#and people kept talking over him and for him

[dark-night-hero]

Imagine being Sylus' non-mc fiance. Hidden Child au. part2

Imagine meeting you was never part of the plan.

Imagine he walked into that club on a whim. He hadn't stepped into a place like that in years. It wasn't his kind of scene anymore. But Mephisto had been running his mouth about something in Zone N109's underbelly, about a person worth watching. So Sylus went. Not because he cared. But because something about the way Mephisto kept talking made him want to shut him up.

Imagine seeing you. He didn't catch your name. Not at first. Just a blur of tired eyes, practiced laughter, that hollow sound people wore like armor. You looked like someone who had learned how to survive not to live, just survive.

Imagine he wasn't supposed to get involved. But then you looked at him. And he stopped. Completely.

Imagine he didn't know why he brought you home. He didn't know why he stayed after the first night when it had always been just one and done. But when the sun started to rise and you stirred under the sheets, Sylus found himself watching you breathe. And before he could stop himself, he said the words. "I need a lover."

Imagine you looked half asleep, confused. Still dreaming, maybe. But you said yes. And Sylus felt something tighten in his chest.

Imagine he didn't understand it. He didn't want to understand it. But something about the way you agreed so quietly, so unflinchingly felt like the beginning of something he couldn't name.

Imagine maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was fate. But he gave you his name. Left you his black card. Told you to quit your job and wait for him. And two nights later you did.

Imagine years passed. Sylus kept you close. You were at his side at galas, exhibitions, political dinners. You smiled when you had to, played your role to perfection. Wore everything he gave you. The diamonds, the silk, the title.

Imagine you never asked for more. But he saw it. In your silences. In the way your eyes lingered when he wasn't looking. You didn't just play the part. You were waiting. For something. For him. And Sylus, heartless, calculated Sylus didn't know how to give you what you wanted. So he gave you what he could. Everything but love.

Imagine the night it changed.

Imagine you were curled up on the couch in his office, asleep again. Waiting for him to finish work. The storm outside was relentless, thunder shaking the windows. But you were still. Peaceful. And something broke inside him.

Imagine he stood there for too long, staring. Realizing. If you ever left, he wouldn't survive it. So he walked over. Pressed a kiss to your forehead. Sat beside you and, for once, stayed until morning.

Imagine he always thought he'd know when it happened that falling in love would feel like lightning, or fire, or blood. Something violent. Something impossible to ignore. But it didn't.

Imagine it felt like this. You standing in his office, biting your lip, eyes lowered in guilt because you touched that painting. The one he told you not to. The only thing in the room he had once considered untouchable. "You touched it?" You flinched. "No- well yes..." He narrowed his eyes. "What did I tell you-?" "It was an accident! I didn't mean to-" You cut yourself off, lips pressing shut. As if you were swallowing more than just words. Something about the way your hands curled into fists. Like you were protecting someone. You always did that. Even when it wasn't smart.

Imagine in that moment, Sylus knew it wasn't just the painting. It was you covering for those goddamn twins, wasn't it? He should've been mad. He was mad, in a way. But not at the painting. Not at you.

Imagine he was angry at the part of him that hesitated. The part of him that looked at you. Wide eyed, apologetic, still standing in the same room with the same warmth you always carried and couldn't bring himself to yell. He didn't want to hurt you. Not even with words. And that scared the hell out of him.

"I see." You looked up. "Look, Sylus- I'm really sorry-" "Get out." You froze. "Don't come into my office for a while." Your shoulders dropped. And for the first time in years, Sylus regretted something immediately after saying it. Because he saw how it broke you a little. And that was when it hit him.

Imagine he loved you. Not because you were perfect. Not because you played your role flawlessly. But because you touched the one thing he thought he'd never let go of and instead of rage, all he felt was fear.

Imagine the fear that you might think he loved someone else more. Fear that he might lose you over it. Fear that the past might have the power to hurt you. He sat with that fear for days. For a week, exactly. And then he removed the painting.

Imagine a week later, you walk into the office again. He barely looked up from his desk, but he saw you pause. Saw your eyes search the wall. "Where's the painting?" You blurted, and then instantly winced. Sylus leaned back in his chair. Calm. Controlled. Heart beating faster anyway. "I had it removed." You looked at him like he just confessed to murder. "What? Why?"

"It doesn't fit the style of the room." He said smoothly, voice level. "Don't you think?" You blinked. "We- well yes..." His office was all deep wood and shadow, the kind of place people whispered about. The painting never matched. He just kept it because... Because it used to matter. But not more than you. "Shall we go look for a replacement?" You blinked again. "I'm sorry- what?" "The painting. Let's find another one."

Imagine he didn't tell you it was because of you. That he couldn't stand the idea of you walking into this room and being reminded you didn't come first. He just stood, adjusting his cufflinks. "Also, Luke and Kieran said there's a new restaurant nearby." "...Sylus, are you asking me out?" There was a pause. A long one. Then. "Aren't you my fiancée?" He asked, brow raised like it was the most natural thing in the world. "There's no need to state the obvious." Your jaw dropped. Again. Sylus almost smiled.

Imagine Sylus realizing quietly, fully that he would burn his past to the ground if it meant you stayed. That this wasn't about paintings, or power, or control. It was about you. He loved you. And for the first time in his life he wasn't afraid of it.

Imagine the way the past came back. MC. They said she was alive. Impossible. Sylus remembered the grave. The cold hand. The dirt beneath his nails. The silence that came after her death. The way it hollowed him out. So who the hell was this woman claiming to be her?

Imagine he didn't tell you. He couldn’t. Things between you had just started to shift. You smiled more. Laughed around him. Touched him without flinching. You were finally letting him in. And he was finally reaching back. He couldn't risk losing that. So he investigated alone.

Imagine letting MC in. He didn't believe her.

but Imagine if pretending to care meant uncovering the truth then so be it. He let her believe. Let her call him love again. Let her think she was winning.

Imagine all while keeping you in the dark. Because you were different. You were real. And if he could just end it cleanly, silently... He could return to you. He could fix what he hadn't even realized was broken.

Imagine she asked him to kill you. Just like that. Like it was nothing. His blood went cold. She said it sweetly. Too sweetly. Like a test. Like she already knew what he'd say. Sylus laughed. Told her it was already done. That it was handled. She believed him. But in his mind, he was already planning her death.

Imagine by the time he had taken care of it, it was too late. You found out. You ran. And Sylus had tore the city apart looking for you. Sent his men. Called in every favor. Burned connections he'd spent decades building. But you were gone. Gone like smoke. Gone like vengeance.

Imagine he would've traded everything just to see you again. Just to tell you it wasn't what it looked like. That he loved you. That it had always been you.

Imagine nearly dying changed nothing. There was a hit. A trap. A bullet in the spine. And then, nothing. Four years. Four fucking years in a coma. And when he woke up, everything had moved on. Except him.

and Imagine you were still gone.

Imagine being dragged to a gala. Some formal garbage he didn't want to be part of. The suit was old. The tie loose. The glass of wine untouched. He was halfway out the door when something small collided with his leg. A child. Crying. Hood pulled low. Tiny hands over his forehead.

Imagine Sylus didn't care for kids. Never had. But something made him stop. Made him kneel. Made him look. And when the boy looked up with wide red eyes. Sylus stopped breathing.

Imagine realizing the truth. His eyes. Your hair. His blood. His son.

Imagine you appeared. Frantic. Breathless. Alive. You called to the boy. Rushed to him. Knelt beside him and checked his hands, his face. Pulled down the hood. And Sylus couldn't move. You looked at him. Really looked. And didn't recognize him.

"Sorry." You said gently. "I hope he didn't give you trouble...?" He answered, voice cracked. "Sylus." You blinked. "Right. Sylus." Like it was nothing more than a name. "Then if you'll excuse us." You added, guiding the boy by the hand. And you walked away.

Imagine the way Sylus stood there for minutes. Hours. Maybe years.

Imagine he had murdered kings. Crushed empires. Ripped the heart out of anyone who dared touch what was his. But for the first time. He didn't know what the hell to do. Because he had just seen everything he had ever loved and you looked at him like he was already dead.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: I deliver his pov.

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ but he doesn't like me, does he?

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ clark kent x reader

synopsis : There was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain: Clark Kent didn’t like you. Not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. But you could feel it. His body language and attitude gave everything away. Your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?

cw : smut, unprotected sex, coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, insecurities, height difference, chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 12.7k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist ⋆ ao3

It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.

Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.

He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.

That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.

It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.

Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.

At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.

You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.

Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.

“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.

Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.

“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.

You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.

Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.

It had been a long day.

You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.

Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before. 

And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.

From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.

Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.

Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.

“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.” 

After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.

You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.

Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.

The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.

Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.

“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.

How had he known?

He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you. 

But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?

You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all. 

What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.

When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.

Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.

“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.

For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring. 

But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.

That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.

A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.

You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.

You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.

When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?

It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.

“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”

You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee. 

Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.

Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.

“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.

You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.

You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.

God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.

“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.

“He’s just polite,” you used to argue. 

“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”

And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.

“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence. 

He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”

Oh.

You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.

But of course Clark did.

You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”

He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.

“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.

Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.

You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.

Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free. 

Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.

“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.

Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.

You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.

Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing… 

You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.

The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.

Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?

So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.

Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.

Clark.

Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.

He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.

He looked good. Too good.

“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.

He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”

You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped. 

“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”

Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”

He’d been different with you lately.

Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.

A start.

And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”

Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home.  Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”

His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.

“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”

You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.

Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.

You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.

Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.

The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.

Solid. Warm. Safe.

Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.

“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?

What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.

You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.  

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.

And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.

Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.

You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.

Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.

What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.

Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.

Maybe Jimmy was right?

“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.

The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.

Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.

Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.

You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.

Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.

The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.

You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?

You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.

“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.

You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”

“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.

But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.

“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”

You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.

Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”

“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”

He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”

You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”

“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”

“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”

Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”

“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”

You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe. 

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”

You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”

That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.

“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”

You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.

“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.

It felt like you knew him.

Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.

But the thought lingered.

“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”

You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.

Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.

“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”

There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.

That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.

But where?

After that night, Clark started acting... different.

Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.

He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.

It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly. 

You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.

Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.

Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.

He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.

It was a weird dynamic.

Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.

Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.

Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered. 

But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.

Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.

Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.

And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.

You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening. And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer. 

Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch. 

Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.

He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.

You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.

It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.

Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”

You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.

“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”

You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.

You didn’t get far.

An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.

“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”

You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.

“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."

It was his turn to scoff.

You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.

For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.

This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.

“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.

“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”

You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.

And so you shifted. Softened.

“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”

That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.

You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.

“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”

His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.

You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.

“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”

Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.

“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”

He stiffened. You stepped back.

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”

Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.

Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.

Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?

An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.

“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”

Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.

You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”

He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”

You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”

You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.

Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”

“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food. 

That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.

You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.

It was nice. Sweet, even.

You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.

Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra. 

He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.

Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”

He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.

The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.

Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.

You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.

It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.

So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.

You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.

You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.

Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.

Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts

Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.

Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.

But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.

Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.

You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.

The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.

“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant. 

He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk. 

You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth. 

“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.

You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate. 

And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates. 

They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?

Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.

Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.

As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.

Clark.

He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.

“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer. 

He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.

“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”

Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.

You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.

“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.

You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.

“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.

Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.

You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.

Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused. 

“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”

You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.

They were both watching you. Waiting.

It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.

The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.

You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.

Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.

Yeah. Tonight had been good.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.

You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.

But he waved off every concern without missing a beat. 

“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.

The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.

You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.

Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.

Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.

“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.

But Clark heard you. Of course he did.

Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.

He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.

It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.

This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.

You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.

Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest. 

His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory. 

Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.

You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”

Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me." 

Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.

“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.

“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”

“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.

“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.

The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.

His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.

His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.

Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.

He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.

“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.

His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.

His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.

You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.

You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.

Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.

Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.

After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.

Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.

You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.

"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.

He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.

You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.

“Clark,” you moaned softly.

“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.

“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”

How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?

Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.

His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.

Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.

He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.

It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.

Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.

His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.

Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.

After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.

But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.

He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.

Greedy little thing you were.

And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.

Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.

And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.

Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.

Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you.  A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.

Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.

You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.

He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.

The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.

When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.

He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.

He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.

The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.

You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.

You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.

His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.

Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.

Weird.

Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.

You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.

The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”

His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.

You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”

Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled.

“You could… what?”

His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.

©sillyswriting 2025

im so obsessed with this man i wrote this in two days...

[ijustmissyouraccenths]

Trouble

✨ summary: where harry’s a soft TikTok streamer and y/n happens to find his stream.

📝 word count: 11K

⚠️ content warning: smut

💌 support my work

Y/N stumbled through the door a little after ten, dropping her keys in the catchall with a tired clatter. Her feet were killing her. Her back hurt. Her brain felt like it was still stuck at work, replaying petty customer complaints and the awkward half-laugh she’d given her manager when he made that borderline gross joke.

She didn’t even bother with dinner. Just kicked off her shoes, peeled off her jeans, and crawled under the throw blanket on the couch with her phone. This was her routine on nights like this: half an hour of mindless TikTok before she convinced herself to brush her teeth and go to bed.

Half an hour usually turned into an hour. Or two.

She scrolled past dancing girls, recipes she’d never make, a video essay about why romcoms were secretly feminist, a guy cutting soap. It was all noise.

Then, almost by accident, she landed on a live.

The caption just said: “insomnia brain rot. talk to me.”

Only twelve people were watching. She hovered there for a second. Was it weird to pop into something so small?

But then the guy on screen — who looked about her age, maybe a little older, with messy brown hair pulled back by a ridiculous pink clip — laughed at something in the chat. It was a quiet, raspy sort of laugh that made something in her chest warm up.

He was lounging sideways on a couch, one socked foot tucked under the other knee, wearing an old band tee that had definitely seen better days. His accent was British, soft and a bit lazy, words sliding together like he couldn’t be bothered to crisp them up.

“Alright, next question,” he was saying, scrolling through comments. “Worst cereal of all time. And if any of you say Frosted Flakes, we’re gonna have a problem. Those are elite, don’t start.”

Y/N snorted, surprising herself. God, she must be tired.

On impulse, she typed:

bran flakes. taste like depression.

She almost clicked away before he’d see it, suddenly embarrassed. But then his eyes darted down, and he read it out loud, smiling.

“‘Bran flakes taste like depression,’” he repeated, trying not to laugh. “Oh that’s brilliant. You’re right, actually. Like chewing on your last shred of hope.”

He squinted at the username. “Who’s that, then? That’s a new one, innit? Welcome, love.”

A weird flutter went through her stomach.

Love.

He probably called everyone that. Still.

“Alright then,” he went on, still smiling to himself as he scrolled, “let’s hear more hot takes. Is honey nut overrated? I think it might be.”

Y/N settled deeper under her blanket, phone a little closer to her face, feeling the tight coil in her chest start to loosen for the first time all day.

She hadn’t planned to watch for more than a minute. But then he started talking about his day — how he’d tried to bake banana bread and burned the bottom, how he thought his upstairs neighbor had a pet goat (it was just a big dog apparently), how he couldn’t sleep lately because his brain wouldn’t shut up.

He kept scratching at the corner of his jaw when he was nervous. Made these little faces when he was reading comments. And when he laughed, really laughed, it was like he forgot the camera was there.

There were only fourteen people in the chat now. It felt… cozy. Like stumbling into someone’s living room at 2 a.m.

She didn’t even realize how long she’d been there until her phone buzzed with a low battery warning.

Y/N smiled, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Maybe she’d stay a little longer.

Y/N didn’t really mean to become a regular. It just sort of happened.

Every couple nights she’d check if he was live, and more often than not, he was. Always in that same sagging couch, always with that dumb pink clip holding his hair back, sometimes in glasses that made him look unfairly soft.

She’d plop down on her own couch in pajamas with a mug of tea, and it was like hanging out in someone’s living room. Well, his living room. Which had absolutely tragic curtains and a plant he frequently apologized to for nearly killing.

The chat was tiny. Never more than twenty people. A few usernames she recognized now, all of them forming this loose, late-night club of insomniacs and weirdos.

He’d started calling her “BranFlakes” sometimes, because of that first comment. Or just “trouble,” with this grin that made her toes curl under the blanket.

One night, he was leaning back against a pillow, phone balanced on his chest, scrolling through comments.

“So what’s everyone been up to today? Anyone do something interesting? Anyone commit light arson? Emotional or otherwise?”

Y/N smirked, typed, Define interesting. I didn’t get fired for flipping off a customer, so that’s my personal win.

He laughed — that soft, lazy sound that never failed to warm her up. “BranFlakes is in rare form tonight. Didn’t get fired, that’s the bar, huh? Love that for you.”

What about you? she sent. Burn anything down? Confess your sins.

He squinted at the screen, did that little half-smile. “Uh, I absolutely did. Tried to fix a leaky tap in the kitchen. Made it worse. Nearly flooded the place. Landlord’s gonna love that email tomorrow.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, smiling. You’re useless.

“Oh, properly useless,” he agreed solemnly. Then his eyes flicked to the comments again. “Alright, your turn. What actually happened today? You sound more bitey than usual.”

Her stomach twisted a little. She didn’t usually get personal in the chat. It was mostly dumb jokes, snark, flirting that didn’t mean anything.

But he was looking right into the camera, waiting. Like he actually cared.

She sighed, typed, Just had a shit day. Work was hell. People suck. That’s it. I’ll live.

His face softened. He bit his bottom lip, drummed his fingers on his chest like he was trying to think of what to say.

“M’sorry, trouble,” he said finally, voice low and sincere in a way that surprised her. “People dosuck. Proper tossers, most of ‘em. But you don’t, alright? Just thought I should point that out.”

Y/N blinked at the screen. Her throat felt tight in that annoying way that meant if she opened her mouth, she’d probably make an embarrassing noise.

Thanks, she sent. You’re less useless than usual.

That got a grin out of him. “Oi, I’ll take it. Practically a love letter from you.”

A few minutes later, he’d moved on to reading someone else’s comment, but then paused, squinting at the screen again. “Hey — BranFlakes, do us a favor, yeah? Go get some water. Or a biscuit. Or something. You look knackered.”

She made a face at her phone. You can’t SEE me.

“I can sense you, alright? Psychic link. Don’t question it.”

Y/N laughed out loud, shaking her head, but set her phone down and padded into the kitchen for a glass of water anyway. When she came back, he was grinning like he knew he’d won.

“Good girl,” he teased, voice dropping just enough to make her stomach do a little flip.

Shut up, she typed, cheeks hot.

“Don’t think I will.”

When he finally ended the live, she got a DM almost immediately.

h: get some sleep, trouble. tomorrow will be less shit. promise.

She stared at it for a second, smiling like an idiot, then sent back,

y/n: no promises but i’ll try. don’t flood the kitchen again.

He sent a photo back. Just him with his face half-buried in his pillow, hair a mess, eyes soft and sleepy.

h: s’night then.

Y/N bit her lip so hard it almost hurt.

God, she was so gone. Over a boy she’d never even seen outside this little square on her phone. Over someone who didn’t even know what she looked like.

But she couldn’t stop. Didn’t even want to try.

Y/N hadn’t planned on it going this far.

It was supposed to be harmless. A little escape from the drudge of work and the ache of coming home to an empty apartment. But somehow it became the best part of her day.

They texted constantly now. Not just memes or stupid TikToks — though there were plenty of those — but long rambly messages about everything and nothing. About how she hated olives, how his favorite weather was the five minutes right before it rained, how sometimes he wondered if he was wasting his life talking to a phone screen at 2 a.m.

One night he sent her a voice note. Just a sleepy, “Hope your day was better, trouble,” all warm and raspy and impossibly close.

She played it about fifteen times.

Eventually she started sending voice notes back, her voice small and shy at first. He’d tease her — “didn’t know you were so posh” or “god, your laugh’s unreal, you know that?” — and it made her feel stupidly giddy.

It also made her softer. Less snark, more honesty slipping through in little cracks.

One night she was curled up on the couch in an old hoodie, hair damp from a shower, phone pressed to her ear listening to him. He was rambling about the neighbor’s dog again.

“So it’s official — it’s not a goat. Just a dog with… goatish tendencies. Barks like it’s got a personal vendetta against me, though.”

She laughed, tucked her knees tighter to her chest. “Maybe it does. Maybe you give off suspicious energy.”

“Oh, I’m definitely suspicious. But c’mon, who doesn’t want to bark at me a little?”

She rolled her eyes, grinning. “Can’t argue with that.”

Then it got quiet. Not awkward — just easy, comfortable. She could hear him breathing, a little sigh as he shifted around wherever he was.

He spoke again, softer this time. “You sound tired. Long day?”

“Yeah,” she admitted. “Just work. Same old. I did have a customer yell at me because his sandwich was apparently ‘threatening.’ So that was new.”

Harry snorted. “Did it have a knife? Or just a bad attitude?”

“Bad attitude. Definitely. Lettuce was giving him a dirty look.”

“Cheeky lettuce.”

She let out a soft little huff, hugging her knees. “But it’s better now. Talking to you always makes it… less shit.”

There was a pause, then a quiet little, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Her voice cracked around it, and she didn’t care.

“Same here, trouble. Don’t think you realize how much.”

They sat in that for a second, hearts thudding on either end of the line.

Then she blurted, “Do you wanna see me? Like actually see me? I mean, I could video call, or send a pic or something. You’ve never asked, but…”

His voice came back gentle, almost shy. “I’ve thought about it, loads of times. What you look like. If you’d be smiling when you text me, or rolling your eyes. But… I kinda like not knowing.”

“You like the mystery?” she teased, but it was so soft it was almost tender.

“Yeah, actually. Like… it makes me pay more attention to everything else. The way you say stuff. The weird shit you notice. Your laugh.”

Her heart felt too full, pressing up tight against her ribs. “You’re such a sap.”

“Oh, fully. Can’t even deny it.” He laughed under his breath, then went quiet again. “Don’t worry, though. When I finally see you, it’ll be worth the wait. Bet you’ll ruin me completely.”

Her breath caught.

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she just whispered, “Okay.”

He let out a little sigh, like it settled something in him. “G’night, love. Dream of suspicious sandwiches.”

“G’night, Harry.”

When she hung up, her face hurt from smiling. Her phone buzzed one last time.

h: and send me more voice notes tomorrow. m’addicted to your voice.

She squealed into her pillow like a teenager, then typed back with shaky hands.

y/n: only if you promise to keep telling me about your goat dog.

h: deal.

She fell asleep with her phone clutched to her chest, feeling like maybe — just maybe — she wasn’t so alone after all.

She was sprawled on her bed one evening, phone in hand, absently scrolling through photos of cats in funny hats, when Harry’s name popped up on her screen.

Incoming call.

Her stomach flipped. It always did, stupidly, like she was sixteen again. She answered with a half-smile already pulling at her mouth.

“Hey, trouble,” he drawled.

“Hey yourself. What’s up?”

He was rustling around on the other end. She could hear a cupboard door creak, then the distant sound of pouring water. Probably making one of his endless cups of tea.

“So… I’ve got a question. Might be a bit mad.”

“Coming from you, that’s not exactly shocking.”

He let out a soft laugh. “Fair. But listen — there’s this tiny con, kinda a meetup for streamers and random internet people. Not like a big Comic-Con thing. More awkward dudes in graphic tees and cheap coffee. It’s next month, just over in Georgia. I’ve got a little panel spot somehow, talking about building ‘authentic communities’ which is a joke ‘cause it’s me and, like, twenty people on TikTok.”

She grinned into her pillow. “I think your little community’s pretty damn authentic. Bunch of cereal snobs and insomniacs.”

“Exactly. My people.” He paused. She could practically hear him chewing his lip. “Anyway… was thinkin’ you could come? Meet me there? Only if you want. I know it’s a drive and all, but…”

Y/N’s heart was thudding so hard it felt like her chest might crack open.

“You want me to come to a convention?” she teased lightly, trying to keep her voice from squeaking.

“I want you to come see me,” he corrected, softer. “I wanna finally see you. And — alright, selfish — I wanna be the first to see your face. Not through a camera. Just… you, standing there, lookin’ all smug. Maybe roll your eyes at me in real life.”

Her throat was so tight it hurt. She rolled over onto her back, staring at the ceiling. “That’s… really sweet.”

“Don’t make it weird,” he groaned, but he was laughing, nervous.

“You’re the one making it weird! Asking me to drive to another state to meet a boy I met on TikTok. What if you’re secretly a swamp goblin?”

“Babe, I’ve told you I’m a swamp goblin. At least three times. Full disclosure, I get cranky if I don’t have snacks.”

She laughed, pressing her fist to her mouth. “It’s just— it’s kind of a big deal. I mean, what if you’re disappointed?”

Harry went quiet for a second, then his voice came through low and certain. “Won’t be. S’not possible.”

She felt tears prick at the backs of her eyes, completely out of nowhere. God, she was pathetic.

“Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll come.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

She could hear the grin in his voice when he let out a breathless little, “Fuck. Can’t wait.”

“So what exactly does one wear to a nerd convention?” she asked, forcing a playful lilt back into her voice.

“Dunno. Something cute. Or come in a full Chewbacca suit, I’ll still fancy you.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“Hey.” His voice dropped. “Just bring yourself. Promise?”

She swallowed hard. “Promise.”

“Good girl,” he muttered, and it was so low and fond it made her toes curl.

Later that night, she lay awake staring at her ceiling fan, heart pounding, phone clutched to her chest. She was really going to do this. Really going to cross state lines to meet a boy with floppy hair and a voice that made her stomach flutter.

Harry sent one last text before she drifted off.

h: m’counting the days already. try not to crash your car. i’d like to kiss you eventually.

He wanted to kiss her. She buried her burning face in her pillow, grinning like an idiot.

y/n: not planning on dying before you buy me a shit con coffee.

h: romantic. sleep tight, trouble.

She did. Better than she had in weeks.

Y/N started packing three days before she even had to leave. It was ridiculous. She was ridiculous.

Her bed was a disaster — jeans, crop tops, cardigans, shoes she’d never realistically wear to a sweaty convention hall. Her cat sat in the middle of it all, judging her with bored yellow eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered, holding up two shirts. “Which one says ‘I might like you enough to kiss you but also I’m not desperate’?”

The cat blinked slowly, unimpressed.

She flopped down next to it, groaning. Her phone buzzed, and immediately her pulse jumped. It was embarrassing how fast she grabbed it.

h: tell me ur packing. otherwise i’ll come kidnap you myself.

She snorted, thumbs flying.

y/n: packing. but it’s not going well. i have no idea what to wear.

h: wear clothes. preferably.

y/n: you’re SO helpful.

h: m’just sayin, you’d look good in literally anything.

y/n: how do you know that?? you’ve never even SEEN me.

h: gut feeling. also ur voice is fit, so the rest of you must be too.

She made a strangled little noise and buried her face in a sweater.

y/n: stop. i’m already freaking out.

h: why?

y/n: idk. what if it’s weird? or awkward? what if you don’t like me once i’m standing right in front of you?

There was a pause. Three dots blinking. Then his reply came through.

h: listen to me carefully. i already like you. annoyingly so. it’s not gonna change because i see ur cute face in person.

She just stared at it for a long time, her heart doing stupid acrobatics in her chest.

y/n: you’re sappy.

h: i am. you’re stuck with it.

She typed back, her throat tight.

y/n: fine. but if i show up and you bolt i’m keeping your plant.

h: rude. that plant is family.

y/n: he told me he hates you actually.

h: he’s a liar and he needs water.

She laughed out loud. God, how did he make her feel so light?

h: pack something comfy for after. like when i inevitably drag you out for greasy food and keep you up all night talking.

Her cheeks burned.

y/n: okay. i will.

h: good girl.

She nearly dropped her phone.

The rest of the night she kept pulling clothes off hangers, putting them back, debating if she needed to shave literally everything. Her stomach was in knots, but in the best, most electric way.

The next morning, she texted him a picture of her suitcase.

y/n: packed. mostly. leaving tomorrow morning.

h: look at you bein all responsible.

y/n: i’m terrified.

h: i’m not. m’just excited.

She bit her lip, smiling like a fool.

y/n: what if i’m not what you pictured?

h: then i’ll change the picture. easy.

She didn’t know how to reply to that, so she didn’t.

Later that night, curled up in bed with her phone on her chest, he sent her a voice note. His voice was low, tired, a little scratchy.

“Hey. You’re probably asleep already. Just wanted to say… drive safe, yeah? Don’t rush. I’ll be there whenever you get in. And… I can’t wait to see you, trouble. S’gonna be worth it. Promise.”

She listened to it three times before she could finally close her eyes.

Tomorrow, she’d get in her car and drive across state lines for a boy she’d never met, whose voice already felt like home.

Y/N pulled into the hotel parking lot with her heart hammering so hard it felt like it might crack a rib.

The drive had been three hours of jittery adrenaline and overthinking every possible scenario. What if he didn’t like her? What if she said something weird? What if he didn’t even show up?

The hotel was surprisingly nice — not some grimy chain, but modern, with big glass windows and a little fountain out front. She checked in, mumbling her name to the woman at the desk, clutching her phone like a lifeline.

The room was clean, a little cold, with an aggressively cheerful painting of sunflowers on the wall. She tossed her suitcase on the bed and sat on the edge, hands clasped together so tight her knuckles hurt.

Her phone buzzed.

h: just got here. room’s tiny. i look like a giant tryin to get dressed in this mirror.

She snorted, a breathy laugh escaping her. Her hands were still shaking when she typed back.

y/n: i’m here too. hiding in my room. trying not to hyperventilate.

h: don’t hyperventilate. m’too selfish, i really wanna see you alive and breathing.

y/n: same.

h: my panel’s in like 30. after, meet me at the hotel cafe? it’s right off the lobby.

y/n: okay. i’ll be there.

h: sweet girl.

Her stomach flipped. She threw her phone on the bed and covered her face with both hands.

“Jesus Christ, get it together,” she muttered.

She paced the tiny space, chugged half a bottle of water, fixed her hair for the tenth time, wiped her clammy palms on her jeans. Finally she decided to go watch his panel — maybe seeing him from a distance first would make it less terrifying.

The convention space was downstairs, tucked behind a couple big double doors. She slipped inside quietly, heart racing. It was a small room, maybe fifty chairs, half-full. Harry was already on stage, perched on a tall stool with a mic in one hand, a bottle of water in the other.

She stopped dead in the aisle.

God.

He was in a thin dark tee that clung to his shoulders, hair pulled back in that same dumb clip, a silver ring flashing on his thumb when he gestured. He was laughing at something the moderator said, head tipping back, eyes crinkling.

She just stood there like an idiot, hugging her arms to her chest, watching him talk about “building safe corners of the internet” and how people deserved spaces where they could be weird without judgment.

He had no idea she was there.

No idea that the girl who’d been teasing him about cereal and goat-dogs and sending him nervous little voice notes was right in front of him, trying not to melt into the carpet.

When it ended, there was polite applause. Harry thanked everyone, flashed that grin that made her knees weak, then stepped down and disappeared through a side door.

Y/N slipped out with the rest of the crowd, heart in her throat, and made her way to the hotel cafe. It was early afternoon, empty except for a barista behind the counter and a young guy in a hoodie reading something on his phone.

She picked a corner table by the window, set her bag on the seat beside her, and stared out at the fountain.

Her phone buzzed.

h: done. headed that way.

She sucked in a sharp breath. Her hands were clammy again. She wiped them on her jeans.

y/n: already here. trying not to pass out.

h: don’t. m’serious. i need you alive for at least ten more minutes.

She barked out a laugh that startled the barista.

Then another text came through.

h: also. you better still let me be the one to find you.

y/n: bossy.

h: i know. sit tight.

She curled up in her chair, arms wrapped around her middle, foot bouncing under the table. Every time the door opened, her heart lurched into her throat.

The guy across the cafe glanced up, gave her a polite nod. She tried to smile back, probably looked manic.

Her phone buzzed again.

h: where exactly are you?

y/n: corner table. window.

h: m’bout to ruin your life.

She squeezed her eyes shut.

When the door opened again, she knew. Couldn’t see him yet, but every nerve in her body lit up like it was hardwired to him.

Her heart was thundering. Actually thundering. She could feel it in her throat, her fingertips, her ears. Every nerve felt raw, hyperaware.

She kept fidgeting, smoothing her hands down her thighs, twisting the little ring on her middle finger. The young guy across the cafe gave her another awkward glance, probably wondering why she looked like she was about to jump out of her skin.

This is so stupid, she thought. It’s just Harry. You’ve talked to him every single day for months. He knows your favorite snack, your weird intrusive thoughts, the exact sound you make when you snort-laugh. This is Harry.

But it wasn’t just Harry. It was him. In real life. Not a voice on the phone or a little face on her screen, but flesh and blood and warm hands and — god — probably so much taller than she expected.

Her stomach did a wild flip.

The door to the cafe swung open again. She didn’t even have to look. It was like her entire body just knew.

She forced herself to lift her head anyway.

And there he was.

Standing in the doorway, scanning the room with wide, eager eyes. Hair perfectly imperfect with a curl placed perfectly across his forehead, wearing the dark tee from the panel, jeans ripped at the knee, arms full of tattoos, and phone clutched in one hand like he’d been texting her the entire walk over.

When his gaze landed on her, it was like the floor dropped out from under her.

His whole face transformed — eyes going wide, mouth parting, then breaking into the most ridiculous, glorious grin she’d ever seen.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed, mostly to himself. Then louder, “There you are.”

She couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. Just sat there staring at him like a deer in headlights, heart doing cartwheels in her chest.

“Not gonna stand up and greet me, then?” he teased, voice warm and bright and so painfully Harryit made her eyes sting.

She let out a helpless little laugh, pushed her chair back, and stood. Her legs felt like jelly.

Harry crossed the tiny room in three long strides. He stopped right in front of her, close enough that she could see the little bump on his nose, the tiny freckle on his jaw. His eyes were so green.

“Hi,” she managed, voice embarrassingly breathless.

He stared at her like he was trying to memorize every single inch of her face. Then his mouth curved into this soft, disbelieving smile.

“Hi, trouble.”

She laughed again, a shaky sound that was more nerves than humor. “You’re real.”

“Yeah. S’lookin that way.” His voice dropped a little, rough at the edges. “Can I — ?”

She didn’t even wait for him to finish. Just nodded, too overwhelmed to trust her own mouth.

He let out this tiny relieved laugh, then cupped her face in both hands, warm palms bracketing her cheeks, thumbs brushing under her eyes.

