#i feel like something is missing in this drawing

[artficlly]

lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

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Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face. 

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer. 

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away. 

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.” 

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust�� and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath. 

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it. 

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower. 

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen. 

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly. 

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing. 

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side. 

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger. 

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need. 

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth. 

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.” 

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache. 

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter.  “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade. 

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed. 

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs. 

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up. 

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare. 

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much. 

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder. 

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace. 

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you. 

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—” 

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.” 

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough. 

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.” 

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat. 

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed. 

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long. 

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.” 

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something. 

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop. 

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole. 

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling. 

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. 

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?” 

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either. 

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace. 

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him. 

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above. 

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium. 

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words. 

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. 

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?  

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle. 

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore. 

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected. 

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it. 

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel. 

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard. 

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in. 

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you. 

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap. 

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure. 

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you. 

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic. 

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you. 

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt. 

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips. 

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene. 

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

---

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3

[pearlfull]

must be love

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ SYNOPSIS: Batboys as boyfriends and their habits in a relationship! SFW + NSFW. 18+. 〝 What did you give me to make my heart beat out my chest? 〞 Batboys x Reader. ⋆˚࿔ A/N: Thanks for love on my last post! I TAKE REQUESTS! Sorta rusty, but I've missed writing sm chat

ᯓ★ DICK GRAYSON.

SFW

DICK GREW UP WITH BRUCE'S OLD WORLD MANNERS AND ALFRED'S TENDERNESS. It would be insulting to both of them if he didn't treat his partner following those examples of devotion.

Always has a hand on you. Thigh when he's driving, drawing circles on the inside with the other on the wheel, the small of your back as you're walking through a crowd to help you guide through the heat of bodies around you both, your hip when he's talking to someone else.

So there's no question when you both are out that you're his. Not because he clings, just because he's so unmistakably in love and he's loud about it. His hand finds yours without thinking, it's second nature to him. He laughs louder when you're happy, arm stays around your waist.

When you're not around? If someone tries their luck, any girl is met with a smile and he shakes his head sweetly, "Someone gorgeous has me."

Another thing about Dick is he shows up. Not just for you, the other people in your life. They're important to you, so they're important to them. He bribes your little brother with action figures and of course he'll drive your sister to soccer practice, and they can hit boba on the way home afterwards. Holds your dog during fireworks. Your roommate has a bad date and he's on the couch with you and gives his two cents from a guy's perspective and wait hey, he thinks Wally's her type?

"They like me, right?" His hair has stray pieces of sawdust from helping your dad fix the garage door, and there's a streak of grease staining his shirt. "I can't have your whole bloodline turning on me if I mess up babe."

He wants to find his way to fit into your world. And vice versa for sure!

Will bring you to the manor, and kiss the inside of your wrist and introduce you to Alfred like you're royalty. "This is (her. him. them.)"

Like that's all the explanation needed.

With the others, he lights up when they ask about you, or when you play cards with Jason and Tim, compliment and study Dami's drawings or make Bruce and Cass laugh.

When you go out with his friends, he'll drape his arm around you and grin when they tease you both.

At his apartment, he presses a kiss softly to your lips after you steal a sip of his beer and Roy will grin at the lovestruck expression on Dick's face before raising his brows at him, "Why don't you ever do that to me?"

Flowers are often. Will deliver them casually, too. Was 4th of July a worthy occasion for them? You don't know but you don't really mind.

NSFW

Munch city. DON'T YELL AT ME I'M RIGHT.

Lives for your pleasure, but there's nothing performative about it, he just gets off to how he can make you feel.

He takes his time, draws it out, and holds your hips down to keep you from squirming. "Where're you going, pretty?"

Literally moans into you, louder if you get louder, looks up at you as if he's seeing the face of God.

"So pretty like this, fuck."

Offers constantly. You'd honestly think he's ovulating. You're drying your hair as you step out the shower, and he's kissing the side of your neck sweetly, and tugging you to his bed murmuring something like, "C'mere. Wanna taste you real quick." It's not quick, you both know, but he's already kissing inside your thighs.

All hands and praise!!

Doesn't rush the after, he's walking you to the bathroom and when you're back he has a wet towel and an iced water with a straw.

ᯓ★ JASON TODD.

SFW

JASON DOESN'T LOVE LIKE HE WAS BORN INTO IT, BUT RATHER LIKE HE HAD TO LEARN HOW TO DO IT.

Clumsy, then careful!

He's practical, until he's not.

Until you mention wanting to see a local play, and when you get home he's bought tickets to four.

"This one's experimental." His finger points to the pamphlets he got when he drove down to the ticket office. "This one's about war. Feminist period piece. A musical." He gets quieter, and shrugs like it's not a big deal. "Thought we could make a thing of it."

He's practical until he's adopting a kitten with you, no question.

You find her outside your complex in a silver bin, tiny and shaking and definitely sick. He just sighs and peels off his jacket to wrap it up as you kiss his cheek. "Guess we're cat people now."

You find him on the couch with the cat on his chest and he's reading Wuthering Heights lowly to her. He doesn't look up, just rolls his eyes.

"Don't start, [Name.] She likes the voices."

He doesn't say I love you early. But he definitely acts like it. He'll pull you behind him when you cross the street quickly, text you "home safe?" before you've even made it to your driveway.

Observant would be putting it lightly. Your favorite shampoo and conditioner is in his shower and he keeps makeup wipes and guesses your lipgloss shade to have an extra in his pocket in case you misplace it.

Checks your apartment locks, and replaces them, "Sweetheart, these deadbolts were shit."

Learns all your favorite recipes.

He learns how you like your eggs how you want the edges of your sandwiches.

"You feed the people you love, right?" A beat. "And I love you."

Your favorite childhood meal. How your mom made it after your first breakup, a week later the aroma is filling your apartment, and he has sauce on his cheek and he's trying not to grin.

He loves to cook with you too! Jason'll open the jars, hold your hips while you're focused on stirring.

Annotates your favorite books. Watches your favorite movies. Without complaint. He wants to know you. And initially it was scary, but you're healing parts of him he didn't know were hurt, and he tries to do the same.

Tipsy Jason? The roughness practically melts out of him.

He drinks slow till you arrive, and when you do, he lights up and Roy laughs and shakes his head as Jay pulls you into his lap with his drink still in hand, kissing your shoulder.

You tease him for being clingy, but the next he's murmuring into your hair, "Don't get how someone like you gets to be with me."

NSFW

Needs to see your eyes, and hear you fall apart because of him.

"C'mon, sweetheart. Wanna see those pretty eyes while I fuck you."

Whines when you moan his name, and ruts harder when you beg.

If you try and stay quiet, he slows down and looks at you like he's got every bit of time on his hands. "Say it again, want that voice, baby."

ᯓ★ TIM DRAKE.

SFW

DESPITE EVERYTHING, TIM IS CONSISTENT! He always makes time for you, and doesn't brag about it, doesn't rearrange his schedule in front of you.

"I'll be in your neighborhood in ten minutes." You raise your voice to protest, but he's already lacing up his shoes.

Spoiled would be an understatement, but to Tim? It's bare minimum, don't even think twice about it.

He'll subtly match outfits with you. Red tie, to compliment your gloss. Soft grey if you choose blue. Enough so when pap photos come out later, you'll notice.

"You do that on purpose?"

"We look good."

Places for dates are quiet when you go out: old jazz bars, private late night planetarium tours.

When he picks you up, the smoke curls in the air like the music and he's gotten you the booth in the corner next to the drums.

You also go to the aquarium, the whole place is closed to the public. You swing his hand as it's laced into yours, eyes glittering and you can tell he's trying not to laugh at your excitement. “How did you manage this?”

He just shrugs, and kisses your cheek. “I had a favor owed. Small bribe. You said you used to come here with your mom.”

You almost melt into the floor.

He loves your perfume! In a really sweet way.

Will steal your scarf in the winter to wear to work. Buries his face into your shoulder when he hugs you.

Eventually purchases a travel size of your signature scent for himself to help remind him of home when he's away.

He keeps a photo of you in his wallet, tucked behind his ID. Steph teases him for it, claims he acts like he's a soldier at war carrying a picture of his wife.

It happens on accident that you find it, you're sitting on your couch on a Sunday, your legs draped across his lap, he's rifling through it to find a gift card that has thirty more bucks on it. He flips through it, one hand on your waist, thumb tracing lazy circles over your hip bone.

There's a flash of photo paper and you blink. "Go back."

He raises his brows, freezing, "What?"

You pluck it from his hands, thumbing it through yourself and there it is. A tiny picture of you. He must've printed it himself, but you remember when it was taken. You, with a matcha latte and a goofy grin pointing to a billboard behind you with Tim's face on it.

You laugh, but tuck it back in. "You keep this in your wallet?"

"Yeah." His voice is soft, but his eyes crinkle with amusement.

"Why?"

"Because it's the one I always liked. Makes me laugh. You look pretty and like soft. And mine."

You stare at him a moment too long, and he rolls his eyes, "Okay, I sound insane."

"Nope."

Also nights in?? A great break for Tim. He gets overwhelmed easily and when he comes home he wants something real and sometimes that's you playing Mario Kart on his floor in his pajama bottoms.

Or decorating cookies shaped like lopsided bats.

You let him put his armor down, literally and figuratively.

NSFW

He works from beneath you!!! Controlled and deep thrusts, eyes locked on yours and studying the way your chin tilts and nose scrunches when he hits the right spot.

His hands are everywhere, but your hips are his favorite, rolling them in slow circles.

"That's it," "Just like that, fuck."

He also loves seeing you completely bent over sorry. Your back arched, legs shaking and your winded breath every time he pushes it in deeper.

Kissing your shoulder. Groaning against your back, he'll make you look at him

[theabigailthorn]

Just wanted to share some thoughts and just how much your NHS video has impacted me and just philosophy tube on the way I think. I Saw the Tv Glow hit with me cause of Tara/Maddy cause I’ve been going why do trans narratives and trans content hit so hard with me if I’m not trans. I’m a cis woman but I’ve always felt like when I look in the mirror something just not quite right. When Owen says maybe there is a strong and pretty me inside me that’s the real me it was like yeah thats the feeling. I’ve always struggled with my look, feeling like clothes don’t look on me the way I want them to, hair not quite right, feeling like on the masc to femme spectrum I’m just not quite hitting the marks. And then I became friends with a group of straight women and they all get their nails done and I have never done my nails and since getting gel x nails and fun looks and colors and that almond shape , I look at my hand and go this is how I want them to look. Whenever they get switched out and I see my nails missing them they look wrong to me, short and bare and missing the vivacity of the color. So then I go let’s give a pedicure a try. I’ve never liked my feet, hence why I never did pedicures cause it’s like why doll up my feet no one’s looking, why draw attention to something I don’t like. Now seeing my sparkly green toes I go “this is how I’m meant to look” and suddenly my too big non feminine size 11 feet feel more mine. My mom never let me dye my hair when I was younger when all my friends experimented with streaks of blue pink purple. So I go “why do in every game with a character creator do I give myself dark cherry red hair” so I dye my hair and now go “this is the hair I was meant to have” . My mom never wore makeup so I never learned. Now when I put on my mascara and see the pop I go this is what it’s supposed to be. And my friends say I seem different, more confident. I feel this surge of joy when they go omg I love your hair I love your nails. Which brings us finally back to glow and NHS. Tara knew Maddy wasn’t her, there was a different girl that wasn’t who she was. It wasn’t gender dysphoria it was body dysmorphia. If a trans woman looks at herself in the mirror and doesn’t like what she sees and then makes changes to be more femme, then the only difference between a trans and a cis woman on that femme to masc scale is the starting point. So I feel like I’ve had a an egg crack on “oh this feeling you’ve never been able to quite name is body dysmorphia” and like you said in the video the only reason they make a distinction is “cause you’re trans”. A cis woman gets a boob job a man makes himself taller or gets hair implants, it’s all the same thing, it’s changing things to affirm your presentation, but the world draws this distinction on what changes count as “gender affirming”. They harp on where you’re starting and what’s in your pants. So yeah when I had that eureka moment and thought of your section in the NHS video I was like “I don’t know if I would have gotten to this conclusion without Abbi” and now that I recognize it …. There’s still time, I can make myself look the way I want to look. I can find the pretty confident me that’s been in there all along.

this rules haha, you're FTF, cisgender in a transgender way, congrats lol!

[sourkiki]

dragon! riki x pussy eating

content: explicit mature content, monster-fucking (dragon), dragon! riki x fem! reader, pussy eating+fingering, squirting, face sitting, dragon-like features. wc: 961.

note: i can't be bothered to make this post nice, so yeah... i deleted my asks but to that anon who had requested this, this is for you!

You weren’t sure why you agreed to this but you weren’t complaining. At first, you were reluctant to give it a try. But if anything, Riki was kind and understanding. He didn’t force you to do anything, agreeing to go with your pace, even when it took him a solid five months for you to eventually have sex with him. One thing led to another and soon enough, you’ve graduated at the top of the class of being able to take him in his full size. 

“W-Wait, I don’t think—” You protested, voice borderline trembling as you dug your fingers into the bed frame, thighs shaking with your heart beating in anticipation and nervousness. 

“Don’t think. Just relax and let me do the work,” your boyfriend shushes you, drawing random patterns on your upper thighs. You tried to shift away, having second thoughts but with the way his tail was wrapped around your waist, you have nowhere to escape. 

You shakily exhaled, plucking up the remains of your courage and slowly lowered yourself. Riki purred in approval, eyes slitted as he abruptly tugged you down, catching you off-guard. You gasped when you ended up squarely sitting on his face, able to feel his nose rubbing against your clit. You wanted to lift yourself up—in fear of suffocating him but your mind blanked out the moment he did a long, flat swipe up your dripping pussy. 

“Fuck, missed this,” he groaned, voice muffled as he buried his face deeper into your pussy. Riki had to spread your puffy lips with two fingers, careful to not unsheath his claws so he could slide in deeper. 

“Oh gods,” you moaned, head tilting back at the delirious sensation of his long, slimy tongue tracing your gummy, velvety walls. You spasmed and tightened around his fingers, squirming about on the spot. 

You weren’t aware of the fact that you tried to move away with your back arching. Your action elicited a disapproved growl from Riki, who practically snarled, eyes flickering up to your face—a warning. And a silent warning, at that. Gulping, you readjusted your position, whimpering when he made no move to remove his tongue that was hitting places you thought it was impossible. 

“Stop moving, or you won’t get to cum,” he snarls. 

It was times like these where you get reminded that Riki isn’t human. No, he’s a dragon—a beast that has the ability to kill you with a simple turn of your neck or render you immobile by twisting your limbs. You should be afraid. Afraid of what he can do to you. But yet, a sick, twisted part of you felt aroused. Maybe it was the thought of what he can do, if he wished. You tightened around his fingers that had long stopped moving, making him smirked when he felt it. 

“What’s in your pretty little mind? Want me to break you, hm? Want me to sink my teeth into your neck, mark you as mine?” He coos, redrawing his tongue until only the tip—a two, splitted tip as he traces along your folds, collecting your dripping slick. 

“P-Please,” you whined, rolling your hips, only for him to hold you down with him digging his nails—now claws, into your skin. Hard enough to leave indents behind. 

“Desperate, needy little thing, aren’t you? You’ve been dripping nonstop, it’s like you’ve been wanting this,” he coos, faux sweetness in his voice as he rested his thumb on your clit, making no move to press down on it. 

You wanted to say something, anything to deny him, to tell him he’s wrong. But honestly, who are you kidding? The longer you dragged this out, the higher the advantage Riki has, in this mini tug-of-war game he always likes to play with you. Which was why you looked down at him, through your teary eyes and slightly blurred vision. Your lips curled down to a pout, hands pawing at his chest, like a kitten demanding for attention. 

“Please, make me feel good?” You pleaded, your words sending heat straight down to his cocks. 

Riki muttered an inaudible curse under his breath. In a blink of an eye, he flipped you around so you’re on your back as you laid on the bed. He didn’t give you time to regain your bearings, diving back into your pussy like a man on a mission. 

“Riki!” You cried out his name at a high-pitched tone, the sound echoed amongst the four stone walls of the bedroom. 

Your ears flushed red at the obscene, lewd sounds of him eating you out with his tongue and fingers sliding in and out of you, creating a consistent squelch, squelch sound. It’s like he’s fucking you with his tongue and fingers—a poor replacement of his cocks. 

“Oh fuck, gonna cum, gonna cum—” You whimpered, grabbing onto a fistful of his hair as you tugged him closer to your pussy, grinding into his skillful mouth as you reached your climax.

Hot, transparent liquid gushes from your pussy as you squirt all over your bodies. And yet, Riki didn’t pull away, stubbornly lapping them all up, like a thirsty dog. Your legs collapse to the sheets with a soft thud as you try to calm down from your orgasm. 

But, Riki has other ideas. 

You squeaked when he pulled you towards him by your ankles, his tail wrapping itself around your right thigh, forcing you to spread your legs for him. Riki positioned himself between your legs and he had already removed his boxers, revealing his cocks that stand proudly upright. You gulped at the sight, pussy clenching down on nothing. 

“You want this, right? Then, you better be prepared to scream my name,” he warns, a dangerous glint in his slitted eyes. 

taglist: @byshens , @hoonstqr , @emisluvr , @riqomi , @onlyywwon , @jjung-v , @jun2ki , @rikisoup, @chuhees

[3-aem]

Since I was a kid, talking 5 or 6, my parents always told me it would be impossible to make a career in art and I remember thinking why can’t I be the exception? Why can’t you just support me and help me get there? I remember feeling on a gut level, that I had it in me I just needed the practice and investment.

To their credit they did initially support it. Until of course, they felt I had gotten too invested in my Sunday art class, and pulled me from enrollment.

Art was then something I did in secret, something I learned to feel ashamed of. I’d shove my drawings behind the couch to hide them. Lie about the time spent on art assignments. Feel shame at how only my art teachers ever had compliments for my work. But after I failed to get into the international baccalaureate program - a status symbol, I still woke up to my father ripping pages out of a notebook I had been sketching in, calling every single one trash.

Laughably, my dreams went from artist to animator to architect and finally settled on what could only make my parents proud - engineer. Each step a concession to their concerns until there was nothing left to concede.

“I’ve seen other peoples work, yours is nothing to even compare. You wouldn’t have gotten in.” Was all that was said after I submitted my final university applications.

Of course, after years of being forbidden to practice, of not receiving any support to pursue it, of course it was nothing to compare.

A topic that has come up a lot lately in my therapy sessions is this negativity I still feel towards art. If I feel bad that week due to poor engagement, I also feel shame at the loss of focus and misplaced priorities.

If I look at my work and think this is just awful, I then beat myself up not just for failing to make a good piece but for wasting time and for even caring about something like that. When art is useless why waste time trying to make it better.

But someone I met recently asked me why I didn’t quit my job right then and pursue this full-time.

I explained there were many reasons actually. The sense of instability I experience being one. Feeling beholden to the whims of an algorithm and a crowd terrifies me.

However, internally I felt disgust at their suggestion.

Today I realize, that perhaps at the bottom of all this shame, hatred, and loathing is grief. Grief that in the end my parents were right. That I couldn’t pursue this path. That try as I have, I squandered and missed.

I think I will never be allowed this. And it angers me. And it saddens me. Still I keep trying still I keep moving forward. Still I feel shame still I resist.

The same person then asked why all that mattered.

“I know how a true artist thinks and works, and I know myself. And I draw things to be pretty and safe and appealing. So I know I could never be a true artist.”

“No, you’re just a coward.”

“Yes. I am.”

[calzone-d]

Solace (poly!sentryagent x gn!reader smut)

-word count: +/- 3.2k

-warnings: so many. anal sex (m rec), oral sex (m rec), aftercare, comfort, sub!bob reynolds, dom!reader for a moment, john walker has lots of feelings, parallels to religion (john grew up in georgia guys), mentions of bob’s safeword (he DOES NOT use it or even come close to using it), bob’s in subspace for a bit, sort a bad drop but it gets remedied, reader’s genitals are not described, so many pet names sorry

masterlist here

inbox currently open! i’d love to write more for this trio or even just yap about it. i want try to posting some shorter blurbs too just to get more thoughts out of my brain lol <3

—-

“no! no no no!”

you can already tell this will be a hard drop by the sound of your boyfriend’s pleas.

