#before I closed up the opening for turning but it was no trouble

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like he means it

Pairing: Roommate!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You can’t take another night of hearing Bucky fuck a girl who isn’t you.

Word Count: 13.6k

Warnings: Bucky is a fuckboy (but he’s still a sweetheart); lots of talk about unrequited love (but is it?); mentions of sex; crying; lots of desperation; longing; heavy confessions; feels; happy ending

Author’s Note: This is written for the lovely cinema themed writing challenge of @elixirfromthestars ♡ I had this kind of idea for a while but when I read those lyrics it somehow immediately came back to my mind and I needed to make something out of it. This is kind of inspired by your Boulevard Confessions because I loved it so much! And damn, I've already written so much about roommate!Bucky but I can’t help myself lol, I love him. Also, this got a little long, I'm sorry. Still, I hope you enjoy! ♡

Hold My Hand "Pull me close, wrap me in your aching arms. I see that you're hurtin', why'd you take so long to tell me you need me? I see that you're bleeding, you don't need to show me again. But if you decide to, I'll ride in this life with you. I won't let go 'til the end." — Lady Gaga

Masterlist

You hear the giggling before anything else.

It’s always the giggling.

And, as always, it grates on your nerves.

It carves through the air, seeps into the walls, into the floorboards, into you. It tears its way inside and scrapes its manicured nails along the rawest and most sensitive parts of you, only to bury itself deep, where you can’t simply dig it out.

Then comes the keys.

The light, metallic jingle, so careless in its melody, but so troubling in its meaning.

Then the lock turning, the click soft and yet so irrefutable.

Then the door opening.

More giggles.

His breathy chuckles.

Then the door closing.

Shoes being kicked off, one hitting the wall.

You press the pillow harder against your ears, as if you could suffocate the sound before it reaches you, as if you could bury yourself deep enough under the covers to escape what you already know is coming. But you can’t. You never can.

Your brain usually does you the favors of drowning out the parts in the hallway, knowing it will probably make your heart stop in an instant. Today, it doesn’t do you any favors and you close your eyes, accepting the sting behind them.

And then, his bedroom door.

And if all that wasn’t torture enough, it was only the easy part.

Because now is when it really starts. It’s when your throat closes up, the breath in your lungs turns heavy, thick, impossible. Because no matter how many times this has happened, no matter how many times you laid here in your bed, still, so still, waiting for the agony to stop, pretending it doesn’t happen - it never stops hurting. It never stops breaking your heart - or whatever’s left of it.

At first, there is silence. The small period where you almost dare to believe, to hope.

But then comes the moaning.

High-pitched and breathy, hinting at a pleasure that strikes you with a hammer.

Someone else. Always someone else. Someone who is not you, someone who never had to try, someone who will never know what it means to ache for him like you do.

Then, quieter, but just as devastating, Bucky’s voice. The low sound of him unraveling. The sound of something slipping from him that you will never be able to take.

And that’s what breaks you most. That’s what turns the ache into utter misery. Madness even. It’s the inescapable proof that he has something to give - something deep, something intimate - and he is giving it away. Over and over again, but never to you.

You close your eyes, as always. It doesn’t help, as always. The sounds don’t stop anyway. The images come anyway - the touches you have imagined, the way his hands would feel against your skin, the way his mouth would shape your name if you were the one beneath him. The way he might look at you, if only he could see.

But right now, you are just the ghost in the next room, curled in on yourself, ears filled with the sound of someone else living the life you always wanted.

And in the morning, or right after, when the door will open again, when the giggling will turn to goodbyes, you will still be here, where you always are. Where you always will be. Waiting. Wanting. Breaking. Wishing you could turn it off, this feeling. This unendurable and never-ending heartbreak.

And that finally makes the tears flow.

They well up before they spill over, down the slope of your cheek, gathering in the hollow beneath your nose before falling onto the pillow and wetting it like a pool.

You squeeze your eyes shut, so tightly it should hurt, so tightly it should make them stop. But they come anyway. They come despite the barricade of your willpower, despite the way your body coils tighter in on itself. They come despite the desperate war you wage against them.

They come because you have lost. Because it’s too much.

The moaning doesn’t stop, and it’s too much. It’s the middle of the night, and it’s too much. It’s the third night in a row, and it’s too much.

Bucky’s hushed voice shatters something inside of you, you didn’t know was left intact a few seconds ago.

Your breath turns sticky, only half of it making its way up your throat. The other half stays attached to the walls of your throat like honey gone rancid. It refuses to leave completely, snagging and trapping you in the awful space between breathing and choking.

Maybe if it stopped altogether, it would be easier. Maybe suffocating would be gentler than this slow and unsparing death of heartbreak.

Your hands are shaking. You bury your face into the pillow, willing it to just take you as a whole and never let you leave again. The fabric muffles the shuddering sobs, but it cannot do anything for the way your body trembles. But you know that the sounds of pleasure in the other room will tune out the sounds of your cries. The pillow is being clutched so tightly, you might tear the fabric. But it’s your heart that’s being torn into so many pieces. So what is a pillow compared to the ruin of your heart? It’s nothing.

You are alone in your grief.

The moans stop for a second - abrupt, cut off mid-breath.

Bucky’s voice comes. He says something but you don’t catch his words.

However, you do catch the displeased groan of his girl for the night. Drawn-out and petulant. Annoyed.

Bucky speaks again. Firmer, this time. Again, it’s too quiet to catch it.

And then you hear your name. It’s muffled still, but you would hear your name coming from his lips always and forever. You know the exact cadence of it shaping his mouth.

Everything in you halts. Your breaths are suspended somewhere in your throat, caught between shock and devastation.

The girl scoffs. It’s a snappy sound. Almost whiny. You would have rolled your eyes if you weren’t so troubled.

The moaning resumes. But it is quieter this time. Controlled almost. A courtesy. A mercy. But not for you. Not in the way you wish.

And it makes you know.

He asked her to keep it down. For you. He must have told her he has a roommate - you - and that they need to be mindful, that you might be trying to sleep.

Somehow, in all the infinite ways he could have cared for you, this is the one he chose. Not to love you, not to want you, but to make sure his flings don’t disrupt your sleep. As if that’s the worst of it. As if the noise is what truly keeps you up at night, and not the agonizing truth of it all.

Harshly, your teeth sink into your lip, fighting to stifle the sob that trembles on the edge of you. But again, you are losing.

Because hearing your name in the middle of something so intimate, spoken in the same breath of his pleasure, is pure anguish.

Because your name should not exist there. Not like this. Not casually sneaking into a mind occupied with pleasuring someone else.

If he were to say your name in a moment like this, it should be a soft whisper against your skin, entangled in sheets, buried in kisses that steal the air from your lungs. It should be something private, something sacred.

Not an idle afterthought. A consideration. A passing thought before he loses himself in someone else’s body. You have never heard him say any girl’s name before when sleeping with them, but hell you also don’t try to listen too closely.

You won’t talk about this. You never talk about this. When the morning comes and you meet Bucky in the kitchen for breakfast, you will not mention it. Just like you never mention the other nights. Just like you never dwell on the soft apologies he offers when they got too loud. And just like always, you will brush it off, force a brittle smile, and tell him that it’s fine.

It’s not. It never has been. And you don’t think you ever manage to make it sound like you mean it. But you are gone before Bucky can push or apologize again. Or see how deep the knife has gone.

Because he might be careful to be quiet. But he will never be careful enough to stop breaking your heart.

So what is the point?

You don’t want to do another morning like this.

You can’t do another morning like this.

Not three times in a row.

Not when the night has already taken your soul and what was precious of it, barely sewn together by the time the sun fights its way through the window.

Not when you know how it will play out. Like it has the day before. And the day before that.

The door to his room will creak open, the girl already gone. You will hear the shuffle of his bare feet against the floor, the sigh as he stretches, and the yawn that usually makes it past his lips. He never tries to stifle it.

And then, him standing there and watching you.

Disheveled. Bed hair sticking up in a mess. You never let your mind wander to how her fingers might have something to do with that. His shirt would loosely hang over his frame, probably thrown on in a hurry, collar askew, revealing a sliver of skin you shouldn’t be looking at.

That lazy and slightly flustered smile. Sleep still in the corners of his eyes, his lips, his voice, when he greets you with a scratchy morning.

Like nothing happened. Like he didn’t shatter you into a thousand unfixable pieces last night. And the night before that. And now this night.

You will do your best to greet him back without sounding pained. Focusing on making coffee. The way the steam normally curls into the air, the warmth of the mug in your hands. You will have to focus on it as if it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

And despite knowing you shouldn’t - despite hating yourself for it - you will slide a cup toward him. As you always do.

His smile would shift. Settling into something fond, something warm, something that digs its claws into your ribs and refuses to let go.

Because that’s usually the worst part. He’s always so sweet with you. Thoughtful, affectionate in ways that don’t count. In the ways that make you feel like maybe if you just hold on a little longer, if you wait just a little more, he might start feeling what you do.

But you are certain, he won’t.

Because for him, everything seems fine. For him, this will be just another morning. Another easy, comfortable start to the day. With his eyes on you and sipping his coffee, exhaling like he is finally at peace, and leaning against the counter with a lightness that always has your stomach all up in shambles.

He always makes it seem so normal. Starting conversation with you, talking to you as if nothing has changed. Like you didn’t spend the night curled in on yourself, swallowing down sobs so thick they feel like razor blades. Like you didn’t spend the night choking on the sound of him with her.

He never mentions them. Never says any of the girl’s names, not that you even know what they are. He never makes plans to see them again. Just another faceless but very loud girl. One to be forgotten.

But tomorrow night, there will be another.

Tomorrow night will be the same.

And in the morning nothing will have happened.

Only him standing there with his sleep-mussed hair and that sweet, easy smile, drinking the coffee you should have stopped making for him a long, long time ago.

You rise out of bed, not even aware of it. The cold air nips at your tear-streaked cheeks, your sheets thrown back in a mass of tangled fabric still warm from the ball your body was curled in, breaking in silence. The pillow is still wet.

Your hands move on their own, tugging on slacks, yanking a hoodie over your head as though the fabric could hide you, save you from the devastation caving a hole into your chest.

You fumble for your phone before throwing open your bedroom door.

The moans are louder again. Yanking at your resolve and laughing at the way your tears keep coming.

Your feet move faster. You don’t actually run, but it feels like running. Like fleeing. Escaping a burning building before it collapses. The living room comes into view and it’s like a cruel trick, like the universe is taunting you, because all you see are phantoms.

The coffee machine on the counter. How many times have you two stood there, still tousled with sleep, you making coffee for the both of you because Bucky burns everything. How many times did he lean on the counter, watching you with that stupid little half-smirk, pretending to judge your process but always humming in satisfaction when he took the first sip.

The bookshelf in the corner - the one you swore you could build on your own. And you tried, you really did, but the second the screwdriver slipped and you gasped out loud, Bucky was there immediately. Hands on yours, worry furrowing his brows, grumbling about your stubbornness and continuing to grumble when he passive-aggressively built it himself.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, watching him, pretending to be annoyed but secretly savoring the way he kept glancing at you, again and again, to make sure you were okay and giving you instructions as to how it’s done but throwing you a glare when you insisted on trying again.

The carpet. The same one you both collapsed onto after a night out with your friends, too tipsy to move, giggling like teenagers as you pointed at the ceiling, pretending to find constellations in the uneven paint. He named one after you. You named one after him. You fell asleep there, side by side, and when you woke up he was so close. So close.

The couch. The one he practically melted into last week when he had a fever, whining dramatically until you caved and brought him soup. He kept pulling you back when you tried to leave, pouting like a child, demanding your attention because I’m sick, doll. Can’t ignore me when I’m sick. Until you sighed and sat down, letting his head rest in your lap. He fell asleep like that. Snoring. And you didn’t have the heart to move.

And now he is in his room, tangled in her, moaning into her skin, kissing her - like it doesn’t mean anything. Like none of it ever meant anything.

Your breath is uneven, your hands shaking as you grab your shoes. The laces blur, your vision fogs, but you can’t stop.

You throw open the door to your shared apartment, barely thinking, barely breathing, only moving. It swings back into the frame with a sharp sound echoing through the hallway, louder than you had intended. But it doesn’t matter now. Because you are sure that Bucky doesn’t hear it. He doesn’t notice. He is otherwise occupied and you are utterly drained of thinking about with what.

The air outside the apartment feels different. Lighter and cooler, but it doesn’t bring relief. It’s thin and hard to pull into your lungs properly.

Natasha’s place isn’t far. Fifteen minutes on foot. You tell yourself that over and over, like a mantra, like something to grasp on.

No more moans. Lost to silence, left in a place that feels little like home right now. Still, they resonate in your skull, haunting reminders of that pain you can’t dismiss, that hurt that hangs off you like a heavy burden.

You slow your steps on the staircase and inhale deeply. It trembles on its way out.

You hate how fragile you feel. How breakable. Hate how much this affects you. How much he affects you.

But you keep walking.

Just yesterday, you talked to Natasha and she offered you to stay with her for the night, looking at you all sharp and knowing, but in her own way sympathetic. You declined. Because you thought you’d be fine. Well, you were wrong.

It’s past midnight now, completely dark, but you don’t care.

You know, Natasha will let you in. And that will have to be enough for tonight.

The city is alive even at this hour. Neon lights glow in the distance, their reflection shimmering in rain-slicked puddles that dot the cracked pavement. Somewhere across the street, there is a group of people laughing, and disappearing around a corner. A car flies past, with headlights unlocking long shadows lengthening down the sidewalk.

You focus on those things. On the shoes thumping against the pavement. The way the crisp air is somehow refreshing as it weaves through the fabric of your hoodie and stings slightly at the tear-streaked skin of your cheeks, keeping you awake and propelling you forward. Not that you need any more motivation to leave.

You wind your arms around yourself like a shield, like a last-ditch effort to keep yourself from falling apart completely.

You don’t look back.

Somewhere above you, there is a creak of a window opening.

It makes you freeze for a small second, before tightening your arms around yourself and picking up your pace.

Your stomach spins violently because fuck, you know that sound. You know the groan of that window when it moves, just a little off its hinges, just enough to make a noise you’ve heard a hundred times before. Because it’s the window of your apartment. And it makes a noise that has never felt so much like a punch to the gut.

“Y/n?”

You close your eyes.

“Y/n!”

Your name spills from his lips, laced with confusion, infused with something that makes your fingers clench around your arms.

You could ignore him. You should ignore him. Just keep walking, keep moving, pretend you didn’t hear.

But you can’t. You never can.

With a slow, dragging breath, you turn around.

Bucky is leaning over the frame, his torso reaching out the window, bare from the shoulders down. He is bathed in the hazy yellow glow of the streetlights.

His hair is messed up, brown tendrils all sticking in different directions. His brows are knitted in confusion. His lips in a frown so full of worry. And it’s just too much.

Too warm. Too intimate. Too familiar.

Your chest stutters, lurches, and swirls itself into a dozen moving shapes that hurt more than they should. Because he stands there shirtless. Shirtless. And you know why.

You swallow back your hurt, but it stays stuck in your throat and crawls right up again to make you taste it on your tongue.

You force your gaze away from staring at the curve of his collarbone, the slope of his throat, the soft lines of his skin, the hard lines of his muscles that she had her hands on just minutes ago.

“Where are you going?”

The tone highlights his concern, thick with the kind of worry that would have meant everything if it weren’t coming from him like this, not now. His voice is rough, remnants of the time already spent with that girl, but all you can hear is that damn worry in it.

As if you owe him an answer. As if he isn’t the reason your chest feels like it’s been hollowed out and left to rot.

You draw in half a breath and look away - down the street, down at your shoes, the bricks of your building. Anywhere that isn’t him.

“To Nat’s.”

It’s clipped and short. You don’t want to explain, don’t want to talk, don’t want to stand here in the night air beneath the window of the apartment you share with him like some pathetic wreck while he worries about you.

“Nat’s?” You can hear the bewilderment in his voice, the way he is trying to piece it together, the way his brain is already working overtime, scrambling to make sense of this - and you can practically feel the moment he decides he won’t let it go.

“Somethin’ happen?” His voice just won’t stop to be so perplexed, so concerned. It is softer now, but you only glance up at him briefly before averting your eyes again.

Because damn Bucky, yes, something happened. Everything happened. Every night that he brings someone home, every touch that belongs to someone else, every soft moan that isn’t meant for you.

All these moments, all these memories, every feeling left unsaid that swivels and stings and grows into what it is now - a storm inside your rib cage, a hurricane of almosts and never wills and why does it have to be like this?

But of course, you can’t say that. You won’t say that.

So you just shake your head, tighten your arms around yourself, and take a step back.

“Go back to bed, Bucky.”

Because you can’t do this right now. You won’t do this right now.

Not when you are already about to break.

“I- What?”

His voice is a little raspy, puzzled, and under any other circumstance, it might have been endearing. On a normal day, if this were some cozy Sunday morning and not the breaking stretch of midnight, you might have smiled at the sight of him like this - hair in a wild mess, eyes a little heavy from the day, bare shoulders shifting in the glow of the streets.

But this is not a Sunday morning. And nothing about this feels good or cozy or right.

You are so damn exhausted. So damn drained.

“You-” he starts again, brow furrowing deeper, but before he can get another word out, hands appear - slim fingers wrapping around the thick of his bicep, tugging, pulling, trying to drag him back inside.

Bile is pooling at the base of your throat.

She’s alone with him up there, in the space that you have spent so much time making into something warm, something filled with comfort. A space where you feel home. With him. And yet, it’s that random girl in there, laying in his bed, under his covers, in his scent, in him.

“Bucky, come on.” Her voice is thin and peevish, thick with impatience. And exhaustion you believe she has no right to feel when you are the one who has spent the time suffocating under her presence.

But Bucky doesn’t move.

His hand only grips onto the windowsill tighter, muscles in his arm locking.

And his eyes stay fixed on you.

Still searching. Still confused. Still trying to understand.

And it makes your hands clammy.

The way he looks at you like he is reaching for something just beyond his grasp, something that eludes him no matter how hard he tries to hold onto it.

He huffs out a breath that just borders on frustration when her fingers won’t stop pulling at him.

“Hold on, doll-” he calls out to you and unwinds her hands from his arm, barely sparing her a glance as he leans out the window again. There is a little something in his tone when he speaks to you again. Something like exasperation. But it’s not meant for you. “What’re you doin’ at Nat’s? Tell her it’s the middle of the goddamn night. Why would she let you walk over to her? She knows it’s not safe.”

You shake your head, already half turning away again. You just cannot do this right now.

“It’s fine. Just go back to bed, Bucky.”

“Y/n - hey. What’s wrong? What’s this about?” There it is. That softness in his voice. That concern. And it hurts. Because he doesn’t get it.

“Go. Back. To bed,” you repeat, sharper now, gritting it out between clenched teeth.

But Bucky has always been stubborn. And so infuriating. It’s like he doesn’t hear you at all.

“C’mon doll, did something happen? Talk to me,” he urges, voice gentle but he doesn’t seem to like the way you look as if you would bolt around the corner any second. His tone is coaxing in a way that makes you ache because this is what he does. This is what he has always done - pulling you in, making you feel safe, making you feel cared for, making you feel like you matter. Like he means it.

And it’s cruel. So cruel.

Because you are in love with him.

And he is standing in that window, bare-chested and rumpled from a night with another woman, while you are in slacks and a simple hoodie beneath him with your heart cracked wide open, bleeding into the pavement.

“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bucky,” you snip, voice losing patience. But you are so tired.

Bucky sighs and runs a hand through his hair, frustration growing, seeping into his voice. “You’re killin’ me here, sweetheart. Just tell me what’s goin’ on. It’s cold out, doll. You’re not even wearin’ a jacket.”

You swallow down a choked breath.

Because this is making things so much worse.

That he cares. That he is looking at you like this, like you matter, like you are his.

Like you are something he wants to figure out. And he wants to take his time with. Like he wants to fix you.

But you are not broken. You are just in love.

“Bucky,” that girl calls out again, dragging his name out, voice honey-thick and pettish. “Come on babe, let it go. Just-” She tugs at his arm again, nails skimming along his forearm. “Come back to bed.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even glance at her.

His mouth twitches, jaw ticking as he exhales sharply through his nose, shaking her off with a firm roll of his shoulder. “Would you quit it for a sec?” His voice is edged now, tinged with a kind of terse impatience he seldom ever lets out. “Jesus, m’tryin to talk here.”

The girl huffs, clearly displeased, but Bucky doesn’t spare her another second.

But the one second he threw his head around at her was your chance. Your feet move before you can think, before you can talk yourself into staying, because if you do, if you let him pull you in, let yourself hope-

“Woah, doll, hey. Wait, I-”

His voice is frantic, stammering over its own syllables and filled with too many things your mind is too jumbled to focus on.

But it makes you stop your body in the midst of a step. And you grind down on your teeth against the frustration burning inside you.

You should keep walking. Shouldn’t have stopped.

But Bucky is leaning even further out now, his knuckles bracing against the sill, the night air tousling his hair, eyes wide and concerned, searching. One of his arms is reaching out, down to you as if he could touch you like this.

“Hold up, yeah? I’m comin’ down.”

You whip halfway back to him, brows snapping together, heart slamming against your ribs.

“No, you-”

He’s already pulling himself back inside, shaking his head as if it should be obvious. “I’m coming down,” he repeats, more insistent, more sure. Leaving no room for argument.

Your fists squeeze the fabric of your hoodie. Your stomach churns. “Bucky-” you try again. But he has already made up his mind.

“Wait there, alright?” His voice dips lower, steadier but still urgent. Resolute, as if he would run after you if you bolted down the street. “Doll. Promise me you’ll wait.”

Something in his tone, the look he is giving you, like he’s begging, almost a sweet-talking declaration. It’s catching your breath somewhere in your throat.

You could run.

You should.

You should turn right back around, disappear into the night, and leave him standing there, shirtless and confused and worried.

But you hold his gaze for just one long and heavy beat, then exhale shakily, shoulders dropping slightly.

“Okay,” you say weakly.

Bucky nods determined and taps his fingers against the windowsill, before rushing away, leaving the window wide open.

And you stand there hating yourself for waiting.

Hating yourself for hoping.

Technically, you could just leave.

Take a different route to Nat’s apartment, slip into the dark veins of the city where his voice wouldn’t reach, and let him walk out onto an empty sidewalk with his hair still tousled from another woman’s fingers and the taste of someone else’s lips still lingering on his own.

You could make him feel just a fraction of what you feel, with something hollow pressing up against his ribs when he finds nothing but cold pavement where you used to stand.

But you don’t.

You know you won’t.

Because it wouldn’t just frustrate him. It would hurt him.

And that’s the one thing you could never bring yourself to do.

Not Bucky.

Never Bucky.

You know him. The way he chews at the inside of his cheek when he’s trying not to say something reckless. The way his brows pull just a little too tight when he’s agitated but trying to play it off like he is fine. The way he folds his arms over his chest, not because he’s closed off, but because he needs something to hold onto.

You know exactly how he would react if he stepped out here and you weren’t there.

How the slight crease between his brows would deepen. How his fingers would twitch, opening and closing, like he’d missed his chance to catch you. How his lips would open and he would stare helplessly around and call your name.

And god, as much as this pain is devouring you from the inside out, pushing its way into the light but leaving you sitting in the dark, as much as your heart feels like being torn apart with unsaid words and unmet confessions - you cannot stand the thought of hurting him.

So you stay.

With feet planted on the concrete, fists clenched so hard, that your fingers start to cramp. You lift your trembling hands to your aching cheeks to hastily scrub away the fresh wave of tears surging forth downwards, willing your body to erase any evidence of your devastation.

But the more you wipe, the more it hurts.

You believe your cheeks are red from the effort of wiping so much, eyes swollen and puffy, your body trying to rebel against all of your commands.

Inhaling shakily, you force the breath down, down, down where you can pretend it doesn’t hurt so much. You angle your face slightly away from the building, hoping the dim spill of moonlight won’t betray your inner struggles.

Because the moment Bucky steps out that door, it will be the same as always.

He’ll look at you like you are his best friend. Like you are his safe place. Like you are the person he can always count on.

And you will look at him like you aren’t falling apart.

Like your heart isn’t unraveling at the seams.

Like you aren’t drowning in a love that will never be returned.

The door swings open with a force that startles you, the sound of it hitting the frame a little too sharp against the night.

Bucky storms out onto the sidewalk like he’s got something urgent to say, like the world might stop spinning if he doesn’t get to you fast enough. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. Just moves straight to you, his steps quick, closing the space before you can change your mind about standing here. He has a crumpled shirt thrown on and it hangs a little off. But it makes you want to run so hard.

His fingers wrap around your arms, not hard, not forceful but firm.

Those warm hands on you make you want to crumble.

His breath is coming fast, chest rising and falling, like he ran down the staircase to get here as fast as possible.

His eyes are so deep, deep and blue, roaming your face with so much intensity, searching and scanning and pausing.

Shadows cast over his sharp cheekbones at the way his brows are furrowed, his lips slightly parted.

“What’s going on, doll? You been cryin’?” His voice comes out rough and he talks fast. Urgent, breaths spilling over themselves as he rushed through the words, almost tripping on them in his desperation to get them out. “Why’ve you been crying? What happened?”

His thumb twitches against the fabric of your hoodie.

You open your mouth, close it again. Your throat is dry from the sobs you tried to silence earlier. You shake your head, a knee-jerk reaction.

“I was just going to Nat’s, Bucky. Nothing happened.”

It’s a weak excuse, said in a weak voice.

And you hate how it makes Bucky’s expression shift. That tiny wounded something that crosses his features, something that shouldn’t be there, because you did wait for him, you didn’t leave, but it’s still not enough. You lied to him. And he knows it. And he’s hurt. And you hate yourself.

He shakes his head, his jaw going tight.

“No,” he murmurs, eyes never leaving you, voice so low. “That ain’t nothin’, doll. C’mon. You’re runnin’ off in the middle of the night, how could this be nothing?”

You look away. Because if you keep looking at him, him with his concern and confusion and hurt all interflowing in the pool of those blue eyes, you won’t be able to hold yourself together much longer.

You swallow hard and force yourself to breathe slowly.

The sting behind your eyes is never really leaving you.

Bucky leans in, just a little. His grip on your arms tightens, but it’s not harsh. Only insistent. Desperate for you to give him something here.

“Somethin’ up with Natasha?” His voice is gentle, like he knows this has nothing to do with her, but he has to ask anyway to go through all the possible options of what might be going on.

“No,” you croak, barely managing the word.

He softens at the sound of it, but that frown doesn’t ease.

“What’re you doing then, huh? Why’re you running off like that? S’ not safe, you know that.” His voice is soft. Almost like he’s trying to soothe a skittish animal. But the concern is wrapping around every word. “What’s got you so upset, sweetheart? Talk to me, yeah? Please?”

His voice takes on a desperate intensity. Like he’s begging you to just let him in. To make him understand.

You bite down hard on your bottom lip, willing it not to tremble, willing your face not to crumble right in front of him, but the air is too thick for your airway, making it harder and harder to breathe.

And Bucky is looking at you, like you are breaking his goddamn heart. Like you took a shot straight for it.

He is so full of worry, it looks painful, the crease of his brow always there when he’s thinking too hard, when he’s feeling too hard. His lips are still parted, like he wants to beg for an explanation, for some string of words that will make this all click into place and turn this into something fixable.

Because Bucky Barnes fixes things.

But this might be the only thing he can’t fix.

His hands on you are a contrast to the way you feel as if you’re falling apart. You hate how much you just want to collapse into it, to let yourself lean into him, let him hold you up. Because he would. You know he would. He would pull you in without hesitation, wrap his arms around you like he has done so many times before.

But you don’t want him to hold you. Don’t want him to hold you like a friend.

You want him to hold you like he means it. Like you mean something more than the sum of all the nights you spent choking on your own silence, swallowing words you could never say.

So all you can do is stay frozen, bones locked, eyes burning, heart splitting itself open in the middle of the street where he doesn’t even know he’s killing you.

“I-”

You try. You really try.

But then the door swings open again. And the sound of it alone is enough to send a bolt of ice down your spine.

Because this time it’s her walking out.

She steps out onto the sidewalk like she has every right to be a part of this moment.

Like she hasn’t spent the first part of the night in Bucky’s bed. Like she hasn’t been touched by him, kissed by him, fucked by him, wanted by him in a way that you have only ever ached for.

Like she hasn’t taken something that was never hers to have.

But it’s not yours either.

She looks so composed, too. More put together than you would have imagined. Her hair smoothed, clothes adjusted, skin glowing in a way that tells you she wasn’t just sleeping up there - she was living in something you’ve been dying for. She probably took a moment in your bathroom to check herself, to fix her lipstick, maybe even to admire herself in the mirror while you were downstairs, breaking apart.

She had the time for that.

Meanwhile, you can barely stand.

Your body is alive with magnitudes of unspoken things, suffocating. You feel like you’ve been sanded down, like a piece of wood, leaving nothing but the ache and longing and all the words you can’t say. This destruction is slow and ruthless, it doesn’t come with an explosion, but rather a slow erasure.

Like you’re being unmade. Piece by piece.

Like you were never meant to be here in the first place.

And Bucky is still looking at you.

Not at her.

You.

And maybe that should be enough. Maybe it should mean something.

But it just puts more pressure on the knife that is already turning around in your flesh.

The girl doesn’t leave and Bucky stiffens.

“Bucky,” she drawls, almost lazy, like she’s bored with this already. “Are you coming back up, or…?”

Your stomach lurches.

You feel exposed, scraped raw, like you’ve been trampled over, flattened by something massive, left behind for everyone else to step around.

Bucky lets out a slow breath through his nose. His jaw works under pressure. And then, he huffs. Annoyed. Like she’s interrupting something important.

“Go home,” he flatly tells her, his attention still on you. Not even addressing her with a name. Perhaps he doesn’t even know it.

“Seriously?” she scoffs, crossing her arms. Her eyes flick between the two of you.

Bucky exhales another breath and drops one of his arms from you to scrub it over his face, pushing through his hair. He turns toward her just a little, stance rigid.

“Yeah, seriously,” he mutters, already turning back to you. “I’ll call you a cab if you need-”

“God, you’re such a dick,” she snaps, cutting him off, rolling her eyes with an exasperated huff. “Unbelievable.”

And then she’s gone.

But so are you.

You don’t even think about it. You just move.

Your arm slips from Bucky’s loosened grip, your body already shifting, already turning, already pulling you down the sidewalk, away from him, away from this.

It’s pathetic. You know this. But you have to get away.

Your vision is a blur, the streetlights smearing into a soft, hazy glow against the wetness welling in your eyes, and no matter how much you try to breathe through it, it’s too much. Simply too much.

You’re hurting. And you need to go. Now.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Woah, whoah, hey!” His voice is quick, rushed, and then he is moving, closing the space between you. And this time, he cuts you off completely, stepping right into your path, right in front of you, blocking the way like a wall. He’s so broad in front of you, and so fucking present, making it impossible to escape.

You stop so fast it almost sends you stumbling back.

His eyes flick over you so quickly, so intensely, scanning for something he doesn’t understand but is so desperate to find.

“Alright,” he exhales, low and careful, holding his arms out as if ready to stop you again if you make a run for it.

“You want me to put you in chains to keep you still?”It’s a weak and failed attempt at humor.

And it’s not funny. Not even close.

His voice is too thin, too strained, and there is something in his eyes, something tight and aching, that makes it clear he is not even trying all that hard to make his joke work.

You don’t smile. Don’t look at him. Arms still around yourself.

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows, as he shifts his weight, as he lets out another slow and deliberate breath. He moves so slow. As if any tiny movement of him would make you walk away from him.

“What’s going on with you, mhm?” His voice is so soft. So concerned. Brooklyn warmth and worry combined with something gentler than you can handle right now.

“What’s this - this fight-or-flight thing you got goin’ on?” he continues, tilting his head just slightly, watching you too closely, reading too much. “You’re rushing off like the damn place is on fire. The hell is that about, doll?” Still so soft. So cautious.

His eyes are on you like you are the only thing in the world that matters, like he’s trying to solve you, like if he just looks long enough, he’ll figure it out.

But if he really understood, if he really found out, everything between you would change.

And you can’t handle that. You can’t handle anything at the moment.

“Just drop it, Bucky, alright?” It comes out sharper than you mean for it to. Harsher. A little spit of venom that you hate yourself for the second it hits the air. He doesn’t deserve your attitude. But you can’t hold it back.

