!" You laugh, reaching to them.

But then, in an instant their laughter turns cold, their smiles disappearing as they hiss, "Mommy, go away! Run, Mommy, run!" They push you back, their small hands shoving you towards the bed. You saw a glowing figure just outside your door, a woman with horns in her head—glowing red.

Your kids continued to scream, "Run! Mommy!"

Your heart was pounding in your chest, you wrapped your arms around your children, pulling them close. You can feel their small bodies shaking, mirroring your own fear.

"Mommy, go." The first boy whispered.

"You have to go now, mommy." The other one said.

But you didn't let go of them. The footsteps grew louder and the figure was just right beside your bed. Blocking out the light on the hallway of your room.

You jolt upright in bed, your nightgown damp with sweat. You pant, looking around your room. No children, no figure. Just you and your phone ringing loud.

"Y/N," Maria's voice is tight, "Wanda escaped. We don't know how but we need you here. Now."

"2800 Sherwood Street, Eastview." You rattled out. Your heart pounds in your ears as you stand still. "Maria, 616 is after 818's kids, she might be on her way to get them now. Target is the variant Wanda of Earth-616. Presumed armed and dangerous. Objective: Contain and capture." You stood, walking to where your closet is, "Eliminate if you have to." You ended the call swiftly, pulling on your tactical gear—bulletproof vest, cargo pants, combat boots out of your cabinet.

When you were about to get undressed, there was a figure that loomed over your room's doorway. You can't be wrong but it was the same figure you saw in your dreams just a while back. A woman with little horns, glowing red.

As you sweep the hallway, you think you're alone. But then, a movement catches your eye—a shadow darting between rooms. You turned around, gun raised, heart pounding. "Who's there?" You call out, voice echoing through the empty house. Then, a shadow appeared right at the end of your hallway and it started crawling to your direction. Without thinking, you spin around and dash back to your bedroom, slamming the door shut behind you. You lock it immediately, and aim your gun straight at the door as you step back.

You felt an energy behind you so you whirl around, gun still pointed at the air, only to find yourself face to face with the towering figure. It looms over you, the red light pulsing violently. Your hands tremble slightly as you raise the gun higher, aiming at the center of the shadowy mass. You gasp, eyes widening as you recognize the features hidden beneath the glowing shadow.

"W-Wanda?" Your voice is barely a whisper.

Her blackened fingers extend, reaching to the gun aiming at her and it disappears in a flash of dark energy. Before you could react, she snapped and in an instant you were up in the air. An unseen force lifts you off the ground, suspending you in mid-air with an invisible restraint tying your feet and hands. You struggle, legs kicking uselessly as you float higher but her eyes glow with an intensity you've never seen before, almost burning with the red energy that surrounds her. She watches you like a predator eyeing its prey—calculated, intense, and completely focused.

"Miss me?"

"What are you doing?" You manage to choke out, heart is now hammering to get out of your chest as you stare into her glowing eyes. Her appearance is disturbing; she wears a crown that looks like horns, and a suit that looks like it was drenched in blood. The red energy seems to be seeping from her very pores. Her features are still beautiful, but twisted into something dark and terrifying.

"To get what I lost."

Your frown deepens as you process her words.

Then, a chill laughter escaped her lips. "I thought you already figured it out, detective," she says mockingly, her voice dripping with condescension. "You're supposed to be the smart one. The one who sees through every lie and unravels every mystery." She leans in closer, her face inches from yours as you elevate in the air. "But you've got it all wrong."

Your mind races, trying desperately to connect the dots. Your detective mind isn't working at the moment and she tilts her head, studying your baffled expression with cruel amusement. Her blackened fingers gently caress your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw. "You really don't get it, do you?" She murmurs, her touch icy cold. Her fingers started to caress your stomach. "Let me give you a hint...what's the same thing we lost every time we close our eyes?"

Your kids. Her kids.

You shake your head, trying to clear the confusion. "But…I-I don't have your kids, Wanda."

"Oh, you will." Her voice drops to a threatening whisper as she snaps her fingers again. In an instant, you find yourself falling backward onto your bed, the familiar indentation of your pillow against your head. Wanda begins to crawl up your body, her blackened fingers digging into the blankets, pulling her closer. Her face hovers above yours, her twisted crown casting ominous shadows on the walls. "Now, let's make them, shall we?"

You squeeze your eyes shut, praying desperately that this is all just a nightmare. But as Wanda's cold hands begin to roam over your chest, pulling the knots of your nightgown, you realize with a sinking heart that this is no dream. This is terrifyingly, undeniably real.

"Open your eyes."

A shiver runs down your spine as the cold air hits your bare skin. You have nothing under your nightgown, just your lacy panties. You're exposed, vulnerable, lying naked beneath her. She takes a moment to admire the sight, her red eyes burning with a fierce intensity. "I knew you're more beautiful without clothes," she murmurs, tracing a finger down your chest. She then squeezes them roughly, pinching your nipples between her fingers until you gasp in pain. Her other hand reaches up to grab your throat, squeezing tightly as she attacks your chest with a frenzy of kisses and bites.

You arch your back in pain as Wanda's cold hands maul your breasts, her fingers digging into your flesh like claws. Her hand around your throat tightens, cutting off your air supply as she nuzzles her face between your breasts, inhaling your scent deeply. Your body goes limp beneath hers. You spread your legs wider, letting her settle deeper between your thighs. Your arms lift up, wrapping around her neck possessively. You whimper softly as she bites down hard on your collarbone.

Her fingers slip beneath the lacy fabric of your underwear and immediately find their way inside your warmth. You gasp at the sudden intrusion, her skin so cold it burns against your sensitive flesh. She begins to move her fingers in and out of you brutally, ignoring your cries. She silences you with a brutal kiss, her cold fingers continuing their relentless assault on your insides. Her thumb finds your clit, pressing down hard as she forces another finger inside you. You feel yourself stretching to accommodate her blackened fingers, your body trembling with a mix of pain and pleasure.

You should be fighting, clawing, biting, anything to make her stop. Instead, you find yourself wrapping your legs around her waist, pulling her closer as she invades your cunt with cold, blackened fingers.

Letting her darkness in.

"Hng Wanda..." You whimpered.

She smirks wickedly as she hears you cry out her name, your pleasured gasps mingling with anguished moans. Her eyes glitter with cruel triumph. "Say my name again," she commands.

"W-Wanda…" You stuttered.

Then, she curled her fingers inside you agonizingly slow, hitting that perfect spot. "Louder."

"Fuck! Wanda!"

Just as you're about to release the coil on your stomach, she pulls her fingers out of you suddenly, leaving you gaping and empty. You whimper in protest, but before you can even process what's happening, she shoves two of her blackened fingers into your mouth instead.

"Suck."

Magic crackles in the air as Wanda presses her blackened fingers against your lips, demanding obedience. Shimmering sparks dance before your eyes before you reluctantly close them, submitting as your mouth envelops her fingers. The metallic taste of chaos magic and your wetness coats your tongue, making you shudder.

She pulls her fingers free from your mouth, leaving behind trails of dark magic. Kneeling between your legs, she lets you see the crimson strap-on secured around her waist—it looked so real, enchanted.

As you finally register what's happening, adrenaline shoots through your veins. Your body goes instantly rigid, eyes wide with realization and fear.

"No..." you whimper, trying to close your legs, but she holds them firmly open with her knees. The alarm bells in your mind scream to fight back.

With a cruel smile, she rips your delicate underwear to shreds, discarding the remains aside. She grabs your thighs tightly, spreading your legs as far apart as they'll go. The enchanted strap-on hangs between her legs, the chaos runes pulsing with dark energy.

"It's time to make what we lost."

She rubs the tip against your wet entrance, coating it with your arousal. You watch in horror as she throws her head back, moaning softly. "You're so tight, around my cock," she hisses, gripping your hips. Without warning, she snaps her hips forward, burying the entire length inside you brutally. She shushes your cries, her free hand caressing your cheek, kissing your forehead soothingly as she continues to brutally thrust the strap-on into you with each heartbeat. With every painful push, you let out a little whimper, your body trembling beneath hers.

"It hurts, Wanda…" you sobbed.

"I know, detka." She placed her forehead against yours before kissing them again, her thumb gently stroking your cheek as she continued to ravage you with the cock. "It's supposed to hurt." She murmurs against your forehead, "This pain will remind you who you belong to now." As she continues to brutally thrust into you, she starts to feel pleasure from the enchanted device. The chaos runes absorb your pain and convert it into dark energy, feeding into Wanda. She moans softly, nuzzling your face, "You're hurting so nicely…" The pleasure builds inside her, her hips snapping forward with increased force, the strap-on plunging deeper into your torn and stretched flesh. She buries her face in your neck, kissing and biting your skin as she chases her orgasm. "I'm going to cum inside you, my love."

All you can feel is the relentless pain, your body bruised and your pussy battered by her cock. But despite the agony, you nod dumbly, willing to take whatever she gives you. "Yes, Wanda," you manage to whisper, your voice hoarse from crying. "Please, please."

She presses a palm firmly against your stomach, feeling the prominent bulge of the strap-on inside you. "Feel that, detka? Feel how deep I am?" She pants harshly, her hips grinding against yours. "You'll be filled with my cum, marked from the inside out."

"Then, we will never lose them again."

"Please…I don't wanna lose them again, Wanda. Please, give me my kids. G-give me your babies."

Your statement throws her over the edge. She groans loudly, her body tensing as she forces her cock deep inside you, releasing wave after wave of hot, enchanted seed. The chaos runes pulse dangerously, filling your womb with dark energy.

She collapses onto you, panting heavily as she caresses your stomach, feeling the warmth of her release inside you.

"Our kids…" she slipped out of you. Making you whimper from the empty feeling. Then, her hand slowly trailed down to your pussy, feeling the wetness of her cum mixing with yours as she pushed it back inside you.

"We'll never lose them again."

ᱬ

You blinked groggily as you stirred awake in your bedroom decorated in a vintage 1950s style. A silky nightgown slips off one shoulder as you sit up slowly. You stare at the two boys beside you, your heart swelling with love. And your dear wife, Wanda lies in between them, her hand protectively resting on the boys' backs, a soft smile on her sleeping face.

Feeling you're moving away, Wanda calls out softly, stirring in her sleep. "Hey, mommy." She carefully removes her arms from around the twins, ensuring they don't wake up.

"Hey." You greeted back, groaning as you finally managed to stand. Wanda immediately rounded the bed to get to you.

"Mmm, good morning, my love." Before you can say a word, she leans in to press a tender kiss to your lips. She took your hands as she sat back on the bed. Then, blackened fingers slide down to your swollen stomach, you laugh, guiding her head as she leans down to kiss your bump.

"Good morning, little one," she coos. "We can't wait to meet you soon."

—

Author's Note: This was supposed to have an angsty ending but I remember promising someone here to write a Wanda fic w happy ending.

I just want to inform everyone that this might be the last fic I will be posting. I will be on hiatus since I have been missing school a lot due to health issues and I need to keep up and get back on track. Every series/fics of mine will be put on hold for a while, but I promise that the first thing I'll post when I get back are updates on them. I'll see you all around :)))

#wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x female reader #wanda maximoff x fem!reader #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff au #scarlet witch x reader #scarlet witch au #scarlet witch

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dreamersworldduh · 2 months ago

Text

HIS HOME

• CLARK KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — To the world, Clark Kent is Superman—the invincible hero, Earth’s mightiest protector, and a symbol of hope and strength. He’s the one who soars through the skies, battles formidable enemies, and saves countless lives without a second thought. But to you, he’s simply Clark—the shy, kind-hearted farm boy from Smallville you’ve loved since high school.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge.

WORDS! 10k

AUTHOR’S NOTE! - Here's a little fluff for my favorite farm boy, I recently watched the Superman teaser and got a little inspired.

The early morning sun began its slow, graceful ascent over the towering skyline of Metropolis, sending soft, golden rays spilling through the sheer, cream-colored curtains of Clark Kent’s cozy apartment. The delicate fabric diffused the light, casting a warm, ethereal glow across the room. The gentle illumination danced over the simple but thoughtfully chosen furnishings: a well-loved leather armchair tucked into the corner, a sturdy wooden bookshelf overflowing with novels and framed photos, and a vintage record player resting on a low cabinet—small tokens of a life built together.

Beneath a thick, plush comforter in the center of the room’s focal point—a spacious, inviting bed—Clark and his longtime boyfriend, Y/N, lay entwined in peaceful slumber. Their breaths rose and fell in a quiet, harmonious rhythm, filling the serene space with a sense of intimacy only shared by two souls deeply connected. The soft weight of the comforter enveloped them, shielding them from the crisp morning air that lingered just beyond the windowpane.

Though Y/N remained fast asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady, calming rhythm, Clark was already awake. His piercing blue eyes, usually sharp with focus and responsibility, now gleamed with tenderness as he quietly admired the man sleeping beside him. For a few precious moments, the weight of the world slipped away—no urgent headlines to chase, no distant cries for help demanding Superman’s strength—just the quiet stillness of their shared sanctuary.

