#i kind of pulled you into a mission with me | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

em1i2a3 · 9 hours ago

Text

Instant Crush

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: Bob has been avoiding you and when you find out the reason why, you decide that the only way to make it up to him would need to be thorough and obvious.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst (the triforce of doom I say lol), Bob and Reader have known each other since the beginning, this takes place about a year into living in the compound together. There is a lot of miscommunication happening here between reader and Bob regarding their feelings for one another, and I frickin love that trope. Jealousy from Bob/Sentry, and The Void puts Bob down a bit for not being more forward with his feelings because he would actually have her if he tried. Oh. And Bob stutters in this.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (I don’t need to tell y’all to wrap it up do I?), Semi Public Sex Acts (sex doesn’t happen in the area, but there is a lot of stuff that does happen before they need to stop themselves), Breast Play, Worship/Praise Kink, Bob is absolutely touch starved and he can’t get enough of the reader touching him, and he can’t stop touching her either, Oral Sex (both Male and Female Receiving), Hair Pulling, Messy Sex, Dirty Talk, Cum Play/Eating, Biting (with marks left), Bob and reader ar both switches (trust me on this one y’all will see lol), and some edging.

Author’s Note: This was a request made by @bellaisasleep , I loved putting my own little angsty twist on things, because a lot of people have been requesting more angst lol! Hopefully you enjoy!! I loved writing this sososososo much! Thanks for requesting it :) Also side note: I literally blasted through writing this because I listened to a live album by Daft Punk. I think I’ve found my Red Bull replacement lol.

Word Count: 21,222 (whoop whoop)

Bob Reynolds was the kind of man who made you believe in quiet things.

He made you believe in stillness, in silence, in softness not born of weakness, but of discipline so complete it bordered on sacredness. He wasn’t the loudest voice in the room, he wasn’t the first to speak or one to interrupt. He just was–in the way the moon just is above the Earth…Constantly pulling the tides of your heart before you even understood what direction you were moving in.

You met him during a mission–before you joined the Thunderbolts officially–that should’ve broken both of you. And maybe it did, in some sort of poetic, irreversible way. Because ever since that night–with blood dried on your tactical gear, and your hands trembling from adrenaline as he whispered ‘you’re safe, I’ve got you, you’re okay’–you had not really been the same.

And neither had he.

Something tethered the both of you together after that. Something deeper than any language could explain. It wasn’t love, not at first at least. It wasn’t romance. But it was something that took refuge in your bones and your soul. Something that pulsed like gravity beneath your skin every time he walked into a room.

And for a while, that was enough for you to survive off of.

You shared everything–your time, your food, your silence. You’d have late-night check-ins, and breakfasts eaten side-by-side. You would pass books back and forth with scrawled notes in the margins, sometimes you’d sit with your legs over his tracing your fingers over his handwriting, smirking at his comments and making light of what he was mindlessly writing when he was reading.

You knew how he took his tea, and coffee. You knew what his favourite drinks and snacks were, and what his preferences were in almost anything. You knew how his voice sounded first thing in the morning, and how he fell asleep faster when you were near–only because when you sat together on the couch you would hear him snoring within minutes.

You knew his rhythms and he knew yours.

Sometimes he brushed your knuckles and didn’t pull away. Sometimes you caught him watching you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. And you often considered turning to him and asking ‘what are we?’, but the answer already lived too loud between your ribs to speak it out loud.

So you smiled through it, and neither of you said a word.

Because whatever it was–it was fragile. Sacred. And the both of you were too afraid to shatter it by asking for more and overstepping.

And yet–somewhere in the folds of all that closeness, you started to ache. Because as much as Bob let you near, you still never quite knew what was going on inside his head. You didn’t know what lived behind that long, glassy eyed look he gave you when you made him laugh, nor did you know what it meant when he lingered outside your room before you turned in, like he wanted to cross the metaphoric line, but never did.

You didn’t know if you were special, or if he was just kind. Or if the way he touched your arm to steady you after a mission was the same way he’d touch anyone. If his gentleness toward you was a language he spoke to everyone–or if you were the only one fluent in it.

And maybe you were afraid to ask, because deep down you didn’t think you stood a chance. Not with someone like him.

Not with someone who was part god basically. Not with someone who saw every part of you–your scars, your rage, and your weaknesses–and still folded himself smaller around you like you were something worth protecting somehow.