“honey, i have to.”, john attempts to move his hips backwards to ease himself out of bob’s slippery hole. desperate as ever, bob immediately shoves his hips backwards against john’s pelvis. you know he's deep in the needy haze of subspace.

“bob” john gently scolds. “you’re shivering, honey. let’s get cleaned up.”

and he is. he's shivering after the scorching heat of his orgasm has worn off, and the blankets are all in a heap on the floor. you roll over to grab the thickest one while john rubs at the dimple of bob's back.

he pulls his spent cock completely out of bob.

and now your other boyfriend has unintentionally made it worse.

his firm tone and the absence of his cock draws a hurt whimper from bobs kiss-swollen lips. he’s so far gone, all he thinks is that he’s fucked everything up by the way john said his name. something so simple yet so monumental after a night of being built up by you and broken down by john.

bob’s full-on crying, now. all heavy sobs and hot tears streaming down his cheeks. when john walks into the bathroom, it only gets worse.

“why- why is he leaving?”, bob asks. you know he thinks john walked out because of him, too far gone to realize he only left to get you all cleaned up. "he just went to the bathroom", you promise.

you papoose him in the thick blanket, tucking it underneath him. you kiss his flushed face and whisper reassurance to him after you've turned off the ceiling fan that's blowing freezing air onto your already cold boyfriend.

“you’re alright, love.”

“did so good for us, so proud of you bob.”

“we’ve got you, lovey. just breathe. it’s okay.”

“he’s just gone to get a rag to clean us up, he’ll be back”

"you're so wonderful, lovey."

his sweaty hands break free from the blanket and are grabbing at you as soon as you’re near, frantic eyes tugging at your heart.

it took so long to get bob comfortable to drop like this, it’s the highest honor to you and john. being able to take care of him this way.

john returns not even a minute after, murmuring his own praise to bob as he wipes his soft cock, red ass, and trembling thighs.

"you did so good, bob"

"i'm so proud of you, angel. are you hurting anywhere?"

"shh, it's okay, m'here bob. not leavin' you."

he rubs his hands against bob's shoulders and down his arms. its impossible to miss the way he looks down at bob, eyes full of love and admiration.

you blush when john catches you staring at him.

"wasn't our boy so good tonight, babe?

john's smile is soft but proud. his eyes linger on bob, concerned with how hard he's dropped.

"fuckin' perfect, as always"

bob's tears slow at the praise. before he can register anything else, he's scooped up into johns arms and is being taken to the bathroom. you follow close behind, admiring john's tight ass as he walks.

"sweetheart will you put a towel on the toilet lid? don't want it to be too cold for him.", john asks.

bob's nosing at his neck, and you smile at the thought of his eyelashes tickling john's neck. his eyebrows furrow when john sits him on the toilet seat, head moving and eyes immediately seeking out the two of you. he murmurs in protest but you're quick to redirect his attention with a few soft kisses.

the steam fills the bathroom quickly. you help bob up on shaky legs and into the hot shower. there's a bench built into the shower wall, so you gently nudge him there before his legs give out.

as soon as his ass hits the seat he wraps his strong arms around your middle and his face presses against the soft skin of your tummy. your hands caress his shoulders and slowly comb through his messy hair.

john takes the moment to press a long kiss to your lips. you melt under the softness of his lips. as tough as his exterior is, the two of you break through it with no struggle.

“love you, honey.” he murmurs into your damp hair.

“love you, babe.”

he moves to sit beside bob on the shower bench, pulling him for his own kiss. you slip away to grab your body wash while bob tucks himself into john.

it’s not long before their hands wonder, and john has him in his lap, facing out towards you. his hands have a tight grip on bob’s waist. his milky skin is already red from the heat of the shower, john’s strong grip only adds to it.

john slips his cock into bob, grunting at how tight he still is. his arms are wrapped tight around bob’s chest and torso, and he uses the grip to his leverage. strong thighs are pressed together. bobs are spread wide, making it easier for john to stroke his cock and his heavy sac.

bob looks angelic. so unreal, with the way his head is thrown back against john's shoulder. john is his rock in this moment, arms holding him tight and lips pressed to his sweaty temple.

bob’s hips squirm and rock like that’s what he was made for. and maybe it was, maybe his whole purpose to be yours and john’s. to love, to hold, and to fuck.

you fall even more in love with him in this moment. your kind, gentle, misunderstood man who finds comfort in moments like this. moments where he forgets everything except the way the two of you make him feel. renewed, empowered, strong. strong even without the sassy quips of sentry, or the low blows that always accompany the void. moments where even though his mind is so far gone into subspace, he knows he's cared for. knows the drop won't hurt.

the tile is cold against your knees when you drop to the floor in front of them. you run your hands over john's knees and calves; a small gesture of love even though the two of you are wholeheartedly enamored with bob in this moment.

his blue eyes are just as far gone as bobs in this moment.

a broken sob falls from bob lips when you lean forward, sloppily kissing where the two of them are joined. his ass is so tight around john's cock, but the sensation males bob clench even harder.

"you're doing so good, bob. so pretty on top of john. look at you. fuck."

your lips move to john's base, and a few laps at his sac make him slow bob's hips on top of him. bob grinds softly now, no longer bouncing. you give john's full sac one last kiss before prodding the tip of your tongue at bob's rim. bob's breathy whines and john's grunts fill your ears.

"y/n, honey.. m'gonna cum if you don't stop, shit." john grunts. you pull away only to chuckle at the strain of his voice. bob's too far gone for words at this point. he's just a broken record of sobs and whimpers.

"but isn't he so sweet like this, johnny? looks like an angel on top of you."

"s'- fuck- fuckin' gorgeous." john moves his hips from his hands, and without the strong hold bob's hips become erratic. john's arms wrap around bob's chest and belly as he kisses his flushed cheeks. it's filthy, but still somehow not the filthiest thing happening in this shower. scruff scrapes against bob's cheeks when john licks and nips at them. he moves to his jaw, his neck; wherever he can reach.

john's voice is choked when he speaks, "take it, bob. take this fuckin' cock. s'yours, angel. m'yours."

you almost forget what your plan is, mesmorized by the way the two of them become one. after a deep breath, you get back to work.

"hold him still, babe"

that finally gets a real word out of bob, a strangled "no!"

you raise your eyebrows, and john grabs his jaw to make him look down at you. fingernails pinch at his thighs.

"no?" it gets an almost evil laugh out of you.

"this hole is mine too, bob. m'gonna do what i want to it."

your thumb presses against bob's rim. it's tight as you rub against it, willing it to open just a bit more.

"we were already done, bob, but you just needed more. you wanted this. so fucking take it" your seemingly harsh words are filled with love, and it makes him whine.

finally youre able to slip a finger in agaisnt john's cock. bob lets out a weak shout but stretches to accomadate you nontheless.

"you know your safeword, bob. you use it and this stops, you know that."

and thats the longest he's looked in your eyes since john fucked him into the mattress before this shower.

he whimpers at your tone, or maybe it's at the way your finger curls against the front wall of him. you straighten your finger out and rub against the underside of john's cock. it pulses against you.

john strokes bob's rock hard length, coaxing him to relax just a bit more. the action allows you to slip a second finger in, curling and prodding at bob's gummy walls. it's so hot and tight, you know both of the men above you can't handle much more without cumming.

when you flip your fingers around and circle them around john's cock, it's over with.

"goddamnit, y/n. fuck!" he shoves himself even further into bob, who still hasn't quit whimpering but the way they're coming out more broken tells you he's about to cum. john knows it too.

"oh, don't you fuckin' dare, bob. you better ask- shit-!" john grits his teeth and continues, "ask her to cum."

"I will! I wi- ohhh. y/n please! please lemme cum, please? 've been good, been your good boy. been so good, oh my-"

he knows his begging makes you weak. knows how to play you just as well as you play with him.

"cum, honey. you can let go", you encourage him and suckle at his tip. "give it to me, lovey."

when he finally shoots his thick cum into your mouth, he thanks you and john. he may act bratty sometimes but at his core, he aims to please. loves being good for the two of you. lives for the praise.

john spills his load into bob but doesn't pull out just yet, and you don't even try pulling your fingers out. he knows bob will protest even more than he did earlier tonight. as his cock softens, his cum starts to leak out.

you lean forward and kiss the quivering muscles of bob's tummy.

"you did so good, my love. such a good boy. that was so perfect."

slowly, you pull your fingers from the vice grip bob's ass has them in, even after orgasming.

"no, no! y/n please, put- put them back!"

suddenly it's like bob's touched a livewire. his trembling hands move to grab at your wrist. john leans back and pulls bob into him while you quickly rinse your hand off.

"baby, stop. breathe." bob lets out an uneven breath and bob swallows against the lump growing in his throat before taking a breath at john’s insistence.

you're back in an instant, cradling his beet-red face and stroking his cheeks.

"m'here hun. right here." he tucks his face into your neck. while he comes down from the intense high, you stroke john's damp hair too.

he's tired, you can tell right away. his eyes are hooded and his dark lashes flutter in the way they do when he's trying to stay awake. as big and strong as he is, you know he's incredibly content tucked against the warm walls of the shower bench with his face smushed against bob's shoulder.

he loves being snuggled up against bob more than he would’ve ever anticipated.

john's eyes open to look at you when you stroke his scruffy jaw.

"I love you, John."

the smile he gives you is lopsided as ever.

"Love you, y/n."

your whispers make bob pull his face from your neck. he presses a sweet kiss to your jaw before turning in john's arms to rest a cheek against the top of john's head. it makes you giggle.

"I love that the two of you are so comfy, but this water bill might bankrupt the team if we don't get out of this shower" you smile findly at your two loves.

you hold bob against you while john eventually slips out, and bob's so sleepy he barely protests. between exhaustion and the soft praise you murmur in his ear, he takes it well.

bob's tall frame curls into you while john washes himself off. you stroke his dark hair and rub his back, not wanting to pull him out of the corner you’re tucked into until john's out of the water.

john stretches like a cat and then opens the curtain to step out. after he dries himself off he pokes his head back in the shower. although you and bob haven't moved, his heart thumps harder now that he finally takes in his two favorite people wrapped up in each other.

"gonna throw some towels in the dryer for y'all. bob, do you wan't water or juice, hun?"

"juice.", he murmurs, almost half asleep.

john walker is an attentive lover. although you didn't know him when he was with olivia, you know that for a fact. whether he's a changed man or just knows how to show it better now, he works hard to make you and bob happy. has learned the two of you well enough to anticipate your needs. he slips to the kitchen of the floor the three of you have rooms on. it's funny how convenient that has turned out to be.

bob yawns as you pull him into the hot stream of water, and gives you a sleepy smile. its full of love and trust and admiration and all the things bob wasn't sure he'd ever feel for someone, let alone two people.

he shivers when you clean between his legs and cheeks, but doesn't flinch or move away. there was a time he did, at the beginning when this was all so new. when it was just threesomes before missions, not sure if the two of you wanted him for anything more and not sure if he even wanted to know.

by the time the two of you are clean john is back with warm fluffy towels. he sits the two of you down on the edge of the tub while he wraps you up and dries you off. he's gentle as he does, as if he's polishing trophies. in a way, the two of you are his trophies. beautiful gifts he's earned through hard work, dedication, and never-ending efforts. proof that although he makes mistakes- and god knows he's made plenty- he's become a man that rights every wrong. who now acts without ulterior motives hanging over any semblance of honesty. a man who's re-learned how to be satisfied with himself.

who's re-learned how to love. how to care for the two people who keep his heart with them wherever they go.

he kneels before the two of you, one at a time; a gesture that holds a weight palpable through the steam of the bathroom.

warm kisses are pressed to bob's lips, then yours. calloused hands holding your heads as if they're made of glass while he whispers his love into your damp hair. whispered promises that you know are more than post-nut clarity.

"I love you so much"

"Fuckin' perfect. Perfect, honey"

"Don't know how I deserve the two of you"

and a "thank you for lovin' me" whispered so quiet you barely catch it.

bob murmurs a "how could we not?" and the two of them sit staring into each other's crystal blue eyes.

it's not a contest, not like it was when they'd stare at each other and plot how to piss one other off next. not a competition, not a show of strength.

it's solace.

solace for bob, who didn't think he was worthy of love. bob, who wasn't even sure how to love, when all the love he'd ever known resolved around highs and fear of violence.

solace for john, who didn't think he knew how to love. john, whose love used to be so deeply knit with anger and arrogance. who lost his best friend and the woman that promised him forever and eventually a son that was made out of love, leaving him alone and empty.

it's coming home to a house that has your favorite candle burning and a delicous smelling meal in the crock pot.

it's stepping outside in the sun after months of windy cold that sinks into your bones.

it's a perfectly made coffee, or laundry that smells so good you could bury yourself in it.

their silent gaze holds promise of love for this entire lifetime, and every one that'll come after.

john blinks hot tears away with a soft smile, dissolves his fears with a deep kiss to bob's rosy lips.

you're next, and he stares at you like you hung the moon and built the sun from your own warmth. like his whole life was orchestrated so he'd one day be held by you. he stares at you knowing you were the first to ever be anything other than rough and abrasive with him after he buried lemar.

you gave him the opportunity to have this. it was you who first saw him as a human who makes honest mistakes, instead of a rage-filled monster. you answered every bitter prayer and were his definition of divine intervention.

and he knows his southern-rooted parents would roll over in their grave at the way he worships you regardless of all the sunday mornings spent in church. the fact makes him giggle like a lovesick schoolboy.

he kneels at you and bob's feet now instead of an altar. thumbs over the ridges of your cheeks instead of the pages of a bible. spends every free second memorizing every detail of the two of you instead of verses that would condemn loving two souls. he knows and can't bring himself to care in the slightest.

it was the two of you that guided him through every moment of fear, wrath, and soul-eating dread. promises whispered to the thought of you and bob instead of a god that never brought him comfort the way you and bob did.

he was whole with both of your arms wrapped around him.

and once the three of you were in bed, he knew this was what he was meant for. not the deployments, not the missions, not even the medals on his military uniform that now collects dust in the back of his closet.

bob hums and nestles against the soft sheets between the two of you. he wraps both sets of limbs in the two of you, keeping you close. he smiles and blushes as the two of you praise him, his belly full of juice and heart full of unconditional love.

you and john find each other in brushes of hands across bob's frame, and loving glances around his face that always looked so content while he slept.

"thank you", you whisper.

"for what?" and he truly looks confused.

"for the way you care for us. the way you love us."

"it's the easiest thing I've ever done, y/n. i didn't.. i didn't ever see this happening. not to me, at least. the two of you, maybe. didn't even know i'd want this but now?" he clears his throat, "i don't think i could even exist without it."

you have tears in your own eyes at his words.

"i'll love the two of you for every breath i ever take. and for every breath in every life after this. i don't even know if there's going to be another life after this, but if there is i will find the two of you in every single one"

your heart clenches remembering the cocky and troubled man you met when you joined bucky and sam's fight against the flag smashers. the same man who has bob's head of unruly hair pressed to his chest while he strokes the curls that are always wild after showering.

bob, who you both now learn is very much awake, whispers, "even if we're all cats?"

"i swear," john lets out a watery chuckle, "i.. i can't explain the way i love the two of you.. but it's the best thing i've ever known."

--

im so fucking soft for them it has me unwell

btw the shower i was thinking of is the one in the header lol

send requests pls <3

taglist (message me privately or send an ask to be added): @roxzzline

[time-woods]

why do you she in reference to tenna? is it a headcannon or genderswap when you draw spamtenna or am i missing something

idk i noticed it and was curious and i dont feel like digging for the answer

i answered befor but its just a personal hc

theyr both like genderless entities to me and i like 2 use anypronouns with them

[larkandpen]

Human remmick obsessed with crazy deluded vampire reader 2: electric boogaloo

PART ONE

PART TWO

Human!Remmick x vamp!fem!reader

Summary: Remmick keeps visiting you every night, and you begin to manipulate him.

Themes/warnings (MDNI 18+ themes): canon divergence, slow burn? set in 1800s, general dark themes, yearning Remmick, reader is crazy and deluded in an unrealistic way (think Drusilla from Buffy, literally some direct quotes.), blood, murder, death, gore, not being nice to dead bodies, you guys suck bad, like menaces to society awful to innocents type of suck, no empathy, mutilation, manipulation, Remmick cant decide if he wans to be turned by her or be one of her victims, no mention of race, no use of y/n.

Words: 3.5K

He doesn't tell anybody about you. or where he disappears off to every night.

How could he? There wasn't one plausible explanation that didn't sound utterly mad.

The nature of this strange situation, watching you, cleaning up after your mess every single time. And you, uncaring and indifferent. sometimes he felt like those little birds, perched up in the mouths of crocodiles, cleaning their teeth.

Some nights were more calm. You barely spoke to him, just humming whimsical tunes to yourself as you played in the grass after a meal or worked on a bloody new art piece. Painting yourself, and sometimes him, in blood. drawing shapes across his face, streaking his hair, forcing your fingertips underneath his lips, and having him taste the sharp metallic. Instead of feeling disgust, he's merely disappointed when your touch leaves.

You had a critical eye for his clothing, it seemed. He began to notice you scanning his outfits with a quick look, lips pursed as you analyzed. If something was amiss, you'd come fix it. Stepping forward and straightening his suspenders, dusting off his shoulders. If he has a button missing or a stray thread, you'll give a small frown of displeasure. clicking your tongue, head shaking in disapproval.

"I don't like it. out of order," you tell him, eyes rolling in annoyance.

He looks down at his clothing; it truly wasn't that bad, the type of errors only the closest, most critical eye would take note of. He tended to wear his clothes until they wore out; a few loose threads, a minuscule hole in a seam—all were trivial. His clothes were no less wearable. He didn't grow up in a home that could just attain new things like they cost nothing; he worked too long and hard to keep all his clothing in mint condition. Not to mention he was running critically low on garments, needing to throw away blood-soaked ones on a regular basis. He was wearing what he had.

He trains his gaze down at the ground, swallowing the shameful feeling your words have caused.

"I can still wear it fine," he protests, the toe of his boot digging into the dirt.

You shake your head with a scoff. Even centuries ago, you couldn't comprehend the concept of having clothes tarnished to any degree. always excess, piling up around you greedily.

"Not me. anything out of place...must rid myself of it completely."

And it was true. Although your dresses were more often than not stained maroon, the structure was always in pristine condition. your hem intact, no rips or tears. Every single intricate bead, embroidered thread, or piece of lace was always secured competently. They were never too over-the-top or glamorous, but the elaborateness of its design was never lost on him.

"I like what you wore last week. the blue."

He looks up at you through his lashes, his head perking up a little. A flicker of confusion crosses his face. He hadn't expected you to remember any of his clothes, you inspections had become relatively common— but he didn't think you'd have memorized any of it.

"I can't wear that one anymore." He clears his throat awkwardly, his voice low.

He knew what shirt you were speaking of, one of his best.

"Why?"

He rolls his eyes at you this time, nearly annoyed you would ask him such a stupid question.

Why? because he had burned it up after covering it in evidence.

He lets out a deep sigh, shifting his weight and looking back at you. He's unamused, but his breath still hitches when you meet his gaze.

"It was covered in blood," he explains through gritted teeth.

You give a simple shrug.

"hardly stops me." You mutter, finding his reasoning to be weak. Because, you think, if he HAD liked his shirt well enough, he would've taken the necessary steps beforehand to take extra care with it. Could he not have simply removed it temporarily whilst he did the cleaning he took upon himself to do every night?

Perhaps he could handle it a tad more gracefully, slow and steady, and then he wouldn't make so much of a mess across his clothes.

Or he could just not be concerned with how the red blossoms into the fabric. Embrace it, a new and enhanced addition to his wardrobe.

"Fact, I like how it looks," you tell him. "Beautiful stains, like memories."