“Oh, fuck me, you’re gorgeous,” he murmured. Then he was leaning down, pressing his forehead to hers, breath shallow.

She couldn’t stop smiling, couldn’t stop trembling. Her hands found his wrists, holding on tight.

“You’re taller than I thought,” she whispered, which made him huff out a laugh against her skin.

“You’re shorter than I thought. Tiny little menace.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

She did. Pushed up on her toes and kissed him, soft and a little clumsy at first.

Harry made this wrecked sound, one hand sliding into her hair, the other dropping to her waist to haul her closer. His mouth moved over hers like he’d been waiting forever, savoring it, chasing every tiny shift of her lips.

When they finally pulled back, breathless and grinning like idiots, he rested his forehead against hers again.

“Worth the wait,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” she said, voice catching. “Worth every damn second.”

They didn’t move for a second, still tangled up in each other’s breath, Harry’s hands cradling her jaw like he was afraid she might vanish if he let go.

Then he seemed to realize they were standing dead center in a mostly empty cafe, making out like horny teenagers. He let out a slightly embarrassed little laugh, dropped his hands from her face, but kept one warm palm resting on her hip like he couldn’t stand not to touch her.

“Alright,” he breathed, eyes still dancing all over her face. “Sit with me before I drag you back upstairs and absolutely traumatize the room next door.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m that easy,” she teased, trying to sound breezy even though her voice came out a bit wobbly.

“Oh, I’m counting on you being that easy,” he shot back, grin going crooked. Then he tugged gently at her waist. “C’mon, trouble.”

They settled back at her little corner table. Harry immediately scooted his chair so close their knees bumped, like he couldn’t help it. His leg pressed into hers under the table, warm and solid, grounding her in the best way.

“You’re staring,” she said after a minute, cheeks hot.

He didn’t even pretend to deny it. Just leaned back, smirked, eyes raking over her face. “Yeah. Been picturing this forever. Sort of unfair how much better it is in person.”

“Stop. You’re going to make me combust.”

“Mm, fine. For now.” He nudged her ankle with his foot. “Order something. We’ll do this proper, yeah? Coffee and awkward small talk before I tell you again how pretty you are.”

She let out a shaky laugh, flagging down the barista. Harry ordered something complicated and way too sweet. She ordered a simple latte because her hands were still trembling and she was terrified she’d spill anything else.

When the barista left, Harry leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on his hands. “So. Be honest. Am I taller than you thought?”

“Only a little. I mean, I knew you had to be tall with that tragic camera angle you always use. Could never see half your face.”

“Oi, it’s artsy! Mysterious!”

“It’s lazy. You’re lazy.”

He grinned, eyes sparkling. “Maybe. But you still fell for me, so joke’s on you.”

She rolled her eyes, but under the table, she slid her foot along his calf. His eyes went molten.

“Y’know, when I first saw you across the room…” he started, then trailed off, swallowing hard. “Christ. My heart actually stopped. I thought, that’s her. That’s my girl.”

Her own heart lurched painfully, and she reached across the table without thinking, catching his hand. He squeezed back immediately, thumb stroking over her knuckles.

“And you,” she said softly, trying to steady her voice. “You’re somehow exactly what I pictured and also nothing like it. It’s weird.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I dunno. You’re just… more. Louder. Warmer. More real.”

His smile went soft, almost shy. “M’glad. Was worried maybe you’d take one look and run for the hills.”

“You’re an idiot if you think that.”

He squeezed her hand again, brought it up to press a warm kiss against her knuckles. “Well. Lucky for me, you seem to like idiots.”

She laughed, but it cracked into something breathless.

Their drinks came, and they pretended to care about them, but neither let go of the other’s hand for more than a second.

“You’re still staring,” she whispered at one point, cheeks aching from smiling.

“Yeah. Not plannin’ to stop anytime soon, either.”

“Good.”

Harry’s knee bounced against hers, eyes flicking down to her mouth before dragging back up. “After this, wanna go somewhere quieter? Walk around outside maybe? Or— I dunno. I’m not ready to let you go back to your room yet. Might actually die.”

She squeezed his fingers, heart tripping all over itself. “Yeah. I’d like that. Really.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said again, laughing through it. “God, you’re such a sap.”

“Hopeless. Absolutely ruined by you.”

They stayed like that a while longer, hands twined on the table, feet tangled under it, Harry stealing these small, soft looks at her that made her want to crawl into his lap and never move.

It was like all the months of voice notes and texts and teasing had collapsed into this tiny sunlit moment, just the two of them, finally real.

They finished their coffee in slow, distracted sips, talking about absolutely nothing and everything, fingers tangled so tight it was like neither of them trusted the moment enough to let go.

When Harry finally stood, he didn’t even wait for her to gather her bag properly. Just laced their hands together and tugged her up with this boyish, impatient grin.

“C’mon. If we stay here any longer, I’m gonna climb over the table and get us both banned from the hotel.”

She snorted, cheeks going hot. “That’s one way to start off our weekend.”

“Mm, not quite the meet-cute I had in mind, but tempting,” he teased, pushing open the glass door and guiding her into the lobby.

They stepped outside into the afternoon sun. It was warm and bright, the fountain burbling nearby. Harry didn’t let go of her hand once, thumb brushing lazy little circles over her knuckles like he couldn’t help it.

“Feels weird, doesn’t it?” she said after a minute, heart still tap dancing against her ribs.

“What does?”

“This. Being… together. In real life.”

Harry smiled, soft and a little crooked. “Yeah. But good weird. Like I’ve been walking around waiting for something to happen, and it’s just… this. You. Finally here.”

She ducked her head, biting back a grin. “Stop. You’re gonna make me cry and I just put mascara on.”

He laughed, then pulled her gently toward the little path that circled the hotel grounds. It was quiet, dotted with benches and tiny blooming shrubs, just enough to feel like they had a bit of privacy.

“So,” she said, bumping her shoulder into his. “What was your first thought when you actually saw me sitting there?”

“That’s trouble,” he answered instantly, then shot her a playful look. “But also… fuck me, she’s pretty. Too pretty. Like I was gonna have a heart attack before I even got over there.”

She covered her face with her free hand, groaning. “God, why are you so good at this? You’re supposed to be awkward and weird and make me feel better about my life choices.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m plenty awkward,” Harry said with a grin. “I just hide it well. I’m currently terrified you’re gonna realize you’ve made a tragic mistake and run off with the barista instead.”

“Not likely,” she shot back, but her voice cracked, so she cleared her throat and tried again. “You’re stuck with me, sorry.”

“Good. I like being stuck with you.”

They walked a little further, hands still twined, arms bumping. Harry kept sneaking these little glances at her like he couldn’t help it — eyes darting to her mouth, her hair, her shoulders.

At one point, he stopped dead, tugged her gently so she stumbled into him.

“What?” she laughed, palms flattening against his chest. God, he was warm. Solid.

Harry just stared down at her for a long second, jaw working. Then he let out a low, helpless sort of noise, dropped their joined hands so he could cup her face again.

“Sorry,” he breathed. “Can’t — I just—”

Then he was kissing her.

It was different than in the cafe — slower, deeper, almost reverent. Like he was trying to memorize exactly how she tasted, the way she sighed into his mouth, how her hands fisted in his shirt to drag him impossibly closer.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping a little, he rested his forehead on hers and let out a soft laugh.

“You’re gonna wreck me, trouble. Completely ruin me for anyone else.”

Her heart squeezed so tight it hurt. She slid her hands up to his jaw, thumb tracing the edge of his smile.

“Good,” she whispered. “That’s the plan.”

Harry laughed again, kissed her once more — quick and sweet — then grabbed her hand and started walking backwards, pulling her along.

“C’mon. Wanna show you the pathetic little vendor hall. Gotta prove I’m a real internet loser.”

“You already proved that months ago,” she teased, bumping into him.

“Oi. Rude.”

“True, though.”

He laughed, pulled her closer by the hand. “Yeah, yeah. Keep talking. I’ll find more creative ways to shut you up later.”

Her stomach flipped deliciously.

They wandered off together like that, hands tangled, hearts a tangled mess of nerves and giddy relief, already half in love with this new reality where he was real and right there, close enough to touch.

They spent the next hour wandering through the vendor hall, which was exactly as tragic and adorable as Harry had promised.

Tiny tables crammed with stickers, enamel pins, homemade candles, nerdy T-shirts and art prints. A tired looking DJ was spinning some synthy pop in the corner, while groups of awkward twenty-somethings milled around with plastic badge holders swinging from their necks.

Harry didn’t let go of her hand once. Every time she reached for something on a table, he was right there, shoulder brushing hers, thumb stroking lazily over her knuckles.

At one booth, he picked up a truly awful little plushie — a lopsided frog wearing a tiny felt wizard hat.

“Oh my god,” she laughed. “That’s hideous.”

“That’s exactly why I want it.” He flipped the tag over, winced at the price, then smirked at her. “Actually… I think you need it.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Too late.” He handed it to the vendor, pulled out his wallet, then shoved the hideous thing at her with a proud grin.

“Harry.” She tried to scowl but couldn’t stop smiling.

“S’for when I inevitably piss you off. You can punch his little face instead of mine.”

“You’re such a goof.”

He leaned in, brushed a quick kiss over her temple. “Yeah. Your goof, though.”

They drifted through a few more tables, Harry buying them both a cheap iced tea that tasted vaguely like metal, stopping every few feet to look at something he’d insist was “cool” even though it very much was not.

Eventually the crowd started thinning out, people heading back to their rooms or out to the parking lot. The music faded. Someone was rolling up a giant poster banner in the corner.

Harry glanced around, then at her, his thumb still brushing that same soothing line across the back of her hand.

“S’getting late, huh?”

“Yeah,” she breathed. Her heart was starting that stupid frantic beat again, the one that made it hard to get a full breath.

He gave her hand a little squeeze. “I’ll walk you up. Make sure no stray goat-dogs get you.”

She laughed, nudged his shoulder. “So thoughtful.”

They rode the elevator up in a comfortable, slightly charged silence, shoulders brushing, Harry’s free hand in his pocket. At her door, he rocked back on his heels, still holding her hand.

“Well…”

“Well,” she echoed. God, she was suddenly so nervous. Her heart felt like it was rattling against her ribs.

He lifted their joined hands, pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, then her wrist, then lower, to the inside of her palm.

“Night, trouble.”

She stood there frozen for half a second, then blurted out, “Wait.”

Harry stopped immediately, brows lifting. “Yeah?”

She bit her lip, heat crawling up her neck, then tried to laugh it off. “Do you… um. Do you maybe wanna come in? To my room? Just — I dunno. I’m not really ready for tonight to be over yet.”

His eyes went so soft she thought she might melt right there. Then he let out a quiet, slightly relieved laugh, thumb brushing her cheek.

“Fuck. I was gonna ask if you’d come back to mine, but didn’t wanna be that bloke, y’know? Didn’t want you to think I was just—”

She cut him off with a smile. “Harry. It’s me. You’re allowed to want to keep hanging out.”

His grin turned a little crooked. “Good. ‘Cause I really fuckin’ do.”

She fumbled her key card, nearly dropped it twice because her hands were shaking, and Harry just laughed quietly, resting a hand on the small of her back.

When the door finally swung open, he followed her inside, shutting it behind them with a soft click.

His hands found her waist almost immediately, pulling her close until their noses brushed.

“Hi again,” he murmured, voice low and a little breathless.

She laughed, slid her hands up his chest. “Hi.”

“Still can’t believe you’re real,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers.

“You keep saying that,” she teased, voice wobbly.

He just kissed her, slow and deep, like he was determined to prove it over and over.

They stood there for a minute by the door, still half tangled up in each other, her hands pressed flat to his chest, his breath warm on her lips.

Harry’s thumbs stroked soft little circles at her waist, his forehead resting against hers. When he pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, mouth curved in a lazy, wrecked sort of smile.

“Y’know,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “I was trying really hard to be a gentleman.”

She bit her lip, heart stuttering. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He ducked his head, mouth brushing her jaw, then lower, nuzzling just under her ear. “Was gonna come up here, tuck you into bed all polite-like, go back to my room and die quietly.”

She let out a breathless little laugh, tilting her head to give him more room. “That sounds tragic.”

“It would’ve been,” he agreed, his mouth hot against her throat. “But now I’m here, and you’re letting me do this, and I’m absolutely fucked.”

That pulled a small, shaky sound from her chest.

She pulled back, just enough to see his face, and slid her hands up around his neck. Her thumbs brushed over the little curls at his nape, soft and sweaty from the day.

“Good,” she whispered. “I want you a little fucked up over me.”

His laugh was low, breathless, hands tightening at her hips. “That’s evil.”

She leaned up on her toes, kissed him.

It was meant to be quick. Just a soft press of her mouth to his. But the second she did it, Harry let out this quiet, desperate noise, his hands slipping lower, fingers digging into her hips to drag her closer.

The kiss went messy fast — all teeth and soft gasps, her hands sliding up into his hair, tugging at the little pink clip until it fell to the floor with a soft clatter. His hair spilled out around her fingers, wild and sweaty, and she fisted it tight, tugging just to feel him shudder.

“Christ,” he breathed against her mouth, voice cracking. “Keep doin’ that and I’m gonna lose it.”

“Yeah?” she whispered, lips ghosting over his jaw. “What if that’s what I want?”

Harry groaned, backed her up until her knees hit the bed. They tumbled onto it together, her on her back with Harry half on top of her, weight pressing her into the mattress in the best possible way.

His mouth was everywhere — her jaw, her neck, the little sensitive spot just under her ear that made her gasp.

“You’re dangerous,” he muttered, breath hot against her skin. “Look at you, all sweet and soft, lettin’ me in your room, and now you’re gonna ruin me.”

She laughed, breathless, hips arching up into his. “Maybe that’s the plan.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes dark and a little wild, hair a mess around his face.

“Yeah?” he rasped. “Want me to lose my fuckin’ mind over you?”

She nodded, swallowed hard, then slid her hands under the hem of his shirt, pushing it up. His skin was hot under her palms, muscles jumping under her touch.

“Take it off,” she whispered.

Harry let out a rough little laugh, sat up just enough to yank the shirt over his head. He tossed it somewhere behind him, then dropped back down, hands bracing on either side of her head.

“Happy?” he teased, but his voice was wrecked.

“Yeah,” she breathed, hands splaying over his warm, bare shoulders. “Now kiss me again.”

He did. Hard.

And when she shifted under him, legs parting to let him settle between, Harry let out the filthiest little groan against her mouth, hips pressing down into hers like he couldn’t help it.

“Fuck,” he gasped, pulling back just enough to look at her, eyes dark and blown. “Tell me if you want me to stop, yeah? Please. I need you to tell me.”

She smiled up at him, heart a wild, happy mess, and slid her hands back into his hair.

“I’ll tell you,” she promised, voice low. “But right now I want everything.”

Harry just stared at her for a second, like she’d just said the most perfect thing in the world. Then he dipped his head, kissed her again, and everything else fell away.

Harry kissed her like he’d been waiting a lifetime — deep and hot and almost clumsy with how badly he wanted it. His hands roamed everywhere, up under her shirt, over her sides, gripping her hips so tight it was like he thought she might slip away.

But then she did something that had his breath stalling out completely. She pushed at his shoulder, gentle at first, then more insistent.

“Lay back,” she whispered.

His eyes flew open, dark and wide. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she breathed, biting her lip, sliding her hands down his chest. “Want you under me.”

Harry let out this absolutely wrecked little laugh, voice cracking as he flopped back onto the pillows. “Jesus Christ. Gonna be the death of me, trouble.”

She swung a leg over him, settling her knees on either side of his hips. The second her weight sank down, Harry’s head tipped back, a groan ripping out of him. His hands immediately found her thighs, squeezing, thumbs stroking up to the crease of her hips.

“Fuck,” he muttered, breath shallow. “Look at you. You’re gonna make me embarrass myself.”

She leaned over him, bracing her hands on either side of his head, her hair slipping down to brush his cheeks. “That’s the point.”

“Oh, you’re evil,” he breathed, voice breaking on a laugh.

Then she started to move. Just a slow, testing roll of her hips, grinding down into him. The sound that tore out of Harry’s throat was obscene, his fingers digging into her thighs like he might bruise them.

“Trouble—” he gasped. “Fuck, don’t stop, please—”

She kept moving, finding a rhythm that had her own breath coming short and hot. The friction was maddening, sending little sparks dancing up her spine.

Then she dipped lower, mouth brushing his ear.

“You’re so easy for me,” she whispered, biting down gently on his earlobe.

Harry actually whimpered. His hips jerked up into hers, hands sliding to her ass to press her down harder.

“Oh my god,” he choked, breath hot and ragged. “Say that again.”

She just smiled, breathless, and pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses down his neck. Her teeth scraped lightly at the tender skin there, then bit down just enough to make him gasp.

“Mine,” she whispered against his throat. “You’re mine, Harry.”

“Fuck, fuck—” His hands were everywhere now, greedy and frantic, sliding under her shirt, over her back, trying to pull her even closer. His neck arched under her mouth, giving her more room, a helpless offering.

“Say it,” she breathed, nipping lower.

“Yours,” he groaned. “All yours, fuck, been yours since the first voice note you sent me, I’m done—”

She rocked her hips again, harder, and he nearly bucked off the bed. His hands clenched on her hips so tight she’d probably have marks.

“You’re so pretty like this,” she whispered against his throat, sucking another mark into his skin. “So desperate for me.”

Harry’s eyes squeezed shut, a wrecked little smile breaking across his face. “You have no fuckin’ clue, trouble. Absolutely no clue.”

She laughed, soft and breathless, then captured his mouth in another hungry kiss, her hips still moving, chasing that perfect, maddening friction.

And Harry just let her — let her take everything she wanted, moaning into her mouth, hands trembling where they gripped her.

Harry’s hands were shaking where they gripped her hips, thumbs digging into her skin like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. She kept rolling her hips over him, slow and teasing, her mouth pressed to his neck, feeling every helpless groan vibrate under her lips.

Then suddenly his hands tightened, and he growled out a breathless, “Alright, that’s enough.”

Before she could even process it, he was flipping them over, pressing her into the mattress with a low, wrecked laugh.

“Hey!” she squealed, giggling breathlessly, hands flying up to his shoulders.

Harry just smirked down at her, hair falling around his face, eyes dark and hungry but lit with that same playful glint that had made her fall for him from the start.

“What happened to being my good boy?” she teased, trying to sound cocky even though her voice was wobbly.

Harry leaned down, his mouth brushing hers, voice dropping to this low, sinful rumble that made her toes curl.

“Still your good boy,” he breathed, kissing the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then right below her ear so she shivered. “But turns out your good boy’s fucking starving.”

Her breath hitched. “Oh.”

“Oh,” he echoed mockingly, biting her earlobe just enough to make her gasp. “What, didn’t think I was gonna let you have all the fun, did you?”

Then his mouth was at her throat, kissing and nipping down the column of her neck, hands sliding under her shirt. He pushed it up, impatient, until she lifted her arms so he could yank it over her head.

“Fuck, look at you,” he rasped, leaning back just long enough to drink her in. His eyes were so dark it made her stomach swoop. “Been dreaming about this for months, trouble. Ruined me before I even had the chance to touch you.”

“Yeah?” she whispered, arching a little under him, needing more of him everywhere.

“Oh, yeah.” His hands slid down her sides, hooking into the waistband of her shorts. “Now be a good girl and lift your hips for me.”

She did, breath catching as he peeled them down slow, his eyes locked on hers the whole time. When he got them past her thighs, he dropped a soft kiss to the inside of her knee that made her whimper.

Harry just smirked. “What, already needy for me? Haven’t even started yet.”

“Harry—”

But he cut her off with a slow, filthy kiss just below her belly button, then another lower, each press of his mouth sending heat pooling low in her stomach.

When he finally settled between her thighs, hands spreading them wider, she thought she might actually die.

Harry looked up at her, eyes heavy, mouth curved in that wicked, lazy grin.

“Gonna make you forget your own name,” he murmured, voice so rough it was almost a growl. “Then remind you it’s mine you’ll be screaming.”

Then he lowered his head, and everything went molten.

Harry’s breath was hot against her inner thigh, and the second his mouth finally landed on her, she made a sound she didn’t even recognize — high and broken, her back arching clean off the bed.

“Fuck, there she is,” Harry groaned, voice dark and awed, like he’d just discovered treasure. He licked a slow stripe up her slit that had her thighs trying to snap closed around his head, but his hands were there, big and strong, spreading her right back open. “Nah. Don’t you dare hide from me now.”

“Harry—”

“Mm?” He pressed a filthy open-mouthed kiss right over her clit, then sucked, gentle at first, then harder when she whimpered. “What’s that, trouble? Can’t hear you.”

“Fucking— you’re such an— oh my god—”

He laughed against her, the vibration shooting through her entire body. “That’s it. Talk to me. Want to hear every desperate little noise you’ve been keeping from me.”

Then he went right back to it — slow at first, dragging his tongue in lazy circles that had her hips chasing after him, then faster, teasing patterns that made her whine. He sucked her clit into his mouth and let it pop free, then did it again, until she was clutching at the sheets like a lifeline.

“Please,” she gasped, voice wrecked. “Harry, please—”

“Please what?” he growled, pulling back just enough to look at her. His mouth was wet, his jaw shining with her slick, and he looked absolutely feral. “Gonna have to be more specific, sweetheart. I’m a bit slow on the uptake.”

She made a desperate little noise, hands flying down to his hair, gripping tight. “Please, just — don’t stop. Need your mouth, please.”

“Oh, fuck me, that’s pretty.” He dove right back in, groaning low when she tugged hard at his hair. His tongue worked her in deep, filthy strokes, then moved up to suck at her clit again, flicking just the tip of it until her thighs started to tremble.

Her hips stuttered against his mouth, her breath coming in short, sharp pants. “Harry— I’m gonna— oh my god—”

“Yeah?” He didn’t stop for even a second, words muffled against her. “Give it to me then, trouble. Come on my fuckin’ mouth.”

She broke with a soft sob, everything going tight and bright and shattering. Her hips rolled helplessly, grinding against his tongue, and Harry just moaned, holding her down, lapping her through it like he was starved.

When she finally slumped back against the mattress, shaking and spent, he pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, a lazy, wicked smile tugging at his lips.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he rasped, crawling up over her until they were nose to nose. “You’re a mess. Pretty little thing, all ruined for me.”

She let out a breathless, delirious laugh. “You’re the worst. The actual worst.”

He grinned, leaned in to press a slow, dirty kiss to her mouth — letting her taste exactly what he’d just done.

“Yeah,” he whispered against her lips. “But you love it.”

Her answering moan was all the proof he needed.

Harry pulled back just far enough to look at her, eyes heavy and dark, breath coming in short, ragged bursts. His hands were everywhere — smoothing down her sides, gripping her thighs, then sliding up to cradle her face like he needed to hold her steady for what he was about to say.

“Need you,” he rasped, voice all gravel and desperation. “Need to be inside you right fuckin’ now or I’m gonna lose it.”

Her stomach swooped, heat pooling deep and low. She couldn’t help the soft, eager sound that broke from her chest. “Then do it. Please.”

Harry groaned, crashing his mouth back to hers in a rough, breathless kiss that had her head spinning. His hands moved between them, fumbling with his jeans. When he finally shoved them down along with his briefs, he sighed like it physically hurt to be kept from her even that long.

“Look at you,” he breathed, sliding a hand down to guide himself, dragging the head of his cock through her slick folds until they were both trembling. “All wet for me already. Fuckin’ hell, trouble.”

“Harry—” Her voice cracked on his name, needy and wrecked, and that seemed to break the last of his control.

He pressed in slow, pushing inside inch by inch. Her mouth dropped open on a strangled little gasp, hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders. Harry let out a deep, shuddering groan, forehead dropping to hers.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, hips stuttering forward. “You’re so fuckin’ tight — like you were made for me, swear to god.”

She could barely breathe, legs wrapping around his hips instinctively, trying to pull him even deeper. “Harry, please— move—”

“Yeah, baby, I’ve got you,” he murmured, voice low and rough, brushing his nose against hers. Then he pulled out nearly all the way and slammed back in, hard enough to knock the air from her lungs.

Her moan was sharp, desperate, nails digging into his back. Harry grinned, breathless and cocky. “There she is. C’mon, let me hear you.”

Then he set a rhythm — slow at first, rolling his hips into hers like he wanted to savor every second, then faster, rougher, every thrust sending a shockwave of pleasure through her that had her clinging to him helplessly.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he panted against her mouth. “Can’t believe I’ve been waiting months for this. Months— thinkin’ about you, your voice, your laugh— didn’t even know what you looked like and I was already gone.”

“Harry,” she gasped, her body twisting under his, chasing each thrust. “Fuck— don’t stop—”

“Not stoppin’. Never fuckin’ stopping,” he growled. His hands slid under her ass, lifting her just enough so he could angle deeper. When he thrust again, she cried out, head tipping back, eyes squeezing shut.

“That’s it,” he rasped, fucking into her harder now, their bodies slamming together with slick, obscene sounds. “Good girl. Take it for me.”

“Feels so— god, you feel so good—”

“Yeah? This what you wanted?” His mouth found her neck, biting down just enough to make her keen. “Wanted me to ruin you, yeah?”

“Yes— yes, please, Harry, I’m so close—”

“Fuck, I can feel you,” he groaned, hips snapping faster. “Come for me, trouble. Wanna feel you squeeze me.”

It only took a few more thrusts before she broke, coming with a sharp cry, nails digging into his shoulders. Her whole body tensed, then went loose and trembling under him. Harry let out a wrecked moan, burying his face in her neck as he followed her over the edge, hips jerking erratically until he spilled inside her.

They stayed tangled up like that, gasping into each other’s skin, his weight heavy and perfect on top of her. His hand stroked her hair, thumb brushing her cheek, grounding them both.

When he finally pulled back to look at her, his grin was lazy and stupidly soft.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice rough. “Knew you’d wreck me.”

She laughed, weak and breathless, pulling him down into a messy kiss.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because you absolutely ruined me too.”

Harry stayed right there, heavy and warm on top of her, breathing hard against her neck. It should have felt smothering, but it didn’t. It felt perfect — grounding and real, his heartbeat still thundering under her palm where she pressed it flat to his chest.

After a minute, he lifted his head, eyes soft and dazed. His hair was a total disaster, curls sticking up in every direction, still damp at the roots. She reached up and brushed a stray lock off his forehead, and he gave her this small, sappy smile that made her stomach flip all over again.

“You okay?” he asked, voice rough, thumb stroking under her jaw.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Better than okay.”

He leaned in and kissed her — slow, gentle, nothing like how frantic he’d been a few minutes ago. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers and let out a quiet laugh.

“What?” she breathed.

“Just…” His grin went a little crooked. “Dunno how I’m supposed to go back to my sad little flat after this. S’not fair.”

“You’ll survive,” she teased, even though her chest squeezed painfully at the thought of him leaving.

“Doubt it. Gonna be pathetic without you there to torment me.”

She laughed, pushing at his shoulder. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Oh, absolutely.” He pulled out slowly, careful and sweet, then dropped another soft kiss on her mouth before rolling off to the side. He flopped down next to her, arm immediately hooking around her waist to tug her into his side.

They lay like that for a minute, catching their breath. Then Harry huffed out another soft laugh.

“What now?” she groaned, nuzzling her face into his shoulder.

“Just thinking how smug you’re gonna be about this. Won’t be able to get your head through a door after tonight.”

“Oh, please. I’m the smug one?” She lifted her head to look at him, arching a brow. “Pretty sure you were the one talking about how you were gonna make me forget my name.”

Harry grinned, completely unrepentant. “Didn’t I, though?”

She smacked his chest lightly. “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, but you like it.” He pulled her tighter, kissing her hair.

They lay there in a comfortable tangle of limbs, skin still sticky, hearts finally slowing down. Harry’s hand traced lazy patterns up and down her back, then settled low on her waist, thumb brushing soothing circles.

“Can I stay the night?” he murmured after a while, voice small in a way that made her heart squeeze.

“Of course you can,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his collarbone. “I was hoping you would.”

“Good,” he breathed, then shifted to press her closer. “Need you here. S’like my body’s already addicted.”

She laughed, warm all over. “You’re a sap.”

“You’re gonna keep saying that, but I’m not embarrassed.” He nuzzled her nose with his, eyes crinkling. “Best fuckin’ decision I ever made, driving down here. Even if you did ruin me.”

“You like being ruined.”

“Oh, fully. Hopeless for it.”

She kissed him again, sweet and lingering, then tucked her head under his chin.

“Harry?”

“Yeah, trouble?”

“Don’t let this be a one weekend thing.”

His arms tightened around her. “Not a chance in hell.”

Two years later, and Y/N still couldn’t quite believe how her life had turned out.

It was ridiculous, really — all because she’d been bored and lonely one night, scrolling TikTok with her brain half-melted from work, and stumbled across a scruffy British boy in a pink hair clip rambling about cereal.

Now that same boy was asleep on her couch most nights, leaving half-empty tea mugs everywhere, hogging the blankets, stealing kisses in the kitchen while she was trying to cook.

Harry had moved to her city after six months of painfully sweet long weekends and gut-wrenching goodbyes at airports. “Not doin’ this anymore,” he’d grumbled against her mouth one night, hands cupping her face like she was something breakable. “Want to wake up next to you every bloody day.”

So he did.

They settled into something warm and chaotic — nights in with cheap wine and takeout, quiet mornings tangled up in bed, little trips to bookstores where he’d follow her around with a lazy arm hooked around her waist.

And somehow two years flew by.

They were on a weekend trip up north, renting a tiny cabin that looked out over a stretch of mossy woods. It was chilly, the sky low and gray, everything damp with the smell of pine and earth. Y/N was bundled in one of Harry’s sweaters, hands shoved in her pockets, while he fussed around trying to start a little bonfire.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” she teased, arching a brow.

Harry shot her a look over his shoulder, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. “Absolutely not. But you love me anyway, so it’s fine.”

“That’s debatable.”

He laughed, then finally got the flame going, settling back on his heels with a smug grin. “Ha. Ye of little faith.”

She rolled her eyes, sinking down onto the threadbare blanket he’d spread on the ground. The fire crackled softly, little bursts of orange against the dreary afternoon.

Harry dropped down next to her, pulling her immediately between his legs so her back pressed to his chest. His chin hooked over her shoulder, arms warm and heavy around her middle.

They sat like that for a while, quiet, just listening to the fire and the distant birds.

Then she felt him shift, heart thundering against her back in this weird, frantic rhythm.

“Alright, trouble,” he murmured, voice suddenly rough. “Got a question for you.”

She twisted a little to look at him. “Yeah? Why do you look like you’re about to pass out?”

“Because I might,” he breathed, and when he pulled back she realized his hands were shaking.

Then he was fumbling in his pocket, pulling out this small, velvet box.

Y/N’s breath completely stopped.

“Harry—”

“Hang on, let me do it before I black out, yeah?” he rasped, popping the box open. Inside was a delicate ring, simple and perfect. Her eyes stung instantly.

Harry laughed, watery, eyes so bright. “Look, I know you’re a menace. You drive me absolutely mad. You steal the covers and use my toothbrush sometimes and leave your hair all over the flat. But I can’t — I don’t want — to do any of this without you. Ever again.”

She covered her mouth, shoulders shaking. “Harry—”

“Love.” His grin was crooked, voice breaking. “Will you marry me?”

She nodded so hard it hurt, a laugh bubbling out through her tears. “Yes. Yes, obviously, you goof.”

Harry let out this wrecked little noise, then was pulling her into his lap, hugging her so tight the ring box squished between them.

When he finally pulled back to slip the ring onto her shaking finger, his own hands were trembling so badly it took two tries.

“Told you you’d ruin me,” he whispered, pressing his forehead to hers.

She laughed through a sob. “You love it.”

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I fuckin’ love you.”

Then he kissed her — slow and sweet and a little salty from both their tears — while the fire crackled on beside them, the sky hanging low and gray overhead, and everything else fell perfectly, irrevocably into place.

[danysdaughter]

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 7.7k words

summary | bucky’s really not the club type, but one night of teasing and grinding leads to him worshipping you in an alley and begging to fuck you full the second you’re home. you make him plead for it—hard—before finally letting your needy, subby Sargeant get what he wants.

tags | 18+ (MDNI), unprotected sex, semi-public sex, oral sex (f!recieving), submissive!bucky barnes, breeding kink, praise kink, desperate sex, begging, reader has bucky on a leash (metaphorically…for now), dirty talk, bucky barnes loses all dignity and loves it

a/n | these two are my pookies, based on these three requests, 1 , 2 & 3

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

you don't need to read the previous parts to read this one

ᴘʀᴇᴠɪᴏᴜs ᴘᴀʀᴛ - ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

“Do we have to go?”

His voice came from behind you, low and already sulky, as you leaned over the vanity applying your lip liner with practiced ease.

You didn’t even flinch. Just kept going, eyes locked on your reflection, the tiny smile tugging at your freshly glossed lips betraying you.

“No,” you said casually, popping the cap back onto your pencil. “I have to go. You, my dear, decided to martyr yourself for the cause.”

Bucky groaned—loudly—from where he was sprawled on the edge of the bed, already dressed but looking like he was one minor inconvenience away from peeling his black button-up off and sinking back under the covers.

“You said it was just drinks.”

You turned, finally facing him, one hand propped on your hip. “It is just drinks. For her birthday. At a club. With music. And people. You know—civilization?”

He gave you a flat look, but it dropped the moment his eyes swept over your dress.

Sequins.

Black.

Tight in all the right places.

And short. So short he could see the edges of your sheer lingerie underneath when you turned back around.

“You’re gonna cause an international incident in that thing,” he muttered.

You caught his reflection in the mirror—jaw tight, eyes dark—and smiled slowly as you spritzed perfume behind your ears.

“I haven’t even worn heels yet, Sarge. You haven’t seen the full offense.”

He dragged a hand down his face. “This is torture.”

You snorted. “You could’ve stayed home.”

“I tried to. You guilted me.”

You turned to him again, walking over slowly—deliberately—until you were standing between his knees. He looked up at you like you were something dangerous. Something divine.

You leaned down just enough for your cleavage to barely brush his cheek.

“I said, I was going. I never asked you to come.”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah. I know.”