You see the way it lands. The way his brows pull in tighter, the way his lips press together, the way his chest rises and falls so measured. But it’s all not out of irritation. He just tries to figure out where that came from. What is happening. What has you react the way you do.

His voice is even and calm. But oh so careful. “I don’t think I will, doll.”

You look anywhere than at him and his troubled face.

Your throat tightens so fast, you have to swallow hard against it, teeth digging into the inside of your cheek as you blink up at the sky like maybe that keeps the tears from spilling over.

And Bucky watches all of that.

His expression stays soft, but his eyes are burning with something deep, something real, something that makes you feel like you might actually drown if you keep looking at them for too long.

“Y/n,” he almost whispers, and it sounds so pained. “Why are you crying, sweetheart.” He’s so gentle, so tender, so fucking careful like he’s afraid that if he pushes too hard, you’ll just break.

You shake your head, arms around yourself tightening. “I’m fine.”

Bucky makes a quiet noise in his throat, somewhere between a sigh and a scoff, something deep and disbelieving.

“See, that’s bullshit.”

You’re about to turn again, but he anticipates and gets hold of your arms.

“Look,” he sighs, heedfully taking off a hand of you to rub it down his face. “You don’t wanna talk? Fine. You wanna bite my head off cause I’m askin’? Fine. But don’t stand here and tell me you’re okay. Because I’ve got eyes, doll, and I can see that you’re not.”

You want him to stop.

You want him to turn around.

You want him to leave you here to fall apart in peace.

But he won’t.

And you don’t know what to do with that.

And you break.

No matter how hard you bite your lip, it doesn’t matter.

The tears slip and streak down your face before there is anything you can do. A sob follows. You can’t choke it down. Your shoulders shake, your breath stutters, and your face tilts towards the ground as you bring trembling hands up to wipe at your cheeks, in a futile and desperate attempt to regain composure. It’s useless.

You feel so pathetic.

Embarrassed. Ashamed that you ran off like this. That you’re standing here, crying in the middle of the night, on a sidewalk with no explanation, making a fool of yourself in front of him.

And the second your face crumbles, his does, too.

The second your breath hitches, he is moving.

Strong arms envelope you, winding tight, pulling you straight into his chest like he doesn’t even need to think about it. Not for a single second.

You let him.

Because it’s either this, or you’ll collapse down onto the asphalt.

His grip is firm, grounding, warm in a way that makes you ache even more. His hand cradles the back of your head, tucking you against him, and you feel the press of his lips there, gentle, but somehow rough.

Like your pain is his own.

“It’s okay. Shh… it’s okay,” he breathes, pained and low, the words pressed into your hair, into your skin. Making space between your ribs. “Oh, doll.” He presses you tighter to him. His hand brushes over your hair. “It’s okay.”

There is something so deep and aching in the way he talks to you, like the sound of his own voice hurts him. Like you hurt him.

His other hand moves over your back, soothingly, trying to give you some strength.

“I gotcha,” he breathes. “M’here, doll. Okay? Just breathe. Gotta breathe for me, baby. Please.”

It’s a slip. Baby. A mistake.

And it makes you cry harder.

Because it’s so soft. Gentle. Because it falls from his lips like something that’s always been there, something that’s always belonged to you.

Except it hasn’t.

It doesn’t.

Not in the way you want.

You don’t know what he calls those girls he takes home. If they get to hear him say it. Girls who have felt his hands in places you never will. Girls who have heard his voice rasp against their skin in the dark.

But you are not one of those girls.

You never will be.

And you know you will never be able to untangle that damaging wrench in your stomach.

So hearing him call you that. Baby. Like it means something. Like it’s yours. Like it hasn’t been whispered in the dim glow of your apartment, murmured against someone else’s lips, someone else’s skin, just someone else just hours ago.

It’s too hard. too cruel.

You wish it didn’t matter. You wish it didn’t rip through you the way it does, splitting you down the center, carving you open.

But it does.

Because even if it doesn’t belong to you, you still want it.

So you cry harder.

Sobs wrack through you, your chest hitching with the force of them, your hands gripping the fabric of his shirt, clumping it in your fists.

Bucky feels it and he hears it and he grips you tighter, pulls you closer.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he coos, voice just above a whisper, more desperate now. Like he’s drowning in your hurt right along with you.

“Sweetheart,” he tries again, voice strained, thick. His lips are in your hair. “Please talk to me. Make me understand, baby, please! Tell me what’s wrong.”

But you can’t.

Because what the hell would you even say?

That you’re in love with him?

That you’ve been in love with him?

That seeing him with her - hearing the sounds that bleed through the walls, the ones you’ll never be able to unhear - feels like being skinned alive?

That you want him in a way you shouldn’t?

That you want him in a way he will never want you back?

You won’t.

So instead, you just press yourself harder into his chest and squeeze your eyes shut, letting him hold you like you are something precious. Like you are his. Even if you are not.

“Help me understand here, baby. Please,” he repeats with a voice so soft, that makes him seem afraid you might break apart completely if he speaks any louder.

Maybe he’s right. Maybe you’re already in pieces at his feet, shattered beyond repair, and he just hasn’t realized it yet.

He lets you cry when you don’t answer, hand stroking up and down your back, the other soothing over your head. He whispers into your hair, words you can’t even process, just the deep cadence of him, the low rasp of his voice against your temple.

His lips move to your forehead, brushing over it. His breath is warm against your skin. You don’t have it in you to pull away, but you wish you would.

Because none of this makes it any easier.

Because his hands feel too good, too steady, too right - and it’s a lie.

Because it’s him.

And that means it hurts.

You wish he would just go and let you have your pathetic heartbreak alone.

But Bucky Barnes has never been the kind of a guy to leave things unsolved.

He pulls back just slightly after a while, just enough to get a better look at you, and when you try to duck your head, to keep him from seeing too much, he doesn’t let you.

Strong, warm fingers cradle your face, thumbs brushing over the damp skin of your cheeks, tilting your head up and forcing your gaze to his.

He looks wrecked.

His brows are drawn, lips parted, chest rising and falling unevenly. His hands tremble just a little against your skin, but his grip stays firm. Solid.

“Don’t look away, doll. Eyes on me, yeah?”

You swallow hard, jaw tight. “You just ruined your good night,” you say, the words falling out bitter, self-deprecating, stiff with something that tastes like resentment but feels like heartbreak.

Bucky’s frown deepens, his lips pressing together, eyes scanning over your face like he’s searching for something, anything that’ll make this make sense.

“The hell I did,” he scoffs, shaking his head. Confused you even brought this up. “I don’t give a shit about her. Don’t even know her name, if I’m bein’ honest.” He lets out a huffed laugh.

But you don’t.

Because somehow this makes it worse.

And you hate it.

You hate that some part of you wanted her to mean something.

Because if she meant something, if she was special, then at least this ache in your chest would have a name. A reason. A shape you could hold in trembling hands and squeeze so hard that it stops hurting at one point.

Then, at least, you could maybe finally accept that there is no hope. No reason to hold on to those feelings.

But Bucky just shrugs.

It meant nothing. It never meant anything. Not with them.

Not with the girls that come and go, the ones who pass through his nights in the same easy way the hours do - fleeting, ephemeral, touched, and forgotten.

Not with anyone. Not even with you.

You have spent so long feeling this, holding onto it, trying to keep it hidden beneath layers of friendship and longing and careful restraint. You have spent so long pretending that it is fine, that it doesn’t matter, that you can live like this - on the sidelines, just the girl in the other room, in the shadows, in the spaces between what you want and what you’re allowed to have.

And he stands here and looks you in the eyes, telling you that it is nothing. That she is nothing. That they - all of them before her, and all of them after her - are nothing.

You can barely breathe past it.

You don’t say anything.

And Bucky freezes.

His hands, where they cup your face, stop their soft, absentminded strokes. His thumbs, which had been tracing reassuring circles along your cheekbones halt. His breath catches and his eyes shift.

There is something uncertain in there.

And then, his lips part. His brows go up ever so slightly. His pupils flare.

Something settles over his expression that you don’t recognize.

Like a switch has been flipped.

Like a puzzle piece has clicked into place.

Like suddenly he is seeing something in your eyes, something like an answer, something that has been there all along.

His fingers tighten, anchoring himself. Making it seem that if he lets go, if he moves even a fraction, something will break. In him, or you, you’re not sure.

He pulls back. Not far. Just an inch. But he needs to see you better. Just enough to search your face for something he needs to know. His gaze locks onto yours and holds you there, testing something, making sure.

His voice is hushed when he talks. Breathless.

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s quiet, the way he says it. Like he’s afraid of it. Like he’s careful with it. There is disbelief on his face. Astonishment.

You shake your head too fast, too sharp, like if you deny it hard enough, it’ll erase the way he’s looking at you right now. That it’ll undo the meaning of his words and the way they sit between you. Something fragile on the verge of breaking.

“No,” you say, but it barely comes out, barely sounds convincing. Your voice is hoarse, scraped raw form holding back everything you don’t want to say. Your lungs refuse to work in sync with the rest of you. You swallow, eyes darting away, grasping for something to latch onto.

But Bucky doesn’t let you.

“Doll…” It comes like a sigh. Weightless and soft. His hands don’t drop from your face, don’t loosen, don’t give you the space you’re so desperately trying to carve out between you. If anything, his grip grows more robust. Just enough to keep you there.

“Hey. Look at me.” His tone is low, carrying the kind of warmth you’d usually like to lean into, but now all you want is to get away from it. You don’t want to meet those stormy blues.

Bucky’s thumbs are sweeping, so feather-light, over the curve of your jaw, smoothing along the damp trail of your tears, and his voice dips even lower. Softer. He is so close.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Give me somethin’ here.”

It’s not fair that he gets to call you all those sweet names like he means them. Like you mean something. Like it’s not the same word he probably called her and all those others who got to have him, even if only for a night.

“I don’t-” you try, but your voice is trembling and thick with tears, and Bucky’s gaze shadows.

“Don’t what?” he coaxes, leaning in just a little, close enough that his breath skims your skin, warm and stable in a way you aren’t. His fingers slightly move against your cheeks, as if resisting the urge to pull you closer.

You shake your head again, your hands wrapping around his wrists - not to push him away exactly, but to have something to hold onto. You have no idea what to say.

“It’s- It’s not-” Your words trip over themselves, stuck somewhere between your throat and your ribs, tangled up in everything you’ve never let yourself say.

But Bucky just watches you, unreadable things swirling in those impossibly blue eyes. Wary things. Still so damn careful.

He exhales and his hands slide down, skimming the column of your throat, settling against the curve of your neck like he’s grounding you. Holding you both together.

“Doll,” he sighs, and it’s too much.

It’s not teasing. It’s not playful. It’s not easy. Not the charming lilt he likes to throw in his tone.

It’s vulnerable. Tender. Substantial.

“You’re breakin’ my heart here.”

And that’s what has another tear slip over your lashes.

Because you’re breaking his heart?

What does that even mean?

You were the one trying to escape the heartache he caused and now he tells you it’s his heart that hurts?

“Please,” he whispers, and his voice is wrecked, gravel thick in his throat. “Just tell me, doll. Tell me what I did. Tell me so I can fix it.”

His lips stay parted, trying to find air, trying to find some kind of solid ground. There is a sheen over his eyes.

“I can’t-” Your voice cracks, but you don’t look away this time. His hands won’t let you. He won’t let you.

His eyes are pleading.

“Can’t what, sweetheart?” he urges, dipping closer, voice just a rasp of sound between you. His thumbs wipe away the new tears and he winces while doing it as if it actually causes him pain that they fell.

The streetlight flickers above. It casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the tight pull of his mouth. His fingers flex against your face.

“Is it-” he starts, then stops, then starts again, throat bobbing and voice rough and hesitant. “Is it those girls?”

A shallow gasp slips from your lips. Fractured and tripping over something unseen. Your shoulders grow stiff.

You can’t answer. You only shake your head, not in denial, not in confirmation, but in something else, something tired and so fucking done with feeling like this.

You try to pull back, try to slip free from the heat of his palms, try to turn away. Another tear drops onto the back of his hand.

Your reaction must be answer enough.

Bucky’s head, Bucky’s hands, Bucky’s eyes, Bucky’s whole body - everything is moving so much, keeping you from slipping away, reaching for you, not letting you go.

A breath. A pause. Like his brain needs an extra moment to process what this all could mean. His breath catches in his throat and you can feel the exact moment he gets it.

The exact moment he realizes.

“Shit,” he breathes, so quiet you almost miss it. His grip tightens. It grows distressed. Despairing. Keeping you from leaving his hold, although you don’t stop trying.

You sob and his hands press into your cheeks, thumbs smoothing away tears like he can erase this, like maybe if he holds you tight enough, he can go back five minutes, five months, five years, to a time before he made you feel like this.

“Shit, doll, I-” His voice breaks, gravel and regret and anguish - and something so painful - landing with every syllable.

You don’t stop trying to pull back, trying to push him away. You can’t talk. You can’t stop crying. You can’t look at him.

But Bucky is devastated. And he is desperate. And he won’t let you go.

“No, no, don’t - please, Y/n, don’t.” He runs through his words, frantically getting them out, frantically trying to make you look at him.

He reaches your face again and holds on like it’s important. Your tears won’t stop falling. A whimper falls from your lips when you realize he won’t let you leave.

Bucky panics.

His swallow seems to hurt him. Everything he does seems to hurt him.

“Oh, sweetheart - fuck, fuck, I didn’t-” He lets out a rough breath, one of his hands letting go of you to scrub over his face, pushing through his hair in frustration.

Not at you.

At himself.

“Doll, I didn’t - Jesus Christ, I didn’t know.”

It comes out hoarse, scraped down to nothing but feeling. Each word drags from his throat like sandpaper against silence. Coarse and raspy.

And then he’s shaking his head, hands sliding to your shoulders, his hold firm, his eyes darting over your face like he is trying to memorize it, searching for the right words in the curve of your lips, the glisten of your tears, the way your breathing is a single shuddering mess.

“I didn’t - fuck, I didn’t mean-”

He seems to hold back a scream.

Sucking in another sharp breath, he squeezes his eyes shut like he’s in pain, angry at himself, wanting to go back and rewrite everything, tear out every page where he made you feel like you were anything but his.

You wish you could believe it.

“Bucky-” you croak out.

“No, don’t-” His head doesn’t stop shaking. His jaw is clenched tight. Hands shaking against you. “Don’t say my name like that.”

“Like what?” Your voice is whisper-thin.

His breath shudders out, and when his eyes meet yours again, they are so earnest. Glossy with a sheen of tears.

“Like it’s over.”

Your throat closes around your next breath, never making it reach your lungs.

Because what is he saying? Nothing ever had the chance to be anything.

“I didn’t know, doll,” he whispers, voice breaking. “I swear to God, I didn’t know. You gotta believe me, I - fuck, I never wanted to hurt you. Never wanted you to feel like- I didn’t think you’d-”

He cuts himself off, voice choking.

His hands drop suddenly, like he doesn’t even deserve to hold you anymore. Like the guilt is weighing them down.

And then, unsure and hesitantly, he lifts one of them again and pauses before cupping your face, waiting for something - permission, maybe, or just a sign that you won’t pull away this time.

When you don’t, when you just keep standing there, frozen and broken and bewildered, he lets his palm settle warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing so lightly it sends a shiver down your back.

“Tell me how to fix it. Tell me I can,” he pleads, like he means it. Like he would do anything. “Tell me what to do, baby. Anything. I’d do anything. Just gotta tell me. Please,” he chokes out.

Cars roll past you. There are voices in the distance. A neon sign flickers. But none of it touches this.

This thing between you.

Bucky’s hand shakes against your cheek. His breath stirs against your skin so ragged and he leans in. His forehead presses to yours, his body curling toward you like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, just needing to be close.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps out. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Never have you seen Bucky like this. He keeps things easy, keeps things light, and shrugs off pain like it never quite reaches him. But it does now.

It consumes him.

His fingers curl at the back of your neck, not pulling, just holding, grounding himself against you. And when you continue standing there, breath shaky, tears still trembling in your lashes, his whole body sags.

His chest heaves with a breath so deep it sounds like it’s costing him something.

“I never meant for this to happen. Please, believe me.”

His forehead presses harder to yours, seemingly trying to press his words straight into you, that maybe if he gets close enough you’ll feel how much he means them.

And you do. You just don’t know what the hell is going on.

He lets out a sound that resembles a sob. And then you feel the damp heat of a tear where his face brushes against yours.

Bucky is crying.

It breaks you. You don’t know what to do with all this pain. His and yours. Don’t know how to ever let it go.

You pull back. Just slightly. Just enough to breathe, to think, to process.

But Bucky’s whole body tenses, and his eyes squeeze shut as if he knew it was coming but it still pains him. Bracing himself for something he already knows is going to hurt. His hands drop to his sides.

And maybe that should give you some kind of satisfaction, a tiny sense of justice for the nights you spent lying awake, wondering if you meant anything to him while he had his hands on someone else.

But it doesn’t.

Because the way he is looking at you, when he cracks his eyes open again, when he meets your gaze with so much open ache, makes your chest hurt. It makes something inside of you quake.

“Bucky,” you start, but your own voice is so small, so lost. You shake your head, scanning his face, trying to piece it together, to make sense of something that refuses to fit. How the tables have turned. You just can’t seem to find the irony in it. “What are you even - I don’t - I don’t I understand.”

His throat bobs, thick and tight, and he pulls in a breath like it’s the last one he’s going to get.

“I love you.”

Your mind blanks. You flatline. Your knees go weak.

He says it like it’s the simplest thing to say. As if it is the most obvious thing in the world. But it isn’t.

Because if it was then why has he spent all those nights with those seemingly meaningless girls. Why has he let you ache for him while he touched someone else.

“I love you,” he says again, softer, trying to make sure you believe it.

But you don’t know how to.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You feel the words, heavy and warm and terrifying, but your body doesn’t know what to do with them. Your mind is screaming at you to run, to protect yourself, to build the walls back up before it’s too late, but your heart doesn’t listen.

Bucky’s hand trembles when it reaches for you, fingertips ghosting over your jaw, waiting, waiting, waiting for you to pull away.

You don’t and he steps closer again.

His whole body thrums as if he is scared to touch you but more scared not to. He looks at you with those red-rimmed and puffy eyes, so tremendously bare, holding onto your own eyes like he is drowning and you are the only thing keeping him afloat.

“Say something, doll,” he pleads, his voice so unsteady, that it guts you.

But what could you say?

Because love is not supposed to feel like this, to hurt like this. It isn’t supposed to feel like your heart has been split open and stitched back together all in the same breath.

But looking at him and at the way his eyes are just as pleading as his words, at the way he is breaking right in front of you - it makes you wonder if maybe it was hurting him all along, too.

“You-” you begin, voice barely more than a whisper. You have to stop, have to pull in a breath that doesn’t seem to want to settle, have to force your hands to stay at your sides instead of reaching for something - for him - that you don’t know if you can take. “But that-” Another inhale, sharp and broken. Your chest hurts. Your whole body hurts. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Bucky exhales, long and slow and then he drops his head. Shoulders slumping, spine curling, like something inside of him, has just given out.

Guilt.

It sits heavy in his frame, in the set of his jaw, in the way his hands jerk like he wants to touch you but knows he shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” he mutters, a humorless little laugh escaping, barely more than a breath. He drags a hand down his face, through his hair, before letting it fall uselessly at his side. His voice is lower when he speaks again, raspier, weighed down by something that feels an awful lot like regret. “I know.”

You watch him, waiting. Because he owes you this. Because he cracked open something you weren’t ready for, something you tried to bury, and now you need to understand.

And Bucky must feel that. Because after a beat, after a deep, shuddering breath, he looks at you again.

“I didn’t think I could have you,” he admits, voice quiet. Cautious. The words fragile in his mouth. “Didn’t think I was allowed to even want you. To this extent, anyway.”

Air enters you unevenly, shaking on the way in like a shiver made of sound. “Bucky-”

“You’re my best friend,” he pushes on, stepping in just a fraction, like he can’t help himself. His voice is getting rougher, rawer, like something in him is unwinding too fast for him to stop it. “I didn’t wanna mess that up, y’know? Didn’t wanna lose you over somethin’ I couldn’t control.”

Something tightens in your chest. Something shifts.

“So you-” you swallow, shaking your head, trying to put it together, trying to make sense of it. “So you just went around to go get yourself other girls you can fuck?”

Bucky flinches. Actually flinches.

Gaze dropping in shame, his features form a grimace. “I tried,” he croaks out, gesturing at his chest with one hand. “Tried to stop feeling like this. Tried to move on, tried to-” He exhales sharply, tilting his head side to side, something torn playing out with the movement. “It didn’t work. Nothin’ worked. Didn’t even make it easier. But I was afraid to face it. Really face it. So I just kept going.”

It hurts.

It hurts in a way you don’t know how to hold. Don’t know how to carry.

You thought, for so long, that the way you love him, ache for him, is a one-sided agony.

But he is confessing to you, eyes red and weary, voice splintering, telling you that he’s been afraid to speak it aloud too.

That he loves you, that he tried to kill it, that he thought losing himself in someone else would somehow erase you from his mind.

Bucky’s words are a fist curling around your ribs, squeezing the air from your lungs.

It should matter. It should mean something that he’s standing in front of you, breaking apart, pleading for you to understand. Shouldn’t it be enough that he’s telling you it was always you? That no one else ever came close?

But he still touched them.

Still chose them, even if only for a meaningless night.

While you sat in your room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if you were going insane. While you clenched your fists so tight beneath your sheets at night, biting your tongue, swallowing it down, because Bucky is your friend and friends don’t ache like this.

And yet, he is telling you, showing you, he aches too.

But instead of sitting with it, instead of letting it consume him the way it consumed you, he tried to make it disappear.

He tried to fuck it away.

And now he looks at you like you are the only thing that has ever mattered, like the ground beneath his feet, is unsteady, like he is afraid you are going to bolt at any second.

You feel like the ground beneath your feet shits a fraction of an inch, not enough to send you falling, but enough to make you question if you were ever standing solid in the first place.

“But, doll, it-” he rushes forward, watching your pain, stepping into your space until there is barely anything between you. “It never meant anything. Swear to god, none of ‘em ever meant something to me.” His hands wrap around yours, squeezing, grounding, begging. “They weren’t you. Couldn’t be you. Didn’t matter how hard I tried, how many times I told myself to stop thinking about you because you’re supposed to be my best friend, but I wanted so much more than that - it didn’t matter. Nothin’ worked.”

He is struggling to force the words out, but he does. And they leave him with a catch in his voice. Faltering.

“I thought about you, sweetheart. Every fuckin’ time.” His voice turns frantic and he leans in to make it convince you. He watches your lips tremble and shakes his head quickly. “Thought about how you’d feel. How you’d sound.”

Your breath stalls.

Bucky swallows, taking a quick pause but continuing, voice growing softer. Lower. Reverent. “Tried to picture you instead. How you’d look under me, wrapped around me. So goddamn beautiful.” His voice cracks. “But it wasn’t you. And I know it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it.”

He stumbles over his words, afraid of saying too much, of pushing too far, or admitting too much - but it doesn’t stop hurting.

Even if you know it might not be fair.

But the thought of him with them, the thought of his hands gripping someone else’s skin, his lips murmuring something soft against someone else’s throat - it makes you sick.

And he sees it.

You try to blink back another wave of tears.

His hands are on your face again, thumbs swiping furiously at your damp cheeks like he can rub the hurt away.

“Please tell me I didn’t ruin this.” His voice cracks through the words, the panic breaking through. Your silence seems to suffocate him, squeezing his ribs until there is no space left for air.

“I’m so sorry, baby! I wish I could take it all back. I would.” His bottom lip trembles and he bites down on it before continuing. “Tell me I can fix this. There’s gotta be somethin’ I can do. Anything.”

You blink rapidly, vision swimming, breath hiccuping in your throat. You don’t know if there is anything to fix, if there was ever anything there, to begin with, but he is looking at you like there was. Like there is. Like it is still hanging in the air between you, waiting to be caught, waiting to be named.

And you want to catch it. To press it to your heart and cherish it.

But the wounds are fresh. Still bleeding. Still open.

The images you conjured up in your mind, him with all those girls. The sounds of him bringing one after the other home - the routine.

The giggling. The keys. The apartment door. More giggling. His chuckles. The hallway. His bedroom door. The goodbyes. The mornings.

But worst of all is that you can’t even blame him.

Because what was he supposed to do? Wait for something that was never promised? Hold out hope for something that was never offered?

You had no claim on him.

But still, you hate how he tried to fuck you out of his system. Hate that he couldn’t, that he’s standing here now, telling you it was all for nothing, that you were always in his head, in his bones, and that that somehow is supposed to make it better.

You don’t know if it does now. But you hope - you hope so dearly - that it will get better. If he’ll stick with you.

“No more girls.” The words choke out of you, weak and broken, barely a breath. But he jolts like you have screamed them.

“Never,” he breathes immediately, shaking his head as if to get rid of his own images, gripping you tighter, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks, his eyes burning through yours. “No more, baby. No one else. Not ever.”

Your breath catches, body sways.

There is a burn behind your ribs, not quite pain, but not far from it. It is something that pulses in time with your heartbeat. Too quick. Too uneven.

“Only you,” he adds, his forehead dropping to yours, noses brushing, his breath warm against your lips, his hands trembling where they hold you. “It’s only ever been you.”

Heat rises up your throat, something between nausea and electricity, a burst of too much all at once.

“I got a lot to make up for.” His tone is unraveling at the seams. But it sounds firmer now. Convicted. “I know that. I know I- fuck, I screwed this up before I even knew I had a chance. And that’s on me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, because it’s too much - his voice, his touch, the way he is looking at you like you hung the damn moon when you’ve spent years feeling invisible to him in the way that mattered.

“I don’t wanna rush this, alright?”

You blink up at him. Your chest feels stretched too tight, as if the ribs themselves are holding onto something they shouldn’t, something too large, something too consuming.

“I don’t wanna mess this up more than I already have. I don’t wanna push or expect anythin’ from you - I just wanna do this right. For you.” His voice wavers on the last word, still scared of saying the wrong thing, scared of losing something he only just realized he had. “You understand me?”

You nod wordlessly. Almost feeling hypnotized by him. His eyes are so intense. So full.

“I’ve been waitin’ for this, hopin’ for this - Christ, I don’t even know how long.”

Your stomach flips, something curling in your stomach at the heaviness of his confession, at the realization that you weren’t alone in this. Maybe never have been.

“And now that it’s happenin’ - now that I have you, even if I don’t deserve it - I wanna take my time. I wanna make this good for you. Have to. I have to make this right,” he says, voice filled with something gravelly, rough like something barely holding together.

His fingers slide over your jaw, tracing along the column of your throat, memorizing the feel of you beneath his hands.

“And I hate-” his voice falters, eyes squeezing shut for a moment before he forces himself to look at you again. “I hate that it’s happening like this. That I hurt you first. That I didn’t see this sooner.”

“Bucky-”

He cuts you off with his eyes and a shake of his head.

“Please I- I gotta do this. Gotta say this, baby.”

You nod.

He closes his eyes again for a moment like he wants to go back and shake his past self by the shoulders, tell him to wake the hell up and stop hurting the one girl he ever cared about.

He continues, voice hoarse. “I would do anything to make this different. Better. The way you deserve.”

Your breath is shallow, not quite catching, but hovering just short of where it should be, as if your body can’t decide whether to brace itself for collapse.

You’ve spent so long breaking for him, wanting him in ways he never seemed to want you back. But now he is pouring his heart out and asking for something he already has but isn’t sure he is worthy of.

“You don’t gotta say anythin’ right now, doll,” Bucky whispers. Afraid of scaring you off. “I know I shoulda told you sooner.” He grimaces, disgusted with himself. “I shoulda known sooner. I was so fuckin’ stupid. So fuckin’ blind.”

You don’t even notice you started leaning further into him.

Bucky stares at you for a moment. You look back.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly. Whispers really. He exhales shakily and you feel the breath fan along your cheeks. “But I swear to God, I will.”

You don’t weigh the hurt against the want, don’t let the war in your head talk you out of your next move.

Your hands reach up, curling into the fabric of his shirt and before he can say anything else - before he can tear himself apart further - you kiss him.

And for a split second, Bucky freezes.

Not believing this is happening, not expecting it even after everything he just told you.

But then, he exhales this soft and quivering breath against your lips, relief knocking the air out of his lungs.

One hand flies to your waist, pulling you in, the other threading into your hair. He kisses you back like he is starving, like he has been dying for this, like he can’t believe you are real and this moment is something he’s imagined a thousand times but never thought he’d get to have.

And he is so warm. So solid. His lips move against yours, soft and slow at first - savoring you, afraid to go too fast, to push too much. But when you let out a little sigh and your fingers tighten, Bucky melts, pressing in closer, enveloping you in his arms in a way that has you feeling he tries to make sure you never go anywhere else again.

He breathes you in like you are something holy, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. He is not forceful. He takes what he can get and he cherishes it. Like he said, he wants to take his time with you. It makes you fall in love with him even more.

It’s like he can’t believe you are even letting him have this. But he kisses you with a hope and a determination that this will not be the only time he gets to have this.

And when you pull back again, he rests his forehead against yours once more. You feel the way his chest rises and falls against your own, the way his breath shakes, the way his grip does not loosen at all.

“Jesus, doll,” he rasps, panting. “You tryna kill me?”

And the way he says it, the way he looks at you, so full of longing and desire and relief makes you realize that maybe he’s been suffering just as much as you have.

“I want you. It’s as simple as that. I’ve spent a great deal too much of my life already trying to convince myself that I can make do with less but I can’t. You hear me? I’m done. I’m not giving up. A life without you is not enough.”

- Beau Taplin

[incorrectmarvelquotesss]

— drunken night —

Warnings: alcohol intoxication, excessive drinking, fluff, sprinkle of angst, pregnancy, allusions to violence, nudity (not sexually), a few suggestive comments

Summary: Jason comes home from a boys night out.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Female Reader from She’s Mine

Word Count: ~4.7k

A/N: I was initially writing a drabble, but I got carried away. So it’s a little longer than expected, but full of cute drunk Jason. Please, feast upon this!

DC M.List || Navigation M.List || MCU M.List

Jason fumbled with his keys, trying to unlock the front door, his coordination impaired by the alcohol. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he managed to open the door and step inside. Roy and Dick followed behind, still thoroughly entertained by the entire situation. They toed off their boots and threw their jackets on a sofa. 

“Careful there, Jaybird. Don’t want you tripping over your own feet now, do we?” Dick drawled out, a little tipsy, but much better than Jason. Jason shot both of them a withering glare before stumbling into the living room. He collapsed onto the couch, groaning as his muscles finally relaxed from the strain of walking. 

“You both are assholes, you know that?” He seethed at them. It was their fault he was drunk anyway—he would never admit it was actually his stubbornness to prove to them he wouldn’t be the first to cut out of the drinking game. 

Roy smirked, unable to resist taking another jab at him. “Yeah, but we’re your assholes, dude. And right now, we’re having the time of our lives watching you stumble about like a drunken buffoon.”

Jason groaned again, closing his eyes. “Thanks for the support. Really feeling the love here,” he grumbled out sarcastically. His head throbbed at the thought of you seeing him like this. 

Dick laughed, unable to hold back his amusement. “Trust me, little bird,” he started with a shit-eating grin as he flopped down to the couch, “this is how we show our love. We lovingly tease and humiliate your drunk ass.”

Roy chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s right, dude. This is just our way of showing we care.” He glanced at the stairs lead for a moment before his gaze flickering back to Jason. “We’re taking the piss out of your state right now because we care. It's called tough love.”

Jason lifted his head just enough to give them a sarcastic smile. “Oh, I feel so loved right now. My heart is just bursting with joy and appreciation.”

“Yeah, Jay. Consider yourself lucky we’re not recording this entire scene for future blackmail purposes,” Dick chimed in, a cheeky grin on his face. 

A floorboard creaked overhead and Jason’s eyes widened as he and the other two men snapped their heads up towards the ceiling. “Please don’t tell me that’s her coming down the stairs...” he muttered, bracing himself for the worst. Dick and Roy turned their attention to the staircase, curious to see what will unfold when you came down at this time of night. 

“Oh, mate, you’re in trouble now,” Dick said with a chuckle, unable to hide his excitement.