Clark’s gaze lingered, tracing every familiar line and curve of Y/N’s face. His fingertips, rough from years of fighting battles no one else could, hovered just above Y/N’s skin, hesitant to disturb the peaceful spell. He followed the delicate slope of his jaw, the curve of his lips—soft and slightly upturned, as though he were dreaming of something sweet—and the dark, feathery lashes that rested gently against his cheeks. How many times had he memorized these details? How many mornings like this had he silently counted himself lucky?

Here, in this stolen moment before the world woke up, Clark was simply Clark—the man who had fallen in love with his best friend back in high school and never stopped. His heart swelled with the same overwhelming emotion he felt every time he realized he got to spend another day with the person who grounded him, made him laugh, and saw past the cape to the man beneath.

As the sun’s rays grew bolder, stretching farther into the room, the stillness was broken by the sudden, jarring beep of the alarm clock on the bedside table. Its sharp sound shattered the tranquility like glass meeting stone.

“Morning,” Clark whispered, his deep voice warm and soothing, rich with a love that couldn’t be contained. His hand gently brushed a stray lock of hair from Y/N’s forehead, his touch as tender as the sunlight now spilling across the bed.

Y/N blinked slowly, his eyelashes fluttering. He shifted slightly beneath the thick, plush comforter, its weight a soothing barrier against the crisp morning air. He could feel the solid, steady warmth radiating from Clark’s body beside him, grounding him before he even opened his eyes fully. His fingers twitched reflexively, seeking out the comforting presence he knew was there.

When Y/N’s half-lidded gaze finally focused, the first thing he saw was Clark, lying on his side, already awake. His piercing blue eyes gleamed softly, filled with a quiet intensity that made Y/N’s heart ache in the best possible way. Clark’s expression was open, vulnerable, and utterly disarming—like he was seeing something precious he still couldn’t quite believe was real, even after all these years.

A sleepy, instinctive smile tugged at the corners of Y/N’s lips. He stretched slowly, luxuriating in the warmth of the bed and the quiet stillness that lingered in the room, allowing the peaceful moment to settle over him like a familiar melody. His fingers reached up lazily, brushing away a stray lock of hair from his face before his hand drifted down to rest gently on Clark’s chest.

The steady, reassuring thrum of Clark’s heartbeat pulsed beneath Y/N’s fingertips, calm and unwavering, like the rhythm of the earth itself. He let out a contented sigh, his body relaxing further as he nestled closer, resting his head against Clark’s broad shoulder. The fabric of Clark’s soft, well-worn T-shirt felt cool against his cheek, contrasting with the warmth radiating from his skin.

“Good morning,” Y/N murmured, his voice rough with sleep but laced with tenderness. His words were barely above a whisper, soft and warm like the first light of dawn filtering through the window. His hand idly traced slow, lazy patterns across Clark’s chest—small, unconscious shapes made in quiet affection.

Clark smiled, his hand moving with gentle certainty to rest on Y/N’s lower back, his fingertips drawing soothing circles through the thin fabric of his sleep shirt. His touch was familiar yet reverent, a silent promise etched into every small caress.

Y/N’s eyes flickered toward the faint glow spilling through the window, signaling the start of another day. The world outside slowly stirred to life, but inside their shared haven, time seemed suspended—just the two of them in a bubble of warmth and love that felt untouched by the outside world.

“What time is it?” Y/N asked softly, his voice still tinged with sleep and curiosity, though there was no urgency behind the question. His fingers continued their gentle, aimless tracing, not yet ready to break the fragile stillness of the moment.

With a reluctant glance, Clark shifted his eyes toward the worn alarm clock on the nightstand. Its glowing red numbers silently ticked forward, marking the steady march of time. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he registered the hour. “It’s 7:15,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, like a quiet breeze through the still room.

Y/N groaned playfully at the answer, dragging one hand down his face in mock exasperation before propping himself up on one elbow. His hair was delightfully tousled, a few stubborn strands falling across his forehead despite his half-hearted attempt to smooth them down. “We really need to get up,” he said, though the lack of conviction in his voice betrayed him. His fingers brushed lightly against Clark’s arm, lingering there as though reluctant to break the warmth of their embrace.

Before Y/N could move any further, Clark’s strong arms tightened around his waist with effortless ease, pulling him back down into the secure circle of his embrace. His hold was firm yet tender, a perfect blend of strength and comfort, silently promising that he wasn’t ready to let Y/N go just yet.

“Not yet,” Clark whispered, his voice soft but resolute, filled with quiet intensity. His piercing blue eyes met Y/N’s with such tenderness that it made Y/N’s breath hitch for a moment. There was something profound in that gaze, something unspoken yet unmistakably clear—love, deep and unyielding.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking upward in mild amusement despite the way his heart seemed to swell in his chest. “Clark, we really should—”

“Do you know what today is?” Clark interrupted gently, his tone playful but tinged with something deeper—something meaningful. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his lips, his expression equal parts teasing and expectant.

Y/N blinked, momentarily thrown by the sudden change in conversation, before a quiet laugh bubbled up from his chest. He let his forehead rest gently against Clark’s for a moment, savoring the warmth of their closeness, before pulling back just far enough to meet his eyes again.

“Of course I know,” Y/N replied softly, his voice steady but colored with affection. “It’s our anniversary.”

Clark’s smile widened, his eyes shimmering with something unmistakably radiant, though there was still a spark of playfulness there. He shook his head slightly, brushing his thumb tenderly over Y/N’s cheek, letting his fingers trail gently down to his jawline. His touch was reverent, as if the moment itself were fragile and precious.

“Not just any anniversary,” Clark corrected, his voice dipping lower, resonant with emotion. “It’s our ten-year anniversary.” His expression shifted into something more serious, almost reverent, as though the weight of a decade spent together was something sacred—something he still couldn’t quite believe he was lucky enough to have.

Y/N’s eyes widened briefly, a flicker of surprise softening into something far deeper, warmer. His lips parted as if to respond, but instead, he simply cupped Clark’s face with both hands, his thumbs tracing gentle, familiar lines along his jaw. His touch was slow, deliberate—a silent answer filled with love and devotion.

“Ten years,” Y/N echoed, letting the words hang between them like a whispered vow. His voice was quiet but steady, thick with emotion. “I can’t believe it’s been that long.”

Clark’s expression softened further, his smile turning just a little more playful as he leaned forward, pressing a lingering, feather-light kiss to Y/N’s forehead. His lips lingered there, warm and reassuring, before pulling back just enough to meet Y/N’s gaze again.

“And I’m not letting you out of this bed until we properly celebrate…” Clark whispered, his voice low and teasing but laced with unmistakable sincerity. His arms tightened just a fraction, drawing Y/N even closer. “…Starting right now.”

Y/N laughed softly, his eyes sparkling with both affection and amusement. “Is that so?” he asked, his voice light but affectionate, fingers still tracing slow, loving patterns across Clark’s chest.

Clark only smiled, leaning in to press another kiss—this time soft and lingering—against Y/N’s lips, sealing the promise between them with quiet certainty.

Y/N pulled away, letting out a soft breathy laugh, his lips curving into a playful smirk as he rested his hand gently on Clark’s chest. Beneath his fingertips, he could feel the steady, familiar rhythm of Clark’s heartbeat—strong, unyielding, and comforting in a way that felt like home. His fingers absently traced small, lazy circles over the fabric of Clark’s worn T-shirt, savoring the warmth radiating from his skin.

His eyes sparkled with affection, though there was a teasing edge in his voice as he arched an eyebrow. “Clark,” he murmured, his tone light but laced with mock sternness, “if we celebrate right now, neither one of us is going to make it to work on time.”

Clark chuckled, his deep, resonant laugh filling the room like a warm embrace. It was the kind of laugh that made Y/N’s heart swell, as familiar and comforting as the dawn’s first light. His smile widened into that boyish, slightly mischievous grin Y/N had fallen in love with all those years ago—a grin that still made his knees weak even after a decade together.

“You make a compelling point,” Clark admitted with mock seriousness, though the mischievous glint in his eyes betrayed him. His gaze softened as he took in every beloved detail of Y/N’s face—the curve of his cheek, the sparkle in his eyes, the way his lips quirked in that teasing smile that always left Clark feeling utterly captivated.

Before Y/N could fire back with a witty retort, Clark moved with effortless grace, gently shifting his weight as he rolled over, pinning Y/N beneath him in one fluid motion. His strong arms braced on either side of Y/N’s head, caging him in—but his touch was tender, protective, filled with nothing but love. Y/N gasped softly in surprise, though his eyes gleamed with amusement and affection.

Clark leaned down until their faces were mere inches apart, his breath warm against Y/N’s skin. His gaze never wavered, tracing every familiar feature with reverence, as though memorizing them all over again.

“I guess I could try to be responsible…” Clark whispered, his voice dropping into that low, velvety tone that always sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine, “…but where’s the fun in that?”

Before Y/N could respond—or even fully process the words—Clark dipped his head and captured his lips in a slow, lingering kiss. His mouth moved with unhurried purpose, savoring the connection as though time itself had ceased to matter. The kiss was deep but tender, filled with emotion that words could never quite capture.

Y/N’s breath hitched as Clark’s warm lips trailed away from his, leaving a path of feather-light kisses along his jawline. Clark’s mouth lingered just below Y/N’s ear—his most sensitive spot—his breath sending pleasant tingles down his spine. His lips brushed gently against Y/N’s neck, pressing soft, deliberate kisses that ignited a warmth deep within him.

A quiet, breathless laugh escaped Y/N’s lips as he arched into Clark’s touch, threading his fingers through Clark’s thick, dark hair. He tugged gently, earning a soft, pleased hum from Clark that resonated against his skin. “You’re impossible,” Y/N whispered, though his voice trembled with love, his words holding no real bite.

Clark pulled back just enough to meet Y/N’s gaze, his expression soft but still tinged with playful defiance. His piercing blue eyes sparkled with warmth, love, and something far deeper—something timeless. “Ten years,” he murmured, brushing his thumb gently across Y/N’s cheek, his touch reverent and tender. “I think we’ve earned a little celebration… even if we’re a bit late.”

Y/N laughed again, shaking his head in mock exasperation, though he made no effort to move away—he never could when Clark held him like this, when he looked at him like he was the most precious thing in the world. His heart swelled with overwhelming affection, threatening to burst from the sheer intensity of it all.

“You’re lucky I love you,” Y/N whispered softly, his voice thick with emotion as he tugged Clark down into another kiss—slow, deep, and full of all the love and devotion he couldn’t put into words.

Clark’s grin widened against Y/N’s lips, his expression radiating pure joy. “I know,” he whispered playfully, echoing the familiar words that had been exchanged between them countless times—but now, they held a deeper, more profound meaning.

In that moment, nothing else existed—no alarms, no deadlines, no responsibilities. Just the quiet, steady rhythm of their shared breath, the warmth of their intertwined bodies, and a love that had endured a decade and promised to last a lifetime.

By 8:15 a.m., the quiet intimacy of the early morning had dissolved into the familiar rhythm of Clark and Y/N’s weekday routine. The warmth of their shared bed now felt like a distant memory as they moved through their cozy apartment with practiced ease, the comfortable chaos of a typical workday morning unfolding around them.

The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, mingling with the crisp aroma of toasted bread and the faint trace of Clark’s cologne lingering in the hallway. The kitchen was alive with quiet energy—drawers opening, shoes being slipped on, phones buzzing with notifications. The distant hum of Metropolis traffic outside was a constant, blending into the comforting sounds of home.

Clark stood at the kitchen counter, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie still undone around his neck. He poured steaming coffee into two familiar mugs—one emblazoned with the bold “Daily Planet” logo, and the other featuring a playful “World’s Best Partner” design, a sentimental gift from Y/N on their fifth anniversary. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, steady and sure, as though even the smallest tasks carried a quiet significance in their shared life.

“Babe, have you seen my laptop charger?” Y/N’s voice called from the bedroom, tinged with mild urgency. His words were punctuated by the sound of drawers sliding open and the soft rustle of clothes being shifted around.

Clark couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head fondly as he set the coffee mugs on the kitchen table. “Check the shelf by the desk!” he called back, his voice warm and familiar. In one smooth motion, he looped his tie into a perfect Windsor knot, fingers moving with expert precision—years of balancing superhero duties and tight Daily Planet deadlines had honed his multitasking skills to near perfection.

Moments later, Y/N emerged from the bedroom, holding his laptop charger triumphantly like a prize. His collar was only half-buttoned, his sleeves still unrolled, but he already looked every bit the driven professional Clark had admired from the moment they’d worked side by side as young interns. His hair was slightly tousled, still settling after a rushed comb-through, making him impossibly endearing.

“Found it!” Y/N announced with mock triumph, flashing Clark a cheeky grin as he hurried toward the kitchen. He grabbed his “World’s Best Partner” mug from the table and took a long, appreciative sip, savoring the warmth that seeped into his fingertips. A contented sigh escaped his lips. “You’re a lifesaver,” he said with sincere gratitude, the corners of his eyes crinkling with affection.

Clark smirked, leaning casually against the counter, arms folded across his chest. “I try,” he teased lightly, though his gaze softened as he watched Y/N sip his coffee, soaking in the familiar comfort of their shared morning ritual. It was in these small, ordinary moments that Clark felt the fullness of their life together—steady, warm, real.