On more high energy nights, you danced. Waltzing across the forest with the arms of the night's unfortunate victim in your hands, a steady movement to music he can't hear, but you sing along to. You search bags and pockets like a common thief. Pulling out things that now belonged to ghosts, looting through the things you want. Scent bottles and small sewing kits from the women; sometimes pretty hand fans with designs that catch your eye. From the men you tend to keep pocket watches, penknives, handkerchiefs with interesting patterns. Occasionally someone is carrying a book on their route, but more often than not your face grows disappointed as you read the cover.

"I've already read it." you'd sigh discarding it.

On those hyperactive nights, blood and guts spread around further, high up into tree branches. harder for him to clean, but he doesn't stop doing it. Even if the lack of sleep is affecting him.

Of course people noticed. His actions didn't go without consequence, and he sacrificed his nights time and time again to come and witness you simply be. It showed the next day on his face and in his subpar work. He moved slower; he was distracted and had to be told things several times.

It shows in his attitude, too. A scowl seems to be all he wears on his face during the daytime. He snaps at people without thinking before he speaks, making dismissive comments and showing a bad attitude towards his family and friends. The lack of sleep made him doze off at any spare second, his dreams filled with your demented giggle and sharp teeth.

He only looked forward to sunset now, when the sun hung low in the sky and the shadows began to stretch out and grow; then he could come and make his way to you. even if you hardly spoke to him, even if when you did he could only figure out a small percentage of it. Even if he knew how dangerous you were—that at any second you could rip out his jugular with your teeth or your claws, string him up and bleed him dry, and leave him left for dead.

But you don't.

Remmick thinks maybe he's special. Maybe you keep him around, let him stay because of that. Maybe he's interesting enough to you, and a part of you likes to watch him just as much as he likes to watch you. Deep down he hopes that maybe you might just like him. that you don't want to hurt him.

It has nothing to do with that.

He isn't anything special, and the most interesting thing about him is his interest in you. You wouldn't complain or question anything if he left one night and never came back. You might not even notice.

And it wasn't that you didn't want to hurt him. you do. You really do.

Every time you smell him entering your premise, every glimpse of his suspenders and his mop of waves staring up at you with a longing he might never understand. breath heavy at just the idea of seeing you, heart racing with excitement. like a stray dog who desperately wants you to take it home.

But he's too eager to be hurt too fast. He doesn't say it out loud, but every beat of his heart begs for it; every night he keeps showing up in the trees proves it, every nervous swallow, every open-mouthed stare. begging you to rip into him like you did whatever unmissed person you'd drunk from that night. pleading with jealous eyes for just a scrap of the attention you give to the bodies at your feet.

craving to be broken.

And you would; it would just take so much longer than one single night.

He never looked away when you fed anymore; he found himself liking it. He watched with an intense stare. lips parted in gentle awe as it happened, leaning forward like he was the hungry one. and the way you crouched on the bed of the forest, moving slowly, deliberately. like it was a show you were putting on for an audience of one.

He didn't scream when you licked the gore off her fingers mid-conversation, as if they'd been dipped in honey. He didn't flinch when you recalled to him—through your nonsensical musings, the horrors you'd inflicted on others in the past. Entire villages burned to ash, carriages crashed, and ships sunk. the amount of lights snuffed out at your hand, all told to him like riddles, mixed in between all the nothingness you trill at him—or at yourself from in the long, dark grass.

You'd decided to really put him to the test at one point. He wasn't scared, he wouldn't leave you alone, he didn't need to be asked to clean up all the carnage night after night—lugging it across the clearing and down to the stream. So what would he do if you did ask? How far would he go to please you? How far would you be able to take it before he refuses?

You ponder this as you twirl a lock of hair between your fingers. The hair doesn't come from your head, but it does belong to you now. Darkened and caked in blood, a flap of scalp is still attached to the roots as you toy with it. He sits a few feet off to the side, back leaned against a tree. Watching you deeply, his head elsewhere, like he was completely lost within you.

"Come here, bunny." You don't look at him when you give the order. Eyes fixated on the long, dark lock of hair snaking around your fingers in a repetitive motion.

He does. Throwing himself forward, almost too eager. Crawling towards you on all fours, closing the gap further but stopping just before you.

He doesn't speak; he wouldn't dare. He just sits low with eyes unwavering and steady on you in silent devotion, waiting eagerly to see what you require of him.

The look in your eyes is delighted, the smile on your face is secretive and dangerous as you stare so intently at him. Your head jerks around as if to look at someone else, a vision of yours he cannot see.

"Hush now." You chastise the quiet night, eyes settling back down on him. "I have a favour to ask."

You lean forward gently, hands barely grazing his coat. Licking your lips eagerly, you come down to take his wrist. You tie the lock of hair around it like a bracelet for him, ending it in a little dark bow.

"I should like a new toy," you tell him, dropping his hand down now. satisfied with your work.

He hesitates, his eager expression falters ever so slightly before he opens his mouth to speak, but you don't let him get a word in; your smile sharpens.

"There's a young man." You tell him, pulling back and rising to your feet elegantly. The grass seemed to move around your feet, accommodating your movements almost before they happened. Like the earth knows you.

"I wonder, has my bunny seen him? bright eyes and merry. Like he possesses a piece of the sun within him, glowing. I saw him working in the church garden just at dusk and was able to glance at him before he went home. He was humming, and I wondered, what would he sound like screaming?" You smooth your dress down, swishing your skirt around your ankles, unable to contain an excited jump and your mad giggle.

A look of recognition passes over his face; it doesn't go unnoticed by you. smiling sickly as you come to a still, leaning down close—just inches from his face.

"A friend?" you muse. the way you say it, like you almost knew. But there's no way you could have. You'd never seen them together, never heard him speak of any friends. But when you saw that young man, you knew you wanted him to bring it to you.

Remmick didn't answer right away, needing to think for a second to answer. No, the young man was not a friend. Not in the sense that they were close; they didn't grow up alongside one another. But they did attend the same church; their mothers share baking and sewing tips in passing. He did know the boy.

"I—" he begins to speak, but you silence him swiftly.

"You will bring him here...?" The question rings out, hardly a question at all. not when you know he will do it, deep down in your thorny gut, and your brain is older than any book he has read. You think he might just do anything.

Your eyes darken, gentle fingers reaching down to cup his chin, a short jerk upwards of his head. forcing him to look at the sky, exposing his neck. You watch the pulse race gently.

"Won't you?" you pout.

You feel his pulse quicken, sweat beading at his hairline as he desperately licks his lips, trying to find something to say to you. He should find the strength to tell you 'no,' the guilt he feels nibbling inside his stomach. All of it overpowered by you. Your touch on his face, so smooth against his skin, so cold.

"You've such a trustworthy face," you purr. "Could lead an angel right down to hell with the proper smile."

The praise does it for him, words sweet on your tongue. like nothing he'd ever heard before, going damn near lightheaded when he hears it.

He can feel the saliva pooling in his mouth as he forces himself to swallow, blinking stupidly up at you.

Your lips stay parted gently, like you might speak. Still gripping his chin in your cold grasp, you move his head up and down in a nod, nodding along with him.

"Y-yes..." he stammers out.

"Yes," you speak with him, your mouth upturning in a wicked smile.

Thomas scoffed as they stumbled out of the pub the next night. His face flushed from the alcohol, his hair tousled and unruly. Remmick had bought him one too many pints and laughed jollily at each of the jokes the boy cracked. Sat at the same table with him deep into the night, looking him in the eyes. knowing what he was going to do—for you.

The moon hung low, shining yellow through the tall trees. casting a sickly filter across the path they trudged along. Remmick held a lantern in his hand, lit, emitting a warm yellow glow. Its flame dances wildly within the glass, flickering against the dark backdrop of night. casting long, spindling shadows against the trees as they move forward.

"What kind of lady keeps to the woods at such an hour?" Thomas gives a tipsy laugh as his brow furrows in naive confusion. He nearly trips on a root as he's led deeper down the path.

It had been too easy to bring him out here. She was right; it only took one word. Just the mere prospect of a woman wanting company was enough to send him on a wild goose chase. Young, inexperienced, and eager for any lady who'd have him, Remmick scoffs.

"One who doesn't suffer the noise of this world we live in." Remmick tells him. His boots crunching under the sticks and leaves, his eyes set ahead, not looking at Thomas, who seems to be gathering more sense—or fear, as he trudges along.

"And you're positive she truly wanted to meet me?" He gives an awkward laugh. "Feels a bit like a jest."

Remmick looked at him—his stare intense. Under the dim light of the lantern, he can see the soft curve of Thomas' brow, the pink in his cheeks from the cool night air, and the childish hope in his voice. His stomach flips for a second, a sick nausea creeping up him as the weight of these actions begins to sink in. Pressing against him, trying so hard to escape and take control of his movements. His mind screaming at him to do good! Be good!

And then he thinks about you.

Your words, curling into his ears, seeping into the folds of his brain, and rooting yourself inside his thoughts. The way you consume him fully, your eyes in his vision when he tries to sleep. The rare moments when you grace him with your cool, gentle touch.

"She said you were captivatin'" He tells Thomas. He averts his gaze down. a bitter taste in his mouth when he speaks. "Saw you by the church, liked the way you walked."

Thomas flushes deeper, visible even in the dark. He gives a scoff, a nervous scratch of the head. "Come on now, don't make sport o' me Remmick."

He just shakes his head at Thomas. "I ain't." He swallows hard. "Now go on, she's through there."

They approach the clearing, the lantern flickering pathetically now against the dark forest. The carnage from before had been long cleaned up by him. the water a willing keeper of all his sinister secrets. But the grounds just feel amiss, heavy with grief, thick and slow and sinking deep into the dirt. The trees feel too still, the air feels colder, and it smells faintly of a sweet rotting.

"Are you positive this is the right way?" he asks Remmick. His footsteps make a slow stop; he's nervous now. "Felt sure I saw something in the trees."

Remmick doesn't turn to look at him, just giving him a grunt and a shrug. His pace not faltering, leading his friend in deeper. His jaw hardens, and his hand beckons Thomas forward.

"Aye. The branches move in the breeze all the time, and shadows stretch long under the moonlight. You mustn't mind it." He insists lowly. I've been down this path many a night." He swallowed hard, regret creeping up into his gut. He raised his lantern higher, and from inside the darkness of the trees, there came the sound of something moving. slow, deliberate, limber.

"She's in there."

He points deeper into the forest, where the fog got thicker beneath their footfall and the air felt even colder. the leaves crunching beneath their boots, branches snapping under their weight. If you weren't aware of their presence yet, you were now.

He brings Thomas to a stop by the tall trees, the moon high above them now. They look so small compared to the large, gaping mouth of the forest, ready to swallow them both.

"Some joke, Remmick. There's no lass here!" He scoffs, turning to face the man, the lantern casting shadows upon Remmick's face as he remains unspeaking. He gives a scoff as he claps Remmick's back, a dumb smile on his face as he shakes his head. Of course, he had been so foolish as to fall for a prank.

Something within the trees rustles again, and Thomas' laugh dies in his throat, a hesitance on his face as he looks up at Remmick, confused. He searches his face, looking for any mutual fear, but Remmick's expression remains unchanged.

He gulps as he turns to look into the trees again, eyes scanning the dark with a growing paranoia, only to be met with your two glowing eyes. red, steady, just beyond the light of the lantern.

He's about to turn to Remmick before you step out beyond the dark, just far enough to be seen. Your eyes are feral and bright, your hair unruly as you close in gently. Your head is cocked to the side curiously as you get a closer look at your present. Even more perfect up close, a proper doll. Thomas swallows, his bright eyes fresh with unease and confusion, cheeks flushed the perfect shade of pink.

Remmick sighs.

"Forgive me," a desperate plea whispered from his lips. "But she hungers...I cannot deny her."

The fear in Thomas' eyes grows panicked as he realises this is no trick, but that his friend was serious. His jaw drops in shock as his feet begin to automatically backtrack. Remmick takes a small sidestep, Thomas' back hitting against him as he blocks the way. His hand clapping down on Thomas' shoulder as he leans in close. nodding towards you, urging him to look at you.

"Look at her; I think she's quite gorgeous." He says lowly into the man's ear. Watching in awe as you take your time, slowly looming in their direction. Both of their hearts thud like drums in their chests, but only one of them is due to fear.

"You've gone mad, Remmick. Lost your soul!" His shrill voice echoes against the trees only to fall on deaf ears.

Remmick's face remained unreadable, hardened. He doesn't look Thomas in the eyes. the smallest part of him fighting to act humanely. But he just gives a short nod.

"Aye," he confirms quietly, voice lower than a whisper. "And I gave it gladly."

Then you were on him. Quickly, in an inhuman motion. Remmick didn't look away as you pushed him to the ground, one hand on his chest—against his heart—and the other cradling his face with the gentleness of a lover. Shushing him softly with wild eyes, teeth gleaming under the moonlight as you smile down at him. One hand came up to pet his hair, all as he lay frozen in fear. You crank his head back, looking thoughtfully at where his pulse beats against the pale skin of his neck; the green and blue veins snaking beneath the peachy flesh.

When you sink your teeth in, Thomas only has time to let out a small, sharp gasp.

Then, only the wet hush of thirst being sated.

And he watched.

And he felt like he'd done something holy.

Thank uuu this is literally us rn (yes US, me and you) ↓

[illum1z]

Merlot Canvases

paint instructor! seonghwa x f!reader

summary: You feel like you're lacking that artistic flair in your life. Everyone you've met who dabbles in the arts just has this twinge of light in their eyes that you feel like you're missing. So, taking a paint class might ignite that light in you, or maybe it'll ignite something else.

tracklist: hello?, overstimulated, professional,

tags: strangers to lovers, reader is overworked, seonghwa is whipped, reader is also whipped, unprotected sex(you know the drill), oral (f!recieving), fingering, tension tension TENSION, on a desk, mentions of voyeurism, petnames (baby, princess, honey, etc), soft/mean mdom, fsub, seonghwa needs you to breathe, not proofread

wc: 10.1k

notes: wrote this in one session. jeez, sorry guys. i have not read this through, its 11pm. i have work in the morning. there will be spelling mistakes. fuck it we ball

When you ask someone what motivates them, you get a wide array of answers. Some say their job, or their family. Others say their hobbies or their pets. And some people say nothing in particular, they just have a strong drive for life.

You wouldn’t necessarily say you’re depressed. It's not like you hate life and you want it to come to an end. But you could say you feel like you’re watching it fly by like a movie reel. You stand on the sidewalk as you watch yourself walk into your mundane office job 5 days out of the week. Sit in a cubicle for 8 hours before leaving, walking back home, having dinner, and going to bed.

Since graduating from high school, friends have been hard to come by. Making friends as an adult without being a college student or frequenting bars and clubs proves to be a challenge. You wouldn’t say you’re lonely either. You like your quiet life, but it just feels like something is missing. Like you could be doing more besides the repetitive schedule you’ve been following for the past 3 years. 

You sat on your couch, a few candles lit here and there as the rain pattered against your window. Your townhouse was dark, no sign of life other than you, and the flicker of candlelight on the dark brown walls. You leaned your head back on the couch, eyes closed, as you listened to the rain beat down like TV static. Cars whirred past the window of your home, rushing to or from work. To or from events. Busy, with things to keep them occupied.

You let out a deep breath, directing your attention to the flyer on your coffee table. Surrounded by unread books and worn-down pencils, a piece of paper you picked up from a pole plastered down the street on your way home from work a few days ago.

A flyer for a painter’s class. 

You hadn’t picked up a paintbrush in your whole life. At least not since grade school. You don’t think you’re the most artistic either. Yes, you have ideas and you have inspirations, but you could never put pen to paper. It's always come out janky, or just simply not how you envisioned it. The small town you lived in didn’t have many excursions to do.

You lived on a bustling street, lined with townhouses and little shops. Speakeasy-style bars littered here and there with live music and whatnot, but going out for a drink with the slim chance of getting drunk enough to hook up with some random who will leave you high and dry by morning was less than appealing to you.

You had been in every shop, every library, every single place this shit town had to offer, or so you thought.

Art Workshop

Every Sunday, 7 pm to 9 pm

Supplies provided for newcomers, the instructor will offer a list after the first session, given that you would like to return

Ages 18 and up

We look forward to seeing you there!

With an address printed on the bottom and some cute little drawings strewn about the paper, you couldn’t help but snatch it up in the moment. You weren’t really thinking about it, but at the moment, it seemed plausible. You had just gotten off a pretty rough shift, and a glimmer of possibility that you might do something other than grocery shopping or sitting at home on your weekend was tempting.

But here you are, Sunday, 6 pm, debating if you really should follow through and attend the class. You were reserved, not exactly shy. You spoke when needed to, and you didn't let anyone walk all over you, but you weren't one to randomly engage in conversations at work or on the street. You simply had no need. Like you said, you aren't lonely, just lacking a sort of passion. An urge to create, or the need to have an outlet.

You were so hesitant to go because you truly didn't know what you would make of it. What if it was a waste of time? Or what if it was not what you were looking for? There goes that hope, because this was your last option. That hope that you might finally find something.

So, ultimately, you decided to just go for it, because spending the rest of your life wondering surely won’t do you any good. And that's how you found yourself standing in an alleyway a few blocks away from home, umbrella shielding you from the onslaught of rain.

The streets were dark by now, and the entrance to the class was less than promising. Between two townhomes, illuminated only by a lampost, a staircase led down to a door. It was only a few steps, but the fact that it was somewhat underground raised some questions. You double, no triple, checked the flyer to make sure you were at the right place and the address was indeed correct.

You descended the staircase, the number on the door matching the one on the flyer. You checked your phone. 6:50. You closed your umbrella and shook it out, reaching out a hand and opening the door.

You stepped inside, closing it behind you. It was warm inside, and it smelled like citrus and sandalwood. There was an umbrella basket sitting by the door, with a couple of other umbrellas sitting inside. You set yours in the basket, looking up to take in your surroundings. It was just a hallway, with four doors. Two on one side, one on the other, and a door at the very end, straight across from the entrance.

It was quiet, like nobody was in the building, a yellow light flickered on the ceiling of the cramped hall, giving off a quite eerie glow. The two doors on the left had bathroom markings, one for men and one for women. The lone door on the right did not indicate what was behind; you safely assumed it was storage or for janitorial purposes.

The door at the end of the hall had a sign that simply said, “atelier.” You stepped further into the space, your footsteps quiet as you walked to the door at the end.

You stopped and listened to see if you could hear anything inside. Faint chatter, a couple laughs here and there. When you were sure you did in fact have the right day, you twisted the handle and stepped inside.

Immediately, all eyes were on you. There were about 6 other people in the room, with high ceilings supported by black metal pillars. There were a few large windows that opened to a perfect view of the cobblestone streets, like you could watch the shoes of passersby as they made their daily rounds. The floor was red varnished wood, and the walls matched. There were 10 stools in the room, scattered about randomly, and a canvas sat in front of each one, blank and ready to be painted on. At the front of the room, there was a desk, littered with papers and paint supplies, and a little bit of everything, quite messy.

A larger blank canvas sat in front of the desk, an empty stool beside it where you assumed the instructor would be perched later when class started.

Everyone sat and watched as you walked in, and took a seat farthest from the front, setting your bag on the floor. You directed your attention to the canvas in front of you, and like you never even showed up, everyone continued their conversation. You were just another addition to the class. Nothing special. Nothing notable. They’d forget you were there in 5 minutes.

The conversations around you droned on for another 10 minutes. The instructor was late, but nobody seemed to care. They continued to talk, slowly taking out supplies and setting them around their canvas.

Luckily, the seat you chose was right next to a table of supplies, and you stood and gathered paint palettes of all colors, a wide variety of paintbrushes, a cup of water, and a few pencils. When you had your area set up, you glanced at your phone again. 7:20. You were about to muster up the courage to ask a person nearby about the tardiness of your teacher when the door opened.

The conversations lowered to murmurs before completely dying out as everyone directed their attention to who came in. You looked up from your phone to see who it was, and it was then and there you decided there was no way you could come back to this class.