Jason groaned, feeling the effects of the alcohol still weighing heavy on him. He tried to sit up a bit straighter on the couch, but it only made his head spin more. “Yeah, I know... I’m screwed.”

You came down to the last step, arms crossed and an unamused expression in your face at the sight of your drunk husband and his tipsy friends. Your hair was in a braid while you wore an old band tee of his to cover your big belly fully and some maternity sweatpants. 

Jason’s eyes widened as he saw you standing at the bottom of the stairs, your arms crossed and a look of annoyance on your face. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, bracing himself for the impending storm. 

Roy snickered, loving every moment of Jason’s discomfort. “Oh, dude, you’re in for it now. The missus doesn’t look too happy, does she?” Roy exchanged a glance with Dick and tilted his head towards the door, a silent plea to leave before you ultimately started your lecture for Jason. 

Dick nodded eagerly, not wanting to be in the middle of a couple’s quarrel. “We should get going,” Dick announced, nodding at you. 

You nodded back, eyes softening slightly at the two. “Do you two have a ride home?” You asked, knowing if Jason was drunk, they’d also be tipsy enough not to drive. 

“Uh, yeah, we’ll be fine. We can call a taxi or something,” Dick replied, standing up from the couch.

“I can—” you started, about to offer to call an uber. 

Dick held up a hand to stop you. “No, no. We don’t want to impose any further. We’ll make our own way home. Besides, we’d hate to further ruin your night any more than we already have.”

You hummed. “Thank you for bringing him home safe,” you murmured, nodding at them. Dick and Roy nodded back, feeling relieved that the tension had eased a bit. 

“No problem. We’ll be sure to keep a closer eye on him next time,” Roy said, giving you a small smile. 

You smiled back slightly. “Be safe, you two.”

Dick and Roy nodded again, grabbing their jackets that they had thrown onto the sofa and heading towards the door. 

“We will, Y/N. Take care,” Dick called over his shoulder as he opened the front door. 

Roy followed close behind, stepping into his boots. “Yeah, we’ll be careful. Thanks again for everything.” And with that, the pair left the house, the door closing softly behind them.

Jason watched in silence as Dick and Roy left, feeling a mix of relief and guilt. He knew he had caused quite a scene in front of them, both at home and at the bar, and he dreaded the thought of them ribbing him relentlessly for the things he had said and done. 

You glanced at him then, hands going to your hips. The movement made the tee stretch across your baby bump and the sight made Jason soften a little. He loved your bump. He loved touching it and talking to the baby. He was almost obsessed with it. 

As you turned your gaze a little sterner, Jason couldn’t help but wince. He knew that look all too well. It was the look that told him he was in for a lecture.

“Why are you so drunk?” You asked, feeling a little irritated at the fact that Jason would drink so much. You wanted him to have fun, but right now he was totally shit-faced. 

Jason looked up at you, feeling a little sheepish under your gaze. “I know, love, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so drunk,” he replied, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly. He knew he had overdone it, and he couldn't deny feeling a bit guilty for letting things get out of hand. 

When you seemed to look unimpressed, he sighed and knew he’d have to come forward with a more sincere apology. 

“I guess the drinks just went down too easily, and before I knew it, I was pretty smashed.” He paused for a moment before adding, “I’m sorry for putting you through that. I know it’s not a great look, coming home like this.”

For some stupid reason, perhaps because of how much you loved him, your eyes softened at his genuine apology. “Stupid,” you muttered as one last word, an insult filled with fondness, before you let a hint of a smile grace your lips. 

Jason couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief wash over him as he saw your features soften even just the tiniest bit. He knew he was lucky to have you in his life and he never wanted to take that for granted. The way you had just called him stupid, but with a hint of affection in your voice, reminded him of the playful banter you two often engaged in.

He couldn’t help but crack a small smile in response. Even though he was in trouble for his drunk behaviour, he couldn’t help but find your affection endearing.

“Yeah, I know I’m a stupid drunk. I just got carried away, I guess. But I promise I won’t do it again,” he said, trying to sound sincere despite the alcohol still coursing through his system.

You sighed, shoulders loosening with the breath escaping you. “Tell me that when you’re sober,” you retorted gently, taking a seat on the sofa beside him. Your hands rested under your belly as you glanced at him. 

Jason chuckled softly, feeling a flutter of affection for you as you sat down next to him. Even though he knew he was still in hot water, he couldn't help but feel a sense of comfort in your presence. 

“Alright, I’ll tell you that when I’m sober,” he said, his eyes meeting yours. “But you know I can’t promise that I won’t have a drink or two again. It’s just... sometimes I need to unwind, y’know?”

You nodded, understanding the need to loosen up after a rough patrol or even a stuffy gala that he had to attend. You smiled slightly and nudged his shoulder with yours. “Just one or two.”

Jason smiled warmly as he felt your shoulder nudge him. The small gesture felt like reassurance; you weren’t angry with him, only concerned and slightly frustrated. 

“Just one or two,” he agreed, holding up two fingers in a mock salute. “I’ll try to stay within my limits.” 

“Good.” You stared at him for a moment, just raking your eyes over his flushed face and disheveled hair, finding it endear. You nodded, shifting slightly so that you could get up without losing your balance due to the bump. “You reek.”

Jason chuckled, knowing that you had a point. “Yeah, I suppose I do.” He rubbed his face with his hands, the smell of alcohol and smoke clinging to his skin and clothes. “I could use a nice hot shower.”

“Maybe not a shower with your jelly legs,” you teased, knowing very well that when Jason was wasted, he often stumbled and tripped over air. 

Jason chuckled weakly, knowing that you were right. Even though he was a highly trained vigilante, when he was this drunk, he couldn’t even walk without stumbling. 

“Yeah, you might have a point there.” He sighed as he looked at you. “Do you think you can help me to the bathroom? I’m afraid I’ll fall headfirst into the toilet unless you help me.”

“Yeah,” you said, nodding at his ask for assistance. He had done this a few times for you when you two had first started dating and you used to come home a little too drunk after a night out with friends. You supposed this was how he felt when he was caring for you; both finding it annoying and endearing. 

You helped him up from the couch. “I’ll run a bath for you, yeah?” You led him to the stairs and then paused, glancing between the stairs and your wobbly husband. “You think you’ll be fine on the stairs?”

Jason looked at the stairs with a mixture of defiance and hesitation. He didn’t want to look weak in front of you—or anyone for that matter, but he knew he wasn’t in the best shape to take on a flight of stairs. 

“Yeah, I think I can manage,” he said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “Just, uh, keep a hold of me, yeah?” 

You nodded. “Just so you know, I’ll let go of you if I think I’m going to fall with you. I have the little one to think about.”

Jason nodded, sharing your concern for the baby’s safety. "Alright, that’s fair," he said, draping an arm heavily around your shoulders for support. "And don’t worry, I wouldn’t have let you fall."

With your help, Jason began the slow and careful ascent up the stairs. He clung to you and the stairs like a lifeline, his grip tight on your shoulder and the railing. Every step was a strain, his legs feeling like jelly and his head spinning from the alcohol. But Jason made it up the stairs, albeit with a lot of stumbling and muttered curses.

Despite the seriousness of safety, you couldn’t help but find the situation a little amusing; here you were, guiding your drunken husband up the stairs like a wobbly toddler. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you reached the top of the stairs and entered the bathroom. “Alright, sit down here,” you instructed, guiding him to the edge of the bathtub. 

Once he was sat, you gently helped him out of his clothes, now a little damp in some places with sweat. 

Despite his inebriated state, Jason tried his best to help you undress him, but it was a clumsy and awkward endeavor. He was grateful for your help, but also felt a bit embarrassed at his lack of coordination. Once Jason was undressed, he sat on the edge of the bathtub, looking up at you with a goofy smile.

You smiled back unconsciously, something that often was merely a result of seeing Jason happy. “What is it?” You asked in a quiet murmur, started to fill the tub with water, adding some epsom salt and lavender oil as well. 

Jason’s drunken smirk grew wider as he watched you prepare the bath, the smell of the soothing oils filling the room. “Nothing, just enjoying the view,” he replied jokingly, his eyes scanning over your form. “You look pretty damn hot, y’know that? No, wait, scratch that, you look absolutely gorgeous. Beautiful. Stunning.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head fondly as a light wave of heat flushed your cheeks. For as drunk as he was, he was still the same flirt you knew. You didn’t know how he did it, even after three years of marriage, but he always managed to make you flustered. 

Jason let out a satisfied hum, enjoying the sight of you flustered as he complimented you. Even in his drunken state, he couldn’t resist teasing you. He knew just the right things to say to make you squirm and it was a skill he was proud of. 

“See, that's the reaction I was hoping for,” he said, pointing at your flustered state. “You still get all bashful after three years.”

You rolled your eyes playfully and nudged him, turning off the water. “Get in, you flirt.” 

Jason chuckled and slowly stood up, holding onto the edge of the bathtub for support. He stepped into the warm water and sunk down, letting out a sigh of contentment as the heat seeped into his muscles and joints. 

“Ah, this is nice,” he mumbled, his eyes half-closed. “Join me?” He peeked up at you with a smirk plastered to his face. 

You shook your head and sat down on the edge of the tub. “No. You’re drunk.” You tucked a hand under your belly while the other rested on the edge of tub to keep your balance. 

“Damn. Can't blame a man for trying.” Jason pouted playfully, but he knew you were right. Despite his desires, he was in no condition to be intimate with you right now. He leaned back against the bathtub, soaking in the warmth. 

“You're such a buzzkill, you know that?” He joked, the words slurring together slightly. He didn’t blame you for not wanting to get into the tub. If roles were reversed, he wouldn’t have gotten in either. 

You merely hummed as he moved to rest his head against your thigh. Jason closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling of his head resting against your thigh. It was a simple but comforting gesture and it made him feel even more relaxed. 

“You know,” he said, his words still slurring slightly. “I don’t deserve you.”

You raised an eyebrow at his unexpected confession. “What makes you say that?” You asked softly, your free hand moving to gently stroke his hair. Jason groaned, enjoying the feel of your hand through his hair. 

“I just... I don’t know. I’m a mess, y’know? I screw up all the time. I'm always away on patrols and missions, I've got a stubbornness problem, and I'm hardly a ray of sunshine.” He paused for a moment, then added, “You deserve someone better than me.”

You sighed softly, your hand still stroking his hair. “Jason, you may have your flaws, but we all do. And you’re not a mess, you’re just human. You do what you have to do for your job, and sometimes it's hard on you.” 

You kissed his temple, whispering the rest against his skin. “And as for someone better than you, I don’t want anyone else; I want you.” 

Jason opened his eyes to look up at you, his gaze searching your face. He could see the sincerity in your eyes and it made his heart ache. 

“I just feel like I’m a disappointment,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m supposed to be the strong one, the protector. But here I am, drunk and needing you to take care of me again.” 

You leaned down, gently placing a kiss on his damp forehead. “You are strong, but that doesn’t mean you have to be strong all the time. Everyone needs help and support sometimes, even you.”

You continued, “As for being a protector, that doesn’t mean you can never show any weakness. You may be a vigilante, but you’re also human, and humans make mistakes and stumbles. And I’m here for you, to pull you back up when you stumble.” 

You rubbed your belly. “We’ll always be here.”

Jason’s eyes softened at your words and the gesture of rubbing your belly. He placed a hand on top yours, feeling the warmth of it and the knowledge that there was a baby growing inside you. 

“Yeah,” he said faintly. “You and the little one. You two... you’re my everything.”

“Yeah.” You smiled, cupping his cheek. “And you’re our everything.” 

You wanted to take every little self-deprecation thought of his and drown it in your reassuring words and sweet kisses, but you knew it would take a lifetime to do so. The best you could do was just tell him. Remind him why you chose him. 

Instead you settled on changing subject for now. “Boy or girl?” You asked with a glint in your eyes. 

Jason looked up at you, feeling the warmth of your hand on his stubbled cheek. The change of subject caught him off guard, but he appreciated it nonetheless. He pondered the question for a moment, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“Well, I don’t think we'll know for a while,” he said with a shrug. “But if I had to guess... I think it’s gonna be a girl.” 

You raised a brow, silently asking why. 

Jason chuckled softly, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I don’t know, just a feeling I have,” he said with a shrug. “I think it’s gonna be a little girl who’s as beautiful and strong as her mother.”

“And if it’s a boy?” You asked, not expecting anything but the best from him. You knew all he wanted was a healthy and happy baby. So did you. 

Jason smiled, a warm and genuine smile, at your question. “If it’s a boy, then he’s gonna be a little hellraiser, just like me,” he joked, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “And I'll teach him everything I know about the world and how to take care of himself. But most importantly, I’ll teach him how to treat a woman right.”

He took your hand in his, his touch soft and gentle. "But no matter if it's a boy or a girl, they're going to have the best mother in the world. And that's all that matters in the end."

“And father,” you said, tugging his locks gently to emphasize your point. 

Jason chuckled softly, his head moving with the tugging of his hair. “Yeah, yeah. Of course, the best father in the world too.” He looked up at you, a small grin on his face. “Can I be honest with you for a moment?”

“Of course. Always.” You stroked his cheek as you reached for a wash cloth with your other hand. 

Jason sighed, his eyes closing briefly as he leaned his cheek into your touch. “I’m scared,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “Terrified, actually. I don’t know anything about being a father. I had a terrible upbringing, and I’m afraid I’ll screw this up.”

You hummed, rinsing the cloth and then gently trailing it over the expanse of his back, not even blinking at the scars you had seen so many times that littered his body. 

“Can I be honest with you, baby?” You murmured, waiting for his response. 

Jason nodded, his eyes still closed as he relished the feel of the cloth gliding over his back. “Of course, sweetheart,” he murmured back, his voice low and rough.

“I think you’re worried for no reason,” you whispered, pressing the cloth into his skin a little firmer to drive in your point. “You’re attentive, caring, and responsible. You love with all you got and that’s what matters. Maybe you can’t be home all the time, but the quality of the time you do spend with us is what matters.”

Jason opened his eyes, his gaze settling on your face as you spoke. Your words sunk in, each one chipping away at the self-doubt that had settled in the back of his mind. You were right. He was more than capable of being a good father. The fear of screwing up was natural, but he had to trust himself and his abilities to do right by you and the baby. 

“You always know what to say,” he murmured, his voice tinged with an edge of amazement and affection. 

You grinned. “That’s what happens when I know your brain, Mr. Todd, and, as your wife, I’m supposed to know what to say.”

Jason chuckled weakly at that, his shoulders shaking slightly in the warm water. “Supposed to, huh?” he said, a small smirk playing at his lips. “Well, I’m glad you do. I swear, you’re the only one who can put up with me and my bullshit.” 

You put away the wash cloth with a gentle smile before grabbing his shampoo and pouring a decent amount on your hand. “I love you,” you murmured before massaging it into his scalp. 

Jason closed his eyes again, the feeling of your fingers massaging the shampoo into his scalp making him sigh in contentment. “I love you too,” he murmured back, his voice low and raspy. As you continued to rub his scalp, he couldn't help but let out a soft moan, the mixture of the heat and your touch lulling him into a state of blissful relaxation.

As you worked through his hair, you noticed how tension seemed to seep out of his body. His shoulders relaxed, and the lines on his forehead seemed to soften. You smiled softly, loving the effect you had on him.

“Feeling better?” You asked quietly, your fingertips tracing lazy circles on his scalp.

Jason hummed in agreement, his head lolling back against the edge of the tub. “Much better.” He opened his eyes briefly to look up at you, a lazy smile gracing his features. “You have magic hands, you know that?”

You chuckled softly. “Is that so?” You continued massaging his scalp for a few more moments before rinsing the shampoo from his hair. The warm water cascaded down over his head, the suds running in rivulets down his neck and back.

As you finished rinsing the shampoo out, you noticed his gaze was on your belly, his hand moving to rest on the small bump.

Jason’s eyes were drawn to the swell of your belly, his hand reaching up to rest gently on top of it. His touch was tender, almost reverent. It was clear that he was already feeling protective of the life growing inside you.

"You're starting to show a little bit more now," he commented softly, his finger tracing a gentle circle around your belly button.

You hummed, feeling the slight swell of your belly under his hand. It was a constant reminder of the life growing inside you, and it made your heart flutter every time you thought about it. 

“Yeah,“ you murmured, your hand covering his. “Won’t be able to hide it much longer with these old shirts of yours.” 

Jason chuckled, his eyes shifting to the oversized shirt you were currently wearing. It was one of his old ones, the fabric faded from years of wear and tear. 

“I like seeing you in my clothes,” he said, his fingers lightly tracing your hip. 

You hummed. 

“Makes me think about what you're wearing beneath them,” he added, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

You laughed then, flicking his nose and getting up carefully to make sure your balance didn’t falter with the growing weight of the baby. 

Jason chuckled at the playful flick on his nose, his eyes watching you as you stood up, carefully making sure you didn't lose balance. “Careful there, sweetheart,” he said, his hand resting on your hip briefly to steady you. 

You could see the weariness in his eyes now, the exhaustion slowly taking over as the effects of the alcohol wore off. He looked tired, both physically and emotionally. 

“Looks like the alcohol is wearing off,” you murmured, your hand tracing his shoulder.

Jason nodded weakly in agreement, his head lolling back against the edge of the tub. “Yeah... it's catching up to me now,” he said, his voice hoarse and tired. “I’m gonna pass out any second, I think.”

You smiled. “Let me grab your towel and get you dried up.” 

Jason grunted in assent, his eyes fluttering open as he let you attend to him. He was too tired to protest, and secretly he relished the feeling of your touch, tender and loving, as you dried him off with a soft towel.

You draped the towel over his shoulders, gently patting his back and chest dry. Jason leaned into your touch, his body heavy and weary. You could see the exhaustion etched in the lines of his face, the weight of the world and his demons catching up with him.

“Come on, baby,” you said, grabbing his bicep and helping him. “Let’s get you in some cozy pyjamas and then in bed.”

Jason nodded, allowing you to help him out of the tub. He wobbled a bit on his feet, clearly still feeling the effects of the alcohol, but he managed to stay upright with your support.

“Cozy pyjamas, huh?” he mumbled dryly as you helped him walk to the bedroom. 

You chuckled softly. “I suppose it would just be a soft shirt and sweatpants.”

“Probably more comfortable, anyway,” he agreed, his arm looped around your shoulders for support. He shuffled to the bed and collapsed onto it with a weary sigh, his body immediately sinking into the mattress. 

You quickly grabbed a pair of grey sweatpants and an old, soft t-shirt, helping him into the clothing. He was practically half-dead at this point, barely able to move on his own. 

Once he was dressed, you helped him under the covers, tucking him in snugly before making your way around to your side of the bed. You settled into bed next to him, the sheets cool against your skin. You could hear Jason’s ragged breathing, a sign of just how tired he was.

Jason grunted in appreciation as you tucked him in, his eyes already drooping shut. He was exhausted, his body desperate for rest.

You reached out, gently stroking his hair, letting your fingers trail through the messy, damp locks. Jason let out a soft moan, his head instinctively tilting towards your touch. He may have been drunk and exhausted, but he still craved your affection.

“I’m right here, baby,” you whispered, your hand continuing to stroke his hair. “Just sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Jason mumbled something incoherent, his words slurred with sleepiness. But you could tell he was comforted by your presence. He shifted closer to you, his head finding a place on your shoulder and a hand on your stomach protectively as he finally succumbed to sleep. 

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[yelenasdiary]

Little reader au! Reader is 11 and is being bullied at school because she has two moms. One of the kids calls her mom's a slur and she punches them. The school tries to suspend her and mama bears Nat and Wanda come to the rescue defending reader. Maybe ends with an ice cream reward??

Message Sent

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x Daughter! Reader, Wanda Maximoff x Daughter! Reader

Summary: You got in trouble at school for standing up for yourself, 

Angst, Comfort

Warnings: Homophobic slur (Fag), Mentions of homophobia, Mentions of Blood | 1.1K

AC: Thank you for sending this, I hope you enjoy! x

A Widow’s Sunshine Masterlist

The playground was buzzing with chatter, laughter and the occasional shout of excitement as you ran around playing ‘tag your it’ with your friends. You raced around the playground just like your late uncle, Pietro, would’ve, you were always the hardest one for your friends to tag. But the laughter and big smile soon turned to fear as you saw the schoolyard bullies approaching. 

“Look!” One shouted, pointing at you. “it’s the girl with two moms!” Snickered Bailey, a boy from your class. He was only a few inches taller than you but somehow it always felt like he towered over you. His friends, Drew and Blake, laughed as they stood behind him, pointing at you. Your cheeks flushed with humiliation; the entire playground was now looking at you. 

Feeling confident within himself, Bailey took a few steps closer to you with a teasing grin on his smug face. “Are you going to grow up and be a fag like them?” He teased once more. The feeling of humiliation quickly turned to a surge of anger that you couldn’t contain and in a moment of raw emotion, you stepped forward closer to Bailey and, with a quick motion, your hand in a strong fist, you punched the boy right in the face. 

The playground fell silent as Bailey tumbled back, landing on his backside. Laughter was replaced with gasps of shock, Bailey began to wail when he noticed the blood streaming from his nose. Your heart was pounding as you towered over the school yard bully, the playground around you turned to a blur as you death stared the boy.

“Y/n Romanoff!” A stern voice called, snapping you back to reality. You turned to see your teacher, Miss Smith, with her arms crossed over her chest. “Principal’s office, now!” She added. You sighed heavily knowing just how much trouble you were in as you began to make your way to the large building. “Bailey, come with me, we’ll get you cleaned up and you can tell me what happened” you heard your teacher’s voice behind you.

Lunch time was over, and you were still sitting outside the principal’s office. Miss Smith had not long taken Bailey in to discuss what had happened. Your heart felt heavy as you thought about how much trouble you were in, what would your moms think? 

Before your mind could begin to go deeper into thought, Mr Thompson opened his door. Miss Smith and Bailey walked out without saying a word, Bailey holding a tissue to his nose as he walked by you, sending you a glare. “Y/n, come in” Mr Tompson said in a rather disappointed tone. You pushed yourself up off the chair and walked into his office. Mr Thompson closed the door behind him before taking a seat behind his desk. 

“Y/n, Miss Smith and Bailey told me what happened today during lunch time” he started in a serious tone. “You know that we do not tolerate bullying in this school” he added.

“But…he was bullying me!” You corrected, trying to defend yourself. “He came up to me and made fun of me for having two moms and called them a slur!” You added. Before Mr Thompson could reply, his door swung open and in walked your moms.

“Honey, are you okay?” Nat said in a worry, giving your face a check over, “Mr Thompson said you got into a fight” she added. 

“I’m fine mom, I promise” you said, looking up at her. 

Your mother frowned in confusion, “what happened?” She asked. 

Wanda, gently placing a hand on your shoulder for comfort.

“It was Bailey again” you sighed, “I was just playing with my friends and he came up to me and made fun of me for having two moms and then he asked me if I was going to grow up and be a –“ you paused, not wanting to say the slur that was wrong at you so you looked up at Wanda, letting her read your mind. Wanda turned to Natasha and quietly whispered the slur so you wouldn’t have to say it. 

“So I punched him” you added. 

Your mother, Natasha, turned to Mr Thompson, crossing her arms across her chest, “let’s be clear here. Y/n isn’t the problem. She stood up for herself while this kid has been continuously bullying her!” She said sternly. 

Mr Thompson adjusted his glasses, “I understand your concerns Miss Romanoff, but we do not condone violence in this school. I’m sorry but I have no choice but to suspend Y/n” 

“But you condone homophobia?” Wanda looked at him. 

“Of course, not” he replied, looking up at your mother who stood protectively behind you. “Bullying of any kind is not tolerated here” he added. 

“So, let me get this straight” Natasha cleared her throat, “you’re going to suspend our daughter because she stood up for herself when she was the target of a homophobic slur? But because she hit somebody, this kid gets what? Nothing? A few moments of attention because he got some sense knocked into him?” 

Mr Thompson, taken back by Natasha’s words, “I was not aware of the nature of the situation until Y/n came in here. I was simply told that she had been given Bailey a hard time recently and today when Bailey asked her kindly to stop, she hit him” 

“That’s a lie!” You inserted yourself, “he is always making fun of me! He is always making others laugh at me, it’s not fair!” You snapped, holding bad your tears of frustration.

“If you’re going to suspend her for this, I will make sure everybody knows this school likes to give a pass for homophobic behaviour. Do I make myself clear?” Natasha said in a serious tone. Defeated, Mr Thompson finally relented. “Alright, I won’t suspend her, but I will speak to Bailey and his family. I do apologise for all of this. Y/n, you may go back to class” 

“Actually, we’re going to take her home” Wanda replied, sending a proud glance to Natasha. Your moms always taught you to stand up for yourself, others and what you believed in and today proves that you were taught well. 

As you and your mothers left school, Nat took your hand, “you did the right thing today sweetheart, I’m so proud of you” she smiled softly. 

“But you always said violence was bad” you replied. 

“It is, but, in this case, you used it to send a message and it was big one” your mother explained. 

Wanda smiled softly at you, “how about we go get some ice cream? I think you deserve it” 

Your eyes lit up, “yes please!” You beamed, “can I please get two scoops?” You asked, making your mothers chuckle. 

“I’m sure two scoops is perfect for our brave girl!” Wanda replied. 

“You may have as may scoops as you like, my love” Nat said, taking your backpack from you as you all reached the car. 

“You guys are the best!” You beamed, jumping into the car.

Your mothers smiled at one another, “we love you, darling” Wanda said, before helping you buckle your seatbelt. 

“I love you too!” You replied, sweetly.

Taglist: @koinsss | @liloandstitchstan | @marcia-maximoff | @skittlebum | @katethewritersblog | @taliiiaasteria | @nova-kyle | @daddipantherr | @riyaexee | @sgm616 | @elle161989 | @alphalesbianwolffoxdragontribrid | @mathxa | @sxlfishbrokenheart | @noturlondonboy | @lovelyy-moonlight | @ghxst-guts | @ashensmokescreen | 

If you want to be on the taglist for this series, please see the masterlist. It's linked at the top of this post.

[kaisacobra]

Speak No Evil - Sam Carpenter

Part 1 of Dark Knight series

Summary: You think Tara's sister hates you, or, at least, she is embarrassingly aware of your little crush on her. You couldn't be further from the truth, but Sam wouldn't let you know the length she'd go to protect you.

Warnings: Fem!Reader, Stalker!Sam, violence, blood, character death (not main) mentions of sex, cursing, mostly following canon.

w.c: 5.6 k

“Ugh, I just want to get home and throw myself on the couch.”

“Real.”

You and Tara climbed the stairs to her apartment side by side, dragging your feet more than anything else due to the exhaustion of the grueling day in college. You almost sighed with relief when you arrived in front of the familiar door, seeing your best friend take the key out of her pocket and open the lock with her shoulder already against the wall.

She entered the house already throwing her own bag aside, without even noticing the object sliding across the wooden floor. Being a visitor, you couldn't afford the same carelessness, opting to leave your bag on one of the small sofas. Your shoulders thanked you when they were spared the weight of the textbooks after long minutes on the subway and walking.

“You're home early, Sam.”

Automatically, your heart started racing when you heard Tara's simple words and you turned around at lightning speed to see Samantha Carpenter emerging from the kitchen, wearing nothing more than a gray tank top and black pants, comfortable to wear at home but dangerous for your eyes.

“They robbed that electronics store next to the bar.” She shrugged at her own explanation, but you were more focused on the way her biceps seemed to bulge when she crossed her arms. “The boss chose to close it for safety reasons, plus no one would want to drink with a police car parked right outside the door.”

“H-Hi, Sam!” You raised your hand to greet her, but your brain froze as you decided between a gesture, and you ended up with a strange three-fingered salute.

Your cheeks felt like they were on fire as you instantly regretted your action, especially after Sam barely reacted to your presence, with nothing more than a nod to indicate that she had heard you. She had barely finished greeting you when she turned to Tara again. “Since I'm here, I can cook something for dinner instead of getting takeout.”

“Great!” Tara agreed beside you. “Just don't do too much. Y/n and I are going to make popcorn and watch a movie right now, I won't be that hungry later.”

“And I'm not staying for dinner!” You hastened to say, not wanting to give Sam any more trouble, especially when she seemed to stare into the depths of your soul with those piercing dark eyes. “I-I still have a lot to study, I have to get back early.”

Still remaining a woman of few words, Sam merely nodded and began to retreat to the kitchen again, before stopping to point at Tara. “Just don't make it too loud. Last time I had to listen to a lot of complaints from the lady upstairs.”

“You got it.” Tara replied with a joking salute and the older sister just rolled her eyes before finally leaving the two of you alone. It wasn't long before you became the butt of Tara's jokes, as she mimicked your voice in an annoyingly high-pitched tone. “H-Hi, S-S-Sam...”

“Fuck you.” You punched the girl weakly in the shoulder as you walked over to the couch, throwing yourself against the cushions with your arms crossed. Tara paid no attention to the micro-aggression, laughing even louder as she sat down next to you, crossing her legs on the furniture.

A sigh escaped your throat as Tara turned on the television and flipped through the catalog of some streaming network, probably looking for another horror movie. “I think your sister hates me.”

“Nah, that's just how she is.” The shorter girl threw a gesture of indifference. “But she surely knows about this big ass crush you have on her.”

You felt your face catch fire again at the accusation. “I don’t- .”

“Yes, you do. It's obvious and it's disgusting.”

“Yeah?” You decided to join in Tara's teasing game, knowing that this was just one of your usual friendly banter. “Like the crush you have on that blonde from the basketball team?”

“Look, i’ll have you know that-”

You interrupt Tara with a shush escaping from between your lips, parted in a smile. Your phone had just beeped with a notification and you quickly pulled it out of your pocket to see Mindy's text on your lock screen.

Unfortunately, the content of the message instantly broke the fun mood. “Shit.” You cursed through your teeth, feeling the corners of your lips drop.

You could feel Tara stirring on the sofa, dragging herself to your side as she tried to read what was on your screen. “What?”

A sigh. “Mindy's asking me about what happened at ARCS.”

“Oh.”

Analysis and Reflection on Contemporary Society, also called ARCS, was an elective that you and Tara were taking and it basically consisted of having a debate on a topic proposed by the teacher every class. You had joined because the proposal was interesting, but most of the students were only there because Professor Ross graded you through attendance and not through exams.

Which was a good indicator of the type of person who was attending those classes.

The moment of silence was broken by your best friend's hesitant voice. “Do you... want to talk about what happened?” 

Tara, bless her heart, wasn't the best person to offer emotional support and you knew that very well, both because of the long year you'd been friends for and because of the complete awkwardness she found herself in. Even so, you knew she wouldn't rest until you took some of the weight off your back.

“I don't want to pay too much attention to this.” You huffed, shoving your phone back into your pocket as if it were the reason for your anger. “E.J. Abrams called me a bitch to the whole class, who cares? Everyone knows I was getting his ass in that debate.”

Seeing that you were more annoyed than hurt, Tara jumped at the chance to curse the boy, feeling much more comfortable now that the topic seemed to be centered on hatred. “That little shit. He thinks he can do whatever he wants because he's blond and strong and some dumb girls suck his toes.”

“I think it's more the fact that he's a medal-winning swimmer on the Olympic team and he's in one of the most exclusive fraternities on campus.”

“Well, fuck that ridiculous fraternity and fuck his medals too.” Tara continued, seeming to enjoy the way the F-word came out of her mouth. “I can't believe Professor Ross didn't even give him a warning.”

“I can.” You retorted without much joy, knowing damn well that the man would never intervene in any discussion between students because it was all part of the “debate experience”. Which, in fact, seemed more like an excuse so that he wouldn't have to get directly involved in any conflict.

With the movie completely forgotten in the background, you and Tara continued to curse every last generation of E.J., transferring all your indignation into words that the boy would probably never hear.

Meanwhile, someone else was listening to the entire conversation through the thin walls of the apartment, making a mental note to do more research on E.J. Abrams another time.

__

Sam was glad she had decided to wear a stronger jacket. New York nights were gradually getting colder as winter approached.

If she turned around, she would probably see students rushing around as they crossed campus, trying to get to their dorms before the curfew. Without even looking at her watch, Sam knew that they had approximately 5 minutes before 10:30 pm. She liked to arrive at 10.