Y/N gave a quick glance at the microwave clock—8:17 a.m. They were cutting it close but still technically on time if they hustled. He grabbed his well-worn messenger bag from the back of a kitchen chair and slung it over his shoulder with practiced ease. “Let’s roll,” he said with determined resolve, already mentally running through the day’s to-do list.

Just as Y/N reached for the door, Clark’s fingers gently brushed against his wrist, halting him with a soft touch. “Hey,” Clark murmured, his voice lower now, edged with something deeper.

Y/N turned, brow raised in curious question. His expression softened as he met Clark’s gaze, recognizing the quiet emotion shimmering in those piercing blue eyes.

Clark’s smile shifted into something far more tender, his earlier playfulness replaced by sincerity. “Happy ten-year anniversary,” he whispered, his voice rich with meaning, as though he still couldn’t quite believe how lucky he was to be standing there, sharing this life with the person he loved.

Y/N’s expression melted instantly, the rush of the morning forgotten. He leaned in, cradling Clark’s face gently in his hands, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. The world outside seemed to pause, leaving only the warmth of their shared breath and the quiet rhythm of their hearts beating in sync.

“Happy anniversary,” Y/N whispered back, his tone filled with unwavering love. His fingers lingered against Clark’s jaw for just a moment longer, as though reluctant to let the moment end.

With one last shared smile—intimate, knowing—they turned toward the door, ready to face whatever challenges the bustling city had in store. Whatever the day might bring, they would face it together—just as they always had, and always would.

Clark stepped through the revolving doors of the bustling Daily Planet building, adjusting his signature glasses out of habit as he took in the familiar symphony of the newsroom’s organized chaos. The air buzzed with the electric energy of a new workday—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, and conversations overlapping as reporters exchanged leads and debated headlines. The faint scent of fresh ink and brewed coffee lingered in the air, a constant reminder of the newsroom’s relentless pace.

A small, contented smile tugged at Clark’s lips as he strode across the polished marble floor, his polished shoes clicking softly against the tile. He felt right at home here, even after years of balancing the double life of award-winning journalist and Earth’s greatest protector. Still, even amid the familiar hustle, his mind lingered on the peaceful morning he’d shared with Y/N—the warmth of their shared coffee, the lingering kiss at the door, the whispered “Happy anniversary” that still echoed softly in his heart.

He was halfway to his desk when he found his path blocked—ambushed, really—by two familiar figures: Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen, his closest friends and trusted partners in journalistic crime. Lois stood with her arms crossed, eyebrows raised in playful expectation, while Jimmy hovered just behind her, his ever-present camera slung over his shoulder like he was ready to document something groundbreaking.

“Alright, Kent,” Lois announced with a sly smirk, tilting her head in that knowing way she always did when she was on the verge of uncovering something. “What’s the plan?”

Clark blinked, momentarily thrown off by her question. He adjusted his glasses again, a reflex whenever he felt caught off guard. “Plan? What plan?” he asked, brow furrowing in genuine confusion.

Jimmy let out an exaggerated scoff, stepping forward with wide-eyed disbelief. “The plan, Clark!” he urged dramatically. “Don’t tell me you forgot! It’s your ten-year anniversary with Y/N today!”

Clark’s eyes widened ever so slightly, though he quickly schooled his expression into one of practiced calm. “Wait—how do you two know about that?” he asked, his voice tinged with mild suspicion but tempered by curiosity.

Lois rolled her eyes, her smirk widening. “Please,” she said with mock disdain. “I’m a journalist, Clark. It’s literally my job to know things.”

Jimmy nodded enthusiastically, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “And I’m, like, super observant. You’ve had that goofy, ‘I’m-so-in-love’ look plastered all over your face for days.” He gestured dramatically around the newsroom. “It’s practically headline news at this point.”

Clark couldn’t help but chuckle despite himself, shaking his head. “You two are unbelievable.”

Lois stepped closer, her sharp eyes softening just a fraction, though the spark of mischief never left. “Seriously, though,” she said with a bit more warmth, “you do have something special planned, right? Ten years isn’t just any anniversary.”

For a brief moment, Clark’s mind drifted to the small velvet box tucked securely in the inner pocket of his coat—the one he’d been carefully keeping out of sight all morning. The memory of its weight was reassuring, grounding him in the quiet certainty of what the evening would bring.

“Let’s just say…” Clark began slowly, his lips curving into a knowing smile, “…I might have a few surprises up my sleeve.”

Jimmy let out a dramatic gasp, clearly intrigued, while Lois arched an approving eyebrow. “Now this is a story I’m dying to see unfold,” she quipped, already imagining the possibilities.

Clark chuckled, brushing past them toward his desk. “You’ll just have to wait and see,” he called over his shoulder. “No spoilers… even for journalists.”

Lois smirked knowingly while Jimmy fist-pumped in silent excitement, already speculating wildly about what Clark’s “surprise” might be. The newsroom’s steady hum continued around them, deadlines and breaking news still demanding attention—but for a brief moment, Clark allowed himself to savor the quiet anticipation bubbling within him.

Tonight would be more than just a milestone—it would be the start of something even greater. He couldn’t wait to see the look on Y/N’s face when he finally revealed what he’d been planning for weeks… and slipped that ring onto his finger.

The day carried on as usual—but for Clark, the countdown to that perfect, long-awaited moment had already begun.

The streets of Metropolis teemed with life far below as Superman soared effortlessly through the crisp morning sky, his iconic red cape billowing behind him like a banner of hope. The sharp edges of the city’s glass-and-steel skyline glinted in the morning sun, casting streaks of light across the bustling streets below. His keen eyes swept across the familiar cityscape, ever watchful, always ready.

The city pulsed with its usual symphony—honking car horns, hurried conversations, the rhythmic clang of construction equipment, and the distant chatter of morning radio shows drifting from open windows. The steady thrum of Metropolis’ indomitable spirit surrounded him, grounding him even as he hovered hundreds of feet above. To anyone else, it might have been overwhelming—chaotic—but to Clark, it was the heartbeat of home.

He had just finished assisting the Metropolis Fire Department with a hazardous warehouse fire down by the docks. The acrid scent of smoke still clung faintly to his uniform, though the crisis was long resolved. He allowed himself a rare moment of pause, suspended in the sky, arms crossed, his cape trailing like a protective shield over the city he’d sworn to protect.

Then something familiar tugged at his senses.

Cutting through the tangled web of urban noise, a voice—distinct, beloved—filtered clearly into his super-sensitive hearing.

Y/N’s voice.

Clark’s breath hitched as he stilled mid-air, hanging weightless against the wind. His sharp focus zeroed in instantly, his hearing filtering out the static of the city until only that familiar voice remained. His heart clenched with longing and quiet relief.

He traced the sound to the upper floors of a gleaming high-rise in the heart of downtown—the unmistakable, foreboding silhouette of LexCorp Tower, its sharp edges and mirrored surface reflecting the cold morning light. The sight alone made his jaw tighten, tension rippling through his frame. No matter how many years passed, Lex Luthor’s presence in Metropolis remained a constant thorn in his side.

But then Y/N spoke again, and Clark’s protective instincts flared.

“Yes, Mr. Luthor… I’ll have that report on your desk by noon,” Y/N said, his voice steady and professional, though Clark detected the faintest trace of exhaustion beneath his practiced tone. “I’ve already confirmed the logistics team’s data… Yes, sir, I’m double-checking it now.”

Clark exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. He could see Y/N in his mind’s eye—sitting at his immaculately organized desk, surrounded by gleaming tech and cool, polished steel decor, the harsh blue glow of holographic displays casting soft light over his face. His back would be straight, his sharp, tailored blazer fitting perfectly across his shoulders—a detail Y/N always insisted was necessary to “look the part.”

Clark’s chest warmed with quiet pride. Despite his unease about LexCorp—a company built on moral ambiguity and dangerous ambition—he knew Y/N. Driven, capable, relentless in his pursuit of success, yet unfailingly kind. He trusted Y/N implicitly.

Lex Luthor, on the other hand…

Clark frowned, his protective instincts prickling. Even now, he couldn’t entirely banish the concern that came with knowing Y/N worked within arm’s reach of one of the world’s most dangerous men. He strained to listen for anything out of place—any shift in Y/N’s voice, any hint of tension—but all he heard was focused professionalism.

Then, suddenly, Y/N’s voice softened—barely above a murmur—as though he believed himself to be completely alone. His tone turned warmer, more personal.

“…And maybe after work, I can figure out how to surprise you for once, Clark…”

Clark’s breath caught.

There was the faint rustling of papers, followed by a quiet, almost wistful chuckle that tugged at his heart.

“Ten years… Can you believe it?” Y/N whispered, almost as though speaking only to himself.

Clark’s expression melted into something achingly tender, a quiet warmth blooming in his chest that even the cold steel of LexCorp couldn’t diminish. For just a moment, he allowed himself this stolen glimpse into Y/N’s day—a reminder of the life they’d built together, of love that had endured through battles, secrets, and the challenges of his double life.

He hovered there, suspended in the stillness of the morning sky, wrapped in the memory of Y/N’s voice and the unspoken promise threaded through those words.

Then, from several blocks away, a sudden wail of police sirens split the air, snapping him back to reality. His gaze hardened instantly, his senses shifting back into sharp focus. The city needed him again.

But before he shot off into the wind, he cast one final, lingering glance toward the gleaming spire of LexCorp Tower, his voice a whispered promise meant only for the wind to carry:

“I love you, too.”

And then, in a streak of red and blue, he vanished into the sky—ready to protect the city he called home, and the man he loved more than anything.

The familiar creak of the front door closing echoed softly through the stillness of the cozy apartment. Clark Kent stepped inside, his broad shoulders relaxing as he shrugged off his thick, charcoal-gray overcoat. He smoothed out its fabric with practiced care before hanging it on the brass hook by the entryway, a small detail Y/N had insisted on installing when they first moved in together. The air smelled faintly of lavender and vanilla from a gently flickering candle on the bookshelf, mixing with the warm, inviting scent of home-cooked meals from memories past.

The apartment was bathed in a soft, golden glow from the dimmed overhead lights and the warm sparkle of fairy lights strung along the window. Framed photographs of shared adventures lined the walls—a snapshot from their first vacation, candid moments from friends’ weddings, and even a picture of Clark holding a grinning Y/N on his shoulders at a summer fair.

But tonight wasn’t just another ordinary evening. It was their ten-year anniversary, a milestone woven with laughter, challenges, and countless moments of quiet, steadfast love. Tonight, Clark intended to mark that journey in a way neither of them would ever forget.

With steady deliberation, he reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and carefully retrieved a small, velvet-covered box. He set it down gently on the cool marble countertop, as though the magnitude of what it held weighed heavier than any feat he had ever accomplished as Superman. His thumb brushed over the soft fabric of the box, tracing its edges with reverence. Inside rested a simple, timeless ring—delicate yet strong, much like the bond he shared with Y/N. He had spent months searching for the perfect piece, envisioning the way it would look on Y/N’s finger every step of the way.

Drawing a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and gently closed the box. The evening wasn’t going to prepare itself. He rolled up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, exposing his strong forearms, and turned toward the kitchen. Fresh ingredients were laid out precisely as he had planned—Y/N’s favorite meal, every detail considered down to the garnish.

Moments later, Clark turned his attention to the living room, the heart of their shared memories. It was a space shaped by comfort and familiarity, where countless evenings had been spent wrapped in warmth and laughter. He moved with quiet purpose, selecting a small stack of their favorite movies from the shelf—classic comedies that never failed to make them laugh, heartfelt dramas that always left them holding each other a little tighter, and those feel-good romances they could recite line for line. He placed the DVDs neatly on the rustic wooden coffee table, arranging them just so, knowing Y/N would smile the moment they saw them.

Draped over the back of their well-loved couch was a thick, cozy blanket—soft, worn, and infused with memories of lazy Sundays and late-night cuddles. He smoothed out its folds, making sure it was within easy reach for when the night wound down, when dinner was just a memory, and only the quiet comfort of each other remained. A few plump, overstuffed pillows rested at each end of the couch, inviting and familiar.

The soft glow of the fairy lights strung along the window added a magical warmth to the room, their tiny bulbs twinkling like distant stars. On the coffee table, he placed a wooden tray holding two mugs—one ready for hot cocoa, the other for Y/N’s favorite tea, complete with a small jar of honey. A delicate ceramic bowl filled with chocolate-covered almonds—Y/N’s guilty pleasure—completed the thoughtful setup. Every detail was intentional, a reflection of the countless quiet nights they had shared in this very space.

But even as the living room felt ready, Clark couldn’t shake the sense that something was still missing.

He stepped back into the kitchen, enveloped once more by the inviting aroma of the special meal he’d worked so carefully to prepare. The rich scent of seared steak lingered in the air, mingling with the creamy, garlicky aroma of the mashed potatoes he’d whipped until they were impossibly smooth and buttery. The sautéed vegetables—green beans with a light char, caramelized baby carrots glistening with honey, and earthy mushrooms kissed with rosemary—were arranged in a serving dish, their vibrant colors promising comfort and warmth with every bite.