He deserved someone better, someone far more stable and less scarred. Less haunted by the things that she needed to be strong for.

Maybe he thought the same thing about you…Maybe he thought you deserved someone less fractured, less burdened, and less…Him.

So you both stayed in each other's orbit, close enough to feel the warmth, but too far to burn each other.

Until one night–stupid, and thoughtless–you came home from a bar with Yelena and Ava, laughing too loud with a glow in your cheeks that wasn’t meant to hurt anyone. You dropped onto the couch, stretching out with a grin, drunk on your three tequila pineapples.

”I don’t even know how many numbers I got, but it’s like they were handing them out like coupons!” You exclaimed, waving your phone around. Yelena and Ava had laughed with you at this comment, and you divulged in details.

What you didn’t know was Bob had been walking past the common room at that exact moment. You hadn’t heard his footsteps pause behind the wall, and you certainly didn’t see his shoulders tense up. You didn’t realize your voice–bright, careless, and sweet–carved something open inside him.

Because to you, it was a joke, but to him, it was proof.

Proof that the attention you deserved was already out there–waiting for you in the hands of someone who could say what he couldn’t. Someone who wouldn’t hesitate or stammer. Who wouldn’t hold his feelings behind walls made of fear and light.

Bob went quiet after that night. Not cold, or angry…Just…Distant.

A slow withdrawal, like the tide was pulling out to sea.

You tried to tell yourself it was nothing, maybe he was tired or stressed.

But every time you passed him in the halls and got a stiff nod instead of a smile, every time you curled up on the couch alone and stared at the empty spot where his knee used to brush yours, and every time he walked into a room and kept his eyes down like he couldn’t bear to meet yours…

You felt it.

The ache.

The fracture between what you thought you were to each other and what you maybe never were at all.

You missed him, and maybe that was the cruelest part–because he was still there. Still Bob. Still your friend,

But he wasn’t yours in the way you wanted him to be.

You told yourself it was fine. That being near him was enough. That friendship–real, solid, soul-deep–was a gift not everyone got, and you should be grateful for it all. That you had no right to want more from someone who already gave you so much.

But your heart didn’t care about rights, it only cared about the shape of his silence, and how it shifted.

And it wasn’t the safe kind of shift–to the soft, companionable hush that always existed between the two of you like a favourite song on low volume–but it was something colder, and distant.

It was the kind of silence that felt like a door being slammed shut. It was becoming worse and worse by the minute.

Because now he couldn’t even look at you–his eyes used to linger on your mouth, your hands, your eyes, and now they seemed to look off into space all together.

And it only made you spiral into trying to figure out what you had done to deserve something like this. You turned every event over and over in your mind like a worry stone, each day shaving another layer of calm off your nerves.

Did you somehow push too hard, or did you say something wrong? Was it something you didn’t say to him that was making him this way? You had no clue.

But you knew you missed him so much it was settling in your chest like a bruise. Because the truth–the raw, bitter truth–was that you didn’t just miss your friend. You missed him. The way his voice dropped when he said your name to get your attention. The way he leaned in when you spoke like you were saying something important, even when you weren’t. The way his gaze would fall to your lips to see the way they wrapped around the words you were saying, or how they tilted up into a smile.

You were afraid that if you reached for him, you’d ruin everything.

So you didn’t.

That’s what brought you to Yelena’s room that night. Not to confess, but to collapse. You didn’t knock. You just pushed the door open and stepped into the scent of gun oil, candle wax, and citrus-scented dry shampoo that clung to the air and made your lungs burn.

Yelena was stretched out on her back across her bed, with one leg bent, and blade sharpener balanced on her stomach. Her eyes flicked to you, then back to the ceiling she was looking at just moments before.

You didn’t speak, you just walked in, and fell face-first into the spare pillow beside her with a loud flop. She didn’t say anything at first, but it seemed like she was expecting a visit from you.

The quiet filled the space between you like water in a sinking ship.

Then, finally–

“What happened now?” She asked, shifting a bit to look at your collapsed figure.

”I don’t know what I did to Bob that made him ignore me…” Your voice was muffled against the bedding, “But it’s starting to really get to me.” You added, flipping onto your back to stare up at the cracked swirl of white stucco that coated her ceiling. Yelena’s eyes lingered on you a second longer, then she sat up, legs crossing under her, abandoning the knife sharpener to her nightstand.