Sporting a ruffled collared white button-up shirt, black wide-leg slacks, and the most luscious head of hair you had ever seen, you immediately knew this was your instructor. He walked to the desk in front, his back turned, as he set down a bag on the desk. He grabbed a marker from a cup near the corner, uncapped it with a loud pop, and started writing on the whiteboard. Today’s date. And then the words “Impressionism and Perspective.” Neat handwriting, each ending letter had a slight curve akin to once knowing cursive. He capped the marker, threw it on his desk, and turned to face the class.

His face was unreal. Symmetrical, soft skin, plush lips, dark eyes, muse worthy. He was tall, radiant, exuding a calm energy, yet still, his presence had an impact. His eyes moved across the classroom, taking in the faces, bored almost. His eyes landed on you, sitting in the back. Quiet, keeping to yourself, staying out of the way.

He lingered on you for a second longer before looking away again. He smiled, a warm, welcoming smile, and moved to sit on the stool next to his canvas.

“Welcome back to class.” He was soft spoken, with a musical tone to his words. Gentle, he approached, speaking like the words could crack if he enunciated too harshly. A lullaby-worthy voice. His smile was just as smooth; it pulled you in. Your attention was 100% on him. 

And he liked it that way.

“Impressionism.” He stated, he leaned forward on the stool, his foot resting on a bar near the bottom of it, an elbow on his knee, with his hands idly playing with each other as he looked out upon the room as he spoke to the class in its entirety.

“Think Monet, Degas. A French style derived from the 19th century that ties into our second topic of the day, perspective. What can you tell me about it?”

Now you were no artist yourself, but that doesn’t mean you don't like to admire. You frequented museums in the area so often that the employees knew you by name. You had seen every piece, old and new, that they had to offer. Sometimes you’d sit on the benches in front of the displays for 30 minutes to an hour, analyzing brush strokes, memorizing colors, taking the full picture in.

And frankly, nothing could compare to him. You could stare at him for hours.

A student raised their hand. They said something about abstractness. You weren’t really listening. Another response from someone else, mentioning the lacking note of finality in impressionist pieces.

A few more answers here and there, all good ones, you assume, but your focus was completely narrowed in on your instructor.

Their answers fell on deaf ears as they prattled on about the art form. 

“And what about you?” Snapping from your trance, you realize he is staring directly at you. Eyes boring into yours, unrelenting. A question on his brow, the smile missing from his face, his hand stopped fiddling, and they now pointed in your direction, to your secluded island in the back of the studio. You hoped you wouldn’t draw attention, but you suppose your lack of engagement was more noticeable in a class with only 6 other people.

Feeling put on the spot, your back straightened as you locked eyes with the instructor, your knee began to bounce as the other students turned to look in your direction. You did your best to ignore their prying eyes as you cleared your throat.

“Well, like the name suggests, it's an impression. It's loose and undefined, but your mind is well enough off to piece it together. Not quite abstract, because the picture is clear. But it's the bare bones, just enough to create something beautiful…. I think…” You trailed off, nervousness overtaking you. You noticed the student who mentioned abstractness narrowed their eyes at you like you dismissed their answer as bullshit, which wasn’t your intention.

This was the last thing you wanted: all eyes on you, the center of attention. He didn't speak for a second, eyes staying glued on you. You averted your gaze, feeling so seen was not your favorite thing on earth, and his stare was far more than intense. It was exposing, like he could see every part of you.

“Seonghwa, doesn’t it also center around the way the light is painted as well as open composition?” A student chimed in. He didn't look at them; his eyes stayed on you for a few more seconds before ripping away and looking at the student who spoke. His smile returned, and he nodded.

“Everyone has great points. Visible brush strokes and light colors. Most artists completely avoided the color black as well. It was less of artists trying to capture images of real life, but closer to an idea, an impression of a scene.” You could breathe again, attention was drawn from you, and back on your instructor, whose name you just learned was Seonghwa.

He continued to talk, connected different styles and drew correlations, using his paints to demonstrate examples of brushstrokes and things of the sort. Everyone listened carefully. He was so easy to listen to with that soft voice and soothing demeanor.

He would look out at the class every time he made a new point to gauge reactions, and his eyes always fell on you at the end, before continuing the lecture. You were this close to walking out because every time his eyes locked with yours, he raised one eyebrow and almost smirked as if to ask you silently. “Are you listening?”

After a well-informed lesson, Seonghwa decided it was time for some practice.

“Alright, if you will, as simply as you can, don’t make it difficult yourself, paint your own impressionist piece. Paint something that means something to you. Whether that's a scenic spot you keep in your memories, whether it's a person, or an object. Paint it, but paint it like the image is pictured in your mind, but you spilled water over it. It's blurry and smudged; it's a silhouette. Barely there. Put pen to paper for the next hour. Go.”

Everyone immediately began getting to work, dipping brushes and collecting colors. You sat at your canvas, watching as everyone started. Seonghwa moved to sit behind his desk, looking at a stack of papers and organizing paint palettes.

His eyes locked on you again, catching you staring. His eyebrows raised, and he did smile this time, before mouthing the words. ‘Get to work.’

Obeying, you directed your gaze to your empty canvas, and you thought to yourself. Something, or someplace, that means something to you. This was proving to be difficult because that was the entire reason you attended this class in the first place. To find something that meant something to you.

You tapped the end of your paintbrush to your lips, lost in thought about what you should paint. Your job meant nothing, your place was homey but it was just a roof over your head. You didn’t really talk to your family, and you didn’t have any special places.

So, without a plan in mind, you started to paint. Some strokes of green here, smudges of blue there, pluffs of white and shades of red. You just started painting. What were you painting? You had no clue, not yet at least.

 The world drowned out the light chatter from classmates as you painted, like you were on autopilot, your hand simply moved on its own.

You didn’t know how much time had passed, but suddenly you blinked, and actually looked at your canvas.

There were shapes, forms, something was there, but you couldn’t quite pinpoint it. You tilted your head, moved from side to side to try and get an angle where you could decipher what you just made, but it was useless.

You frowned and went to set your brush down when a large, slender hand gently covered yours, gripping your hand softly and guiding your hand back up. A firm chest pressed against your back, and locks of hair tickled your neck.

“Here, like this.” The soft voice against your ear nearly made you shiver as you let Seonghwa control the way you paint. He lifted your wrist to wash the brush in the cup of water, then dipped it into a dark green on the palette.

He guided your hand to sweep the paintbrush across the canvas, adding bits of depth and shadow to the strokes, a few here, some there. The carefulness of his hand holding yours made your heart flutter. You couldn’t see him, but you could feel his steady breaths, smell him, sense him hovering over you.

He continued to paint while holding your hand, and you let him, feeling the warmth of his fingertips, the calluses of his skin.

Before long, he moved to have you set the paintbrush down and then let go of your wrist, his fingers gently caressing, a ghost of a touch as he pulled away.

“Now look at it.” He mumbled, only to you, like the rest of the class didn’t exist.

You squinted your eyes, tilted your head, and there it was.

Strokes of green that formed into a field. A silhouette of clouds against a powder blue sky. A form of a child, which strangely resembled you. The field was vast, and the sky was open. But far from the child was another form. A body, older. Standing under a tree, the leaves fell over her like a canopy. An adult, who once again, oddly resembled you. The child was staring at the sky, back turned toward the canvas, while the other stared directly out at the artist, watching.

In the far upper corner of the canvas, the blue sky faded into grey storms, angry and waiting far off in the distance. The child watched the clouds as the inevitable storm rumbled in from the east, while the older one simply stood in the distance, safe from the clouds but unable to scoop up the child and bring her underneath the canopy.

The paint smudged, and the forms barely even took place. But you could see them with your own eyes. Decipher your work.

Your breath hitched, and you turned to look at your instructor, who now stood off next to another student, helping them with their piece, back turned fully to you. You opened your mouth to speak, but shut it just as quickly. Turning back to your canvas, you stared at it. Not daring to ruin what you had made, you set down the brush and patiently waited for the rest of your classmates to finish.

Your chest bloomed, but your heart withered. How did your brain conjure this up? Sure, it wasn't professional and not even display worthy, but it made you feel something. Something familiar.

You must have zoned out, a loud clap snapping you from the trance as you looked up at the source. Seonghwa stood near the front of the class again, gathering his students’ attention once more.

“Our time is almost up, as always. Great work today. Even if it was just a stickman, your creations will always be beautiful. You can leave your pieces where they are, and when we come back, we can varnish them, and then you’re welcome to explain your piece if you’d like. Until then, have a great night, be safe. See you next week.” Seonghwa smiled that charming, warm smile again, before beginning to clean his desk.

Everyone gathered their supplies and packed their bags, one by one heading out the door as they talked idly with one another.

You stayed in your seat, eyes glued to your piece. It was time to leave.

When you finally stood to gather your things and clean your area, there were only two other people in the room, standing in front of Seonghwa’s desk and talking to him. Asking questions you assumed. You ignored them, and just as you gathered the rest of your stuff, they filed out the door. Now it was just you and him.

The air was still and the rain pattered softly on the windows.

“Will I see you next week?” His voice cut through the silence, almost startling you. Soft, yet firm. Expecting. You turned his direction, realizing you hadn’t even thought about whether you were going to return or not. He wasn't looking up, busy jotting down something in a notebook.

“I don’t know.” You answered simply. “Guess we’ll have to see.” You smiled nervously, and then you realized how rude that must have sounded. You scrambled to defend yourself.

“You’re an amazing teacher, and you really helped me understand what I was doing… I think. It just depends on how the week treats me, I guess.” He lifted his eyes finally, pressing the tip of his pen against his soft bottom lip. His eyes trailed up, then down, before landing back on your face.

“I look forward to seeing you next week, Ms…?” Dumbfounded to say the least at his confidence in the idea you’d come back. You were caught off guard, stuttering out your name in response.

“(Name)..” he stated quietly, like he was taste testing the syllables. He smiled again and set his pen down on his mess of a desk, folding his hands and resting his chin on them.

He nodded his head down at his desk, urging you to come forward. “Your list of supplies is on my desk. Come pick them up before you go, please.”

You hesitated, feet glued to your spot. Before you forced your legs to move and carry you to his desk. He watches you with every step, eyes never leaving you once.

You stopped in front of him, picked up the paper, and glanced down at it. Necessities, with recommended brands, ranging from the most expensive to budget-friendly. Locations of nearby art stores and QR codes to videos in case you’d like to practice on your own time. Thorough. His full name was scrawled at the bottom. Park Seonghwa.

When you looked back up, he was standing behind the desk, eye level with you, as his hands rested on the surface, palms flat, hunched over the papers.

A strange heat flushed your neck as his stare pinned you down, his fingers tapping against the desk in a slow rhythm like he was pacing himself.

Then he straightened, sat back down, and looked back down at the notebook. “That's all.” 

What.

You turned stiffly and hurried out the door before anything else weird could happen. You forgot your umbrella and walked out into the street, the rain soaking your clothes as you began walking back home hurriedly.

What the fuck.

There was no way you could go back.

A few days had passed, and work came and went. Draining as always. And even though you weren't even sure if you’d go back to the paint class, it was all you could think about. But was it the painting… or the painter that drew you in?

You found yourself standing in front of a crafts shop, the paper he gave you in your hand as you stared through the glass windows into the store. Were you really going to buy this stuff? Does this solidify your return? Guess you’ll find out.

Stepping into the store, you were met with silence. Like nobody was there/ Maybe one person browsing the paint section, one or two at customer service, other than that it was a ghost town. You looked down at your list and nodded to yourself, stepping further into the store to find the supplies you needed.

Some basic paint palette, an array of brushes, canvases, small and large. The store was homey, stone floors and wood walls, soft music played from the intercom as you meandered about the building, browsing different sections.

You were near the back of the store, in front of a canvas display. They had black canvases, white ones, canvases so large they could probably cover your bedroom floor. You grabbed a couple of 9x12s in case you wanted to practice at home.

You turned to go see what paints they had when you saw him.

Your instructor was across the aisle, looking at stencils and rulers. He hadn’t noticed you yet, and as quickly as you could, you walked the opposite direction, further towards the back of the store.

You could not handle him right now, the intense stares, the strange tension between you two. You pretended to look at the scissors on the wall, taking great interest in the different colors and sizes.

You waited there a few minutes in hopes that he had moved on.

“Need help choosing a pair of scissors? Contrary to popular belief, they are not all the same thing.”

Fuck.

You craned your head up to see the man of the hour standing behind you, a smile on his face and a shopping basket in his hand. Wearing a plain black V-neck that hugged his chest just a little too tightly, and some wide-leg blue jeans. You let your eyes wander for just a second before answering him.

“I’m okay, thank you, though.” He nodded in acknowledgment before raising an eyebrow in question.

“Coulda swore I saw you come in earlier, but I wasn’t sure if it was you or not.” So you were screwed from the beginning he had seen you walk into the store. He nodded down at the list in your hand, his smile widening as his gaze fell over the almost full shopping basket in your hand.

“I see you’re stocking up for upcoming classes. I’m happy to see that.” He stepped closer into your space. You needed to leave before you jumped his bones.

What no. Why would you think that? What's wrong with you?

“Well, I’m still deciding, y’know, I'm so busy with work and whatnot,  I have to make sure I have time..” You smiled nervously, trying to sound as believable as possible. Seonghwa cocked his head to the side in confusion, his tongue poking out to swipe across his bottom lip. He bobbed his head, and a small laugh slipped from him, like he was in disbelief.

“That's funny. From what I could tell, you really enjoyed my class. You came in all tense and closed up, but by the end, though you seemed like you really let yourself enjoy something.” Now you were somewhat offended. You scoffed and rolled your eyes.

“And what do you think you know about me? I was trying something for the hell of it. I wasn’t searching for something.” Lying through your teeth. And he seemed to sense that.

His smile only widened at your response, his hand coming up and raking through his long hair.

“Anyone with eyes could look at you and tell there's more to you than you’re letting on, and that's okay. We’re strangers, I don't need to know everything about you. But if you don’t like my assumptions about you, you can fix it by telling me about yourself.”

This asshat.

“I’m glad you’re so sure of yourself, Mr. Park.” You sneered, turning to walk towards the cash register, so you could check out and leave. “But I know what I want, and right now I want to go home. It was nice seeing you, but you are slowly losing me. Sunday might be reserved for nights at home again if this attitude of yours is something I’ll have to deal with every week.”

They pulled a deep laugh from him, one that stopped you in your tracks. “Well, you’re still buying the supplies, baby, so I’m assuming that you’ll be seeing my face sooner than you’d like to let on.”

 The stupid pet name made your stomach flip and your cheeks heat. Unfortunately, it was more teasing than in an endearing way, which made you want to put him in his place even more. But before you could retort, Seonghwa took a peek into your basket before looking back up at you.

 “Looks like you’re missing just a few more things. Here, c'mon." He placed his palm against the small of your back, urging you to walk with him. You followed without much objection, mumbling curses quietly to yourself as he guided your body to walk to the other side of the store.

You stopped in front of a display of gloss varnish and some easels. Along with a couple gold gold-framed mirrors on the top shelf. He leaned over your shoulder, his lips close to your ear again. “See here.” He whispered, “Some varnish if you’d like to preserve the paintings. And an easel so you can paint without hunching the whole time. I promise you it’ll do your back wonders.”

While he spoke, one hand reached forward and grabbed a bottle of varnish, dropping it into your basket, while the other traced a feather-light trail down your spine. You shivered at the touch, his smile widening at your reaction.

For a moment, it was just you two again. Your eyes met in one of the mirrors. Seonghwa’s gaze was low, calm, but there was a twinge of something else in it. Like a barely controlled sense of need. Want. His eyes were half lidded as he watched your brows furrow at the feeling of his touch along your back. His bottom lip was tucked between his teeth. He hummed against your ear quietly, his hand twitched, like he wanted to hold more of your body. Like he wanted to touch you like you were his.

Or maybe you were crazy, lack of sleep. You barely knew him. Maybe you needed to get laid.

He pulled away and grabbed a couple of bottles of varnish for himself, dropping them in his basket. 

“Looks like you got it all, sweetheart,” he smiled, and you turned, ripping your eyes from the mirror and directing your attention up at him. His hand reached forward and held a lock of your hair between his fingers, letting the strands dance between his knuckles.

Seonghwa’s eyes roved all over your face, taking you in, like he was trying to memorize everything about you. “I’d love to paint you someday, beautiful. Would you let me?” It took everything in your power not to let your mouth fall open in shock at his words.

“Me..?” you swallowed, fingers fiddling nervously as your gaze fell to your feet.

“You.” He stated simply, like he was talking about the least intimate thing in the world. His finger pinched your chin gently and tilted your head up to look at him. He tilted your head to the right, then to the left, up, and then down, like he was mapping your face. Trying to figure out what colors would work, what shading to use, and what brushes would perfectly encapsulate the acne scars and the texture of your skin. What brush would perfectly capture the slope of your nose, and what colors would mix for that beautiful shade of your iris. 

“Think about it.” He said, leaving no room for argument, before letting go of your chin and turning to walk away. 

‘‘See you next Sunday, love.” And he was gone.  The fucking audacity. And guess what.

Sunday came faster than you would have liked. And you were in your mirror, touching up your hair. A tote bag filled with art supplies, as you prepared to head to your second class.

The fucker had you. Had you wrapped around his finger. He was alluring, annoying, beautiful, and you didn’t want to give him credit for it. But he was right. You enjoyed the class, and you liked that he was able to pull that creativity out of you. And you liked looking at him. And hearing his voice.

It was raining again today. You decided that being early wasn’t important today. So you left your house at 6:50, showing up at 7:15. Make him think you weren’t coming, but unfortunately, your punctual nature wouldn’t allow you to be any later than that. You did your best.

You walked into the building, stood in front of the door for a second, gathering your bearings. You twisted the knob and walked inside, more confidence in your walk than your first day.

Once again, heads turned to look at you, the same 6 students in their respective spots. However, your seat in the back was gone. And the only empty chair was the one closest to Seonghwa’s desk. He was sitting on his stool, a finished painting on the easel, a wide paintbrush in hand as he demonstrated varnishing the artwork.

His eyes locked with yours, only for a second before looking back at his task. “Nice of you to join us (Name.) Have a seat, we’re just varnishing.” Slowly, you made your way to the empty seat by his desk, sitting down and setting your supplies out.

“While most artists didn’t varnish impressionism pieces, we are for the sake of preservation. They preferred the matte, rough look. But they lived in Europe, where the sun didn’t shine. Your art kind of needs the varnish now more than ever. We're using a satin varnish that keeps the natural look, but offers a bit of protection. So don’t worry, they won’t be ruined.”

He clapped his hands and set down the brush, standing from his stool. “You can come up and grab your pieces from the drying rack and begin varnishing. I’ll walk around, and just let me know if you have any questions.” Everyone stood to grab their pieces, you following suit.

Seonghwa stood by the rack, watching as each individual picked up their pieces. You were last, his eyes following your every move. Pretending you didn’t see him, you grabbed your piece and walked back to your seat.

If he wants to play games, you simply won’t give him the satisfaction. You pulled the varnish that you bought from your bag and a large brush, setting your canvas on your easel. You gave the painting a once-over, still somewhat astounded that you could create something so pretty.

You opened the bottle and poured it into a cup, dipping the brush and beginning. The rain fell steadily as the students' idle chatter once again faded into background noise as you focused on your task.

Carefully as you could, you spread the varnish about your work, admiring as the soft sheen coated the colors and made them more vibrant. Stroke by stroke, you were evening out the gloss, and soon enough, the whole canvas was covered.

You were so lost in your work that you hadn’t noticed that Seonghwa was not in fact walking around the room, but standing at the back of the studio. Back against the wall, arms crossed, head tilted lazily to the side. His eyes were trained directly on the back of your neck. 

His gaze followed the curve where your neck met your shoulder, how your shoulder blades poked only slightly through your shirt, down and aligning your waist, admiring your attentiveness. Oh, how he’d love to capture every part of your body and hang it on his wall proudly. He didn’t know what it was about you.

You were nothing special, another young girl finding her way through life, discovering her passions. But there was just something. He couldn't place his finger on it. But he wanted to find out as soon as possible.