On the stovetop, the red wine sauce had reduced to perfection, its velvety richness gleaming as Clark gave it one last stir. The deep, complex fragrance of simmering shallots, garlic, and wine filled the room, tempting him to taste—but he resisted. This was for Y/N.

His gaze drifted to the marble countertop, where the decadent chocolate mousse cake he had picked up from their favorite bakery waited like the final act of a perfect evening. Its glossy, dark chocolate surface shimmered under the soft kitchen lights, adorned with delicate curls of bittersweet chocolate and a light dusting of powdered sugar. Plump, jewel-toned raspberries rested artfully around the edges, a splash of vibrant red against the dark richness of the cake.

Satisfied with the meal, Clark moved to the small dining table near the bay window. He tugged at the edges of the crisp white tablecloth, ensuring it lay perfectly smooth. Their best dinnerware gleamed in the soft light, paired with sparkling wine glasses and polished silverware arranged with precision. He folded two linen napkins into elegant triangles, placing them neatly by each plate.

At the center of the table sat a modest yet beautiful bouquet—soft blush roses, delicate white lilies, and fragrant sprigs of eucalyptus bound together with natural twine. Their gentle scent mingled with the meal’s intoxicating aromas, adding a romantic, timeless touch. Clark adjusted the bouquet slightly, ensuring it looked effortlessly perfect.

Finally, he lit three slender ivory candles in sleek, minimalist holders. Their warm, flickering flames cast a soft, golden glow across the table, their light shimmering off the delicate crystal and creating an atmosphere of quiet elegance.

With everything in place, Clark allowed himself a moment to pause. The apartment felt magical, transformed by love and intention. Yet his eyes inevitably returned to the small velvet-covered box still resting on the counter, its deep navy surface catching the candlelight like a secret waiting to be shared.

He stepped closer, brushing his thumb once again over its soft, textured fabric. Inside lay the ring—simple yet exquisitely crafted, timeless yet personal. He could still remember the moment he had found it, knowing instantly it was the one. Strong but delicate. Elegant yet enduring. Just like what they had built together.

He imagined Y/N’s face when he saw it—his wide-eyed surprise, the way his breath might hitch, the unmistakable light that would fill his eyes when he understood what Clark was asking. The thought made Clark usually steady hands tremble just a little.

It wasn’t about the meal, the setting, or even the ring.

It was about the ten years of shared memories, of challenges faced side by side, of whispered promises in the dark, and quiet mornings filled with warmth and love. It was about their story—one already filled with so much life and meaning—but with so much more yet to be written.

And tonight, Clark Kent was ready to ask Y/N to write the rest of that story with him—forever.

With dinner prepared, the apartment glowing with warmth, and every thoughtful detail in place, Clark found himself standing in front of the hallway mirror, tugging at the collar of his white dress shirt for what felt like the tenth time. His fingers smoothed the fabric, adjusting the top button, then pausing as he reconsidered, ultimately leaving it undone for a more relaxed look.

He straightened his tie, only to frown and pull it loose again. His reflection stared back, resolute but edged with vulnerability, a flicker of nerves in his usually steady blue eyes.

With a slow, measured breath, he adjusted his glasses—pointless, really, but the familiar motion gave his restless hands something to do. The thin frames rested perfectly on the bridge of his nose, though he still fiddled with them out of habit. He braced his palms against the edge of the dresser, leaning forward, forehead nearly touching the cool surface of the mirror.

“This is fine,” he murmured, voice low but firm, as though willing himself to believe it. “You’ve faced supervillains, alien invasions… even world-ending threats.” He let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “This is just… one question.”

But this question mattered more than anything else he’d ever done.

He exhaled slowly, centering himself, and straightened his posture, rolling his shoulders back as if preparing for battle. His reflection stared back, still strong but undeniably human—vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.

“He’s already said yes… a thousand different ways over the past ten years,” Clark whispered, almost as though speaking the words aloud would steady his heart. “This is just… making it official.”

He ran a hand through his dark, slightly tousled hair, pushing it back in a way he knew Y/N liked. His fingers lingered for a moment, brushing against his temple as he let out another breath, more controlled this time. He reached into the pocket of his dress pants and pulled out the small velvet box once again.

Flipping it open, he let his eyes rest on the ring inside—simple but elegant, timeless yet meaningful. He had chosen it with absolute certainty, picturing Y/N’s hand wearing it, imagining how it would feel to place it there himself. The thought made his chest tighten—not with fear, but with overwhelming love.

For a brief moment, the rest of the world faded away. There were no distant cries for help, no looming threats or urgent responsibilities. In this quiet space, there was only the promise of forever, contained in the small, glinting circle of gold resting in the velvet folds.

A soft, affectionate smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, chasing away the last traces of doubt. His voice, low but steady, broke the silence.

“You’ve got this, Kent.”

Just then, the familiar click of the front door unlocking echoed softly through the quiet apartment. His head snapped up, heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and joy.

Y/N was home.

Clark gently closed the ring box, slipping it back into his pocket with practiced care. His pulse quickened, but his hands were steady now. He smoothed his shirt one last time, inhaling deeply, letting the love he felt ground him.

This was the moment. The beginning of something new, built on ten years of shared memories, quiet mornings, and promises unspoken but always understood.

Y/N stepped inside of the apartment, already shrugging off his coat after a long, tiring day at work. He reached out automatically to flip the light switch, expecting the familiar glow of the overhead light—but paused, his fingers hovering in midair.

Something was different.

The apartment was already softly illuminated—not by the usual bright lights, but by the gentle, flickering glow of candles scattered throughout the living room and dining area. A delicate floral fragrance, light and fresh, mingled with the mouthwatering aroma of something savory and richly seasoned wafting from the kitchen. Y/N blinked, his eyes widening as he slowly took in the transformed space before him.

The usually simple, everyday dining table was unrecognizable—draped in a pristine white tablecloth that gleamed softly under the warm candlelight. Two polished wine glasses stood side by side, catching the soft light like tiny prisms, while their best silverware lay neatly arranged on elegant dinner plates. In the center of the table sat a beautifully arranged bouquet of fresh flowers—roses, lilies, and eucalyptus sprigs woven together with thoughtful care. Their delicate petals glowed softly in the candlelight, their fragrance blending seamlessly with the warm, inviting smells of home-cooked food.

Y/N’s gaze drifted toward the kitchen, where a small serving tray waited, holding a carefully plated dinner beneath a gleaming silver cover. Steam still gently wafted from beneath the lid, hinting at something savory and delicious inside. The mouthwatering scent of garlic, herbs, and seared meat hung in the air, making his stomach growl despite the emotional tightness building in his chest.

He took a tentative step forward, feeling his breath hitch as he noticed the living room. There, on the rustic coffee table, was a familiar stack of their favorite movies—the ones they always watched on cozy nights in, when they just needed to be close. A thick, cozy blanket was neatly folded over the back of the couch, inviting and familiar, ready for when the night wound down. Everything was arranged with such intention, such thoughtfulness… such love.

Y/N pressed a trembling hand over his mouth, overwhelmed by the sheer care and intimacy behind every detail. His heart thudded against his ribs, pounding with disbelief and something deeper, something warmer. Was this really happening? Did Clark… do all of this?

Before he could fully process the scene, a quiet creak of the kitchen floorboards caught his attention. He turned slowly, his breath still uneven, and his gaze landed on Clark standing just a few steps away.

Clark’s hands rested loosely at his sides, fidgeting slightly—a rare crack in his usually steady composure—but his expression was soft, warm, and impossibly tender. His deep blue eyes held an intensity that stole Y/N’s breath—not the intensity of a hero prepared for battle, but of a man utterly, irrevocably in love.

“Clark… what is all this?” Y/N whispered, voice trembling with emotion.

Clark’s lips curved into a gentle, familiar smile—the kind that had always felt like home. His eyes shimmered with warmth, reflecting ten years of shared memories, quiet mornings, and late-night talks. “Happy anniversary,” he murmured, taking a slow, measured step closer.

Y/N let out a shaky breath, his gaze flickering from the candlelit table to the familiar stack of movies—and finally back to the man who had done all of this. The man he loved with every fiber of his being. “You… you did all this… for me?” His voice cracked, disbelief and affection tangling in his throat.

Clark’s smile widened just a fraction, his eyes softening even further. “For us,” he corrected gently, his voice steady but filled with quiet vulnerability.

Y/N felt tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, his heart swelling so much it almost hurt. Every detail—the flowers, the meal, the movies, the candles—felt like a physical manifestation of the life they had built together. A life filled with love, warmth, and quiet, shared moments that meant everything.

His hands trembled as he reached for Clark, closing the space between them in a heartbeat. His arms wrapped tightly around Clark’s strong frame, pulling him into an embrace filled with every unspoken word he couldn’t seem to say. Clark held him just as fiercely, his face burying into Y/N’s shoulder, breathing him in like he was the only thing that mattered.

Y/N’s breath hitched against Clark’s neck, a soft, broken sound of love and wonder. Neither of them moved for a long moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, grounded in the familiarity and promise of what they shared.

In that moment, there was no world outside, no responsibilities, no distant cries for help—only them. Two hearts, intertwined and steady, standing at the edge of something new, something even deeper than what had come before.

Surrounded by the gentle glow of candlelight and the quiet warmth of home, Clark held Y/N tighter, silently promising that this—they—would always be his greatest adventure.

And tonight, their forever was just beginning.

The warm glow of candlelight flickered softly across the cozy apartment, casting gentle, golden light over every familiar surface. Y/N and Clark sat comfortably on the well-worn couch, plates balanced carefully on their laps while the familiar sounds of their favorite movie played quietly in the background. The soft crackle of the candles still burning on the dining table blended with the movie’s soundtrack, creating an atmosphere of warmth, intimacy, and quiet joy.

Clark had insisted on serving the meal himself, carrying each perfectly plated dish with the care of someone offering up something precious. The garlic-herb steak, creamy mashed potatoes, and perfectly sautéed vegetables looked like something from a five-star restaurant—but tasted even better. Each bite was rich, savory, and cooked exactly the way Y/N liked it.

“This is so good,” Y/N mumbled around another bite, eyes widening with genuine delight. “Seriously… did you take a secret cooking class or something? How do you always nail this?”

Clark chuckled, a faint blush rising in his cheeks. He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish but clearly pleased. “I might’ve… practiced a little,” he admitted, his voice low and warm. “I just wanted tonight to be perfect.”

Y/N’s heart swelled at the quiet sincerity in Clark’s words. The love behind every carefully considered detail of the evening hit him all at once—the flowers, the candles, the dinner, the movies—all thoughtfully chosen, all crafted with so much care. He set his plate down on the coffee table, suddenly unable to focus on the food when something far more important was sitting right beside him.

Without a word, Y/N reached out and gently placed his hand over Clark’s, his fingertips tracing slow, familiar patterns across the back of Clark’s strong, calloused hand. The warmth of his skin was grounding, comforting, home.

“You are perfect,” Y/N whispered, his voice trembling slightly with emotion. “This whole night… the dinner, the movies, the candles… everything. It’s perfect.”

Clark’s breath caught, his eyes softening as he gently turned his hand to entwine their fingers together. His thumb traced slow, reassuring circles over Y/N’s knuckles, a quiet gesture that spoke volumes.

“You didn’t have to go through all this trouble,” Y/N continued, his gaze never leaving Clark’s. “But you did. You always do… You always find a way to make me feel so loved.”

Clark’s breath hitched slightly, his fingers tightening just a little around Y/N’s hand. His voice was low but steady, full of quiet intensity. “You are loved… more than anything… more than I could ever say.”

Y/N’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears, his heart pounding with affection so deep it felt impossible to contain. Slowly, he leaned in, resting his forehead gently against Clark’s, savoring the quiet, shared connection. In that small, still moment, surrounded by the warm glow of flickering candles and the familiar hum of their shared life, nothing else existed—only them.

“Thank you… for all of this,” Y/N whispered, his voice breaking just slightly. “For everything.”

Clark smiled softly, tilting his head just enough to brush his lips gently against Y/N’s in a tender, lingering kiss. It was slow, filled with all the love and devotion words could never fully express. His hand cupped Y/N’s cheek, fingers sliding into his hair as he deepened the kiss just enough to make the world fall away.

When they finally parted, their foreheads still resting together, Clark’s voice was barely above a whisper—but steady and sure.

“There’s still… one more thing.”

Y/N blinked, momentarily caught off guard, curiosity sparking in his expression. “What do you mean?”

Clark’s hands trembled ever so slightly as he reached for Y/N’s, threading their fingers together with practiced ease, grounding himself in the familiar warmth of that touch. His heart pounded with a mixture of nerves and anticipation, but the feel of Y/N’s hand in his steadied him, like it always had.

“Come with me,” Clark whispered softly, his voice low but sure.

Y/N blinked in surprise but let Clark gently guide him off the couch and into the softly glowing living room. The flickering candlelight cast a warm halo around them, creating a setting that felt timeless, intimate, and entirely their own. Y/N’s expression shifted from curious to something deeper, something tender, as he felt the subtle tension in Clark’s usually steady grip.