”You didn’t do anything.” She replied, this earned her a side eye from you.

“That’s what people say right before they tell you that you did.” You commented, picking at the dry skin around your nail bed, which was already raw from the prior days.

“I’m serious,” She insisted, “You didn’t do anything.” You bit the inside of your cheek.

”Then why won’t he look at me? Why does it feel like I don’t exist anymore? Your voice cracked, “I feel like I’m going insane. I thought we were–“ You stopped as the word ‘closer’ got caught in your throat like a splinter. You could see Yelena hesitate, just long enough for you to notice.

“What?” You demanded, sitting up a little, perching yourself on your elbows so you weren’t lying against the spare pillow anymore. “You know something.” You accused.

”I’m not supposed to–“

”Yelena.” You interrupted. She closed her eyes for a second, then sighed, rubbing at her temples with her fingers.

”Three nights ago,” She started slowly, “He showed up at my door in the middle of the night. I thought he was gonna pass out in the hallway.” You stared at her, a worried expression pulling at your eyes.

”Bob?” You confirmed, just to be sure, and she nodded.

“He looked wrecked. He was pale and shaking. His hands literally wouldn’t stop moving–it was like he was trying to wring the thoughts out of his bones.” You now sat up completely, your breath catching at the images that began to snap through your mind. The nervousness, the wreck that you had seen countless times before, it was easy to picture because you were the one that normally helped him through these little bouts, but this time he didn’t come to you.

”He said he heard you the other night,” She continued, “When we got home from the bar. The whole thing about getting all those guys numbers…He said–“ She swallowed nervously, “He said it felt like someone had hollowed him out.” You could feel your heart gallop at those words, stuttering even, like it stopped for a second before resetting.

“He kept saying it wasn’t your fault. That you deserved it–all the attention, and that it made sense that you wanted someone who could give you what you need. Someone who wouldn’t make you wait.” You could feel your stomach drop into the floor, like it slipped out of you and all you could feel was emptiness.

”Then he said…”Yelena’s eyes flicked to you, “He said he knew he should let go. That maybe he had finally been shown the truth–that you were meant for someone less…Burdened than him.” Your throat burned at her words, as you tried to blink away the tears that began to form in the corners of your eyes.

“That’s not true.” You said quietly.

”I know that,” Yelena snapped, “But he doesn’t.” Your fists clenched the blankets beneath you.

”Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” You asked, staring at her, watching as she shook her head.

”Because I shouldn’t have to,” She said, “Because you’re both idiots.” Your jaw clenched.

”Excuse me–“

”You’re both in love and too scared to breathe wrong around each other in case it breaks the spell,” She said, eyes flashing with anger, “I’m not your emotional translator, but I’ll put it plain and simple for you so your brain can understand. You want to know why he’s acting like a ghost? It’s because he thinks you found someone better. And you want to know why you’re sitting her on the brink of fucking tears on my mattress? It’s because you think you were never enough for him.” You were stunned by the way she had lost her composure on you. Rarely did Yelena snap like this, but it had become something that burdened her so much and killed her to witness that she just needed to let it all out, and unfortunately you were the one she lost it on.

“All you’re doing is killing each other with all this stupid silence. All this pretending. All this worship-from-a-distance bullshit.” You stared at her, the heat of her words stinging like a slap to the face.

She shook her head, quieter now.

”“What do you want me to do? Force the two of you to talk? Drag you by the hands into a room and lock the door until one of you finally confesses? That only works in movies. Real people don’t change when you corner them–they break.” You closed your eyes tightly, and sighed.

”He really thinks I want someone else?” You asked, gently.

”He thinks you already have them.” Yelena’s gaze softened–just barely, “And he thinks he missed his chance.” You shook your head, scratching the back of your neck with more pressure than needed, feeling your nails sting your skin.

“I didn’t even keep those numbers. I deleted them the second I woke up the next morning. I didn’t even think he’d care.” Yelena’s expression didn’t shift when you said this, but her voice did.

”Of course he cares,” She said, the words clipped and firm, “Because it’s you.” She stood, pacing once to the edge of the bed like she couldn’t sit still any longer.