He walked back towards the front, striding towards your seat. But just as he was about to speak, some varnish dribbled down the brush onto your hands. Immediately, Seonghwa was at your side, grabbing your wrist, making you drop the brush.

Surprised, you yelled quietly at the contact. “What the hell, what did I do?” Not giving you time to object, he lifted you by your arm, urging you to follow him. However, in his frantic movement, his face and voice remained calm as he walked you both to the door.

“Varnish can irritate if it gets on the skin.” He spoke as he led you into the hall. The other students paid you no mind as he led you to the bathroom.

“It's best to rinse the area for about 15 minutes, because it could cause a burn.” He turned on the light and switched on the faucet, dragging your wrist under the cold faucet water.

“I can do it myself.” You groaned. The bathroom was cramped, his chest pressed against your back as you looked into the mirror. He let go of your wrist, a little too slowly, as you left your hand under the running water. He physically couldn’t step back in the confined space.

He remained behind you, watching you in the mirror. Your gaze stayed on your hand as you twisted your wrist to get the water all over your hand. The bathroom was silent, despite the rush of water and the hum of the air vent.

The air. Stagnant. The tension. Thick.

“Do you need to hover?” You asked, your voice smaller than you had liked. “I’m not 5, I don't need adult supervision, Sir.” You hissed around the last word, but Seonghwa’s breath caught in his chest so quickly you hadn’t caught it. 

He was so close, and refused to admit it was driving you mad. You could smell him, and you wouldn’t dare look in the mirror, because if you met his gaze, you just might snap. He was too much. He dripped sex appeal. Control. Authority. But it was gentle. Suggestive, like he would never do anything unless you got on your knees and begged for him. Like if your body cried for him.

 You turned off the faucet when you were sure the area was clean, and you were about to turn and walk out of the bathroom.

A hand, slender, large, and firm. With the softness of a mother’s touch, it slipped around the front of your throat, grounding you. His chest pressed harder against your back, almost pushing you against the sink. Your hands gripped the bowl of the sink, holding your upper body up as you felt him against you.

Seonghwa leaned his head down, pressing his lips against your ear. His breath tickled the shell, and your breath quickened.

“What is it about you?” He murmured against your ear. His breathing was heavier, his chest rising and falling against your back. “It's irking me so fucking bad.” His nose dipped into that soft spot between your neck and shoulder, inhaling softly.

Whimpering was your first mistake. His whole body shivered as he placed the softest of kisses on the nape of your neck. “Tell me no.” He whispered. His free hand came up and gripped your jaw lightly, directing your gaze to the mirror.

You locked eyes with him in the reflective glass, your knees going weak at the primal look he was giving you. “Look at me and tell me you don’t want this.”

Your lips remained glued shut. Your eyelids fluttered, and Seonghwa's hand rested on your jaw, his thumb rubbing your cheek coaxingly. You leaned back into his touch, a question in your eyes.”

“Ask.” He demanded, already sensing you had something to say.

“Are you playing with me?” You mumbled, your lips slightly slurred with the hold he had on your jaw.

“No playing. No games, darling. I promise I’ll be as gentle as I can.” There was a false promise in his tone, and he could barely hide the smile that tried to creep onto his lips.

The hand on your throat tilted your head up, craning your neck as his neck tilted down, his nose brushing yours, and his breath fanning against your lips. You were hesitant. But only because you were afraid that if you let him, you might become addicted. Then you’ll come crawling back by the end of it.

But that filthy, shameful dark corner in your mind couldn’t resist him. Your stomach clenched, and your heart battered in your ribcage. Suddenly, the bathroom was too hot, and the tension was so thick you couldn’t breathe. You needed to breathe. You needed Seonghwa to give you air.

So with the last bit of oxygen in your lungs, you parted your lips and whimpered out the softest, most pliant, “Please.” And that was all he needed.

Like he was savoring it, he brushed the skin of his lips against yours, back and forth, before opening his mouth and swallowing your lips. The slowest, most sensual rhythm of lips against lips. And you could breathe again.

You sighed into his mouth, and the sound only spurred him further. His lips moved away, but only for a second, before he turned you around and pressed your back against the sink. His hand around your throat again as he pressed his body into yours, melding with you like he belonged there. His mouth moved against you like you were the most flavorful thing he had ever had the pleasure of tasting, his thumb rubbing the side of your throat, his other hand gripping your hip, pulling you closer to him as he devoured you. Your hands lifted and gripped his hair at the scalp, dragging a groan from his throat, his lips smiling against yours at the feeling of your hands.

“So soft..” he moaned into your mouth, barely giving you time to think as your head spun at the pure intensity of the kiss. “So fucking sweet.” 

Your eyes were shut, but his were open, watching himself in the mirror as the hand on your throat moved to grip the back of your neck. He watched his flex tendons flex as he held your neck possessively, like he owned you. The way your back arched and your body trembled. 

“Seonghwa…” You whined into his mouth. He almost growled, pushing his tongue into your mouth and drinking the pretty sounds you made.

“Again.” He groaned like it hurt, his eyebrows furrowed, and the grip on your waist tightened. “Say it again.”

You obeyed. “Seonghwa…” His kisses were rougher, claiming and violent. Like he wanted to eat you alive. You were lost in him, his roaming hands, and the way his body kept trying to push itself into you as if you both could even possibly physically be any closer.

“Fucking beautiful.” He pulled from your lips, littering kisses along your neck, both hands sliding up your shirt and tickling the sides of your waist. “Making the most lovely sounds. I’d pick you up and fuck you against this wall if I you’d let me. Would you let me, huh, pretty girl?”

You nodded frantically, thighs clenching at the mere thought.

And suddenly you remember this was your instructor. There were students in the other room. They were bound to wonder where you two were soon.

“W-we have to go back…” You whispered, his large hands kneading the flesh of your waist, like the thought of letting you go might just kill him. He groaned, pressing one last, claiming kiss on your shoulder. He pulled back and let his hands fall from your body, and suddenly you were cold.

Seonghwa took a deep breath, calming himself. He looked at you, pupils dilated and lips flushed. “Stay here. Leave in 10 minutes. Class is almost over. Once everyone leaves, come back to the studio.”

Leaving no room for debate, he opened the door and left. Your back still against the sink, hair disheveled, and lips kiss-swollen. Did that really just happen? Silence enveloped you as you leaned against the wall, waiting.

What must have been the longest ten minutes of your fucking life, the anticipation swirling in your gut. You had never been so soaked.

Seonghwa left so quickly. If he had stayed any longer, he for sure would have had his way with you regardless of whether anyone was in the other room. He’d make you scream just so they could hear. But he had manners, ones that he was slowly forgetting more and more each time he laid eyes on you. He sat in the front of the class behind his desk, eyes void as he tried his best not to think of how pretty you looked, arched over the sink. Hair a hot mess, body trembling, taking what he gave you like a good girl.

His foot tapped against the ground impatiently, and finally. 9 pm. The students gathered their things, waved their goodbyes, and slowly filed out of the studio. The lights were turned off, and the rain beat against the windows harder.

You were sure it had been 10 minutes. Slowly, you opened the door and peeked into the hall. Silence. Shutting the bathroom door, you turned the corner and began walking to the studio entrance. You hesitated, just a moment. Preparing yourself.

You placed your hand on the knob, twisted it, and pushed it open. You got one foot through the door when Seonghwa grabbed your wrist and yanked you inside, shutting the door and shoving you against it. Like an animal, he gave you no time to react, burying his hands in your hair and slotting his lips with yours.

“Finally..” he moaned, pressing his body against yours, rendering you helpless against the wall. You kissed back with just as much fervor, free to be as loud as you want. 

“Not enough,” he snarled, hands holding your waist as he picked you up, your legs wrapping around him as he carried you to his desk. Carelessly swiping the papers and such off as he set on the surface, his lips not once parting from yours. His hand slipped between our bodies, tracing down your stomach and landing on the button of your pants.

“Want these off, honey?” He whispered into your mouth, laughing softly at your frantic nods.

“Please, yes please…” His fingers danced along the hem, unbuttoning them slowly, slipping them down and off your legs. His kisses moved lower, mapping a trail down your body until he had sunk onto his knees, dragging his lips along the insides of your thighs. 

You looked down at him, his eyes never leaving yours and he placed a soft kiss against your clit through the thin lace of your panties. Your thighs shook, and his big hands spread them open for him, keeping them open with a strong grip.

“Hwa… please…. No more teasing.” He smiled and placed a rougher kiss against your clothed cunt. 

“I’ll tease you all I want, sweetheart, if you keep giving me such cute reactions.” His tongue fell out of his mouth, flattening against you as he dragged a long, stripe up your cunt, smiling when your whole body shivered at his touch.

“Such a responsive baby. I knew you’d be so good for me. Want these off too? Want to feel my tongue against that pretty pussy huh?” You were so fogged in the head, shame way past, with the only feeling you had was needed. Pure and unbridled need for him to fuck you stupid.

“Yes, fuck Seonghwa please!” His thumb hooked along the waistband, dragging your underwear down your legs and stuffing them in his pocket. The cold hit your cunt, soaked and throbbing for him.

“Uh huh.” His own voice shook with need, unable to pull his eyes away from you. “Don’t worry, I got you. I’ll take care of you.” Seonghwa’s hands curled around your thighs, keeping them steady as he kissed your clit, so softly, then wrapping his lips around it and sucking.

Immediately, your body pulled taught and your brain felt like it had been shocked, a deep, guttural moan escaping. His hands dug into your thighs like he was holding himself back, losing himself in your taste, drowning between your thighs.

“Fuck baby.” His tongue drew impossible patterns around your clit, one hand moving from your thighs to trace a finger up your soaked slit, gathering your wetness and teasing.

“I’ll fuck you open on my fingers and you’ll take it like a perfect slut right? You’re gonna take it for me?” You nodded, words fleeting and hard to grasp as you focused on the way he touched you. Like he’s known your body for eternity, knowing what buttons to press and what words to say to get your stomach fluttering.

With ease that should have been embarrassing, he slipped his fingers inside your warm cunt, immediately curling them to press against that spot that made your vision go white and your breath catch, all the while his mouth was relentless on your clit.

“Don’t talk, honey, just feel. Moan nice and loud, let me know I’m doing a good job, okay?” He hummed around your clit, sending pleasure ridden vibrations though you that made your back arch and your fists clench. Your hands flew forward and gripped his hair, grinding themselves against his mouth as his fingers dragged in and out of you so delicately, slowly, applying just enough pressure to have you tumbling towards your orgasm fast.

Your head fell back, biting your bottom lip as you continued to grind against his face. “Fuck, cummng Seonghwa…” His tongue only licked faster, his fingers pressing harder inside of you.

Suddenly, his fingers slowed and he pulled off of your clit, a depraved groan slipping from him. You whined in disappointment, so close to falling off the edge.

“Why…?” You whined, desperation lining your voice. He only smiled and placed gentle kisses on your inner thighs. 

“Beg,” Seonghwa stated simply, his voice breathless. “If you want it so fucking bad then beg for it princess.” Suddenly, the humiliation was setting in, but not enough for you to not beg.

He rested his cheek against your thighs lazily, looking up at you like you were the most stunning thing he had ever laid eyes on. “Nice and loud. Let me hear you. Beg like if I don’t let you cum you’ll die. Let me know how badly you need it.”

And you did. “Please Seonghwa, please I need you to fucking ruin me. Please, I’ll do anything. Please make me feel so good that I die, please.” So pathetic. So whiny and so desperate, exactly how Seonghwa liked it. Before you could continue he buried his face inbwtewen your thighs again, this time slipping his surprisingly longue tongue inside of you, fucking you eith his tongue. His fingers pinched your clit, rubbing it between his fingers and making noises so sinful, the sound of his voice was almost enough to make you shatter into a million pieces.

“You beg so beautifully for me, baby, cmon. Fall apart. Cum for me. You’ve earned it.” Your whole body shook as your orgasm overtook you, the grip on his hair impossibly tight. He groaned into your cunt from the pain in his scalp, which only spurred him on further. He wasn't stopping until he was done.

He continued to eat you like a man starved, even as overstimulation throbbed in your cunt. 

“Fuck Hwa, let up, too much!” he laughed at your pleas, kissing your clit one last time before standing, his tongue coming out to clean you off his lips. He brought his fingers to his mouth, his tongue delving between and licking your slick off himself. Dragging his tongue from the bottom of his wrist and up to his fingertips, eyes boring into yours.

Pulling off his fingers with a loud pop, he ripped his shirt off his body, his pants following right behind. His chest was beautifully toned, a honey gold that was good enough to eat. The dips and shadows in his abs that were so smooth you had the urge to sit on his stomach and grind against it.

But he didn’t give you time, before he grabbed your thighs pulling you to the edge of the desk, slotting himself between your legs and pulling his cock from his boxers, letting them fall to the floor and kicking them off his legs.

Teasingly, he slipped your shirt off your body, hands squeezing your waist, swallowing your lips in slow, deep kisses. 

He slid his cock through your soaked cunt, slicking the length of it up with your wetness. “Oh baby can’t wait to have you go dumb on my dick. Want me inside?’

Your arms circled around his back, nails dragging angry red stripes along his shoulder blades. 

“Yes Seonghwa, I’m all yours fuck me stupid, please you’re all I can think about…” Of course this only stirred his ego up more, his cock jumping in response to the pure need in your tone.

“Alright, baby, you’ll get what you want. Relax, loosen up for me and just feel…” 

He pulled his hips back, pressing his tip against your entrance. “Nice and slow, baby…” He pressed inside, and inch by inch, sinking into your cunt. He groaned, savoiring the feeling, wanting to drag it out for as long as possible before he lost himself and fucked you like he’d never fuck again.

Full was an understatement. You could feel every vein, the heat was burning inside of you, igniting a fire in your stomach that made your hips move on their own, rolling forward to take him deeper. He moans, unfiltered and dripping with want.

“That's it, love, that's it right there. Feeling full?” You moan into his mouth, he sucking your bottom lips into his mouth and savoring your warmth. When he bottomed out, he didn’t move, just feeling you clench and pulse around him.

“Such a creature of wonder you are, gorgeous.” He whispered, words waxing poetic, your head swimming at his praise. “I love the way you shake, the way you cry…” He pulled his hips back slowly, the slick sound vile…

And with a deep thrust, he knocked the wind from your lungs. Your back arched, and your nails bit into his skin harder. “Like it when I take you slow honey? Like it sensual, deep, all-consuming, huh?” 

You moaned in response as he found a rhythm, rolling his hips into you, dragging perfectly against your G-spot in a way that could have you passing out at any moment.

“Oh.. fuck Hwa….” your brows furrowed feeling so full each time he slipped out of you and thrusted right back in like he couldn’t stand being anywhere except inside of you.

“You…fuck..” He groaned, feeling himself losing it. “You minx. Look what you do to me.” A thrust so hard it shook the desk, you yelped, throwing your head back. Seonghwa took this opportunity to attach his lips to your exposed throat, no doubt littering you with dark, possessive marks,

“Mine, mine mine all fucking mine. R-right? You all mine, baby?”  Seonghwa's hips rolled into you deeper, like a second too long away from you would kill him.

“Yes Seonghwa yours, fuck, yours..”  His hands enveloped your waist, so big and so rough, feeling your stretch marks, his tongue tracing your collar bone, his thick cock sliding in and out so smoothly. 

“Wet little slut, all for me. Can’t get enough. Lean back, cmon.” You leaned back on the desk, elbows propped so you could keep your eyes on him. His hands holding your waist, his thumbs pressing into your abdomen as he rolled his hips in that delicious way again that made your thighs tremble.

“Gonna fuck you like I hate you mkay?” He whined, rubbing your stomach softly. “Take it.” And with a tough snap of his hips, he kept true to his words,

Seonghwa bullied his cock into your guts like he wanted to hurt you. Rough, sloppy, deep. And you took it.

“Look at you, take what I give you like it's all you deserve. Fucking beautiful.” He let his head fall back as he fucked you, your moans sweet music to his ears. Your broken sounds alternate between gasps for breath and whines of his name.

Relentless, feral, mean. He fucked you like your moans were a drug, hs greatest addiction.

“Fuck Seonghwa, gonna cum.” He laughed, your pathetic whines spurring him on to push you off that cliff, ruin you for any other man. He wants you crawling back to him. Begging him to mold you, to put you on your knees and show you just what it means to belong to someone. Belong to him.

“Dumb baby, gonna cum for me again?” Seonghwa pouted faxuly. You nod, mouth open, only staggering breaths and quiet whines coming out. Your eyelids fluttered and your stomach clenched as you approached that inevitable edge. He pulled you back up by your throat, crashing his lips into yours, nipping at your tongue, and moaning into your mouth. When he pulled from your lips, he pressed them against your ear, blowing air on the shell and nipping at the lobe.

“Then fucking cum (Name.).” Seonghwa moaned, the words traveling straight to your cunt. “Cum on my cock and scream like I’m God.” 

Your legs twitched, your eyes tunneled, and you came hard. Seonghwa did not let up, in fact he fucked you harder, dragging you through your orgasm like it didn’t just nearly knock you out.

“Fuck!” you squealed, legs going limp as he held you against his body, still fucking you without abandon.

“Good job baby, good fucking girl.” He praised you, soft like his cock wasn’t turning you inside out. “Gonna cum inside of this pretty cunt. Take it, take it like you’ve been taking me so good all night.”

His hips stuttered and with a final, deep thrust, he groaned, kissing you like you might disappear, as he slowly fucking his cum deep inside of you, being sure not a single drop went to waste.

You both stayed like that for a long while, savoring each other's pleasure and letting your breaths mingle in tandem, existing in each other’s presence. His hands gently caressed your waist, soothing your body and just feeling your skin.

“Still with me?” He mumbled, pressing gentle kisses along your shoulder and massaging your body like you might break in his hold.

“Yeah..” You croaked, voice strained and body exhausted. He smiled against your neck and breathed you in. 

“Could you go for one more?” Seonghwa teased.

“Are you insane? I think you broke me.” He laughed, kissing your lips slowly, smiling against you, and caressing your neck gently, rubbing the tension out of it. 

Reluctantly, he slipped out of you, groaning and the loss of your warmth. “Cmon, let's get you dressed and I’ll take you home.” His voice soft and alluring, he helped you stand and cleaned you up, kissing up your legs as he wiped you clean and, like the gentleman he was, slipping your clothes back on and pampering you like you deserved.

“You’re dangerous,” Seonghwa whispered as he walked you down the sidewalk back to your townhome, hand interlaced with yours while the other held an umbrella over both of you.

The streets were quiet, well into the night, as he walked you home, his thumb rubbing your hand soothingly.

“You too.” You teased me. “But trust, I'll be in class next Sunday.” His smile widened at your words, stopping in front of your home and turning to face you.

“I do hope I’ll see you sooner, though. Dinner sometime, maybe?” Your cheeks flushed, and suddenly you were shyer than you had been all night.

“How could I say no to such a face?” You embraced, sharing one last kiss, before he walked you to your door.

“Catch you later, teach.” You stood in your doorway, heart fluttering as he looked at you with pure adoration.

“See you soon, (Name),” Seonghwa replied, eyes soft, placing a gentle kiss on the back of your hand, before turning and descending the steps back out into the rain. And your door shut, signifying the beginning to that passion you’ve been craving oh so badly.