Clark exhaled slowly, forcing himself to breathe, to be fully present in this moment he’d imagined countless times. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles over Y/N’s knuckles—a silent reassurance for both of them. When he finally met Y/N’s gaze, his deep blue eyes shimmered with emotion—vulnerable but unwavering, filled with love so profound it left no room for doubt.

“Y/N…” Clark began, his voice trembling just enough to reveal how much this meant to him. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to say… something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, his lips parting slightly in surprise, but he stayed quiet, his gaze steady, urging Clark to continue.

Clark tightened his hold ever so slightly, his hands enveloping Y/N’s like a protective barrier, keeping them both anchored in this moment. His voice grew steadier, though still thick with emotion.

“From the very first moment I saw you… back in high school… I knew,” Clark said softly, his eyes shining with memory and meaning. “I didn’t know exactly what ‘forever’ looked like back then… but I knew you were going to be someone important. The someone.”

Y/N’s eyes shimmered, already brimming with unshed tears as the weight of Clark’s words settled over him.

“We’ve built this incredible life together,” Clark continued, his voice deepening with quiet intensity. “Through moves, jobs… everything life’s thrown at us. And through it all… I’ve known one thing with absolute certainty.” He swallowed hard, his lips quirking into the faintest, most affectionate smile. “I want to spend every day, every moment… with you.”

Y/N’s breath shuddered as a tear slipped free, trailing slowly down his cheek.

Clark’s eyes softened even further as he gently wiped the tear away with his thumb. “I thought about this night so many times… about what I’d say… but I kept coming back to something you said once.”

Y/N blinked, his brow furrowing faintly as he tried to recall.

“It was a long time ago… back when we first talked about marriage,” Clark murmured, his deep voice softening into something reverent, as if he were holding a fragile, cherished memory in his hands. His gaze lowered for a brief moment, lost in the weight of what he was about to say. When he looked back up, his eyes gleamed with something raw and unguarded—love, hope, and nostalgia woven together.

“‘Don’t marry me just because we’ve been together forever…’” he repeated, his voice trembling ever so slightly as he spoke the familiar words. “You said that to me.”

The memory hit Y/N like a crashing wave—vivid, intimate, and achingly familiar. It had been during one of those long, late-night talks when the world outside didn’t matter, and the future felt like a distant, untouchable dream. Y/N remembered the quiet stillness of that night, the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminating Clark’s thoughtful expression as they both lay tangled together, speaking from the heart without hesitation.

Clark’s warm fingers brushed gently over Y/N’s, grounding him in the present even as his words pulled him back to that deeply personal moment. His touch was familiar, steady, and reassuring—the same touch Y/N trusted through every joy, every storm, every uncertain tomorrow.

His voice softened even further, dipping into something more intimate, more earnest, as though he were speaking directly to your soul. “‘Marry me because you want to,’” he continued, his thumbs tracing slow, tender circles over the backs of Y/N’s hands. “‘Because you can’t see yourself with anyone else. Marry me… because you love me.’”

Y/N’s breath hitched as those words echoed through him, every syllable steeped in memory and meaning. They weren’t just words from the past—they were a promise him had once made without realizing how much they would come to define his future.

Tears welled in Y/N’s eyes, blurring the sight of Clark’s face, but Y/N could still see the love etched into every line, every tender curve of his expression. His gaze held Y/N’s with such fierce intensity that it felt like nothing else in the world existed—just the two of them, tethered by a shared history and an undeniable, enduring love.

Clark’s hands tightened around Y/N’s just slightly—not possessive, but grounding—anchoring them both in the weight of the present. His breath hitched as he whispered, “I never forgot those words… not for a second.”

His voice cracked, just faintly, but he pressed on, his expression resolute and filled with quiet determination. “I don’t want to marry you because of how long we’ve been together… or because it’s ��what comes next.’ I want to marry you because there’s no one else I could ever imagine standing beside me. No one else I want to build a future with… grow old with.”

He let out a shaky breath, his eyes glistening as he whispered, “I want to marry you… because I love you.”

Y/N let out a soft, broken laugh, tears spilling freely now as he clung to Clark’s every word.

Clark’s breath hitched, his chest tightening with emotion. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself onto one knee, his gaze never wavering, his hands still cradling Y/N’s as though letting go was unthinkable. With quiet reverence, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the small velvet box he’d carried close to him all night. His fingers trembled only slightly as he opened it, revealing the simple yet elegant ring—a perfect symbol of the love they had built: enduring, strong, timeless.

“I do, Y/N,” Clark whispered, his voice raw with unguarded emotion. “I love you… endlessly. I see my forever… and it’s you. It’s always been you.”

His gaze softened further, shimmering with hope, love, and absolute certainty. “Will you… will you marry me?”

The room seemed suspended in breathless stillness—time stretching endlessly in the space between the question and the answer. Tears streamed down Y/N’s face as a choked, tearful laugh escaped his lips. He covered his mouth for just a second, overcome, before reaching down and pulling Clark up into his arms with a fierce, unrestrained embrace.

“Yes,” Y/N whispered, voice trembling but resolute. “Yes. A thousand times… yes.”

Clark let out a shaky, relieved laugh, wrapping his arms around Y/N like he never intended to let go. Their foreheads pressed together, tears mingling as they clung to the enormity of the moment—the life they had already built and the future they were now promising.

Time seemed to stop the moment Clark gently slid the ring onto Y/N’s finger. His large, warm hands trembled just enough for you to notice, though his grip remained steady and sure—like he was grounding himself in the reality of this moment. Clark’s ocean-blue eyes glistened with unshed tears, swirling with relief, joy, and an overwhelming depth of love that stole Y/N’s breath away. His expression softened as though the weight of anticipation he’d been carrying for weeks had finally lifted.

For a moment, all Y/N could do was stare at the ring sparkling brilliantly in the soft candlelight. Its elegance and meaning were undeniable, but even its beauty couldn’t compare to the way Clark was looking at Y/N—like he were the most precious, extraordinary person in the world, the very center of his universe.

Emotion swelled in Y/N’s chest, leaving him speechless. Tears blurred his vision, but through the shimmering haze, he could still see Clark—standing there, still holding his hand like he couldn’t bear to let go, his breath uneven as he searched your face for reassurance that this was real.

With every ounce of love, joy, and unspoken promise between them, Y/N closed the distance and pulled Clark into the most heartfelt, soul-deep kiss they had ever shared. It wasn’t rushed or urgent—it was steady, certain, and profound, like the turning of the earth, like something that had always been meant to happen.

Their lips met with a softness that carried ten years of shared history—nights spent laughing until their sides hurt, quiet mornings tangled in sheets as sunlight streamed through the windows, whispered promises exchanged in the dark when the world felt too heavy. This kiss held all of that—and more. It was the culmination of a thousand moments, big and small, that had built the life they shared.

Clark’s hands came up slowly, almost reverently, cradling Y/N’s face with a tenderness that spoke of how deeply he cherished this moment. His fingers brushed against Y/N’s jaw, his touch light but grounding, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real. His lips moved against Y/N’s with aching sincerity, pouring his heart into the connection, into the unspoken vow that they would never have to let go.

Y/N’s arms wrapped securely around Clark’s broad shoulders, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them—only warmth, only love, only them. He felt Clark’s breath hitch ever so slightly against his mouth, felt the way his shoulders relaxed as though the weight of the world had finally fallen away, leaving only this perfect, timeless moment.

The soft glow of the candles flickered gently around them, casting dancing shadows across the familiar walls of their home. The delicate scent of roses and eucalyptus lingered faintly in the air, mingling with the comforting warmth still radiating from the hearth of the kitchen. The world outside seemed to hold its breath, quiet and still, as though honoring something sacred unfolding in that small, candle-lit apartment.

But the only warmth they truly felt was the steady, enduring fire they had always kindled in each other—the kind of warmth built over years of shared dreams, quiet comforts, and unconditional love.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads rested together, breath mingling as they lingered in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Y/N’s fingers gently traced the edge of Clark’s jaw, his touch still trembling from the overwhelming rush of emotion. Clark’s eyes opened slowly, his deep blue gaze shining with love, awe, and absolute certainty.

“I love you,” Clark whispered, voice thick with emotion, as though the words weren’t nearly enough but still everything he needed to say.

Y/N smiled through tears that still shimmered in his eyes, his own voice breaking. “I love you… so much.”

Their fingers entwined again, holding on as though they never intended to let go—and they didn’t. They wouldn’t. This was forever.

Their story—already filled with so much life, so many memories and shared adventures—was only just beginning.

And in the soft, golden glow of their home, surrounded by the quiet beauty they had built together, they stood hand in hand—ready to write the next chapter, together.

#dc x male reader #dc #superman #superman x male reader #clark kent x male reader #henry cavill x male reader #x male reader #fluff #clark kent #henry cavill

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hurtspideyparker · 11 months ago

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Thinking about restless spirit Tony Stark who just can't move on to the after life.

The first thing he does once he realizes he's an apparition is check on Pepper and Morgan. True to their word, they're okay. He watches them for a bit but feels this deep unrest pulling him away from the quaint home he yearns for.

There's a deep wrongness within him, some unfinished business that draws him back to New York.

He fears for a moment that it's Peter- but no, it can't be him. He'll be in Massachusetts right now, attending MIT as a freshman. There isn't a doubt in Tony's mind that his little genius is already making his mark.

Still, he follows the pull of his spirit to some dingy Queens' apartment he's never been to before.

It's deep in the night yet the apartment is empty. He looks around a bit, his body phasing through anything he attempts to touch.

It's small and dirty. There's old coffee cups on the desk, alongside a couple GED manuals. Great, the universe thinks he has unfinished business with some broke high school dropout.

He's pondering how he must have screwed up this kid's life; was it the Avengers, Stark Industries? Maybe his old playboy lifestyle is finally coming to bite him in the ass.

His contemplation is cut short by the sound of the window cracking open.

It strikes Tony for a moment that maybe he's stuck on Earth to be a guardian angel, Iron Man living on as some invisible protector against whatever creep is sneaking into people's windows. It doesn't make much sense considering the whole non-corporeal thing, but he still stiffens like he's ready for a fight.

He sees a man- no, a thing? A creature maybe, or an alien. Even in death Tony can't escape being one of Earth's mightiest heroes.

The creature is shrouded in darkness, something slick and bald crawling inside the room with terrifying grace and silence. It shuts the window with a soft kssssh as the seal is formed.

And then it pulls off its mask.

There, with the click of a table lamp, glows the face of Peter Parker.

He's definitely older now; sturdier shoulders, a rugged set of his jaw, hair tamed to something semi-professional. Still present, though, are those gentle brown eyes.

Nothing makes sense right now. Why is his kid here, in this apartment? Surely May wouldn't allow this. How many tenant laws does this place break? Where are his little sidekick friends? And on what planet would Peter Parker ever need a GED?

Tony's getting angry now, watching Peter move around the tiny space. He changes out of his costume and into pajamas. That spider suit isn't Tony's suit, it looks like cheap craft store fabric.

The kid opens a small freezer and pulls out the singular bag of peas that reside in there, pressing it against his ribs while he goes to pop some bread into a toaster.

Tony takes note of every glimpse he gains into Peter's life. Empty cabinets when he reaches for a jar of peanut butter. A fridge housing nothing but condiments and energy drinks when he goes to grab jam. A drawer with two spoons, no forks, and a paring knife which he pulls out and sticks into the strawberry jam jar just as the toast pops.

This is all so wrong.

Tony's outrage is coming to a rolling boil. Peter deserves the world- he was gonna give him the world. He couldn't wait to send Peter to MIT and show him off as his protégé. Tony was gonna fund his projects, tease him about pretty girls, maybe even see him step back from Spider-Man and act like a normal college kid. He wanted to see him flourish and grow up. It was all he could think about when Peter turned to dust between his fingers; he should be goofing off with his friends at a mathletes meeting, or building Legos, not fighting an intergalactic war.

Tony couldn't even conceive how much went wrong to end up here.

Alone. Broke. No school. He didn't even have his Stark suit to protect him. Everything that made him him has been stripped, leaving him in this shallow box with scuffed paint and hollow cabinets.

Tony can feel the violent rage burn deep in his spirit as he thinks about it.

This is why he's here. He can't let his boy live like this, wasting his potential to be some villain's punching bag. Where is everyone? Does no one care enough to stop this? The fury that builds in Tony is dangerous, wondering why a dead man is the only one who cares about the teen's life right now.

Without thinking Tony's hand reaches for the GED textbook, a mocking piece of work that laughs in his face, and throws it at the stupid little kitchenette that's mere feet from the bed.

It sails across the room with surprising speed before it's met with a thunk against Peter's palm, hand reaching out to catch it from the air before it collided with the toaster.

Oh.

Peter sets the book down and immediately picks up his web shooters, eyes darting furiously to every corner of the tiny apartment.

"Who's there?"

Tony steps a little closer but Peter's eyes just look right past him.

"C'mon Pete, c'mon. I'm here, I'm right here."

Tony looks for something else to grab. He swats at a hopefully empty coffee cup on the wooden desk, but his hand just passes right through it.

"Shit," the hope Tony felt waivers slightly and he tries again.

Nothing.