But she didn't turn around, choosing to keep her back against the bars of the fire exit one floor above yours. She still couldn't believe that she had a perfect, hidden view of your entire room through your window, but Sam would never complain about that gift.

It was a safety issue, yes, but you were never going to be in danger when she was right there, in that fire exit, every night. No other person would harm you as long as she was there.

“Are you still hiding behind false pretenses?”

Sam would recognize that dry, slurred voice anywhere. She barely had to turn her head to see her father, or the image of him, sitting right in front of her with that familiar mischievous smile. He looked as he always did, not that a hallucination could have such a vast closet. White blouse stained with blood, messy black hair and eyes that Sam sometimes recognized in the mirror.

“There's nothing false about what I'm doing.” Sam muttered in response, even though she knew she shouldn't. 

“There’s no need to be embarrassed.” Billy continued, his smile getting wider with the attention he was receiving. “I know more than anyone that everyone needs a good obsession. Obsession makes perfect, doesn't it?”

This time, Samantha chose to leave him without an answer. Obsession. That word sounded so ugly to her ears, completely wrong too. She wasn't obsessed with you, she was just... protecting you.

At first, that hadn't exactly been Sam's intention, of course. When Tara talked about a new friendship, her protective big sister instincts instantly went on alert. No one could blame her after everything they'd been through in Woodsboro and more recently in her own apartment.

But she also couldn't deprive Tara of having a normal life and interacting with other people. Not everyone was a psycho waiting for an opportunity to stick a knife in the Carpenters. Still, Sam wanted to make sure that you weren't going to be another disappointment in her sister's life.

That's how she found herself on that fire escape for the first time, making sure that you really lived in the dorms, that you hadn't lied about your identity, that you didn't have a secret agenda or sneak out at night to play God and take some lives.

But you were... normal. Sam would even say that you were more normal than she and Tara would ever be. Everything about you was genuine and you carried with you a kindness that made Sam stop thinking of you as a suspect to someone she put on her mental protection list.

And it was by studying your normality, immersing herself in your pure and well-intentioned actions that Sam realized she was no longer watching you because she lacked trust in your person, but rather because she wanted that for herself. Those moments watching you from afar, seeing you live your life, brought an inner peace to Sam that she couldn't even explain.

It had been months since she had started this routine, so Sam knew very well that in a few minutes your roommate would open the window to use her pink-flavored vape, since you hated the smell being trapped in the room. The open window would allow Sam to eavesdrop on 20 minutes of conversation between you and your friend, which Sam thought was perfect for finding out at least a little about what was going on in your life.

Just as planned, the blonde opened the window and leaned both elbows on the sill, letting the flavored smoke escape through her lips as she took another drag of the pink device. Sam didn't like your roommate, Sammy - yes, she had also found the coincidence of names a bit ironic -  because she thought the girl was... too clingy with you.

But as far as Sam knew, it wasn't a crime to be a clingy friend. It was just annoying. Annoying wasn't enough reason for Sam to do anything about it.

“... Well, frat guys are shit.” Sammy spoke over another puff of smoke, probably finishing answering something. “They must have a total of two neurons combined.”

“I knoooww...” You whined, rubbing a hand across your face in frustration. Sam could see you lying on your bed with your phone in your hand, certain that you must’ve been scrolling on your social media, as you always did at that time. “But the people in class laughed at me at the time and, I don't know, I don't want to be made a laughing stock.”

Sam felt an angry pulse in her neck. It was outrageous that you were afraid of being ridiculed in your class because some idiot thought it was funny to interrupt your debate to call you a bitch. She could almost picture the scene if she closed her eyes, and just the thought of seeing your lost and embarrassed expression made her blood boil.

“Did they put any videos online? If you want, I can delete it.”

The proposal was genuine. While Sam was still doing her own research on your life (for safety's sake, of course), she had found your roommate's data as well. Sammy was a computer science major and, from the internship she had landed with a great salary, she must have been very good at what she did.

“I'll take a look.” You answered in a low voice, your eyes frantically running over the phone screen, looking for something that Sam would never be able to see from that distance.

Billy chose that moment to come back to torment his daughter, his evil smile almost shining in the moonlight. “It's so good that there are so many people who care about our girl, isn't it?”

“Shut up.” Sam grunted through her teeth. He could even be a figment of her mind, but Sam was never going to let Billy ever refer to you as his possession.

In response, he just laughed, his dead head falling back as he amused himself at the girl's growing annoyance. If Billy had a material body, Sam would already have provided a fresh wave of red on his stained shirt.

“FUCK!”

Sam turned her head towards the window like a bolt of lightning as soon as she heard your cry of outrage. Sammy had also done the same, removing the vape from her lips as she turned around with wide eyes. “What?! What?!”

“Look at this shit!” You squawked, waving your phone in the blonde's direction. From a distance, the most Sam could see was the layout of the app. It looked like twitter, but she couldn't be sure.

Not that that was going to be a problem. Carpenter quickly took her phone out of her pocket, opening it to the app that used to have a bird as its icon. Fortunately, the account she wanted to use was already open and she had no trouble finding what she was looking for.

Yes, Sam had also created one or two fake social media accounts when she was investigating you, just to be safe. She had gotten the data from a Gordon Wu, who was majoring in engineering at your university and had apparently never created an account for himself. Sam thought he wouldn't mind if she borrowed it.

It was easy to create a profile with no photos and start following other students at the university to keep up to date with everything that was going on, as well as other random accounts such as soccer memes and Pokémon just to keep her little disguise authentic. Fortunately, the app's algorithm seemed to understand that what Sam really wanted to know was what was going on at Blackmore.

So it wasn't long before she saw E.J Abrams' verified account on her timeline, with a tweet that had over 2k likes:

@themanEJ: That bitch in ARCS just got mad cause she wants this d again

Sam's eye twitched.

“I can't believe he posted that!” You complained even louder, a mixture of anger and dread in your voice. “I've never slept with him! Never! And I never want to!”

The comments were horrible. Men encouraging E.J., calling you crazy and giving reason to his lies, women saying they wouldn't miss the same opportunity or adding fuel to the gossip, asking for the name of the mysterious bitch.

“I'll see if I can delete it, okay?” Sammy patted your shoulder before going to her own side of the room, opening her computer while trying to somehow take down that tweet. Meanwhile, Sam's hands clenched into a fist in the pockets of her jacket.

“You know what to do, Sam.” That familiar voice whispered in her ear, like a snake tempting her to bite the apple. “Are you really going to let that fucker hurt our girl?”

“She's not your girl.”

“But she's yours, isn't she?” Billy retorted without wasting any time, his dark eyes sparkling at the mere idea of having fun in his favorite way. “Don't you remember how good it felt to finish off Bailey? How amazing you felt sticking that knife, my knife, in his eye after he played with your family?”

Sam remembered the excitement, the adrenaline coursing through her veins as she took revenge for everything he and his family had done, the smile that automatically opened on her face after he had stopped moving. She remembered how satisfying it had been to slit Richie's throat as if he were a fish, watching him beg for air as the blood dripped to the floor.

E.J... he hadn't killed anyone, but... he deserved it, didn't he? He shouldn't have messed with you. Someone had to teach him a lesson.

“You know you want this, Sam. Don't fight your instincts.”

She felt the weight of Billy's knife in her pocket, serving as a nudge, as if it were another way for the universe to tell her that she was right, that she should do it. 

For the first time in months, Sam looked behind her at the fire escape, now no longer focused on your window, but on the entrance to the house of a famous fraternity that wasn't that far from your dorm.

__

It was incredibly easy to get into the house. Really. The front door was open.

Sam didn't even have to make an effort to get to the boy's room, as her footsteps were completely drowned out by the loud trap music that was blasting from the speakers. She caught a glimpse of four guys playing ping-pong in the kitchen and another two playing video games in the living room.

None noticed her presence and she didn't make a point of being seen either, especially while she was dodging protein bar wrappers and plastic cups that were lying on the floor. She climbed the stairs two steps at a time, wanting to do what she needed to do right away to get out of that nightmare of a place.

She took her phone out of her pocket as soon as she reached the top floor, looking at one of the photos E.J. had posted on his Instagram that showed a bit of his bedroom from the back. The walls were dark blue with some of his medals hanging on them, along with photos of him receiving them. Sam hoped that the boys' rooms weren't all the same.

Fortunately, the first door she walked through was exactly where she needed to be. E.J.'s room wasn't much better than she had imagined. Pants and boxers (which she hoped were clean) were scattered all over the floor and the room smelled of an uncomfortable mixture of aftershave and an extremely woody perfume, to the point of making Sam's nose sting in response.

And there it was, the blue wall full of medals and photos of the boy, like a mural entirely dedicated to his narcissism. Sam was tempted to destroy some of those pictures, punch them right in the middle of that static smile of the boy-next-door that she knew very well was completely fake. There was nothing good about E.J. The world would be a better place without him.

Sam sat on the completely messed up bed, with one sheet turned over and two pillows completely crumpled. E.J. seemed to be the kind of guy who had someone to do the cleaning for him at home, of course he wouldn't be able to do something as simple as making his own bed. He probably thought it wasn't his job.

Speaking of the devil, it didn't take long for E.J. to walk into his own room and be surprised by the sight of the brunette in his bed. He was tall and strong, as an athlete should be, of course. Some people would say he almost looked like Captain America, if you completely ignored the part about having moral values.

Not that that would intimidate Sam. If anything, it would only make the result all the more satisfying.

“Heeey, babe.” Abrams cracked a mischievous smile, analyzing Sam as if she were a piece of meat. “I don't remember having anything scheduled today. Did the guys fix you up for me?”

She had to press her black gloved hands against her thighs to stop herself from immediately jumping on the boy's neck. Act, Sam. Billy's voice and her own were mixing in her head, trying to keep her in line. Sam cracked the best smile she could manage. 

“I just had to have a chance with the hottest guy in Blackmore.” She winked, trying to swallow the disgust she felt at those words. Sam got out of bed slowly, her movements being followed by E.J. like a hungry predator. “Better lock the door, huh? We don't want any interruptions.”

“You're right, beautiful.” The boy quickly agreed, turning the lock behind him at the same time as Sam reached him, pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt. “You've got attitude, kitten. I like that.”

“I bet.” Sam smiled again, knocking him onto the bed just as he made a move to try and grab her waist. She tugged at the hem of his shirt, trying her best to maintain a seductive voice. “Why don't you take it off for me, E.J.?”

“Right away.” He nodded, making a show of opening the only three buttons on his polo shirt before pulling the green fabric off over his head, as if Sam was interested in seeing that pile of muscles that would soon spasm until they stiffened.

Sam took a single step closer to the bed, watching the boy crawl through the messy covers until he rested his back on the headboard, spreading his legs as if to invite Sam in. She just tilted her head to the side, her arms crossed. “E.J… What does it stand for?”

“W-What?” The athlete muttered, his eyes widening for a brief moment before he tried to pull himself together in his fake suave persona. “You don't need to know that, kitten. Come here and I'll give you something else to think about.”

“Can I guess, then?” Sam continued, finally climbing onto the bed, her knees sinking into the soft mattress right next to Abrams' thick thighs, pinning him in place. He only nodded, biting his lip as he appreciated the sight above him. “I'd say it's... Edward Jacob Abrams. But you tell everyone you're Edward James, so you don't have to admit that your mother named you after the two hot guys from Twilight. You don't think that's a very manly name, do you?”

E.J.'s expression went from surprise, to panic, to pure hatred. His set jaw quickly clenched and he made a point of getting up to confront Sam. “Listen here, you bitch - OOF.”

Whatever he was going to complain about was interrupted by a swift punch right in his Adam's apple, causing the boy's hands to go up to his throat as he searched for air. His white face quickly turned red and a few tears escaped from his eyes as he struggled to breathe.

Sam smiled at the scene. “You're really like calling women by that word, huh? It's about time someone shut your filthy mouth.”

With a lot of effort and his eyes twitching, E.J. managed to spit out a few words. “Y-You're c-crazy!” He coughed, the veins in his throat widening with the effort, his skin almost turning a purplish hue.

“Maybe.” Carpenter murmured, calmly taking the knife out of her pocket, admiring how the metal of the blade glistened against the moon rays coming through the window. “But you need to learn a thing or two about swallowing your words.”

In one swift movement, Sam used the handle of the knife to strike E.J.'s fingers with a resounding crack, making him grunt in pain and pull his hands away from the front of his neck, which had been Samantha's target all along. He raised his hands, trying to reach the woman to strangle her, but Sam had been faster.

With a single blow, now with the blade, E.J.'s throat had been slit open, spurting wine-red blood from his neck down his bare torso like a waterfall. He opened his eyes wide, his vocal cords gurgling in an attempt to speak, or to call for help, but nothing came out.

He struggled with one last effort to escape, but Sam also had strength in her lower limbs and trapped E.J.'s thighs between her own, forcing him to stay in place while he lost more and more blood and oxygen.

In a way, it was as if Sam was stealing his soul. Her eyes glowed maniacally as the brightness of the boy's eyes dimmed, his muscles growing weaker and his limbs abandoned him, giving up any chance of salvation.

Sam leaned forward, not minding the way her gloves got stained with the blood that now covered the entire bed. She moved closer to E.J.'s ear and whispered, “Who's the bitch now?”

Taking advantage of the boy's almost deoxygenated state, Sam opened his mouth without resistance, aligning her knife with E.J.'s tongue. Through the reflex of the blade, she swore she’d seen Billy’s eyes staring back at hers.

The sharp object descended on the tip of the athlete’s tongue, cutting the muscle with fluidity and letting the small piece fall back into EJ’s trachea, making it even more difficult for the boy to breathe, who at that point was a few seconds from fainting. His mouth was filled with blood, escaping from his lips and mixing with the red that drenched his neck.

E.J was finally unresponsive, breathing non-existent as well as his pulse. The boy’s blue eyes were completely lifeless, staring at Sam in an empty expression. She thought she’d feel a little bad. He was young and had not done much more than stupid mistakes of a 20-something asshole.

But she didn’t feel bad. Because that stupid mistake had been made against you, so he deserved it.

"You didn’t have to do this thing in the end, you know?" Billy commented in a faux bored voice, walking through EJ’s room with his hands behind his back, admiring the walls. "You’re more of a dramatic killer than I am."

"Shut up." Sam muttered back, feeling the tiredness begin to take over. She looked at the digital clock by E.J’s bed, which marked 00:04. Maybe she could be in bed by 1 am, which would give her six hours of sleep before she needed to get up for work. It was more than Sam usually slept, but she had the feeling her sleep would be hard as a stone that night.

Sam stood up from bed carefully, murmuring swears as she saw that the blood had stained her gloves and pants. She had expected to throw the gloves off but, man, she liked these pants.

"Who would’ve guessed that the impulse you needed to become like me was to mess with your heart and not your head."

"I’m not like you." Sam denied, turning to the image of her father in the corner of the room, his damn smirk seemed bigger than ever. She did not try to deny the rest of the sentence, however, because she knew it was true.

Her heart was her greatest weakness. And you seemed to be taking up a lot of space in it.

Billy laughed, approaching his daughter with slow, calculated steps. "You can deny as much as you like, Samantha. You have my blood in your veins and other’s blood on your hands. You cannot escape your family line."

"But, of course, you only did what you did because you needed to defend the honor of the poor and helpless Y/n." he continued, mockery escaping from his non-living lips, feeding on the growing anger in Sam’s chest. "Her knight in shining armour. No, scratch that. There’s nothing shining about you, Sam. You’re her Dark Knight"

She looked into the eyes of her father, seeing her clenched jaw being reflected in the pupil surrounded by an onyx iris. As much as she hated the way he talked about you, Sam couldn’t say that she hated the idea of being your knight, however twisted it was.

"I’ll up the dose of my medication."

"Ha! It’s gonna take more than a few pills to get rid of me, Samantha." Billy shook his head, a humorous smile still on his face. He bypassed his daughter, analyzing the crime scene as an art expert analyzes a painting. "Now let’s clean that up, shall we? No Loomis leaves behind evidence."

__

"If anyone asks me about E.J today, I’ll kill myself."

"Woah! Okay, how about we avoid suicide here?" Mindy replied from your side, gently pushing her shoulder with yours as you walked around the campus. 

"Yeah, if someone has to die here, it’s got to be the people who come and try to fuck with you." Tara added, walking on your other side with the headphones hanging from her neck. "I’ll do it!"

"How about we don’t kill anyone?" Chad joined the conversation, a little further behind you while still struggling to put on his football jacket. Anika, next to Mindy, rolled his eyes with the boy’s words.

"Stop being boring, dude."

The familiarity of the conversation with your friends relieved some of your anxiety, but not completely. E.J’s tweet had gotten more than 3k likes throughout the night and most of them came from people from your college. As stupid as he was, people liked to be siding with a pretty face.

As you approached the communal area of students, more you felt a weight falling on your shoulders. It was almost as if your body was anticipating the looks, whispers and fingers pointed in your direction, as if you were a circus attraction - "The girl rejected by E.J Abrams"

But that never came, not even when you approached the tables occupied by several students. They all seemed more concerned to look at their own phones, apparently immersed in some gossip by the increasing volume of whispers in unison.

"What happened?" You turned to your friends with furrowed eyebrows, watching Mindy mumble a brief I don’t know while pulling the phone out of her pocket. Around you, people seemed scared, as if something terrible had happened. 

You unconsciously thought it might be something else related to the ghostface attacks and the hell your friends had experienced in the past. You had heard the stories, had sympathized with the trauma experienced by them, although you secretly wished that the same fate would never fall on you.

Maybe that was the universe signaling you had no escape.

"Oh My God!" Mindy exclaimed as she opened her phone. Anika, beside her, took a hand to her mouth in complete horror and shock. You, Chad and Tara rushed to surround her, trying to read the news that had left the entire student body in a state of dread.

Athlete and fraternity member is found dead this morning. Suspicion of foul play falls on his roommates.

Gasps were slipping out of your throat as you kept reading the news. E.J Abrams was dead. His throat and tongue had been cut and the boy had bled to death in his own bed. The police had found some traces of hair from the other residents of the fraternity on his nails and they were the main suspects, with the current theory that it had been a prank that ended very badly.

You had a ringing in your ear. You’d woken up this morning wishing EJ would die, but now that he was really dead you felt... What? Relief? Revenge? Disgust? Fear?

A silence fell on your friends, but you could understand the thought that was being shared even without words. None of you felt bad for EJ, but the idea of your cursing suddenly being materialized seemed eerily real.

"Well, I hope they don’t cancel classes." Tara shrugged, being the first to give up pretending to care about the situation. "I didn’t walk all this way for nothing."

She pulled you by the arm, taking you out of your inner thoughts for a moment as you went towards the ARCS room, both knowing that one of the chairs would be empty but with the sketch of a body that was once there.

E.J was dead, but instead of relief, you felt in your guts that something was wrong.

[hyorijie]

Sorry, I fucked your wife. | Alastor x Reader

Warnings Infidelity, reader is married to a sinner on the rise , before Alastor's disappearance, P in v, Obscenity, overstimulation, Alastor is an idiot, sexual tension, possessiveness, Breeding kink, aftercare, Your husband and Alastor are friends (not for long). Summary Alastor has always been a demon of umpredictable whims, but this time... his interest has gone too far. A beautiful doe has completely captured his attention, there´s just one small catch: She´s married. Of corse, that would be a problem... if Alastor cared...

In the comfort of your home, you glided swiftly over the drink bar, most of the time you didn't drink, but right now the situation warranted it. Your husband had been gone for days and the loneliness consumed you like a slow and cruel disease.

The faint sound of music in the background relaxed your tense muscles a little, a sigh left your lips as you stroked one of your shoulders with the intention of releasing the accumulated tension.

Again you took a sip from the glass, the drink pierced your throat with a warm welcoming burn. Again, you were feeling hot, something very normal from wine.

Your gaze immediately went to the table, where rested that mysterious envelope that your husband had left on his desk, why had he left it that way?

You put the wine glass aside and the base of the glass clinked against the surface.

You walked a little disorientedly to the envelope, you saw that it was open. Curiously you reached out your hand gently until you reached the envelope, your fingers checked the embossing, while your eyes scanned the scarlet seal that stood out against the paper.

Before you could fully recognize the seal it bore, the sound of the door being knocked made you jump in place and let go of the envelope. The paper fell onto the desk and one of your hands went to your chest.

— Shit, who the fuck is that? — You growl to yourself squinting your eyes, cursing under your breath at whoever is behind the door.

With obvious annoyance, you walk towards the door, the moment you opened it, the heat seemed to shoot through your body from surprise.

— Greetings, my dear! May I have an audience with your husband at this time? — The voice that came from him was tainted with too much static, Alastor, your husband's partner was standing in front of you with a wide grin that almost forced you to return it.

You looked him up and down, hoping he wasn't real at this precise moment. But one of his eyebrows rose curiously.

You pulled yourself together immediately shaking your head.

— I'm afraid he won't be able to attend to the request, he's out.— you answered with a superhuman effort, praying to any deity that your voice wouldn't be slurred or cut off by the effect of the drink.

You took a discreet breath, trying to hold your ground as you watched Alastor, who was still smiling with that sly expression that got on your nerves.

— As I told you, he's not here. You'd better come back another time. — you repeated with a slight nod, hoping he'd take the hint and turn around.

But instead, the demon cocked his head to one side and let out a short chuckle, as if you had just told him a charming joke. Before you could react, he took a step forward and, with overflowing confidence, crossed the threshold of your house without waiting for an invitation.

— Oh, my dear, how inconsiderate it would be of me to make you spend the night alone in this storm out there. — he said in a falsely mournful tone.

You looked over your shoulder and, to your misfortune, the sky was still overflowing with disaster. You pursed your lips, holding back the urge to yell at him to get out immediately. However, Alastor was your husband's partner, and the last thing you wanted was to create unnecessary trouble.

With a restrained sigh, you closed the door behind him, turning around with your arms crossed.

— May I ask why you are still here if you already know my husband is not here? — you ask in a dry tone.

Alastor had already settled into one of the lounge seats, as casually as a cat would take over someone else's house. His eyes, lively and attentive, lingered on the glass of wine on the table.

— Well, let's just say I couldn't miss the opportunity to chat with you. After all, we're hardly ever alone. —he replied with a playful air. Then he narrowed his eyes with a spark of amusement.— Although… I dare say it's not the best night for a serious conversation.

A shiver of embarrassment ran down your spine.

— Don't imply nonsense. — you said quickly, in a tone that was meant to be firm, but sounded more like a weak defense.

Alastor let out a light laugh and leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee.

— Oh, honey, don't take this the wrong way. We all have days like that. And if you're going to drink, what better than to do it in good company. — he said with his wide, impertinent grin.— Although, if I'm honest, I'm more of a whiskey man… but I wouldn't turn down a glass of wine if you'd be so kind as to share.

You pursed your lips, trying not to show your frustration. The last thing you wanted was to prolong his stay, but you couldn't be dismissive of someone so close to your husband either.

Resigned, you took the bottle and poured one more glass, pushing it to him with a light tap on the table.

—Here it is.

Alastor took it gracefully and raised it slightly in your direction.

— Here's to an interesting evening. — he gleamed with a glint of mischief in his eyes before lifting the wine to his lips.

You just watched, wondering, not for the first time, what the hell this Overlord was still doing in your house.

The bottle of wine was nearly empty.

You didn't know exactly at what point you stopped wishing Alastor would leave. Perhaps it was after the third glass, when the conversation stopped feeling invasive and began to feel… intriguing.

He spoke with a magnetic eloquence, with the ease of someone who had seen and understood more than he would ever admit. And you, with the warmth of the wine in your system, found yourself increasingly caught up in his words.

— It's amazing how little humans understand about true ancient magic.— Alastor commented, twirling his glass between his fingers with an almost lazy air.— Always wanting to pigeonhole it into books, rituals, symbols… but magic is not something that is locked into written rules. It's a living art, a contract between the one who invokes it and the one who responds.

Your eyes sparkled with interest. You had been trying for months to decipher certain fragments of forgotten spells, but the lack of results had begun to frustrate you.

— So, according to you, the key is not in the exact words, but in the intention behind them. — you said, leaning slightly towards him without realizing it.

Alastor looked you in the eye, as if amused to see you so absorbed.

— Exactly, my dear. It's like a conversation… only with entities that may or may not be in the mood to listen to you.

You let out a short, somewhat carefree laugh.

—And what do you suggest? That I sweeten their ears?

— Oh, some require it. Others, on the other hand, prefer a demonstration of power.— he shrugged.— But everyone, without exception, responds better to someone who knows what they want.

That last sentence left a chill on your skin, though you didn't know if it was because of his words or the way his eyes bore into yours with that brazen intensity.

You ignored him, or at least tried to, taking another sip from your glass.

— You speak as if you know from experience.

— Let's say I've had my encounters with the forbidden.— your tone became lower, more intimate. — But, my dear… What exactly do you want most?

Something about his question made you flinch. Not in the literal sense of magic, but in what he was suggesting with his velvety voice and indecipherable smile.

You tried to deflect the conversation, but then he changed the subject as lightly as he was moving his glass.

— Your husband has been gone quite a while, hasn't he?

You didn't expect that turn of phrase.

— What's that got to do with it?

— Nothing in particular… just that it must be difficult. — he cocked his head, looking at you with mock innocence.— Such a big home, so much silence. I'm surprised you haven't gone crazy with loneliness.

You pursed your lips, unwilling to acknowledge that he was right. Instead, you snorted with a sarcastic smile.

— You'd be surprised how well I get along with myself.

Alastor let out a laugh, one that rocked you without you expecting it.

— Oh, I'm sure you can entertain yourself very well, my dear. But even your own company can become… unsatisfying over time.

You choked slightly on the wine - had he meant it that way, or were you beginning to read too much into his words and that had another meaning?

You looked away, trying to concentrate on the bottle. It was almost empty, and in your head the atmosphere felt thicker, warmer.

But then something caught your attention.

Alastor was still perfectly composed. While you felt the heaviness in your eyelids, the slight tingle on your skin, he didn't seem the least bit affected.

You frowned.

— It hasn't had any effect on you at all, has it?

He blinked, feigning surprise.

— Me? Ah, my dear, wine doesn't have much impact on me. Not like it does on you.

He pointed to your empty glass with a lopsided smile, and you suddenly realized how vulnerable you might seem at that moment.

Your body was relaxed, maybe too relaxed. Your judgment, perhaps a little numb.

And Alastor, with his bright gaze and smirk, seemed fully aware of it.

Alastor set his glass down on the table with a casual motion, but his eyes never left you.

— It must be difficult.— he said, picking up the conversation as if he had never changed the subject.— Your husband, with all his ambition… making ever greater strides up the hierarchy of Hell.

You straightened up in your seat, leaning your elbows on the table as if that would help you keep your composure.

— It's what he always wanted.— you replied, trying to make your voice sound firm.

— Mmm, no doubt.— Alastor tilted his head, his smile barely perceptible. — He has determination. Firm convictions. He knows what he wants and will do what it takes to get it.

Anyone else would have taken those words as flattery. But you notice the tension in his voice.

You watch him more closely.

The way his lips seemed to twist slightly, as if he was pronouncing the words with more effort than necessary. If you knew him well, you would have said he was having trouble admitting it.

— He's loyal. — he added after a brief pause.— A valuable colleague.

You looked at him carefully.

— Yes… he's always been like that.— You smiled, a tinge of nostalgia in your voice. — He was a man of principle even when we were alive. He wasn't always this calculating strategist you know. He used to be… different.

— Different? — Alastor raised an eyebrow curiously.

— More… human. — you said, almost without thinking. — Passionate, but not just about power. He used to laugh more, used to care more about the little things. It wasn't just ambition. There was much more love in him.

Alastor let out a short, almost inaudible laugh. But something in his eyes darkened.

And then, without warning, he asked.

— Do you really love him?

The air left your lungs.

Alastor slowly sat up, setting his glass down on the table gently, as if the conversation wasn't about to cross a dangerous line. He took a couple of steps toward you, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his gaze locked on yours.

— After all this time… after all he's changed… do you still love him? — he insisted, his voice lower, more enveloping.

You opened your mouth, but the words got stuck in your chest. You didn't expect that question. You didn't expect him to ask it that way.

Your heart was pounding, you no longer knew whether from the wine or from Alastor's closeness.

He tilted his head slightly, waiting for an answer.

But you… you weren't sure what it was.

The silence that followed his question was dense, suffocating. But the burn of the wine in your system gave you enough courage to frown, feigning indignation, even as a part of you was still trying to process what you'd just heard.

— What kind of question is that? — you let out with a dry laugh, as if the very idea was ridiculous.— Of course I love him.

Alastor raised an eyebrow, his expression barely changed, but his smile… faltered. Just for an instant.

— Yes? — He said in an almost casual tone. — Because you don't seem very convinced.

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, he tilted his head thoughtfully and continued in his usual silky voice.

— But now that you say it… I find it interesting. You say you love him, but when you talk about him, you mean how he used to be. Not how he is now.

Discomfort settled in your chest.

— That has nothing to do with it. — you quickly rebutted.

— No? — Alastor let out a small laugh, not taking his eyes off you.— I'd say it does. I'd say what you're feeling isn't love, my dear… it's nostalgia. Habit.

The way he said it, so confidently, as if he knew it better than you did, made you boil inside.

— And what the hell do you know about me? About my marriage? — you shot back harshly, standing up with a sharp movement.

Alastor didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, as if evaluating every detail of your reaction.

And then, without warning, he moved one hand fluidly, sliding it down your side until it rested on your waist.

The contact was an unexpected jolt of electricity. Not just because of the boldness, but because of the ease with which he did it. As if he had always had the right.

You gasped in surprise, your muscles tensing, but before you could react, Alastor applied firm pressure and pulled you to him.

Your breath caught in your throat.

For the first time all night, you looked directly into his eyes.

And what you saw made something inside you curl into a dangerous mix of fear and anticipation.

Hunger.

Desire.

Possession.

A look you hadn't felt on you in a long time.

Your pulse hammered against your neck, your mind struggling to process what was happening. But Alastor didn't move, just held your waist securely, leaning in just barely, as if waiting, as if savoring the moment.

— Tell me I was wrong. — he whispered, his voice vibrating in the air between you.— Say it's not homesickness you feel.

His closeness burned you. His presence filled everything.

But worst of all…you didn't know how to respond.

The air felt thicker, charged with something you weren't sure you wanted to name.

Your throat went dry, and when you tried to respond, your words came out slow, hesitant, as if each syllable would need to be precisely measured to avoid crossing a dangerous line.

— I… that has nothing to do…— you began, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.

But Alastor wouldn't let you continue.

— When was the last time? — His voice dropped to a low, velvety tone, vibrant with that characteristic static of his. — The last time you felt loved. That you felt wanted.

His grip on your waist remained firm, a pressure intense enough to remind you that you were trapped in his orbit.

— When was the last time you experienced something real? Something that would make you feel alive?

You gasped, not only at his words, but because his voice reverberated through the air, sending a shiver down your spine.

No. You couldn't let it go on.

With both arms outstretched, you levered against his chest, trying to push him away from you. But it was like pushing against an immovable wall.

Alastor didn't even flinch.

Your frustration grew, and with it, anger.

— That doesn't concern you! — You snapped, glaring at him angrily.— Who the hell do you think you are to interrogate me like that? Your insolence is colossal!

But he just smiled.

Worse… he began to walk slowly forward.

And you, with no other choice, started backing away.

— You're not telling me because you don't even remember the answer, are you? — He continued, his every word pushing you further and further back.— Because you've spent so much time convincing yourself that you love a ghost from the past, you haven't even stopped to think about how you feel now.

— Stop it! — you demanded, but he didn't stop.

— Tell me… do you really think he still looks at you the way I do now?

His tone was a direct hit to your chest.

And then you felt it. The bar counter crashed against your back.

There was no more room to back up.

Alastor leaned in slightly, just enough so that his face was mere inches from yours, his smile now sharper.

— You know the answer. — he whispered, his fingers barely gliding over the fabric of your clothes, causing your skin to tingle again.— You just don't want to admit it.

Your breathing quickened. Your mind screamed a warning, but your body refused to move.

Because for the first time in a long time… you felt something you couldn't ignore.

The silence between you was almost deafening, broken only by the ragged breathing you tried unsuccessfully to regulate.

But you couldn't let him be in control. You couldn't let Alastor think he could push you wherever he wanted.

So you inhaled deeply and let the question slip out in a sharp, direct, blunt tone.