You ran your nails through his hair, teasing. “But you just couldn’t stay away, huh?”

“Couldn’t let you out in this alone,” he murmured, hands sliding up your thighs. “Someone’s gotta keep an eye on you.”

You watched his fingers twitch where they rested on your thighs—like he wanted to grab you, drag you down onto his lap, keep you there. But he didn’t. Not yet.

So you leaned down instead, just enough for your lips to brush his.

Soft.

Gentle.

Barely there.

And Bucky? The man preened under it. That low grumble of irritation in his chest softened into something else entirely—something warm and needy, his hands trailing slowly up the backs of your thighs as he angled up to chase more.

You kissed him again. A little firmer. A little longer.

“Just an hour,” you whispered against his mouth.

He groaned, forehead tipping against yours.

“And then,” you added, letting your fingers slide through his hair again, “you get your reward.”

His eyes fluttered open. “What kind of reward?”

You peppered kisses across his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

“The very good kind,” you murmured.

He leaned in, trying to catch your lips in a deeper kiss—hungry now, desperate to steal more—but you pulled back at the last second with a wicked little smile.

“Hold that thought,” you said, turning toward the closet. “I need my heels.”

Bucky let out an honest-to-god whimper as you walked away, that tiny black dress riding high on your thighs.

────────────────────────

The bass throbbed through the floor, through your heels, up your spine. Bodies pressed together on the dancefloor, all glitter and sweat and perfume—but you were the main event.

You and your two girlfriends owned the center like it was a spotlight.

Arms thrown over each other’s shoulders, drinks in hand, hips swaying in perfect sync as you danced, laughed, twirled like the music was playing just for you.

Your black dress caught the strobe lights like a mirrorball—sparkling every time your hips rolled to the beat, the sequins clinging to your curves in a way that made even strangers pause mid-step.

And from the shadows, Bucky watched.

Sat at the edge of a booth, drink in hand, jaw tight, legs spread wide and metal fingers tapping rhythmically against the glass. He didn’t blink often. Didn't move.

Just sat there like a statue, half in shadow, tracking every motion you made with the eyes of a sniper and the patience of a wolf.

Someone bumped into his table.

He didn’t look away from you.

Another guy brushed past you and your friends, maybe a little too close.

Bucky’s jaw flexed.

His grip on the glass tightened.

And you? You felt it.

You turned just slightly, gave him a smirk over your shoulder as your hips rolled in a slow, mocking figure eight—your friends hyping you up as you dropped low between them and came back up laughing.

You winked at him.

He looked like he was going to combust.

Eventually you wove your way back through the crowd, hips still swaying to the beat, the hem of your dress riding dangerously high with every step. The heat of the club clung to your skin, and your smile—lazy, knowing—was aimed straight at him.

Bucky barely moved when you stopped in front of him.

Just tracked your every step like a laser. That unreadable expression carved into his face.

But his drink?

Untouched.

“Drink break,” you said sweetly, plucking the glass from his hand without asking. You took a slow sip, then bent slightly, placing your free hand on his chest as you leaned in close. “Why’re you sulking, Sargeant?”

“I’m not sulking,” he muttered, deadpan.

You gave him a look.

“Okay,” he amended, “I’m just not… into this kind of thing.”

“The alcohol or the dancing?”

“The… everything.”

You laughed, soft and low, before casually sliding into his lap like it was your throne. One arm hooked around his neck, your body warm against his, glittering and flushed from the heat of the dancefloor. He tensed beneath you—his hands hovering, not quite touching, not yet.

“C’mon,” you whispered in his ear. “Just one dance. I’ll be good.”

He snorted. “You’ve never been good.”

You grinned, kissing the corner of his jaw. “You love it.”

He didn’t deny it.

Just groaned softly as your hips shifted on his lap, as you leaned in like you were about to kiss him—then pulled back just before your lips touched.

“I’m going back out,” you said, slipping off his lap. “But don’t worry.”

You met his eyes again, that familiar heat flaring between you.

“You’ll know where to find me. Since you’ve been staring like a stalker all night.”

And with that, you turned and sauntered away—back into the lights, the music, your friends. Your hips swaying with every step.

You didn’t need to look back to know his eyes were still locked on you.

Like they always were.

And Bucky tried.

He really fucking tried.

He stayed glued to the booth like it was the only safe zone in this sensory-overloaded club. Kept his eyes on you and his drink in hand, willing himself to just breathe.

But then—he showed up.

Some guy in a too-tight shirt and too-slick smile, sliding up behind you like he had a right to. Too close. Too casual. His hand brushed your lower back as he leaned in to say something, and you didn’t even notice—still laughing, still dancing with your friends, too caught up in the song.

Bucky’s glass cracked in his hand.

He was on his feet before it even hit the table.

It took him two seconds to cross the floor.

He shoved through the crowd like it didn’t exist, tunnel vision locked on that asshole brushing too close to you.

And then—contact.

Bucky’s hand shoved the guy back with a sharp, practiced force that was just shy of breaking ribs. The stranger stumbled, eyes wide, hands up in defense.

“Back. Off.” Bucky’s voice was low, deadly.

The guy didn’t argue. Just disappeared into the crowd.

You blinked, spinning around at the sudden shift in energy, music still pounding in your ears.

Your eyes lit up.

“Hey!” you beamed, throwing your arms around his neck like you’d summoned him with pure willpower. “Look who finally came to dance.”

He was still fuming. Still buzzing with adrenaline.

But your smile—your soft, clueless smile—hit him like a bucket of cold water and a blowtorch at the same time.

You pressed against him, still moving to the beat, your hands sliding into his hair.

And he didn’t say a word.

Didn’t have to.

His hands found your waist like he needed something to anchor him.

The music pulsed around you, deep and filthy. A rhythm you knew in your bones. And Bucky?

He stood still.

Tense.

Hands resting on your hips like he was afraid to move. Like if he touched you wrong, he’d wake up from this.

You leaned into him, letting your back press flush to his chest as you rolled your hips to the beat. His breath caught—sharp and quiet—right next to your ear.

“I don’t…” he began, his voice rough, uncertain. “I don’t know what to do here.”

You smiled, wicked and soft all at once.

“Don’t worry, baby,” you murmured, pressing back harder against him. “Just follow my lead.”

You reached behind you, grabbing his wrists and guiding his hands lower—over your hips, across your waist, until they were resting right over your thighs, right where that tiny scrap of dress ended.

“There,” you whispered, “isn’t that better?”

He groaned under his breath, fingers tightening just slightly.

You kept moving, grinding slowly against him, the curve of your ass brushing the growing bulge in his pants with every roll of your hips.

“You feel that?” you murmured, turning your head just enough for your lips to brush the shell of his ear. “That’s how much you want me right now. In the middle of a fucking club.”

He exhaled hard.

You smiled.

“Still don’t know what to do?”

His hands trembled on your body. You could feel how hard he was behind you. How desperate.

And he was letting you lead. Letting you take him apart.

His hands gripped your thighs tighter now—desperate, barely restrained, fingers pressing into the bare skin exposed by your dress. You kept dancing, rolling your hips slow and smooth, rubbing back against his cock like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Bucky? He was dying.

You felt the shudder run through him. Heard the ragged inhale as his forehead dropped to your shoulder, his mouth right by your ear.

“Baby…” he murmured, his voice cracked and low. “Please. Let’s go. I need—fuck—I need to get you alone.”

You hummed, soft and nonchalant, like he’d asked what song was playing.

“Mm? In a bit,” you replied, still swaying with the beat, still teasing him with every curve of your body against his. “It’s my girl’s birthday.”

“I don’t care,” he groaned, pressing closer, his cock hard and throbbing against your ass. “You’ve been driving me fucking insane all night.”

You turned your head just enough to glance back at him, lashes low, lips curved.

“Oh? You poor baby.”

“Please,” he whispered, hands sliding back up your waist, gripping your sides like he might lose it if you didn’t say yes. “I’ll do anything. Just—just please.”

You looked ahead again, letting the music wash over you, pretending not to notice how close he was to snapping.

And god, you glowed under his begging.

You kept moving, kept teasing, kept dancing—until he finally growled low in your ear, a sound full of warning and surrender.

“I swear to God—if you don’t come with me now…”

You smiled.

Victory, sweet and slow, dripping off your lips.

You finally turned in his arms, cupping his flushed face, and kissed him once—deeply—before murmuring against his mouth:

“Fine. Let’s go.”

He didn’t wait. Didn’t speak.

Just grabbed your hand and pulled you through the crowd like a man possessed.

You expected him to drag you to the car.

To fumble for keys with shaking hands, speed through traffic like a man on fire, and toss you onto the bed the second the front door clicked shut.

What you didn’t expect?

Was for him to yank you down a side alley the second you stepped outside the club.

“Bucky—what the fuck—?”

The night air hit your skin, sharp and cool, your laughter bubbling out from your lips as your heels clicked on the pavement, stumbling a little as he hauled you behind him with single-minded purpose.

“Hold on,” you laughed, “are we not going home—?”

But he didn’t answer.

Didn’t speak.

Just turned the corner into the shadows between two brick walls, pressed you against one of them like a secret, and dropped to his knees in front of you.

Your eyes widened.

“Wait—are you serious—? Bucky—get up—”

Your hands flew to his shoulders, trying to tug him upright, but he wasn’t budging.

Not even a little.

He looked up at you like he was seeing the sun for the first time—flushed, pupils blown wide, hair wild from the walk, lips parted in reverence and desperation.

“I’ve waited all night,” he said, voice rough and raw. “You—you were dancing like that, touching me like that. Whispering in my ear like I’m yours to tease.”

He slipped his hands up your thighs, his palms hot, steady.

“I need to taste you.”

You blinked, speechless.

And then—he lifted one of your legs and gently, so gently—hooked it over his shoulder.

Your dress rode up in the process, barely hiding anything anymore.

“Bucky,” you breathed, eyes wide, “we’re literally outside—”

“No one’s here,” he said, almost pleading. “I’ll be quick.”

He kissed your thigh, slow and reverent, just above the edge of your panties.

“Please,” he murmured, voice trembling. “Let me have you.”

And god help you—

You didn’t have it in you to say no.

He started slow.

Mouth pressing against your soaked panties, breathing you in like he’d finally found air. The wet heat of his tongue licked right over the thin fabric, and you shuddered, one hand flying to the brick behind you for balance, the other curling in his hair.

“Fuck,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “You’re really doing this…”

He hummed against you, a sound that vibrated through your core and made your legs go weak.

His hands were locked tight around your thighs, holding you open, steady, as he mouthed through the lace—licking broad, heavy strokes from bottom to top, pausing to suck gently over your clit even through the fabric.

“You taste—” he groaned, voice muffled. “Fuck, you taste so good.”

You bit your lip, hips bucking just slightly toward his face. “Yeah? That what you wanted, Sarge? Wanted me dripping while you knelt like this?”

He growled. A sound that came from somewhere low.

Then his fingers found the edge of your panties and tugged them aside—no patience, no preamble—just that same determined hunger in every move.

And then?

Skin to skin.

His mouth latched onto you—hot, wet, perfect—tongue dragging slowly up your folds, circling your clit with maddening precision. He was thorough, like he was mapping you with every lick, every flick, every groan.

Your head tipped back against the wall, breath hitching hard.

“Fuck, Bucky,” you gasped, “yes—yes—”

He moaned against you, and that was the end of your self-control.

Your hips started moving, slow at first, grinding softly against his face as his hands spread you wider, anchoring you down. His tongue fucked into you, deep and greedy, then came back up to suck hard on your clit—and it was too much, too good.

“Good boy,” you whispered breathlessly, threading your fingers through his hair, holding him right there. “Just like that—don’t stop.”

He didn’t stop.

He feasted like you were his last meal.

Like he’d go down praying between your thighs if it meant dying with your taste on his tongue.

And you let him.

Your breath came in broken little gasps, legs trembling as you leaned harder into the wall for balance, your hips rolling forward, chasing his tongue.

He groaned into you again—louder this time—as if he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted, the way you melted for him.

His tongue thrust into you again and again, slow and deep, then faster, like he wanted to fuck you with it alone. He alternated between that and lapping up everything you gave him—soaked, messy, dripping all over his mouth and chin.

And you just… let go.

“Fuck—Bucky—fuck, that’s it—baby, just like that…”

Your praise spilled from you in shaky moans, every word making him groan again, his mouth sucking harder, tongue circling your clit with more pressure, more purpose.

“Such a good boy,” you gasped, voice breaking. “So hungry for me—fuck, look at you—”

He moaned, louder, like the words pushed him closer to the edge right along with you.

Then you felt it.

The cold press of metal fingers sliding along your folds.

You barely had time to brace before two slipped inside—deep, smooth, and slick from your arousal. The stretch made you cry out, head snapping forward to stare down at him.

He looked wrecked.

Mouth glistening, jaw working, eyes wild with need as he watched his fingers sink into you.

He thrust them deep once, twice—then curled them just right, tongue flicking over your clit as he built a rhythm.

You nearly screamed.

“Oh my God,” you gasped, clutching his hair. “Fuck, Bucky—yes—your fingers—so deep—don’t stop—”

He didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

You were everything. Right here, above him, dripping down his wrist, moaning his name like it meant salvation.

And he was going to make you come apart for him.

Right here in the alley.

Where anyone could hear. Where you were already too far gone to care.

You were trembling now—your thighs shaking where he held them, your body arching off the wall as your moans got higher, faster, more desperate.

“Bucky—fuck—baby, I’m gonna—I’m close—”

His fingers didn’t stop.

That metal hand, cool and slick, thrusting in and out of you with precision. His tongue—hot and greedy—worked your clit in tight, perfect circles, and all you could do was hang on, your hand fisting in his hair as your body spiraled toward release.

“You’re so fucking good to me,” you gasped, hips bucking. “So good—fuck, baby, just like that—don’t stop—you’re making me come—you’re making me—”

And then it hit.

Hard.

Your whole body locked up, then shattered—waves of pleasure crashing over you so sharp it left you breathless, crying out his name as your walls clamped around his fingers, your thighs squeezing tight around his head.

But Bucky didn’t move.

Didn’t even slow down.

He moaned into you like he was the one coming, like your orgasm turned him on more than anything else in the world.

He kept licking. Kept devouring.

His fingers slowed inside you, easing through your spasms as his mouth dragged through every drop of your release, his tongue lapping you clean like he couldn’t stand to waste a single drop.

When you finally opened your eyes, chest heaving, he was still there between your thighs—his mouth swollen, chin wet, eyes dark with hunger and reverence and something that looked like worship.

You reached down, cupped his face, breathless and wrecked.

“You are…” you gasped, voice hoarse, “so fucking dangerous, Sarge.”

He grinned. Didn’t disagree.

────────────────────────

The ride to Bucky’s apartment was a blur.

You were still reeling—floaty, lightheaded, drunk off your orgasm and vodka and the way he’d looked at you after licking you clean like you were dessert. Slumped in the passenger seat, one heel kicked off, legs parted, dress ruined and crooked.

And Bucky?

White-knuckling the steering wheel.

Silent.

Focused.

His jaw clenched like the only thing keeping him from pulling over and fucking you in the backseat was his last shred of sanity.

He didn’t even wait for the car to fully stop before he was out, coming around to your side, opening the door like a man possessed.

“C’mon,” he muttered, reaching for you.

You blinked at him, dazed.

Then giggled. “I can’t run in these heels, Sarge.”

He sighed. One of those long-suffering, deeply unamused sighs that came from the soul.

And then?

“Up.”

“What?”

“Up. Jump on.”

You blinked again.

And then started laughing—delighted, drunken, giddy.

“Wait, are you—are you giving me a piggyback ride right now—?”

He didn’t respond.

Just turned around, crouched down a little.

“Get your ass on my back or I swear to god I’ll throw you over my shoulder and deal with the neighbors staring.”

You snorted, heels finally coming off as you clumsily clambered up, arms around his neck, thighs around his waist. He stood like you weighed nothing, started walking fast, muttering under his breath the entire way.

“You get me hard enough to explode and now I’m a goddamn Uber.”

“You love me,” you murmured, nuzzling his neck.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That’s the problem.”

The stairwell echoed with the soft thump of Bucky’s boots, your breathy laughter, and his increasingly frustrated muttering.

He had one arm locked under your thighs, the other gripping your leg where it wrapped around his waist. Your chest pressed tight to his back, your lips everywhere.

“God, you’re heavy when you’re smug,” he grumbled, voice tight.

You bit down softly on his earlobe.

He groaned, staggered slightly.

“You love it,” you whispered, voice hot against his skin. “I’m your smug little problem.”

His breath hitched.

“I should’ve left you in that alley,” he muttered, taking the stairs two at a time now. “Should’ve walked away the second you climbed into my lap in that damn club.”

But his hand squeezed your thigh as he said it. His pulse was pounding.

You laughed, fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “Yeah, but you didn’t. You followed. You always follow.”

He reached the landing of his floor, adjusting your grip with a grunt as you started kissing down the side of his neck.

“Keep doing that,” he warned, “and I’m gonna fuck you right here in the hallway.”

You smiled against his skin.

“And that would be a punishment for who, exactly?”

He growled, low and dangerous, and finally reached his door—slammed his key into the lock with barely-restrained aggression, the door clicking open just in time to keep him from putting a hole through it.

He set you down just past the doorway, and the second your feet hit the floor, you laughed.

Bright. Teasing. Unapologetic.

And then you ran.

Not far—just a few steps down the hall, barefoot now, your ruined dress swinging with every step, giddy and high off the power humming between you.

You heard him groan behind you. That low, broken sound of a man barely holding it together.

“C’mon, baby,” he growled, already following. “Don’t play with me.”

You looked back over your shoulder, flashing him a grin so smug it could start a war.

“Who’s playing?” you called, half-laughing. “You looked like you needed a little cardio.”

“Oh my god,” he groaned again, but there was that glint in his eye—wild, hungry, so in love with you it almost hurt.

He picked up speed.

You squealed, turning into the bedroom just as he lunged and caught you—arms wrapping around your waist, dragging you back against his chest with a growl.

You were still laughing when his mouth found your neck.

Still grinning as his hands roamed your body like he was claiming it from memory.

Bucky wasn’t smiling. He was starving.

“Enough games,” he murmured into your skin. “I’ve waited.”

He held you from behind, arms locked around your waist, lips brushing your neck as you caught your breath, still laughing, still high off the chase.

“You promised me a reward,” he murmured, his voice low and wrecked, his hips pressing flush to your ass. “For getting through the night.”

You arched a brow, smirking over your shoulder. “Did you really get through the night, though?”

He groaned, full of mock betrayal and pent-up need.

“I chased you. I carried you. I knelt for you in an alley.”

“Mm,” you hummed, feigning thought. “Yeah, okay, you almost earned it.”

He sighed.

You didn’t have time to blink before his hand slid down your front—gripped the front of your dress at the seam—and ripped it in half.

The fabric tore with a loud, satisfying rip, split clean down the middle, falling off your shoulders like it’d offended him personally.

You gasped, spinning in his arms, eyes wide. “Bucky—this was new!”

He just looked at you—lips parted, breathing heavy, pupils black.

“Oops.”

You smacked the back of his head.

He didn’t flinch.

Just smirked, hands already smoothing over your now-exposed body like you were his favorite secret.

“You look better without it anyway,” he said, voice a rasp.

He didn't toss you—didn't throw you down with brute strength.

No.

Bucky guided you.

Hands on your waist, eyes wide and desperate, he backed you toward the bed like it was a shrine and you were the altar.

When your knees hit the edge of the mattress, he gently pushed—and you let yourself fall back, grinning up at him, lingerie still clinging to your body in scraps, skin glowing, mouth parted.

He stood there, looming and wrecked, chest rising fast.

“Please,” he whispered, voice thick. “Can I… Can I have you now?”

Your brows lifted, lips curling into something warm and hungry.

“Oh, baby,” you said softly, sweetly, fingers tracing down your own stomach. “That depends. Are you gonna be good for me?”

He nodded, breath hitching. "Yes. Yes. Anything.”

You tilted your head. “Then take your clothes off.”

He obeyed immediately.

Button after button, dragging his shirt off like it burned, revealing scarred skin, that muscled chest, arms flexing with every frantic movement. His belt came undone next, pants shoved low on his hips, breath ragged as he kicked them away—desperate to be bare for you.

And you?

You stayed exactly where you were—lounging back on your elbows, legs slightly parted, eyes dragging slowly over every inch of him.

“Look at you,” you murmured, voice syrupy, teasing. “So eager. So pretty.”

He flushed—full body flush, from chest to cheeks—but didn’t stop. Didn’t speak.

He crawled up the bed with a kind of reverence—his hands on either side of your thighs, his mouth parted, eyes locked on you like he couldn’t believe you were real. His cock hung heavy between his legs, flushed and leaking, brushing your inner thigh with every slow, deliberate movement.

You just grinned.

Waiting for him.

Arms out, legs open, back arched just slightly—every inch of you a welcome.

When he reached you, you reached up and curled your fingers into his hair, gently pulling him down until his lips met yours.

Soft at first. Sweet.

Then deeper. Hungrier.

He groaned into your mouth, one long, low sound that vibrated against your tongue—and you felt it, the heat of his cock pressing into the thin barrier of your panties, grinding instinctively as his hips rocked forward.

You gasped into him, but didn’t pull back.

Didn’t stop.

Your lips brushed his as you whispered against his mouth, your voice low and sultry:

“You feel that? That’s how much I want you too, baby.”

He moaned again—nearly broke, shuddering above you like the sound of your voice alone could make him come.

“Please,” he whispered, hips twitching against you. “Please let me—please—”

You kissed him again.

Tugged your panties to the side.

And whispered, “Now.”

He lined himself up, hands shaking where they held your thighs, forehead resting against yours as he breathed—slow, ragged, trying to hold on.

“Go on, baby,” you whispered, fingers brushing his cheek. “I want you in me.”

His hips rocked forward.

Just the tip.

And the sound that tore from his throat—broken, raw—made your body clench.

He sank deeper.

Inch by inch.

His eyes fluttered shut, his mouth falling open as he finally filled you—completely.

“Ohh, fuck,” he gasped, barely able to speak. “You’re—shit, you’re so warm—so tight—God—”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, your voice like velvet.

“You feel that, baby? That’s your reward. You earned this.”

He nodded, forehead still pressed to yours, utterly wrecked.

“You make me feel—fuck,” he choked. “You make me feel so good, you—shit, you’re squeezing me—”

“Because you fit perfect,” you whispered, hips rolling up to meet him. “This pussy’s yours, Sarge. It’s been waiting for you.”

He whimpered.

Actually whimpered.

And when you whispered, “You gonna fill me up, huh? Gonna come in me nice and deep like you want to?”—

His entire body shuddered.

“Yeah,” he panted. “I want—I want to make you mine. I wanna see you dripping with me, I wanna—fuck, I wanna keep it there.”

You smiled, slow and satisfied.

“Then start moving, baby,” you murmured. “Make me take it.”

And he did. Shaky. Overwhelmed.

But desperate to please.

He started moving slowly at first—so slow, like he didn’t want to break you. Like every inch of your body was something he needed to savor, to remember by heart.

The drag of his cock inside you was maddening, thick and perfect, your walls fluttering around him with every pull and push.

“Fuck,” he moaned, his voice wrecked, forehead pressing harder to yours. “You—God, you’re so wet, you’re pulling me in, I can’t—fuck.”

You rocked up to meet him, hands on his back, fingers dragging down the muscles there as you cooed softly in his ear.

“You were made for this, baby,” you whispered, breath warm against his skin. “Made to fuck me slow like this. Fill me up ‘til I’m leaking.”

He whimpered again—and his hips stuttered.

Your praise drove him forward, made him lose that tentative rhythm and thrust deeper, a little harder, burying himself to the hilt with a strangled groan.

“That’s it,” you murmured, breath catching. “Just like that. You feel that stretch? Feel how full I am?”

His arms trembled.

“Yes.”

“You’re gonna fill me with your cum, huh? Make sure it takes?”

“Yes. God, yes. I want—” he swallowed, voice cracking, “—wanna see you all fucked out and messy. Want it dripping out of you, baby, wanna push it back in.”

You clenched around him, hard.

And he shuddered.

“Such a good boy,” you whispered, nipping his jaw. “My sweet little mess. You’re gonna come so deep, aren’t you?”

His breath hitched. His thrusts grew sloppier, more frantic.

“Yes. Please—please let me—fuck, I need to, I can’t—”

You squeezed him tighter with your legs, your cunt gripping him greedily as he kept thrusting, faster now, hips slapping against yours with sticky, wet heat.

He was close.

You could feel it—every tense muscle, every desperate sound from his lips, every trembling push of his cock into your soaking heat.

But you weren’t letting him finish yet.

Not until he begged. And he would.

His rhythm had unraveled.

What started as controlled, careful thrusts had turned into something messy, frantic—his hips slamming into yours with that wet, sinful sound, cock driving deep like he needed to be as far inside you as possible.

You took every inch, every needy push, eyes rolling back as you moaned for him—louder now, no longer teasing, but genuine, wrecked, completely overtaken by the stretch and the heat and the desperate sound of his voice.

“You feel so fucking good,” he panted against your throat, his voice cracked and pleading. “I can’t—I’m so close—please, I can’t hold it—please—”

You tightened your legs around his waist, gripping him closer.

“You wanna come, baby?” you gasped, mouth brushing his ear. “You wanna fill me up?”

“Fuck, baby—please,” Bucky gasped, panting against your shoulder as his pace faltered, cock twitching inside you. “I’m gonna—I need to—please let me come in you, I want it so bad, I need to—”

He groaned, a deep, strangled sound that vibrated through your entire body.

You cupped his face with both hands, guiding his forehead to yours as your hips bucked up to meet every desperate thrust.

His thrusts picked up again—rougher, deeper, slamming into you over and over, the head of his cock grinding against your most sensitive spot until your vision blurred.

You clawed at his back, your legs shaking, voice breaking with every ragged gasp.

“That’s it, baby,” you cried. “Fuck—Bucky—I’m gonna—I’m coming—”

Your body seized around him, orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave—tight, intense, devastating. Your walls clamped down on his cock, pulsing, gripping him so tight it knocked the breath from his lungs.

That was it.

The final push.

His whole body shuddered.

“I need to, please, I need to—fuck, I need to come inside you, I wanna fill you so bad, please—please—”

You cradled the back of his head, pulled his face down to yours until your mouths were almost touching.

“I want it, Bucky,” you whispered, your voice passionate and tender all at once. “I want all of it. Fill me up, baby. Give it to me.”

And that was it.

He let out a broken, devastated sound—deep from his chest—and his hips stuttered, slammed into you one last time as he came hard, pulsing deep inside, buried to the hilt.

You felt it.

Hot, thick spurts pulsing into you, over and over, as he moaned your name like it was the only word he remembered. His arms wrapped tight around you, holding you flush to him as he pumped every last drop deep inside you.

You clenched around him on purpose.

He shuddered, crying out again, grinding into you even after he’d emptied himself—like he didn’t want a single drop to escape.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t move.

Just collapsed on top of you with a shaky breath, his face tucked into the crook of your neck, arms still tight around your waist like he was scared you’d disappear if he let go.

His cock still nestled deep inside you.

Still pulsing, softening slowly, but not leaving.

You stroked your fingers gently down his back, feeling every tremor still rolling through him, every heartbeat pounding fast beneath his skin.

He was warm. Heavy. Completely undone in your arms.

And you held him like he was something precious.

He nuzzled into your neck, breath hot and uneven as he whispered, finally, “God. That was… fuck.”

You smiled against his hair, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles on his spine.

“You earned it, baby,” you murmured. “Took your time, was so patient for me…”

“Barely,” he said with a breathless laugh, his lips brushing your throat. “I almost came the second I got in.”

“I know,” you teased, grinning. “I could feel it.”

He groaned again, embarrassed, and you kissed the side of his head.

You could feel his come already starting to slip out around him, warm and messy between your thighs—but neither of you moved to change that. You just stayed tangled, his body heavy over yours, his breathing slowly evening out as he melted against you.

After a few long, quiet moments of breathing each other in, Bucky finally lifted his head.

His eyes were still hazy, blue and heavy with something soft—something loving. He looked down at you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

Slow.

Deep.

His mouth moved over yours with no rush, no heat this time—just something tender, raw and honest. You held the back of his head, fingers carding through damp hair as he kissed you like he meant it.

Like he was grateful for you.

For every second. It went on for minutes. No words.

Just lips brushing, tongues tangling lazily, the sound of your breaths mixing in the dark.

And when you finally pulled back, lips swollen, still catching your breath, you blinked up at him and murmured—

“…I need to get this fucking bra off me.”

Bucky huffed a soft laugh, forehead dropping to yours, his voice rough with affection.

“Let me,” he whispered, fingers already moving.

His fingers were warm and careful as he unhooked your bra, sliding the straps down your arms slowly like he was undressing a painting.

You let out a long, relieved sigh the second it came off, tossing your head back against the pillows.

“God, finally,” you muttered, stretching beneath him. “That thing was threatening my circulation.”

Bucky chuckled, soft and low, kissing your shoulder as he tossed it somewhere over his shoulder.

And then—reluctantly—he shifted.

You felt the drag of his cock as he slowly pulled out, a quiet groan rumbling from his chest at the sensation. Your body clenched at the loss, already slick and messy from everything he’d left inside you.

“Shit,” he murmured, still breathless, running a hand through his hair as he sat back. “I’ll get something—hang on.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and warm, watching as he padded out of the room ass naked—every muscle in his back moving with purpose.

He came back a minute later with a warm, damp cloth and knelt between your legs like it was routine, like he’d done it a hundred times. Which to be fair, he did.

He was quiet, careful—his touch gentle as he cleaned you up, wiping away the slick mess he’d left behind like you were something fragile.

You watched him with a lazy grin, your body heavy, boneless, your hair a wild halo against the pillows.

“God,” you murmured, one hand flopping over your stomach, “look at you.”

He glanced up, brow furrowed. “What?”

You smiled wider, all teasing affection. “Subby Bucky, kneeling at my altar after trying to breed me in half.”

He flushed instantly.

“Don’t—” he started, already flustered.

“Oh, no, it’s too late,” you purred, wiggling your hips a little just to see him twitch. “You were begging, baby. On your knees in an alley. And then what—filling me up like it was your life’s purpose?”

He groaned, dragging the cloth down your thigh with exaggerated care, not meeting your eyes.

“You’re gonna make me hard again.”

You snorted. “I’m gonna make you embarrassed, Sergeant Breeder.”

He gave you a look—half shame, half smitten.

Then leaned up and muttered against your inner thigh, “Keep talking like that and I’ll show you what round two looks like.”

You arched a brow, still grinning. “Is that a threat, Barnes?”

He kissed your thigh again, soft and slow.

“It’s a promise.”

You watched him finish cleaning you, tossing the cloth aside and crawling back up beside you on the bed, still flushed, still naked, still… so soft.

And you? Still grinning.

“Jesus,” you muttered, eyes flicking over him. “You really are the most obedient little breeding bitch I’ve ever seen.”

He groaned, dragging a pillow over his face.

You snatched it away.

“I mean it,” you teased, leaning on your elbow to poke at his chest. “You beg so sweet. You come like it’s your life’s mission. I swear, if I told you to knock me up, you’d probably salute.”

“Would not,” he mumbled—but it was weak.

You raised a brow. “Would too,” you shot back. “You’d be like, ‘Yes ma’am, anything to serve the cause—’”

“Stop.”

“And you know what’s next, right?”

He blinked. “What’s next?”

You shrugged casually. “Pegging.”

He frowned, sitting up slightly. “…Pegging?”

You stared at him for a beat—deadpan.

Then burst out laughing, flopping back onto the bed as your shoulders shook.

“Oh, baby,” you wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“I’m a hundred and six.”

“Exactly.”

He scowled, but it only made you laugh harder, dragging him down into your arms as you nuzzled into his neck, smug and stupidly in love.

He shifted beside you, still grumbling under his breath, and rolled off the bed, stretching that broad, bare chest in the soft moonlight.

“I’m gonna go clean up,” he muttered.

You rolled to your back, arm flopping over your face. “Cool. While you’re up—make me something. I’m starving.”

He paused in the doorway, turning just enough to give you that squinty little look of disbelief.

“You just called me a ‘breeding bitch’ and now you want me to cook for you?”

You didn’t even lift your arm. “I’ll let you fuck me again after.”

He stared at you for a long beat. Then sighed dramatically. “Fine.”

────────────────────────

Fifteen minutes later, he reappeared.

Hair damp. Shirtless. In boxers.

With a plate of perfectly arranged avocado toast in one hand, a glass of ice water in the other, and his laptop tucked under his arm.

You blinked up at him from the bed, instantly suspicious. “Why the laptop?”

He handed you the toast first.

“Because,” he said, settling next to you, “I wanna know what pegging is.”

You barked a laugh, nearly choking on your toast. “No you don’t.”

“I do.”

“No, seriously—you don’t. Your 40s brain will combust.”

He looked at you, dead serious, already flipping the screen open. “You said you’d tell me when I was older.”

You reached out to slap the laptop closed, but he dodged, brows furrowed in focus as he typed.

“I’m begging you,” you said through another wave of laughter, “don’t press play. Just read the definition.”

But it was too late.

He clicked the first link.

The sound kicked in immediately—moaning, skin slapping, a woman's voice cooing praise—and Bucky froze.

You took a casual bite of your avocado toast, eyes never leaving his face.

He was staring at the screen like it had personally betrayed him.

Brows drawn.

Lips parted.

A single line of tension in his jaw as he watched a woman, in full control, pegging a man who was practically melting beneath her.

You chewed.

He blinked.

Still watching. Still furrowed.

You took another bite.

And that’s when your eyes drifted down—beneath the covers. To the very obvious tent in the blanket over his lap.

You choked.

“Oh my god,” you cackled. “You’re hard?”

His head whipped toward you, horrified. “No—”

You laughed harder, mouth full. “Don’t you dare lie, Sargeant Submissive.”

“I didn’t mean to—” He fumbled, slamming the laptop shut so fast it made the toast on your plate jump. “It’s not—that’s not what I—”

You collapsed sideways into the pillows, crying from laughter, still holding your toast.

He sank back with a groan, covering his face with both hands.

“…I hate you,” he muttered.

You leaned in, kissed his cheek.

“No you don’t.”

“…Unfortunately.”