Peter is searching his apartment now, making sure the window is secure and feeling around every crevice, bookshelves, under the bed, in the top corners of the room. Searching for something nefarious, tech maybe.

Tony hits the cup, again and again, frustration building up and up and up till-

The cup flies across the room, Tony and Peter's eyes track its movements as it bounces against the ground and rolls to a stop.

"Shit," Peter breathes out.

Tony walks up to Peter now, standing before him.

"Figure it out. Think kid, you've met aliens, gods, magicians, surely ghosts aren't too far fetched."

Peter closes his eyes. His posture straightens, Tony watches him take a deep breath in as the hairs on his bare arms stand on end.

Peter's eyes blink open, and they're looking directly at Tony.

Tony smirks, "that's it."

Peter turns around and picks the cup off the ground, running to his desk with it and ripping a piece of lined paper out of a notebook and scribbling furiously on it.

Tony walks over as Peter places the cup in the center of the paper.

On the left is the word YES in bold print, NO on the right.

"Okay, okay okay. So, move the cup if, if you wanna talk. Um, is there someone in the room right now?"

Tony reaches for the cup, an intense glare as his fingertips graze it gently. It shifts minutely towards the YES.

"Shit! Shit. Sorry, whew. Okay. Are you friendly?"

Tony moves it to YES again.

"Are you a, um. Person? Like not an alien?"

YES.

"Are you wearing tech, invisibility suit or your molecules are uncalibrated or maybe it's a portal thing like, multiverse shit is happening again, a mirror universe! Oh, maybe a..."

Tony let's a frustrated sign. The kid is too practical, logical. He needs to think like a non-genius.

"... could be. Or, or maybe you're just a ghost-"

Tony perks up and immediately swats the cup, causing it to fly off the desk towards the YES.

"Oh. Oh that's... kinda normal. Or maybe really weird? I mean... I certainly have some ghosts in my past."

Peter picks the cup up and puts it back on the desk.

"Do I know you?"

YES.

"You said you were friendly, and I'm not getting any danger tingles from you. I'm gonna start with people I know are dead, cuz I just really hope you're not a... new ghost. Um. M-May?"

The boy's voice cracks on the word and Tony freezes. May is dead? Tony starts to fear that things are a lot more wrong than he previously thought.

Peter's breath catches and Tony realizes he's waiting, dying for an answer, and quickly pokes the cup towards NO.

Peter's shoulders sag.

"Uncle Ben?"

NO.

"T- Mr. Stark?"

Tony grins, "now we're getting somewhere!"

YES.

Tony is going to have his work cut out for him, but being here with Peter just feels right.

Peter breaks out into a matching smile.

"Wow, okay. I think I'm gonna need more paper," he says as the boy gets to work making a more complex system than YES and NO.

Tony watches on proudly, reminiscing about all the great Peter was and all the great he still is, despite his situation. Whatever this is, they'll figure it out.

Together.

#peter parker #tony stark #irondad and spiderson #spider man #iron man #marvel mcu #post no way home #peter parker angst

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pearlsinmyhair · 1 year ago

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NO BECAUSE LET ME TELL YOU WHY THIS HURTS ME.

lo’ak feels less than. neglected. misunderstood and unloved. he does not feel seen, which is the most important thing, the deepest form of connection, to the na’vi. he tries so hard to be what his father wants, what he sees neteyam get praised for being.

a warrior. a protector. a fighter.

and who’s the mightiest warrior around?

Toruk Makto. His dad.

so he goes around to the seasoned warriors and the elders of his clan, asking for stories of Toruk Makto, specifically how he dressed. and the morning before the raid, away from his family’s eyes, he paints on pigment.

he wears his fathers image with pride, flying straight into a battle like a warrior.

and he stands in front of his father, upset but understanding in some way. he’s apologetic, but he doesn’t regret his decoration.

that is, until Jake says

get that crap off your face.

because when jake looks his son in the face after the explosion, eyes unfocused and body trembling, he doesn’t see a warrior.

he sees a soldier of war, battered and bloody.

and his fourteen year old son should not be celebrating that.

he sees himself in the worst way possible. no elder tells the story of those that died in the War.

Trudy. Grace. Tsu’tey. Eytukan.

they sing the songs of their lives, sure. but their deaths are never the focus.

when jake sees his son, decorated as he was, he sees heroic ignorance. he sees a child playing war.

he sees crap.

and jake is so tired of war, so tired of fighting. but he misses the point of lo’ak’s efforts.

look at me, father. do you see me?

and jake, terrified and fraying at the edges after seeing his sons in the middle of an aerial attack, says

get that crap off your face.

#—⋆｡𖦹 ° you’re like a baby | making noise #i like including others in my pain #avatar #avatar the way of water #keeping up with the sully’s #jake sully #the way of water #atwow loak #loak sully #atwow jake #toruk makto #give them both a hug #and therapy #please

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lilisette · 1 year ago

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Late Night Introspection | Zayne/Reader

About: A drabble on Zayne's reasons for becoming a doctor. Was it for himself? Or was it.... for you?

Pairing: Zayne/Reader

Notes: Might be invalidated as the story goes on though haha... But I like the idea of Zayne deciding to be a doctor in order to protect you in ways you cannot.

“By helping her, Zayne… You help yourself.”

The words Grandma Josephine uttered on that fateful day still lingered in his mind, even hours after you’ve left the hospital. She made him promise to take care of you on her behalf, to be with you every step of the way as you lived your life.

Like a parent giving their blessing to a potential spouse.

Zayne ran his fingers through his tousled hair, mentally waving that stray thought away. Perhaps in a perfect world where tragedies such as these didn’t happen, she would’ve given him her blessing but… That was not the case now. And in a twisted way, if the disaster 14 years ago didn’t happen, he wouldn’t have met you.

14 years ago he made a decision, a decision that was made because of you.

He still remembered the day when you proclaimed to everyone that you will become strong and become a hunter so you won’t have to rely on someone and be afraid when another disaster strikes, that you will be someone who would protect everyone around them.

“I will be your protector one day! Just you guys watch!”

And in that moment, a thought appeared in the forefront of his mind–

“Then who protects the protector?”

He wasn’t the only one who had the same thought however. Caleb immediately interjected, snorting at your antics.

“Then who will protect you, dummy? What if you get injured?”

“I won’t! Because you two will have my back, right?”

“That’s not how it works–”

Indeed, that was not how the world worked. Even the mightiest hunter will fall, despite all the challenges they faced and overcame. And so when you turned to Zayne and asked him what he would be in the future, he simply said–

“A doctor.”

“Why?”

“Someone has to take care of you when you’re hurt.”

“I won’t get hurt!”

“Sure.”

So he did. The decision was made. He began his journey into the field of medicine and worked tirelessly to get here. Even though contact between you and him lessened over the years, he had never forgotten his decision, his promise to be by your side when you needed him the most.

As Zayne gained renown and respect within the field over the years, many research facilities and academic institutions had tried to lure him to have him work for them. He refused them all, however. He joined the field not for money, nor for fame and respect.

But for you.

“You’re good at not giving into temptation.” You jokingly said then. He had no intentions from straying from his path, especially not when you became a hunter despite all the heart conditions you had. He had specifically chosen to study cardiology because he was aware of the problems you had since the disaster. And while there are many capable doctors in said field, he just couldn’t rest easy.

The thought of you being transferred to someone else’s care made him apprehensive. Why should you rely on another’s care when he could do it instead?

When he knows you and your heart better than the others ever will?

The sudden ‘ping!’ resounded throughout his office, bringing him out of the recess of his thoughts. He picked up his phone and the corners of his mouth lifted when he saw who it was, contacting him this late at night.

“Sorry for calling so late earlier. I just needed to know the truth… I’m still reading through them.”

“Go to sleep, it’s late. The documents will still be there when you wake up.”

Just like he will when you wake up.

He will always be here, as long as you need him.

#love and deep space #love and deepspace #love and deep space zayne x reader #love and deepspace zayne x reader #i feel like this hc will be invalidated later on but welp #it is what it is #would anyone be interested in smut about these guys #cause man the art where theyre only in a towel like my god #i saw it and i was like ok i need them

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aemysbabyofficial · 1 year ago

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Sweet Sixteen; Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen!OC

Daemon Targaryen has eyes. He can see things. He can count. The times he catches his daughter's stray gaze find that of his brother's second son are one too many.

Warnings: Daemon being observant; doubt; parental worries/anxiety

Note: This is my very first House of the Dragon work, so please read and accept it with a grain of salt. I'm working this to be part one of series involving different characters and my main girl, Saela Targaryen. If you wish for the fic to be longer or more detailed, PLEASE comment (or heart...) because I love to hear feedback. Heehee:)

Sixteen times.

Daemon was sure of himself. He knew how to count. Hells, he was in charge of the mightiest battalions of men there was. Of course he needed to be sure of himself and know how to count beyond his fingers. But he was a soldier, a warrior to the bone, who could not show emotion. He could not allow his enemies the smallest chance to see him break.

A pure sixteen just now.

His eyes flitted across the table. His tongue glistened over his teeth as he leaned his body back. The wooden and metal armrests melded the leather of his top to his skin. The heat his body radiated burned in the cool evening, but any release of heat was stopped by the stone walls around him. His eyes, gleaming in the candles flame, could shoot out fire if he wished. To be uncomfortable here was an insult. Daemon fought and slayed thousands of men on countless battlefields, and he wasn’t the slightest uncomfortable there. Why now here did he feel trapped under the Red Keep’s stone walls?

Between the start of the Driftmark hearings and the dreadful dinner he was forced to sit at, Daemon counted sixteen times he caught his brother's second son staring at his youngest daughter. Bile from breaking his fast earlier sat pretty in his throat.

How coincidental! Daemon could have laughed at the epiphany he received. His third child, his sweet Saela, had just passed her sixteenth nameday not long ago and from word her sworn protector shared with him, Ser Jorys swore the young lady was celebrated around the Keep in the Greens tight arms and packed feasts.

From where Saela sat at the opposite end of the table, across the vast wood and candles sat the lilac trance the One-Eyed Prince. Daemon's shrugged his shoulders when he glanced back at his daughter. Among the chatter and movement of servants, her round eyes found the one eye. The corner of her lip trembled into a hesitant smile. Even if she tried to break eye-contact and laugh with Baela or Lucerys, Saela's attention always travelled back to the prince. Aemond had not said a word to either of them that day yet felt it in his childish stupor to throw manners aside and gouge the young lady right in front of her father. If Rhaenyra wasn't bracing his thigh under the table, Daemon would have picked the boy's remaining eye with his fork.

"Please just be cordial. For your brother, please."

His wife had begged him before the dinner. Yes, Rhaenyra understood the adrenaline of emotions were high after blood was spilled in the throne room. But if she wanted her father to dine in peace with his entire family, she had to tame her husband's lashes of fire first.

"I have not seen her in months. How I act is out of the question when it comes to her."

Rhaenyra only blew out her woes in a sigh before pacing around their room. “If you cause a mess, what do you think will happen to her?” She could only say and do so much for Daemon to understand. But as a mother herself, she could not imagine loosing any of her children to their enemy.

All Daemon did was scoff an answer. Of course I'll be cordial, the expression translated. He was cordial when he was finally reunited with his youngest daughter. He was cordial when Baela and Rhaena sung their wishes and roared their stories to their baby sister in the Red Keep's halls. He was cordial when the Princess Helaena lingered in the background, waiting for a clear moment to pounce on his child, steal and hide her under Green tapestries and shadows.

"Father."

Saela couldn't hold back her smile in front of him. The corners of Daemon's lips trembled when they held each other's hands. Before he could say a word, Saela flung her arms around his neck and clung to him. The train of her gold dress looked magical when he spun her around. But even in the Green's clothes, Saela was still his fiery daughter. No matter dress she wore, the flames of the dragon roared in her eyes, burning through all the manners the queen could shove on his daughter. She was pure, confident, and graced the empathetic heart no one in their family had the strength to hold.

Not once had he forgotten his sweet daughter's face when they had to part for Dragonstone. When he held her for the first time in years, his brows creased. Her cheeks had slimmed down. The neckline of her dress was higher than usual, scooping from her shoulders and across her collarbones. The mix of silver and gold hair she loved to wear open was braided like that of his brother's wife.

"Saela." Daemon kissed the crown of her head. He held her to his chest as if she would disappear in a second. In these cold walls, she could vanish before his very eyes. "I hope they've treated you well."

If it wasn't for the sister-wife of the drunken excuse called Aegon, Saela would have travelled back with her family and been reunited with her Grandsire she missed so much. Daemon loved that part of his daughter—the big heart she carried for everyone in their wretched family. Viserys’ nickname for her was an example of that. Hope of the House.

"But you know Helaena is different, father." Saela lamented the night before her family's departure. For the past days the lolly-minded Helaena had begged Saela to stay with her. "She is closer to me than Baela or Rhaena. And I like her, father. She is sweet, hilarious, and needs a friend. Would you want me to feel guilty for leaving her alone with her nagging overlo--I mean, with the Queen?"

O, Daemon hugged his Saela that night so hard. And though years have past the young lady has remained the same kind heart. Her eyes never casted doubt and her lips never told a lie. The woman she became would make her mother proud.