— Since when? — You blurted out suddenly.

Alastor raised an eyebrow, his smile barely twitching, but the spark of interest in his eyes flared brighter.

— Since when, my dear?

You looked at him sternly, your back still pressed against the bar counter.

— Since when did you have me in your sights. Since when did you plan all this. Since when did I become an object of desire for the radio demon himself.

For a moment, his smile widened in a way that made you feel as if you had fallen into his trap without realizing it.

— Clever. — He murmured, his voice vibrating with dangerous satisfaction. — Of course, it wasn't hard for you to notice.

Before you could move, his hand slid with precision to your chin, grasping it firmly and forcing you to look directly at him.

His touch was not rough, but relentless.

— The truth… I don't know for sure.— he admitted, his tone lower, more enveloping.— But I do know one thing…

His thumb glided barely over your skin, an almost imperceptible brush, but calculated enough to make you hold your breath.

— Your husband is a hindrance in the equation.

Your eyes widened in surprise.

— A hindrance that has prevented me from coming directly to you as I have wanted so much. — he added with a softness that was in dangerous contrast to the meaning of the word.

A shiver ran down your spine. The seriousness with which he said it, the certainty with which he admitted it… took your breath away.

Nerves exploded in your chest, and the heat of the wine in your system did nothing to help you keep your composure. But you refused to give in.

You growled in obvious disagreement, your hands clenching into fists at your sides.

��� We may be in Hell. — you spat, holding his gaze.— but I refuse to give in so easily.

Alastor raised an eyebrow, but did not loosen his grip.

— I don't care what you feel. — you continued, in a tone you meant to sound cold, but which barely managed to mask the tremor in your voice. — I never cheated on my husband in life, and I will not do so in death.

For an instant, Alastor's face remained neutral.

But then you saw it.

A barely perceptible twitch in his eyelid, a shadow crossing his red eyes.

And then, his smile returned.

Only this time, it was tighter. Darker.

His grip on your chin intensified slightly, tilting his face just enough to make his every word feel more dangerous.

— You can say what you want, my dear… but we both know the truth.

— And what would that be, exactly? — you muttered through gritted teeth.

Alastor let out a small chuckle before whispering.

— You always look at me with a different gaze, perhaps, to other people's eyes it may seem like simple disdain… but to me…

Your body tensed.

— And that look was a gift from before I knew I would be your husband's colleague… from before I knew who you really were.

The air in the room became unbreathable.

Because his words were not an assumption.

They were a statement.

One that, no matter how hard you tried to deny it, was eating you up inside.

The air became thick as your mind was swept away without your permission, like a violent current of memories that had been buried until now.

A year ago actually.

You had barely been in Hell for a few months. Everything was an incessant chaos, a spiral of violence and decadence in which anyone could get lost. But you… you were living well.

Your husband had moved fast, establishing connections with powerful figures, making sure they lacked for nothing. And, indeed, nothing was lacking.

Except excitement.

Boredom had slowly begun to choke you. Even though you were in Hell, a place of chaos and madness, the routine had begun to devour you.

So you made an impulsive decision.

For the first time, you went out without your husband's company.

And you ended up in Cannibal Town.

It was as enchanting as it was dangerous. If you ignored the scenes of sinners being eaten alive in some corners, it had a certain intriguing air.

But something else caught your attention.

An enthusiastic murmur arose from a group of women with dark eyes and sharp smiles. They all seemed to be looking in the same direction, their red-painted mouths forming words of admiration and affable greetings.

Unable to help yourself, you follow their gazes.

A demon unlike any you had encountered before. Elegant, impeccable, with that presence impossible to ignore.

He was not a predator in appearance, but there was something about his appearance that made him more lethal than any of the beasts that prowled Hell.

Your eyes widened with surprise, and your heart….

It sped up.

You stood watching him without noticing the time passing, completely caught up in his image.

Until he turned around.

His bright eyes, red as fire, stared straight into yours.

They pierced through you.

As if they had been searching for you.

The air left your lungs in an instant, and an inexplicable nervousness came over you.

You looked away suddenly.

And without thinking, you fled from there.

Your memories scattered and again you forced yourself back to reality.

Your breathing was erratic.

You remembered him.

You had known him before your husband made any alliance with him.

And when your eyes returned to Alastor's, you found something worse than a smirk.

He was nodding. As if he had read your thoughts.

— That's right, my dear…— he whispered with dangerous delight. — From that moment… we both felt that spark, didn't we?

Your throat went dry.

— No…— You tried to deny, but the word came out choked.

Alastor tilted his head, enjoying your internal struggle.

— No, what? — he asked softly, as if he really wanted you to elaborate.

You drew in a shaky breath, forcing yourself to compose yourself.

— It was nothing. It didn't mean anything.

Alastor's smile widened.

— Oh… are you trying to convince me or yourself? — his tone was a venomous whisper, dragging you deeper and deeper into a game you had everything to lose.

— You ran away that time.— he continued, his grip on your chin loosening just enough for you to speak.— But… haven't you ever really wondered why?

You opened your mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

Because the truth was devastating.

Yes, you had thought about it. You had felt something that day. Something you were terrified to accept in the present.

Inside you, the battle was merciless.

Denial.

You clung to it tooth and nail, looking for any excuse, any justification for what had made sense that day.

Intrigue.

That was it. Simple curiosity in the face of someone who seemed different.

Stupidity.

Yes, a passing foolishness. A moment of weakness in a new, chaotic world in which you were still learning your way around.

But not love.

No desire.

No… that.

But the more you dug into the memories, the more the barriers you had so painstakingly erected fell away.

You remembered how you spent weeks in a state of uncertainty, with anticipation growing in your chest every time you went out, hoping - without daring to admit it - to find again.

And there, in the bitterest depths of your soul, the truth waited patiently for you to accept it.

But not here .

Not in front of it.

Fury flared in your gut and, with a spark of courage, you summoned all your strength and pushed him with both hands.

The move wasn't enough to send him away, but it did send him staggering back a few inches.

You, on the other hand, crashed backwards against the bar, feeling the edge dig into your skin.

The air left your lungs in a sharp gasp as your hands shook at your sides.

— Go away. — The words came out harsh, laden with a panic you didn't want to show.— I will not do this to my husband.

Alastor remained in place, watching you with an intensity that made you feel naked, exposed.

But he doesn't move.

— Forget this whole damn circus and get out.

Your voice echoed in the room, but instead of an immediate response, there was a silence.

A different one.

One that didn't belong to Alastor.

It was in your own chest that you felt it first: a tremor.

Not in your hands, not in your legs.

In your heart.

And when you looked up again, you noticed it.

For the first time, Alastor wasn't smiling completely.

There was something subtle in his expression, something imperceptible to anyone who didn't know him.

But you saw it.

His refusal to accept your rejection.And then, without warning, he advanced with a single long stride.

You gasped for air.

His shadow covered you, and the distance between you shrunk to almost nothing.

It was then that he asked the unimaginable .

—Just one kiss.

Your eyes widened.

— What? — Disbelief cracked your voice. Alastor looked down at you, his eyes glowing like burning embers.

— A lasting kiss. A real one.

Your body tensed.

— And if we feel nothing…— he continued with a dangerous softness, — if this has all been an illusion, a foolishness… I will leave you alone.

His voice dropped a tone lower, like a promise.

— But if we get carried away….

He didn't finish the sentence.

He didn't need to.

The implication hit you like a punch in the chest.

— You're insane — you whispered, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

Alastor smiling, but not mockingly.

— Maybe.

You instinctively took a step back, but the bar was still there, preventing you from escaping.

Refusing was the only option.

But before you could open your mouth to refuse, you felt the touch of your hands.

Not on your face.

Not on your waist.

On your hands.

His fingers intertwined with yours in an unexpectedly delicate grip, and when you looked up, his eyes caught you completely.

There was no longer arrogance in them.

There was something else, something devastating, something you never expected to see in him.

Supplication.

The radio demon, with all his power, with all his overpowering presence, was begging you.

Without words, with his eyes, with his touch.

Your heart gave a brutal flip in your chest.

— Yes… —The word escaped your lips in a barely audible whisper, so fragile you could almost convince yourself you hadn't uttered it.

But Alastor heard it, and that was enough.

Alastor did not rush. He did not advance with the abruptness of one who takes what he desires without waiting for permission.

No.

He approached with exasperating slowness, measuring every inch he reduced between you, giving you the opportunity to flee.

But you don't move.

Don't look away from his gaze, even if the anticipation made you gasp, even if the air around you seemed thicker, suffocating.

Alastor noticed it all, your tense jaw, the slight quiver of your eyelashes, the sway of your chest as the air caught in your throat.

But you don't back down. And that sold your fate.

His hand rose parsimoniously, and the pad of his thumb brushed your lower lip with almost reverential gentleness.

The caress was light, barely a brush, but a violent shiver ran through you. You did nothing when his finger slowly probed it, as if he wanted to memorize its texture, its shape.

You did nothing when he pushed off it with a playful touch, just a slight tug that sent a tingle straight to your stomach.

And when he tilted his face and pressed a kiss against your lower lip, as delicate as a whisper… You closed your eyes.

Praying to whatever divine force that it would end there. That you didn't feel anything.

Because if you did…

If you really did…

You were going to end up in his arms.

But the universe was cruel, because the void he left when he turned away hurt you more than it should have.

You didn't have time to analyze it, because Alastor leaned in again. And this time, there were no distractions.

This time, he really kissed you.

It was soft, leisurely, almost lazy, as if he savored every second his lips moved over yours.

As if he was drinking in something long longed for.

Your fingers clung to the edges of the bar behind you, searching for something to anchor you to.

But when the kiss became firmer, when the heat of his mouth became an irrefutable reality, an instinct stronger than your reasoning took over.

You let go of the bar and, without realizing it, your fingers became entangled in his sack.

It was a minimal, almost insignificant action. But to Alastor, it was the equivalent of a match lighting a forest fire. Because the need exploded in his chest.

And the containment crumbled.

His hands slid to your neck, catching it firmly, and the gentleness of the kiss became something much more ravenous.

You opened your eyes, startled, trying to pull back, to speak, to do something.

But Alastor took advantage of the opening, sinking deeper, and his tongue slipped inside your mouth without warning. A choked moan formed in your throat, drowned out amidst the mess that was now the kiss.

There was no control.

There was no caution.

Only the sound of ragged breaths, soft gasps and the static electricity emanating from your skin.

A tingle ran through your entire body as his hands left your neck to wrap around your waist, drawing you hopelessly to him.

And you…

You didn't stop him.

In fact, it was quite the opposite. Because your arms found their way to his shoulders and you clung to him with the same desperation with which he was devouring you.

As if your life depended on it.

And worst of all… It's that at that moment, you felt like he really did.

The only thing that mattered at that moment was the heat.

The burning that spread through every corner of your body, every nook and cranny of your being, as the wet sounds of both lips colliding echoed through the air with an obsessive cadence. For him, those discordant notes were a heavenly melody, a symphony of desires fulfilled and temptations realized. But to you…

To you they were the sounds of decay, of the abandonment of everything you once thought you could be. They were obscene, the complete opposite of any standards you once thought important. And yet, who are you to define what is right or wrong in a place like this?

He kept moving over you, parting for an instant only to take over another spot on your face.

First, a warm, wet kiss on your cheek, followed by one on your chin, then on your cheekbone, leaving a sensation that added to the volcano burning inside you. Then a kiss on your eyelid, as if he wanted to seal you somehow, leaving a trail of fire on your skin.

And when he stopped on your forehead, he took you completely off guard. It was a soft, tender kiss… but the mixture of his warmth with his closeness made your legs wobble.

As soon as he could do this, he captured your lips again, leaving no room for doubt, the desperate need in his kiss burning hotter than any fire, every second consuming you insatiably.

Now, your hands didn't know where to go.

It was as if your whole body was in motion, touching what it could, clinging to what it found. Your waist. Your chest. His sack , which I had learned to want to feel in your hands. But your fingers didn't stop there, they slid down to her shoulders, running up and down her figure, searching for a stability that no longer existed.

Finally, your hands ended up in her hair, messy, intricate, and the desire to touch those deer ears, those details that only reminded you of her nature, became unbearable. You moved closer, wanting to sink your fingers there, to undo the only remnant of control left in him.

The thought of your husband… evaporated, almost as if it had never existed.

You don't think of him and you don't think of anything else either.

Because all there was at that moment was Alastor. His body, his presence, that electric tension that passed between the two of you, and the feeling that everything was so perfectly right . If you remembered nothing, if this was a new beginning, if Alastor was claiming to be the true lover in your life, you would feel that it could be true, no more questions needed to be asked.

This kiss… this was the only moment worth remembering, and the only truth you had left.

The last thing you remember, through the haze of arousal, is Alastor undressing you with delicate urgency, stripping you of every garment as if he were unveiling a work of art. And then, suddenly, you find yourself reclining on one of the leather seats, being fucked by him in such a delicious way that your moans burn your throat.

You don't know how many orgasms he has brought out of you, but you know you are overstimulated by the violent trembling in your legs and the pleasurable pain your pussy is suffering.

Your moans rise in intensity, tearing through the silence as Alastor rams you with unbridled passion. It's too much for you, that your voice shoots out with a plea.

It's a slow, exquisite torture. You feel the tip of his cock brush against your cervix, that sweet spot where all your nerves converge, and a choked cry escapes your lips. It's a pleasurable pain, an electric shock that makes you buck under his touch, feeling every cell in your body explode in an explosion of sensations.

— There? You like that, don't you? — Alastor whispers, his voice throaty and loaded with a possessiveness that makes you shudder. — You like it when I fuck you like that?

— Yes, there… M-more…— you hiss in a broken, shattered voice, tears in your eyes.

You open your eyes, your gaze lost in the haze of excitement. The world is reduced to him, to the intensity of his dark eyes and the way his body completely dominates you. Fear tries to creep into your thoughts, but pleasure is an unstoppable tide that drowns him mercilessly.

You lunge again like a madman, possessed by your own pleasure, arousal drenches you both and the smell of sex wafts through the room. And the wet sounds force you to roll your eyes back and paint them white.

Alastor, intoxicated by your surrender, watches you as he makes you his. A primal instinct overcomes him and, with a nimble movement, he shifts position. Now he takes you with abandon, with an unbridled ferocity that steals your breath.

He wants to see you cry with pleasure, to see you lose control completely. He demands it of you with words and actions, praising every moan, every spasm, every sign of your surrender. He kisses you voraciously, savoring your taste, and embraces you with a possessiveness that marks you as his own.

As he gazes at you, his eyes linger on your belly. An almost ravenous need invades him, and sharp words burst from his lips, "You're going to be the mother of my children," he exclaims in a throaty voice that runs down your spine. "You're going to be the sexiest mother in hell, sporting my seed."

And seeing that little bulge of his cock in your belly only slowly breaks the self-control he still thinks he possesses. And he grunts when he hears you moan, a long, choppy moan that seems so sweet to him.

Desire consumes him, the idea of procreating with you drives him crazy. Even though that is practically impossible in hell.

— Let me fill you. — he begs with a fervor that shakes you. — Let me sow my semen inside you and create a new life, a life that belongs only to us.

Sighs and low moans came from him as he uttered those words like a mantra, the climax approaching, so fragile you feel it inside you.

Melted and not really you, you look at him with tight eyebrows, clinging to the places of his thrusts and simply nod.

— Come… come inside me, please! — You cry out with heart-rending urgency, pleading for Alastor to bring you to the ultimate orgasm.

— Look at me, my love. — he hisses, his voice a dangerous purr, — watch me as I give you what you crave so much.

Alastor purrs, his static brushing against your skin and ruffling your hair. You, lost and sensing that at any moment you are both going to be finished, bite your lip trying to hold back the screams.

Alastor immediately notices this and leans in, a quick glance informing you what he's thinking.

— Scream… scream whatever you want, precious, just scream how good you feel, how good you take me… fuck — His voice came out raspy, demanding even.

Alastor, possessed by a perverse euphoria, grunts and gasps on you, each lunge a coup de grace against your last defenses. Your vision blurs, the world is reduced to him, to the heat, the salty taste of your own skin and the sound of your own pleas.

The climax hits you like a bolt of lightning. A torrent of heat and light bursts inside you, tearing apart any barrier that remained between you and him. You scream, a wild, primal sound, as your body contracts in uncontrollable spasms. Alastor roars over you, pouring his essence deep inside you, claiming you as his own.

When the aftershocks begin to subside, you find yourself staring into his eyes, your breath hitching, your body covered in sweat.

— You are perfect. — he whispers between gasps. 

As you both recover from your climax, Alastor couldn't help but grab the back of your neck, pulling your face to his to kiss you with a hungry fervor. You accepted the kiss in response, surrendering to the passion still seething between the two of you. And as you kissed, Alastor slowly withdrew from inside you.

The contrast between the wild way he had possessed you minutes before and the gentleness with which he was now extracting his erection was mesmerizing. You gasped as you felt the emptiness in your body, a pang of longing mixed with the satisfaction of the pleasure just experienced.

Alastor contemplated the mess you were now. Your flushed face, your skin covered in sweat and your body freshly sated by his lust gave you a wonderful glow. He let out a static-laden chuckle as he watched some of his cum slide down your thigh.

With his claw, he scooped up some of the substance and looked down at you, a mischievous smile curving his lips. You blushed even more at the sight of the semen on his claw, a tangible reminder of your intimacy.

— You shouldn't feel ashamed, cherie. —Alastor exclaimed, his voice echoing softly. — After all, we have already shared a very intimate moment.

You felt a faint spark of helplessness at his comment, but it quickly vanished as Alastor lifted you into his arms, as if you were a feather.

— I'll take you to a hot bath. — he said, his voice a warm whisper in your ear.— So you can relax and recover.

The aftercare Alastor was giving you melted your defenses, weakening the resistance you were still trying to maintain. Clinging to his neck, you accepted his offer, surrendering to his charm and the need to feel his closeness.

— You're amazing. — you whispered, your voice barely audible.— I don't know what you've done to me.

Alastor smiled, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. As he carried you in his arms, you felt everything around you fade away.

In the depths of the pentagram city, a small establishment, an uncrowded place, was the ideal location for a meeting such as the one Alastor planned to have with his most promising associate

With a cup of tea in hand, he drank it neatly, savoring each sip as if it were the elixir of his victory. The sulphur-laden air and stale tobacco lent an aura of secrecy, a perfect setting for a meeting between men of his caliber.

The tinkling of the establishment's old bell resounded, marking your husband's arrival. Always punctual, always impeccable in his gait, he advanced with the confidence of a man who knows he is well received. He did not suspect, he had no reason to.

Alastor, with his perpetually stretched smile, received him with an elegant gesture. His mood was still high, his spirits renewed after the evening he had spent with you. He still savored the echoes of your presence, the memory of your skin, the timbre of your voice entwined with his on that special night.

— Alastor! — your husband exclaimed effusively, taking a seat across from him.— What a pleasure it is to see you again.

— And mine is even greater! — the demon intoned with his usual theatricality.— I'm glad to see you're still in one piece after your little excursion. I hope it was as… exciting as you imagined.

Your husband laughed, settling in with the ease of one who has good news to share.

— Oh, it was. From start to finish. Mercenaries, small-time demons, ambushes…— your husband exclaimed enthusiastically, pausing before continuing, —Violence at every turn, as expected. But you know what? It was all worth it.

Alastor tilted his head in mock interest, gently twirling the spoon in his tea.

— Ah, Yes? , And what did you find in the midst of such an odyssey?— he asked.

Your husband leaned forward slightly, and in one measured motion, pulled out a bundle wrapped in dark velvet. He held it reverently before unfolding the cloth and revealing his most precious find: a grimoire of infernal magic, its yellowed pages exuding a latent energy, its leather cover cracked and marked with symbols forgotten by time.

Alastor looks at the relic with a lopsided smile, interlacing his fingers on the table.

— Well, well… —he mused, slurring his words in his melodic tone.— It's not every day one stumbles upon a treasure like this.

— No, not every day. — agreed your husband with palpable excitement as he turned the pages with eager fingers.— But here it is. Lost magic, forbidden spells… and one in particular that changes everything.

Alastor did not react immediately.

He simply waited, letting the other man elaborate, let him drown in his own enthusiasm.

— One of these spells guarantees a conception in hell— he declared, his eyes glowing with a feverish intensity. — A pregnancy.

The silence that followed was almost imperceptible, a minuscule space of time in which the world seemed to hold its breath.

Alastor's smile did not fade, but something in his posture changed, a subtle tension in his jaw, a slight drumming of his fingers against the table.

— Oh… what a fascinating revelation,— he murmured with his usual sweetness, gently setting his teacup aside.— And tell me… who, exactly, will be the lucky one?

Your husband laughed with genuine warmth, oblivious to the storm brewing in front of him.

— Who else could it be? My wife.

Alastor felt the air grow heavy in his throat. The timbre of his laughter did not change, nor did the sharp glint in his eyes, but inside him, fury pulsed like a chained beast, clawing, wanting to escape.

No. Not yet.

Your husband continued to talk, rambling on about his love for you, about the future he planned by your side, about the miracle that was within his grasp. His enthusiasm was blinding. He didn't see the way Alastor settled into his seat, nor how the shadow of his smile took on a dangerous tinge.

And then, with absolute calm, the demon exhaled a sentence that split the conversation in two.

— I'm sorry, my friend… but. — said Alastor, his voice smooth as velvet, riddled with a steely edge. —…I fucked your wife.

The sound of his voice, though serene, felt like a thud against the table. Your husband stopped immediately. His words died in his throat, his face paled as if the blood had left him with a single jerk.

— Pardon? — he asked, a shaky laugh seeping between his lips.— I must have heard wrong… that was a joke, wasn't it?

Alastor didn't move. His smile was still there, relaxed, serene. His crimson eyes glowed with dark satisfaction, as if he enjoyed the bewilderment of the man in front of him.

— Dear colleague. — he whispered with a bone-chilling sweetness.— Do I look like someone who jokes?

The light of the establishment flickered over both men. The silence that followed the confession was thick.

Your husband, still incredulous, searched Alastor's face for some hint of mockery, a grimace that would disprove his words. But the demon only looked at him with that lazy and enchanted smile.

— No… — your husband muttered, his voice barely a choked whisper.— It can't be…

Alastor let out a light laugh, full of amusement, and leaned forward with his elbows on the table, interlacing his fingers.

— Oh, but it can. — he crooned with delight.— And it was.

Your husband swallowed dryly.

— When? —His voice cracked slightly. — How?

The demon narrowed his eyes, his smile curving with pride.

— Ah, you want details? — he asked, with a venomous sweetness.— It's funny… I thought certain images would be overused in your mind.

Your husband's jaw tensed, but Alastor didn't stop.

— Although, if you insist…— he continued with mock innocence, stroking the rim of his teacup.— I might say it all began with the allure of loneliness. Poor soul, abandoned by her beloved on such a perilous travel… so, so far away. What was I to do but offer her a little company?

Your husband's eyes grew wide with horror as he realized the truth.

The travel.

The damn travel.

The letter the radio demon had sent him, with a destination that promised only advantages.

It was all Alastor's idea.

All this time, the whole odyssey, all the effort to find that grimoire… it had been nothing more than a distraction.

An excuse.

For the Radio Demon to get tangled in the sheets with you.

The chair slid back with a violent creak as your husband shot to his feet, his face flushed with anger, chest heaving with erratic breathing. He pointed a trembling finger at Alastor, while his other hand clenched into a fist, knuckles white with restrained force.

— How could you…! —he bellowed, his voice rasping with fury. — How dare you betray our alliance like this! To climb into bed with my wife!

Alastor did not flinch. On the contrary, he leaned back comfortably in his seat, raising an eyebrow haughtily.

— Betray the alliance? —he muttered, his tone overflowing with condescension. — I don't know why you're so surprised. After all… she's always been mine.

Your husband's blood boiled in her veins. But Alastor was only smiling. He was smiling as if he had already won.

Alastor brought the teacup to his lips with that infuriating grace of his, but before he took a sip, he dropped one last lunge.

— ¡Ah yes!, and actually…— he paused briefly, enjoying the anticipation on your husband's congested face.— It wasn't on the bed. It was on the couch.

The silence in the room was immediate.

For an instant, there was only the subtle tinkling of china as Alastor finally set his tea down on the wood with absolute serenity.

Your husband, however, felt the last strand of his self-control tear. The vein in his forehead pulsed violently before he let out a fierce curse, his voice so powerful that some of the demons present in the small room were startled.

Murmurs began to run through the patrons, some watching with morbid interest, others feigning indifference as their ears pricked up to catch every word.

— You damned bastard! — your husband spat, his chest rising and falling with furious breaths.

Your husband pointed a trembling finger at Alastor, his other hand clenched into a fist that rose as if at any moment he was going to hurl it at the demon.

— She's my wife!— he spat, rage exuding from every word.— As much as you have taken advantage of my absence, she is still my wife!

Ah, but those words…

Something bubbled up inside him, a dense, toxic emotion that began to seep into the atmosphere like a dark fog.

— Is that so? Your wife…— repeated the demon, his voice a silken whisper.

The teacup hovered in the air for a few seconds before disappearing in a distortion of static, as Alastor's silhouette began to change.

The lights of the place flickered, crackling with irregular frequency. His shadow, which until that moment had remained obedient under his feet, began to lengthen and twist, transformed into a creature with a will of its own.

Little flashes of his demonic form began to manifest themselves involuntarily: his smile, once playful, twisted into something sharper, more predatory; and his eyes, those glowing red eyes like burning spokes, crackled with barely contained rage.

— Ah… — he whispered, rising with an unsettling slowness. — No, no, dear friend….

— She… She's not yours. —he exclaimed, each syllable making the ground tremble beneath his feet.— She never was.

A flash of red and black flashed across his figure. The temperature in the place dropped sharply, and static electricity made the lights flicker with a sickly hum.

The murmuring in the room ceased. No one dared move.

And then Alastor bowed his head slightly, his smile curving into something that no longer looked human, but the ravenous grimace of a predator ready to feast.

— And now..—He uttered in a tone that was almost melodic. — I'm going to get rid of the nuisance.

Your husband barely had time to inhale before the shadows around him began to move.

The radio broadcast, transmitted from high above, echoed in every corner where Alastor's signal could reach. At first, only intermittent static could be heard, distorted like the wailing of a spectrum trapped between frequencies. Then, the screams began.

Heart-rending sounds echoed through the air, where the infamous red demon's radio broadcast was emitting a special edition.

Suffering permeated every note of that macabre symphony, and the listening demons shuddered, some with morbid pleasure, others with a visceral unease that made their skin crawl. But no one turned off the radio.

Alastor's distorted guffaws filtered into the transmission between each interval of screams, each word a mocking echo, a sadistic mockery of the fate of the wretch who had dared to defy him.

And the wretched victim had been your husband.

— What a… lovely evening, my friends! — He intoned enthusiastically, his voice buzzing with a hint of static.— Don't you think despair has such a… melodious ring to it!

More laughter. More pleading in the distant background, fainter and fainter.

Then silence, and then a click.

The program had come to an end.

In the demon's hands rested the grimoire.

His fingers ran over the ancient leather cover, feeling the dark energy emanating from the book. The mere presence of those pages, covered with infernal inscriptions, vibrated the air with a primal power, one he recognized all too well.

His red eyes glowed with keen interest. A spell of conception.

The idea was fascinating. In Hell, damned souls could not create life the way mortals could, but that book…that spell promised the impossible.

Could it be true?

Could there really be a being born of his essence, of his power?

A snap echoed in the air as he closed the grimoire with a firm movement. His fingers drummed on the cover as her smile widened with barely contained excitement.

Well…

There was only one way to find out.

And you… you would be the perfect person in his little experiment.

___________________

Oh god, I still don't forget this series of stories, misfortunes consumed my time and at last I can upload this work. I am sorry forever. T.T

[secretlysimpash]

Pt. 1

Pt. 2

It's been a few months since your initial mating, you’ve got three mates and some pups on the way…And Price is left alone with you on the base while the boys are off on some classified business.

!!!! MDNI !!!

warning(s): reader is female, typical A/B/O shit (alphas, omegas, betas, mates, marks, scents, pups), pregnancy, lactation, fluff (kinda?? i think this constitutes as fluff)

“I’m sorry, did you say triplets, John?”

Laswell’s incredulous voice came from the other end of the call, and the equally surprised Captain held the phone from his ear for a moment. Inhaling deeply, he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You heard right, Laswell…” He confirmed, his voice perfectly calm, even if he was still reeling himself. “The medic found three during the ultrasound. Can’t tell if they’re all Simon’s either.” Not that it’d matter. He added mentally, knowing full well that you and the three men were mated now. Even if it’s Simon’s mark on your neck, Johnny and Kyle are also your alphas in every sense of the word. Heteropaternal superfecundation isn’t common, but not unheard of for omegas in heat, and especially for omegas whose bodies accept more than one mate…Like yours did. 

“Fuck me…So her temporary replacement might be more permanent than I expected.” Laswell said, a begrudging note of resignation laced into her words regarding the flippant alpha filling in for you. A beat of silence stretched between them before she exhaled. “Okay…Keep in touch, I’ll swing by when I’m finished with this paperwork. God knows how long this’ll take.”

John straightened up, humming out softly in response. “Right…Take your time, don’t go completely mad, Kate.” And then the call ends. It went over better than expected, all things considered. She didn’t tear him a new one the same way she did when he informed her that you’d be staying for an extra week after the initial incident roughly four months ago. 

Bringing a hand down his face, John abandons his phone and makes his way to the window in his office. A lot has happened in four months, and he’s still wrapping his head around it. He watched his lieutenant and two sergeants stake their claim on you, taking you on many dates and outings, and just being wonderful alphas…If not a bit overprotective of you. John watched you splitting your nights up between the three alphas, never once asking for your own room (he tried giving you your own room, only to find your three alphas piled into the small bed meant for one, crowding you that morning).

Speaking of the other alphas…All three had to head out of the base early this morning to share notes with Farah Karim and Alex Keller in a classified location, and they aren’t expected to be back until tomorrow evening. They didn’t want to leave their sweet omega alone, nor did they want to wake her up to say goodbye since you seemed so peaceful. So, instead, John listened from outside of Soap’s quarters as they shared hushed farewells with you.

“We’ll be back before ye ken…”

“Captain’ll be here if you need anything, birdie.”

“Stay outta trouble…And don’t give your mum a hard time.”

That last bit from Gaz was aimed at the pups growing inside of you, and was no doubt followed up with a kiss to the growing bump. It warmed his heart a bit, truly…Seeing the three men he works so close with, ones he’s been through hell with, being so content. He watches the budding leaves sway on the tree near his window, exhaling through his nose when he hears something shuffling past his office. Turning his head, he can see the shadow of someone passing by under the door. 

Must be her. He thought as he crossed over to the door. Once it was open, he’s greeted by the sight of you toddling into the kitchen. You’re practically swimming in one of Soap’s shirts, wearing an old pair of pajama pants courtesy of Gaz, and he can pick up on Ghost’s leathery scent underneath the other two. 

“Morning.” John grunts out, making his way into the kitchen after you. When you turn to look at him in front of the fridge, he can’t help but smile. You’re literally barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen, practically glowing despite your slightly frazzled appearance. 

“It’s…” You begin, squinting at the time on the clock. “More like afternoon…But hi. My appetite finally caught up with me.”

John hums in response as he fills up the coffee maker before hitting brew. He recalls how you weren’t feeling very hungry in the past few days, having an upset stomach that would only tolerate liquids and the occasional strange pregnancy craving (the sight of you eating pickles with chocolate ice cream will haunt John’s dreams). “Want me to make you something?”

“I can cook…” You respond, shifting through the cabinets. “The boys are amazing, but they haven’t let me cook my own meal since…God, since before they knew I was pregnant, actually.”

“They’re just eager to show you that they can provide.” John explains, taking out a mug for himself and one for you. “It's a thing with us alphas. The macho and dominant part is there, but we want our omegas to know they can count on us to provide for them and our pups. An alpha being soft for their mate and brood is important.”

As you listen along, you pull out some pancake mix, intent on making a nice stack for yourself. You try to ignore the odd feeling in your chest…In your breasts, more specifically. It’s just another side effect of being pregnant with pups, three at that. They seem more tender, sore even. Your mind is set on making and devouring as many pancakes as possible, sore tits be damned. 