You settled back into the pillows, plate on your lap, watching him with that lazy, shit-eating grin still plastered across your face. Bucky sat rigid beside you, eyes slightly glazed, still red from embarrassment, the laptop now firmly closed and shoved off to the side like it might bite him.

Then—

“Why do guys… like that?” he asked, cautiously, eyes flicking to you.

You shrugged, nonchalant. “Because it feels good?”

He blinked.

You licked some avocado from your thumb, casually adding, “Men have their G-spot in their asshole, babe.”

Bucky just stared.

And you, without missing a beat, muttered under your breath, “Honestly, just more proof that all men should be gay.”

“What?”

You looked up, blinking innocently. “Hm?”

He narrowed his eyes. “What did you just say?”

“Nothing,” you said, biting into another piece of toast.

After a moment, he turned to you again—still clearly thinking about everything you’d just said. His brows were pulled together, eyes searching yours, voice quiet.

“…Do you like that kind of stuff?”

You shrugged, totally unbothered. “I wouldn’t say no.”

He blinked.

You smirked, chewing on your last piece of toast like you hadn’t just dropped that casually.

“It’s a real turn-on,” you added. “That’s why girls like gay porn.”

His confusion deepened. “Wait—what?”

You rolled your eyes, clearly about to educate him. “It’s more real, Buck. Guys in gay porn actually look like they’re into it. Normal straight porn? It’s usually made for the camera. Half the time the girls are just faking it.”

He looked horrified.

“…Faking it?”

“Oh my god,” you groaned. “Yes. You think every pornstar comes just from two minutes of jackhammering and zero foreplay? Please.”

He sat back like you’d just shattered an entire belief system.

“That’s… really depressing.”

You nodded solemnly. “Welcome to womanhood, Sergeant.”

You watched him sit there, brows furrowed, lips slightly parted, eyes darting from the closed laptop to your plate to anywhere but your face.

He looked like a man staring into the void.

So naturally, you leaned in, pressed a slow kiss to his cheek, and murmured right at his ear—

“Do you want me to peg you, Bucky?”

His entire body went still.

Like you’d just dropped a live grenade in his lap.

He didn’t answer immediately—but he also didn’t pull away.

Didn’t joke. Didn’t sputter out a denial.

You tilted your head, amused. “Not a no.”

Still, silence.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, and you grinned, nosing at the sharp line of his jaw.

“You’re thinking about it,” you sang softly, placing a soft, teasing kiss right beneath his ear.

“No, I’m not,” he muttered—but it was way too quick, too defensive, and you could feel the way his body tensed under your touch.

“Oh, baby,” you whispered with a smirk, lips brushing his neck, “we really need to talk about your kinks.”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face.

You were still snickering softly against his jaw, your hands trailing lazy patterns over his chest, ready to land one more teasing blow—

Until Bucky suddenly grabbed you.

With a groan of pure defeat, he wrapped his arms tightly around your waist and physically turned you to face away from him, spooning you like it was a tactical maneuver.

“Okay,” he grumbled against the back of your neck. “You’ve had your fun. Sleep now.”

You barely bit back a laugh, your body shaking with it.

“Is that an order, Sergeant?”

“Yes,” he deadpanned, already burying his face in your shoulder. “And no more pegging talk before bed.”

You grinned, eyes fluttering shut.

“Fine,” you whispered. “But tomorrow…”

“Tomorrow, I pretend none of this ever happened.”

Your smile only widened.

“Sure you do.”

And his only reply?

A long, exhausted sigh—followed by the quietest kiss pressed to your shoulder as he finally, finally, relaxed around you.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@fayeatheart @thealloveru2 @person-005 @princeescalus @lilac13 @solana-jpeg @jeongiegram @winchestert101 @s-sh-ne @n3ptoonz @avgdestitute @xamapolax @Finnickodairslut @honeyhera29 @macbaetwo @rafespeach @bythecloset @ashpeace888 @buckmybarnes @c-grace56 @ozwriterchick @slutforsr @novaslov @xamapolax @theoraekenslover @user911224 @Tafuller @LuminousVenomVagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @yvespecially @snake-in-a-flower-crown @mencantaleer @shellsbae00 @theewiselionessss @avivarougestan @xoxoloverb @superlegend216 @lori19 @sired4urmama @writing-for-marvel @thriving-n-jiving @ogoc-19 @fckmebarnes @jarnesbames108 @iheartfictionalmen1 @daddyslilbrat962 @muchwita @Ruexj283 @Leathynn

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[wynnevee]

scary dog privileges

bucky barnes x reader

synopsis: everyone tells you bucky is so scary, but you don’t see it—until your teddy bear of a boyfriend breaks someone’s jaw for you

warnings: attempted abduction/assault, fear, biting, blood, breaking someone’s jaw lol, unedited as always

notes: i saw a lot of love for this idea on my ‘works in progress’ post so here you are!! this was a request but i lost it so whoever requested a scary protective bucky, this is for you. enjoy :)

you’d met bucky barnes at one of the wilson’s neighborhood parties; you’d known sarah since playground days, and had reluctantly known sam, as he refused to abide by the “no boys allowed” sign taped on your treehouse door. since then, you had come to every party, every one of the kids’ events, and every holiday, so you knew all of these people like the back of your hand.

but then bucky had waltzed in, a platter of homemade cookies in hand, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and you just about keeled over.

“holy biceps, batman,” you mumbled, trying to hide your obvious stare with a sip from your drink.

“that’s bucky, sam’s new friend,” sarah explained, poking your side. “you should talk to him.”

“talk? the man looks like he was carved out of marble, i’m not just talking to him.”

nevertheless, sam decided that simply wasn’t your choice, and introduced you two with suspicious haste; after all these years, he was still such a pain in your ass.

however, you did have him to thank for the past six months of bliss with the man of your dreams.

as you’d told sarah, ‘man of your dreams’ was not an exaggeration in the slightest. bucky barnes was a gentleman in the truest sense of the word.

he opened every door, carried every bag, guided you around with a hand on the small of your back. he spoke to you gently, touched you even gentler, and he looked at you like you’d hung the moon and the stars.

he was perfect.

however, as little as you could believe it, the rest of the world did not view him that way.

you’d noticed quickly that when you and bucky walked down the street, people crossed to the other side. when you went on dinner dates to fancy restaurants or on morning hikes in the park, people quieted their conversations and kept their heads down. even bucky’s teammates joked about the intimidating air that followed your boyfriend around like a storm cloud.

but you just never saw it! your bucky was the sweetest man on earth, and under all those muscles and rough callouses, he was really just a big old teddy bear.

“teddy bear?” sam had snorted when you told him about your observation. “more like real bear. you’re prancing around with the white wolf, kiddo, people are gonna stare.”

“why should people stare, huh?” you defended. “just because of his past? that’s not okay.”

“it’s not a bad thing! it’s like when you see someone with a big dog,” he explained. “you have scary dog privileges.”

you’d scoffed, dismissing him and returning to your movie. you didn’t speak of it again—honestly, in the whirlwind of romance that came with bucky, you had hardly had time to think of it.

it was the first thing you thought of, though, when you were walking home one night, phone dead, and realized someone had been following you for the past few blocks.

you turned, they turned.

you slowed, they slowed.

you walked faster, they nearly broke out into a jog.

god, what you wouldn’t give to have your scary dog privileges right now.

luckily, you were only a block from your house, where bucky was inside, waiting for your phone call saying you were ready for him to come get you from work. but with your stalker closing the distance between you, you began to worry if you would even make it inside.

sure, you could defend yourself; but you weren’t a superhero. what if this guy had a gun? a knife? some sort of chloroform rag? you wouldn’t stand a chance.

as you reached the neighbors driveway, you could practically feel breath on the back of your neck. you kept your head forward.

so close, you are so close.

when you reached your house, you decided to make a run for it, barreling up your driveway like a mad woman. unfortunately, you only managed to slam your first against the door once before an arm wrapped around your middle.

you screamed bloody murder, thrashing against your assailants hold. he tried to put a hand over his mouth and you bit ferociously until you tasted blood, and your fists pounded on his arms.

“god—just stop struggling, you stupid bitch—” before he could finish, the door swung open, and there stood bucky: tight black t-shirt, metal arm whirring, cold stare targeted right above your head.

your assailant dropped you with a curse and attempted to run, but bucky was on him in a slow and steady stride—jesus, it was like michael fucking myers.

you backed yourself into the corner of the porch, watching as bucky pulled the other man back, first bunched in the hood of his sweatshirt.

your attacker was a middle aged man, balding, probably about forty-five, and vaguely familiar in the way a lot of middle aged men were. bucky did not bother pulling him to stand, opting to drag him by the hood back to the steps of your home.

“do—should i call the police—”

bucky shook his head. “nah. go inside and wait five minutes, then call sam.”

you nodded, trying to ignore the pleading look the man on the ground sent your way. huh. predator becomes prey.

you’d followed his instructions (almost) and called sam five minutes later. however, bucky had implied you stay away for those five minutes, and the curiosity had gotten the better of you after about two.

tiptoeing to the door, you looked out the crack, hidden enough so neither men would notice you. at first, you couldn’t really see what bucky was doing—he had pulled the man to his feet and backed him against the wall, broad shoulders blocking your view, but you did hear something.

a sickening crack of bone.

you stifled a gasp as your attacker screamed, muffled by bucky’s hand as he shoved him back down to the ground, hand going back to his hood like it was a leash.

sam arrived in record time and the man was gone before you knew it, clutching his jaw and cowering all the way.

when bucky came back in, you were sat on the sofa, flicking through streaming services and trying to hide your shaking hands. your boyfriend had just broken a man’s jaw like an eggshell. you’d hardly even seen him cock back.

he sits down next to you, making sure to leave some space between you. “are you okay?” he asks softly. “hurt?”

you shake your head, still not meeting his eyes. “i’m fine. just a little bruised.”

you let the silence hang over you, that scary storm cloud suddenly present. after an agonizing minute of silence, bucky speaks up.

“you saw me break that guy’s jaw, didn’t you?”

you nod shyly.

“i’m sorry,” he whispers, raising a hand but stopping short of your arm. “are you okay to—”

you nod, settling in against his chest, letting him wrap his arms around you like a weighted blanket. “that was intense,” you admit. “i’ve never seen you like that before.”

he nods, smoothing your hair and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “i’m sorry, honey, i didn’t mean to scare you.”

you couldn’t help but notice the distinction in his words; he was apologizing for letting you see him do it, not that he did it in the first place. “it’s okay. i should’ve stayed inside.”

he continued to pet your hair, arms tightening every once in a while, like he was scared you’d get up and run away. you could almost here the thoughts running through his mind: ‘i’m not dangerous, i promise. please don’t leave me.’

“thank you for protecting me,” you whispered, rubbing his chest right over his heart. “i don’t know what i would’ve done without you.”

“please call me next time,” he whispers. “i don’t want you walking home alone in the dark.”

“my phone died,” you grumbled.

“call me from a payphone then.”

“a payphone?” you laugh.

he cringes. “did i say an old people thing again?”

you nod, leaning up and kissing the little creases by his eyes. “it’s okay, i love my old man.”

he grunts, and you feel it vibrate in his throat as you bury your face in his neck. god, you could suffocate in his cologne and you’d die happy.

“you promise you’re not scared of me now?”

you shake your head, kissing his pulse point. “you’re still a big teddy bear to me. plus, i plan to take advantage of my scary dog privileges now.”

“dog? i’m not a dog.”

“hey, sam said it first.”

[cat-mermaid]

My boss today on a call: You're so good at multi-tasking! We got so much prepared ahead of time this week! You really give your full focus to everthing you do huh :)

"I try" I say humbly, smiling and nodding to myself while furiously lining up video game sprites on my computer screen, still durring work hours

So thats why he acted like he didn't have arms at first, i mentally murmur, eyes narrowing

"You solve that video game yet?" my boss asks in the same tone as the supportive "are ya winning son" dad probably did

"No, but-"

(theres like over 5 pairs of sneakers....)

(but just one pair of hoof shoes... in a box of stuff mixed up with other people's things...)

(theres a good chance none of these clothes on the hangers are even hers... they might just be here to make us think she has arms)

(Sans doesn't refer to Noelle and Dess and the "antlered girls", he only describes Noelle as having antlers, and makes a point of setting Dess apart from that description...)

"...I think I found somthing thats gonna make a lotta people mad"

boss: "Oh? Why?"

"cos all the signs are pointing towards a hidden character that has lots of fan art of her being a cool punk deer... uh... not. Not being a deer"

boss: "So what is she"

"Well I drew somthing, I can send it to you if you want"

Dess is the Goner Kid, she's a dragon version of Monster Kid, and this fucking game the whole time has been going:

so here we are :)

..............oh yeah! Almost forgot:

I posit that she'll manipulate objects with her tail but mostly her tongue, like Yoshi or like using the Rope Snake from Mother 3. I also suspect that in the grand scheme of things, Ralsei was created to take her place in this theorized re-creation of the prophecy that may be going on with the Fun Gang

I think people are right when they say that Ralsei only took off his hood because Susie told him too, he probably would have kept it on the whole time...

Interesting that almost perfectly round head peeking out of that hood huh...

I think that Ralsei was "created" to be identical in action to the Hero who's role he was given (disregard the "Prince from the Dark" thing for now) because of that he was walking around acting like he had no arms and using his scarf to manipulate things...

In the dark world I think she might have gained the ability to manipulate objects with magical hands, not unlike Unicorns in My little Pony

I truley do think the timeline we're on right now with the Fun Gang is the second one, the first one had 3 different heroes. In this second timeline, one has gone missing and the other two are languishing in boredom and feeling like they have no true purpose in life...

Its all there in the OST, if you listen to both Undertale and Deltarune its all spelled out. Its like that part in the chap 4 egg room talking about a drawing that had a painting made over it, the original adventure has been covered over but the music of the original course of fate still comes out

look how perfectly their "Ultimate form" costumes complement each other? How their two themes connect in battle? THE FACT THAT THEY EACH HAVE A GLOWING EYE ON THE OPPOSITE SIDES OF THEIR HEADS

They are the two heros who have had their grand destiny thwarted...

For good reason tho (Insert prophecy window THE FINAL TRAGEDY here)

Ask yourself, why did the Knight abduct Undyne at the end of chap 3? And take her to the shelter?

To protect her

.....from whatever is going to happen to Susie and Ralsei (Kris is probably gonna be fine but ain't gonna be happy about it when its all said and done). Noelle is getting sucked into the prophecy (if you weird route it), this couldn't have been part of the plan, not from the way Kris acts in the weird route. It might be dawning on whoever is involved that they might not be able to "brute force" fate into taking the new heros, so they need to take Undyne and Mettaton (he'll get nabbed chap 5 mark my words) and lock them up where fate can't follow

ANYWAYS (oh damn image limit) UH ALL THE YELLOW AND PINK IMAGERY REPRESENTS METTATON AND UNDYNE OK BYE

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Could you write a story based on red riding hood? :)

Yandere “Wolf” x Reader

The market was loud, as always. Chickens squawked somewhere near the eastern gate, and a pot of stew boiled over beside the smithy’s wife, who was too busy shouting prices at passersby to notice. Woodsmoke hung thick in the air, clinging to your shawl as you picked through the day’s produce.

Your basket was half full when you felt it: a gaze. Not the fleeting sort people give in passing, not curiosity or judgment. No—this one was heavy. You didn’t need to look up to feel it settle on your shoulders.

You did anyway.

He was standing just beyond the barrel of apples. Tall. Broad. Leaning with one arm braced on the edge of a cart. He wore black, mostly—faded from travel and stained with dust—but the way he held himself said it wasn’t just for show. His hood was down, and pale hair stuck to his brow in loose, sweat-damp strands. His eyes were pale too. Not quite gray. Not quite blue. Something colder than either.

“Careful,” he said, nodding at the apple in your hand. “That one looks a bit too sweet. Might give someone ideas.”

You looked down at it. Then back at him. “It’s a fruit,” you said flatly. “I don’t think it’s giving anyone ideas.”

He grinned. “You’d be surprised, little fox.”

You turned away without answering. The basket bumped against your hip as you moved to the next vendor, ignoring the sound of boots crunching behind you.

“I saw you earlier,” he said, sidling up beside you. “Near the well. You were talking to that old woman with the herbs. Is she your grandmother?”

You didn’t answer.

“She’s got kind eyes,” he added. “You do too.”

You stopped to examine a jar of honey, pretending not to hear him. He kept pace, unbothered by the silence.

“You live nearby, then? Must be hard work, running errands like this. All alone.”

Still nothing.

“I like your shawl,” he tried next. “It suits you. Red’s a good color for you.”

You turned your head slightly. “Are you going to keep following me?”

His smile didn’t waver. “Not if you ask me nicely.”

“Fine. Stop following me.”

He chuckled, low and amused. “That wasn’t very nice.”

You started walking again, faster this time. But he was behind you before you could make it to the next stall.

“Mercenary work,” he said, gesturing to the worn sword at his hip. “That’s what I do. Nothing fancy. I don’t kill children or clergy, if that’s your concern. But I am good with my hands.”

You stopped. “That’s disgusting.”

He blinked. Then grinned again. “You misunderstand me, little fox.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Why?” He tilted his head. “It suits you. Quick. Sharp-eyed. Always watching. You’re not as quiet as you think, you know.”

You stared at him. “And you’re not nearly as charming as you think.”

He laughed. A full, delighted sound, like you’d said the most wonderful thing he’d ever heard.

“You’ve got a tongue on you,” he said. “I like that.”

You turned from him again, mouth pressed into a tight line, and made your way toward the baker’s stall. The smell of warm bread rose thick in the air—brown crusted loaves and sweet knots of cinnamon on display behind a woven curtain of flies. You hoped it might put a wall between you and him. But he didn’t take the hint.

Of course he didn’t.

He followed like a shadow stitched to your heel, speaking just loud enough for you to hear over the hum of barter and bleating goats.

“I could buy you something,” he offered. “A tart, maybe. Or one of those little hand-pies. Something sweet for a sour face.”

You didn’t answer.

“A smile wouldn’t kill you,” he added after a beat, voice softening, as if coaxing a wild animal closer. “Though I’d be the first to admit, there’s something pretty about your scowl.”

You turned on your heel so fast your shawl flared. “Do you ever shut up?”

His brows lifted, mock-wounded. “I talk when I’m nervous.”

“Why would you be nervous?”

He stepped a little closer. Too close. The crowd buzzed and flowed around you, but in that moment, it was like no one else existed. Just the two of you and the thick, invisible cord of tension wound tighter than twine. His pale eyes flicked down, then slowly back up.

“Because I don’t want to say the wrong thing to the prettiest girl in the square,” he said with a smirk. “Might ruin my chances.”

Your lip curled. “You didn’t have a chance.”

He grinned, leaning in like he was about to whisper some awful secret. “You sure about that?”

That was it.

Without thinking, you reached into your basket, grabbed the nearest apple, and hurled it at him. It wasn’t a perfect throw, but it hit him square in the chest with a satisfying thud.

He froze, blinking in genuine surprise as the apple bounced off his ribs and tumbled into the dirt. A few heads turned. Somewhere, a child gasped.

You didn’t care.

“Get lost,” you snapped, loud enough to cut through the noise around you.

A few people glanced over. A merchant frowned.

But the mercenary didn’t get angry.

He smiled.

Not the cocky smirk he’d been wearing like armor all morning. This one was different. Slower. Thinner. Like a knife slipping into silk.

You hated how calm he looked. Like he’d gotten exactly what he wanted.

“You’ve got spirit,” he murmured, voice quieter now. “I like that too.”

You didn’t give him a chance to say more. You turned and stormed away, pushing through the crowd, willing your legs not to shake.

But you could still feel it. That awful heat on the back of your neck.

——

Three days passed.

You hadn’t seen him again, not in the market, not on the road. And though you didn’t speak of it aloud, you’d felt it. The strange, coiled sense of absence. Like a storm that had paused just past the ridge. Waiting.

You pushed the thought aside as you walked. Your basket was heavy, full of the bread and herbs your grandmother had requested. Evening crept low over the trees, the light turning from gold to rust as shadows stretched longer and longer between the trunks. The woods were quiet. A little too quiet. No birds. No wind. Not even the creak of branches. Just your boots on damp leaves, and your breathing, and that crawling sensation like something just behind you.

…

The growl came first. Low, guttural. Then the snap of twigs. You turned just in time to see a wolf lunge.

Its weight hit you like a thrown sack of stone, knocking you hard onto your back. The breath tore out of your lungs as teeth snapped inches from your face, reeking of rot and blood. You shoved your arm under its throat, keeping it at bay with both hands while it snarled and twisted, claws raking at your skirts.

Your palm lit up in panic, magic flaring gold against the beast’s ribs. It didn’t throw it back like you’d hoped. The creature jerked, yelped, but it didn’t fall. You grabbed a broken branch from the ground and shoved it between its teeth before it could clamp down again. The branch splintered, but it gave you enough time to twist, roll, and knee the creature hard in the ribs.

It yelped and pulled back. You scrambled to your feet, heart thundering. Your hands were scraped raw. Your shawl had been torn clean down one side.

Another snarl. It came again—faster this time.

You ducked. You kicked. You drove your elbow into the side of its neck. The wolf crashed into a tree and staggered.

You raised your hand again, palm glowing faintly, hoping—praying—that something, anything, would spark strong enough to knock it out.

But the magic fizzled, drained and useless, like striking flint in the rain.

A second growl came from behind.

You turned slowly.

Another wolf. Black-furred, low to the ground, teeth slick. This one was smarter. It didn’t rush.

You were cornered. Your breath hitched. You stepped back toward the tree, pulse thrumming in your ears.

And then—just as the second wolf began to stalk forward—

Steel flashed.
Flesh split.
A roar not from an animal but from a man.

The mercenary collided with the first wolf like a thunderclap—his blade arcing low, catching the beast along the ribs. Blood sprayed. The wolf howled and staggered, but it didn’t drop.

He didn’t hesitate. He followed it, fast and brutal, boots pounding the earth as he brought the blade down again. The second swing sank deep into the creature’s shoulder, cutting through fur and muscle with a wet crunch. It screamed and bucked wildly, knocking him off balance, and in that moment the other wolf sprang.

You screamed. He turned just in time to take the brunt of it—teeth sinking into his forearm as he raised it to block. Blood poured freely down his sleeve.

Still, he held.

With a growl of pain, he slammed his fist into the wolf’s muzzle, staggering it just enough to wrench his arm free and shove the beast back. He was bleeding badly now. You saw it. The wound was deep, jagged.

The first wolf had recovered. It circled again. Two predators, flanking. They weren’t wild—they were coordinated. Intelligent.

You had to move.

You darted in without thinking. Heart hammering. You grabbed a fallen branch from the underbrush—a thick one, splintered at the tip—and rammed it straight into the first wolf’s side as it lunged toward him again.

It shrieked, twisting midair, your makeshift spear dragging a line of blood along its ribs. It didn’t fall, but it hesitated. And that was enough. The mercenary lunged forward, driving his blade clean into its neck. Blood sprayed hot across your skirts. The wolf collapsed, spasming once before going still.

The second wolf growled low. It lunged itself towards you.

You threw yourself forward, hands glowing faintly with the last shimmer of your magic. You slammed your palm against its snout, and the flash of energy surged into its skull like a jolt of white fire. The creature reeled, yelping, momentarily dazed.

The mercenary didn’t waste it. He grabbed its throat with both hands, twisting hard, and slammed it down onto a jagged rock. There was a crunch. A cry. And then silence.

You were both panting. You staggered back against a tree, trembling.

The mercenary straightened slowly, covered in gore. His face was pale, sweat slicking his brow. His arm was bleeding freely, soaking through his coat, and there was a ragged wound across his ribs.

But he was alive. So were you.

He wiped the blade off on his sleeve and looked down at the broken bodies. Then at you.

His voice was hoarse. Rough.

“That wasn’t just a wolf.”

You blinked. “What…?”

He nudged the corpse of the second one with his boot. Its eyes were still open—too many teeth in its mouth, too much muscle beneath the fur. Its limbs were too long. Not natural.

“Monster-wolves,” he said. “Some call them duskbeasts. Wolves who were born of magic. They had probably been tracking you for miles.”

He looked up at you, gaze steady despite the exhaustion bleeding through his limbs.

You stared at the carcasses, heart still thudding in your throat. The wolves—the duskbeasts—lay twisted and broken in the fading light, their bodies too large, too wrong. Joints bent at unnatural angles, mouths stretched too wide, fangs still bared in death. You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.

“I mean, it makes sense.” His voice was strained, but still tried for smugness. “You're a little irresistible, little fox. Even to monsters.”

You turned to look at him. He was limping slightly, favoring his left side, blood dripping steadily from his arm and soaking through the black of his coat. And yet somehow—somehow—he still managed to smirk at you.

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered.

“And you’re welcome.” He winced as he walked, though he tried to mask it. “Wouldn’t have lasted another minute without me. Admit it.”

You stepped toward him and reached for the torn fabric near his ribs. He flinched slightly but didn’t stop you.

“I would’ve lasted fine without you,” you said, and jabbed your fingers firmly into the deepest part of the wound.

He let out a sharp gasp through his teeth and immediately folded forward with a groan.

“Gods—! What was that for?”

“Just checking how fine you’re doing.”

“Cruel little thing.” He gritted his teeth, swaying slightly as he glared at you. “And here I came to rescue you.”

“You also stalked me through the market and called me little fox five too many times.”

“Six, actually.”

You rolled your eyes.

But he was turning pale, and the cocky lilt in his voice had begun to fray at the edges.

“We need to get you off your feet.”

“Oh? That sounds—”

“Say another word and I’ll jab your ribs again.”

He shut up.

—-

You half-dragged, half-guided him through the woods until the trees gave way to your grandmother’s farm. Smoke curled from the chimney, but you steered him away from the house and toward the stables, where the air smelled of hay and horses, and no one would ask questions.

He collapsed onto a low bench near the far stall, back slumping against the post, blood dripping down his side in slow rivulets.

“Stay still,” you said, already digging through the old healing pouch you kept hidden in the tack box. The salves were weak, the herbs cheap but your magic was returning, slowly, like warmth seeping back into your limbs after frost.

You knelt before him, fingers steady as you peeled away the shredded fabric of his coat. The wound along his ribs was ugly. Deep, angry, red.

“This is going to sting.”

“I like pain,” he muttered. “Makes me—“

You jabbed your thumb into the edge of the gash again.

“Ow!” He hissed. “I take it back. I take it all back.”

“Good.”

You pressed your hand flat over the wound, and light spilled from your palm. Golden, warm, and slow-moving. The bleeding eased almost immediately. The edges of the torn flesh began to knit beneath your touch, muscle rejoining muscle, skin pulling together again.

He watched you the entire time.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just watched, with that pale, patient intensity like he was memorizing the shape of your hand. The furrow of your brow. The sound of your breathing.

The silence stretched.

And just when the magic began to fade, he said, quietly, “You really weren’t going to leave me behind.”

You didn’t look at him.

“No.”

“I like that about you,” he murmured. “Even if you hate me.”

“I do hate you,” you said, smoothing the last edge of bandage over his arm.

He smiled faintly.

“You say that,” he said, voice low, “but you’re still touching me.”

You stood up so fast he nearly fell off the bench.

“Don’t push it.”

He lifted his hands in surrender, though his smirk had returned in full.

“I’m just saying. You’re a very caring little fox.”

You reached for your basket, ready to hurl another apple at his face.

“Try me.”

Your fingers had just closed around the basket's handle when his hand shot out and caught your wrist.

“Hey—”

He tugged, and before you could plant your feet, you stumbled forward. The bench creaked beneath both your weights as you landed—half on it, half on him, knees bumping his and palm braced on the wood beside his thigh.

“Gods,” you muttered, “what are you—”

“I need to check you,” he said, already reaching for the edge of your shawl. “You were thrown to the ground. Bitten at. Scratched. You might be bleeding and not even feel it yet.”

You slapped his hand away. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“Oh, really?” He arched a brow, fingers brushing your shoulder again. “Then what’s this?”

“That’s fabric, and I swear—”

But he was already lifting the shawl, pulling it aside like he had any right, gaze scanning your collarbone, your upper arm, the line of your shoulder. His hand was warm, calloused, and annoyingly gentle.

Your face burned hot. “Stop.”

“Just one sec. If there’s a bite I missed, it could go bad.”

“There’s no bite!”

He reached for the tie of your blouse.

And that was it.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked.

Hard.

“Agh—! Ow—gods—!” he wheezed, twisting away as your fingers tangled in the sweat-damp strands near the base of his skull. “Mercy, woman!”

You didn’t let go. “Still feel like checking me now?”

He was laughing before he even got the words out. “Alright—alright—it was a joke!”

You stared at him.

“You were blushing,” he wheezed, grinning up at you like a boy caught with both hands in the pantry. “I couldn’t resist.”

“You nearly got punched in the ribs again.”

“Worth it.”

You shoved him back against the post, not hard enough to reopen the wound, but enough to rattle him. His smirk didn’t falter—if anything, it deepened.

“I liked the hair-pull,” he said. “Very commanding. Should’ve known you were the grabby type.”

You let go of him fast.

“Sleep outside,” you said, brushing off your skirts. “With the horses.”

He tilted his head back against the beam, watching you through narrowed eyes, still smiling.

“Can’t,” he said. “I think I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

“I might be.”

“Then go die quietly. Somewhere far away.”

He slouched down, sighing dramatically. “So cruel. You mend me with magic just to break my heart.”

—-

The next morning, the sun had barely crested the treetops when you slipped into the barn again. It was cooler inside—dust motes floating in the early light, the air thick with the scent of hay, old wood, and horses that hadn’t yet stirred.

You hadn’t brought much. Just a crust of bread, a bit of cheese, and a jar of quince jam your grandmother had insisted on giving him. She didn’t ask who he was. Only raised an eyebrow when you came in with blood on your skirts and left again with clean bandages and a muttered excuse about a “traveler who got into a scrap.”

You found him right where you’d left him—half-sprawled on the bench, coat slung over a post, boots kicked off, hair a mess.

He was asleep.

Or pretending to be.

You approached quietly, footsteps soft in the straw. The basket creaked as you set it down. At the sound, he stirred, one pale eye sliding open beneath a tousled strand of hair.

“You didn’t die,” you said.

He blinked slowly, voice rough with sleep. “Not yet.”

“Shame.”

He groaned as he sat up, one hand pressed to his side. “You say the cruelest things first thing in the morning.”

“I brought food.”

“I take it back.”

You handed him the bread and jam. He studied it like it might explode. Then: “Is this a peace offering?”

“No. It’s breakfast.”

“Still sounds like a peace offering.”

“Eat it before I change my mind.”

He gave you a long, unreadable look then took the bread with a half-smile and broke it in two, handing you back a piece.

You didn’t take it.

“I made it for you.”

He raised a brow. “You made bread?”

“Poorly.”

He bit into it anyway. “Still the nicest thing anyone’s done for me in months.”

You sat down a few feet away on an overturned bucket, watching him pick crumbs from the corner of his mouth.

His movements were slower today. Careful. His side was clearly bothering him, though he tried not to show it.

“How’s the wound?”

He glanced down at it. “Clean. Mostly. Still hurts like hell.”

“You’ll live.”

“Again, debatable.” He leaned back against the post, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. “I had a nightmare you tried to stab me with a spoon.”

“Sounds like a dream.”

He cracked an eye. “Cruel.”

You crossed your arms, studying the hay-strewn floor.

A moment passed.

Then, softly, “You’re really not going to ask who I am?”

You looked at him. “I assumed you’d tell me when you wanted to.”

That seemed to surprise him more than any accusation would have. He stared at you for a beat, the usual arrogance stripped from his face.

“I’ve got names,” he said eventually, voice low. “Too many, depending on the town. But you can call me Kesh.”

“Kesh.”

“Short for something unpronounceable,” he added, biting into the bread again. “Or possibly made up. Hard to say.”

You waited.

“And you?” he asked. “What do they call you, little fox?”

You hesitated.

His tone had softened. Not mocking, not prying. Just curious. And in that stillness, with the smell of hay and bread between you, it felt almost safe to answer.

So you did.

Quietly. Simply. Just the name you’d carried since birth, like any other burden.

Kesh blinked, then tilted his head slightly, as if turning the sound of it over in his mind. His lips quirked at the corners.

“I like mine better,” he said.

You frowned. “Your…?”

He gave a faint shrug, the movement slow to avoid tugging at his ribs. “Little fox. It suits you. You’re quick on your feet, bite when cornered, and keep looking at me like you’re wondering if I’ll steal your chickens.”

“I am wondering.”

“I don’t even like chickens.”

You scoffed. “You don’t like anything that behaves better than you.”

He grinned, unabashed. “Exactly.”

You stood. “You can call me by my name.”

“I could,” he said, “but then you might forget how much it annoys you when I don’t.”

You stared at him. He gave you that same look from the day before—the one that cut straight through the humor, the wounds, the mess of it all.

A pause stretched between you.

Then, softer this time, like a secret:
“I’ll say it when it matters.”

You didn’t quite know what to make of that.

But you turned to leave without arguing, hand on the barn door, the morning breeze sneaking in through the slats.

Behind you, Kesh muttered through a mouthful of cheese, “Besides…the way you say Kesh, it kind of sounds like you like me.”

You didn’t respond.

You just let the door swing shut on whatever grin he was wearing.

—-

Kesh stayed for five months.
Not because he asked. Not because you offered.
He just…didn’t leave.

And somehow, the days folded in around him.

—-

Week One:
You found him asleep in the hayloft, a pitchfork clutched like a sword across his chest. When you called his name, he opened one eye and said, “You're sweet when you're worried,” before you could deny it.

You nearly threw the bucket of water you were holding.

Later, you brought him a fresh bandage and told him he smelled like barn cat.

—-

Week Two:
He helped you chop wood.

Well—helped might be generous. You did most of the chopping. He leaned against a stump and gave commentary.

“You’ve got murderous form,” he said, dodging a stray splinter. “Marry me.”

You missed the log entirely and told him to shut up.
He laughed so hard he winced and nearly opened his stitches again.

Afterward, you smeared salve on his wounds.

—

Week Three:
You taught him how to braid twine into rope.

He got it wrong three times, cursed every loop, and tied his own sleeve to the rafter.
You nearly fell off your stool laughing.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he said, struggling to untangle himself.