“You know how fragile he is when it comes to you,” She continued, measuring the tone of her voice perfectly, “You’ve seen it. Felt it. You know how he quiets down when you walk in the room. How his hands settle when you’re near. How he breathes easier when you touch his arm, or sit beside him, or just fucking exist in his line of sight.”Your throat tightened, and your gaze dropped from hers, but she didn’t stop.

”And it’s not just Bob,” She added, “You know how all his other counterparts feel about you too.” Your chest stilled.

”Sentry…And The Void…” You whispered, not even considering what they must’ve been doing to him at this point. Yelena nodded.

”You think he was jealous? That was before The Void started whispering in his head about how someone else would be undressing you. How someone else would get the version of you he’s spent months trying not to dream about.” She said it without cruelty–but the truth hit like lightning to the ribs.

”You think Sentry’s any better? That part of him worships the ground you walk on…And you know how emotional he gets when it comes to being challenged.” You stared at the floor, with your stomach twisting in grief. You weren’t sure if it was anger or heartbreak in your bones, but it ached the same either way.

“I…I need to take care of this.” Yelena looked at you, and finally she eased up a bit. The tough love flickered down into care.

”You really do…It’s time. Just push all your thoughts out of the way, and for once in your life, don’t overthink it. Make it clear, and for the love of god…Make it obvious, because I don’t think either of you can survive another miscommunication.” You gave her a nod, then got up, feeling your heart fluttering.

Because this time…You weren’t going to be seeing Bob, wondering if he wanted you. You were going to be seeing him knowing he did.

——————

The next morning you had gotten ready. The sun had not even fully risen yet. It was early–so early the light outside still looked like a haze of dark purples and light blues. The hallway lights buzzed faintly as you padded down the corridor, slipping some socks onto your feet in the process. The tower was still asleep. But you knew where he’d be.

And sure enough, you found him.

Bob stood in the living room, half-crouched as he fiddled with the strap of his messenger bag. He looked like he hadn’t slept–at least not well. His shoulders were hunched, his hair damp like he’d just showered in a rush. The navy blue hoodie he wore was tight across the chest now, the fabric catching slightly as he moved. His black sweatpants clung to the muscle of his thighs, hinting at the training he’d been doing in silence for weeks now.

But it wasn’t his body that made your breath catch.

It was his face.

The exhaustion in it. The hollow weight behind his eyes.

His irises were darker than they used to be. Still blue–but not quite. Not only blue. It was like something black was blooming out from the center, bleeding toward the edges like ink dropped into water.

It wasn’t just sleep deprivation.

It was The Void.

You recognized the way his jaw clenched slightly, like he was trying to stay grounded in his body. Like he was fighting voices you couldn’t hear.

You cleared your throat gently.

He looked up, startled–then confused.

“…Hey,” You said quietly. “Mind if I join you?”

He blinked at you, slow. Like he wasn’t sure you were real. Like his brain was buffering, unsure how to process the request.

“I–Uh…I was j-just…”

”Heading to the mall,” You finished for him, offering a soft, warm smile, pulling at the sleeves of your sweater, “You…Mentioned it a few times this week. Something about your clothes fitting too tight and stuff…” Bob’s pale skin flushed slightly at the comment, as his gaze fell to the floor.

”Y-Yeah…I g-guess so.” You took a careful step closer, slowly closing the space between you both, wanting to see how he would react–he didn’t move back.

”I’ve got my car,” You added, “Might be easier than taking the bus…” He looked up at you again and this time you saw it: the hurt still flickering at the edges of his face, the wall he’d put up, and the little white dots that began to form in the middle of his pupils.

Bob could hear the voice scraping away on the inside of his skull.

“She’s just being kind…She’s taking pity on you, you know how she is. She doesn’t mean it. Don’t read into it. Don’t be pathetic. You’re not her first choice, you’re nobody’s first choice. She deserves someone better than you.” The Void hissed. Bob swallowed hard, feeling a burn tingle the back of his neck.

”…A-Are you sure?” He asked finally, voice rough around the edges, “I–I don’t want to be a b-bother.” You tilted your head.

”You wouldn’t be.” And then, with just enough softness to cut through the static buzzing behind his eyes you added, “I want to.” His hand was still on the strap of his bag, tightening around it enough to turn his knuckles white. You watched him for a moment longer, and then you reached out and brushed your fingers against his forearm. The contact was barely there, just the tips of them grazing the fabric, but you could see his entire body tense up, like something deep inside him folded at the contact. Like your skin reminded him where he was.