John is in the middle of pouring himself some coffee, fixing it the way he likes, but stopping mid-pour of the miniscule bit of milk he usually adds. There’s something about your scent, something different. The usual sweet scent was already faintly noticeable under the three scents of your alphas. But now, it’s growing stronger somehow. Vanilla fills his senses, and his eyes turn to you. It’s almost intoxicating, and he really shouldn’t be eyeing you as you mix together the contents of the pancake batter. But here he is…Staring…And staring…Until he sees it.

“...Did the medic say anything you need to look out for?” He asks suddenly, eyes settled on your chest area. “Changes, or…”

You think for a bit, your caffeine-free brain taking some time to catch up as you squint at nothing. “Uh…Weight gain, cravings, tender breasts, tender…Gums, I think, and…” Finally, you felt his gaze practically burning a hole through your–rather Soap’s–shirt. Your face warms when you see where he’s looking, and your own eyes drop. “Oh…! Oh…Shit. That’s…” You bring a hand up to the damp material, milk staining the area over your nipple. 

John scrubs a hand down his beard, covering his mouth to conceal an amused chuckle. “Was lactation something to expect this soon?” The way your mouth opens and closes wordlessly as realization takes over your eyes, has his answer. “Did you want me to finish with the pancakes…? You could go take care of your…Situation. I won’t interfere.”

You give him a grateful look, setting the whisk down in the batter. “Yeah…I’d like that.” You say before scurrying off to the bathroom. Before you’re too far, you throw over your shoulder, “Add blueberries and chocolate chips…Please!”

At least you didn’t ask for pickles on the side.

…

John made a nice stack of five pancakes for you, not putting the syrup on just yet. He waited for a bit after they were finished, and waited some more. When you didn’t show twenty minutes after, your stack and coffee starting to cool, he got curious. They took a few minutes to cook, so it's been…Nearly an hour since you left to deal with the leakage. So, he followed your scent down the hall and right to the bathroom. Your scent is still there, but faint, and leading to Simon’s room. Inside, he finds you sitting on the bed. You’re sitting cross legged in the middle, a barely audible whine leaving you as you press a damp cloth to your tender breasts.

“Hey…Feeling alright?” John asks, leaning in the doorway as he sets a concerned look on you. His inner alpha is demanding that he go in there and gather you up into his arms. But he holds off…He is nothing if not a very disciplined man.

“The cold compress works but…I…” You avoid his gaze, feeling heated under it. “Didn’t want to just walk out without a shirt on.”

When John hears your stomach growl, followed up by a frustrated sound caught between a whine and a groan, he makes the conclusion. “And you’re hungrier now than before…You know it's nothing I haven’t seen before.”

It’s true, John has walked in on you with one or more of your alphas more than once in some compromising positions. But still, you have some shame. 

John thinks for a moment, exhaling through his nose as he observes your current state. Shirtless, with your hands clutching at your chest with a damp cloth. He mutters out a “stay here” before leaving the doorway. When he returns, he has a plate of pancakes in one hand, and a cold pack in the other.

“Set the washcloth down. This’ll stay cold longer…” He says, offering the pack to you. When you remove the washcloth, he’s met with the sight of your breasts. A bit of near transparent liquid is beaded at one of the peaks, and part of him wants to use his mouth to assist you…But the louder, more disciplined part of his brain is in control. He lets you place the pack over your sore chest, and then he spears the pancakes which he already cut up onto the fork. Once he brings the forked pancakes up to your lips, his free hand hovering under to make sure no syrup drips onto the bed, you realize what he’s doing.

Silently, you take the fork into your mouth, giving him a grateful look. For the next few minutes, he just repeats the process of gathering the cut up pancakes onto the fork and feeding you. As he does, he talks to lessen the tension or any awkwardness of this alpha who’s not mated to you taking care of you. He doesn’t talk about anything in particular, nothing serious. Just about the weather, the news, how happy “his boys” have been since you stumbled into their lives. Your inner omega is calm, at peace, much less worried and uncomfortable than before. 

The blueberry-and-chocolate-chip pancakes are just about finished, the last bit stabbed onto the fork and being lifted to your mouth when the door to Simon’s room opens. You didn’t hear anyone coming into the base/pack house, not over John’s soothing, honeyed voice. And no discernable scent is present…It isn’t until you see a familiar blonde head peek in, blue eyes settling on the pair of you, that you see who it is.

“Laswell!” You chirp out, eyes lighting. It’s been a week or so since she last visited. “Laswell, guess what, I’m having–”

“Triplets.” She finished for you, eyes finally settling on John. The beta wasn’t sure where to look at first. Your topless self, the blue cold pack covering your chest, the syrup drenched pancakes…

John, who’s letting you finally take the last bit of your breakfast into your mouth, gives her a sheepish smile. “I feel like you’ve walked in on your assistant enough in the past few months…”

“Not the worst thing I’ve seen from the past few months either.” She deadpans, leaning in the doorway. Despite her tone, her eyes hold a fondness at the sight before her.

So now you have four…Four alphas who are more than willing to look after you and the three pups on the way.

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

1: WRONG FOOT FORWARD

MASTERLIST > Next chapter (pending)

Summary: When you receive a wedding invitation from your best friends, they expect you to bring along your elusive boyfriend—except, he doesn’t exist. Panicked and out of options, you find yourself considering increasingly desperate measures to avoid humiliation. Meanwhile, your grumpy, annoyingly handsome neighbor, Bucky Barnes, has his own battles—ones that you unknowingly make worse with a thoughtless remark. As tensions rise and misunderstandings deepen, will you find an unexpected solution to your problem… or just more trouble?

Warnings: neighbors to lovers, fake dating, slow burn, Bucky has issues™, Reader has issues too™, emotional baggage

Word Count: 2,572

“Please save the date to celebrate the union of Hanna Marin & Aditi Sharma!”

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” you cursed silently, reading the text that had just come through on your phone.

Hanna had texted you the beautifully designed “Save the Date” card, followed by…

4:04 PM - Hanna: Can’t wait to meet that secret hunk of yours. Don’t leave him at home!

You groaned. This was a disaster. An unmitigated disaster. You had no idea how you were going to get out of this situation. Another long drawn out groan slipped from your lips as the elevator doors on the third floor of your apartment opened up. The sound was embarrassingly obnoxious, slipping out at the exact moment the doors parted to reveal the outline of your neighbor.

Of course, it had to be Bucky!

You immediately flushed crimson as Bucky turned around with a smirk painted across his face.

“Making those noises in public could get you arrested for public indecency, you know that, right, Princess?”

You shot Bucky a withering stare, hoping to melt the that stupid smirk of his stupidly handsome face. Why did it have to be him?

“Funny,” you snapped, stepping out of the elevator, “considering I’m pretty sure your entire existence is a crime against humanity.”

His smirk faltered for a split second. It was so quick that if you had blinked, you would have missed it. His jaw tightened, and for a moment, he dropped his gaze slightly, as if something inside him had changed. A darkness flickered across his face before the familiar grin reappeared on his face like a shield.

But it was too late, the words had been spoken and you could feel the weight of what you’d said. Guilt crept in, gnawing at your stomach. You hadn’t meant it like that. It had just slipped out, your mouth working faster than your brain. But that look, that flash of pain, it told you that your words had landed somewhere far more poignant than you had intended.

“Bucky, I didn’t mean—” you began, your voice softening as you felt a rush of regret.

“No offense taken, Princess,” he said stiffly,  turning toward the elevator with his back to you, hiding his face. His words were sharp and final. He slid past you, posture tense and tone colder than you’d ever heard before.

“Wait,” you cried, taking a step to follow. “I’m sorry, okay?” I didn’t mean it like—”

“Forget it,” he interrupted. “I’ve been called worse.”

His words hit you like a sucker punch. He wasn’t just brushing you off— he genuinely meant it, and that hurt more than his earlier teasing ever could.

“Bucky, seriously, I—”

But the elevator doors closed in your face, cutting you off leaving you staring at your own distorted expression in the reflective chrome surface. You stared blankly at the doors for a few moments, debating whether you should go after him but he had already tried to brush it off. You didn't want to make things worse for him. 

So instead of making a fool of yourself further, you turned back towards your front door, mind still dwelling on that look of hurt— the one you had caused.

While Bucky Barnes was undeniably attractive, his brooding, grumpy demeanor made living across from him a bit of a challenge. Ordinarily he would grunt his greetings, he came and went at strange hours and you could hear his television on loud almost every night. His favorite sport was avoiding you but when your interactions were unavoidable, they were usually thinly veiled insults.

You collapsed against the door of your apartment, letting your head fall back against the wood with a dull thud. A frustrated groan leaving your lips. Why did these things always happen to you? Why did your mouth always have to get you into trouble? 

Shaking your head, you bent down to unzip your velvet cream ankle-heeled boots. You took a moment to admire your outfit in the mirror by the front door, a two-tone brown tank top paired with a plaid high-waisted midi skirt. Comfortable yet professional, it was one of your go-to for meeting clients. Today, you didn’t have any high-end commissions to deal with, so you’d opted to wear something practical over statement-making.

You took off your necklace and earrings, custom pieces that you’d meticulously designed yourself when you’d first started out in your career. Carefully you placed them in a small velvet-lined box in the top drawer of your drawer for safe keeping.

You sighed again, pulling the hair clip out of your tresses and running your fingers through the strands, trying to comb out the irritation of the day. Hanna’s message had thrown you for a loop. And then there was Bucky— his face was still burned on your retina. That stupid smirk, always so smug— you hated how easily it had crumbled into something else. Something more vulnerable.

You didn't mean it. You never meant to hurt anyone with your words. Least of all him.

Back when he had moved in across the hall, it had taken you a while to recognize who he was. To you, he was just a grumpy neighbor who kept to himself. It wasn't until you'd seen him on television, standing beside Sam Wilson, The Falc—, no Captain America, that you realized who he really was. After a few internet searches, you had more information than you’d ever wanted.

At first, you were wary. The Winter Soldier living across the hall? The idea alone had been enough to send a shiver down your spine. But your opinion had shifted one afternoon when you’d seen him helping Mrs. Burke, your elderly neighbor, up the stairs with her groceries when the elevator was out of order. He just silently carried her bags while she rambled on about her apple pie recipe.

Mrs. Winnie Burke was a kind soul, the heart of the building, really. She won over all the residents with her fierce independence, her fond stories about her late husband, Arthur, and her ample supply of baked goods. For you, she was always ready with a piece of advice or a slice of apple pie. You helped her as often as you could, offering to pick up her groceries when the weather was foul, and in exchange she would grace you with one of the delicacies she would conjure up using her ‘secret family recipes’.

Bucky’s readiness to help her had been the first step to your altered perception of him. Beneath this gruff exterior and curmudgeonly ways, you started to see that there was more to him than the news headlines and whispered rumors. He didn’t make it easy to see, but it was there.

And now? You weren’t sure what to feel. You couldn’t unsee that flicker of hurt in his eyes, the way he had stiffened before brushing you off. He may have pretended not to care, but you’d seen enough to know otherwise.

You sighed again, a sense of unease growing tighter in your chest. You really hadn’t meant to say those things to him, but now the damage was done. But with Hanna’s text looming over you, you didn’t have time to dwell on it. You had bigger problems— like figuring out how to conjure a hunky boyfriend out of thin air.

You slipped on a loose, oversized gray sweater along with a pair of black skinny jeans and re-tied your hair into a messy bun. The growl in your stomach reminded you that you had skipped lunch in favor of around five steaming cups of coffee. At this point, you probably had more coffee in your veins than blood. Inconveniently, your fridge seemed to have swallowed up every ounce of edible material it had been storing. Another night of takeout was the only solution if you didn't want to head down to the grocery store.

You picked up your phone and dialed the number of your favorite Chinese takeaway, before settling onto the couch with your iPad, the app for Procreate already open from where you had left off a few days ago. Hanna and Aditi had asked you to design their wedding rings. Actually, they had begged you; they said they would consider it your wedding gift to them. You had consented easily, it was truly an honor to be asked. You had added the finishing touches to the design and sent them the images for approval and received a resounding ‘yes’ from both brides almost immediately. The rings had complementary designs but represented each bride’s personalities. You had designed them so that if they were placed next to each other, they would fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

As you admired the design, your thoughts wandered back to your most pressing issue. Your boyfriend… or conspicuous lack thereof. What were you going to do? You’d been lying for months to get your friends off your back. It was so unlike you– dishonesty made you anxious, your mouth got dry, you got butterflies; the lies were written all over your face. But for some reason, this piece of misinformation had left your lips before you could bat an eyelid and you were struggling to maintain the level of deception. Now, when your friends badgered you for information, you just refused to reply.

You picked up your phone, scrolling down to Tinder. Maybe you could find someone willing to go to a wedding with you. A no-strings-attached kind of affair. Just one day, smile for the photo, pretend to be someone else for a day, roll in the hay after… maybe that wasn’t such a great idea after all. Prostituting yourself to get your friends off your back wasn’t a genius idea.

You groaned, tossing your phone onto the couch. Tinder was officially a dead end.

Your thoughts spiraled as you pondered other avenues you could take to fill this role. You scrolled through Facebook for a bit, but your options were bleak. Most of your friends were married, engaged… or worse: actually in love! Your eyes wandered around your apartment, landing on a photo of you, Hanna and Aditi. It had been taken on the night of their engagement, you were standing in the middle and they were on either side, each one of them had their lips pressed against your cheeks. Hanna had leant in tipsily and whispered in your ear, “Don’t worry, you’ll find someone amazing too.”

You’d known Hanna and Aditi since elementary school, separately and then together. You were the reason they had met, they’d been your best friends from different places and you knew they’d been in love with each other since you’d all attended high school together. Somehow they never let you feel like the third wheel in your relationship, but there were times when you felt very lonely in their company.

Yeah, you were definitely running out of time.

To top off your issues, your stomach growled loudly, demanding to be fed. Your eyes flicked to the door, as if the delivery of your takeout would materialize outside by your sheer force of will. As you imagined someone in the hallway, your mind automatically gave the figure a face… your neighbor’s face. No. Absolutely not. Bucky Barnes was not an option. Not even a last resort. Sure, he was attractive… ridiculously attractive… but he was a world class grump, your friends would never believe that you would date such a loner.

“No,” you muttered to yourself. “Not happening.”

But despite your protests to yourself, you were already picturing him in a suit, a navy three piece would bring out those piercing blue eyes.

No.

Then you remembered who else would look good in a suit. Leonard! Your ex. Reluctantly you picked up your phone and started typing.

Bucky stepped out into the chilly afternoon air. He kept replaying his exchange with you. It had been far more awkward than he had intended. It wasn’t like he was good at these things, but talking to strangers was definitely not on the top of his list of things he enjoyed. There had been a time when he could quite literally charm the pants off a woman but somehow he had made a mess of things… again.

She didn’t mean it like that, he told himself. But the words wouldn’t stop echoing through his mind. Crimes against humanity. He shoved his hands into his pockets, avoiding making eye contact with anyone on the street. He walked down the street with the collar of his leather jacket turned up in an attempt to shield his identity. Bucky turned away from the faces who might judge him, but he could still see them— the faces of the people he had hurt, the people he had killed. 

There was a pang of guilt. Maybe you were right, maybe there was some part of him that would always be defined by the things he’d done— the things he’d been made to do. A flare of resentment coursed through him. She doesn’t know me, he thought. She has no idea what I’ve been through.

You had a way of making him feel exposed. Every single one of his interactions with you made him feel raw, like you’d peeled away the layers of armor he had built around himself. He didn’t know what it was, but the way you looked at him with your sharp, discerning eyes was disarming. It was like they could see more than he was willing to show you. This was exactly why he did his best to avoid you. And when he had no choice, he resorted to sassy quips and smug smirks. If he played the role of grumpy neighbor well enough, he could keep you at a safe arm’s length.

Not that it had worked very well. You were everywhere. Even when he managed to deflect your attempts at small talk and walk away, he still felt your presence. Maybe he should move… You didn’t even have to try to unearth his insecurities, they seemed to rise to the surface whenever you were around. So he did the easiest thing for when someone got too close— he pushed you away, hoping you wouldn’t see who he really was— a man trying to put himself back together— one broken piece at a time.

He picked up his pace; Sam was probably already waiting for him. The last thing he needed was to listen to Sam’s well meaning criticism about his demeanor and lack of time management. It was easier to focus on his friend. The straight forward, outspoken man was easier for Bucky to deal with. Fine, so he could be incredibly annoying and sometimes, downright exasperating but for the most part he didn’t make Bucky feel like he had unknowingly exposed his innermost self.

Also, Sam was definitely not the type of guy who was going to let Bucky sit around and brood in peace. Which was probably exactly what he needed. A distraction. Something to pull him out of the tornado of self destruction that he seemed to have been sucked into. Bucky rounded the corner, feeling a little more drive in his step. A destination, something he could focus on instead of the emotional mess your words had somehow whipped up. He would deal with his emotions later… or maybe, if Sam did his job right, not at all.

MASTERLIST > Next chapter (pending)

NO tag list for this one. Follow me on @skittles-archive for notifications.

Posting schedule will be Mondays and Fridays around 7.30am ACT / 4.30pm EST / 1.30pm PST / 9.30pm BST

[odileeclipse]

Why do I imagine if y/n has trouble sleeping...with pure vanilla's calming aura and stuff...I bet he'd have various methods to help you fall asleep and would want you to sleep on his chest.

Sleepless nights

a/n guess my favorite cookie challenge (HARD)

The night was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of the wind against the window. The air was cool, the blankets warm, and yet sleep remained distant, teasing the edges of your mind without ever settling. You shifted again, turning onto your side with a quiet sigh, staring at the ceiling. You weren’t sure how long you lay there before a soft glow filled the room. You blinked, tilting your head to see Pure Vanilla Cookie standing in the doorway, his staff casting a gentle golden light. His expression, ever warm and full of quiet understanding, softened when he saw you still awake. “Oh, my dear…” His voice was barely more than a whisper as he stepped closer, his robes flowing like golden silk with every movement. He set his staff aside, allowing the glow to dim to a faint shimmer before kneeling beside the bed. “Another restless night?”

You nodded, rubbing your eyes. “I don’t know why… I just can’t seem to fall asleep.” Pure Vanilla smiled, but there was a hint of sorrow behind it. “Then let me help.” He reached for your hand, his fingers lacing through yours as he guided you to sit up. “Come with me.” You hesitated but allowed him to pull you from the bed. His grip was steady and sure, his warmth instantly comforting. He led you through the quiet halls, his light illuminating the path ahead. It was peaceful, the only sound being the soft padding of your footsteps and the occasional distant hum of the wind outside. Finally, he brought you to a small, open-air balcony. The night sky stretched endlessly before you, painted in deep blues and purples, stars glimmering like tiny flecks of light scattered across a velvet canvas. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and blooming flowers, and the breeze carried a soothing coolness. Pure Vanilla guided you to sit beside him on a cushioned bench, his arm instinctively wrapping around your shoulders. “When I struggle to find rest, I often come here,” he murmured. “There’s something about the night… It reminds me that even in darkness, there is always light.”

You leaned into his warmth, breathing in the scent of him—sweet, familiar, safe. “Do you struggle to sleep often?” He chuckled, but it was a quiet, tired sound. “More than I let on.” His fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns along your arm. “There are many things I carry, many thoughts that linger even when the world is still.” You frowned slightly, tilting your head up to look at him. In the soft light, you could see the weariness behind his gentle eyes, the weight of something unspoken. He always carried himself with such grace, such unwavering kindness, but now… he looked almost fragile, as if the burdens he bore had chipped away at him over time. “You shouldn’t have to carry everything alone,” you murmured. He blinked, his lips parting slightly in surprise before his expression melted into something impossibly tender. “And yet… I find myself saying the same to you.” You smiled softly, nudging your forehead against his shoulder. “Then maybe we can help each other.”

Pure Vanilla exhaled a quiet chuckle before pressing a gentle kiss to your hair. “I would like that.” The two of you sat there for a while, watching the stars in comfortable silence. The steady rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his touch, the way his magic seemed to wrap around you like a protective embrace—it all felt so safe, so calming. Eventually, he shifted slightly, guiding you to rest against his chest. “Close your eyes,” he murmured, his voice like a lullaby. “Just listen.” His heartbeat, slow and steady, echoed beneath your ear. His hand traced soft, rhythmic circles along your back, and his magic pulsed faintly, soothing every restless thought, every lingering worry. You breathed in deeply, letting the exhaustion finally settle in. With him here, with his arms around you and the stars above, sleep no longer felt so far away. Just as you began to drift, you heard his voice soft, warm, full of quiet devotion. “Sleep well, my light. I’ll be here when you wake.”

[wendichester]

hey, i love ur work! could u do a dean x reader where she’s a hunter and has her own sam, so to speak (just a big male hunting partner) and a vintage car and they’re like a parallel of eachother and it’s a meet cute or something??

⋆˚࿔ mirror, mirror,

summary. it's like your dean winchester from another universe. and he kinda likes it

pairing. dean winchester x reader

wordcount. 499

notes. hope this fits what you had envisioned sweets! thanks for requesting 😙

Dean Winchester has seen a lot of things in his life.

Werewolves. Vengeful spirits. Demons that can snap bones with a thought.

But he’s never seen himself.

At least, not until tonight.

It’s a gas station off some backroad in Oklahoma, the kind with buzzing neon lights and a faded NO LOITERING sign no one cares about. Dean’s leaning against the Impala, waiting for Sam to finish grabbing snacks, when he hears it—

The unmistakable rumble of an old engine.

Not just any old engine.

A ‘76 Mercury Cougar, sleek and black, purring like a damn jungle cat.

And behind the wheel? You.

Dean straightens, interest instantly piqued. You barely glance at him as you pull up to the pump, like you haven’t just walked into his universe and knocked it sideways.

Then your passenger door swings open, and out steps—

Jesus Christ.

You have a Sam.

Well. Not Sam, but close enough—a guy built like a brick wall, towering and broad, giving off the same protective, brother energy Dean’s used to.

Dean watches as your Sam—a guy you call Hunter, because of course his name is fucking Hunter—grumbles about gas prices and disappears inside to pay.

And that leaves just you.

Dean doesn’t hesitate.

“You know, you could’ve just asked to borrow my life instead of copying it.”

You turn, finally—finally—giving him your full attention.

And shit.

Dean was already interested. Now he’s in trouble.

Because you’ve got this look—sharp, knowing, amused. Like you already figured him out before he even opened his mouth.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say smoothly, popping your gas cap. “I was here first.”

Dean scoffs. “Yeah, sure. You, your oversized sidekick, your muscle car—” He gestures vaguely. “Real original.”

You smirk. “Jealous?”

Dean grins. “Of what? My reflection?”

You laugh, and it hits him harder than it should.

“You wish I was your reflection,” you tease, stepping closer. “But tell me, Winchester—”

Dean doesn’t even blink at the fact that you know his name. Of course you know his name. He knows yours, too.

“What do you drive?” you ask, tilting your head.

Dean gestures proudly. “’67 Impala.”

Your expression doesn’t change. “Cute.”

Dean’s jaw drops. “Cute?”

You hum. “Yeah. My Mercury could take her any day.”

Dean places a hand over his heart, mock-wounded. “Sweetheart, that is blasphemy.”

You shrug. “Only one way to find out.”

Dean raises a brow. “You saying you wanna race?”

“I’m saying you wanna race.” You tap his chest lightly, grinning. “And you hate that you’ll lose.”

Dean is—

Flustered.

Which is annoying, because he flirts for a living. But there’s something about you, the way you match him beat for beat, the way you look at him like you’re already a step ahead—

It’s a problem.

A problem he wants.

Hunter chooses that exact moment to step outside, raising a brow at the scene. “You making friends?”

You glance at Dean, smirking. “Something like that.”

Dean grins.

Yeah.

Something exactly like that.

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[minxmut-cafe]

BEAR WITH ME ?? | 02.

Pairing: Bear hybrid Namjoon x Ferret hybrid reader

Word count: 10k words.

Authors note: HERE IS THE CONTINUATION !! LET'S GOOOO.

Warning: Smut, Vaginal sex, oral sex (M & F receiving), hybrid sex, mentions of death, mention of heat, feral Namjoon, size kink, spanking, mating press, mentions of various sex positions, reader being a menace, Namjoons a gentle giant, rough sex, cunnilingus, idiots in love, reader is immature, Namjoon is suffering, HUGE size difference (Imagine gyomei and shinobu). Masturbation, Namjoons a boob guy. Titty analysis :)

Synopsis:

"Namjoon spots a Tiny ferret hybrid getting pushed around by a bunch of hyena hybrids and decides to intervene. Little did he know that would lead to a series of interesting, traumatising and hilarious memories, some of which he's convinced were attempted murder attempts."

Namjoon frowned at his phone, staring at the empty notification bar.

Nothing.

Not a single text. No missed calls. No chaotic voice messages filled with unhinged rambling.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

At first, he was relieved.

After the hell he went through last night, he figured maybe some space would be good.

Give him time to reset, to push certain thoughts out of his brain.

But as the hours passed, that relief slowly turned into something else.

Unease.

By the time another day rolled around with still no sign of you, Namjoon was officially concerned.

You never went this long without contact.

Were you sick?

In trouble?

Or worse—avoiding him?

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

No.

No, that didn’t make sense.

If you were mad at him, you’d tell him—probably in the most dramatic way possible.

So where the hell were you?

Frowning, Namjoon pulled out his phone and dialed your number.

It rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Then went to voicemail.

Namjoon’s stomach twisted.

Something was wrong.

And he was going to find out what.

The moment Namjoon opened the door to her place, the scent hit him, Namjoon froze.

His brain short-circuited.

Because fuck.

Fuck.

This wasn’t sickness.

This was something else entirely.

A deep, primal part of him recognized it instantly.

Heat.

The realization slammed into him like a truck.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

The disappearance. The radio silence. The way his instincts immediately reacted.

Because he wasn’t just a man.

He was a bear hybrid.

Territorial.

Possessive.

And, when faced with the scent of a fertile, needy female—

Oh, fuck.

His grip on the soup container tightened.

He needed to leave.

Right now.

Before his instincts did something stupid.

Namjoon didn’t even get the chance to think.

One second, he was frozen in place, brain malfunctioning.

The next—

She was on him.

Tiny arms wrapped around his waist. A small, trembling body pressing flush against his.

Namjoon locked up.

Every muscle in his body went rigid.

Because fuck, she was burning up.

"J-Joonie," you whimpered. "It hurts..."

His breath hitched.

His instincts screamed—urging him to hold you, soothe you, claim you.

But he couldn’t.

He shouldn’t.

"I—I couldn’t find anyone," you continued, voice thick with frustration and something dangerously close to desperation. "No one I trust. No one I want."

Namjoon swallowed thickly.

His heartbeat was a thunderous roar in his ears.

But then—

Then you curled into him, fingers gripping his shirt, voice barely above a whisper.

"I’m scared, Joonie..."

His entire world stopped.

"If I don’t mate..." You shivered violently. "I could get sick. Really sick. Aplastic anemia can—"

Namjoon growled.

Deep.

Instinctual.

Dangerous.

Because no.

No, no, no.

That wasn’t happening.

Not to you.

Not on his fucking watch.

Namjoon moved before he could think.

The soup was forgotten, placed on the nearest surface as he bent down and lifted you into his arms.

You gasped softly, fingers clutching at his shoulders, but you didn’t fight him. If anything, you melted into him, whimpering as you buried your face against his throat, your whole body trembling.

His jaw locked.

Fuck.

He had to be careful.

Because he could smell you.

Feel you.

And his instincts were howling.

But he shoved them down and carried you to your bedroom, placing you gently on the bed.

Then he stepped back, inhaled sharply, and forced himself to focus.

"Do you want me to mate you?" His voice was low, steady—but beneath it was something rough. Something dangerous.

Your breath hitched.

"J-Joonie—"

"Listen to me." His gaze locked onto yours, serious and unyielding. "I’ll do it. I’ll take care of you. But you need to understand—"

He exhaled sharply, fists clenching at his sides.

"I’m not doing this just to get you through your heat."

His voice was softer now, rougher—tinged with something real.

"I have feelings for you," he admitted. "I want you. Not just because of this. But because it’s you."

Silence hung between you, thick and heavy.

Then—

"Do you understand?”

Namjoon barely had time to react.

One second, she was sitting there, eyes wide and dazed.

The next—

"Oh, fuck that—"

You lunged.

Straight for his belt.

Namjoon caught your wrists just in time.

"Whoa—!" He gritted his teeth, barely managing to hold you back. "Answer first."

"Joonie, please—" you whined, struggling against his grip. "It hurts—"

His jaw tightened.

Fuck.

You were desperate. Burning up.

And all he wanted to do was give in.

But not like this.

Not without your words.

"Say it." His voice was low, rough—his patience hanging by a thread. "Tell me you understand.”

Your breath was ragged, your body trembling. But this time, it wasn’t just because of your heat.

"I understand," you whispered. "And I feel the same way."

Namjoon’s grip on your wrists loosened.

"I’m not just saying this because I’m—" you exhaled sharply, biting your lip. "—because I’m horny beyond saving."

A muscle in Namjoon’s jaw ticked.

"I’ve felt this way for months," you admitted, voice dropping to a whisper. "Ever since you—"

You swallowed hard.

"Ever since you dry-humped me in your sleep."

Namjoon froze.

His brain short-circuited.

"It took everything in me not to ride you stupid," you continued, eyes blown wide with lust and something deeper. "And now I can’t take it anymore—"

You yanked her hands free and lunged again.

This time, Namjoon let you.

Because his instincts?

They snapped.

Your fingers fumbled with his belt, desperate and shaking.

"Come on— Fuck—stupid thing—"

Namjoon exhaled through his nose, watching as you struggled. Your whining only made it worse, your heat-drunk frustration making his instincts snarl.

When you finally got it undone, you yanked his pants down in one go.

He barely had time to step out of them before you were reaching for his boxers.

He shed his flannel and shirt, tossing them aside.

And that’s when you froze.

Your breath hitched.

"Oh..."

Namjoon clenched his jaw, fighting every instinct screaming at him to grab you, flip you over, and—

You pulled his boxers down.

And your mouth dropped open.

You practically drooled.

"Holy shit."

You barely had time to blink before Namjoon moved.

A startled whine left your lips as he pushed you back onto the bed.

"Joon—!"

Your protest died the second his mouth crashed against yours.

He kissed you deep—messy, desperate, sucking on your lips and tongue like he was starving.

You whimpered into his mouth, arching into him as his hands tore at your clothes.

Fuck, this was so much better than he had ever imagined.

Namjoon barely had a second to breathe.

He pulled back, panting, about to say something—

And then you moved.

Before he could react, your mouth was on him.

"Fuck—" His entire body jerked.

You were a menace.

And you were perfect.

Your body, your sounds—everything about you made his instincts snarl.

His hands trembled as he buried them in your hair, hips twitching at the feeling of your hot, wet mouth—

This was so much better than his imagination.

And he never wanted it to stop.

Your mouth stretched wide, barely able to take half of him.

The rest you palmed with both hands, fingers stroking up and down his thick length while your other hand squeezed his balls.

Namjoon groaned, head dropping back, his massive hands tightening in your hair.

"Fuck—" His voice was wrecked, deep and ragged.

But what really did him in?

The way you looked up at him.

Big, glossy eyes, lips stretched around his cock, cheeks hollowing as you bobbed your head—

He twitched in your mouth, barely restraining the urge to thrust deeper.

Namjoon let you have your way, let you suck him just how you wanted—until he couldn’t take it anymore.

With a deep growl, he tore you away, a strand of spit connecting your lips to his cock.

You whined, eyes dazed and needy.

"Joon—!"

"Baby," he panted, cupping your jaw, thumb stroking your wet lips. "This is your first time. Your first heat." His voice was wrecked, strained. "I really don’t wanna blow my load before I even get to fuck you."

You whimpered, squirming, but he shushed you gently.

"Spread those pretty legs for me," he murmured, eyes dark. "Let me stretch you out first."

His fingers traced down your trembling body.

"You’re so fucking tiny," he muttered, voice thick with desire. "I’m gonna have to be real thorough to make sure this cunt can take me."

And then, with a wicked smirk, he pushed you down and spread your open.

Oh, you threw a fit.

Because of course you did.

"Excuse you—!" You tried to sit up, indignant. "I was having fun, you big fucking—"

Smack.

A sharp gasp ripped from your throat as Namjoon's palm cracked against your ass, the impact sending a delicious sting through your body.