But something about her lilac stare, hooded by her curly eyelashes, and the smile tugging at the corner of her lips brushed Daemon the wrong way. And it all had to do with that wretched second-son. He was the real reason Saela remained in King's Landing; Daemon told himself. Viserys was too kind to hurt a poor child's heart. Aemond took his injury with a dramatic performance and begged his father for his cousin to stay trapped in the Red Keep. Added with Helaena's dalliances and urgent need for someone to watch her, Viserys probably gave in without second thought.

And now her eyes shine for the boy, not her father.

Her heart beats for another man. A man Daemon would never approve of.

"Father?"

Two voices melted into one snapped Daemon from his thoughts. When he looked up from the burning candle, Rhaena and Saela exchanged looks before glancing to their father.

"Do you want more wine, father?"

Daemon stiffly nodded before a servant refilled his cup. The drink was gone in a flash, coating the prince's already burned throat. The wine ceased to numb his mind and the clasp of Rhaenyra's nails in his thighs was more of a comfort than a reminder. Don't be rash.

How can a father stand by and watch his daughter fall into the pits of doom and not be rash?

The will to lunge his knife into the chest of his brother’s son was a dream Daemon would encounter nights upon nights. Aemond had fallen into the shadows the moment Daemon stepped foot into the keep. The boy hadn’t said a word to the prince and the prince hasn’t questioned where the boy was. It was like the moment they entered the Keep, both men knew of the dangerous game they were about to play—they danced to avoid each other while keeping their sights on the ultimate piece. Saela. The young lady had fallen into a game she never asked to play.

Daemon swore to save his daughter from doom and heartbreak. If he had to bare Dark Sister, Daemon would lay his life if it meant getting rid of the One-Eyed prince. Nothing in this world was to precious when compared to his daughter Saela, not even his own life. The world would have to bend its knee and shed its ocean-wide tears for mercy before Daemon would give her hand to any man--even if it included Aemond Targaryen himself.

#house of the dragon #house of the dragon x oc #house of the dragon x targaryen!oc #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x saela targaryen #aemond angst #aemond one eye #hotd aemond #aemond fanfiction #aemond x oc #hotd

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totally-percy-jackson · 6 months ago

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Percy Jackson at your disposal

@wise-girltm - Annabeth Chase, MY GIRLFRIEND wise girl 💙💙💙💙💙💙

@goat-boi-underwood - Grover Underwood, my telepathic bro

@fire-boy-officialofficial - Leo Valdez, his a FIREBALL, my favorite third wheel, and my go to karaoke partner

@king-of-the-ghosts - Nico Di Angelo, ghost boi and master of gaslighting

@sunshine-and-socialanxiety Will Solace, dude shines brighter then my future

@miss-beauty-queen - Piper Mclean, siren of the Argo II and my girllll bro who knows what’s up

@jason-the-kabob - Jason Grace, did someone say bromance???

@gem-stone-queen - Hazel Levesque, sweetest bean on earth protect at all costs

@iguanaurwayoutofhandcuffs - Frank Zhang, half man half fury and protector of the sweetest bean

@rayna-dontcallmemerara - Reyna Ramirez-Arellano, definition of girl boss

@silenasblogies - Silena Beuregard, miss sunshine and rainbows but beware of her guard dog Clarisse

@offical-darkon-slayer - Clarisse La Rue, overly awesome at making you run, scream, and piss your pants

@i-can-see-stars-agian - Zoe Nightshade, the dam huntress

@not-so-dead-sister - Bianca Di Angelo, the bold, the brave, the great huntress

@fucking-alone-for-an-eternity - Calypso, the girl from that island

@kit-kit-flowers - Katie, my favorite flower girly

@bestdemigodarcherever - Kayla, the Katniss Everdeen of Apollo cabin

@yes-im-aphrodite - Aphrodite, gods get your nose out of my love life

@yes-im-hades - Hades, the man down stairs

@my-sister-and-the-moon - Artemis, she don’t need no man wait alexa play The Man by Taylor Swift

@amusing-little-things - Amphitrite Nereidia, my father’s wife and queen of the ocean 🌊

@by-the-decree-of-my-crown - Zeus, the mightiest ass hole him self stormy mcego🖕

#pjo roleplay #percy jackson #the heroes of olympus #percy is yapping #rp percy jackson

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albrakia · 1 year ago

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The Living Gods

Vivec, the warrior-poet god and Master of Morrowind, is perhaps the most popular of the Three. He also tends to be the most public, and the people love him. His visage appears both beautiful and bloody at the same time, and he has made violence into an art form. Vivec the warrior-poet has darker aspects associated with primitive, ruthless impulses, such as lust and murder. Almalexia, also known as Mother Morrowind, is the patron of healers and teachers. She is the Healing Mother, the source of compassion and sympathy, the protector of the poor and the weak. Almalexia embodies the best of Dunmeri culture and purpose. She exemplifies mercy, and her wisdom guides the Dark Elves in all their daily affairs. Sotha Sil, God of the World-Mechanism, is the least known and most hidden of the Tribunal gods. Sometimes referred to as the Mystery of Morrowind, he is a Magus and the patron of artificers and wizards. Perhaps the mightiest wizard in the land and certainly the wisest, he is considered to be the Light of Knowledge and the inspiration behind craft and sorcery.

#The Elder Scrolls #The Elder Scrolls Online #ESO #almalexia #vivec #sotha sil #video game #gif

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nekohime19 · 5 months ago

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Heart behind the lie # 13 : end of the dream

Wukong reveal the truth

TW : Depressive thoughts

He was supposed to be a pillar, the weapon wielded against the strong, made of the sturdiest stones, and filled with the mightiest of blood. He was a King, the protector of a land, of a tribe, the defender of the monkeys. He was a sage, the one that gained enlightenment, that stood equal to heaven, and some would even say above it. Sun Wukong wasn't supposed to be this frail, to flee like a coward the second his lies unraveled. To hide away, curled inside of a cave, veiled by the raging storm and the blooming thunder.

But it didn't matter how many times he tried to lie to himself, Sun Wukong knew that under all his fancy monikers, all his empty glory, laid a bleeding heart, weak enough to shatter at the slightest of touch. He wished for his heart to be of gold, like many believed it was. For this pitiful, crying organ to be coated in liquid metal, so it could be still, and devoid of unnecessary feelings. But his heart was made of blood, and he was unable to harden it enough to keep fear at bay.

He was doomed to live at the whims of his own feelings.

Sun Wukong was old, tired by time itself, too tired to fight against the onslaught of tears surging in his eyes. He didn't have the strength to keep them inside of him, he didn't have the will to repress the feelings tormenting his heart. So he cried as if he was dying, maybe some part of him was, the part that basked in the warrior's fondness, for he knew it would be nothing but wishful thinking from now on. Macaque would never treat him that way again, he would disappear in his shadows with a scornful face (maybe he already did), and his love would remain unattainable. It would've been better, perhaps, if he never knew how the other smiled, how his fingers felt in his fur, how his purr sounded like, how he woke up after the first rays of light. It would've been better if he kept fooling himself with lies, if he never knew the shape of the warrior's heart.

How was he supposed to live with this longing?

The sobs racking his throat were like earthquakes, they seized his entire body, made him tremble and cower in the shadows of the cave. He couldn't recognize his own voice, the wails sounded wrong, something unnatural, something that shouldn't pass his lips, that shouldn't even exist. His heart hurt, abused by his own feelings, eaten by fear, drowned by sorrow, pierced by anger, the pathetic organ struggled to even beat properly.

Sun Wukong dived further in his knees, face hidden by his arms, tail tied around his own leg, he looked like a shaking newborn, afraid of the air itself, of the world around him, wanting to curl and take the least space possible. Some selfish part of him wanted to disappear, to never face the disappointment of his mentee, and of his ex-best friend. He prayed for someone to wipe away his whole existence, to let him rest, to let him bask in the peace he had longed for all his life. But no-one was kind enough to fulfill his wish. It wasn't surprising in itself, which god would be mad enough to lean over the pathetic monkey drowning in his own tears and decide to grant him mercy? He was doomed to wallow in pain until someone found him, a fitting punishment for the fool he was.

He spent hours there, not even moving an inch, curled upon himself as if everything around him was made to hurt him. He found himself pathetic, to react like that, to cry and shiver as if he was a cub. It was like he was back inside of his mind, back where he cowered behind his walls, unable, unwilling to face the world. How the mighty have fallen, what would the ones that admired him would say? What would the ones that feared him would say? He was not the gold coated legend they hoped for, he was not the ruthless mightiest monster they despised, everything about him was a well-made lie. He was nothing but a monkey, and he hated that, he wanted to be more than that. He wanted glory and power, he wanted love and wisdom, he wanted to be seen, to exist in the eyes of others. But his nature always caught up with him.

In the end, this is what he was : a scared beast.

"Monkey King?" The sage jolted, he looked around and his breath hitched, MK was there. The kid looked like a mess, soaked wet, eyes reddened by uncried tears and breath stuttering. The King sprang on his feet and wiped away his tears, trying to look like everything was fine, when everything felt like it was crumbling. MK sat beside him and took a few seconds to catch his breath. "I was so worried, Macaque is still looking for you."

The King gulped, trying to gather himself, and failing to do so. Everything around him felt wrong.

"Are you…are you awake ?"Mumbled the kid, he put his head on his knees, eyes lost in the storm. "Not like, awake as in you just woke up but… are you actually there?" MK's voice was tentative, as if voicing his desire any louder would be a sin. It shattered Sun Wukong's heart to see him so meek. He hated himself for daring to make his kid worry, he hated himself for daring thinking of lying again, for being happy that his lies were not fully discovered. "Maybe I'm just delusional, but I swore I saw… I swore I saw your magic being all calm and controlled, like it was when you were… there. It was a mess these last months after the LBD fight, but now it's… normal." MK looked at him, gaze searching, he turned away after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence."Forget it, it's nothing, I'm just desperate."

"I’m sorry." Croaked the sage, voice rough, abused by his prolonged silence. Unable to keep lying after seeing his mentee hurt this much. It felt good, in a way, to apologize for his lies, it soothed something inside of him.

"You're really–" MK lightened up as if someone just gifted him the moon. His joyous face dimmed slightly after a few seconds. "Did… did you just wake up or…" and this was the dooming question, wasn't it. But Sun Wukong didn't want to lie, he lied enough to this boy.

"I have been for two weeks and a few days." The silence following his confession was daunting, it was as if MK was trying to process his words, to understand the meaning behind them, it was unnerving.

"Two weeks ?" Whispered the boy, gaze dimmed by thoughts.

"I…" the sage gulped, words on the tip of his tongue. But admitting his own weakness, especially to the boy he was supposed to protect, was daunting. "It felt good to be… cared for."

"Good? Why do you mean–"the kid cut himself, eyes widening in realization. "Gods, you’re both messes."

"I'm sorry."

"I…Monkey King you have to tell Macaque. He's still searching for you, he doesn't-"

"He doesn't know I'm back." Cut the sage with a tight voice. He felt disgusted with himself to ever be happy about this fact, about selfishly keeping the warrior in the dark. It was comforting to know Macaque didn't learn of his lies through another, but it also meant he would be the one to tell him. And even if some part of him wanted to keep lying, mayhaps to pretend he only just woke up, he knew it would only hurt them more. In his long years of living, he learnt that the truth wasn't something you could hide forever.

"No…"Sighed the kid. "You gotta tell him, it’ll be worse if you wait, trust me."

"Yeah, yeah I know. I never wanted to lie for so long, but he was so… It’s been a long time since he was like this with me."

"Hm, well maybe you can try to patch things up with him." Suggested the kid with a hopeful gaze.

"It's not gonna work, bud."

"You didn't even try."

"I know it's useless. He hates me, he doesn't want to be here."

"And how are you so sure about that?" Replied MK. "He treats you so well now, it has to mean something."

"He… doesn't know that I'm me, it's not the same."

"So you think he's just gonna… disappear if you reveal the truth?"

"Essentially yes. He made it very clear that Flower Fruit Mountain is not his home and that he doesn't want to be here." Mumbled the King, mind drifting to all the times Macaque came to demand blood.

"Not his ho- how can this misunderstanding even exist !?" Groaned the kid. "Look, I'm not supposed to tell you that, and Macaque will be super mad if he learns of this, but trust me when I say that Macaque wants to be here. If anything he's afraid you're going to kick him out. You want him to stay, and he wants to stay, you see where I'm going with this ?"

" I somehow doubt he feels like that."

"Come on! You're kidding me. Just try, besides you can't keep lying, you know that, right ?"

"I know, it's just, maybe it'll be easier for everybody if I keep lying." Sighed the sage.

"Monkey King you… you know you can't keep lying forever, Macaque is gonna catch up, and he's gonna be more mad if he realizes what’s going on without you telling him."

"Sorry." Mumbled the King, he turned away, unable to gaze at the kid's hopeful face.

"Look, I won't tell you things will turn out fine, because I honestly don't know how things will turn out. But if you're honest with him, I'm sure there will be hope."

"I mean, how can I even be honest?" Sadly chuckled the golden monkey, he rose slightly and cleared his throat. "“Hey Macaque, so you know the last two weeks you think I was behaving? Turns out I was awake the whole time! Also I love your belly scratches, you think you can give me some now?”, it's not gonna work."