His breathing steadied slightly, and you didn’t comment on it, you just gave him a small smile.

“C’mon, I’ll drive.”

—————————

The drive was quiet to say the least.

It wasn’t awkward, it was just heavy, in that unspoken way that happened when hearts were too full and throats were too afraid to work. You didn’t push it.

You let the silence bloom between you. It was strange how familiar it felt again–like muscle memory. Like you’d both spent so long in each other’s rhythms that even this quiet was something you shared.

Bob sat beside you with his hands tucked in his lap, his back pressed to the passenger door like he was trying to stay small. His eyes stayed mostly on the window, but every now and then they drifted–toward the dash, toward your hands on the steering wheel. Once or twice, you caught him glancing your way, like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust his voice not to tremble.

You cleared your throat softly, your eyes on the road ahead.

“Have you been sleeping?” You asked, keeping your voice low, careful not to sound like you were prying. “You look…” You trailed off, searching for a word that didn’t wound, “Tired.” Bob shifted slightly in his seat.

”Y-Yeah, I guess.” He replied, but it wasn’t convincing, because he wasn’t telling the truth, it was obvious. You gave a small hum, gaze flicking toward him before returning to the road.

”Haven’t really seen you around much this week…” His fingers curled tighter in his lap, and you caught the motion in your peripheral, how his knuckles pressed into the soft fabric of his sweatpants like he needed something to hold onto. Like he needed something to fiddle with.

“You’ve been…Kind of distant lately,” You said, and even though you tried to keep it neutral, the words came out soft, almost close to hurt. Bob exhaled quietly through his nose, eyes locked on the window like he was trying to will the city into blurring away.

”J–Just been in a mood…T-That’s all.” You nodded slowly, one hand loosening its grip on the wheel.

”Care to share why?” There was a pause. A longer one this time. Then his head gave a short, silent shake.

“It’s n-nothing,” He murmured, voice low and cracked. “Just something stupid.” But even as the words left him, something twisted deep in his gut, and then The Void spoke again.

“That’s all you are to her, isn’t it? Something stupid. Clinging to scraps, sitting beside her like a dog begging for food.” The voice was slick, slow and unmistakably cruel–like molasses laced with venom. Bob’s stomach clenched, and his eyes stung. For a second his bottom lip trembled, and he turned his face a little more toward the window, trying to hide it, willing himself not to break. He couldn’t crack now, not here, not when you were being so kind to him.

You noticed the shift though. The way his shoulders locked up, the way his breath hitched in his throat like he was swallowing something too big for his chest.

You didn’t press though. You just let your voice drift gently over the space between you, like a blanket being unfolded in soft hands.

”…Okay,” You whispered, nodding slowly, “Well…I’m here if you ever want to talk about anything.” Bob let out a shaky breath and dragged one hand up to his face, rubbing his palms hard across his eyes like he could erase the wetness threatening to spill.

“O-Okay…” He responded quietly, but the sound of it cracked in the middle, and the fragility of it nearly shattered you. The silence returned, but it wasn’t sharp this time. It was soft around the edges, like warm fog curling up against the windows.

When you finally pulled into the mall parking lot, the sun had risen enough to cast a thin gold glow across the tops of the buildings. It wasn’t crowded yet–just the early shoppers beginning to trickle in, and a few food court workers gathered near the entrance, sipping coffees out of paper cups. You shifted the car into park, then turned slightly toward him.

He was still staring down at his lap, his jaw tight, his hands curled loosely in the fabric of his hoodie. He looked like he hadn’t taken a full breath in minutes.

You let your gaze linger on him a second longer before speaking.

“Hey,” you said softly, and when he looked up at you, your voice dropped just enough to make him flinch slightly. “You know you’re allowed to feel things, right? Even the stupid ones.”

He blinked at you. His mouth opened like he might try to argue. But he didn’t.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” You added, your expression gentle, but firm. “Not ever.”

For a moment, Bob just…Stared.

And then your next words slipped out like sunlight between clouds:

“You’re my favorite person to sit in silence with…But I’d rather listen to your voice than anything else…”

His breath caught.

His heart stuttered like a blown fuse, and a faint red crept into his ears. You saw it happen in real time–the way his face flushed, his lashes lowered, and his entire body seemed to pull inward just slightly, like he didn’t know what to do with the heat rising under his skin.