You froze.

Namjoon, towering over you, let out a low, dangerous rumble.

"Behave," he ordered, voice deep, dripping with authority.

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

You gulped.

Maybe... maybe you could let him have his way.

For now.

You pouted up at him, lower lip jutting out in protest. "Meanie," she mumbled, but still, you spread you legs for him.

Namjoon chuckled darkly, large hands gripping your thighs as he settled between them. "You’ll survive," he murmured, gaze locked onto the slick mess between your legs. "Now be good and let me take care of you."

And then—

You choked on a gasp when he pressed a single finger inside.

What the fuck.

"Joon—" your back arched, nails digging into the sheets. "Why the fuck are your fingers so big?!"

Namjoon only smirked, gripping your hip to hold you still as he worked his finger in deeper, watching the way your tiny hole stretched around it. "And you think you can take my cock just like that?" he teased.

Before you could snap back, he pulled you to the edge of the bed, got on his knees, and lowered his mouth to your soaked cunt.

You barely had time to react before his lips wrapped around your clit, sucking hard.

"Ah—!" You jerked, hands flying to his hair.

He licked, sucked, kissed you like he was savoring his favorite meal.

And then—

Another finger.

Your gasp turned into a whine, legs trembling as he slowly pushed it inside alongside the first.

"It hurts," you whimpered, hips twisting as you tried to adjust.

Namjoon growled against you, sending vibrations through your core. "Shh, baby," he soothed, lapping at your clit. "Let me make it better."

Namjoon was a menace.

He sucked you clit into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the swollen bud, then gently bit down, just enough to make you jolt.

"J-Joon!" You gasped, thighs trembling around his head.

He only hummed, sending another shudder through you.

Your poor clit—already abused from your own desperate attempts to get off before he came over—was throbbing, overstimulated, but he showed no mercy.

His fingers worked in tandem with his mouth, curling, scissoring you open as he stretched you out.

You were still so tight, sucking his fingers in with every push, every thrust.

"Shit, baby," he groaned, kissing your clit before looking up at you with lidded eyes. "Did you play with yourself the whole day?"

You flushed, trying to turn your face away, but he curled his fingers just right—

"Ah—!"

"You did, didn’t you?" he murmured, smirking against your thigh. "Poor thing. Still wasn’t enough, huh?"

You mustered up whatever bratty energy you had left and threw a weak, "Fuck you," his way, breathless and trembling.

Namjoon chuckled—a deep, dark sound that sent a shiver down your spine—before sinking his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh.

"Wrong," he murmured against your skin, licking over the fresh bite mark possessively. "It’s me who’s about to fuck you."

You whimpered.

And he grinned.

Namjoon was merciless.

His fingers pressed against that devastating spot inside you, curling, rubbing, pushing just right as his tongue tormented your clit. His pace never faltered, never slowed, dragging you higher and higher until—

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—!"

Your back arched off the bed, eyes rolling back as your orgasm crashed through you.

It was soul-crushing.

It left you shaking, thighs trembling around his head as wave after wave of pleasure wracked your body.

Namjoon growled against you, pinning your hips down as he dragged out every last aftershock, licking you through it, savoring the way she twitched beneath him.

When you finally slumped against the bed, boneless and panting, he grinned.

"Good girl," he purred, lips brushing against your inner thigh. "Now, let’s see how many more you can give me before I fuck you open."

Namjoon wasn’t satisfied with just one.

He added another finger, stretching you out further, making you whimper at the burn.

"Shh, baby," he cooed, kissing the inside of your thigh as he slowly thrust them in and out. "You’re taking me so well."

His fingers worked you mercilessly, curling, scissoring, fucking you open as his tongue never left your clit.

The second orgasm hit faster than you expected—your breath hitched, your back arched, and you cried out, body shaking as pleasure wracked you.

"That’s it," Namjoon groaned, voice thick with arousal, watching the way you clenched around his fingers. "Give me another."

And you did.

By the third orgasm, you were a mess, tears pricking at your eyes as you gasped and whined, your body overwhelmed but still desperate for more.

Only then—after you were a twitching, overstimulated wreck beneath him—did Namjoon finally consider fucking you.

He smirked, kissing your inner thigh one last time before murmuring, "Think you’re ready for my cock now, baby?"

Namjoon kissed you deeply, swallowing your soft whimpers as he sucked on your tongue, making her melt beneath him.

His lips trailed down, peppering hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and neck. He focused on every little spot that made you shiver, nipping, licking, savoring the way your breath hitched.

All the while, his fingers never stopped—still scissoring you open, still stretching your tiny, tight cunt, making sure you were as ready as you could be.

"You’re so fucking small," he murmured against your throat, voice husky with need. "Gotta make sure you can take me, baby."

You whimpered, clutching at his shoulders, aching to finally feel his cock inside you.

Namjoon groaned at your desperation but took his time, gently pushing you back onto the bed, adjusting you until you were comfortable.

Then, with a tenderness that almost contradicted the heat in his eyes, he grabbed a pillow and slid it beneath your hips.

"Gotta get the angle just right," he rasped, running his hands up your thighs as he settled between them. "Don’t want you hurting, sweetheart."

He pressed a kiss to your knee, his dark eyes locking onto yours.

"You ready for me?"

Namjoon groaned as he pressed your thighs to your chest, spreading you open completely beneath him.

"So tiny," he murmured, voice thick with awe and restraint as he lined himself up with your entrance. "Gotta go slow, baby. Gotta stretch you open real nice for me."

He started by rubbing your clit with his tip, letting it glide against your sensitive bundle of nerves. The soft, teasing friction had you squirming, thighs trembling as you whined beneath him.

"Shh, just relax," he soothed, replacing his cock with his fingers, circling your clit with slow, deliberate strokes. "Let me in, sweetheart."

And then, he pushed.

"Fuck—" you gasped, eyes widening as the head of his cock finally slipped inside.

Namjoon gritted his teeth, groaning low as your walls clenched around him.

"Shit—so fucking tight," he ground out, barely able to move. "Baby, you gotta—fuck—loosen up for me, okay?"

You tried. You really did. But it wasn’t just the length—it was the thickness that had your brain spinning.

Namjoon exhaled sharply, sensing her struggle. He paused halfway, his breath shaky as he reached down and resumed rubbing your clit, slow and careful.

"You're doing so good," he murmured, pressing gentle kisses to your ankle, your knee. "Breathe, baby. Relax for me."

You whimpered, eyes fluttering as his fingers worked you over, coaxing your body to ease up.

And when you finally did—when you gasped and you walls fluttered, relaxing just enough—Namjoon took advantage.

"Good girl," he groaned, slowly sinking the rest of the way in.

Bottoming out in one, deep thrust.

Namjoon squeezed his eyes shut, taking deep, measured breaths as he stayed completely still inside you.

Fuck.

You were so tight, so unbelievably warm around him, clenching down like you were trying to keep him locked inside you forever. If he moved—if he so much as twitched—he might embarrass himself and blow his load way too soon.

So he focused.

Okay, Namjoon. Think of something else. Think of anything else.

One bear paw. Two bear paws. Three—

Fuck, she’s so tiny.

Four bear paws. Five bear—

Shit, the way she’s squeezing me—

Six bear paws. Seven—

“Joonie…” you whimpered, shifting slightly beneath him.

His jaw clenched.

“Baby, don’t—” he warned, voice strained.

You blinked up at him, dazed and needy, your arms wrapping around his broad shoulders as you squirmed.

“Feels so good…” you mumbled, dragging your nails lightly down his back.

Namjoon choked. His arms trembled as he barely held himself together.

Eight bear paws. Nine—

Your walls fluttered around him, and he felt it.

FUCK.

He dropped his head to your shoulder, panting heavily as he groaned, voice muffled against your skin.

“Baby,” he rasped, “you gotta—give me a second—”

You giggled breathlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist and pulling him in deeper.

Namjoon whimpered.

Whimpered.

Like a bitch.

Your giggle was downright wicked. Even in the throes of pleasure, you were still a menace.

Namjoon’s entire body tensed when you clenched around him on purpose, her tiny hands dragging down his back, teasing him, taunting him. He could feel the way you were testing him, pushing him to his limits.

“Joonie,” you whispered in his ear, your breath warm and teasing. “Are you… whimpering?”

He growled.

A low, deep, guttural sound that rumbled through his chest and vibrated against your skin.

Your laughter immediately cut off.

Namjoon lifted his head slowly, eyes dark and filled with something feral. You swallowed hard, realizing maybe—just maybe—you had pushed him a little too far.

“Baby,” he said, voice thick with restraint. “Do you want to walk tomorrow?”

Your ears twitched, and you suddenly remembered that oh yeah, you were currently impaled on a massive bear hybrid’s cock, and antagonizing him might not be the smartest decision.

But then again…

You grinned.

“I mean… do I really need to?”

Namjoon lost his last shred of self-control.

His hips snapped forward, knocking the breath out of your lungs as he buried himself deeper than you thought was even possible.

Your laugh morphed into a strangled moan.

“J-Joon—oh fuck—!”

He pulled back slowly, deliberately, before thrusting into you again, his thick cock stretching your walls to the limit. You screamed, fingers scrambling for purchase on his broad shoulders.

“T-Take it back—!” you gasped, eyes wide, already overwhelmed. “I take it back—!”

Namjoon chuckled darkly, leaning down to kiss your neck, sharp teeth grazing her sensitive skin.

“Too late, baby,” he murmured. “You asked for this.”

And with that, he fucked you.

Namjoon fucked you stupid.

He pulled out almost all the way, just leaving the tip in before slamming back inside, his thick cock stretching you open over and over again. Your walls clenched around him so tightly, so hot and wet that it made him see stars. His grip on your thighs tightened, nails digging into your soft skin as he fucked you into the mattress.

His cock hit your g-spot every time, his thick tip pressing against your womb with every deep thrust.

You we're gone.

Eyes rolled back, mouth hanging open as breathless moans and little whimpers spilled from your lips.

Namjoon grinned, breathless and wrecked, leaning down to take a stiff, sensitive nipple into his mouth.

The tits he had so carefully analyzed just days ago? Yeah. He was all over them now—sucking, licking, teasing with his tongue before switching to the other, his free hand kneading the soft flesh like he was trying to memorize it.

Between sucks, he grinned against your skin and murmured, “Not so mouthy now, huh?”

You whimpered, legs trembling around him.

Namjoon chuckled darkly. “What happened to all that attitude?”

His thrusts quickened, hips snapping against yours, the wet, obscene sounds of their bodies meeting echoing through the room.

You tried to respond—maybe to sass him back—but all that came out was a pathetic little moan.

Namjoon groaned, feeling primal at the sight of you beneath him, completely wrecked.

“Aw, is my filthy little girl too dumb to talk now?” he taunted, sucking another mark into her skin. “Too stupid to tease me anymore?”

You whimpered, back arching, nails scratching down his back.

Namjoon grinned wickedly.

“You must be real dumb to tease a bear hybrid when you’re this tiny,” he murmured, thrusting deep and holding it, making you squirm. “Did you forget what I could do to you?”

You clenched around him so tight he nearly choked.

Namjoon growled.

Oh.

You liked that.

His instincts snapped.

He pinned you down, laced your fingers together, and fucked you senseless.

You were in actual heaven.

This was everything you had dreamed about, everything you had fantasized about late at night with your hand between your legs. But this? This was so much better.

Namjoon’s sheer size overwhelmed you, his massive frame towering over you, caging you in, making you feel so small beneath him. His thick arms flexed as he held himself up, his weight pressing you deliciously into the mattress, your fingers laced together above your head.

His cock stretched you open, filling you so perfectly that you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe—just feel.

Your walls clenched around him, and he groaned, his pace brutal, his thrusts deep and overwhelming.

“You’re so small,” he gritted out, staring down at where they were joined, mesmerized by the way you struggled to take him. His cock was glistening with your slick, and the sight alone nearly made him lose his mind. “How the fuck are you even taking me?”

You moaned, tightening your fingers around his. “I—I don’t know,” she gasped. “But don’t stop—don’t stop—”

Namjoon growled, burying his face in your neck as he fucked you harder, hips slamming against yours, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the air.

“Don’t plan on it,” he murmured against your throat, nipping at your pulse. “Not until I make sure this tiny cunt is properly bred.”

Your brain short-circuited.

B—Bred?!

You clenched around him so violently that he choked, thrusting deep, his breath stuttering.

Namjoon groaned, pulling back to look at your flushed, fucked-out face.

“Oh,” he purred, grinning. “You liked that.”

Namjoon chuckled darkly, his voice dripping with amusement as he thrust deep and stayed there, grinding his hips against yours.

“Does my pretty little darling girl have a breeding kink?” he murmured against your lips, his breath hot, teasing.

You let out a pathetic little whimper, your hands clawing at his back. “Shut up,” you gasped, but your body betrayed you—clenching down around him like you desperately wanted him to fill her up.

He smirked, kissing you softly—too soft for how brutal his thrusts had been, the contrast making you dizzy. “Oh, you do, don’t you?” he purred against your lips. “You want me to breed this tiny cunt of yours, huh? Fill you up nice and full?”

You whined, trying to move, but Namjoon wasn’t having it.

“Uh-uh,” he growled, pulling you up against his chest, his thick arms caging you in. He wanted to see you. Wanted to watch your face as he wrecked you.

He knew you were close. He could feel it.

And fuck—so was he.

Your constant clenching had him rutting into you like a feral beast, barely holding himself back.

“You bounce on my cock so perfectly, baby,” he groaned, guiding your hips. “Come on, cum for me—milk my cock like a good girl.”

And you did—so perfectly.

Your body tensed, then trembled as you came, your walls squeezing him like a vice, pulsing around his cock. You were so tight, so warm, and fuck—he could feel every little flutter, every little tremor as you moaned his name, you voice breaking into little gasps and whimpers.

Namjoon cursed, his grip tightening on your hips as he chased his own high, rutting into you like a man possessed. “Fuck, baby—just like that,” he growled, his voice wrecked, his restraint snapping.

His thrusts became sloppy, desperate, his cock twitching inside you. He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in, his instincts screaming at him to fill you up.

And then—he did.

Namjoon groaned, long and deep, as he came inside you, spilling himself into you with shuddering, wrecked thrusts. His cock throbbed with every pulse of his release, and he made sure—fuck, he made sure you took all of it, staying deep, pressing his hips flush against you.

For a moment, all that could be heard was y'all heavy breathing, your soft little whimpers as you trembled in his hold, completely wrecked.

Namjoon chuckled breathlessly, pressing a lazy kiss against your temple. “Told you I’d stretch you out, baby.”

Namjoon slowly pulled out, groaning at the way your walls clung to him, reluctant to let him go. And fuck—that was the prettiest creampie he had ever seen.

His cum dripped from your swollen, twitching hole, glistening as it leaked onto the sheets. And the best part? You were gaping, your tiny cunt stretched open, still pulsing around nothing, as if begging for more.

Namjoon groaned, his cock twitching at the sight. “Fuck, baby,” he murmured, running his fingers along her inner thigh, watching as his release slowly dripped out of you. He was mesmerized, transfixed, and so fucking tempted to stuff it back in—

You whined, shifting slightly, and Namjoon immediately snapped out of it. He chuckled, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your trembling thigh. “You okay, sweetheart?”

You blinked up at him, dazed, cheeks flushed, lips parted. And then—you smirked, albeit weakly.

“Dunno,” you mumbled. “Kinda feel like I just got rearranged.”

Namjoon huffed out a laugh, shaking his head as he reached for the nearby towel. “You did just get rearranged.”

You giggled, wincing slightly when you tried to move. Namjoon gently shushed you, cleaning you up with soft, careful touches. His eyes softened as he watched you, brushing a few damp strands of hair from your face.

“Rest, baby,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I’ve got you.”

And you did—without a single complaint—because, really, after getting fucked that good, what else could you do?

Namjoon chuckled as you climbed onto him, your tiny body latching on like a determined little koala. He barely had time to settle against the pillows before you were smooshing her face right into his chest—burying yourself in his tiddies like they were your personal pillows.

He huffed, amused. “Comfortable?”

You let out a pleased little hum, rubbing your cheek against his warm skin. “Mhm. Very.”

Namjoon shook his head, wrapping his arms around you, his large hands rubbing up and down your back. You were so small compared to him, his shirt swallowing you whole. It was kind of adorable—annoyingly so.

“Feeling better?” he asked softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You nodded, sighing contentedly. “Mhm. You’re warm.”

Namjoon smiled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you mumbled. Then, after a beat, “And your tiddies are great.”

He groaned, head thudding against the headboard. “Oh my god.”

You giggled against his chest, the sound so smug it made his ears burn. But he didn’t push you away. If anything, he held you closer, letting you cuddle up as much as you wanted—because, well...

You were his now.

And he wasn’t letting you go.

Namjoon felt his heart clench as you looked up at him with those big, expectant eyes, your lips brushing against his chest in the softest, sweetest kiss.

“I’m really happy you feel the same way, Joonie,” you murmured, your voice smaller than usual. “I was... worried you didn’t. That’s why I ignored you for two days.”

His brows furrowed, a pang of guilt hitting him square in the chest. “You—what?”

You pouted, rubbing slow circles over his pec absentmindedly. “I didn’t know if you liked me back. And if you didn’t, I was gonna have to move on, y’know?”

Namjoon stared at you, utterly baffled. “Are you serious? You thought I didn’t like you?”

You blinked up at him. “Well… yeah?”

He exhaled sharply, pressing a hand over his face. “Baby, I’ve been down bad for you.”

Your ears perked up. “Wait—really?”

“Yes, really!” He groaned, sliding his hand down to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I literally lost my mind over you. I was suffering.”

You gasped, scandalized. “And you didn’t tell me?”

Namjoon gave you a flat look. “Says you, the one who ignored me for two days instead of talking to me.”

You opened your mouth to argue—then promptly shut it, realizing he had a point.

“…Fair,” you mumbled, sheepishly nuzzling back into his chest.

Namjoon sighed, shaking his head before pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’re a menace,” he muttered.

You grinned against his skin. “But I’m your menace now.”

He chuckled, hugging you tighter. “Yeah… you are.”

Namjoon nearly choked on air when you poked his chest, looking up at him with that mischievous glint in your eyes.

“So… when can we do it again?”

His face heated instantly. “What?”

You grinned, propping your chin on his chest. “I mean, I’m all stretched out now. I think I can finally ride you properly.”

Namjoon groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “honey, give me five minutes to recover before you start planning round two.”

But you were relentless.

“Oh, oh! Or you could, like, manhandle me,” you continued excitedly, completely ignoring his suffering. “Maybe a full nelson or doggy—oh, you have to mount me at least once before my heat’s over!”

Namjoon felt his dick twitch, and he swore he saw his life flash before his eyes.

“And,” you added, dragging a finger down his chest, “you should let me actually suck you off properly this time. Y’know, since you were being a big ol’ meanie and stopped me.”

Namjoon exhaled sharply through his nose. “I stopped you because I was two seconds away from busting before we even started.”

You snickered. “So now you can last, right?”

Namjoon groaned. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You giggled, looking entirely too pleased with yourself—then tilted your head, suddenly thoughtful. “Oh! Wait—does this mean you’re my boyfriend now?”

Namjoon blinked. “I—”

You gasped dramatically. “Namjoon! Are you telling me you knotted me but you won’t date me?”

His jaw dropped. “I DIDN’T KNOT YOU—”

“Oh my God, you used me for sex—”

Namjoon grabbed your face, squishing your cheeks together to stop your nonsense. “I’m your boyfriend, you menace,” he grumbled.

You hummed happily, looking way too smug despite your squished cheeks. “Good. Now let’s talk about the full nelson.”

Namjoon let out the most suffering sigh.

[tj-crochets]

hi i saw the velvet worm that you made and was wanting to make my own, i was just wondering did you use fleece (thats what it lloks like to me) but to you think non stretchy velvet would work? i have a bunch that i dont really know what else to use for:)

Hi! Yes, I used fleece for mine. I think velvet would probably work, with two possible exceptions: if you scale it down too far, it might be difficult to turn the legs and antennae right side out, and you’ll have to be more precise about sewing the legs on than I was (if you go with the open leg base method instead of the closed leg base)

I am very comfortable stretching fabrics here and there as I go to kinda adapt it and make it work if a seam doesn’t quite line up correctly, and there’s less leeway to do that with non-stretchy fabrics. Still totally possible! Just like…maybe measure things more than I did (I eyeballed some of it instead of measuring)

[yoshistory]

Yesterday I remembered that I forgot my water bottle and two plastic cups and a shitload of plastic bags (my bags within a bag lol) at the old apartment and I hadn't turned in my keys yet so I asked my supervisor to take a late break so it lined up with being there when the old apartments office opened for the day and I SPED over there, grabbed all my shit and threw it in the car and SPED to the front office like here you gooooo! And the lady at the front was pretty pissed that I didn't turn the keys in a day early instead of late but I'm not sure she could technically do anything because it's on a recorded message that someone TOLD me to come Monday morning to turn them in which was impossible so I had to come in right as the office opened the next day instead

[st4rbwrry]

𝓢𝓤𝓖𝓐𝓡.       eren yeager.

‎𐦍 ₊˚♱ ෆ . . . 5.1k. fem!reader, set in 01’, country!eren + bluecollar!, housewife!reader, established relationship, domesticity, ovulation, oral ꒰ f + m. ꒱, kreaming + squirting, rough sex, nasty talk ofc, unprotected, daddy kink, spanking, pet names ꒰ sweetie, baby, mama ꒱, praise, hair pulling, check ins + aftercare, choking, breath + sensitivity + salvia play, minors aren’t allowed! reblogs + comments are greatly appreciated. <3

꒰ 𝑚𝑜𝑐ℎ𝑎’𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒 ꒱ . . . a lil sum i thought of randomly. this is related to the dangerously in love couple. <3 visual. visual. visual. wish i had a link for the exact position i have in my head, so here’s a small example. hopefully i explained them well. :<

part three. <3

ivory sunflowers are imprinted along the frilly apron that hugs your body cutely, the coquette lace floral dress with a baby pink ribbon to create a corset style underneath. the warm scent of strawberry pie baking in the matcha green vintage oven blooms your heart. dusting flour over the counter to roll and mush at the dough you’ve created for the chicken pot pies, one of eren’s favorite meals. the sun was fairly hot today, your eyes fixating on the two beautiful tawny cows roaming your farm, their mouths chewing at grass as the wind blows serenely.

you told eren to keep a close eye on them while he was outside, watching your husband stand halfway down the driveway with sweat dripping from his brow as he tinkers with the engine of his polished black 1968 ford f100. he’s been having troubles with it this past week, and constantly handling it became tedious. he expressed his anger a few times now, this truck being his first big purchase for himself and he was having issues only a year later.

his light blue levi jeans and classic wife-beater was streaked with grease, clinging to his muscular thighs as he crouches low, peering intently at the mechanical innards. every so often, he wipes his hands on a rag before reaching for another tool, his calloused fingers moving with practiced ease. the sun casts a glow on the definition of his biceps as he lifts and maneuvers heavy parts. angelic brown strands held back by a black cap turned backwards.

you’ve been subconsciously humming along to the 70s and 80s rock tunes he has stationed on the radio. don’t dream it’s over currently on play. meanwhile, inside the cozy farmhouse kitchen, with the tantalizing aroma of food and your chocolate brown maltipoo who eren named honeybelle sleeps on her bed by the window — although this moment was romantic and peaceful to view, you weren’t too happy of a woman.

this was one of the few days he was off from work, and he’s been outside fixing his car since your eyes opened to an empty bedside. it’s nearing nighttime, and you’d spent half your day to your lonesome. shaving your body, doing your skincare routine and deep conditioning your handful of a curly head that’s currently pinned up away from your soft features. it’s felt like such a long time since the two of you enjoyed a full day together, let alone make love. your ovulation period not making this any easier on you, feeling like a wild animal in desperate heat. the only time you really interacted today was when you brought out a fat honey-turkey club sandwich, knowing he tends to forget to eat sometimes.

brushing the crust you created for the pot pie after layering them in crisscross patterns with butter, your mind wanders off, daydreaming as the sun begins to set and the sky blooms into color palettes of saffron and coral. the air outside turns warmer, and you study your husband once more, watching the ball in his throat shift as he chugs on a pitcher of water, droplets hitting his chest. his briefs are peaking out from his jeans, feet in his black timberlands per usual. his arms have veins streaming from the middle of his forearm to his big, dirty hands. silver wedding band on his right.

those slanted viridescent eyes of his catch your stare as he glares at you over the pitcher, swallowing and giving you a movie star smile with pearly whites. you smile faintly, returning the gesture. your heart pounds rapidly in your chest, shifting in your spot as you realize you’re biting your lips and almost riding the air. your blood is thrumming throughout your body, needing him to come inside right now.

the chicken pot pies are done in thirty minutes, each crust perfectly golden brown. and within that time, he’s still outside messing with his truck. you wanted to be understanding that he needed his truck in order to head to work tomorrow to further provide for you and the home as he does, but you can’t help that feeling of abandonment in your chest. you really didn’t want to cause an argument, but this was becoming irritating.

removing your apron, you slip on your outside shoes to head towards the garage where he resides, being faced with his broad back and gruff noises of agitation.

“baby.”

“yes, sweetie,” he replies quickly, groaning as he twists the wrench.

“dinner’s done. you’ve been out here all day. please come inside,” you pout, going to wrap your arms around his waist, laying your cheek on the column of his back.

eren removes his cap, scratching at his head before smoothing his hair back and placing it on again. “mhm, baby, i know. gimme like ‘nother hour, i just gotta connect the fuckin’ valve springs to the camshaft.“

“i thought it was just overheated?”

“yeah it was, the water pump wasn’t sending coolant through. the crankshaft wasn’t movin’, ‘n the radiator cap had too much pressure so the spring in the cap compressed ‘n flew over in the coolant reservoir. glad i ran to the auto shop beforehand.”

he’s saying a lot of shit you don’t understand if being frank. sighing, you let go of him, knowing he was real intricate with his truck so he definitely wasn’t going to be done in an hour. he stops what he’s doing to turn and face you, observing your expression.

“what i say about that, mama. huh?” eren sighs, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “don’t be givin’ me that face. i’m tryin’ my best right now. swear ima be in, i’ll make it forty-five instead.”

“that’s not the point,” you roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “fuck the dinner, i want you to be with me. you’ve been out here since eleven in the morning. not once have you come inside the house ‘n checked on me.”

his jaw clenches, your tone expected but not what he wanted to hear right now. “i ain’t tryna argue with you.”

“then don’t, help yourself to dinner.”

“꒰♡꒱.”

turning with clear attitude, you stroll back into the house, honeybelle barking softly as she follows you around. you feed someone in the house, pouring kibble into her beige bowl before patting her head and watching her scruff down the food. by this point you’d lost your appetite, huffing and puffing in your kitchen as you set the food back into the oven and made your way up the staircase.

to cool yourself down, you decide to run yourself a bath. twisting the gold faucet to fill the clawfoot tub with hot water, crouching on your knees to swish the water around to help form the bubbles. it was fully dark outside now, lighting aromatherapy candles and opening the double vintage windows that overlooked the farm you and eren spent years creating. stars in the sky and clouds camouflaging. undressing yourself, you grab a novel off of the shelf and submerge yourself into the tub, closing your eyes in bliss and leaning your head back against the spa pillow that elevates your neck.

eren manages to take approximately thirty minutes to finish up his project, starting up the truck and test driving it before he sighs in relief to see she’s back in shape. after parking it back into the garage, whistling at the cows to get them to follow him back into the barn after much needed playtime, he’s finally stepping into the house. honeybelle skips towards eren, sniffing at his ankle and wagging her tail. eren smiles, patting the top of her head.

“where’s your mommy, girl. huh?” he coed, scratching under her chin.

his eyes scope the dining area, finding the table set up just for the two with candles that were half burnt, blown out. the homemade sweet tea in a pitcher leaking with condensation, ice cubes melted. the pie you baked was set into a glass cake stand, and the pot pies are settled into the oven under the light. it was definitely clear you were upset with him, groaning and putting a hand on his head. he truly didn’t mean to take away this day from you, aware of how much you’ve missed him. hours at work are longer since the power plants needed more tending to from low employment.

just last week he had to go out of town and leave you for an entire three days to travel to another refinery. in that time you’d tend to your farm while also helping eren’s father with his. you knew what this lifestyle would mean for your relationship. things around the house including you will be secure, but having him come home exhausted to the point where you rarely spend as much time as you’d like with him was difficult. at most he had two days off a week, but a lot of times they’d call him in because someone else didn’t show up.

you’ve suggested countless of times that he should switch locations, but this one provided better benefits and he was close to a promotion that would also guarantee him extra off time. ‘it just takes time, baby.’ he’d constantly tell you. and you’re not one of those wives that complain about every single thing to make her husbands life harder, the two of you rarely even argue, but you do have your moments where you’re too stubborn.

the heavy thud of his boots sounds in the home as he heads up the stairs, softly calling your name to see where you reside. with his hand on his toned stomach under his shirt, he finds you rested in the tub, head turned away as you sleep comfortably. his tall frame leans against the doorframe, watching you with a pout on his face. you look angelic, cloud white bubbles flowing around your body, the jets in the tub keeping them in tact, slowly dissolving. the tankless water heater he installed a while back kept the water warm, making you comfortable enough to drift off to light slumber.

he makes his way closer to you, crouching before you to brush the tendrils of curls dangling in your face. your breath is light, lashes feathering against your cheekbones as he caresses your jaw with his thumb. he bends to pull the plug and drain the tub, not fond of you sleeping in water. you didn’t have it too high up, but people drown in tubs a lot more than you think.

you hum gently, eyes opening to see him looming over you, studying him in silence. sitting on his behind, he grabs a pedicure knife to clean under his nails, tattooed arm dangling into the tub and under the running faucet to remove the impurities.

“don’t like you fallin’ asleep in the tub, sweetie. you could drown. this isn’t your first time doin’ that,” his brows deepen, grabbing a nail brush and applying some of your cashmere and goat milk soap you currently smelt of with to scrub at his manicured fingernails.

you bring your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms over your knees. “sorry.”

eren scans your face, eyeing the beauty of your entirety. perfectly white painted toes and matching nails, dark, big curls framing your face, slowly falling from the claw clip on the back of your head. the fullness of your lips with the cupids bow curve of them. soft skin, pretty eyes . . you were all his. such a beautiful wife. so when you’re mad at him, it makes him feel like shit. the way you look at him is different as well. your eyes are dead almost, a scolding glare in them.

“this day was supposed to be for us, i know,” he breaks the silence. “old shit was being difficult, ‘n you know i gotta drive far, sweetie. gettin’ ‘n a crash isn’t somethin’ you’d want happenin’ to me, right baby?”

the frown on your face serves how you feel about that. “i’d lose my mind if something bad happened to you.”

“ ‘n i’m not tryna guilt trip you or anything like that. i understand how you feel. i miss you just as much. i think about you all fuckin’ day at work. but, as time passes, eventually i’ll be in a better position ‘n you can have me with you whenever you want. jus’ lemme handle shit, okay?”

his strong hands go to caress your ankle, the silver jewelry shining there, lifting your foot to kiss at the shape of it, eyes low and focusing on you, unable to help the heat that swims within your hips and core.

“i really just needed you so bad today,” the sound of your throat clamping up causes him to go alert. you bow your head, wanting to hide your face as the tears threaten to spill. “it’s so stupid. i spent all that time pampering myself and cooking for us — i just hated being alone, even if you were still here.”

“c’mon, baby. why you cryin’ ? none of that. i’m sorry, truly,” he’s rising up on his knees, kissing at yours.

“missed you touching me,” you whimper, sniffling and pouting. “missed your kisses. i miss you.”

ah, so that’s what it is. he doesn’t make any effort to hide the smirk on his face, scoffing lowly while dropping his head. you can be such a brat when you’re horny, and given it’s been about two weeks since he’s last fucked you, he now gets why you begged for him to be with you today. quality time was still needed, but he can tell by the way your body tenses and your lips part to release tiny gasps while he strokes the pads of his fingers across your hips . . that you’re ovulating.

“that’s all you needin’, mama? some touches?”

salvia trails down your throat as you swallow, thighs squeezing together out of reflex, throbbing from those damned eyes of his, nodding with hooded lids. “mm hmm. so bad.”