[sparkles-rule-4eva]

I read the novelization of Sonic movie 3 the other day, and while I was sad it didn't go all the way through the whole film, y'all I LOST MY MINDDDD

Here's some stuff it had:

Shadow feeling achy and sore after he was woken up and trying to understand why, wondering how long he was asleep

Maria being said to be "barely taller than Shadow"

Maria made drawings for Shadow and put them on the walls of the lab

A missing flashback scene where Shadow had a betrayal of trust moment from Walters BEFORE the incident, when he overheard a conversation between some adults at the lab. Initially they were complaining about Maria being there, saying her drawings were cluttering up the place and that she didn't belong because she was a child. Walters said that she kept Shadow entertained or neutralized or something, something that made Shadow sound like some kind of feral beast and completely undermined and disrespected their friendship. Then Walters noticed Shadow eavesdropping and tried to address him but Shadow ran off, hurt

Dozens of both narrative and dialogue moments of the Wachowskis referring to each other as "their kids," "parents," "brothers," etc., including a narrative moment of Knuckles thinking of the Wachowskis as "his family"

In a dialogue to Maddie, Tom outright referred to Sonic as "our adopted alien son"

Tails having anxiety about the chaos and mess he and the others tended to bring to the Wachowski home, his worrying that he would be too much, that it would make Tom and Maddie want them to leave

Maddie telling the boys that she and Tom loved them no matter what

Tom having a proud dad moment while listening to the boys resolve an argument on their own, thinking happily that they are becoming "kind brothers"

Sonic initially refusing to go with G.U.N. without Tom and Maddie, until the parents assure them that they trust him and the others to be safe

During the argument over the Master Emerald, Sonic was furious but also in actual tears

He was going after Shadow with the literal mindset of "avenging his father" (that's exactly what it says)

[metallicames]

imagine like 2010s papa het coming home after a rough few years of touring to you, angry and frustrated cus lars wont get off his back- then you let him take his anger out on you (FREAKY DEAKY ROUGH STUFF 😛) ok ty babes im done being freeky xxx

A/n: in this specific era I think James was such a good and caring dad and on the other side a freaky beast in bed 🤪

Home

Warnings: dirty talking, rough sex, crampie, unprotected sex, oral sex (f/receiver), squirting.

Finally, James is home.

God, I still can’t believe it. After years of being away on tour, dropped calls, stolen moments in hotel rooms, he’s back. And not just for one night. He’s back for good.

I watch him as he eats, the warm light from the chandelier casting shadows across his face, tired, but still breathtakingly handsome.

Our kids are laughing, telling him everything he missed: little adventures, drawings, school plays, daily dramas, and he listens, as always, with eyes that sparkle, answering with that perfect smile that made me fall in love all those years ago. But I know him too well.

That smile is forced. His shoulders, even though he tries to relax them, are tense. He has that wrinkle between his brows that only appears when something is really bothering him.

“Are you okay?” I ask quietly, while we clear the table.

He looks at me for a moment. The kind of look that sends shivers down my spine, like he’s reading my soul and finding his reflection there.

“Yeah, it’s just… I couldn’t wait to come home, you know? Between the exhaustion and the usual drama with Lars… I’m at my limit” he murmurs, gripping the glass in his hand tightly.

A little later, he offers to put the kids to bed. He’s missed them terribly, and I know how much he loves to lull them to sleep with his voice until their last yawn. But before heading to their rooms, he gives me a look that knocks the wind out of me. One of those looks that makes me dizzy.

I felt it all through dinner: his eyes fixed on my lips, his fingers brushing against my wrist a little too slowly, that tension hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.

After the usual bedtime ritual with the kids, he returns to me, his presence heavier than before.

The door closes behind him with a quiet click. And just like that, he’s changed. Gone is the loving, patient father reading under soft lamplight. What stands before me now is raw, undeniably male, every inch of him taut with restrained energy and anger.

He doesn’t speak. The silence between us hums. His eyes lock onto mine, dark with want, a hunger that’s been simmering beneath the surface for far too long. His chest rises with slow, deep breaths, as if holding back a storm.

I take a step toward him, but I don’t get far. He’s already there, closing the space in one swift motion. His hands find me, rough and certain, and then his mouth crashes into mine. The kiss isn’t gentle. It’s claiming. It’s desperate. It tastes like everything we’ve been holding back.

“You’re tense, James…” I murmur after a moment, my voice low and warm as my hand rests gently on his chest. “You need to let it out.”

His eyes darken, as if I’ve just unlatched the door to something wild that’s been caged for far too long. He says nothing, just grabs my arm and spins me around with a force that weakens my knees.

“Let it out, huh?” he growls against my ear, his breath hot and unsteady. “Maybe on you?”

My back meets the hard press of his arousal, and a shiver runs down my spine.

“Sure.. I’m at your disposal…..Daddy” I slowly pronounce the words, especially the last one. In an instant I’m bent over on the bed, ass in the air and face against the mattress, the robe I was wearing hiked up on my hips, my bare skin burning under his gaze. I feel his breathing getting heavier as he leans over me. His hands squeeze my hips with a power that makes me moan softly. Then, without any warning, his lips reach my pussy. There’s nothing gentle about his kiss, it’s ravenous, purposeful. Like he’s starving, like he needs to claim every inch of me with his tongue. My head sinks into the pillow as the moans escape me, helpless, raw.

“I’ve missed you like crazy…” he growls against my skin, his voice rough, almost breaking.

“You need to feel it. Just how fucking much I missed you.”

And god, I do. Every inch of me does.

His tongue is practically fucking me, it pushes so hard against my heat that I have to hold on to the mattress to keep the position stable. Instinct takes over, his hands clamp around my thighs, holding me in place, keeping me pinned to his mouth with no intention of giving me a break.

I feel his moans of pleasure against my wet folds as my eyes roll back in my head and my mouth opens slightly for air. “J-James.. James.. I’m coming.. god don’t stop” I barely manage to speak as James slides two thick fingers deep inside me, his other hand gripping my hip to hold me steady. His fingers start slow, deliberate, each movement teasing, exploring, then quicken, plunging harder and faster until he hits the spot that shatters me. Heat spreads through my body, building until I lose control. In no time I come with a moan muffled by the pillow. James brings his open palm down on my ass with a sharp, punishing slap that echoes through the room. The sting sears into my skin, and my legs buckle beneath me, giving out completely. I collapse onto the mattress, gasping for breath, thighs trembling and soaked, utterly undone.

The sight of my body trembling with pleasure drives James wild. I feel it in the raw urgency of his movements, the frantic way he strips, like he’s seconds from losing control. I feel him above me biting the delicate skin of my back then my shoulders, before sinking inside me with his big cock. His round and swollen tip penetrates deep into my still hyper sensitive pussy, pressing directly on the weak point.

The sensation takes my breath away, I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he presses his large, rough hands into the dimples of my lower back, pressing me against the mattress and moving my body as he pleases, intent on watching the point where our bodies join. I let him take total control, I feel him press me hard against his pubic bone, his thick length sliding deep inside me with every powerful thrust. My moans blend with his while wet, urgent sounds filling the air as our bodies slam together faster and harder, the slick heat between us growing hotter with every brutal collision. Every thrust, every movement shows me just how much James needed this—needed me— to finally let go, pouring into each motion everything he’d been holding back for months. He keeps me pinned against the mattress as he goes down with his chest against my back, his low and rough moans in my ear make me vibrate. “How much did you want my cock?? Tell me mh? How much did you miss being slammed like that?”

I can barely keep my eyes open because he’s fucking me so good it’s almost too much. But through the haze, I choke out loud moan leaves my mouth and in that moment I thank the soundproof walls. “Harder?? Little needy thing.. I’ll ruin this beautiful pussy of yours.. I’ll destroy you”. His hips shift finding the right angle so he can reach the perfect spot to make me come again. The thrusts become stronger and drier his arms wrap around me holding me still.

“God..I’m bout to come again… f-uckkkfuck” my pussy tightens around his thick girth soaking it completely as I reach another powerful orgasm. After just a few hard thrusts, James buries himself deep and comes inside me, spilling thick ropes of seed, filling me up completely. “Ohhhh fuckkkk.. that was a lot…” he says still dazed, panting in my ear.

He flips me over onto my back without giving me time to recover. “I need more…” he says breathlessly, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his forearm.

“I love watching your horny little pussy swallow my fat cock.. it drives me nuts”. As he says it, he grinds his freshly hardened shaft against my soaking folds, slick with both our juices. He moves slow, teasing me, his eyes locked onto mine while he stays kneeling between my legs. I bite my lips looking at his naked and tattooed body and his tense muscles while he pushes my legs against my chest holding them tight by the back of my thighs “I’ll keep you spread-eagled until tomorrow morning.. until you tell me to stop.." he growls while he sinks into me "..I’ll ruin ya".

He drives balls deep hitting me hard as his cock pounds against my cervix, stretching my soft walls with fierce intensity. I moan, breathless, losing myself in the relentless rhythm, going crazy feeling his balls slamming against my ass, and seeing his face lost in the pleasure of the moment. His powerful body drives me harder against the headboard, leaving me barely able to hold myself steady. I stretch my arms above my head, desperate to keep from banging them, every muscle straining under his force.

“Cum for me baby.. soak my cock” his words turn me on like crazy, and when with one hand he starts to stimulate my clit I know it’s the end. My vision blurs in the blink of an eye and I start to shake convulsively, “oh my- god James.. that- that’s too much.. fffuck”

I tremble and feel a hot jet of squirt expand on my lower abdomen, but James doesn’t stop, he continues to pound me and at the same time torturing my swollen clit biting his lower lip until he almost draws blood. “I’m cumming, babe… I’m cumming so hard… again” he groans in a low, desperate voice before spilling inside me once more with a guttural moan. I melt around him, utterly his and completely full.

He delivers a sharp slap to my clit, his eyes locking onto mine with a wicked smirk and a look of pure satisfaction. Then he pulls away from my flushed, trembling body and sinks down into the armchair beside the bed, legs spread wide, his chest glistening with sweat.

“Come here and suck it sweety” he commands, his voice low and husky.

I look at him with a look that is a mixture of amazement and defiance.

I lock eyes with him, a fierce mix of awe and defiance burning in my gaze.

“Fuck… you’re insane” I murmur, a slow smile spreading across my lips as I push myself up from the bed, my body still trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure. I kneel in front of him who gives me a little slap on my hot and red face, then his hand tangles into my hair, pulling it back into a messy ponytail just as my mouth closes over his swollen, slick tip. And just like that, it all begins, again.

[meowrimo]

✩ THE BEGINNING OF AGAIN. ex!dick grayson x reader. suggestive. slight angst. dick calls reader ‘bambi’. — WC : 1.2k

Wayne's galas were the epitome of elegance, holding an element of class that only billionaires could buy.

But beneath the glittering, crystalline chandeliers and spread across the overly polished floor, the fractured light highlighted the simple truth. If you weren’t interested in money grubbing or climbing the social ladder, they were undeniably boring.

Music lofted through the stiff air, the orchestra playing a gentle symphony that wove between the voices of people who were only interested in listening to themselves speak.

Nothing seemed to capture your attention, though your practiced fake smile stayed perfectly plastered on your face as shallow business investors swarmed to your side in hopes of accepting their proposals — money, lust, or just a chance to say they spoke to someone in Bruce Wayne’s inner circle.

Even the champagne seemed to fizz out under the lack of bubbliness this evening was providing, every conversation dryer than the last.

But then you saw him.

Dick Grayson.

His eyes met yours, devastatingly handsome as ever.

Stormy blue irises pull you under the depth of his current, drawing you closer toward him. There was an ache pounding in your chest where your heart should’ve been, a hollow hum echoing the question on why you ever let someone like him go.

Every hopeful step forward made it harder to look back, drawn in by the memory of everything you lost. You never stood a chance under that gaze – desire washing over you in waves before you could catch your breath.

Maybe it was foolish, but it felt inevitable as the invisible thread of fate tugged you two together. Something in your eyes must’ve given your thoughts away because how else could you explain why the two of you were giggling without a care in the world, sneaking away from the stuffy gala and into a secluded hallway?

Dick didn’t let you have another second to think, his lips meeting yours as they melt into old habits and desperately try to rewrite the ending of your story.

The world around you slowed, becoming a distant dream and trapping you in this new reality where lingering resentment and a collision of passion were the only things keeping the spark going.

With a gasp for breath, you pull apart. Your eyes trailing over the slight swell of bottom lip, the evidence of your love affair now taunting before you in plain sight.

The heavy weight of silence presses down on your shoulders as you wait for the words the other longs to hear, the intimate haze coils around you further, brawling with the logic that’s attempting to dominate your mind.

“We shouldn't.” You whisper breathlessly, the ghost of his lips haunting yours.

“You’re right, we shouldn’t.” Dick pulls back, just enough to make your heart twist but keep your body warm.

There's a brief pause, filled with so many words left unsaid, the ones of the past coming back to mind.

“But I was never really good at listening.” The kiss was anything but soft as your lips crash back together – fierce and hungry as all the built up feelings spill like secrets against each other's tongues, searing with a sense of longing that only pulls you closer.

Dick easily overpowered your mouth, slipping his hands behind your back and tugging you closer. Large palms roam all over your body, smoothing along every familiar curve and contour.

“We really, really shouldn’t.” His thigh slipping between your legs, relishing in the breathy gasp you let out.

“But I miss you.” Your soft lips glide against his jaw like velvet, smooth and full of a promised tenderness that steers him further into your trap.

“I miss you so much, Bambi.” He pushes you against the wall more, ignoring reason and giving into the craving that’s clawing down his back.

“Then maybe we can talk it out.”

“Now? While we’re-?” Dick’s eyes flutter shut, mind hazy as he tries to focus on your words. A losing battle when your lips are saying something entirely different as they gloss along the most sensitive parts of his neck — no doubt something you were doing on purpose like the little minx you were.

“Yes, don’t you think we should?” Your voice is honey sweet, dripping in a sin that he would gladly surrender himself to if it meant you didn’t stop. The tease of your lips were too much, the rational part of his brain begging for him to end this, protect his heart no matter how much it aches for you.

“We…we have to stop.” Dick gasps, roughly tearing himself apart from you. The back of his head hits against the wall, trying to control his ragged breath. “We need to talk. Properly.”

“Sorry.” You mumble, a cute little pout resting on your kiss-bitten lips, looking irresistibly more inviting than they did a few moments ago.

“Hey, don’t apologize.” He shifts to look down at you, desire still swimming in his eyes along with a sweetness that you had missed the taste of. “I should be the one doing that, shouldn’t I?”

“I’m the one that dragged you out here—“

“No, not for this.” He sighs, running his fingers through his already messy hair, giving it a gentle tug as he tries to ground himself. “For what happened.” A pause. “Between us.”

“Oh.” Was all you could say. How is it that only a moment ago your tongue was practically down his throat but now this is the instance in which you feel exposed? The hungry wolves of reality were now unleashed, backing you into the corner you all but put yourself in. The words twist in your mouth until you plainly spit them back out. “You weren’t the only one at fault.”

“But still.” His head tilts down towards you, a ghost of his signature lopsided grin twitching in the corner of his mouth as he tries to keep the air light for such a heavy topic. “Someone’s gotta start this conversation.”

“Yeah.” You swallow down, hard. “I guess we’ve been putting it off long enough, haven’t we?”

It had been over a year of no contact, followed up by months of fleeting meetings through missions and other peers, all boiling down to this point. The relationship didn’t end because of some big blowout fight or harsh accusations about each other's whereabouts, no.

The truth is, the two of you had spent most of your life by each other's side and when it came down to splitting from the team, you went in different directions. One that left him in the arms of another woman while you chased loose threads involving the whereabouts of his brother.

If only you could tell him more.

“We have.” He agrees, taking on a softer tone. After the burning desire began to fade, the exhaustion in his eyes dully shone through.

“There's so much to say, I don't even know where to start.” Idle hands find the fabric of your dress, nervously twirling the chiffon in your grasp.

“Maybe the beginning?” He offers a small smile — a genuine one that feels like a peace offering before plucking the flower that sat in his front pocket, tucking it behind your ear.

“Yeah.” Your lip twitches upward, accepting the olive branch. The pads of your fingers run over the petals, brushing against his. “The beginning.”

thank you for reading !!

tagging @viboraneno bc it was the WIP i shared teehee ᰔ ily !!

[finz-art]

I'm really sorry for not being as active lately. Things have been a bit hard. For a few months now drawing has felt nearly impossible, like something is quietly draining all the joy and creativity out of it. Even small tasks feel overwhelming. Responding to messages, holding conversations, focusing, getting up, everything is exhausting...

I miss how things used to be. I miss feeling excited to create and to connect, like in previous years. I just want that version of myself back *sigh*

[ultrabean]

Hi.

I just want to preface this by welcoming all my new followers, and to also apologise for your subsequent disappointment upon reading this. I also want to thank all of my past followers for all the love and support, happy 2k. It'll probably stay there after this, I bet.

Now, I know many of you have seen my vent posts, especially those where I thought of comitting suicide. I thank you for the concern, I apologise for upsetting a lot of you and I think I owe you some kind of explanation for why I felt that way and also the lack of updates. When I'm stressed or anxious I tend to crash out impulsively. One of those ways is just blurting out my frustrations somewhere until I calm down.

One of the main reasons I've been holding off of Redeemer's Path is because I lowkey want to wait until Deltarune is fully completed, because with the new lore in chapters 3 and 4 it's given me some ideas on how I can continue my AU but the unfortunate part of that is that now there's a lot of plot holes in my comic that I have to retcon. That and also my impostor syndrome has been leadng me to think I'm a bad writer and an artist. If it's not perfect then it's nothing.

So in the meantime that's why I've been trying to work on another part of my AU. Still the same story, just a different point in time.

I know a lot of you have said that I don't have to please you guys by constantly posting updates of redeemer's path and that I should focus on my life, prioritise my mental health and whatnot. Now, I completely understand that what you mean.

However.

It's not just you that I want to make this for. I'm also doing this for me.

I have a lot of high expectations for myself.

If my quality and output doesn't live up to my standards then I am worthless.

A while back I recieved an anonymous ask that got me thinking.

The anon said that I didn't need to earn my place in fandom through art and writing, and while I understood what they said, that statement also deeply terrfied me. To an almost absurd and irrational extent.

You see, when I first discovered Undertale in mid to late 2022 I was 16 at the time. I was going through an extreme mental rough patch at that time and it brought me so much joy and levity, not just the game itself but also watching comic dubs, and all the art that came from the fandom.

I loved it so much that, then and there I staked my entire mental wellbeing, my happiness and sense of self on enjoying it to it's fullest extent, and that to me, meant engaging in everything and anything I could possibly do in the fandom. Making fanart, shipping, making AUs, whatever. To 16-year old me, I had basically convinced myself that I had found "my calling". I MUST enjoy doing anything UTDR related, I HAVE to create something and express myself rather than just... sit on my ass and do nothing about it.

It's because of those feelings I got that I genuinely wanted to create something for myself. A story I (and my teenage self) would have wanted to see. Not only to bring myself a sense of fulfilment by proving I was here but also giving others the same feeling I got when first getting into this game and its fandom.

I, stupidly, selfishly want to effectively cram a decade's worth of human experience into my output because I feel like I missed out on so many things.

It's stupid.

It's not possible, and it's never going to be.

But you have no idea how fucking badly I want it.

It's because of this that I forced myself to think that doing this can and should make me happy, and without it I basically have no purpose.

I love to draw.

I HAVE to draw.

I am no one if I don't draw, because outside of strict obligations just to live I don't think there is anything I actually, from the bottom of my heart, truly want do do more than just create. If I stop drawing the person who typed this out is effectively dead. A literal ghost. Nothing. I am nothing without creating.

When I was a kid I was like, ass-deep in fnaf. And I also wanted to make comics for it, it's just that at that time I had no social media, nor did I have any proper methods of digital art.

I made them by drawing in random notebooks with a pencil. They were probably really shit, but I remember I loved doing it. Then, the moment I hit a roadblock where there was a panel I couldn't draw due to my skill level, I'd just... give up entirely. And then forget about it. Which probably speaks to the quality of the ideas I had, which is to say I had no ideas. I would literally just write it at the seat of my pants with vague ideas of important scenes I wanted to include. Basically like how Scott himself wrote fnaf lol.

The main issue is that now, I have a great idea. A genuinely amazing one that I love so, so goddamn much. And that thakfully, a lot of you seem to as well.

It hurts, because it feels like I'm scared I might not be able to execute it. I'm terrified, because I fear that as I am approaching adulthood I may never be able to find my 16-year old self's fulfilment.

I'm worried that I won't be able to achieve hapiness before my soul is utterly eviscerated with college, work and adulthood (that part's happening already, I wish I never woke up again after 2019). Before I get too old and creepy and it's considered problematic to write romance between teenagers.

It's also the reason I get so frustrated whenever I hit a wall during production. It's because I know it will take time. And I don't think I have time. Not before I start feeling miserable.