“Not enough,” you replied.

But when you took his hand to guide the next knot, your fingers brushed, and neither of you pulled away.

—-

Week Four:
You caught him feeding your grandmother’s half-blind goat a tart from the pantry. She was supposed to be fasting for bloat.

You smacked the tart out of his hand and told him he’d killed her.

She lived. Thrived, actually. She followed him around all afternoon like a lovesick puppy.

He called it destiny.
You called it suspicious.

—

One Month In:
Your grandmother asked him to bring in kindling.

He came back with an entire broken tree branch and three pinecones. Proud.

She looked at the mess, then at him.
“You could’ve gotten away with this if you were at least pretty,” she said.
Kesh looked insulted.
“I’m devastatingly handsome,” he corrected.

She snorted and tossed him a knife.
“Make yourself useful, then.”

He did.

You found them later at the table, peeling apples. She was telling him a story you hadn’t heard in years, smiling.

—

Two Months In:
Rain.

Kesh stayed in the barn, listening to the storm through the rafters while you sat beside him with mending in your lap.
You didn’t speak for an hour. Just the click of your needle and the soft drum of water on the roof.

Then, without looking up, he said,
“You make this place feel less like the end of the world.”

You nearly pricked your thumb.

When you looked over, he was watching the rain.
Like he hadn’t said anything at all.

—

Three Months In:
You found your grandmother muttering in the kitchen.

“I told him to get thyme,” she said, pulling open a drawer. “He came back with a rock. A rock, child. And berries I didn’t ask for.”

You raised a brow. “Where is he now?”

“In the garden,” she said, exasperated. “Asking the scarecrow if it likes jam.”

You stepped outside, and sure enough—there he was.
Jarring jam for a scarecrow.
You didn’t ask.

You just helped him clean the lids.

—

Four Months In:
There was a harvest fair in town. You didn’t want to go, but your grandmother made you.

Kesh went with you.
You bought cinnamon bread and apples.
He won a knife-throwing contest.

That night, you both sat under the porch roof.
He leaned his head back and said, “I’m not good at staying. But this…it’s hard to leave.”

You didn’t answer.
But your hand was close to his on the bench.
You didn’t move it.

—

Five Months In:
You found him at the edge of the woods, eyes fixed on the trees.
The morning was cold. Mist low and clinging.
He looked different—still, somehow. Like a coin balanced on its edge.

“I’ll go soon,” he said, without turning.

You didn’t answer right away. Then,

“Why.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Don’t make it harder,” he said.

You didn’t ask what it was.
You didn’t have to.

You just stepped up beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and watched the mist drift through the trees.

—-

Kesh left the next morning.
No note. No goodbye. Just the faint smell of smoke in the barn rafters and the imprint of his weight still pressed into the bench.

You found the twine rope you’d made together, looped neatly and left on the hook beside the stall. The knots were crooked. You didn’t untie them.

—-

Autumn came. Then winter.
The frost crept in slow. First at the corners of windows, then the edges of fields. The leaves turned, then fell, and still—you didn’t hear from him.

Your grandmother asked once. Just once.

“Is that traveler coming back?”

You’d been kneading dough. You didn’t look up. “He wasn’t staying.”

She didn’t press. Only nodded and went back to her knitting. But after that, she always set aside an extra slice of bread when she packed your basket for the barn.

You didn’t mention it.

—-

The days grew short.
Chores filled the quiet. Wood to stack. Stock to feed. A new fence to fix when the goats got too bold. You’d never minded solitude. Not really. But now it sat different, like a room that used to hold music.

Sometimes, in the early mornings, you caught yourself listening for footsteps that weren’t there. That particular rhythm—lazy, and uneven. But there was nothing. Just you and the frost.

And the rope on its hook.

—-

In town, you heard stories.

Monster-wolves, again. A whole den burned in the northeast hills. A caravan attacked at dusk. The survivors said someone had come out of the trees to stop it—just one man, cloaked in black, moving like a storm with a sword.

No one knew his name.

You said nothing.

But that night, you stayed out by the barn a little longer than usual. Let the cold bite into your fingers. Looked toward the woods until your eyes watered.

—-

Spring came late.
The thaw was slow. Mud clung to your boots for weeks. The goats molted horribly. The apple trees budded unevenly.

You started sleeping poorly. Dreams full of teeth and smoke and voices that sounded like his, only never quite said your name.

Until one did.

—-

It was barely dawn.
Mist clung low to the field when the knock came. Three short raps on the side of the house. Not the front door. The side—the barn-facing one.

Your hands moved before your head caught up. Shawl thrown around your shoulders, boots half-tied, you stepped out into the chill and saw—

Him.

Kesh stood at the edge of the porch, one arm braced against the post. His coat was darker now, mended in places, torn in others. He looked tired. Thinner. But still him.

Still Kesh.

His smirk flickered into place the moment your eyes met.

“Hey, little fox.”

He waited.

Waited for you to say something sharp. Or throw something. Or look away.

You didn’t.

You just crossed the few steps to him, grabbed the collar of his coat and hit him once in the chest with your fist.

Then, voice hoarse:

“You’re late.”

He blinked. Then smiled—soft this time. Small and sure, like he’d been carrying it all this time, just for this.

“I got lost.”

“Liar.”

“I missed you.”

That one landed. You hated how easily it cracked something open in your chest.

You didn’t speak again.

You just stepped into him, arms around his waist, cheek pressed to his shoulder. And for once—for once—he didn’t make a joke.

He just held you.

You didn’t know how long you stood there. Long enough for your fingers to go numb against the worn leather of his coat. Long enough to realize his arms had tightened slightly around you, just enough to be sure he wouldn’t disappear if you blinked.

Eventually, you pulled back.

Not far. Just enough to see his face again.

And now that he was this close, really here—you had questions. Dozens of them, crawling up your throat faster than you could speak them.

“Where were you?”
“Are you hurt?”
“What happened?”
“Why didn’t you write?”
“Was it really you they saw near the hills?”
“Did you find more of those monsters?”
“Why now?”
“Why here?”

You stopped short of asking the last one aloud. But Kesh must’ve seen it in your eyes.

He smiled, soft and unapologetic, the corners of his mouth tugging upward like he’d expected the flood. Maybe even missed it.

“I’ll tell you,” he said, voice low. “I’ll tell you everything. Happily. Over tea. Inside. Where there’s a roof. And food.”

You stared at him.

Then stepped back fully, arms folding over your chest. “You think you deserve tea?”

“I always deserve tea.”

“You smell like you haven’t bathed in weeks.”

“I definitely haven’t.”

You sighed and turned toward the house. “Come on, then.”

Kesh followed like he’d never left. Same easy steps, same little limp, same smugness barely reined in behind every word.

But he didn’t speak again. Not right away.

He just looked around. At the porch. The field. The garden fence you’d mended. The goat grazing peacefully by the shed—his goat, technically, if affection meant anything.

And then he looked at you.

Like he’d remembered something, and now he was seeing it again for the first time.

You didn’t know what to do with that.

So you pushed open the door.

Inside, the kettle was already on. You’d lit it earlier, just for the chill, not expecting anything. The fire was crackling low. A pair of boots were drying near the hearth.

Your grandmother was sitting at the table, peeling root vegetables into a chipped bowl.

She looked up when the door opened.

Saw you first.

Then him.

A beat of silence passed.

Then, without missing a stroke of the knife, she said, “Well. Look what the goat dragged back.”

Kesh blinked. “You mean cat, surely.”

“She’s too clean,” your grandmother replied, nodding toward the goat out the window. “That one eats mice. Keeps her fur tidy. You, on the other hand…”

Kesh looked personally wounded.

Your grandmother rose from her chair and stepped closer, wiping her hands on her apron. Then she stood in front of him, arms folded, giving him a long, sharp once-over.

He stood still.

She reached out suddenly, brushing her fingers across his cheek.

Then she clucked her tongue. “Thinner than last time. And still ugly.”

Kesh looked delighted. “Missed you too, old woman.”

“Mm.” She turned to you. “Feed him before he talks himself faint.”

You rolled your eyes, already moving toward the cupboard. “He talks himself faint on purpose.”

Behind you, Kesh groaned as he settled into the nearest chair with the grace of a dropped sack of flour. “That’s slander. I only ever faint when it gets me something.”

“Like pity,” you muttered.

“Or a slice of bread.” He grinned, folding his arms behind his head. “Speaking of, if you had any of that quince jam left from before I was brutally exiled—”

“You left, you idiot,” you said, placing a bowl of stew and a heel of bread in front of him with more force than necessary.

“Semantics,” he said through a mouthful of bread. “I left to make you miss me.”

“She didn’t,” your grandmother said from her seat by the hearth, stirring her tea.

“I felt it, though,” he said, pointing a spoon at her. “Every day. The crushing weight of your mutual longing.”

You nearly smacked him with a wooden ladle.

He chewed dramatically for a few more seconds, then sat back with a satisfied sigh. “You’ll be pleased to know, however, that while you were pining, I was doing heroic things.”

You snorted. “Sleeping in ditches and starting bar fights?”

“And saving entire villages, thank you.” He wiped his mouth on his sleeve—ignoring your grimace—and leaned in slightly. “You remember those beasts? The ones from the woods?”

Your hand froze on the ladle.

“Wolves?” your grandmother said, frowning slightly.

“Not wolves,” Kesh said. “Not really. The ones that attacked her weren’t the only ones sniffing around. I heard whispers, saw tracks. Something had stirred them up. Made them bold.”

You said nothing. Just watched him.

“So I followed them,” he went on, quieter now. “Weeks of it. Trail after trail. Whole nests of them—dozens. Buried deep in the hills. Blood-magic in the dirt. Something old and wrong.” He glanced at you. “Whatever they were after before…they’re not after it anymore. I killed them all.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Your grandmother broke the silence first, as she always did. “You brought that stench into my house just to brag?”

“I brought it to warn you,” Kesh said with a grin. “Then I remembered how much I missed being insulted before breakfast.”

You pushed his bowl toward him more firmly. “Eat.”

“Yes, general.” He took another bite, then added around it, “I kept a tally, you know.”

“A tally?”

“One scratch for every wolf I put down. Want to see?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You kept a murder log.”

He tugged his coat open and pulled his undershirt down at the collar, revealing the slope of his shoulder. Just near the collarbone—barely visible under smudged skin—were a series of faint carved lines. Sharp. Careful.

You reached forward before you thought better of it, brushing your thumb over the edge of one.

“How many?” you asked quietly.

“Too many.”

Kesh leaned back again, eyes half-lidded. “I’m thinking of getting one more. A tally for how many times you’ve looked at me like that.”

“Like what?” you snapped, pulling your hand back.

“Like I’m not all bad,” he said. “Like you might’ve missed me too.”

You opened your mouth—but your grandmother clattered her teacup down with a sigh.

“You two are exhausting,” she muttered. “Finish your food before it goes cold. And if either of you start flirting in front of me again, I’ll hex you both bald.”

Kesh looked thrilled.

“See? This is the real reason I came back.”

You rolled your eyes again—but this time, you were smiling. Just a little.

—-

The house had long since gone quiet.

The kind of quiet that settled deep into the walls—warm fire embers gone to ash, your grandmother snoring faintly behind the bedroom door, and outside, nothing but crickets and the creak of tree limbs in the wind.

But you weren’t asleep.

And neither was he.

You found him out in the barn again, sitting on the same bench as the first night you’d patched him up. No lantern, no boots. Just moonlight through the slats and the low rustle of hay as you pushed the door open.

He didn’t look up.

You stepped inside anyway, shawl around your shoulders, the cold biting at your ankles.

He let you come to him. Let you sit beside him without a word. The silence between you was familiar now—not empty, not strained. Just full of things unsaid.

For a while, it stayed that way.

Then—

“I didn’t kill them to be a hero.”

His voice was quiet. Rough at the edges. You glanced at him.

His elbows were on his knees, hands clasped, jaw set hard. No grin. No smugness. Just his face in profile, sharp with moonlight and something unreadable in his eyes.

“I didn’t do it for glory. Or coin. Or heroics. I followed those things across three counties. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat right. I picked fights with anything that smelled like them.”

You waited.

“They don’t feel pain,” he said. “Not like animals do. But I wanted them to. I needed them to. Because when I saw one of them throw you down, when I saw you bleeding—” He broke off. “There was a moment I thought I’d gotten there too late.”

Your breath caught.

“And I’ve been too late before,” he murmured. “Too many times.”

You watched his throat move as he swallowed hard.

“So I hunted every last one I could find. I made it slow. I made it hurt. Because I wanted them to know what it meant to touch you. To try to take you from this world.”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

The kind of look that doesn’t ask for forgiveness, or praise—just understanding.

And maybe, somewhere beneath it, fear.

“I don’t know what that makes me,” he said. “But that’s why I did it.”

You sat very still.

The air between you had changed—thicker now, like the moonlight had weight, like the shadows were leaning in to listen. His hands were still clasped, knuckles pale. He didn’t glance away. Didn’t try to charm his way past what he’d just said.

And maybe that was what made it feel so heavy. So real. You studied him a moment longer. The quiet in your chest wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even shock.

It was a question.

So you asked it.

Soft. Careful.

“If I asked you to do something like that again…to anyone. Anything. Would you?”

His expression didn’t change at first.

Then slowly—very slowly—he sat back against the barn wall, his jaw shifting as if weighing the shape of your words. His eyes dropped to the floor, then back to you.

“Is that what you want?”

“No,” you said quickly. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

His gaze flicked to yours.

“You want to know how far I’d go.”

He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “If it was you asking?” he said. “Yes.”

Your heart thudded. Once.

He wasn’t done.

“If you looked me in the eye and said someone deserved pain—I wouldn’t even ask why. I’d just do it.”

There was no heat in his tone. No smugness. Just plain fact, as steady and unflinching as the blade at his hip.

Then his voice dropped lower.

“I wanted to hurt anyone who looked at you.”

You turned to him slowly, but he didn’t look back. His jaw was tight again, eyes on the floorboards like they were safer than your face.

“Every time I saw someone stare at you too long—at the market, at the road, even in town—I imagined snapping their fingers one by one. Just to see how fast they'd stop.”

A pause.

“I didn’t, obviously,” he added with a bitter sort of smirk. “Congratulations to them.”

You said nothing.

Because he wasn’t joking. Not really.

Kesh didn’t say things to shock. Not like this. He said them because they were already boiling too close to the surface. Because saying it aloud was the only way to loosen his grip on it.

“I’m not proud of it,” he said, quieter now. “Didn’t come here planning to turn feral in your barn. But something about this place—about you—it gets under my skin.”

He rubbed at the corner of his mouth like he could wipe the words away. But they stayed there, heavy between you.

“I’ve been around too much,” he went on. “Seen too much. Most days I don’t give a damn about anyone but myself. I thought that was smart. Safer. But then you—”

He cut himself off.

You watched the shadows pool beneath his lashes, the strain in his shoulders, the half-curled fist in his lap.

Then, finally—softly—

“Kesh.”

He looked up.

You didn’t think. Didn’t plan.

You just leaned in.

And kissed him.

His breath hitched against your mouth—surprised, almost startled—but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he moved closer. His hand slid up instinctively, fingers threading through your hair, the other curling around your waist. He kissed like he fought—with intensity, with purpose. No half-measures. No hesitation. The kind of kiss that spoke of everything he didn’t know how to say aloud. Fierce. Focused. Messy. You felt it in your spine.

His mouth grazed yours, deepening, tilting with yours like you were made to move this way, like this was inevitable. His fingers slid to the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, until your knees bumped his and you braced yourself on his thigh.

That’s when his hand—the other hand—slid a little too low.

You broke the kiss with a sharp gasp and smacked him across the chest.

He froze.

Then—

“Ow,” he wheezed, grinning like an idiot. “That’s not fair.”

You scowled, cheeks burning. “Hands where I can see them.”

“I got excited,” he said, all wounded pride and zero remorse. “You kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.”

“It was great.”

You shoved him, and he caught himself on the edge of the bench, laughter low and breathless in the dark.

“I’m going to regret that, aren’t I?” you muttered.

He looked up at you through a tousled strand of hair, eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

“Only if you don’t do it again.”

You groaned and pressed your lips to his.

“Idiot.”

Masterlist

[vunblr]

Five Dollars and a Hook

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: 18+ only. Established relationship. Fluff. Smut

Summary: Bucky navigates the impulse of being a provider, struggling with the rules of the human world.

Word Count: About 7.3k.

note: Follow-up/Side story of Tangled.

Almost a full year had passed since she moved into the coastal cottage. The sea had watched over every season with its endless tide, but now the sun was lower, the breeze cooler, and the first copper leaves had started to gather at the corners of her porch. Autumn was around the corner.

Summer hadn’t been kind to Bucky.

It wasn’t just the heat -though he grumbled about that too- but the crowds. That year, the coast had seen more tourists than usual, loud and unfamiliar bodies spilling into the sleepy town like waves. Bucky had kept to himself more, either hiding away in the deeper parts of the cove or spending time at her home when he was done with the noise and the smells.

Sometimes he'd lean against her kitchen counter with a glass of ice pressed to his wrist, watching her cook like the smell of garlic hypnotized him. Other days, he’d stretch out on her rug under the ceiling fan, arms behind his head, the long line of his body still betraying something briny and feral.

On quieter evenings, he would join her in the shallows, his human half visible while the rest of him lingered in the water, eyes tracking every movement on the beach like a sentry. Even in his more generous moods, he scowled at the thrum of speakers echoing from open car trunks, at the barking laughter of people who didn't belong there.

She tried not to laugh when he muttered curses under his breath about "landwalkers" and their inability to respect a nesting ground.

In late July, during the worst heatwave, she introduced him to ice cream. It was one of the rare things he didn’t question, no sniffing, no wary prodding. He just accepted the cone.

He bit too much off the top, of course.

The freeze hit his palate, and his eyes went wide, as his jaw worked slowly like he was trying to decode the sensation. She’d nearly dropped her own cone laughing. He didn’t speak for a full minute, just stared at the melting vanilla dripping over his knuckles like it was some small, personal miracle.

"You're meant to savor it," she’d said, breathless with amusement.

After that, he ate it constantly. She’d never seen him take to anything so quickly.

By August, the night swims had become a routine. She’d meet him down there after dark, sometimes in nothing but her underwear and a worn t-shirt. He’d be just offshore, his shape breaking the silver surface, tentacles swaying slowly beneath him like smoke.

Sometimes she slid into the water and let him pull her under gently, hands on her waist, the soft friction of his skin against hers as they drifted. Sometimes she just floated on her back while he circled below, trailing his limbs across her body in lazy figures.

He didn’t talk much in the water. Neither did she.

He hadn’t retreated. Not to another coastline, not to a deeper trench.

He stayed.

Not because it was easy.

Because she was here.

---

The dining table was a battlefield of notebooks, half-dried markers, and crumpled practice sheets. Bucky sat on one side, hunched slightly over his paper, his lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at the page. She was across from him, one leg tucked under her, a pen behind her ear, and a soft smile tugging at her lips.

“Alright,” she said, tapping the notebook in front of her. “Last dictation round. Ready?”

He nodded, a little grunt escaping his lips.

She dictated the words slowly -companion, thread, silence, tangled, anchor- and he wrote them down one by one, biting his lower lip in concentration.

Once he was done, she leaned over to check. “Four out of five right,” she said, clearly pleased. “That’s your best yet.”

His brows lifted just slightly, a flicker of satisfaction showing in the subtle twitch of his mouth.

“And now,” she added playfully, “your final boss: read me this paragraph.“

He stared at it, and the words swam a little. He groaned, but took the paper from her fingers anyway. Tried to remember how she told him to break it up. He started slowly, stumbling here and there, his accent flattening some vowels and twisting others, but he got through it.

When he was done, he slumped back in the chair with a frown. “Stupid. I sound stupid.”

“Bucky.” Her voice was firm and fond all at once. “You read an entire paragraph. Out loud. Not even two months ago, you couldn’t recognize your own name on a page. That’s not stupid, that’s amazing.”

He glanced at her. She reached across and softly nudged his knuckles with hers.

“You’re doing something completely outside your world. It’s brave, Bucky. And I’m proud of you.”

Something passed over his face then, a flicker of discomfort difficult to name. He looked away, but not before she caught the way his mouth pressed into a crooked line, half-embarrassed, half-something else.

“…Thanks,” he muttered.

She closed the notebook with a satisfied thump, tapping her pen twice against the cover before glancing his way.

“I’ve got news, by the way,” she said, a bit too casually.

His gaze slid toward her. Suspicious. Waiting.

She smoothed her palms over the tabletop. “I walked past the Shipyard Supply Office yesterday, you know, the one by the ferry docks? They had a job notice posted on the window. They were looking for a new clerk to help organize inventory and process shipments.”

His expression didn’t change, but she saw the shift in his body, the slow tensing of his shoulders, the narrowing of his eyes.

“I went in,” she continued, “and asked about it. They were doing interviews on the spot, so I figured, why not? I didn’t expect anything, but they called me this morning. I got the job.”

Still, he said nothing.

“Only four times a week. Good pay, “she added, trying to keep it light.

“You applied,” he said at last, his voice a low murmur. “Without telling me.”

She blinked. “Well, yeah. It just happened fast-”

“You didn’t even mention it.”

“I didn’t think it was a big deal. I wasn’t even sure I’d get it.”

His frown deepened. “The shipyard supply.”

“Yeah?”

“The clerks there,” he muttered, “they’re all males.”

Ah. There it was.

She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “So?”

His jaw worked for a moment before he spoke again. “You’ll be surrounded by them. In a closed space. For hours.”

She exhaled slowly, already sensing the spiral forming behind his eyes, the same one during Chris’ brief crocheting career.

“They’re coworkers, Bucky. I’m going to earn money. That’s all.”

“They’ll want more than that,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“Just like Chris did?” she teased gently, resting a hand on his forearm. “Come on. We’ve been through this.”

His eyes darkened. “They won’t be old. Or married. Or uninterested.

She gave him a look over the rim of her mug. “How can you possibly know their age and relationship status? Did you conduct a census while I wasn’t looking?”

He frowned at the unfamiliar word.

“And again,” she continued, trying to rein in a smile, “you think all of them will want something else from me? What is this, some reverse-harem novella?”

She chuckled, but Bucky didn’t.

“You were right about Chris,” she added quickly, “I’ll give you that. But come on, Bucky. You’ve seen the beach crowd this summer. My body type isn’t exactly top of the ranking-”

“Your body is mine,” he said firmly, pouting now. “You are my mate.”

She arched a brow. “I thought it was mine. Don’t remember gifting it to you.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

The moment the words left her mouth, she saw it, the way his expression shifted. His eyes darkened, not with anger but something far more raw. Hurt. Betrayal. Like she had just broken something sacred between them.

Because to him, that bond wasn’t playful or theoretical. It was everything.

And what she’d just said, even in jest, sounded dangerously close to rejection.

He looked like she’d slapped him.

Her smile faded the second she saw his face. One of his hands curled into a slow, deliberate fist where it rested on the table, the other flexing with a need he didn’t seem to know what to do with. His gaze had dropped, not out of shame, but restraint. His chest moved shallowly, like even breathing around the hurt took effort.

“Bucky…” she began softly, already regretting the jab.

He didn’t look up. Just shook his head once, slow and stiffly.

“I didn’t mean it like that-”

“You did,” he said. Voice low, controlled. “You meant it.”

“No,” she stood from her chair, walking around to him. “I was teasing. That’s all. It was stupid, I’m sorry.”

He didn’t flinch when she reached out, but he didn’t lean into her either. Just sat there, still. Guarded. Wounded.

“I don’t understand your world,” he muttered finally, eyes lifting to hers. “But you understand mine.”

“I’m trying to.”

“Then you know what that kind of bond means. What it costs to say it. What it gives.” His voice dipped even lower, one hand pressing against his chest. “I told you I don’t share. I don’t steal. I chose, and you yielded to me.”

She swallowed, with her heart aching. He was trying so hard to adapt, to live in her world without sacrificing what made him him. But every now and then, their languages still clashed.

She stepped closer, slipping between his legs, gently cupping his jaw.

“I know,” she murmured, stroking the edge of his cheekbone with her thumb. “I know, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of what we are. I’d never throw that away. Not for a job. Not for a joke.”

His breath shuddered in relief, but his eyes stayed locked to hers, needing something more than words. Needing her to see it.

So she leaned down, resting her forehead against his.

“This body is mine,” she said softly, “but it’s yours too. Always has been.”

That did it.

His arms wrapped around her waist in a swift motion, dragging her into his lap with a strength that was still startling sometimes. He buried his face against her neck, nuzzling the skin just below her ear with a low hum that bordered on a growl.

“Still don’t like it. The job.” he muttered.

She leaned against his chest, playing with his long hair. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I extended my stay here. Arthur’s been charging me cheap for the place. I made the fixes that had to be done, which kind of evened things out… but it’s still not fair to him. He could’ve rented this place out during the summer for way more.”

Bucky’s frown deepened.

“I want to do the right thing,” she continued. “Pull my weight. I like it here, and I want to earn the right to stay.”

That made something twist in his chest again.

Pull her weight. Earn it. The idea of her working to keep her lair… it rubbed something raw and ancient in him. Now it wasn’t about the job or the men. It was the fact that he wasn’t the one securing her comfort. That she had to seek help -worse, coin- from others to keep what should be protected by him.

It made him feel less. Not a protector. Not a provider. Not a proper mate.

He didn’t speak, just stayed nestled in the crook of her neck, pensive.

She tilted her head slightly, reading the tension in his posture. “Bucky.”

He didn’t look at her.

“I’m doing it because it’s something I can do, it seems easy, and also it’s a way to belong here. I don’t want to impair Arthur, and I don’t want to move from this house either.”

That got him. He looked at her, reluctantly. “Move?”

“If I can’t pay him the right fee, maybe I should look for a place that I can really afford.”

His whole body went tense.

The idea of her leaving this place -their place- made his stomach drop with a cold, sick weight. His arms pressed harder around her instinctively. “No.”

She blinked. “It’s not-”

“No,” he said again, firmer this time. “You don’t leave your nest. Not after we made it ours.”

His voice had gone low, dangerous. Not to her, but to the very thought of her packing up and going somewhere else, away from the cave, somewhere he couldn’t protect her.

“You think this place is just walls?” he growled, pulling back to look her in the eye. “This is where I came to you as a man. Where I sleep most of the time now, this is our lair now, besides the cave. That doesn’t change just because Arthur could earn more.”

His words were clipped and harsh.

She cupped his cheek again, gently despite the sharpness in his tone. “Bucky-”

“I should be the one to handle it,” he muttered, guiltily. “Should hunt, bargain, do something. Not have you scraping your hands to keep what I’m supposed to protect.”

Her fingers slid into his hair again, soothingly. “You do protect me. This is just a job. Something I can do while you’re at the shore or learning new things here. And, must I remind you what I told you about genders and chores?”

That calmed him a bit, but only just. His brows remained knitted, his expression stormy. “If you must… I’ll allow it. For now.”

She laughed softly at that. “Oh, thank you, almighty lair-lord.”

He didn’t smile.

But he did hold her tighter.

And after a pause, voice barely audible, he muttered, “Still don’t like it.”

She sighed against his collarbone. “I know.”

His hand traced idle shapes along her back, eyes fixed somewhere over her shoulder, thoughtful. After a moment, he spoke again, low and rough, “What kind of work could someone like me even do in town?”

She sighed. “Bucky, you don’t have to-”

“I want to,” he interrupted, in a quiet but firm voice. “I can’t read properly yet. Don’t know your machines. Can’t sit in one of those loud rooms with people and… type.” He frowned, flicking away his stare. “But I can do things. Build. Carry. Fix.”

She watched him for a moment, measuring his frustration, the way he tried to cage it behind a calm surface. Carefully, she reached up and ran her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck.

“With no papers,” she said gently, “at the age you appear to be… with no schooling, no official record, it’s hard.” She said it slowly, choosing each word with care, not wanting to bruise his pride. “There’s only a handful of jobs that don’t ask questions. Maybe something down at the port, loading and unloading. The fishermen might need an extra hand. Or maybe out at the lumberyard near the ridge.”

His brow furrowed deeper. “So many rules. Just to do a job. Just to carry things, or fix what’s broken.”

“I know,” she said, brushing her thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Mainland life is… a different kind of wilderness.”

“I hate it.”

“I know that, too. But you’re doing great, you know. Reading. Writing. Talking to people, even if it’s just a grunt.”

“Too many steps,” he muttered, but leaned into her hand anyway.

She cupped his jaw, nudging his gaze back to hers. “You’ve already come so far. And whatever path you choose, it doesn’t have to match mine. Or anyone else’s. You’re not behind. You’re just… different.”

He held her gaze for a long, silent beat. Then, gruffly, “Still don’t like it.”

----

The sun had barely cleared the edge of the horizon when Bucky slid beneath the waves.

The sea was still cold this late in the season, but he welcomed it. Needed it.

His body sliced through the currents as if trying to shake the frustration that had nested deep in his chest the second she told him about the job.

He wasn’t angry. Not really. But something inside him bristled at the idea of her going out for hours, surrounded by strangers -males- with whom she’d share her time, her focus, and her voice.

And he couldn’t follow.

So, he dove. Again. And again. Deep enough that his ears buzzed with the pressure, far enough from the shore that nothing human could reach him.

----

She’d been surprised how much of the job was just… boring. Sorting through old inventory. Stocking shelves. Typing up backorders. Her supervisor, a man named Reynolds who had the body of an old linebacker and the patience of a turtle in traffic, roamed more than he helped, but it was gentle.

“This here’s delicate,” he said while handing her a box of literal nuts and bolts. “You drop one of those, you’ll be pickin’ ‘em up all day.”

Most of the workers were polite and nice. A few younger ones were even friendly. Still, being her first day, she didn’t relax, trying to absorb everything that was instructed to her.

It wasn’t until she stepped out onto the gravel drive after her shift that her shoulders felt lighter.

Because there he was.

Leaned against the far fence, all black hoodie and shadowed eyes. One leg crossed at the ankle, folded arms, not even pretending to hide the way he watched everyone around her like a sentry.

She smiled, walking toward him with her messenger bag slung across her shoulder. “You didn’t have to wait.”

“I did.” His voice was flat. “Was already nearby.”

“Doing what?”

He blinked. “Swimming.”

That explained the faint briny scent beneath the hoodie. And the slightly damp locks behind his ears. She knew better than to tease him when he looked like that, tense and quiet, with his gaze still fixed on the building behind her.

“You alright?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. When she was within reach, he brushed his hand across her hip and leaned in a little. Inhaled. Subtle to anyone else. Not to her.

“Smell like them,” he muttered.

“Oh, come on,” she sighed.

He growled low, a sound meant more for himself than for her. “You talked to them.”

“I also talked to my supervisor, and to the guy at the vending machine who gave me his extra coffee pod, and to the printer that jammed twice. It’s a workplace, Bucky, you are supposed to communicate with people.”

“Hm.”

She rolled her eyes and slipped her arm around his waist.

“Want to walk me to the car, or are you going to keep inspecting my skin for traces of other males?”

He didn’t laugh, but his jaw shifted, and something unreadable flickered in his eyes. Instead of answering, he reached over and took her bag from her shoulder without a word, slinging it across his own as they started walking.

Once inside the car, she clicked her seatbelt into place and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life and Bucky exhaled slowly, like he was trying not to flinch at the sound. Still didn’t like the machine.

As the car rolled forward, he noticed the turn wasn’t one she usually took. His brows drew together, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Where are you going?”

“Oh, I need to pick something up before heading home,” she said casually, glancing at the dashboard clock.

“What thing?”

She grinned. “Not telling.”

He scowled. “Why not?”

“It’s a surprise.” She stuck her tongue out at him like a challenge, eyes back on the road.

“I don’t like surprises,” he grumbled and crossed his arms, clearly not enjoying being left out.

“Oh, cheer up already,” she said, laughing as she pulled into a small gravel lot and killed the engine.

He glanced up, blinking at the familiar sign. The smell hit him first, rich, oily, mouthwatering. The crispy fish place.

Bucky watched her go, with his arms still folded, tracking every movement. A few heads turned when she reached the counter, mostly curious people waiting for their orders, and his jaw ticked once.

But she came back just a minute later, triumphant, holding one of the warm cones of whitebait in both hands. She opened his door and leaned in, pressing the paper cone into his palm.

“For you, mister grumpy,” she said with a teasing smile. “Freshly made and hot.”

He stared at the food, then up at her. Then back down again.

She raised a brow. “What? Thought you liked these.”

He took the cone slowly, brushing her fingers. “Didn’t say I didn’t.” And without much ceremony, he popped one of the tiny, crispy fish into his mouth.

She watched him chew. “Good?”

His silence said it all. That, and the way he immediately reached for a second one.

She grinned and shut the door behind her as she slid back into the driver’s seat.

They drove in silence for a few minutes, the occasional crunch of the whitebait the only sound between them. She had one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on her thigh, humming faintly to the tune playing low on the radio.

Bucky glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then down at the half-eaten cone in his lap.

“...How was it?” he asked suddenly.

She blinked, turning to look at him briefly. “Work?”

He gave a small nod, chewing a handful of fish. “Your first day.”

Her mouth lifted into a soft smile. “It went alright, actually. A little chaotic. Everyone’s rushing around like they’ve done it a thousand times and forgot I haven’t. But the team was nice, and the supervisor was too. There’s still a lot to pick up, but I think I’ll get there.”

Bucky glanced at her hands on the wheel, her fingers flexing slightly as she navigated the road. His eyes drifted to her gaze, catching the faint drop on her eyelids, then the way her back was pressed against the backrest, and he frowned.

He didn’t really understand the ins and outs of human jobs -rushing around, orders, clocks dictating their time- but he could tell she was tired. And he hated that part. His jaw worked for a moment, like he wanted to say something but decided against it.

“That’s good,” he said finally, leaning his elbow on the window. “That they were nice.”

“Yeah, it is,” she said, glancing at him.

----

By the time they got home, he tossed the empty paper cone into the trash and she flicked on the small kitchen light, casting a soft amber glow across the cozy space.

Bucky grabbed two mugs from the shelf without being asked, putting them on the counter. “Tea?”

She smiled as she pulled off her jacket. “You offering to make it?”