"Okay, yeah, maybe don't talk about the belly scratches, not now." Giggled the kid, his dimmed smile slightly lightened up by his foolish act.

"I mean those belly scratches are soooo good." Chuckled the sage, happy to see his kid being a bit more joyous.

"The Monkey King, addicted to belly scratches."

"To Macaque's belly scratches, nuance." Corrected the sage, MK barked a laugh, eyes crooked like moon crescents. Sun Wukong smiled softly, he sighed when he recalled the memories that flooded him when he pushed the kid away. He hoped they weren't true, he hoped they were nothing but twisted illusions conjured up by his sick mind. "Hey bud, did I ever…hurt you… when I was “asleep”?" MK flinched, arms immediately tightening.

"No…" Sun Wukong knew it was a lie, but he decided to not prie for now, this sort of thing needed delicacy, and he was too emotionally vulnerable to deal with it.

"Can I have… a last few hours before I tell him ?" Asked the sage with a frail voice, almost unheard.

"You know this will be harder if you-"

"I know, I just wanna show him a place. And I'm not sure he will still be there if I…"

"Okay… But I will call Macaque tomorrow morning." Warned the kid, trying to look stern, and failing at it.

"Yeah, thanks bud."

"Your welcome, and Monkey King…"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad you're back." Mumbled MK as he threw himself at the sage and tightly hugged him, almost as if Wukong could disappear if he didn't hold him tight enough.

"…thanks, I'm glad to be back too. I'm sorry I left you alone." Whispered the sage as he nuzzled the boy, losing himself in the familiar scent. Despite all his lies, all his hurting, this was the truth. He was glad to be back, he was glad to be able to hug his kid.

They spent a long time there, tightly glued to one another, hidden in the shadows as the sky, outside, cleared itself. Macaque found them after a bit, fur all over the place, breath struggling to pass his lips. MK awkwardly loosened his hold on the King and backed away a little.

"You're both safe." Sighed the macaque, tension fading away from his body.

"Yeah, hm, I'm gonna go home." Suddenly blurted the boy, Macaque looked at him with a raised eyebrow and MK stuttered. "I have… things to do? Anyway, I'll call you tomorrow morning! Promise. Love ya, bye!" Screamed the boy as he ran outside, throwing a thumbs up at his mentor on his way.

"This was...weird." Mumbled the macaque, he turned towards the sage and narrowed his gaze. "Why did you leave like that? You're okay?"

The sage took a deep breath, he chirped, a soft thing, meant to be reassuring, but it came out shaky and unsure. Macaque crouched in front of him and carefully looked for any sign of injury, Sun Wukong eagerly leaned in each touch, knowing very well it could be the last time he ever felt his moon warm hands on him. The sage tied his tail on the warrior's wrist and guided him outside. There was a place Macaque needed to see, a place Sun Wukong avoided for eons, somewhere hidden, inside his mountain, only tended by clones.

Macaque followed him, confused, letting out two or three stuttering chirps here and there. But the sage was unrelenting, he needed to guide the warrior there, he needed him to see that place before telling the truth (before watching him disappear forever).

They walked through forests and meadows, reaching one of the mountain outskirt. Macaque eyes narrowed the more they walked, perhaps recognizing the place, it was one of his favorites after all (before it was drowned by fire). Sun Wukong has spent a lot of time trying to save the place, replanting trees and healing the soil, trying to give it the splendor that it once possessed. Sun Wukong slowed a little when they began to reach the orchard, his own heart beating frantically, his steps stuttering more and more. He came here often, before the attack in heaven, spending days lazing around in the trees, eating the fresh picked fruits. It was one of the first places that fell prey to Erlang's fire (according to his subjects), the place where they suffered the most casualties.

The beautiful thriving orchard became a cemetery of monkeys. When Sun Wukong granted immortality to his subjects he foolishly forgot that newer subjects will always be born, ones that wouldn't be able to escape death. He always felt like he failed them. How did they feel ? Them that only heard about their King through legends and tales, that heard about his gentleness, about his braveness, about his foolishness. Them that looked at the immortal elders with awe, hoping that the King would return to grant them the same blessing. How did they feel when death fell upon death ? Did they think he abandoned them ? Did they think they were not worthy of immortality compared to the elders ?

When he learned of Erlang's fire, of the deaths of hundreds of monkeys he didn't even know, he realized that he was not fit to be the King of monkeys. He granted immortality without realizing his troop would never be static, that life would never stop flowing, and as such, if he gave immortality to each newborn, a time would come when the mountain would not be enough to sustain them. He divided his troop between the immortal ones, doomed to be outside of nature itself, of watching the others die, and the mortal ones, doomed to question why they weren't the chosen ones, to doubt the love their King held for them. How did you explain to a dying monkey that you couldn't grant them immortality ? How did you explain the lack of resources, the lack of places? How did you explain that their death was needed when you could see the fear inside of their eyes ? He was unable to provide for all of them. His youthful mistake would follow him forever, crushing him, reminding him he wasn't fit to be King but he didn't have the luxury to flee the crown.

The topic of immortality was taboo inside of his troop for a reason. Sun Wukong made sure to be there for each death, watching each little sun burn out, but he wasn't brave enough to be there for each burial. This orchard was a cemetery of his failures (Ba tree was somewhere here), and the only thing he could do was to keep it untouched and everlasting, a sumptuous bed for the bravest of his little suns.

The orchard was guarded by two clones, they sat in front of the colorful trees and the flowering soil, weapons in hands. They let them pass when they caught the gaze of the King. Macaque was silent, following in his footsteps quietly, perhaps only realizing what this place had become. Each tree was well-loved and brimming with life, each carved with a name, sometimes with light-hearted drawings, or the paws of a particular monkey (one close to the deceased). The orchard wasn't little, it extended in all directions, a forest of peace made for rest.

Sun Wukong guided him inside of the orchard until they stopped before the oldest tree,the first Sun Wukong planted, a mango tree.

Incense sticks were lightened and planted at the roots of the tree, something not unusual here, the place was veiled by the smell of flowers and incense, surely the work of one of the clones that were made to tend to the place. Macaque approached the tree and sat in front of it, Sun Wukong sat at his side.

“BELOVED WARRIOR-LIU'ER MIHOU” was carved in the tree trunk, besides the handprints of a lot of monkeys (his own lost among the others). There was a time when Mihou's corpse was buried there, Sun Wukong was granted time after his warrior's death to return home and bury him. The corpse was no longer there when his journey ended, stolen by another. He had been enraged then, flowed by burning feelings, at the time he decided to guard this place with his life, he made clones and ordered them to guard the orchard at all costs.

He wondered now if his warrior crawled out of this place when the witch revived him, or if she stole his corpse and buried him somewhere else to prepare her wretched plans. He wondered if she stole the comfort this grave could offer, if she dumped him in the filthiest of places and made him believe nobody, not even his own troop, would organize a burial for him.

"This is… my grave." Mumbled the macaque as he traced the carving with shaking hands. "I… I never knew I had… "Sun Wukong guessed his questions were answered by that trembling whisper, he leaned over Macaque, head falling on his shoulders, tail curling protectively around him.

Macaque took a shaking breath and quietly watched the tree, awe filling his face.

"Was I buried here? I didn't crawl out of here… it would've been nice." And Sun Wukong wondered from where he crawled. He hoped the witch dumped him in, at least, a decent place. But knowing her, and her way of feeding hatred, she probably threw him in the vilest places, made him believe the sage didn't care about his rest, that the troop didn't care about his rest. She always had been the kind to hurt the mind, to tear it until it bends to her will, this wouldn't be out of character for her. Sun Wukong pressed further into the warrior, almost tempted to talk, to reveal the truth, but he didn't want to fight here, not in this sacred place.

They spent the rest of the day here, quietly watching the incense sticks burn out, until a clone approached them to plant new, fresher ones. Sun Wukong held Macaque tightly, not daring to even utter the slightest of chirp. Macaque hold was weak, but it was there, he clinged to his arms, hand loosely buried in the fabric of his shirt, and it meant the world to the sage.

It was in the silence, in the quietness of the place, only disturbed by the soft steps of wandering clones, that they dared to cry. The sage didn't even know what he was grieving. Was it the friendship he knew was lost for eternity? Or the friend that became a stranger? Macaque was right besides him, but he felt strangely lonely, nothing could fill the void inside of him.

He avoided the thought of Liu'er Mihou for so long, everything seemed to come down at the same time, every love-filled words unuttered, every thunder-like roars unscreamed, every poisonous insults unsaid, they all flowed upon his cheeks.

He realized two things at the same time :

The one he loved, Liu'er Mihou, was dead.

And he wanted to love the one who lived, the Six-eared Macaque.

He knew what he saw of Macaque wasn't everything, he knew the scornful words and spiteful acts were a part of him as much as the sweet promises and the tender touches. He knew two and a half weeks were too little to really see someone for who they truly were. There were a lot of things he was curious about Macaque, and he knew some parts of him probably already fell (the part that fell for Mihou swooning at the similarities, the parts craving care falling for the slightest kindness), but he was ready to try.

It was cruel to realize this now, and he was almost tempted to lie for one more day, only to bask in the revelation. But he owed the warrior the truth, he couldn't postpone this, not anymore.

They left the orchard after a bit, each not commenting on the other tears. Sun Wukong stopped the warrior before he could retreat to the shack, the sage didn't want to have this conversation in a closed place. They settled in a quiet place, away from the orchard, the sun falling behind the sea in the back.

Macaque opened his mouth, perhaps worried, but he shut himself up when Wukong rose on his two feets, finally seeing eye to eye with the warrior.

"You're…" Began the warrior.

"I'm healed." Replied Sun Wukong, he took a deep breath and looked at his moon, diving in his gaze.

"I see… since when ?"

"Two and a half weeks." Macaque raised an eyebrow, probably surprised by his statement. He frowned, anger blooming inside of his gaze.

"Two and half weeks?" Repeated the macaque, each word carefully mouthed.

"Yeah… I…"

"Why didn't you tell me anything ?"

"I… it felt nice." And even if it was the truth, it was probably the worst thing to say, Macaque gaze hardened, his whole face made of steel.

"What, it felt nice to take me for a fool ?" Scoffed the warrior, voice quiet, but rising.

"No I… I never intended to hurt you, I just… it felt good"

"What felt good?" Sighed the warrior, face falling, as if he was defeated. "It felt good to see me fretting? I'm… Gods you saw…you weren't supposed to see me like this. Two weeks ? I'm such an idiot to be this easily fooled-"

"It wasn't like this!" Snapped the sage, his own voice rising. "It wasn't like this…I just…you were so gentle…"

"Did you even think of the kid ? Of how much he worried ? Of how you left him alone?"

"Of course I did!"

"But your own selfish desires are above everything, aren't they? Same old Wukong." Scorned the warrior, arms tightly wrapped around him, eyes glistening with tears. "Did you ever think about what I felt? How much it was-"

"How much it disgusted you!?" Cut the sage with a heaving chest. "Yeah, I thought about it! All the time, in fact. Does it disgust you that much to know the one you cared about for the last weeks was me and not some feral monkey ? Why are you so gentle with me when you're sure I won't remember a thing !? Why can't you be gentle when I'm awake…"

"Are you seriously asking that!? It should be easy to understand. Why do you think I'm not kind with you, hm, Wukong ?"

"I don't know!" Screamed the King, surprising them both. "I don't know anymore…" he repeated, more quietly. "I thought I knew Macaque, I thought you were nothing but a coward, a cruel and spiteful shadow of who you once were. But how am I supposed to believe that now that I know the way you wipe away my tears !? I'm not the one who did that, I already accepted that you would hate me forever, so seeing you care that much it just… it confused me. It felt so good, and you were so kind, and I loved it. I don't know anything anymore. Can you just…can you stay?"He asked, voice shaking, head bowed. Afraid of the answer, of the scornful reply Macaque would throw at him. Gods, he's going to laugh at his face and disappear with a flick of wrist, and this is going to be their last talk-

"… I can stay ?" His voice was so frail Sun Wukong almost didn't hear it.

"Yes! Yes you can, t-this is your home." Immediately replied the sage, he lifted his face, a tentative hope blooming in his eyes.

Macaque turned away, refusing to look at him. It hurted, he wanted to reach him, to hold him like he did mere hours before, but he couldn't. The space between them now wider than ever.

"Don't follow me." Spat the warrior, he fell in one of his shadows, and the sage held his breath, only to let it go when he was certain that he could still feel the other presence on his mountain.

Macaque didn't leave. Even if he was mad, even if he probably wouldn't want to see him again, he was still here. And it hurt to think he wouldn't be hugged anymore, he wouldn't be cared for, held like he was precious. It hurt to realize he would fall asleep alone, it wounded him to realize the dream he lived in for those last two weeks was coming to an end. But Macaque didn't leave, and for now, it was enough. It had to be if Sun Wukong didn't want to fall in despair.

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#shadowpeach #lmk #lego monkie kid #shadowpeach fanfic #six eared macaque #lmk macaque #lmk shadowpeach #sun wukong #Heart behind the lie

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