And I know this sounds selfish of me, but seeing so many other unfinished AUs gives me such existential dread. Those which were never completed because their creators either moved on, or got sick of the thing they used to love so much, or just life itself getting in the way. Those AUs which never could have reached their fullest potential simply because the people behind them burned out from doing it.

It reminds me that despite everything, even in the face of my hopes and dreams I am not a machine. I am not a god. Fate will come for me too, and I will never find that lovecraftian sense of fulfiment.

The problem is that I imagined my audience as myself, with my own expectations. I wanted so badly, to never make my younger self feel disappointed that the thing they enjoyed consuming so much was suddenly cut short, or fell short of his expectations.

The main issue is that, after both breaks from my pre-university foundation year I found myself too burned out to properly get into the full swing of working on Redeemer's Path. And I fear that once uni starts it will be the same. And I'll be stuck forever.

I don't want to admit I'm losing interest.

I don't want to admit I feel miserable while making this. I'm not supposed to feel this way, I'm supposed to be happy.

Because if I do admit it it's acknowledging that I've lost.

That I've failed you.

That I've failed myself.

That I am a disappointment.

That in the past one and a half months, during this gracious second chance I'd been given to actually lock the fuck in, I have been sitting on my ass and doing nothing.

What if I never come back?

What if I just up and leave without ever perfecting everything I'm supposed to do?

I look at different AUs all around me, all made just by regular people but loved by millions. I don't know how some of them even manage to break 200 pages. I don't even know how some people even manage to finish doing this shit.

I know so may of you think I'm being ridiculous.

I know so many of you have told me to be kinder to myself, to think positively and keep going.

I know so many of you have told me "there is no set pace, only the pace you go at."

I know this is a byproduct of a childhood growing up under a capitalistic grindset, forcing me to think that I NEED to make more, and make it faster.

But I'm really struggling to do that when the perpetrator of these thoughts lives inside your own skull. Thinking positively usually works for a short while until my brain stops believing me and I need external proof that what I'm thinking has merit to it.

So... blabbering aside, what does this all mean for Redeemer's Path?

Well, this is a word I hate using of because the way I've seen it being used it usually means bye bye forever.

I'm going on a hiatus.

I don't know how long.

Or if I'm even coming back.

I may work on things behind the scenes a little, but I don't know.

Again I would like to apologise, not just to all of you for this disappointng news, but also to my younger self.

I failed you.

For all your daydreams and enthusiasm I failed to give you a fulfiling release.

To all the uh, comic dubbers who have reached out to me (especially you, Paramasquerade, it's been damn near an eterinity since our last chat) I'm sorry that you caught wind of my AU at a really bad time. Pun somewhat intended.

I think, as stupid and as wish-fulfilling as this sounds I genuinely wish I got into undertale when I was a kid, with all the skills, tools and knowledge I have now so that I'd just have more time.

I feel ashamed to keep the masterpost up like some sort of fucking clown, but if you want it, here.

So, this is goodbye for now. I really don't know what more I can say.

[lalachat]

"Shadows and Scandal"

Author's note: Hey y'all!!! My heart is so happy seeing all the likes, reposts, and comments on chapter 1 🥺 I was planning on releasing chapters weekly, but with all the love, I figured why not post chapter 2!💞 My life is about to get very busy as it's finals week for my summer course on top of starting up work again! Do not fret! I have been up till 3am almost every night, cranking out chapters while I can, so y'all can have a frequent release schedule!!! This was supposed to come out on Saturday, but I'm too excited for y'all to read this story. Eventually, once this story is done, I'll be doing a REWRITE for "And There You Were." I think I've yapped long enough for this note... ENJOY CHAPTER 2!!! Depending on how this goes, I may release 3 early as well before doing a weekly release after.

Summary: It's your first morning as Azriel’s wife. It begins in unfamiliar silence, but curiosity, some practicing, and a plan to fool the Inner Circle start to unfold. Will you keep the act up, or will the lines start to blur?

Word Count: 2,581

Chapter 2: "We Don't Pull Away"

The bed was cold when you woke. You must have fallen asleep at some point from the exhaustion of yesterday.

The morning light seeped through the windows of your bedroom, as the house remained silent. No footsteps, no wingbeats, or any kind of movement. He was gone for training.

You got out of bed slowly, took your potion, wrapped your shawl around your shoulders, and stepped into the hallway, the wooden floor creaking underneath you. You decided that you would see what the kitchen had in store, but something stopped you. You had almost missed it when walking past it... Azriel's door was cracked open.

You hadn’t intended to snoop. But his room carried that faint scent of smoke and cedarwood, and it tugged at you.

"Just one look," you told yourself, "Not to judge. Just to understand him better."

You pushed the door open gently. The room was clean, like the rest of the house, but it wasn't lifeless. It was Azriel, through and through. Everything had a purpose. A simple bed with dark linens, made tightly and without wrinkles. A dagger sat on a nightstand, balanced atop an old book of Illyrian tactics. The windows were slightly cracked, letting the breeze carry in the scent of river water and pine. And then, you saw it. Sitting half-hidden beneath a leather-bound journal on his dresser was a folded piece of parchment.

You picked it up with hesitant fingers, unfolding it carefully. It was a drawing done in pencil. The archway from your wedding. The flowers. A faint outline of two figures standing beneath it, holding hands. You could tell it wasn’t drawn by him, as you knew your High Lady to be quite the artist from the stories people told about her.

The parchment was creased as if it had been handled often. The wedding had only happened just yesterday... how much had he been looking at this? Your chest warmed at the thought before tightening. The sound of footsteps getting closer.

"Shit, He’s back."

You quickly folded the sketch, slid it exactly where you’d found it, and quietly slipped out of the room.

You barely made it into the kitchen before you heard the sound of boots being knocked clean outside the door. You didn’t look back. Instead, you busied yourself with making a small brunch. You put the kettle on the stove, sliced some fruit, and grabbed some bread from the breadbox.

You moved quickly, hoping that you did enough to make it seem like you've been here awhile.

Behind you, the air shifted. His shadows were lurking about, surveying what was going on. They curled into the room like mist before reporting back to their master. You reached for the pan and gently put a slice of bread on it. You could feel his eyes on you now.

"Gods, did his shadows catch me earlier? Did he know I was snooping?"

You turned, only to find him in the doorway, freshly back from training. His shirt was damp, muscles more pronounced, the morning light catching every sweat drop, making him look like he was glistening. You froze for a second too long as the smell of something burning broke you from your trance.

“Shit—” you muttered, spinning around and flipping it just in time, but not before the edges blackened.

Azriel’s voice was low behind you. “Good morning.”

You exhaled, cheeks flushing. “Morning.”

You felt him step into the kitchen, not close, but closer than before. You risked another glance at him, and Cauldron save you, he looked unfairly good. Smirking just slightly as he sat at the table without another word. You placed a teacup in front of him before going back to grab the kettle.

"Tea?" you asked gently.

"Sure," he replied as you poured him a cup before returning to the toast.

"You sleep okay?" Azriel asked as if he were trying to create some sort of small talk with you.

"Yes, quite well," which was a lie, but he didn't need to know that, "You?"

Azriel hummed. “Didn’t sleep much.”

You glanced at him over your shoulder. “Is that normal?”

Another sip of tea. “Yes.”

You nodded, unsure what to say next.

The last piece of toast was done. You plated it with some fruit, brought it over, and set it in front of him before taking your seat across the table.

He picked up a slice without complaint. You waited for a comment about the darkened edges, but none came. Instead, he took a bite.

“Not bad,” he said mildly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

You raised a brow. “It's bad, isn't it?”

“It’s better than anything I would’ve made.”

“You’re being polite, you don't have to eat it if you don't like it..."

He looked at you, really looked, and for a moment, the shadows seemed to pause too. “No,” he said, quieter now. “I’m being honest.”

Your heart fluttered as you took a slow sip of your tea. "So, what's with the dagger by the breadbox?"

He only shrugged. "Habit. In case someone breaks in while I'm making tea."

You narrowed your eyes slightly, "Is that normal?"

He smirked behind his cup, "You'd be surprised."

You laughed quietly before clearing your throat, as if it weren't allowed. I mean, you had only met him yesterday.

“So… about tomorrow.”

Azriel's gaze met yours, expression carefully neutral.

“We’re meeting the Inner Circle, right?” you asked.

“Yes.”

You swallowed. “Do they know? About us?”

He shook his head. “Not yet. Rhys thought it might be… easier if we told them together.”

You arched a brow. “Easier for who?”

Azriel didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to his tea. “They’re close. Protective. And not great with surprises.”

“So we lie?”

“No,” he said firmly. “We just… omit. Until it makes sense to explain.”

You nodded slowly, unsure how that sat with you.

“I don’t like pretending,” you said after a pause.

His eyes met yours again, this time more open. “Neither do I. But they’ll ask questions. And unless we have the same story…”

“…we’ll drown in their questions,” you finished. Azriel gave a soft nod.

You leaned back in your chair. “Alright. So what is our story?”

He tilted his head. “We’re allies, trusted by Rhys. Pressured into a political arrangement, but willing to make it work.”

Your lips quirked. “So… no love story?”

Azriel’s jaw tightened, just barely, but you saw it. “Not yet.”

Not yet... You blinked, heat crawling up your neck at the words. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he did, but pretended not to. You reached for another piece of toast, more for something to do than to eat.

“So we just… act like we’re figuring out the terms,” you said, "separate rooms, polite smiles, no real closeness?"

Azriel cut in. “They’ll pick up on that too easily. It’ll look like we’re hiding something.”

Your brow rose. “So what do you want to do, you want to fake affection?”

His voice was calm. “I want it to seem natural.”

You blinked, "natural?"

Azriel leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. “If we’re trying not to look like we care, it’ll draw more attention. They’ll poke. Ask questions we’re not ready to answer.”

You swallowed. Now you are seeing why he's the spy master. He thinks everything through so thoroughly. “So we pretend we’re closer than we really are?”

He nodded once, slowly. “Close enough to keep them from looking too hard. Close enough to protect the truth.”

You stared at him, heart beating a little too fast at the sight of him looking at you with an understanding of why you had agreed to this. But you had no understanding as to why he agreed. I mean, surely it's deeper than needing to fend off someone's advances.

"Azriel," you said softly, "tell me why you agreed to this?"

He didn’t look away, but something behind his eyes shifted, like he was trying to keep unwanted emotions at bay. He set his teacup down with careful precision, the clink against the ceramic loud in the quiet room.

“For the same reason I agree to most things,” he said at last. “Rhys asked me to.”

You blinked. “That can't be your answer,” you said.

“It’s the truth.”

“No,” you said, sitting up straighter, “it may be part of the truth, but it’s not your reason. Rhysand offered you this match, but he didn’t force you.”

Azriel was silent for a moment. The shadows around his shoulders curled tighter, as if they were wanting to break free but were being restrained by him. The air grew thick with tension as the conversation changed. After a moment longer, he finally spoke.

“I know what it’s like to be cast aside. To be seen as a burden. An inconvenience. A mistake.”

You said nothing. You didn’t dare interrupt, but you felt the emotion behind his words.

“So when I heard…” His voice faltered just slightly, a roughness creeping in, “When I heard what your father was planning to do... I figured maybe… maybe I could be the one who didn’t turn his back.”

Your throat burned. Tears starting to form in your eyes.

“I don’t care about the rumors that will come of this,” he added, “I just wanted to give you safety and a choice.”

You swallowed hard, trying to quickly blink away the tears. The intensity of his words cut through you like the damn dagger by the breadbox.

"Thank you for telling me that," you said as you awkwardly shifted in your seat, picking at the slightly burnt toast in front of you. He nodded in response. "So, we just need to pretend like we're close?"

"Precisely, just enough that no one will think to pry."

You gave him a puzzled look. "Which means what exactly?"

He took one last sip of his tea before he spoke. "Occasional touches, lingering glances, smiling at each other just enough, you know, the simple things."

You tried to hide your surprise at how nonchalant he is about the situation. "Right... the simple things. And if someone asks when it happened?"

"Just say that it was a fast but necessary decision. A quiet union made with the blessing of the High Lord and Lady, strictly for political reasons."

You stared at him, "You're rather good at this."

He shrugged, "It's not my first lie."

You felt uneasy about that comment, but nodded. “Okay, so we married… quietly. For political reasons. We’re still figuring things out, and it’s going well.”

He met your gaze. “It is going well.”

You gave a soft, sad smile. “That’s the first lie we’ll tell them.”

Azriel nodded as he stood and offered you his hand. “Come on, if we’re going to pretend to be close tomorrow… we should probably start practicing.”

Your breath caught. “Practice? Practice how?”

"Yes, practice..." he said, not meeting your eyes. "We need to get used to being… close.”

It began simple enough. He showed you how to stand near him, not too rigid, but just enough that your shoulders or hands might brush.

“People notice tension,” he said, voice low and calm. “The kind that comes from pulling away. We don’t pull away.”

You stood in front of him, arms at your sides, and tried not to look like your heart was beating out of your chest. How he was speaking so calmly was beyond you. He reached for your hand slowly, giving you just enough time to move. When you didn’t, he took it gently in his. Your fingers curled instinctively, holding his just a little tighter.

“Like that?” you asked, trying to breathe normally.

He nodded. “Yes. This looks… real."

Later, you practiced sitting on the couch. Not quite touching at first, but slowly inching closer. You laughed awkwardly when his wing accidentally knocked a book off the table, and he grumbled something about his wings and "spatial awareness", but saw the faint smile on his lips.

Next, he showed you how to loop your arm through his as if it were second nature. You showed him how to tilt his head toward you like he was listening, like what you had to say actually mattered. You also walked through the kitchen once, slowly, with your hand resting lightly at the base of his spine. That one undid him a little, as you felt it in the way he paused mid-step, but he said nothing.

By the time the light in the cottage dimmed, you found yourselves sitting beside each other on the couch again, this time with his hand resting lightly over yours where it lay on your thigh. It was almost dark. You hadn’t noticed.

Azriel finally broke the silence, his voice low. “We should consider… appearances.”

You turned to him. “What do you mean?”

“If they ask, and believe me Cassian might ask, where you sleep… it might be better if the answer doesn’t raise questions.”

You swallowed. “So we lie?”

Azriel’s eyes met yours. Steady. Careful. “We prepare. We don’t need to do anything. But we… share a room. Just for the night. Just in case, so that our answer feels less like a lie."

Your heart was in your throat. “And the bed?”

“We can stay on opposite sides. I won’t touch you.”

You weren’t sure why that made your chest ache, but you nodded. “Okay. Just for tonight.”

You stood together, quietly moving down the hall. He paused at the threshold, letting you enter first. You didn’t look back to see if he followed. You already felt the warmth of him behind you.

You paused just inside the room, glancing toward the bed, then back at him. “Um… I need to change.”

Azriel’s eyes widened slightly, then immediately darted to the floor. “Right. Of course.” He turned his back so fast it was almost comical, shoulders suddenly very straight. “I’ll, uh… I’ll stay right here.”

You bit back a smile. "Azriel, I can just go to my room to change..."

He froze. You swore you could see the gears starting to turn in his head. "Right! Yes. Of course you can," he sounded horrified with himself. “I didn’t mean you had to—Cauldron, I wasn’t asking you to—gods..."

You were already halfway out the door, laughing softly to yourself. "Relax, I wasn't going to strip in front of you."

"I wasn't trying to make you think you have to!" he called after you, still feeling mortified. "I just... this whole fake-marriage bed-sharing situation is already weird!"

You briefly peeked your head back into his room, "You're adorable when you're flustered, you know that?"

He groaned and flopped onto the bed. "Oh please leave me with some dignity."

You just smiled at him and went to your room, slipping into a simple oversized shirt with shorts. When you returned, you found him under the covers with his arms crossed over his head.

"You're doing a terrible job of looking unbothered," you laughed. "Recovered from the meltdown?"

"Barley," as he gave you a look of "don't test me."

You slipped into the bed beside him, careful not to brush his side. “You sure you’re okay sharing a bed with me now that I’ve scandalously not changed in front of you?”

Azriel stared up at the ceiling, deadpan. “I’m barely surviving the disappointment.”

You giggled and turned onto your side, tucking the blankets up around your shoulders. “Night, Azriel.”

A pause.

“…Goodnight, Y/N.”

If you’re interested in being on my taglist, please let me know!

Tags:

@bookishbishhh @starsidesigh

Post author's note: This has only been published for like 10 mins, but I have a question! Do y'all enjoy the songs to help with the overall vibe? Or is it like "eh, I don't really care imo." BE HONEST! I'm a big girl, I can handle truths.

[blainesebastian]

false alarm

word count: 5,103 ship: Nick Leister x reader rating: PG-13 summary: (anon request, pregnancy scare) You’ve been so busy with the holiday season that you didn’t even notice that you missed the start to your period. notes: thanks for reading! i especially appreciate those that like, reblog or leave comments 🥰 notes2: gifs from here, original masterlist here, requests here.

One of your favorite things about moving to London has been the holiday season. While there’s nothing quite like Christmas in New York, the snowy season here has got to be high on your list of things you look forward to every year. Between your friends, family and boyfriend, November and December are filled to the brim with activities—dinners and ice skating and snowball fights, baking and wrapping presents and renting expensive ski lodges (even though you tend to love curling up in front of the fire with hot chocolate and a good book). 

You know that Londoners tend to hate the cold, wet and dreary, but you’ve always been a fan of gloomier weather. Sunny temperatures far too high paired with a cloudless sky and humidity? No thank you. Which is another reason you found yourself right outside the patio kitchen doors at Nick’s place, watching as it begins to snow again. You’re bundled up in sweatpants and one of Nick’s hoodies, burying your face into the fabric to breathe him in and keep your nose warm. 

You love the smell of snow, as well. 

Tilting your head towards the glass door opening, you smile as Nick steps out. He’s got on something similar, sweatpants and a large-knit sweater, but he doesn’t enjoy the cold as much as you do. A full-bodied shiver courses through him and you can’t help but let out a soft laugh at the dramatics. 

Snow lands prettily in his curls, his gaze glancing up at the gray clouds before landing on you. 

“Coffee is ready,” He tells you, taking a step behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. You lean back into him, the solid and warm weight of his body something you know like the back of your hand. 

“I’ll be right in.” 

Nick shakes his head, squeezing you before pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “You’re ridiculous.” He means for liking this weather—even though the tone of his voice is so warm when he says it that the word itself loses all meaning.

You purse your lips, reaching for snow piled up on one of the outside tables. You gather a bunch into your fist. Nick hums, watching you, reading you a mile away. 

“Don’t do it.” He warns. 

And then you turn and plop that small bundle of snow right into his hair, “And you’re dramatic.” 

He shudders, a quick shake to his head fluttering the snow onto his shoulders and yours. A small giggle sneaks out of your lips, covering your mouth with one of your hands. Nick smiles, his eyes glancing over your shoulder for a brief moment. 

“I’m glad you enjoy the snow.” Is all he says before he lifts you into his arms. 

A squeal breaks from your chest and despite that he’s holding onto you, it’s difficult to grapple onto him with how quickly he’s moving. One moment you’re laughing in his arms, the next you’re deposited into a snow bank in the yard. White fluff sputters out around you, cold instantly seeping into the sweatshirt and pants you’ve got on. 

He doesn’t get too far before you’re able to pelt him with a snowball, knowing already how all of this is going to end. Coffee is long forgotten about as exchanges of snow are tossed back and forth until eventually Nick ends up on top of you, distracting your next throw with a kiss. 

You grin against his mouth, “Does this mean you surrender?” 

“To you?” He asks, cold noses brushing in a bunny kiss. “Always.” 

—

When you head back inside, you feel utterly frozen, Nick starting a fire and disappearing upstairs to change and gather some clothes for you to put on. You tug off the wet sweatshirt as you sit in a lounge chair by the fireplace, dropping it aside, the fabric making a firm thwap noise as it hits tiles. Drawing your arms around yourself, you shiver, the flames kissing the cold skin of your arms. 

You look up at Nick when he returns, his cheeks a warm color thanks to dry clothes and the orange reflection of the flames. It brings out the brightness of brown in his eyes and the golden hue to his curls. A small smile tugs the corners of your mouth as you watch him set down another pair of sweatpants, his gaze finding yours. 