His shrug was slow and a little smug. “Don’t act so surprised. I can boil water.”

She laughed, and the sound filled the kitchen in a way that made him feel… calmer.

“I’m glad you asked, you know,” she said. “I know it’s hard. But you did. That matters.”

He turned the burner on and glanced over his shoulder. “Still don’t like you being tired from something that isn’t for you.”

She came over, arms wrapping loosely around his middle as she leaned into his back. “I’ll be fine. You’re allowed to not like it. But you asking means a lot.”

He grunted softly in response, already moving to make the tea like he’d seen her do dozens of times before, his motions a little clunky, but sure. She used the moment to peel off her shoes and make herself comfortable on the couch, and tugged one of the throw blankets over her lap.

When he returned, he handed her the mug she liked -the one with the chipped rim and faded paint- and set his own on the coffee table without a word. Then, without asking, he sprawled out along the couch and rested his head on her thighs.

She smiled, already threading her fingers into his damp hair. “You know you’ll have to shower if you plan on sleeping in the bed. You smell like seaweed and salt.”

“Maybe you could help with that,” he said, turning just slightly so his face pressed closer to her stomach. His voice came out lower, rougher. “Make sure I don’t miss a spot.”

She huffed a soft laugh, stroking her fingers behind his ear. “Is that what you’re calling it now? Help?”

“I’m learning euphemisms,” he muttered. “Thought you’d be proud.”

----

He didn’t tell her he was going.

She had left that morning with a kiss pressed to his cheek, muttering something about inventory day and that she’d be home late. The moment the car disappeared down the narrow coastal road, Bucky turned toward the sea.

The water was cold early in the day, but it felt like home. He swam with purpose, gliding along the jagged shoreline, keeping low beneath the surface. He surfaced only once, far enough from the docks not to be seen, but close enough to make the final stretch.

He carried a waterproof bag. Something she’d bought him months ago, for him to change when coming to the cottage from the cave and vice versa. Inside of it, there were dry jeans, a worn t-shirt, and a flannel button-up, along with a towel and a pair of sneakers. He shifted slowly, his limbs and muscles contorting and compressing under the strain.

It used to hurt more.

Not anymore, not as much. Not since he’d started spending more time in his human form. Not since he started choosing to do it for her.

Once dressed, hair still damp, he climbed up the stone slope toward the port.

He hated the place immediately.

Too loud. Too crowded. Too many eyes.

He loitered near the edge for a while, half-shadowed by a stack of pallets. Watching men move with purpose. Crates were hauled. Nets were tossed. Jokes and shouts flew through the sea breeze. His presence didn’t go unnoticed for long.

“Hey-” someone barked. “You loiterin’, or lookin’ for somethin’?”

The man approaching was stocky and old, his hands were scarred from rope burn and time. He looked Bucky up and down, sizing him like a head of cattle.

“Work,” Bucky answered simply.

“Yeah? What kind?”

“Don’t care.”

The man’s brow rose. “You lift?”

Bucky nodded.

The answer came in the form of a sharp look and a sack of cement dropped at his feet.

He picked it up like it weighed nothing.

The man squinted. “You on something?”

“No.”

“Show me again.”

Bucky bent down and grabbed two sacks this time. Made it look like it cost him.

The man gave a grunt of approval. “We’ve got a guy out with a busted back. You can fill in. You show up, keep your head down, don’t break shit.”

“No paperwork?” Bucky asked.

The man shrugged. “Not for this. Temporary’s temporary.”

He handed Bucky a folded piece of paper. “Name?”

He paused a bit. Then-

“Erm- James.”

“Show up at six. Don’t be late.”

And that was how Bucky got his first human job.

No ID was asked. No résumé. No one cared where he lived, who he knew, or what he’d done before. Just muscle and silence, which turned out to be the only language that really mattered there.

Half the men grunted more than they spoke anyway.

He kept his strength in check. Always pretending to strain just enough to seem impressive, but not inhuman. He lifted. He moved things. He kept his gaze down.

No one noticed him.

No one asked questions.

And strangely, that felt good.

----

Even if she only worked a few days a week, Bucky kept heading to the port daily.

Each morning, he’d tell her he was going for a swim, pressing a kiss to her shoulder or nuzzling under her ear before vanishing toward the shoreline. She never questioned it. He was sea-bound, always had been. She didn’t know he changed into dry clothes behind the rocks, walked through the back alleys of the port, and lifted crates and sacks until his shoulders ached, not from strain, but from holding back.

He didn’t tell her.

Not yet.

And on Saturday, when the foreman handed him his pay -a modest wad of bills folded with a paperclip-, he pocketed it and made his way through town.

Straight to the yarn shop.

He pushed the door open, and the little bell above jingled. The air smelled of cotton, lavender soap, and something faintly briny and sharp. The clerk was behind the counter, sorting a box of embroidery floss.

She looked up.

Their eyes locked.

For a beat too long, neither of them moved.

“Octopus,” she greeted dryly.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Herring,” he returned.

Her chin lifted a touch as she raised a single brow. “Well. You’re a long way from your rocks, aren’t you?”

“I want one of those hooks,” he said gruffly, ignoring her tone and nodding toward a row on the wall behind her. “The kind with the silicone handle.”

She squinted at him, twitching her lips. “Size?”

A pause.

He blinked at her. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

Her mouth curved, and not in a kindly way. “Don’t even know which one she uses most, do you?”

He exhaled through his nose, sharply and annoyed, and his hand twitched at his side. He imagined flipping the entire counter over. “Just tell me what kind of yarn she buys.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because, old hag, you want coin.”

Her cackle was almost musical. “The nerve of calling me a hag, you ancient squid.”

His nostrils flared at the throwback insult, fisting his hands at his sides.

She turned around before he could spit fire back, plucked a 3.5mm hook from a drawer, and dropped it on the counter.

“Five dollars.”

He scowled at the price. “You gouge everyone, or just me?”

“What? Can’t pay with seashells and rusty fishhooks?” she teased, propping her chin in her hand like she had all day to enjoy this.

He shoved a hand into his jeans pocket, tugging out the folded bundle of bills the dock foreman had handed him. As he fumbled through it for the right number, she tilted her head, looking at the money.

She smirked. “Tell me, octopus. Who’d you eat for it?”

He slapped a five on the counter with more energy than necessary. “Didn’t eat anyone.”

“Pity,” she said sweetly, dragging the bill across the wood.

He snatched the hook and turned.

“Always a pleasure,” she sang-songed at his back.

He didn’t answer.

But the door swung closed with enough force to rattle the bell like a warning.

----

She was slicing an apple when the door opened and closed with a familiar creak.

Bucky stepped inside, hair damp from sea-spray, smelling of salt and wind. He kissed her cheek in passing, a firm press of lips to skin that made her smile.

“I’m gonna shower,” he muttered.

She hummed in response, too focused on not cutting her fingers.

He disappeared down the hallway, already taking off his sneakers.

A minute later, when she carried her plate to the table, something else caught her eye.

A crochet hook lay near the placemat. Not hers, she could tell at a glance. The handle was smooth, matte silicone in a soft sea-glass green. Ergonomic. Just like the one she'd mentioned a dozen times but never actually bought.

She blinked at it. Picked it up. Turned it slowly in her fingers.

A smile bloomed across her face before she could stop it.

She padded softly down the hall. The bathroom door was closed, steam slipping out through the gap at the top. She knocked once and let herself in, sitting on the toilet lid like she sometimes did when he showered. Her favorite perch for idle conversations and teasing.

“So…” she started, “I saw something pretty on the table.”

Behind the curtain, water hit the tiles. A pause.

“Did you?”

“Hmm. Might’ve appeared out of nowhere. Or maybe… someone put it there.”

Another pause. Then, a low, almost grumbling answer: “Maybe.”

“Any idea where it came from?”

His voice was flat but betraying the tiniest flicker of pride. “The yarn shop.”

She let the silence stretch before whispering, “Thank you, Bucky.”

A grunt.

She leaned back, still twirling the hook between her fingers. “I thought you didn’t like surprises.”

“I don’t,” he shot back. “But this one was for you.”

She laughed, soft and delighted. “You’re such a cutie.”

“I’m not.” The curtain shifted slightly, and his silhouette moved toward the edge. “You like it?”

 “I love it.” She smiled at his shape through the steam. “Almost as much as I love that you listened.”

“I always listen,” he said simply.

She tilted her head and bit her lip.

Then, without a word, she stood up and began to undress. Quietly. Purposefully.

When the curtain rustled and she stepped in, Bucky blinked at her through the steam. His eyes dropped, then rose again, a glimmer of surprise that was chased quickly by something darker, pleased and hungry.

“You never come in here with me,” he murmured.

She shrugged, already reaching for the soap. “You always get handsy. And it gets messy.”

A half smile tugged the corner of his mouth. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t say that.”

He grunted, stepping closer, water streaming between them. “Good.”

His hands found her waist, pressing his fingers as if he’d been waiting for this moment forever. Which, to be fair, he had.

"Let me wash-"

"I'll wash you first," she cut in smoothly, stepping into him. "You're the surprise guy today."

He scowled, just a little, more out of habit than anything else. But he didn’t protest. Her soapy hands on him were more than welcome, warm, slow, and familiar.

"So..." she murmured as her hands roamed across his chest, tracing old scars, "may I ask how you bought it?"

His eyes narrowed faintly, water dripping from his lashes. “Oh, I followed your example.”

She glanced up at him, arching a brow.

“Got myself an occupation,” he said, a little too casually.

Her hands stilled. “You what?”

He smirked then, that rare, crooked thing that always felt like it held secrets. “Temporary. Port work. Told you I could be useful.”

“Wait- you’ve been working?”

His shrug was all muscle and pride. “You’re not the only one who can bring something to the lair.”

“How do you get there every day?” she asked, gliding her fingers down his sides, suds slipping through her touch. “How did they even hire you? And what kind of work do you do at the port?”

Bucky tilted his head back into the spray with a satisfied sigh. For once, he wasn’t the one interrogating, and he found that he liked it.

“I swim,” he said simply. “Carry my things in that waterproof bag you gave me.”

She blinked. “That’s a long swim.”

He cracked a crooked grin again, arching a brow cockily at her. “I get there without breaking a sweat.”

She gave him a look, halfway between impressed and exasperated.

“And they hired you just like that?”

“They saw my potential,” he said smugly.

“Bucky…” she started, the warning in her tone was unmistakable.

“I’m not stupid, mate,” he cut in, lifting a hand to push wet strands from her face. “I feign to struggle a little.”

She snorted, biting back a smile, then let her gaze drop -just for a beat- before her hand followed, sliding down his slick chest and lower still, wrapping her fingers around him with a teasing squeeze.

His breath caught in his throat.

“Any manly co-worker I should be worried about?” she murmured, stroking him lazily. “Being a little too friendly with you?”

He snorted, rolling his eyes before narrowing them in a slow, pointed glare. “They barely speak. One barked at me for loitering and asked if I was on something after I lifted a couple of sacks.”

She chuckled lowly, grazing the head of his cock with her thumb just to hear him inhale sharply through his nose. “So no charming carrier with broad shoulders and twinkling eyes?”

He arched into her touch, resting a hand on the tile behind her. “None of them smells like you. So no, mate, you’ve got no competition.”

She laughed, slow and satisfied. “Mm, I like that answer.”

“And I like that hand,” he muttered, cock twitching against her palm. “But if you keep doing that, I’m gonna end up making a mess.”

She looked up at him, eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, do you?”

Instead of answering, she leaned in, giving a playful lick to his nipple. He twitched again in her hand.

That was enough to snap his restraint.

In one swift motion, he lifted her effortlessly, backing her against the cool tiles. Her legs wrapped around his waist without hesitation, gripping his shoulders with her hands.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his breath hot against her neck. “I do. And now I’m wondering…” He shifted his hips, teasing, testing, “…if you can take me just like this. No stalling. No fingers first. No cheating.”

His nose brushed her jaw as he nuzzled close, voice getting rougher.

“You think you’re ready for that, mate?”

She seemed to weigh it for a heartbeat, her gaze locked on his with a look that was equal parts challenge and surrender. Then she leaned in, nipped softly at his jaw, and whispered against his skin, “There’s only one way to find out.”

His hands clenched under her thighs, the slick heat of her pussy pressed flush to him, and for a beat, he just held her there, chest to chest, heartbeats thrumming in sync.

“Brave little thing,” he muttered, more reverent than mocking.

His hips rolled upward, slow and deliberate, teasing her just enough to make her whimper before he pulled back again. Her breath hitched.

His mouth found her throat, then her collarbone, licking and biting and making her head tip back. He moved with purpose now, grinding deliberately and relentlessly against her, slick skin on slick skin until she moaned as he finally pushed into her, slow at first, stretching her inch by inch with no buffer, no hesitation. It wasn’t gentle, but it wasn’t unkind either. It was all raw, all heat, all him.

“That’s it,” he hissed, rocking deeper. “Take it. Take all of me.”

She did, with trembling thighs, fluttering breaths, hands tangled in his wet hair as he pressed her harder to the tiles, chasing every gasp, every whimper like it was a reward.

His thrusts became deeper, rougher, hips snapping with purpose. Not just from desire. That raw satisfaction rumbled in his chest and put a smirk on his lips against her neck.

He’d earned this.

Not just her gasps, or the way her nails dragged down his back. But the moment, the right to feel proud. To feel like a male who could provide, who could give her something she needed, even if it was small. Even if it was just a damn hook with a better grip.

“You liked that gift?” he growled against her ear, voice low and strained as he drove into her again,

She moaned in answer, hips rolling to meet his. That was enough.

“Good,” he grunted, pushing her higher against the tile, water cascading down their bodies, “Because I got it with my own hands. My work. My coin.”

He bit gently at her jawline, then licked over the mark. One hand slipped beneath her thigh, lifting her higher to get deeper still. Her head rolled back with a sharp cry.

“You feel this?” he growled, every word rough with the effort of holding back. “This is what you do to me. Every day. When you smile. When you kiss me.”

She whimpered something incoherent -his name, a plea, a yes- and he slammed into her again, his pace brutal now. His satisfaction, his triumph, all of it pouring into the way he took her.

His fingers dug into her thighs.

“You’re mine, mate,” he bit out, hips pounding, pelvic bone grinding against her clit. “And I’ll earn a hundred more hooks if it means you keep looking at me like that.”

She shattered with a cry, her legs trembling, arms tight around his shoulders as her climax hit her hard. And still he moved, drawn in by the way she clenched around him, the way she gave in fully to him, again and again.

His release came soon after, stuttering hips, forehead pressed to her shoulder as he groaned her name against her skin, spilling deep inside her.

For a moment, all that could be heard was the sound of their panting breaths and the water streaming down.

----

The sheets were soft and warm, still faintly damp where their bodies had pressed on them after the shower. Her fingers drew idle patterns across his chest, tracing the old scars while the weight of his arm rested around her waist. He was unusually quiet, eyes half-lidded but not asleep, his breathing deep and regular.

She shifted slightly, angling her face toward his shoulder.

“You know…” she began gently, “you don’t have to work, Bucky.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just blinked slowly, as though choosing his words. Then, his jaw clenched a little, and he spoke without looking at her.

“I do.”

There wasn’t anger in it, but there was a certain weight. Finality. She stilled her hand on his chest, and in that pause, she understood.

It was about pride. It was instinct. It was the need to contribute, to pull his weight beside her in the strange new shape of the life they were building. In his world, in his upbringing, a mate who didn't provide was less than. Worth less. And he had already spent too long hiding, watching from the fringes of her life.

Trying to coddle him or dismiss the effort would only wound him.

So instead, she shifted up slightly and pressed a kiss just below his collarbone.

“Alright,” she murmured. “Then I hope it’s not too hard on you.”

He finally looked at her then. Not with surprise, but something softer. Something grateful.

“It’s not,” he said after a beat, dragging his fingers lazily along her back. “I like earning things for you.”

She smiled into his skin, nuzzling into the curve of his neck.

"That's flattering," she murmured, voice low against him, "but I want you to get things too."

He made a quiet sound in his throat, and she could feel the frown forming in his face before she even looked up.

"I know what you said about your kind and possessions," she added quickly, drawing slow lines on his stomach, "but you live here now. So maybe you can indulge yourself a little."

Still no answer. His body remained still under her, unreadable. She softened her tone further, shifting so she could rest her chin just below his collarbone.

"Like tools. Or food you enjoy. Not just... gifts for me."

He shrugged one shoulder, not quite dismissively, not quite accepting either. But after a beat, he muttered:

"Yes. That could be."

She smiled against his skin, brushing her nose along the warm line of his throat. The scent of soap remained faintly on him, mixed with salt and something that was just his.

“Then we’ll make a list,” she murmured. “What you want. What we want.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just breathed in, as his hand slid to rest low on her back. Holding her there. Tethering.

But the way his thumb traced lazy circles against her skin… the way his chest rose calmly… it told her he was already thinking about it. Already imagining it.

Their nest.

Their life.

A future neither of them had expected, slowly taking shape like the tide reshaping the shore: patient and inevitable.

Taglist based on the main story: @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira @lazyneonrabbitt @vxllys @namjoohnie @sebastians-love @misspendragonsworld @thewriters64 @escapefromrealitylol @hi172826 @wintrsoldrluvr @reddesires @ruexj283 @buckvoidsyy @littlesuniee @kimberly-stocks @pandaxnienke @ladypncl @homiesexuallaj @kulteule @awesompawsum @killerwendigo @princessgriffin1998 @helen-2003 @nynxtea @alagalaska @maryevm @kittieboo @otterlycanadian @queergalpal97 @gentlelimerence @moogles93 @tentacle-priestess @fandomsearcherforcuntymen @lemonylover @wintrsoldrluvr @x-press-it

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[engineersamuel]

Danny sighed as He felt another summoning, at least this new one was More Professional. reaching out in front of his Desk And tearing open a small Pin prick sized hole in The fabric of reality Danny Looked to see who was summoning him. Seeing a group of people, some in Suits, Others talking, and the Fucking hellblazer Of all people. Danny groaned and Stood up, stepping around the desk and Opening a Full portal and stepping through. Constantine Did not expect The king of the dead to Answer the summoning so quickly, Nor did He expect The King of the dead to Ignore the summoning completely and Open a portal Four feet to the left of the Summoning circle He had prepared. Looking up at the King of the dead was like looking into The cosmos, a Cape of the Stars Flowing without wind behind The king of the dead, With a crown of Dark black ice and a Ring that Looked not to far off from a Lantern's ring, if it was Made by an Emo. "Ah, Mighty King of the Dead, We Seek to ask a few questions from you-" Constantine asked, Being cut off as The King of the dead spoke. "Before you speak any further hellblazer, I Need to say, Your a Pain in the fucking ass. Do you know how much Paperwork I have? I'm up to my neck in damn Soul Contracts because of your fuckery," No one quite expected the formal Kingly speak to drop off a cliff For a Pissed off Miswesterner's speaking Pattern to take over and berate Constantine. Zatanna Stepped forward, Moving in front of Constantine And Speaking up right as The King of the Dead took a Non Needed breath. "uh, G-great Phantom, Keeper of balance, Please, we only want to talk about the Cultist Summonings that Have happened this past few months. You have been answering them and we Would just like to Know what your doing with the Cultists?" Zatanna kept a calm level of eye contact with The King of the dead, and was hopping to defuse the situation before it got worse. "mh... Fine," The King of the Dead Huffed, Almost like an annoyed teen, then letting the Kingly persona Drape over him with ease. "Yes i have been Answering the summons, Most Of the cultists you speak of have been dealt with. Most of the crazy ones that is." "the First month of summons Were... the same, Demands of Immortality, Cleansing the world, A few Smaller ones Performed for More minor reasons. But I don't want to spend the rest of my Eternity dealing with whiny Cultists. So I made a Domain for them. Those who want to 'cleanse' the world are sent there, A dreamworld that Molds to their whims, So they may experiance the Hell they want to Bring." "as for those Demanding Immortality? I Remove their souls from Their bodies and Place them into A Prison in the Infinite realms, Once I deem the time right they will be released as Subjects of The Infinite realms." The Ghost king waited for a Moment, Allowing batman to speak up when the caped crusader walked to stand In front of him. "Why are you doing this? what do you have to gain from Answering the Summons?" The ghost king Sighed, taking a moment as he Pinched the bridge of his nose. "Because you all can't deal with the crazies. I found a way to deal with them, They do not die. They are not ended. They are dealt with. If you have an issue, then Stuff it. You don't have A hundred summons a day do you? I Made a way to deal with each of them in the best way i could, And Look at what its done." "Now there are no more Crazies For you all to deal with. Those who have More than a few screws Tightened down are Thinking through what they Really want to try with me." The ghost king turned, walking back towards the Open portal he entered through, turning back for a moment To say, "And Constantine, No more soul Contracts, I already have a Majority of your soul, so I swear on Clockwork's name if you Make any damn more i will drag you to the ghost zone myself and let Fright Knight use you as a Sparing partner for a few thousand years." The ghost

Deal or No Deal

Danny, after he became Ghost King, was often summoned. After a time he got tired of the constant ‘cleanse the world’ and ‘give me immortality’ summons. At first he always refused them, as he had no need to kill when all would become his subjects eventually anyway. Then he thought of a plan which would hopefully change things.

So, using his domain as the Ancient of Space he created the Existing Prison. It was a world that only he had access to, that kept all who stayed in it existing until he released them. He used his power to slip plenty of warnings about the price of asking a protector for things not in his domain. Then he started to accept the immortality askers deal. He would kill their mortal forms and place their soul into the new cage. They could continue to exist for as long as they wanted. He would decide when to release their soul to their chosen afterlife on a case by case basis.

As for the world cleansers, he created another world for that, in combination with Nocturn and Clockwork. It was a shifting world. Those placed inside would be in a waking dream. They would get everything they wanted while living out the remainder of their mortal life span. The dream they lived was shaped by Clockwork’s time ability. If their desired cleansing made the world end then they would live through the nightmare.

He had quickly noticed a difference in the amount of summonings after he started his new policy. It seems removing all the crazies made a marked difference. The ones that paid attention to his warning got to continue as is, and those who didn’t were removed so as not to cause anymore trouble. It actually helped fulfill his Protection Obsession.

Then he met the Justice League. Having to explain that just because he was The Benevolent King didn’t mean he wouldn’t remove problems was a headache.

[itsnotyouithink]

AFRAID

pairing: tara carpenter x fem!reader

summary: tara feels like she knows you - your charm, busted ankle, and the desire to be the best. but, after attending mindy’s long-awaited student film festival, she realizes she barely knows what’s underneath the obsessed artist you are.

warnings: mature language, torn acl (rip)

word count: 6.1k

author’s note: not so sure about this chapter but here it is!

previous part | next chapter

——————

The second the front door clicks shut behind you, a collective exhale leaves your group like you've just disarmed a bomb. You all freeze for a second, waiting for some noise from inside — a thud, a groggy Sam scream, the unmistakable sound of Tara trying to use the blender at one in the morning.

Nothing.

Mindy silently throws her head back, arms raised to the sky like she's seen God. "Holy shit. I didn't think we were gonna make it."

"She kept saying her key was in her boot," Chad adds, wiping a line of sweat from his forehead. "She wasn't wearing boots."

"I'm still emotionally recovering from when she tried to kiss the doorknob goodnight," Anika says, tugging her oversized cardigan tighter around her shoulders as you all start heading back toward campus. The pavement is wet with leftover rain, glistening in the streetlights. The air smells like hot dog water, weed, and victory.

"She thought the doorknob was a person," Mindy corrects. "She said, and I quote: 'You've always seen me for who I really am.'"

You laugh — harder than you mean to — and your breath clouds up in the air in front of you. Everything feels a little surreal. Your ankle still aches from the game, your voice is half-gone from yelling, and there's a dried smear of Gatorade on your sweatshirt, but none of it matters.

Because you won. And Tara was there. Watching. She showed up to the party, drunk off her ass from frat-party vodka and looking at you like you'd hung the moon.

"Okay, but," Chad says, suddenly grinning. "She was kinda obsessed with you tonight."

You glance at him, playing dumb. "What?"

"Oh, don't 'what' me." He bumps your shoulder. "Every time you touched the ball, she gasped like she was watching a murder documentary. And when you hit that floater in OT? I swear to God, she grabbed my arm and whispered, 'That's my favorite play.'"

"She doesn't even know what a floater is," Mindy mutters.

"She knows now," Chad says, wiggling his eyebrows. "Because her hot jock crush did it."

"I don't have a—" you start, but Anika cuts you off, spinning around to walk backward in front of you.

"Oh please. She was basically wrapped around your shoulder the whole walk home. If she had been even one tequila shot more coherent, she would've proposed."

You shove your hands in your pockets and look down at the sidewalk, trying to hide the way your face is heating up. "She was drunk."

"Drunk minds, sober hearts," Mindy intones like it's gospel.

You roll your eyes, but it's no use. They've got you cornered, and they know it.

And maybe it's not just teasing. Maybe there's truth under it — in the way Tara had leaned against you like you were gravity, or how she'd looked at you with those sleepy brown eyes and whispered, "You smell like orange Gatorade. I think I love you." You'd laughed at the time, brushed it off like a joke.

But now? Now you're not so sure.

Your friends keep talking — Chad's going on about post-game waffles, Mindy and Anika are arguing over the ethics of shipping real people — but your mind stays back at that house, with that girl.

The night's cold, but you're buzzing.

And you're not sure if it's the win, or if it's her.

Your dorm is quiet. Everyone else is probably passed out — teammates drunk off cheap beer, fans still posting shaky game clips to Instagram. Your ankle's elevated, still sore from overtime. You've showered, iced, changed, but your brain hasn't shut off. Not with the win. Not with her. Not with the amount of alcohol you should've never touched an hour ago.

But you were used to this - your brain never quite shutting up. Celebratory parties had been a normal occurrence for the basketball team this past year with your sudden burst of talent. But nonetheless, it still hit you like a truck.

You're lying on your bed, one arm behind your head, scrolling through your camera roll — not looking for anything in particular, just avoiding sleep. You stop when you get to a photo someone AirDropped after the game. A blurry shot of you mid-jump shot.

And in the background — Tara. Sitting just a little too close to the court. Hands cupped around her mouth, eyes locked on you.

Your phone buzzes.

Tara Carpenter [2:11 AM]

question

if i showed up at your door right now

would you make me food

or would you kiss me

just wondering

Tara Carpenter [2:13 AM]

ignore that

tequila and shame

i'm gonna disappear now

You [2:14 AM]

depends

what kind of food

what kind of kiss

Tara Carpenter [2:15 AM]

food: grilled cheese

kiss: the kind that makes people sit down after

You [2:15 AM]

damn

you're aiming high for 2am and no warning

Tara Carpenter [2:16 AM]

you played good tnn

i'm vulnerable

Tara Carpenter [2:16 AM]

and you won the game

and looked stupuudly hot doing it

so maybe this is your fault actually

You don't respond right away. You're reading every word like it's written in code, like she's going to take it back the second you answer wrong.

Then:

You [2:19 AM]

i'd let you in

grilled cheese first

kiss second

then you can pretend it never happened in the morning if that makes it easier

There's a pause. You stare at the message. Your heart is a little louder now.

Then:

Tara Carpenter [2:22 AM]

i wouldn't want to forget

just wouldn't know what to do after

That one stays on your screen for a long time.

You don't move.

You reread it five times.

Then you type:

You [2:25 AM]

maybe don't think about the after yet

just think about the now

and the fact that i want you here

Typing... Then:

Tara Carpenter [2:26 AM]

that makes two of us

fuck

goodnight

And that's it.

No emoji. No follow-up. No jokes to soften the edge.

Just honesty. Brief and blazing.

And now you're just lying there, heart pounding, wide awake at 2:30 AM — smiling like a fucking idiot.

⸻

Tara Carpenter is ninety percent sure she died last night and this is purgatory.

She's seated on the lowest step of the auditorium stage, hunched forward in a hoodie she stole from Mindy three months ago and never gave back. Her hair is pulled into the kind of messy claw clip arrangement that says I've given up, and her sunglasses are oversized, crooked, and doing a barely adequate job shielding her from the blazing overhead lights Mindy insisted on turning to "full stadium brightness."

The room is a disaster: folding chairs half-unstacked, extension cords snaking across the floor like live wires, glitter already stuck to Tara's socks. There's a faint buzzing from the AV booth that's threatening to break her last functioning brain cell in half. And through all of it, Mindy is marching around the room like a caffeinated auteur on the verge of a nervous breakthrough.

"Can someone explain to me why the projector screen is hung at a 73-degree angle?" Mindy calls, pointing dramatically at the ceiling like she's directing Inception. "I said cinematic, not asymmetrical trauma!"

"Those are the same thing," Tara mutters from her corner.

"I heard that!"

Tara slumps further into herself and presses her forehead to her knees. She is not built for this. She is built for drinking four and a half tequila shots, dancing to Rihanna, sending risky texts at 2 a.m., and then disappearing for a full 24 hours. Not public service. Not ladders and paper lanterns and Mindy yelling things like "non-linear aesthetics."

"You good down there, T?" Chad asks from a few feet away, where he's unraveling yet another string of tangled fairy lights with all the enthusiasm of a man serving time.

"I'm thriving," she mumbles, deadpan.

"I think I saw your soul leave your body ten minutes ago," Anika adds, stepping over an extension cord with a roll of black gaffer tape in one hand and an iced chai in the other.

Tara lifts one middle finger, then rests her head back on her knees.

And then—

The doors open.

They creak a little too loudly, and Tara winces like a vampire mid-sunrise. But when she lifts her head and looks toward the light, the glare fades — and there you are.

Hoodie on. Sweatpants. That familiar confident walk that says you definitely slept in. And in your hand: a brown paper bag, slightly grease-stained, clutched like a talisman. You scan the chaos, zero in on her like a heat-seeking missile, and start walking.

Tara's stomach flips.

It's you. With food. And a smile she absolutely does not trust.

She immediately looks away. Bites the inside of her cheek. Tries very hard to pretend she didn't send a string of late-night texts about kissing you and sandwiches — in that order — and then double texted. It's fine. You probably didn't read them. You probably forgot.

But then you're right in front of her.

"Morning, Princess of Darkness."

She peers up at you over the rim of her sunglasses. "Are you here to help or just to mock me?"

"I brought you breakfast." You shake the paper bag like it's a peace treaty. "Which technically makes me a hero."

She stares at it, suspicious. "What is it?"

"Grilled cheese. Fresh off the griddle. Or, like... fresh-ish. I stole it from a freshman who looked like he might cry if I made eye contact."

She sighs. "You are so full of shit."

"And cheddar," you say, winking. "Come on. I figured you were still deciding between kissing me or eating, and I didn't want to make you choose on an empty stomach."

Tara turns fully toward you, pulling her sunglasses down to the tip of her nose like a judgmental librarian.

"So you read the texts."

You grin. "Printed them out. Had them laminated. Gonna hand them out at the next team dinner."

She narrows her eyes. "I hate you."

"But," you say, crouching beside her and placing the bag in her lap, "you're also currently accepting my grilled cheese."

She opens the bag with caution, like it might bite her. The sandwich is slightly flattened, a little too crispy on one side, but it smells amazing. She takes a bite before she can stop herself and immediately closes her eyes.

You watch her chew with a smirk.

"See? Better than your drunk imagination."

"I was imagining more cheese," she says flatly. "But this is... acceptable."

You fall back onto the floor beside her with a satisfied sigh, arms behind your head. "I bring you comfort food and witty banter and you still insult me. Incredible."

Tara glances sideways at you. Her voice softens just a touch. "You didn't have to bring anything."

"I know," you say, looking up at the ceiling. "But I wanted to."

There's a beat. Her fingers tighten around the sandwich.

Across the room, Mindy is shrieking about someone using duct tape on the "vintage projection screen," and Chad is pretending to care. But here, in this little corner of the chaos, it's just you and Tara — her hoodie sleeves too long, your shoulder brushing hers, the ghost of last night's texts still hanging between you.

She nudges your arm with her elbow. "If I was drunk when I said I wanted to kiss you, does that mean you're gonna hold it against me forever?"

You glance at her. "Nope."

"Really?"

You smile.

"I'm gonna hold it against you now. You know. Just in case you want to say it again — sober."

She stares at you. Eyes sharp. Mouth twitching.

Then she takes another bite.

"Shut up and eat your own grilled cheese," she mutters.

"You didn't bring me one."

She leans back against the stage with a sigh and tosses you a crust. "Sucks to suck."

An hour later, lights are strung, the banner's (slightly crooked) but finally up. Chad's been gone for at least forty minutes, Mindy's yelling about lens ratios from behind a stack of folding chairs, and Tara — uh, well — Tara is sitting at the edge of the stage again, legs dangling, your half-eaten grilled cheese in one hand, the other tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Her sunglasses are finally off. Her eyes are tired but clear now — and every time they glance at you, it's like the rest of the room fades.

You're standing just a few feet from her, tangled lights still wrapped loosely around your arm, pretending not to notice how she's watching you. Like you didn't spend the night texting each other things that neither of you have acknowledged since.

She licks a bit of melted cheese off her thumb and mumbles, "This is terrible, by the way.

You smirk. "And yet you're still eating it."

"I'm fragile and easily manipulated by carbs."

You walk over, gently toss the rest of the tangled lights onto a plastic chair, and say, "I'll keep that in mind next time I bribe you."

She hums. "Next time? Oh, you wanna hang out with me more, Varsity?"

You freeze for a second. You weren't expecting that, you never do whenever she calls you a stupid nickname. But then your phone buzzes in your pocket. You pull it out.

You feel the shift before you even check the time.

It's subtle — a change in the way your heartbeat settles, the way the lights on stage suddenly feel too bright, the way your chest starts to tighten like something's wrong.

1:06 PM.

Shit.

The press junket started at 1.

You were supposed to be there fifteen minutes early. Hair neat. Posture perfect. Answers locked and loaded — the same way you've been doing since you were fifteen, since the day they threw you in front of a local news camera after your first 30-point game and said, "Smile like that again, kid, and you'll get a full ride."

You've been smiling ever since.

You were the one who never broke routine. The one who never flinched. Early to every team meeting. First out on the court. Face of the program. Captain. Role model. The "serious one." You didn't have time to mess around. Didn't give anyone room to doubt you — not your coaches, not your family, not the girl who said once, "You never shut off, do you?"