“mm, yeah?”

the butterflies in your stomach swarm as he brings his face closer to yours, his touches on your skin causes you to grind when his mouth suddenly connected with your throat, your jaw widening as you gasp and toss your head back, his mouth sloppily kissing at the right side of your body. lips moving from your collarbone, each sound coming from him emphasized as he sucks at your chest, pulling your areola into his mouth and trailing his tongue down the side of your stomach, down to your hip and the crease between your thigh and waist. every kiss and lick is rough, his groans exaggerated as you moan from every touch.

“ooo, fuck. oh my god,” your hips can’t stop moving, his tongue gliding back up before his fingers indent into your cheeks, turning your face to his so he could kiss you roughly, sliding his tongue on yours.

eren doesn’t kiss you for long, detaching your lips with a lewd slick, both of your lips pouty before he’s arching over the tub and guiding his mouth along the left side of your body, repeating his motion of sucking and licking you. your eyes gloss back, spreading your thighs further apart when he gets closer to your pussy, swallowing your bottom lip inward.

he cocks his head back to lewdly spit over your clit, the string of saliva and the vein on the side of his thick neck making your face heat up. your mouth hangs open as he takes his fingers and slowly spreads it over, grumbling, "want me all over you," before rubbing your clit in smooth circles, groaning at the weak noises you made.

you were so needy, every touch he gives you consuming, a lust and desire looming over you that only he could give you. your hips twitch and hike midair, and your positive you've made your lip bleed by how hard you bit into it, doe eyes hazily watching his face. brows furrowed as he tentatively paced his fingers, repositioning himself so he could tug you down flat in the tub, your knees pressed to your chest as he clutches onto the sides of the tub.

“hold ‘em there, be good.”

a squeal envelops eren’s ears once he cranes his neck and drops his mouth over the puffy nub, enclosing his lips to kiss at your folds. your pussy is soaked, dripping between your ass cheeks, inner thighs twitching while he licks you up. the cap on his head continues to hold his hair back, his biceps flexing from every noise you make, trying to keep his composure. he wanted to make you feel real good, you deserve it, and he’s missed you.

“b—babyyy,” a mix between a groan and a whimper flows from you, keeping your legs open and squeezing at your chest hard, slowly rocking your pussy on his face, voice shuddering from the feel of his light stubble on your soft skin.

eren spanks the back of your thigh, dragging his mouth to soothe the feel after with an open mouth followed with more of his tongue. he loved tasting you, clearly. melting on the velvet of his tongue like sugar. his chin is doused by your slickness as he buried his face deep, circling your clit in languid strokes, lower lip dropping to bring it back into his mouth. you’re never embarrassed by how loud you get, knowing you’ll be reprimanded if you do keep silent. so a pathetic, drawn out whine fills the space when he removes his mouth.

“feed it to me,” eren hisses, spanking the back of your thigh again, french kissing either side of your ass. the hungry aggression through his eyes tell you to listen, his body almost entirely inside of the tub to make sure he’s giving you what you need the right way. “c’mon, girl.”

the gruffness in his tone makes you squirm, like he’s just as pent up as you. easing your hips up, you hold your legs fully up so they’re past your ears, gripping on his arm for balance as you dip your hips so your pussy connects with his face, your face curling up as he spits and slurps, your body trembling.

“mmmahh,” you weakly moan, chest heaving and breath stuttering, his tongue occasionally dipping into your hole to taste that sweeter place, eren grunting and bouncing his head along with your movements, teeth every now and then biting at your inner thighs. “g-g’na—squirt, f-fuck, nnnngh.”

eren acts on instinct, reaching to grab the back of your neck as your body arches forward to hold you so you won’t hurt yourself, swallowing at your achy bud as you coat his throat in your juices, humming and savoring every ounce. the static of your legs as you sing out your moans makes his dick harder, straining in the confinements of his jeans.

he pulls away, your body flat within the tub as he stands and undoes the leather belt on his waist, ears perking up from the sound of his zipper and then awaits the weighty girth of his dick. blush pink tip and tan with a protruding vein trailing up the underside. you find energy to lift yourself up, clinging to the side of the tub like a mermaid on rocks. reaching for the back of his leg to pull him closer, eren’s brows lowered at the sight of your eyes setting into seductiveness.

your mouth opens instinctively, giving him those big brown irises that has his dick jump in your face. eren’s waist spasm backwards, fingers grasping the coils of your hair to stop you. “no, no. not now. y’know you’ll make me cum too quick.”

“y’know you can’t fuck me till i taste it,” you pout, evidently upset, keeping your lips parted as a need to have it. “just a taste, daddy. i want it.”

“fuckin’ hell,” eren clenches his jaw, pupils dilating, lowering his jeans and boxers to his thighs to inch his dick to your lips. “yeah, jus’ a lil taste, baby. gimme those pretty lips.”

eren moans when you waste no time intaking half of his dick, tongue licking at the underside and slurping him up, bobbing your head and letting him hit the back of your throat in nasty squelches. his head falls back then to the side as he squeezes his eyes shut, attractive neck showcasing, grunting and slowly thrusting into your throat.

“f-fuck, ꒰♡꒱. love this sweet fuckin’ mouth of yours. show me that throat, baby,” two hands go to clutch your neck, eren pulling his dick out, salvia dribbling down your bottom lip. you widen your mouth, angling your face up so he can see your tongue in it’s entirety, the tight ring in the hollow of your esophagus calling him.

“good girl, take this shit deep,” he whispers painfully, teeth clamped together in a hiss as he lays the heaviness of his dick on your flat tongue, pushing in till his pretty, leaky tip connects with the back of your throat, constricting around him. “a-ahh, yeahh.”

you let him use you as long as he anticipates, eyes drooping low, trying to focus on eye contact with your nose mushed to his happy trail, the scent of the day and his cologne seeped into his skin. you heave when he pulls back entirely, whining and riding the air. he’s so damn masculine it makes you so feminine and submissive.

“one more time, hold it,” bending his back slightly, he slides back into your mouth, gently holding your neck in place to thrust a few times more, deep melodies of grunts and hisses pouring as he furrows his brows and studies how you made his dick wet and shiny, balls slapping against your chin.

with your mouth stretched open, you take him in as deep as he likes, closing your eyes to shut off your brain so you don’t choke. eren holds you there, huffing out ‘ooh fuckin’ god, baby.’ before smoothing his hand on the side of your face after he withdraws his hips to let you breathe, his own chest knocking from holding his breath.

“love you,” eren reminds you as he peppers kisses all over your face and you smile, a continuous gesture he’d do every time to make you aware, especially when he’s too rough.

the trance you have on his dick is sickening, following it as he maneuvered around the bathroom, retrieving a towel he spread on the lower part of the tub before entering, not bothering to take off his boots. you giggle as he hovers above you, biting at your nail and shifting your body beneath him so he could slot in. the weight of his cock lays on your stomach, eren grinding to rub along your folds, coaxing your hidden clit to show. eren steadies his figure, knuckles turning white from him grasping either side of the tub and holding himself up by indenting his feet into the towel.

“i fuckin’ need you,” eren growls, biting at your neck before licking and shifting his hips to nudge the tip against your opening, easily sliding in slow.

the warmth fills your face again, abdomen pinching from pain and pleasure, pawing at his slightly dirty wifebeater and hiking it further up his chest you were desperate to touch. the silver chain around his neck sways in your face, squinting your eyes and dropping your jaw when he begins pounding into you with the need he expressed. the sluice of your pussy is loud, his balls slapping against the rounds of your ass while your thighs hit his pelvis.

“this what you needed, right? what you been whinin’ for?” eren grunts in your face, taking your lips in his for passionate kiss, moaning together.

“y-yesss, mmmph,” the pleasure swarming in your stomach feels foreign, whimpering from every stroke he gives you, clawing at his sides. it felt so fucking good, your eyes scrolling and your breath inordinate along with his. “dick feel so good, ‘ren.”

“mhm hmm,” his face curls up, leaving an open mouthed kiss on your cheek and behind your ear, his touches making your body burn. “i hear it, she’s creamy as fuck.”

and it was, peering down between where you two connect to see him covered in you, the sticky slaps making his eyes lose focus, rutting into you harder. so hard it makes you scream, that sweet spot being pressured and your tummy flutters.

“e—ren,” you can barely see him, whines and whimpers being your only way of communication. spreading yourself wider by holding yourself open with both hands, arching your chest into his face where he sloppily eats at your brown skin again.

“talk.”

“annngh,” your lips turn into a pout, face completely gone. every word and sound coming out brokenly. “f-feelin’ something. s’so fuckin’ deep in me. you fuck me so good. w’na cum on it.”

“mhm, cum on it. cum on your dick baby, make it creamier.”

it’s quiet at first when you cum, legs shaking almost violently as eren lets go of the tub and lays his entire weight onto you, tucking you fully underneath to angle his hips and dig his dick in deeper, rough and steady pivots making you reach for his hair to tug, knocking off his hat. his fingers grip your cheeks, big hand almost covering your whole face as he brings his forehead to yours, growling rough.

“yess. give. it. to. me. lemme hear it.”

“g-god, y-yessss, fuck. right there, right there. please don’t fuckin’ stop . . oh my god.”

a long, exasperated groan disperses, vibrating in your chest and in his ears, hiccups and gasps following as you clench and suck him tighter. he feels the throb from your orgasm, dick twitching inside of you, rolling his waist and keeping you close to let you ride it out and feel it longer.

“take your time, there we go. feel it all.”

it pulsates harder from hearing him, grasping his wrist and releasing what’s been caged within you; a cry. “oh . . my . . g-god. eren!”

it’s not that you’re hurt, it’s that you’re experiencing too much at once. overwhelming pleasure, your husband’s embrace, the way he speaks to you, fucks you, the love you have for him, how he loves you, and even the annoying rise of hormones from your ovulation. a cry bolts from you, body convulsing and your voice dying out, grinding mindlessly on his dick and kissing his lush lips.

“that’s it, it’s okay.”

eren’s kissing all over your face, soothing you and giving you time before he holds you close to his chest and turns himself around so he’s leaning up, resting his head back on the spa pillow and twisting you so your back is to his chest. he balances your weight, taking the initiative to sling your right arm over his shoulder, eren smoothing his palms up the back of your thighs before locking your knees to your chest with his forearms.

“you good, baby?” eren whispers, smooching your cheek again.

chewing at your lips, you nod. “uh huh.”

eren moans as your fingers thread through the brown coils of his hair, tugging and planting a kiss on the shell of his ear, jumping slightly from the way he patted your pussy with his dick, sinking back in deliciously slow. with your lips parting in sync, eren flattens his feet to fuck up inside of you, your walls spasming from how good it feels and the sensitivity.

collecting the tresses of his messy hair, you fist it harder which makes him fuck you harder. your tits bouncing on your chest you fondle at.

“watch us,” he says, placing both of his hands on either side of your head to force your head down to stare at how he fucked you, keeping your legs locked with his arms.

the sloppy collision of your stickiness coating his cock that plunges into you roughly, his heavy hits making the both of you whimper. eren begins to grow so weak from being in your pussy and the hard labor he’d done today, and you can tell by the slowness in his pace after a few minutes. he’s throbbing hard, knowing he’s close to cumming, wanting to making him feel it too. he also had to get up early and still eat dinner, so did you.

“ ‘ren,” slithering your head from his grasp, you guide them to sit at your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh as you tug at his hair again and nibble at your bottom lip.

moving your body further up, you arch your chest forward and implant your feet flat to the surface, snapping your ass down to fuck him instead. eren tightens his hold on you, jaw slacking and squeezing his eyes shut while placing his forehead on your shoulder. you gasp, bouncing on him and constantly groping at your chest, skin clapping louder.

“you g’na cum in me, baby?” you speak with a whiny tone, taunting him.

“y-yeah, baby. please. bounce on that shit harder,” eren sucks at your side again, retracting his hand to land a harsh spank under your thigh, dangerously close to your cunt. “fuck, you do it so good, ꒰♡꒱. do it so good.”

“mmmm,” you smile drunkenly. “this daddy’s pussy, right?”

eren whines, and you love when he gets this way, so horny he lets his guard down. makes sounds he wouldn’t usually make. his tongue on you again causes your hips to stutter, that pressure building back up, a shaky moan pressing out the harder you fuck yourself on him.

“it’s daddy’s pussy. oooh, shit baby. don’t stop, i’m g’na bust all in your p—ussy.”

“all in my pussy?” harder, faster, you pounce your ass down, knees hiking and reconnecting as you drop down completely, feeling your orgasm near and riding him by scooting your ass on him.

“all . . in it— fuck. good girl.”

weakness fills your bones, loosing your balance completely, eren bellowing out curses and grunts as he locks his hand around your neck to pull your back to him again, swiveling his hips with yours while you both ride out the wave. heaving on the side of your face after he lays his cheek on yours, warm cum leaking into you while you gush all over him in exchange.

eren softly kisses at your shoulder, embracing you in his hold and moaning from your walls clenching on him. you can’t even find the energy to speak, enduring the comforting silence and weak breathing. rubbing your arms and molding his face with yours, skin to skin a necessity for him. rocking you side by side, smiling into his forearm he used to lock against your neck, inhaling the coconut fragrance in your hair.

“we need a shower, and that chicken pie i worked hard to make for you.”

“and that strawberry pie,” eren chuckles within the crook of your neck. “i’ll eat it all just for you.”

“you better.”

© 𝒮𝒯𝟦𝑅𝐵𝒲𝑅𝑅𝒴! all rights reserved. please do not repost, steal, or modify my work simply because it is mine. stealing isn't cute. i'll ruin your life ♡

[dollfacefantasy]

clark kent x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, car sex, mating press a/n: ummm yeah i need him so bad it makes me ill <3

for as long as you'd known clark, you'd never known him to lose his temper. he was forever-patient, your boyfriend. understanding to almost a frustrating degree. especially with you, his little love.

he was already pretty easy to get along with, but on the rare occasion you did have issues, clark seemed to have a natural instinct for deescalating you. he never raised his voice, never spoke an unkind word about you, never gave you a look harsher than what could be described as stern.

all it took to calm you down was a glimpse of his natural puppy-dog eyes and pretty plush lips. his thick arms would circle around you and hold you to his chest. he'd sway back and forth with you a little, a small smile on his face as you melted into the embrace. whatever semblance of tension or irritation that had been bubbling up easily dissolved into a puddle between the two of your bodies.

so, all that to say, you didn't really believe clark possessed any kind of rough edge or combative instinct. despite his large stature, you couldn't really picture him ever being rough.

that was until tonight.

you and clark had planned to drop by some event at the talon, but your sweet boyfriend had warned you earlier that he found out there'd probably be some trouble there later. some potentially dangerous situation that he wanted you avoiding at all costs. it was for your safety. he just wanted you to stay home where he wouldn't be worried while him and chloe investigated.

but did you listen to him? of course not. you went anyways, not in the mood to listen to his vague explanations as to how he even discovered this information in the first place. you put on a cute little dress with some new shoes you bought specifically for the night and took off.

unfortunately for you, clark had turned out to be right. not even thirty minutes after you arrived, chaos broke out. people flew through walls and glass shattered everywhere, all because of some guy who looked like his body could stretch and bend like a rubberband. it totally sucked. but none of that was even the worst part. you survived the craziness of whatever that person's problem was. the real danger came when the dust settled and you saw clark across the room staring at you.

he looked pissed.

he was at your side in an instant, but closing the distance didn't soften him any. it kind of did the opposite since up close he could see a bloody scrape stretching across your cheekbone.

you could see he was worried first and foremost, but behind that concerned top coat a fire burned. as soon as your small wound had been tended to, his long fingers clasped around your bicep. he pulled you to your feet and all but dragged you out of the coffee shop.

"clark i-" you started in an attempt to explain yourself.

"save it," he said, voice as cold as you'd ever heard it, "i asked you for one thing. that's it. stay home for your own good. don't come out here and pointlessly risk your life."

"it wasn't that bad," you defend weakly.

"but why even take the chance?" he asked with true exasperation, "i shouldn't need to convince you that your safety is more important than whatever they had going on tonight."

he didn't continue the lecture beyond that. just walked with a clenched jaw and motivated stare in the direction of his truck. like always, he opened the door for you when you got there. though this time, he practically scooped you up and dumped you into the car.

he was silent as he drove, fingers tight around the steering wheel. you could practically feel the frustration rolling off of him. the urge to lash out for once was near spilling over. he pulled the car over, and you figured you were really in for it. in a way you were right, just not how you thought.

clark didn't bother yelling, didn't try to start a fight. he glared at you for a few silent seconds before leaning across the seats and crashing his lips against yours. he kissed you like he wanted to steal the breath from your lungs.

after a blur of clothing being shifted around and positioning body parts awkwardly in the confined space, you found yourself in the meanest mating press of your life.

you were folded in half beneath all of clark's weight. the points of your new heels scraped up the truck's ceiling while your knees squished against your chest. little squeaks and whines slipped their way out of you as his tip battered against your cervix. he was so deep you swore you could feel your insides rearranging to make room for him.

"clarkkkk," you mewled before biting your lip, desperately searching for some way to ground yourself. one set of your fingers gripped strands of his dark hair while the other held a fist of his flannel.

"what, baby?" he panted. for once, clark wasn't fawning over you between thrusts. he wasn't cooing or praising you for taking him so well. instead, he had his face against your neck and his hands wrapped around your waist, bucking into your dripping heat with enough force to rock the car.

you tried to force out words to convey what you were thinking. too big. too much. so deep. harder. faster. none of those made it though. only choked moans and then a sharp squeal when he rolled his hips and struck that extra-sensitive sweet spot inside you.

"someone's gonna see if they drive by," you whimpered, squirming underneath him.

"maybe you should hold still then and let me finish, huh?" he grunted, "no one's gonna see. everyone's in town dealing with the mess from tonight. the one i told you was gonna happen."

"i didn't think-"

"i know you didn't," he interrupted, "didn't use that pretty little head at all, did you?"

words of defense eluded you right now, his nonstop thrusts keeping your mind cloudy. instead you chose to whine, your lip quivering he rolled his hips deeper yet again.

"oh yeah?" he asked, as if you'd said something coherent.

you opened your mouth again to speak, to really argue back this time, but you were cut off by your own desperate cry when his hands tugged you closer and speared you even further on his cock. you could feel him grinning against your neck at the noise.

"i know, baby. i know you're sorry. you don't have to explain. thinking's too hard for you right now, yeah?" he cooed, his tone bordering on mocking.

your pout got more severe but so did the needy sounds escaping your mouth. you felt those long fangs of his scrape against your throat. his tongue then glided across the area, making you shudder.

"clark-" you tried to say something else, but he cut you off. he raised his head up and kissed you deep again, swallowing the words right from your mouth. when he pulled back for air, he rested his sweaty forehead against yours.

"you can be such a brat," he breathed, "so much whining even though i know you love this."

the truck creaked as his movements continued to jostle it. you felt his breath fanning across your face and watched as his eyes fluttered shut. you knew he was getting close, but so were you. your cunt squeezed around him rhythmically, coaxing him too the edge along with you.

"you gonna cum, baby?" he finally muttered against your lips.

you nodded eagerly, more than ready to release. it only took a few more hard thrusts to get you there, and clark followed along no problem. in the afterglow, he laid on top of you for a minute or so, trapping you in a cage of searing body heat.

when he finally did sit up, the two of you fixed your clothes and stretched your limbs. he looked over at you with more tenderness. your boyfriend's gentle temperament had seemingly returned with the relief his peak brought.

he cupped your jaw with his fingers, looking over that cut on your face. leaning in, he gave it a small kiss before starting up the car again.

"i'm just trying to look out for you, you know? just... please listen next time. i don't know what i'd do if you got hurt. you had me worried sick."

"i will. i'm sorry i scared you," you replied softly. your eyes studied the loving look in his eyes and the way his features seemed so at peace now that all his adrenaline was out of his system.

you grabbed his hand across the seats and traced little patterns on his knuckles for the drive home. he let you play with his fingers but shot you a glance.

"i'm serious. next time you get involved with something like that i won't let you off so easy," he teased.

you smiled and nodded, wanting to put his mind at ease. though in the back of your mind, a small part of you considered trying again some time, just to see what "not so easy" looked like to him.

[maybanksprincess]

trouble sleeping? // j.m

warnings: fluff, cuddling, kissing, pet names.

summary: jjs girlfriend is having trouble sleeping <3

small blurb for my baby @jjblunts requested by this ask, i hope you like it!

for a couple days now, you've been having sleeping problems. when you lay in bed, you toss and turn for hours until you fall asleep, waking up with a sore back and grouchy from the lack of sleep.

however, jj has been noticing the slight changes in appearance and mood from you. he's been noticing dark circles starting to form, and the way you've been super quiet all day, and drinking multiple cups of coffee to stay awake.

he didnt know what was going on, but he knew he wanted to help. so tonight, instead of laying on the couch, he comes in to sleep with you instead.

you had been laying on your back, desperately trying to get just an ounce of sleep, but there was no use. you let out a huff of frustration and turn onto your side, hugging the pillows close to you.

as your fighting to fall asleep, you hear the door creaking, meaning someone has entered the room. you open you eyes to see the blonde standing above you.

he reaches down to carress your cheek, rubbing the pad of his thumb across it. "hey babydoll. you cant sleep?" he asks softly.

you smile softly up at him, a tired and weak smile on your face. "no..." you shake your head.

he sighs, sliding into bed next to you gently moving you over by your waist to make room for him. "why didn't you tell me baby? you know i would've came to sleep with you." he says, running his fingers through your hair gently.

you lean into his touch, resting your head on his pec. "i dunno, didn't wanna bother you..."

he chuckles softly "baby your never bothering me. jus' go to sleep, hm?" he says, and moves your hair away from your face to kiss your forehead.

within minutes, your softly snoring in his arms, your face buried in the crook of his neck.

he smiles, pressing his lips to yours in a gentle kiss. "sweet dreams, sweetheart." he says before falling asleep, holding your body against his protectively.

[solxamber]

You Try to Sleep on the Couch after an Argument with: Vice-Housewardens + Ruggie

Other Parts: Housewardens; First Years ; Cater, Floyd, Silver, Rollo

Trey Clover

The argument wasn’t a loud one—no shouting, no slamming doors—just tense words exchanged with too much weight behind them. Trey’s voice had been steady, but his usual patience was stretched thin.

You, equally frustrated, had decided that the best course of action was to remove yourself before either of you said something you’d regret.

So, with a sigh, you grabbed a blanket and made your way to the couch, settling in with your back turned toward the bedroom.

Trey let out a heavy exhale behind you, but he didn’t stop you.

You shifted, adjusting the blanket, willing yourself to fall asleep. It didn’t work. The room was too quiet, too heavy with the remnants of unspoken words. You half-expected Trey to leave you there and go to bed, but then—soft footsteps. A rustle of fabric.

Kneeling beside the couch, Trey placed a hand on the cushion near your arm. His voice was quiet, steady in a way that made something in your chest ache.

“Come back to bed.”

You closed your eyes. “Not yet.”

A pause. Then, a soft sigh. Trey stood. For a moment, you thought he was giving up, finally going to bed without you. The thought left an unexpected hollowness in your chest.

But then, after a few minutes, he returned. You smelled the milk before you saw it—the faint scent of vanilla and honey curling through the air. When you cracked an eye open, there he was, sitting on the floor near the couch, a mug in his hands. He held it out to you.

“Here,” he said. “I know you have trouble sleeping when you’re upset.”

You blinked at him, heart squeezing against your ribs. “Trey…”

He didn’t push, didn’t insist. He just waited, his eyes gentle, patient in the way only he could be.

And just like that, your frustration melted. You took the mug, letting the warmth seep into your fingers. Trey didn’t move, just watched you with that quiet steadiness. Then, softly, he asked again,

“Come back to bed?”

This time, you didn’t hesitate.

You set the mug aside and sat up, only for Trey to immediately wrap his arms around you. His hold was firm, grounding. He buried his face in your shoulder and murmured, “I’m sorry.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, holding him just as tightly. “I’m sorry too.”

Neither of you moved for a long moment, staying there in the quiet. Eventually, Trey pulled back just enough to press a kiss to your forehead.

“C’mon,” he said, voice low, warm. “Let’s go to sleep.”

And this time, when he led you back to bed, you followed without hesitation.

Ruggie Bucchi

The couch wasn’t comfortable. You knew it, and Ruggie knew it. But right now, your stubbornness outweighed your need for a good night’s sleep. You yanked the blanket over yourself, muttering under your breath as you tried to arrange the cushions into something remotely acceptable.

Across the room, Ruggie watched you with wide, calculating eyes. He hadn’t said anything since you stormed off, but you could feel him thinking. And then—

“You remember when you ate my last donut?” he started, voice small.

You froze, narrowing your eyes. “…What?”

“My last donut. You ate it, and you said—” He changed his voice in a mocking impression of you. “‘I owe you one, Ruggie, I swear. Anything you want.’”

You groaned, burying your face in the pillow. “Oh my —”

“But it’s fine,” he continued, so dramatically forlorn you almost threw the pillow at him. “I guess I’ll just be all alone in that big, cold bed. No warmth. No love. Just me. Shivering.”

You lifted your head, ready to tell him off, but then—oh, no.

He hit you with the look.

Ears drooping. Tail flicking. Wide, guilt-inducing eyes that shimmered just enough to make your resolve crack.

You exhaled sharply, dropping your head back down. “You’re the worst.”

He didn’t respond. Just fidgeted. Shuffled his feet like he was actually nervous you’d say no.

And that? That got you.

With a groan of defeat, you sighed and opened your arms. That was all he needed. Ruggie practically launched himself onto the couch, slotting himself beside you in a space absolutely not designed for two people. His weight pressed against you, his tail flicking lazily as he tucked his head under your chin.

“…Knew you couldn’t resist me,” he mumbled, voice muffled by your shirt.

“Shut up.”

His arms tightened around you. A quiet beat passed, then—

“Sorry.”

Your hand found its way into his hair, carding through the strands. “Yeah,” you murmured. “Me too.”

Ruggie hummed, content. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, and despite the ridiculousness of it all, sleep found you too.

Jade Leech

The couch was lumpy. Or maybe you were just too angry to get comfortable. Either way, you buried your face into the pillow, inhaling deeply through your nose to keep yourself from snapping again. You just needed some space. Needed to not be in the same room as Jade and his infuriating, calmly amused expression.

“I can’t be around you right now,” you had told him before marching off, voice tight with frustration. And for once, he didn’t push. Didn’t smirk or throw another veiled comment your way. He simply inclined his head, watching as you all but collapsed onto the couch.

Now, wrapped in a too-thin blanket, you willed yourself to sleep. You were almost there—drifting, fading—when fingers ghosted over your hair.

Your breath caught, but you kept still.

Soft strokes. Careful, reverent, as if he thought you might break. It was so unlike him, so gentle, that you almost cracked your eyes open to confirm it was really happening. Then—

“…I’m so sorry.”

The whisper was barely there. But it wasn’t the words that made your heart lurch—it was the way his voice shook.

Jade Leech, ever unflappable, sounded unsteady.

He pulled back, and you knew he was about to leave. That should have been fine. You should have let him go.

But your bleeding heart had other plans.

Your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist before he could slip away.

He barely had time to react before you yanked him back—maybe a little too hard, because the next thing you knew, he was crashing onto the couch with you. A rare, wide-eyed look of surprise flashed across his face, so fleeting you almost thought you imagined it.

And then you pressed a kiss to his forehead.

Jade froze.

“I’m sorry too,” you murmured. “We can talk in the morning.”

For a long moment, he just looked at you, something unreadable in his expression. Then, slow and deliberate, he dipped down and pressed a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“…Very well,” he whispered.

His weight settled beside you, and this time, when you drifted off, it was to the sound of his steady breathing, warm and close beside you.

The couch standoff had been going on for way too long.

“I’m sleeping here,” you declared, arms crossed as you planted yourself firmly onto the cushions.

“No, you’re not,” Jamil shot back, equally stubborn. “I am.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’m not taking the bed while you sleep out here.”

“And I’m not letting you sleep out here while I take the bed.” His arms were crossed now too, mirroring your posture, his sharp gaze unwavering.

For a moment, the tension held. Then, something about the sheer ridiculousness of it all hit you—both of you too annoyed to back down but too caring to let the other suffer the discomfort of the couch.

A laugh bubbled up in your chest before you could stop it. You covered your mouth, but the moment you let out even the smallest chuckle, Jamil’s eyes flickered with reluctant amusement. He exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head.

“This is stupid,” you admitted between giggles.

He sighed, running a hand down his face. “Yeah. It is.”

You grinned. “Bed?”

Jamil didn’t hesitate. “Bed.”

The moment you both settled under the blankets, the last traces of tension melted away. His arms instinctively curled around you, pulling you close, and you let yourself relax into his warmth.

“Sorry,” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his shoulder.

His grip tightened, lips brushing against your hair. “Me too.”

Neither of you said anything else. You didn’t need to. The steady rhythm of his breathing and the way he held you just a little closer said enough.

Rook arguing with you was already unexpected. That he let you march off to the couch without a poetic declaration or dramatic plea? Unheard of.

You cocooned yourself in the blanket, stubbornly facing the back of the couch. The silence felt unnatural—too quiet for someone like Rook. A part of you expected him to suddenly recite a Shakespearean sonnet about lovers quarreling.

Instead, something even more ridiculous happened.

You shifted slightly, just enough to glance toward the floor—and there he was.

Laying down right beside the couch on a thin blanket, arms crossed behind his head as though he had chosen the most luxurious sleeping arrangement in the world. His golden hair fanned out on the hardwood floor, and despite the clear insanity of the situation, he looked perfectly content.

You stared. Blinked. “Rook.”

“Oui, mon amour?”

“You’re on the floor.”

“Indeed.”

“You’re going to get sick.”

“Then I shall suffer beautifully, just as you do now, exiled from the comfort of our bed.” His eyes twinkled, completely unrepentant. “If my beloved must endure the cruel fate of sleeping alone, then I shall share in their hardship.”

You pressed your fingers to your temples. “Rook, go to bed.”

“I am in bed.”

“No, you’re on the floor, being dramatic.”

“Dramatic? Ah, ma chérie, I am simply a devoted man.”

You groaned, throwing your arm over your face, but the warmth in your chest betrayed you. It was impossible to stay mad when he was like this. Ridiculous. Completely, helplessly devoted.

Sighing, you reached out and flicked his forehead. He gasped theatrically, touching the spot as though you had struck him with Cupid’s arrow. Before he could say something absurd, you leaned down and kissed the spot gently.

“Come to bed, you idiot.”

His eyes widened slightly before his lips stretched into a dazzling smile. Without hesitation, he stood—and then immediately scooped you into his arms.

“Rook—?!?”

“Ah, mon amour, such sweet mercy! Allow me to carry you away from this exile!” He spun dramatically, pressing an exaggerated kiss to your forehead before striding toward the bedroom.

You should have expected nothing less.

You sighed against his shoulder, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, you adore me.”

You couldn’t argue with that.

Lilia Vanrouge

You had firmly decided that you weren’t going to sleep in the same bed as Lilia tonight.

You needed space. You needed time to cool off. You needed—

Blink.

One second, you were wrapped in your blanket on the couch. The next? You were in bed.

You shot up, heart pounding. Lilia stood at the bedside, arms crossed, looking far too pleased with himself.

“Lilia.” Your voice was dangerously even.

“Yes, my dear?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Did you teleport me?”

A smug smile. “Would you rather I carried you?”

Oh, you were about to start another argument—

But then you noticed something. In his hands: a pillow and his own blanket.

You frowned. “What are you doing?”

Lilia hummed, casual as anything. “If my beloved insists on sleeping elsewhere, then I shall take the couch in their place. I have endured far worse in my lifetime—” his eyes twinkled mischievously “—but I’d hate for you to wake up with an aching back.”

You groaned, flopping back onto the mattress. “That’s so unfair.”

“To be this thoughtful and charming? I know.”

You shot him a look, but he simply smiled. You hated how sweet he could be even when you were still irritated.

With an exasperated sigh, you sat up and grabbed his wrist, tugging him toward you. He followed easily, his blanket forgotten as he slipped into bed. Without hesitation, he wrapped himself around you, chin resting atop your head.

His voice softened. “I’m sorry, dear.”

You exhaled, tension leaving your body as you relaxed into his hold. “…I’m sorry too.”

His lips brushed against your temple, and with that, the night’s quarrel was put to rest.

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