He really is beautiful. 

He leans forward and cups your cheek, brushing his thumb over the bone. “You’re like an icicle, let’s get you out of these wet clothes.” 

You take his hand to stand and Nick is quick in untying the sweatpants to help you step out of them. “If you w-wanted me naked, you just had t-to ask.” It’s not as flirtatious as you want it to be with your teeth chattering. 

But he smiles, glancing up at you with a fond expression as he squeezes your ankle to encourage your foot up. “I’d like to have you shaking for a completely different reason.” He tosses the sweatpants aside, replacing your socks with a pair of fuzzy ones you keep here. 

You keep the same underwear but have to forgo the sports bra, Nick bundling you up in a new pair of sweatpants and one of his sweaters. He then grabs a blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around your shoulders, tugging you close. 

He purses his lips, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose, “Your lips are a little blue, I hope you don’t get sick.” 

You scoff out a sound like he’s the silly one, leaning against his chest, “I won’t.” As if your favorite season and weather would never do that to you. 

He shakes his head, amused, rubbing his hands along your arms. “I’ll grab you some coffee.” 

“Not yet.” You whisper, a soft sniffle following. 

Nick wraps his arms around your back, encouraging you to lean forward until you bury your face in his shoulder. You find yourself closing your eyes, absorbing as much heat from his body as you can. 

He feels far warmer and more comforting than any fire could. 

—

This, unfortunately, is the downside to this time of the year. 

You’ve been feeling a bit off for the past two days, but you hadn’t thought much of it until you woke up in a cold sweat. You just figured it was just from running yourself a bit ragged, because of course you waited until the last minute to buy gifts for Christmas and get everything wrapped. So the last week or so, it’s been shopping, wrapping and what feels like wrangling family and friends get togethers (not particularly in that order…especially when Nick is involved in almost all of it). 

You try not to give too much energy into your negative thoughts and power through: you grab a shower, you go downstairs and make yourself a light breakfast with some coffee, then you go back upstairs to finish packing an overnight bag because you’re going with Nick to see his sister and exchange some presents. 

You do your best to ignore the prickling sensation that something is wrong but before you can draw in a deep breath, a harsh wave of nausea slams into your body. Turning quickly, you rush to your bathroom, thankful that the toilet is in close reach before your stomach violently expels everything in it. 

You wince, your knees hurting from the way you fell to the floor, your eyes stinging at the too-sweet taste in the back of your throat. Another wave completely empties you out, a small string of dry heaving making you feel lightheaded. A short whimper crawls up your throat, flushing the toilet before you slowly move to sit next to it, your back pressed against the tub. 

Fuck. 

Your phone vibrates in your pocket and when you see Nick’s name flash on the screen, you almost decline it. But you already know what he’s calling for, what time it is, he’s outside waiting for you to come out with your bag. 

Answering the call, you bring your phone up to your ear, “Bad news,” You mumble, “I can’t go.” 

Nick hums lightly and you can hear the amused eyeroll in his voice as he replies, “I told you that you didn’t need to get my mum a present, she’s not going to uninvite you because it got stuck in the post.” 

An almost laugh leaves your lips because right, you were concerned about showing up with a gift for Maddie but not Nick’s mother. That’s what you get for being so far behind and ordering things online only for them to get delayed in shipping because of the weather. 

“Well no worries because I’m uninvited now for a completely different reason.” You pause, feeling dizzy and nauseous again but there’s nothing else in your stomach to throw up. “I’m sick.” 

You can hear the crunch of gravel under Nick’s feet as he walks towards the front door, “I’m coming up.” 

You try to tell him no but he’s already ended the call. This shouldn’t be surprising to you, anyways—even if he hadn’t been right outside, he’d still be on his way here to check on you. You close your eyes, swallowing over a lump in your throat. You’re frustrated because the last thing you want is for Nick to catch something off you, but also? This fucking sucks that you’re sick during your favorite holiday season. It’s not fair. 

You huff out a small sound as you hear Nick come into your bedroom, the sound of his boots against the tile of your bathroom floor. Forcing your eyes open, you look up at him, jeans and a t-shirt underneath a winter coat. He looks so comfortable and you know he smells good too, catching a whiff of his cologne as he crouches down in front of you. You’re so glad it doesn’t make you feel sicker than you already do. 

“You have a fever?” 

You shake your head, because you don’t think you do? Nick brushes some of your hair aside, cupping your cheek with his hand. He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead and you weakly protest, squeezing his wrist with your fingers. 

“I don’t want you to catch whatever this is.” 

“Iron-clad immune system,” He replies, indicating that he could give a shit that that might be a possibility. He stands from the floor and grabs a washcloth from the counter, wetting it in the sink and wringing it out. He brings it back over to you, gently sliding it along the back of your neck. 

Fuck, that feels so good. A breath shudders out of you and your eyes slip closed. You shift a little, wrapping your arms around yourself. Your body was so warm when you first came in here and now you feel that sweat chill on your skin. Nick’s free hand ghosts over your shoulder, rubbing up and down one of your arms. 

“You still feel sick?” 

You shake your head, sniffling, opening up your eyes to look up into his warm brown ones. “If by ‘sick’ you mean royally pissed off that I’m suffering on my bathroom floor during my favorite holiday season, then yes.” A whine bubbles up out of your throat, making Nick’s lips twitch into a smile, “This has got to be illegal.” 

“Definitely against the law.” He comforts, even though there’s a lilt of teasing to his voice. “I’m gonna help you up. Wrap your arms around my neck.” 

You want to tell him that he doesn’t need to do that, that you don’t need help standing, but the room spins when you wrap your arms around him and he encourages you upright. You squeeze your eyes shut, rubbing a hand along your forehead as Nick tosses the washcloth aside. He then picks you up in one swift movement, his arm cradling your legs, the other around your back to carry you back into your bedroom. 

You feel utterly silly at that but you’re grateful for him nonetheless. 

He sets you on the mattress, situating you against the headboard and a wide variety of pillows. He moves your overnight bag off the comforter so he can pull the covers back, encouraging your legs under them and tugging them back up over your stomach. You wince, drawing your knees up a bit to your chest, lying on your side and facing Nick as he sits by your hips. 

“Can I get you anything?” He asks, his hand resting on your side, rubbing up and down in comforting strokes. 

You shake your head, looking up at him. There’s a look on his face that you recognize far too easily, “Don’t even think about it, Nick. You’re going. I’m not going to have you skip out on seeing your sister because I got sick.” 

He draws a deep breath in his chest, like he’s debating whether or not to ignore you and do what he wants anyways. 

You poke his leg. “She’ll be crushed. I’m not getting coal for Christmas because of you.” 

He smiles, eyes fluttering to the ceiling in exasperation, “Santa isn’t real.” 

Your mouth opens in mock offense, “Says someone who’s always on the naughty list, I like getting presents, thank you.” 

Nick chuckles, leaning down to place another kiss to your forehead. He seems to be satisfied that you don’t have a fever, picking up his hand to stroke your cheek and tuck hair behind your ear. 

“If I’m on the naughty list, you’re right there with me.” 

You manage a small smile, “Don’t flirt with me when I’m bedridden.” You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers with his before giving an encouraging squeeze. A small silence passes, Nick’s thumb rubbing back and forth over your knuckles, “I’m serious though. You’re already running late—don’t stay because of me.” You hold his gaze for a few moments, “I’m fine.” 

He doesn’t look convinced but he also knows better than to argue with you. He lifts your hand, kissing the back of yours before standing from the bed. “Let me know how you’re doing.” 

“Every gross detail shall be yours.” He rolls his eyes but he’s smiling as he fixes the covers and zips his coat back up. “Tell Maddie sorry. Her gift is downstairs under the tree if you want to take it with you.” 

Nick shakes his head, “We can go again after Christmas so you can give it to her yourself.” 

A small smile tugs the corners of your mouth, and despite how awful you feel? There’s a certain tranquility that blooms throughout your entire body when he leans down to press a kiss goodbye to your cheek. 

—

When you wake up an hour later, you see that Nick’s left you a bottle of water, some aspirin, Tums, and crackers on your nightstand. 

—

A day passes in order for you to start feeling like yourself again though a headache keeps fluttering behind your eyes and nausea lingers like a weight in your belly. You don’t tell Nick though, not wanting him to worry. You’re sure it’s just a bug that needs to make its way through your system…you’re sure you’ll be brand new in a few days. 

Letting out a slow breath through your nose, you tug your chair out at your desk and sit in front of your laptop, intending on finding a movie to put on for yourself. Your eyes glance up at your calendar, a small smile pulling the corners of your mouth as you see Christmas is next week. It always comes and goes so fast. 

Though your gaze trips on a date at the beginning of last week, one with a red dot on it. You blink at it, staring for far too long, nerves suddenly pinching together and causing a rolling to your stomach. No wait, that…

You stand, reaching for the calendar, counting out days and doing it twice to make sure. Chewing on your lower lip, you try not to freak out that you're five days late for your period. Which…shouldn’t be a big deal? It happens, sometimes your body can fluctuate. But for someone who’s so regularly on time, like clockwork, being late one day let alone five is enough for an alarm. 

That paired with how sick you’re feeling? 

Your hand comes up to your mouth as you fight not to lose your lunch all over your laptop. This can’t be happening. You’ve been so busy with the holiday season that you didn’t even notice that you missed the start to your period.

You instantly reach for your phone, swallowing over another bout of nausea before closing your eyes. You draw in a deep breath, count to ten, and then open them to text. Your fingers shake as you tap on Jenna’s name—

Despite how much you instantly want Nick when something is wrong, you can’t tell him anything. Not until you’re sure. And even then…not until he’s back from his mom’s. 

Y/N: I need your help with something. 

Jenna’s reply comes within two minutes: Say no more. 

—

Jenna brings you three different types of pregnancy tests, no questions asked. You know that you’re probably jumping the gun on this, and maybe if you hadn’t been so sick lately you’d give it a few more days. But fuck, you’re…you’re scared.  She lingers in your bedroom while you get them all the tests ready and then it’s just a matter of time. Of waiting. You invite her into the bathroom and both of you sit on the edge of the tub, the timer on your phone counting down to when you’ll know if you’re…

You squeeze your eyes closed, leaning forward to put your elbows on your knees. Your mind is absolutely spinning, thoughts stuck on a forever rinse cycle as you try and figure out how you let this happen. And maybe that’s not fair, to allow yourself to spiral like this…you know there’s always that chance, even if you use condoms. You and Nick do, you’re always safe, and yet…

Accidents do happen. 

Fuck. How are you going to tell him if you are? What will his reaction be? What are you going to do? 

“Breathe,” Jenna says gently, her voice soothing through the static in your head. She puts a calming touch along your back, rubbing gently, “Nothing is set in stone, yet.” 

“I’ve never had this happen before,” You admit, the bridge of your nose stinging. 

There’s so many different factors that contribute to that, you know. You had a boyfriend for a few months that you never ended up having sex with, another that always complained about using condoms, so sex was few and far between. Things with Nick…have always felt electric, have felt safe, passionate, right. You two are constantly discovering new things about one another, emotionally and physically. You enjoy being together and that includes sex, and you know there’s nothing wrong with that. 

And yet, for some reason, this feels like your fault? Like you let your guard down. Like something happened that could have been prevented. 

“Babe,” Jenna breaks through your negative thoughts again, “I can hear those worries twisting you into knots. This isn’t anyone’s fault—it happens, you know? You’re doing all you can. Besides, you might not be.” 

You draw in another breath, running your hand along your cheek even though no tears have fallen. You know she’s right. Just like you know that you’ve always taken the right steps to prevent this from happening. One day, far in your future, you do want a baby, to make a family. But not now. 

Jenna continues to rub your back, licking her lips. You know what she’s about to say before it leaves her lips, “Do you want me to call Nick?” 

“No,” You reply instantly, shaking your head as you turn to look at her. “He’s celebrating Christmas with his sister and mom. I’m not pulling him away from that.” 

She chews on words in her mouth before she glances at the tests on the sink, “But this is pretty heavy, babe.” 

You swallow over a lump in your throat, “I’m not calling him because he’ll end up driving all the way back here for something that might not even be—” 

Your alarm buzzes on your phone. 

You feel all the color drain from your face as you stare at those tests on your sink, your body frozen in indecision. It’s Jenna who turns off your phone and stands from the tub. She reaches out and runs her fingers through some of your hair, giving you a gentle smile when you manage to look up. 

“Do you want me to…” 

You let out a breath of relief, tears stinging your eyes and maybe…maybe it’s pathetic and clingy but you do want Nick, wishes he was here when you decided to do all this. Although, in all honesty—you’re not sure you could have even waited until he drove home anyways, and you are glad that Jenna’s here. Is it pathetic that you feel stuck to the tub, like the floor is grabbing your ankles and threatening to drag you through the tile? 

You nod and watch as Jenna wanders over to the sink, picking up one test, then the other, then the last one.

She turns with a soft smile, “They’re all negative, babe.” 

A sharp gasp skitters from your lungs, dislodging a few tears down your cheeks, “I’m not—”

“You’re not pregnant,” She reaches out to wrap her arms around you in a tight hug. 

You close your eyes, wiping your one cheek before steadying yourself. You’re not pregnant. You say it over and over again until it settles in your chest. You’re just a bit sick during the holidays, and while that sucks? It’s much better than the alternative. 

“You should call Nick anyways.” Jenna adds when she pulls back, even though you’re shaking your head again, “This is still a lot to have weighing on someone.” 

You want to try and deny that, somehow—that now that you know it’s negative, that everything is fine. Like you don’t have any residual fear swirling through your body and making it slightly shaky. That this is something you can handle, on your own, until Nick comes back. 

“No,” You give her a watery smile, “It’s okay. I wouldn’t hate it if you stayed a bit though.” 

She scoffs out a playful laugh, sitting back down next to you on the tub, “As if you could get rid of me. I’m staying whether you like it or not.” 

You can’t help but laugh, leaning against her body and letting your head droop to her shoulder.

—

The next day, you sit curled up in an oversized comfy chair that’s tucked into the corner of your bedroom. You’ve got one of Nick’s hoodies on, a blanket over your legs and your phone loosely between your fingers. You don’t understand why this is so hard. It’s not like you’re telling him bad news? So why is this so difficult to say? Running a hand over your face, you pinch the bridge of your nose. 

And then nearly jump out of your skin when your phone vibrates. 

It’s Nick. 

Your finger hovers over the green button for what feels like forever before finally tapping on the red one. Eyes closing again, guilt eats at your insides but…

“Must have really done something wrong if I’m being sent straight to voicemail.” 

When you open your eyes, you find Nick leaning against the doorframe of your bedroom. He’s dressed in black jeans, a simple white t-shirt, distinctive silver chain resting on his chest. Your heart lurches in your chest because he looks so good, the familiar feeling of home singing in your veins. 

Fuck. Embarrassment claws up your throat—this is not how you wanted this to go. 

“You’re back a day early.” You whisper. 

He hums softly in confirmation, wandering into your space and crouching in front of you. He balances himself easily, watching you, and a choked laugh leaves your lips because…right. “Jenna.” You shake your head, “I told her not to bother you.” 

He touches your knee, “You should have bothered me.” You wait a moment, wondering what Jenna’s told him. But the longer you both sit in a comfortable silence, it just tells you that he doesn’t know. 

“She…” You trail off. 

Nick rubs his thumb back and forth along the bone, “She just told me that you needed me.” 

The longer you look at him, the more all those words you thought you could practice telling him go straight out the window. But maybe that’s not such a bad thing…you’ve always been able to talk to Nick. And that safety net you need more than anything right now. 

Sniffling, you take a look at his hand on your knee, your own playing with a silver bracelet that matches the chain he always wears around his neck. “You know I was sick the other morning? I…I checked a calendar and I realized I missed my period by a few days. I thought I was…” You bite down on the inside of your cheek, “I thought I was pregnant.” 

You can’t look at him, even though you feel his gaze on you. Patient, warm, comforting. He draws in a soft breath, moving his hand to grab your own. He squeezes. Nick doesn’t speak—not because he’s upset, or angry, or dumbfounded. But when you look up at his face, it’s swimming with empathy, concern. He’s giving you space to speak. 

“I’m not,” You run a hand quickly over your cheek even though you’re not crying yet. “Jenna brought some tests over and I’m—I’m not.” 

Nick swallows, bringing your hand up to his lips to press a kiss. His tone is gentle, not accusatory, “Why didn’t you call me?” 

“Because I was scared,” You admit, your face crumpling, a sob breaking forth no matter how you try to hide it by covering your mouth. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Nick whispers quickly, reaching for the hand that’s pressing against your lips. He tugs it away, encouraging your arm to slide around his shoulders as he stands up, “No, c’mere.” 

You lean forward until your face is buried in his shoulder, tears leaking into his white t-shirt as his arms wrap you in a tight hug. The angle of your bodies should make it awkward, uncomfortable, but it’s not. He bends himself down to wrap you close, absorbing every jagged cry that leaves your chest. There’s some maneuvering as Nick pulls the blanket from over your lap and puts it on the ground, his arm tucking underneath your knees. 

In one fluid motion he picks you up, sits down on the cushioned chair and sets you on his lap. You squeeze him a bit tighter around his shoulders, indicating that you’re not ready to pull away. He reads you loud and clear, tucking his chin against you, brushing his lips along the shell of your ear as his hand strokes up and down your spine. 

“You’re alright,” Nick murmurs, “I got you.” 

Jenna was right—you did need him. 

—

It takes a little while to calm down, but Nick’s patient throughout the entire thing. He eventually lifts you up and places you onto your bed, only leaving your side when you tell him it’s alright. He returns with a hot mug of mint tea, setting it down on the nightstand to your left and then crawling onto the mattress beside you. He molds your body to his own, lying on his side, facing you. Nick cradles his head by placing his elbow on a pillow, propping himself up as you lean your back against the headboard. 

Your stomach hurts, cramps beginning in your lower back and blooming across the front of you. You don’t have your period yet but it’s definitely the beginning of it, which probably explains the headache and wild emotions. 

Though…you’re not going to pretend that this whole thing didn’t shake you. It did. 

You’re quiet for a couple of minutes, watching as Nick plays with a loose string on the comforter that rests on your thighs. You know he’s giving you space to process, to breathe, and you really appreciate that…even though it feels like there’s so much you want to say and nothing to add to the conversation at all. 

“I wasn’t,” You clear your throat, tilting your head to look at him. Your cheeks feel a bit sore, your eyes puffy from crying, “I wasn’t scared of how you’d react when I told you,” It’s the only explanation you feel like you can offer. In general, you were just terrified. “I’ve never been in a position like that before.” 

Nick draws in a slow breath, nodding his head as he listens. He reaches for one of your hands, lazily lacing your fingers together. “I need you to promise that if something like this happens again, you’ll call me.” Your gaze slowly meets his own and he holds it a moment before continuing, “I’m glad Jenna was here, but…” 

You understand the unspoken words: he wanted to be there for you too. 

Reaching out to cup his cheek, you run your thumb along his jawline, tipping his chin up so you can kiss him. He’s here now and that matters too. It’s something slow and intimate, you take your time expressing words that you can’t find or say. A soft noise leaves his throat, his hand squeezing yours. 

“I promise,” You reply against his lips once the kiss ends. You pepper a few along his jawline and the corner of his mouth, making him smile. “I got good news and bad news.” 

He raises his eyebrows, leaning back a bit to listen. 

“Good news is that my period is probably going to start tomorrow,” You purse your lips, “Bad news is that it’s probably going to start tomorrow.” 

A chuckle rumbles in Nick’s chest, “Well versed in what you need—got all your favorites at my house.” 

You hum softly, feeling slightly mischievous. “What about…chocolate chip waffles? Think you could make those for me too?” You flutter your eyelashes, your lips forming a pout, definitely trying to play a bit dirty in convincing him. 

“You sure you’ve never been on Santa’s naughty list before?” 

A giggle slips out as you reach for a pillow to smack against his chest but Nick only uses that momentum to draw you closer, holding you against him as he steals another kiss.