But now?

You're in a dim auditorium filled with tangled fairy lights, folding chairs, and a last minute Postmates half-eaten grilled cheese cooling in a paper bag next to Tara Carpenter.

She's sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of you, hair up in a loose clip, hoodie sleeves swallowed over her hands. There's a streak of red marker on her wrist from the banner she was working on earlier, and she's squinting up at the projector screen like she actually cares if it's perfectly centered.

You were supposed to stop by. Just for a second. Mindy asked for help. You said sure.

But really — it wasn't about the projector. It was never about the projector.

You wanted to see her.

Tara, who hasn't brought up your late-night texts.

Tara, who took the grilled cheese without flinching.

Tara, who hasn't stopped looking at you like she knows you're off your game, but hasn't said a word.

You tear your eyes away from her, throat dry.

"I have to go," you say, already backing up. Your voice comes out tight. "I'm—I'm so late."

Tara looks up, blinking like she just realized you were still here. "What?"

"Press. I was supposed to be at media by 11:40."

Her brows raise. "You're over an hour late?"

You grab your bag. "I lost track."

"Since when do you lose track?"

The words sting more than they should. You offer a tight smile. "Guess I'm slipping."

She watches you. Doesn't say anything. Just picks at the corner of the sandwich bag.

"I'll see you later?" you ask.

She shrugs. "You know where to find me."

That one hits low.

You don't say anything else. You turn, push the auditorium door open, and walk out into the light. Your heart's in your throat. Your legs feel heavier with every step.

For the first time in months, you feel like you're walking into something unprepared.

⸻

You don't see her at first.

You're running — not sprinting anymore, but that focused, panicked jog that says you know you're already late. Your legs ache. Sweat's pooling between your shoulder blades. Your chest is tight, but not from exertion. It's the shame. The spiral.

You shouldn't have stayed at the auditorium that long.

You shouldn't have forgotten what time it was.

You shouldn't have let her get to you like that.

And then you round the corner — cut behind the old campus bookstore — and she's there. Like a trap you didn't see until it was too late.

Leaning against the back of the brick wall like she's exactly where she was always meant to be. Hoodie unzipped. Leg up on the wall. A crutch tucked under her arm. Messy curls. Faded knee brace visible just under the hem of her biker shorts. And eyes locked on you before you can even process what's happening.

Riley.

You stop short.

Your breath catches. Your heart — already sprinting — stumbles in your chest.

She hasn't changed.

Still has that smirk that dares you to do something reckless. Still wearing her hoodie like armor, sleeves shoved up to her elbows. Still chewing gum like she owns the sidewalk.

"You're late," she says, voice cool and unbothered.

You blink. "Riley."

"I heard you dropped forty last night," she adds, straightening slightly. "Big win. Real press-junket shit."

"I have to be there now," you say, already trying to step past her. "I can't—"

She moves just a little. Not blocking your path. But not exactly making it easy, either. "I'm not gonna keep you," she says. "Just thought it was funny. Watching you run like that."

You don't answer.

She cocks her head. "You always used to walk. Strutted like you didn't owe anyone anything."

"That was a long time ago."

"One year," she says. "Not that long."

You glance at your watch. Time slipping like sand.

"I can't do this," you mutter.

Riley exhales a laugh — sharp and low. "Why? 'Cause it's not part of your little routine? Wake up. Stretch. Get coached. Smile for the cameras. Pretend the game still matters."

Your jaw tightens. "It does matter."

"To who?" She steps in, voice low now, less mocking — more real. "You used to play with teeth. You remember that? You'd claw for the ball like it owed you rent. Elbows out. Head down. Angry. Mean. Beautiful."

You look away.

"I remember," she says. "You were fire back then. You played like the world hurt you and you were gonna hurt it back."

"I had to."

"No, you wanted to. That's what made you better than everyone else."

She's closer now. You can smell her — vanilla and sweat and old gym floors. You remember late nights in the rec center, the sound of rubber on concrete, her laugh echoing off empty bleachers. You remember splitting a pack of Sour Straws and a warm water bottle between you and calling it dinner. She was your best friend - your role model in the sport of basketball, but since her injury the two of you had never been the same.

You took her spot as the best player on the court and she hated you for it.

"You've gone soft," she says.

You flinch.

She nods toward your chest. "Press junkets. Gatorade deals. You used to burn. Now you just, kind of… float."

"I've changed."

"Yeah. You have." She says it like a compliment. But it feels like an insult.

Your voice is small when you say, "That's a good thing."

Riley looks at you — really looks at you — and for a second, there's no smile.

Just honesty.

"You don't even look like you believe that."

You inhale sharply. Stare past her. Focus on the double doors to the athletic center. Focus on anything but the guilt blooming behind your ribs.

"I have to go," you say.

She steps back, slow, letting you pass.

"You always do."

You're already walking away when she calls out behind you. "Hey. You were more dangerous when you were angry. Now? You're just trying to be liked. Hope that works out for you."

You keep moving. You don't look back.

But something in you flickers.

Something old.

Something red and hot and loud.

You tell yourself you're better now.

You tell yourself she's wrong.

But God, it would feel good to play like that again.

You shove the door open to the athletic wing and instantly feel it — the shift in temperature, the sterile fluorescent light, the silence that isn't really silent.

The press room is just down the hall, past the trophy case and the wall of grainy team photos. You can hear muffled voices inside, the tap of a mic being adjusted, someone clearing their throat. And standing just outside the door, back to you, arms crossed so tight his biceps strain against his quarter-zip?

Coach Ryan.

He turns before you can even open your mouth. "You wanna explain to me what the hell this is?"

You freeze.

He walks toward you in three long strides, and suddenly he's too close — the way he gets when he's really mad. That sharp cologne. The clipboard clutched in his hand like it's the only thing keeping him from throwing something.

"I gave you one job. One. Show up. Look sharp. Represent this team."

"Coach, I—"

"You're over an hour late," he snaps. "An hour. Do you know how bad that looks?"

"I was—"

"Don't say film club," he growls. "Don't give me that bullshit again."

You clamp your mouth shut.

"You think you're untouchable because you dropped forty last night? You think that means you get to roll in here whenever you want, looking like you just crawled out of bed?"

Your jaw clenches. "It wasn't like that."

He jabs a finger at your chest. "Then tell me what it was like."

You open your mouth. Close it again.

You can't say Riley's name. You won't say Mindy’s.

So you lie. "It was tutoring."

Coach stares at you.

His voice goes quiet — which is worse. So much worse. "Don't test me."

You look away.

"I stuck my neck out for you," he says, still low. "Told them you were the future of this program. Told them you were a leader. You're lucky your teammate's been covering your ass in there. You're lucky the press is obsessed with you right now. But that shine fades fast, kid."

Silence.

Then: "You think you're focused, but I see it. You're slipping. Just enough. Just enough for someone to start wondering if you're worth betting on."

That one lands. You feel it deep. In your chest. In your stomach. In your legs.

You finally meet his eyes. "I'm still locked in."

Coach steps closer.

"Then prove it. Get in there. Own the room. And stop letting whatever—whoever—is pulling your focus drag you off the court."

You nod, stiff. "Yes, sir."

He doesn't step aside. Not yet.

"You screw this up again?" he says, voice deadly quiet. "You're not starting next week. I don't care how many points you drop. I need consistency. Not drama."

You swallow hard. "I understand."

Finally, he moves.

You walk past him toward the press room, trying not to feel how heavy your feet are. You swipe your hoodie sleeve across your forehead. You adjust your posture. You smooth out your face.

By the time you open that door, you're someone else. Smile tight. Shoulders straight. Answers ready.

But in the back of your mind, Riley's still there.

And Coach's words echo louder than the flash of any camera.

"You're slipping."

⸻

The lighting is low and warm, the air smelling like popcorn, eucalyptus body spray, and a flicker of something sweet from the nearby snack table — maybe pink lemonade punch or store-brand cupcakes with too much frosting. Fairy lights zigzag across the ceiling, flickering slightly, and someone's pressed a red filter over the projector so the entire room glows faintly like an afterparty no one invited you to — but everyone showed up for anyway.

And then there's you.

Not overdressed. Not showy. But the kind of unintentionally perfect that turns heads anyway. You're wearing a soft white tank-top over your favorite push-up bra — too much, in your mind, actually — right above your loose jeans. Your jacket is cropped, dark green, slightly faded at the collar, the kind you've worn to death and still get complimented on. Hair half-up with a claw clip, a few strands falling in that soft, face-framing way. Lip balm. Gold necklace layered with a team pendant. Nails painted — chipped, but still pretty.

You enter with your team behind you — your teammates trailing like a tide. All chaos and all clearly dragged here against their will.

Zoey, in bike shorts and a "Property of Women's Basketball" hoodie, is yawning dramatically while balancing a snack plate in one hand and a Gatorade in the other. Tasha, always dramatic, has a silk headscarf and a matching mini-purse slung over her shoulder, even though she's wearing sweats. Naomi, queen of judgment, is already critiquing the zine like it's a Yelp review. "Why are there six films about grief and none about revenge? Film kids are so unserious."

You settle into the back row with them, dropping into the middle seat like a queen returning to her court. You tug your jacket sleeves over your hands and glance forward —

— and you finally see her for the first time since the morning.

Fourth row. Burgundy dress with a slouchy knit cardigan thrown over it now, sleeves pushed up. She looks the opposite of death - a contrast of how exhausted she looked that morning. Her boots are laced all the way, but one sock is slightly rolled. Her hair's up, her gloss is fresh, and she's surrounded: Mindy, pacing like a tiny director; Anika, lounging with a lollipop in her mouth. They look like a perfectly styled trio of indie film festival royalty.

Tara hasn't looked back.

But her shoulders tense when you laugh.

And when your teammates loudly drop into their seats behind her row, exchanging gum and talking way too loudly about how "the girl in that poster kinda looks like you," she adjusts her cardigan like she's trying to focus. Like something is under her skin.

You lean toward Zoey and take a sip of her drink without asking. "You think anyone here knows what a pick and roll is?" you whisper.

Zoey scoffs. "No. But they definitely know what sexual repression looks like. And I think you're the cause."

You huff out a laugh — but your eyes flick back toward Tara.

She still hasn't turned around.

But she knows.

You're here. You're watching.

And she's wearing that dress like it's armor now.

Mindy taps the mic at the front, the room buzzing low with whispers and last-minute texts. "Welcome to REEL LOVE, a night of short films, long feelings, and no budget," Mindy deadpans. "Please don't leave during the one that's silent and sad. It's about grief, and also bees.”

Laughter rolls through the room. You smile without meaning to.

The lights dim. The screen flickers. A lo-fi opening title card appears. And as you shift in your seat, tugging your jacket a little tighter, you swear Tara glances over her shoulder.

Just once.

Long enough to see you.

Long enough to know she's not winning tonight.

Not when you look like that.

Not when you don't care if she looks or not.

⸻

Tara Carpenter is not the type to overdress.

But the maroon dress isn't overdressed — it's calculated. Soft velvet, subtle square neckline, sleeves that hug her wrists. Her hair's up, gold clip catching under the theater lights every time she leans in to whisper something to Anika. The kind of outfit that says: I came to support my friends. I came to look hot doing it.

And maybe — maybe — she came to see if you'd say something.

You're two rows back, stretched out with your teammates like you own the row. Laughing too loud. Throwing popcorn at each other. Every time the light from the screen flickers just right, she swears you're looking at her.

The festival's going well. Mindy's lineup is tight. The shorts are weird, sharp, short enough to keep the crowd from shifting in their seats. Everyone's relaxed. Comfortable. Tara even laughs once — really laughs — when a claymation character swan-dives into a bowl of tomato soup.

She leans in toward Anika, "I need to pee. Save my seat."

Anika nods without looking.

Tara stands, smooths her skirt, and slips into the glowing aisle light.

The hallway outside is jarringly bright. Stark white. Cold tile floors. The overhead lights buzz faintly — the kind of artificial hum that makes you feel like you're waiting for something to go wrong.

Tara rolls her shoulders back, stretching out the tension from sitting. She glances toward the restroom, already halfway there, when she hears them.

Two girls.

Standing by the water fountain, dressed in layered thrift-store cardigans and vintage skirts that scream effortless film major. One of them is fiddling with a camcorder keychain. The other's reapplying clear gloss, talking with the ease of someone who always assumes she's being listened to.

"I saw Riley last night at the club off Main Street and now I see Y/N tonight? Such a small world, to be honest. But, I still can't believe Y/N just walks around like nothing happened."

"Right? Like, full smile, no guilt, just... laughing with her little team."

"It's so insane. Everyone knows she's the reason Riley doesn't even go here anymore."

Tara slows mid-step.

Her brow furrows.

“She didn't break her knee, obviously, but she made sure that spot stayed closed, you know? Riley tried to come back."

"Yeah, and Coach just 'couldn't make room' Please."

"Exactly. And now she's all over Mindy and Tara like she's some reformed jock lesbian with a Letterboxd account."

“She’s totally trying to date Tara.” The girl with the lipgloss snickers, “I heard she asked Carpenter to tutor her.. classic athlete stereotype.”

Laughter.

The mean kind. Shiny and sharp and fast.

"Honestly, I give her a month. Tops. She'll ghost both of them, she’ll stop acting dumb in school and date a junior in a varsity jacket who thinks Carol is a foreign film."

"Tara's so smart. Like, how does she even fall for that?"

"Because she thinks she's different around her. They always think that."

Tara goes still. Fully still.

Not angry.

Not shocked.

Just — hit.

Like someone tossed cold water at her chest, and now she's trying not to react. The voices around the corner don't lower. They're not trying to be quiet. They're trying to be right.

She stares ahead at the wall, blank. Posters curl at the edges. Someone's missing cat flyer flutters in the AC vent breeze and for the first time tonight — maybe the first time since you showed up in her world with that lopsided smile and quiet confidence — Tara thinks:

Who are you? Like… actually?

Because yeah, you bring her grilled cheese when she's too hungover to move. You show up to study sessions half-asleep but still remember the exact timestamp of the scene she couldn't stop analyzing. You lean into her space like it belongs to you, throw her looks across the quad that make her forget how to breathe. You flirt like it's your first language, but every now and then — every rare now and then — it softens into something that feels like maybe you mean it.

And maybe she started to believe it.

But you also have this whole other version of yourself tucked away like it doesn't exist — a version she's only just starting to glimpse through whispers and side-eyes and conversations she wasn't supposed to hear. A version that makes her realize how much you've chosen to keep from her.

Not lies.

Just... silence.

That's almost worse.

Because now she's re-running everything. The study sessions. The walks home. The near-moments that could've been something more if either of you were better at being honest.

And she realizes:

She doesn't really know you.

She knows about you. The things you let people see, the cool detachment. The jokes that always come before sincerity, the way you brush off compliments like they're nothing but flinch when someone says your name with real weight. She knows you're good at math, that your coach rides you harder than anyone else on the team, that your teammates trust you but don't really get you.

She knows your dad's a sore spot. She knows there's something buried there — something bitter and sharp — but you've never said a word. She's guessed at it, sure. She's pieced things together from the way your face hardens when family gets mentioned, from the times you go quiet after a win, like celebration doesn't feel safe.

She knows. But not because you told her.

Because she watched.

Because she paid attention.

Because she wanted to understand you without you ever asking her to.

And maybe... maybe that was the problem.

Because Tara does the same thing.

She hides behind precision. Behind snark and sarcasm and perfect eyeliner. She controls her space — her image — like it's armor. And the worst part? She thought maybe you understood that. She thought maybe that's why this thing between you felt different. That you saw each other's closed doors and knocked gently instead of barging through.

But tonight — hearing people talk about you like they know you — Tara realizes something gutting: She doesn't know if you'd ever open the door at all.

And it's not that she thinks you're cruel. Or calculated. Or cold.

It's that maybe you're just like her.

Too used to surviving to let anyone all the way in.

And that terrifies her. Because if she was letting herself hope — if she thought this meant something — then what does that say about her, falling for someone who never promised anything real?

She thought the flirting had weight. She thought the silence between jokes mattered.

She thought maybe you were waiting, like she was.

But maybe you were just good at pretending.

And she was just easy to believe it.

She walks back into the auditorium quietly. Shoulders straight. Dress clinging just enough to feel present.

She takes her seat next to Anika.

Doesn't look back.

Doesn't lean sideways.

Doesn't laugh when your teammates burst out giggling during the next short's credits.

She crosses her arms. Picks at her thumbnail. Tries to focus on the screen.

But your laugh carries.

And suddenly, it sounds a little different.

————

second author’s note: this was written at 4am no proofread so bare w me

[kingkruell]

❝ STILL ROLLING! ❞ | CHOSO KAMO

SUMMARY — choso never meant for it to happen like this. you were work partners, it was a mission. he never meant to mess with the cursed footage, never meant to press play. and he definitely never meant to fuck you on the desk while ‘it’ looped behind him. CONTENT — jujutsu sorcerer! choso x reader, unprotected p in v sex, oral, mutual pining, overstimulation, slow burn tensions, work partners-to-something more, pussy-drunk choso, soft dom, overstimulation. WC — 5.600

if anyone asked what working with choso kamo was like, you’d say it’s like trying to read poetry through fogged-up glass. there’s meaning, sure, but it’s… buried.

you’ve got to truly lean close and listen, and even then, half of it’s silence. he doesn’t speak unless necessary. doesn’t laugh unless it catches him off guard… or if it’s yuji. doesn’t look at people unless he’s thinking about them way more than he should.

and unfortunately (or fortunately) for you, he’s been thinking about you a lot.

you weren’t a rookie, not by a long shot. after four years under jujutsu high and another two in field ops, you’d been stationed in one of the more niche departments: the bureau of cursed media. fancy way of saying you got sent to poke around haunted vhs tapes and paintings that bled if stared at too long. it was quiet work, more cerebral than combat-heavy. a good fit for your sharp tongue and your ability to walk into a cursed building with a smile and walk out with a fucked-up relic in your bag.

and it was a good fit for choso.

you’d met him on a mission in osaka. low-threat cursed audio file. someone had put it on loop in a recording studio and the engineer had flayed himself with a guitar string before anyone pulled the plug. you were assigned backup but ended up doing most of the fieldwork while choso quietly neutralized the lingering curse. he said maybe ten words the whole time, but two of them were “thank you,” and he said them like he meant it.

and somehow that stuck with you.

and somehow, he kept sticking. one mission turned to two, then five. if you actually think about it, you and choso had been assigned more times than you could count, not because you got along (you did, though neither of you talked about it), but because your skillsets worked well together. all things aside, you didn’t mind it, really. he was easy to read once you figured out he wasn’t cold—just guarded. you, on the other hand, didn’t guard shit. you were loud, sharp, smiled too wide when you were nervous. you made jokes during briefings that made higher-ups blink. sometimes choso thinks you’re just too… bright for him.

still, he kept watching.

he never even touched you. never flirted, not once. but when you sat next to him on long drives, his hands always twitched against his thighs like he didn’t know what to do with them. when you tossed your jacket over a chair, he’d glance at it like it meant something. when you laughed, he’d freeze for half a second too long.

but you weren’t stupid to know that men like choso didn’t make the first move.

the first time you caught him watching you, really watching you, was in the field—two months into working together. you were crouched over the body of a painter who had stabbed both her eyes out with a brush. you’d reached out, brushing the edge of the cursed canvas. your fingers came away sticky with cursed pigment, something like dried blood.

he called your name twice, quietly, before you turned. his eyes were wide. scared…but not for himself it seemed.

you remember thinking: he doesn’t even know me yet.

but then, maybe he did.

since then, you’d gotten used to the way he acted around you.

he hovered and never ever close enough to touch, yet always close enough to catch you if you fell. you knew what that meant. he was awkward, sure, but he wasn’t dumb. choso only kept his distance when he was trying very, very hard not to reach.

he never said anything and you didn’t push it.

sometimes, you wanted to grab him by the collar and ask him if he was ever going to do anything about it.

which is probably why the cursed theater hit as hard as it did.

.

the assignment came in mid-afternoon. you were sitting cross-legged on the cold tile outside the cursed object records wing, slowly working your way through a bag of rice crackers and scrolling through mission reports for fun. it was quiet, boring. a pretty normal day all things considered—until your phone buzzed with a new dispatch.

“old theater downtown,” the text read. “reported visual manifestation. unstable cursed media.”

a cursed projector in a defunct theater. multiple reports of “inappropriate footage.” one sorcerer on recon had walked out and refused to say what he’d seen. the cursed energy readings were fluctuating, but not lethal.

you texted back: “alone or partnered?”

“choso.”

you grinned around a mouthful of rice crackers and leaned your head back against the wall.

by the time you pulled up to the theater, he was already there, arms crossed, standing like a bad omen in front of a place that should’ve been condemned ten years ago. the sign out front still said showing: double feature. the doors creaked like a warning.

“fancy meeting you here,” you said, shutting your car door with a hip bump.

choso nodded, gaze flicking to you. “wasn’t sure you’d show up.”

“now why would i miss a romantic evening like this?” you motioned to the rotting façade and half-smashed ticket booth. “take me somewhere nice next time.”

he looks away, but not fast enough to hide the flick of a smile.

inside, the air smelled like old curtains and metal. the lobby was caved in on one side, popcorn machine gutted and overturned.

“residual energy’s strong,” you said, flicking your flashlight on. “something happened here.”

choso was already scanning the area, steps deliberate andquiet. “projector room’s intact,” he said. “i felt a pulse upstairs.”

you followed him up the warped stairs, boots thudding on thin wood. the projector room was barely lit, old film canisters stacked in piles against the wall. dust moved when you stepped in, unsettled like breath.

you stepped over a film canister, boot scuffing against something metal. “jesus…place is a shitshow.”

behind you, choso grunted in agreement. “smells like someone died in here.”

“wouldn’t be the first time,” you muttered, brushing off your jacket. “you think the curse is in the reels or the building itself?”

he didn’t answer right away, just scanned the torn screen and the dust-caked projector with narrowed eyes. “reels, probably. the energy feels… curated.”

you glance around the room, the eerie quiet pressing in around you like padded walls. “someone set this up. probably the last person who got curious.”

he doesn’t respond.

the machine itself is old, rusted at the joints, but intact. a single unlabeled canister sits mounted, like someone had been in the middle of setting up a show.

you shine your light on it. “choso, i swear to god, if this thing plays the ring, i’m quitting.”

he’s scanning the walls, fingers flexing unconsciously. “the cursed energy is thickest here.”

you crouch beside the projector, looking it over. “no timer. no power cord. so it shouldn’t be able to run. unless…”

you reach for your toolkit, ready to tag the canister—

and the projector clicks on.

you both flinch.

the screen flickers to life behind you, casting pale light over the room. static. then film grain.

“did you touch it?” you snap.

“no.” his voice is sharp, eyes locked on the screen.

you turn.

the footage is shaky, the color tone warm and vintage. a bedroom. familiar. a bed with crumpled sheets, legs splayed, camera angled from the floor like someone had carefully set it up—

you freeze.

because that’s you on the screen.

you recognize your voice first, barely a whisper. then your breath. then the shape of your body, bare and flushed, thighs trembling, head thrown back.

and then him.

choso.

between your legs.

his mouth slow, worshipful. his eyes locked on you like he’s memorizing every flicker of your face.

you stagger back.

“what the fuck,” you breathe.

choso hasn’t moved. he’s staring at the screen like it might kill him.

you grab his arm, hard. “that never happened.”

“i—i know,” he says, voice low. “i know.”

your stomach flips. the image is vivid. too vivid. down to the rings on your fingers. the way your hips twitch. the way he moans your name like it’s killing him to say it.

“you’re not—this isn’t—” you start, but your throat is dry.

choso finally turns to you. he’s flushed. his eyes are glassy, lips parted like he’s halfway through a confession he never meant to give.

“i didn’t mean for you to see this.”

your chest tightens. “what is this?”

“it’s not a… memory…t-this never happened.” he swallows hard. “but it’s not— i don’t think it’s fake either.”

it’s a fantasy? yours, his, maybe both.

you stare at him.

the way his fists are clenched. the way he won’t meet your eyes now. you realize suddenly that this isn’t new. not for him. he’s thought about this before. often enough for the curse to pick it up.

your breath catches. “you’ve imagined this?”

he hesitates. then nods once. tiny. miserable.

there’s too much in the room. the heavy pulse of cursed energy radiating from the projector. the sound of your own voice echoing from the screen in short, breathless moans. choso’s breath hitching beside you. the way your skin is flushed like your body doesn’t care that it isn’t real, only that he’s seeing you like this.

your voice on the reel whimpers something indecent. choso winces. you feel your face heat.

he looks at you, mouth parted slightly, and for a moment he says nothing. the projector whirrs behind you like it’s holding its breath.

“i tried not to,” he says finally, low and rough. “i always tried.”

there’s so much in that sentence. guilt, obviously. shame, probably. but also vulnerability. like he’s been holding his breath around you since day one and only just exhaled. and now he’s afraid you’ll hate him for it.

you turn to face him, arms crossed tight. “so what, the film just reached into your head and hit play?”

“it’s not just me.” his eyes meet yours. “you’re …reacting.”

you open your mouth. close it.

because he’s not wrong.

your thighs are pressed tight together. your pulse is skipping. you feel like you’re standing too close to something dangerous, and the worst part is how much you don’t want to move away.

you shake your head, laughing under your breath—bitter, incredulous. “this is insane.”

choso stays quiet.

the reel keeps going.

it changes angles now. your back arched, choso’s mouth pressed low and firm against your center, slow and dragging like he’s trying to imprint the taste of you into memory. the way his hands grip your hips, your fingers in his hair—so desperate. his name on your lips, again and again.

you flinch.

he steps away from the projector like distance will help. like he hasn’t already watched this in his own mind more times than he can admit.

“i didn’t think it would be this clear,” he says.

“clear?” your laugh is sharp. “it’s in 4k, choso.”.

you rub your palms down your thighs, like friction will ground you.

“have you really thought about it? about… me?”

his jaw ticks. he nods.

you stare.

there’s heat bubbling under your skin now, thick and wrong and so stupidly human you almost laugh. because this is choso. the same man who barely speaks during missions. who scowls at vending machines like they insulted him. who once got flustered because you said his hands looked pretty.

but he’s also the man who carried you out of a tunnel on a broken leg. who never once looked away when you cried after an exorcism that went south. who always hands you the last drink in the cooler, even when he’s thirstier.

and he’s been imagining this.

your thighs press together without thinking. there’s heat already pooling low in your stomach, matched by the sharp guilt of knowing you’re getting turned on by watching versions of you that don’t even exist. at least, not yet.

you glance back at the screen, then at him. arms crossed tight, like they’ll hold you together. “so, are we just gonna stand here pretending we don’t want it?”

despite this, your breath is uneven when you say it.

choso’s gaze snaps to yours. he opens his mouth. closes it. his hands are clenched at his sides. “what—”

you take a step closer, heart pounding.

you murmur, “i’m asking if you’re gonna do something about it.”

he swallows hard. “this isn’t—this isn’t how i wanted it to happen.”

you laugh, breathless. “then what, choso? you were gonna take me on a date first? or just jerk off to me forever and pretend you’re a good guy for not touching?”

then, he’s on you in a second.

he grabs you by the waist and slams you back into the desk at the end of the room with a grunt, his mouth crashing into yours like he’s trying to shut you up with his teeth. and you let him. you kiss him back just as filthy, biting his bottom lip, shoving your hands under his shirt like you’ve been dying to touch him.

his hips grind against yours, the weight of his cock heavy even through both your clothes.

you rut up against him, panting. “god, you’re already hard? what, just from seeing me get eaten out on screen?”

he groans. “you think i haven’t been hard since we walked in?” he pants against your neck. “i saw the projector and thought about fucking you over it.”

you let out a strangled laugh, head falling back as his mouth finds your throat.

his hands go from your jaw, your neck, your waist— like he doesn’t know what to do with it—until they finally go to your shirt, and he pulls it over your head like he’s tearing open a gift, dragging your bra straps down with trembling fingers. your chest bounces free and his breath hitches. his eyes dart all over, from your face to your collarbone to the curve of your breasts like he can’t believe they’re real.

“fuck,” he breathes. “you’re so…”

he doesn’t even finish.

he dips his head and sucks your tit into his mouth like he’s been thinking about this exact moment since the day he met you.hot tongue flicking over your nipple, slow and then sloppy as he starts to lose the rhythm, lips wrapping around it, sucking like he wants to drink the sounds out of your throat. his groan vibrates through your chest, and you whimper, back arching, hands tangling in his hair.

“god—choso—”

he palms your other breast while his mouth stays locked on the first, moaning into it like it’s heaven. he switches with a wet pop and sucks on the other one, rougher this time, like he’s already getting addicted to the taste of your skin.

you feel his breath, warm and shaky, ghosting down your chest as he licks over the curve of your breast one last time, teeth dragging gently before he kisses the underside with something that feels like worship. your skin is slick with his spit, nipples throbbing, chest rising fast.

he exhales hard through his nose like he’s trying to get control of himself, but it’s no use.

your legs shift restlessly on either side of him, the edge of the desk pressing into the backs of your thighs. you’re hot all over, your panties soaked and clinging, and when your hips roll up again on instinct, the friction is nowhere near enough.

“choso,” you breathe, curling your fingers into the hem of his shirt to yank it over his head. “take the rest off..”

he drags his shirt off with one hand, eyes locked on yours, then fumbles to kick off his jeans and boxers the rest of the way, his cock bobbing against his abdomen, already flushed, the tip glistening. you almost say something—almost tease him again—but the way he looks at you shuts you up.

you hook your thumbs under your panties and slide them down slowly. choso steps back just enough to watch, breathing uneven, gaze locked between your legs like he might drop to the floor and start begging if you made him wait any longer.

you let the fabric drop around your ankles. kick it away. then lean back slightly on your hands, one leg still propped on the desk.

he drops instantly.

hands on your thighs, spreading them with slow pressure, like he’s peeling open something sacred. his thumbs trace the softness near your hipbones, then trail downward, eyes following every inch of slick skin like he wants to memorize it.

“you’re so pretty,” he mutters, almost in disbelief. “fuck… you’re so pretty down here.”

you open your mouth to say something smart, but it turns into a gasp when he leans in and licks a slow, flat stripe up your cunt, dragging from your entrance to your clit like he wants to taste all of you at once.

your hands fly to his hair. “oh my god—”

he groans into you—loud—and goes back in with zero finesse.

the second lick is sloppier. hungrier. he shakes his head between your legs like he’s trying to drown in it. his tongue finds your clit and circles it slowly at first, like he wants to savor it, and then he flattens his mouth and sucks, wet and messy and noisy, and your thighs clamp around his head before you can stop them.

“fuck, choso—fuck—” you choke out, hips twitching. “don’t stop.”

he mumbles something into your cunt that you don’t catch, but you feel it vibrate everywhere.

his hands dig into your thighs, pulling them wider, keeping you open. his tongue dips down again, pushing into your entrance, fucking into you with short, eager thrusts. he switches between that and flicking your clit with the tip of his tongue, like he’s experimenting, learning every reaction by feel.

you’re already shaking.

you glance down, and the sight alone almost finishes you.

choso’s kneeling in front of the desk like it’s an altar. his hands wrapped around your thighs, his mouth shiny with spit and slick, eyes half-lidded and dark, totally gone.

he’s rutting against the floor.

his cock is leaking onto the wood beneath him, untouched, twitching every time you moan louder. he’s eating you out like it’s enough. like tasting you is better than getting off himself.

“choso,” you breathe, tugging his hair to make him look up.

he does. lips shiny, chin wet.

you cup his jaw. “you’ve wanted this for so long, haven’t you?”

he nods, dazed, breathless. “please.”

“then make me come on your face,” you say, leaning back and spreading wider.

he moan. moans. and dives back in.

his tongue flicks your clit again, focused, deliberate now. his mouth seals over it, sucking hard enough that your legs jerk, a sharp cry ripping from your throat. he’s learning what makes you twitch, makes you beg. and he’s feeding off it.

“fuck—choso, oh my god—”

he drags two fingers up your thigh and slides them into your cunt without warning—thick, slow, curling deep until you swear you black out for a second.

your hands fist in his hair. “right there—fuck!—”

he hums against your clit like he’s proud, and the vibration sends heat curling all the way up your spine.

he loves it. loves hearing you fall apart. loves how you can’t stop grinding on his face like you need to get off now, like it’s his job to make you lose control.

your hips stutter. you’re getting close.

the sound of his fingers pumping into you is wet, obscene. you hear yourself panting, whimpering, half-crying with the pressure that’s building.

“choso,” you gasp. “i’m gonna—fuck, i’m gonna—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

he doesn’t even blink. he locks his mouth over your clit, sucks hard, groans deep in his throat—and the way his fingers hit just the right spot again makes you snap.

your orgasm hits with a full-body jolt. your thighs clamp tight around his head. your back arches. you come so hard you swear you scream—loud, raw, messy. your cunt pulses around his fingers, squeezing tight, leaking all over his mouth.

anr he doesn’t stop.

he keeps licking, even as you tremble through it, even as you squirm and try to push him away, your body too sensitive now. he groans like he can’t help. and his tongue is so greedy, flicking up every drop of slick like he wants to keep it forever.

“choso—fuck—too much—”

you’re laughing, breathless and so overstimulated. he finally pulls back, panting, mouth and chin soaked, his cheeks flushed like he’s just been kissed back to life.

he looks wrecked. devoted.

and then, without thinking, you reach down and stroke his face with your thumb, wiping a smear of your slick from his bottom lip. he kisses your thumb.

you blink. heart suddenly pounding harder than before.

“come here,” you whisper.

he stands. he’s still hard and still leaking. his cock is flushed and throbbing, twitching up against his stomach, and the look in his eyes is almost pleading.

“please,” he whispers, voice cracked. “i need to be inside you.”

you grab his cock and line him up, sliding the head through your folds, slow and teasing.

he’s standing in front of you, flushed and trembling, cock flushed dark at the tip and twitching under your fingers. your slick is still dripping down your thighs, and the way he’s looking at you—lips parted, eyes glazed—is almost pathetic.

beautifully pathetic.

you lean back on your elbows, one leg bent up on the desk, the other falling open lazily. you don’t even speak yet. you just jerk him off slow, twisting your wrist around the head, spreading his pre-cum down the shaft with your palm.

he moans—soft and desperate—then catches himself and bites his lip.

“let me hear you,” you murmur, thumbing his slit. “don’t hide it.”

“fuck,” he gasps. “y-you’re… that feels…”

his hips twitch into your hand. you stroke him slower. just enough to keep him on edge.

“you’ve touched yourself thinking about this?” you ask, watching the way his stomach flutters under your fingers.

he nods immediately. “yes—fuck, yes. i’ve—i’ve thought about your mouth. your hands. the sounds you make when you come…”

you squeeze his cock tighter. “and your favorite part?”

he stares at you, pupils huge.

“say it,” you whisper. “what do you think about most?”

he swallows. his voice breaks when he says it.

“you riding me. sitting on my cock, full and tight and dripping, telling me i’m good—telling me it’s mine.”

you hum, pleased, and stroke him again—slower this time, almost cruel.

“he chokes on a breath. “please…”

you lift your hips just slightly and guide the head of his cock to your slit. not inside. not even close.

just sliding. rubbing.

you press his length along the folds of your pussy, let it glide up over your clit, back down through the mess he made of you. you’re so wet it’s obscene—his cock slips against you like you’re made of silk.

he groans. loud. his eyes roll back for a second, and you watch his thighs flex.

“fuck—fuck, please,” he mutters, hips rocking forward involuntarily. “please let me—just the tip—just—fuck, i need to be inside—”

you laugh softly and lean back again, keeping him there, teasing.

“you’re this needy already?” you ask. “didn’t even fuck you yet and you’re begging like you’ve lost your mind.”

“i have,” he breathes, panting, forehead pressed to yours. “i’ve lost my fucking mind over you.”

you guide him again—up, down, letting his cock rub over your clit until he shudders, leaking all over your folds.

“f-feels like i’m already inside,” he whimpers. “fuck, it’s so wet—please, let me put it in. i can’t—i can’t wait anymore—”

he grinds into you again, and you hold him there, feel the desperate twitch of his cock against your entrance. he’s right there. one push and he’d slide all the way in.

“beg for it,” you whisper, letting his head nudge at your hole just slightly—just enough to tease.

“please,” he groans, louder now, broken. “please, i need you, i need to feel you—please let me fuck you, i’ll be good, i swear, i’ll make you come again—i just—fuck—i need it.”

you let go of him.

and he does it.

snaps.

he pushes in without waiting, hips slamming forward, cock sliding all the way inside with one deep, needy stroke that knocks the wind out of both of you.

you both gasp.

he goes still, buried to the hilt, his chest heaving, his mouth parted in a silent moan.

your pussy clenches tight around him, already fluttering, and he shudders, hands gripping your thighs like he’s trying not to fall apart.

“holy fuck,” he gasps. “you’re—so fucking tight—warm—wet—i can’t—I can’t think—”

you wrap your arms around his shoulders and pull him closer, locking your ankles behind his back. his hips jerk. he groans, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“you okay?” you whisper, biting back your own moan.

he whimpers. whimpers.

“i’m not gonna last,” he chokes. “i’m gonna come so fast—i’m sorry—i can’t help it, you feel so fucking good—”

“you’re gonna come just from being inside me?”

he nods, frantically. “i can’t stop—fuck—i’m trying, i swear, i’m trying—”

you dig your nails into his back and rock your hips, just once.

he moans into your neck, hips stuttering, cock twitching deep inside you. just the feel of you is too much. he tries to pull back but he can’t.

not with how tight you are. not with the way your pussy keeps fluttering around him like it wants to suck him deeper, drag every drop out of him.

“fuck—fuck—I’m gonna come,” he chokes out, voice cracked and panicked, like it’s wrong to come this fast, like he thinks he’s gonna ruin it by not lasting.

but you just hold him tighter, fingers in his hair, pulling his face to yours.

“then do it,” you whisper into his mouth. “come in me. i want it.”

his eyes flutter open, wide and wrecked. “you—you want—?”

you grind your hips up into his again and feel it—how close he is, how deep he is, how desperate his whole body is to give in.

“come inside me, choso.”

that’s all it takes.

he lets out a strangled, helpless moan—almost a sob—and slams into you, once, twice, then stays buried as deep as he can go.

you feel it—feel it—his cock twitching inside you as he spills, hot and thick, pulse after pulse of cum flooding you in waves. his whole body goes tight, chest pressed to yours, lips parted against your shoulder as he groans through it, eyes squeezed shut like it’s killing him.

“feels so good, choso.”

“bet you’ve wanted this since the first day we met.”

he nods into your neck, trembling. he sounds like he’s almost crying, breath hitching with every twitch of his cock inside you.

“i—i have,” he breathes. “i’ve wanted you so bad i thought i was sick.”

you run your fingers through his hair, keeping him there, not letting him pull away. you can feel him still twitching, overstimulated, still buried deep.

“you’re still hard,” you murmur.

he nods, dazed, panting. “you’re squeezing me so tight i—fuck, i think i could go again.”

you press your heels into the small of his back and rock your hips slow, making both of you moan.

he bites your shoulder. gently. but like he has to do something or he’ll explode again.

“i’m not done with you,” you whisper.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, hair sticking to his forehead, his cheeks flushed and eyes glassy like he’s drunk. pussy-drunk. you-drunk.

he’s still inside you, twitching, leaking, half-hard but staying thick, the two of you tangled and panting against each other. the air is thick with the sound of your breathing, the distant whirr of the projector still spinning behind you.

then, slowly, you lift your hips.

his cock slips out with a wet drag, and the sound alone makes you both shiver—followed by the obscene drip of his cum sliding out of your cunt, thick and hot down your inner thighs.

choso groans, low and guttural.

“fuck… it’s leaking out,” he says, voice ruined. “i filled you so much it’s leaking down your legs.”

you glance down and see it: the sinful view of his cum glossy between your thighs, a thick string clinging to your folds before it slips free.

you smirk and push at his chest. “lie down.”

he blinks, dazed. “what?”

“on the desk.” you kiss his jaw, slow and warm. “i’m not done. not even close.”

the desk is sturdy. solid wood, wide enough to hold both of you without a creak, and when he lies back, muscles flexing, hair spilling out under him, you swear it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

choso, flushed and wrecked, his cock still wet with your slick and cum, twitching up against his stomach.

you crawl over him, swinging one leg over his hips, and reach down between you both. you rub him once, twice, spreading the mess of your bodies together. his cock jolts under your palm.

“still so hard for me,” you murmur, stroking him slowly. “even after you just came like that.”

“i could come again just from looking at you,” he whispers, head tilted back, eyes locked on the mess between your thighs. “you’re dripping. holy fuck, you’re dripping, and it’s mine.”

you raise your hips, guide him to your entrance and sink back down with a wet squelch that knocks the air from both your lungs.

“y/n—oh my god”

the stretch feels filthy. you’re still so wet—everything is sloppy, slick. the glide messy as his cock slides in again, deeper this time, your walls fluttering around him as if they were waiting for this.

he tries to lift his head, watching where you take him in. “jesus fuck, look at that—it’s still on the screen.”

you glance over your shoulder.

the cursed film is still running. flickering shadows of yourself, on your knees, lips parted, moaning from a memory. it’s surreal. erotic. narcotic. like watching a dream fuck itself into reality.

“is that turning you on?” you ask, already rocking your hips. “watching it while i ride you?”

he groans, eyes fluttering shut. “it’s fucked. you’re fucking me while you’re getting eaten out on screen—I think i’m losing my fucking mind.”

you roll your hips harder.

each wet slap of your thighs meeting his sounds louder now, echoing through the room. his hands grab your waist, tight, trembling, trying to slow you down, but you don’t stop. in fact, you grind even deeper into him, clenching around him on purpose, feeling every twitch, every breathless curse.

he’s panting like he’s overheating. he’s convinced the pleasure alone would send him into a fever.

“fuck, fuck—I can’t—” his eyes open again, barely focused. “you feel so fucking good—tight, warm—perfect.”

you lean over him, your mouth by his ear. “you gonna come again, choso?”

he nods like he’s ashamed. “i’m close. already. i’m sorry—I can’t—”

and then he snaps.

he sits up without warning, hands gripping your ass hard, and fucks up into you: deep, rough, fast. so sudden your moan cuts off in a gasp.

“oh my god—!”

his rhythm is frantic, hips slamming up into yours with the sound of wet skin and breathless whimpers. he buries his face in your neck, grunting with every thrust, losing himself in it.

“i—I can’t stop,” he chokes. “you feel too good, i can’t stop—gonna come again—gonna fucking fill you up again—fuck—!”

you grind against him, meeting every thrust, squeezing him as hard as you can, and that’s it.

he lets out a broken noise; somewhere between a moan and a sob, and spills inside you again, cock pulsing, warmth flooding your cunt for the second time. his whole body shakes as he holds you down on him, breathing ragged, face buried in your neck, completely undone.

you feel everything. the twitch and the he pulse. the wetness seeping out around where you’re still connected is so filthy you feel almost shameful about it.

he holds you there for a long time. doesn’t pull out. doesn’t even try.

just stays inside you, cock softening slowly, still buried in the mess of your shared heat.

and finally, voice raw, he says:

“…the projector’s still going.”

you laugh, weak, falling forward to kiss his jaw.

“then i guess we keep going until it ends.”

[ceeceetumbles]

in which idia shroud, faced with the looming threat of graduation, is forced to tell his girlfriend something he would have rather kept hidden.

(i want to be a twst writer so bad and take requests so please if u maybe like this and like twst consider sending a request my way :p )

idia shroud x fem!reader

//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////

he really, really needs to tell her.

if she does… want… to maybe… potentially… have a future… with… him, she needs to know what that means. what that entails. for him. for her. for any sort of anything that might happen between them.

his future has been firmly etched into stone from the moment he was born. and she’ll be forced to fit herself into that.

he glances up at her over the edge of his phone. she’s doing homework at her desk, gnawing the end of her pencil as she scribbles through a set of calculus equations.

he covers his eyes with his phone again, quickly.

how can he do that to her? how can he do any of this to her?

he shouldn’t have started talking to her in the first place. he’s the most selfish person alive.

his stomach twists. he’s the most selfish, selfish person alive. he gobbles people’s souls up like an overpowered boss.

first, ortho. his little brother had died. all because of him.

(he should have been the one to die. that way he couldn’t have kept screwing things up.)

his parents, too. they lost a son that day. they lost a part of themselves.

and now her.

he stares at her again, so beautiful as she flips to the next page in her textbook. she’s the most perfect thing on this earth. she singes his skin when she brushes against it.

and, for his own selfish reasons, he decided to drag her down into hell with him.

they’ve been together for nearly three years. she’s committed. his brain likes to pretend she doesn’t really care about him, but she’s been beating it into his head for three years. she loves him. she wants him. she’s his.

so if he leaves her, she’ll shatter.

but what’s the alternative? lock her up in styx’s cold, unfeeling, sterile hallways forever? cut her wings and shove her in a cage? burn her freedom? extinguish her light?

she doesn’t want to join him in styx. she doesn’t want to become a shroud.

he brushes one hand over his flaming hair.

she doesn’t want to mix herself up in all of this.

there’s no cure to this. he’s become more and more sure of that fact, like a devastating iceberg looming before him. the shrouds are going to be cursed forever. constantly on the edge between life and death. she’ll be living with a time bomb.

break her heart or imprison her forever.

and of course, the obvious answer is just to leave her. that’s the best option for her. let her live.

but idia is just too selfish to do that. he’s so selfish. he’s so greedy.

he knew that this would happen. the moment he laid eyes on her, he knew he was going to have to marry her. and the only way to stop it was to turn and run.

but he hadn’t. he’s too selfish.

he can’t just leave her now. he has to ask her to come with him. to lock herself underground forever, toiling towards a goal that can never be achieved. to fill her lungs with artificially recycled air and watch her skin drain of all color. and the shroud family has to live on. idia is the last remaining branch of it. and his parents will kill him if he lets the flame go out. she'll have to have children if she wants it or not.

he’d planned to just die alone. let them figure something out. he’ll never find a girl. nrc hadn’t had any female students, and he would never go out and find anyone, and - and, well, they probably would have given him a wife at some point, from some other stupid noble family.

but at least then, she wouldn’t be her.

he’s so selfish. he’s so selfish. he wants her by his side. he wants it to be her! he wants it to be her. he wants to have her by his side forever and ever and ever. he wants her more than anything. he wants to kill her, apparently. he wants to watch her die. he wants her. he needs her. he needs to destroy her from the inside out. he needs to let her go insane in the silent halls of styx.

he needs it more than anything.

but he can’t do that to her. he CAN’T.

she turns around. “idia, i’m so sick of this. i hate homework.”

he tries to say something but just nods. any words, any breath, just sticks in his throat. he nods.

she pushes her chair back and flops down onto the bed next to him, rolling over to stare at his phone. “whatcha doing?”

“nothing,” he says. deciding your future for you.

she studies his face for a moment. (how dare she know him so well.)

“wanna talk?” she says, quiet.

no.

“you’re gonna hate me,” he says.

“never.”

“no, i’m serious.”

“me too.” she brushes some hair behind his ears, wrapping her fingers in the blue strands and tugging comfortingly.

she doesn’t press him. he savors these last few moments of peace.

he shuts his eyes.

“so, like,” he says, “obviously i look like… this. and there’s, like, a reason for that.”

his heart is thudding so hard that he might actually die. but at least then, he wouldn’t need to tell her any of this. problem solved.

three years. three years, and he’s bit his tongue away every time he even thought of telling her.

it’s kind of embarrassing to admit that you are cursed.

and who knows how she’ll take it? she’s gotten used to his flaming hair and colorless skin. but how will she deal with i will be cursed by your side forever?

“it’s, uh. a… a curse. n-not just for me! the… the shrouds. we’re cursed. we’ve been cursed for centuries.”

“okay,” she says.

he glances at her.

she’s studying his face, her brow furrowed, her lips pursed. concerned. but not disgusted.

oh, god. has he been wrapping the curse up in the middle of his chest all this time, terrified to let her know - and she wouldn’t have even cared?

“you’re not upset?” he breathes.

“what? huh? why would i be upset with you -”

“- because i’m defective,” he rushes. “i’m messed up. literally cursed. i’m just a human. humans aren’t supposed to look like this. i look like a freaking corpse. what do you mean my lips are locked in a perma state of hypothermia. what do you mean i get tired fast because my body burns through blot like crazy. i’m defective. and i don’t want to be damaged goods.” for you, he wants to say. i feel so ashamed to hand you something broken.

but he doesn’t, or he can’t.

“i’m cursed,” he says, “we’re cursed, the shrouds are cursed, and - and our bodies turn to this, and we run through blot too fast.” he huffs through his mouth, the need to breathe starting to overwhelm him. “and, like, it’s dangerous, right. it could kill us.”

“okay.” she’s got her fingers wrapped in his hair, gently stroking his temples with her thumbs as he struggles to keep his lungs inflating.

“so all my family does… is work on blot. and research it. and it’s, like, awful. the styx headquarters is under sea, and it’s so isolated there, and cold, and, like, i dread going back there every day. but i have to. i have to go back there.” he chews the edge of his sleeve. “i have to go back there for my parents. i owe them that much. i killed ortho, you know. i owe them this much.”

she tightens her hands in his hair and pulls him a little closer.

“i have to go back there,” he whispers.

“okay.”

the question sits on his tongue, silent. a lemon candy melting a hole through the muscle.

he finally opens his eyes, for a moment. she’s staring at him, her eyes soft and patient.

she understands.

he’s just too much of a coward to say it.

she waits.

“it’s cold there,” he says. “just my family and the employees. we barely leave. especially after… after everything. it’s just… those empty hallways, and the labs, and the ocean outside. that’s all.”

one hand on the back of his neck, the other grabbing a fist of his hair, and she pulls herself flush against him, burying her face in his shoulder.

“don’t do that,” he mutters. “you’re making this so much harder.”

“oh, i know you’re not planning to leave me here,” she says, her voice muffled by his skin. “you’re not.”

“i can’t let you throw the rest of your life away - !”

“i don’t care about the rest of my life!” she says. “or, wait. i mean, it’s not throwing it away. i want -” she holds him tighter “- i just want you. for my life. i don’t care where, or how.”

“you’ll never see the sunlight again.”

she pauses for a moment. he feels the hesitation in her hands.

“i can’t let you come with me,” he mutters. “i can’t let this happen.”

“don’t care. you already cursed me. with love.”

“no! don't joke! this isn’t a game! i’m freaking serious!”

“so am i!” she snaps her head up and grabs his face with both of her hands, her fingers squeezing a little too firmly. “idia, i am not letting you walk away. i am not letting you leave me.”

“you want to destroy yourself?” he yelps back. “drain all the soul from your bones in that godforsaken place? you want to be trapped like - like a relic locked behind glass?” he wraps her tight, his arms around her back, his face in her neck. “i don’t want to leave you behind. but i - i can’t let you -”

“do you want me there with you?” she whispers.

he’s silent. he squeezes her closer. maybe if he tries hard enough, they can absorb into one body. and separating won’t be an issue ever again.

“i want to go there with you,” she murmurs. her voice is starting to strain and break. he can feel her trembling. don’t cry. if she cries, he’ll cry, and then all his resolve will crumble. “i want to spend the rest of my life in empty hallways with you.”

“you’ll hate it,” he hisses. “you’ll resent me.”

“idia,” she whispers, and presses her lips to the crook of his shoulder. her mouth feels hot.

his cheeks burn. his jaw aches. he hadn’t even realized how tightly he was clenching it.

“we’ll need to keep the shroud bloodline going,” he makes out. “not to - to sound obnoxious, but we’re like, an important family. really important. so - i know we haven’t ever talked about it. but my parents will need us to have -”

his voice breaks.

“- kids.”

“look,” she says, her voice humming against his shoulder - it tickles. he shivers - “how am i supposed to get through to you? i love you. i don’t… i don’t care what it takes to be with you.”

she presses her forehead to his, their noses bumping as they mix air.

“i want your curse,” she whispers. “your emptiness, your grief, your children. okay? i’ll drown myself in blot for you. okay? i don’t care if i never see the sun again. i don’t care. i just need you.” her fingers tighten in his hair, almost painfully. “i need you like air.”

he feels his entire face heating up as his mouth falls open. it spreads up, up, to his scalp, down through every strand of hair. her handfuls turn to glowing pink.

“i love you,” he mouths. his throat is too tight to even think about speaking.

she does not smile. she stares, stern, straight through every layer of pretense he’s put up.

“i love you, too,” she says back, her voice loud and solid in the cold quiet air of his dorm.

(he takes a breath, and shuts his eyes, and forces himself to believe it.)

[bewitched-hours]

Can we get a pt2 if that mafioso x bartender reader maybe someone tried kidnapping the reader away from his mansion/hide out the reader woke up in a basement with 2 men in there but the reader was calm but pissed and mafioso caught the reader and killed the two men

Of course~ How can I say no to people wanting more parts to a story~?

Once more~ She/They reader~

As exhausting as it can be to be this isolated, Mafioso and his goons still treated you like family.

They helped your sanity greatly as you began to accept that you were stuck with them.

You were Mafioso's treasure and his goons respected you as your own person. You were the 'second boss' but not because of your relationship with Mafioso but because they witnessed your strength firsthand.

While it wasn't comparable to Mafioso's strength, it was definitely still greater than the goons were able to do so you earned their respect through time and patience.

And after just a week of showing no real protests or complaints, Mafioso allowed you to leave the base under the condition him or one of his goons was there to keep you safe. It was pretty nice, all things considered.

But oh, if only you knew how badly his mind had been screaming at him not to let you roam... To keep you to himself all alone...

But he knew better than to listen to such voices in his head. He knew it would be unfair to let you go insane over being isolated and seeing you smile after your first outing with him, he felt like he did it right. His plan was coming together and you showed no resistance to his affections.

It was like you had already accepted him into your heart without him having to try... Like you were made to love him...

No no, he couldn't let his obsession with you take over him. He was willing to go insane for your sake but for crying out loud, he had to take your comfort and sanity above such useless and violent urges.

If the voices ever got too loud, he knew he could go and find you and your affectionate touches were enough to temporarily melt away any doubt or fear he might've felt.

You were perfect for him and he was trying to be perfect for you too... Did you notice that?

Tonight was just getting him busier than he would've liked as he had to take another life. Poor guy was trying to talk his way out of paying his debt and Mafioso was getting frustrated with the same spiel over and over again...

The only thing that kept him from snapping at the next guy who owed him money was his goons reminding him that you would be waiting at home with Gubby to ease all his stress. It brought him some warmth, imagining you napping on the couch in the 'living room' and waiting for him with Gubby to keep you company. What more could he ask for?

Apparently your presence, that's what-

Yeah, turns out you were nowhere to be found when he got back and the place looked like a fight had broken out.

Gubby was in a panic and squeaking frantically, the couch was slightly torn up with pillows lying around the floor and a blanket lazily hanging from the couch...

Broken glass, dirty footprints... And a mark...

A mark Mafioso knew all too well...

In the meantime, you were tied up to a pole in some basement. Your captors were two men who were delighted to have stolen "Mafioso's Treasure", even if you put up a pretty good fight in the process.

Mind you, you weren't scared, just pissed off that these idiots thought you could be kept here and get away with their bullshit.

"I can see what Mafioso sees in ya, dollface." One of them chuckled, making you gag. "You're a feisty kitty, ain't'cha?" They laughed a little at each other, watching your death glare with amusement.

"You two have no idea what I'm going to do once I-"

"Once you what?" One of the men quickly shut you up by roughly pushing your head against the pole.

That pain is gonna follow you for days, oh stars...

"As much as I'd love to hear you spit venom, we'd much prefer you on your knees." They grinned proudly, attempting to force you to your knees by pushing your head down and you held yourself up as much as possible.

You were not interested in finding out what horrible things were going through their minds when you heard the faint sound of a car squeaking to a halt and a door being thrown open just seconds later.

The two men were quick to panic and grab their guns to head upstairs and you let the noises from upstairs turn into background noise as you started taking deep breaths...

You hadn't been scared. You knew Mafioso was here now to get you out but you still couldn't help but shiver at the thought of what would've happened if you failed to stall your kidnappers for long enough.

You barely even noticed when the door to the basement kicked open and one of the goons had rushed down to help you out. Though, your roughed up state did worry him...

"C'mon, let's get you home..." He spoke softly, sounding concerned as you both headed upstairs to see the mess that was left.

The men were on the floor and clutching at the boots of Mafioso and Mikey, his 'right-hand man' as you called him.

Mafioso seemed to soften up as soon as he took notice of your presence but that softness just as quickly turned to madness when he saw how you looked.

He wasn't mad at you, but mad at your kidnappers for even daring to cause you harm.

"Sweetheart, how about you do the honours?" Mafioso offered you, holding out his gun as the men on the floor were struggling to breathe. You weren't even gonna try to pretend you didn't find yourself excited at the idea and blew those suckers into their own hells with pride radiating off of your beloved.

Something about that bloodlust in your eyes made him realise you were even more perfect than he thought. Were you trying to make him any more obsessed?

But now that had little effect on the situation as his goons tended to you the whole way home and you made sure to reward Mafioso for your rescue with a sweet and loving kiss that had him wondering how he got so lucky...

Oh well, he would just have to tighten the security measurements a bit and stay with you a lot more to make sure you healed properly and would feel safe by his side.

Any debt-ridden filths were spared for now. All that mattered was your hands soothing his stressed mind and your affectionate words making him fall even more in love with you...

Anything you'd like to request/ask? Check out my pinned post first and I'll be happy to write up whatever you want!

[princessfbi]

😘 17 pretty please? and ship is dealer’s choice 🫶🏻

Bucktommy + 17 …to distract.

Tommy had one job to do… and according to the look Chimney was shooting at him, he wasn’t doing a very good job at it.

Which was seriously just rude considering everything he had done to keep Evan well and truly distracted all day. First, had been the morning sex which was a tried and true method that kept Evan thoroughly distracted for at least an hour. Then they had gone clear across town for breakfast and a hike that may or may not have involved some heavy making out against a tree that left Evan with bark imprints on his back and a blissed out look on his face while Tommy wiped his hand clean with one of the wet wipes they kept in their kit. Lunch had been a picnic bathing in the sun and then afterwards they had gone home to shower and doze in bed while watching one of Evan’s many many many comfort documentaries. Evan had barely looked at his phone once all day!

He’d fed him. He’d walked him. He’d given him a nap. He’d fucked him. What more did Chimney want?

It wasn’t like it was Tommy’s fault they were behind schedule!

They said three o'clock! It was three o'clock!

Tommy only just barely caught a glimpse of Eddie nearly falling over what looked like a sad attempt at a balloon arch before Chimney was swiping the curtain closed with a snap of his wrist.

Evan, blessedly sweet Evan, hadn’t even noticed as he kept talking about how the gorilla that had been attacking boats immediately came running when he heard his old caretaker call his name.

“It was like he was a baby all over again,” Evan said, playing with Tommy’s fingers.

“Wow. Sounds like they really had a strong bond,” Tommy said while he tried to think of anything else he could possibly ask that could distract his adorable big brained boyfriend.

He came up with nothing.

“Well yeah,” Buck said, kicking at a loose piece of gravel on the walkway as they climbed up the driveway to Chimney’s house. “He was all he knew for so long. It’d be like if Maddie came and found me.”

“I don’t think Maddie would ever let you go out into the wild, Evan,” Tommy said.

“She kind of did,” Evan said and Tommy squeezed his hand, being a terrible person and using the small moment of vulnerability to slow their steps.

It was for Evan’s own good. He’d forgive him eventually.

“She came and found you though.” Tommy pointed out. He knew those three years Buck had been without his sister was still a sore spot in his heart even if he understood why she did it. She had been protecting him. The same way she’d always been protecting him.

Tommy could never fault her for that.

Buck couldn’t either even if it still hurt. He was allowed to hurt too.

The curtains shifted and Tommy spied Hen throwing him a thumbs up before she disappeared from view.

Buck smiled up at Tommy. “Yeah. I guess that’s true. And she does have a habit of making me feel like I’m twelve years old again.”

Tommy snorted out a laugh that quickly fell away when Evan started tugging on his hand.

“C’mon,” Buck said with a jerk of his head. “She’s going to wonder why we’re standing out on the lawn for so long.”

“Can’t you tell her it’s because we’re talking about gorillas!” Tommy tried in vain because Evan just sent him a confused glance over his shoulder.

The woman in question was frantically waving him down from one of the small windows by the door before disappearing from sight again.

“Was that—”

“So I was thinking,” Tommy maybe yelled. He didn’t know. These people stressed him out. Evan’s eyebrows rose as he turned to look at him. “Maybe we should go away next week.”

“Oh?” Evan frowned. “I thought you work next weekend?”

“I meant the one after that. I could fly you and me somewhere nice. Somewhere quiet. We could get a cabin.” What was he saying? What cabin? “Maybe take in somewhere we haven’t been.”

Evan tipped his head in the adorable way he did when he was thinking and Tommy desperately tried to think of somewhere they could go that wouldn’t cost an entire mortgage payment so last minute.

“Maybe a staycation?” Evan suggested instead. “You, me, and some take out. No phones.”

God, he loved him.

The curtains moved and there was no way Evan didn’t see and Tommy panicked okay?

“What’s—Oomf!”

Tommy grabbed Evan’s face and kissed him. He grabbed his face, turned him to face him, tipped his chin up, and kissed him right on the mouth. Tongue and all.

Evan stiffened in surprise for all of a second before he melted into the kiss, into Tommy, like it was second nature. Arms wound around Tommy's neck as Tommy let his hands slip down to the small of Evan's back, skating up underneath his shirt to dance fingertips the sliver of skin that always made Evan shiver.

Tommy didn't tend to get drunk very often. He could count the number of times on his hand, to be honest. But he could've sworn he could've gotten drunk off the taste of Evan Buckley.

Evan broke the kiss by smiling too wide and it took Tommy a dizzyingly too long handful of seconds to realize he was grinning ear to ear too.

"What was that for?" Evan asked, his nose dancing against Tommy's as his fingers played with the hair at the nape of Tommy's neck.

"Oh, you know," Tommy said, pointedly not looking at Chimney trying to tell him to wrap it up behind Evan. "Just felt like it."

And then just to spite Howie, Tommy leaned down to kiss Evan again so that when they walked into the party, Evan was well and truly surprised.

[mr-tony-stark]

Tony smiled as he listened, gently tracing his fingers over Bucky’s hand, mapping out the places the lines of his palm would be if it was his real hand, touching the tip of each finger and running his thumb over his knuckles.

He loves to hear Bucky talk back on things so fondly.  HYDRA had really done a number on his mind and his body, and for him to be able to look back past them and point out things he remembered fondly must feel like a blessing for Bucky.

“It’s not silly.  You were safe, innocent, you had someone to get up to trouble with,” Tony said. “I mean, look at me.  I never had to want for anything in my life.  Except for people.  I look back at my childhood and I mostly see loneliness and a feeling of inadequacy despite the fact I graduated from high school at the age of fourteen and started college at fifteen. The things I do remember fondly?  When my grandmother was alive she'd make me pasta from scratch, and make me help by squashing tomatoes.  My butler setting up tea parties for me on his break so I had someone to play with for half an hour.  When I turned twenty-one and after my parents didn’t come home for my party, Rhodey and this girl just staying with me the whole week.  There was this one day when me and this girl were in the bathroom talking and I was shaving the beard that had grown in over the course of the week and I kept stopping at different points.  A big handle bar mustache, huge sideburns, that kind of thing were just laughing and laughing.  I couldn’t ever remember laughing that much before.  And we weren’t drunk or high.  It was just being silly with another human being.” 

He shrugged. “So yeah, I get it.  You and Steve, coming together to make something that filled you up.  That sounds really good.” 

Bucky nods and makes a mental note to give FRIDAY a list at some point when he knew what he wanted to make. He was thinking Italian because it had come up a few times that Tony liked Italian food even when he'd been younger.

He's happy to watch Tony trace on his palm, mesmerized really by the way it felt, he couldn't help but stare at his fingers trailing over the palm of his hand.

"Oh all sorts, we had to make do with...with what we could afford really. We'd get the chicken scraps and bones from the butcher and I could make a good chicken soup using the bones to make broth and a few cut up veggies. We made pancakes too sometimes, when we could afford the eggs and shit, we had to make it from scratch. And sometimes we would get work at the docks, me or Stevie and they would give us partial payment with a fish or something, so i got real good at cleanin' and cookin' whatever fish they'd give us"

He can't help but smile fondly at the memories and he blushes a little when he realizes how he probably looked, "It...it's probably silly to think so fondly back to a time where we were barely scraping by but those good memories with him before the war...they were what I dreamed of sometimes when I was in captivity. Random memories, quiet nights at home or boring shifts at the factory."

[hxney-lemcn]

Can we have more of Single Parent Reader trying to ask out Dunk I think itd be so cutee

a/n: yes, yes you can. is this the best? no...but I want to spread the Dunk x single parent agenda.

wc: 0.7k

Master List

❥You were never really a fan of the old coach. He was a mean middle aged man who was a control freak. Always had a stick up his ass with the kids, making them run extra drills when he was in a bad mood. The guy even had the gall to criticize you when you brought snacks and gatorade for the kids during a game. “It’s not healthy enough”, “They don’t deserve a reward, they were terrible”, “You’re in the way”. That last one was aimed at you even though you were putting the snack where you always did!

❥So when that guy got moved when a new face kept taking over you couldn’t help but be overjoyed. You had only heard of him when you picked up your kid, they were rambling in your car on the drive home.

“Yeah! This random guy entered the gym and started hyping us up. At first it was totally sus, but then he ended up giving better advice and he was super nice too!”

❥The first time you met was at a match between your kids school and their enemy school. You had your armful of healthy snacks and carrying a heavy container of gatorade, walking towards the table you usually set up. You smiled, greeting some kids who rushed you, already trying to dig through the bags. 

“Calm down kids,” A voice you hadn’t heard popped up. It was then that you met the legendary Dunk face to face after only hearing the best reviews from your adorable child, who was actually standing next to their new coach. Dunk shined a brilliant grin, reaching to help you carry some things and you were slightly jealous at how easy he made it look. But even more important, you hadn’t realized how handsome this Dunk could’ve been. 

❥Talking to him comes easily. He’s friendly, always willing to talk, and even tells you how well your kid has been improving. You find yourself easily flirting, saying innocuous lines like “your partner sure is lucky to have you. You don’t have one? People must be insane!” or “you’re so good with kids, they’re so lucky they have you in their lives.” Sure, maybe not all your lines were in your face, but you thought your message would make it through.

Wrong.

❥You find yourself going insane. Turns out good looking, and good hearted doesn’t equal brains. Dunk is so loveable, you’re trying to hint that you’d be interested in dating without serving your heart on a platter but you find yourself wondering if you said it straight to his face he still wouldn’t get it. But you didn’t want to do anything to embarrass your kid either, they really liked Dunk and you didn’t want to make it weird. Decisions decisions…

❥It seemed you didn’t have to do anything, as your kid, the little brat, was playing wingman. You had overheard them saying you were single when you came to pick them up after practice.

“And they make it to every game and provide for all the kids?” Dunk asked astounded. “That’s awesome! I’m glad you have someone so supportive in your life.”

“It’s cus they don’t have anyone else to bother,” Your kid shrugged. “They don’t go out for anything but work or my games.”

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” You awkwardly chuckle. “C’mon sport, let's not bother your coach more than you are.”

“They’re no bother,” Dunk waves off your comment with that damn grin. Both of you ignoring your kids protest at the use of your nickname for them. “Uhm…” He continues, making you pause your step to turn away. “I heard that sport over here is having a sleepover this weekend…did…you wanna go out?”

❥You found yourself blinking, wide eyed and stupefied. In your wildest dreams, you hadn’t expected Dunk to make the first move, for all you knew, he took your advances at face value. Your kid made a disgusted face, grabbing your keys from your hand and running to your car, waving at you both on their way. You trusted them to not do anything stupid. 

“Yeah!” You said, perhaps a bit too excitedly, clearing your throat you toned yourself down. “Yeah, sure.” You both exchanged numbers, shy smiles overtaking your faces.

❥”Then it’s a date,” You smiled, waving goodbye and returning to your kid who was blasting their music in your car. Your grin turned smug at the last second, catching the way Dunk’s face caught aflame at your comment.