He fumbled for the door handle a beat too late, awkward but endearing, mumbling something incoherent under his breath.

You bit back a smile, then slipped out of your side of the car.

He followed you a moment later, hood tugged up, bag slung loosely across his chest. You waited until he stepped beside you, shoulder to shoulder, before moving toward the entrance.

The automatic doors slid open, letting in the scent of polished floors, faint cinnamon from a bakery down the hall, and the sterile chill of early-morning air conditioning.

The mall wasn’t busy yet–just soft ambient music echoing through the wide halls, janitors mopping along the corners, and the distant hum of espresso machines powering up.

Bob walked beside you in silence, but it felt…A little different now.

Not as heavy.

He didn’t look at the floor this time. He looked at you.

Like maybe he was starting to believe he hadn’t missed his chance.

———————

The coffee shop inside the mall was one of those early-bird places–half-lights still dimmed, pastries just hitting the racks, and the first drip of espresso perfuming the air like warmth incarnate. The floor glowed underfoot with the reflection of sleepy pendant lights, and the hum of milk steaming was the only thing louder than your breath.

Bob hesitated near the register for a moment, before you stepped up and began to speak.

”One medium caramel macchiato with light vanilla, and one medium Earl Grey with two milks and one pump of honey please.” You said, voice casual and kind, “And two plain croissants, one warmed…Thank you.” Bob blinked at you, his eyes wide behind the lashes that immediately dipped toward the floor when you gave the drink order like it was muscle memory.

“H-How did you remember my order so e-easily?” He asked softly, a little stunned, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him until just now. His voice was low–barely above the murmur of the espresso machine–but there was something raw and unguarded in the way he said it. A quiet awe.

You shrugged, trying to keep it casual despite the warmth blooming under your ribs. “I used to make it for you every morning, remember? Before you decided it was–” You leaned slightly closer, lowering your voice into a teasing register, “–‘too much for my busy schedule.’” You even put up air quotes around the phrase.

Bob’s lips parted slightly, then closed again. His lashes fluttered and a pink flush crept up his neck and spread over the apples of his cheeks. You saw it rise like candlelight catching a wick. He ducked his head with a soft, embarrassed breath of a laugh, then reached for his wallet with fumbling hands.

“R-Right… I remember…” He mumbled, pulling out a folded bill and sliding it toward the barista.

You didn’t stop him from paying.

You just smiled quietly to yourself as the two of you stepped to the side of the counter to wait, tucked in that little corner beside the bakery case where the light hit just right through the large window. You could smell cinnamon and sugar hanging in the air, mingled with the scent of warm milk and the faint cedar wood cologne that came from Bob’s hoodie.

He stood so close that you could feel his warmth radiating off him–steady and grounding. Not overwhelming. Just…Comforting. Like the first time you sat shoulder to shoulder on the Thunderbolts couch after a mission, both of you too tired to speak, but not ready to separate. His presence filled the space beside you like heat seeps into a cold mug–slowly and entirely.

You glanced sideways at him.

He looked tired. Still quiet. But something in his shoulders had eased. And god, you wanted to wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest. You wanted to tell him everything–the longing, the ache, the nights you couldn’t sleep without thinking about how he used to hold your wrist loosely in his sleep when you nodded off beside him on the couch.

But now wasn’t the right time, you just stayed still and waited for your order, sipping on your drink when it came, and nibbling on your croissant.

——————

The first store you entered was some midrange basicas place–comfy fabrics, soft lighting, warm neutral palettes. It smelled faintly like cotton and burned plastic. It seemed like the store may have been under renovations or it was new, but it had a wide range to offer.

You wandered between the racks with Bob, fingers brushing hangers and the occasional sleeve. He didn’t speak at first, just lingered near you, letting the space between you stay comfortably small.

Then, after a while, he pointed at a sage green hoodie.

“Y-You think this would look okay?” He asked, lifting the sleeve with a tentative expression. You tilted your head, eyeing the color against his pale skin.

“It looks really flattering.” Your voice came out even, but a little softer than before, “Might make a few people swoon.” Bob looked away so fast you nearly laughed.

”D-Don’t say stuff like that…” He mumbled, ears turning a beet red. You gave a shrug and kept moving.

”Just being honest.” He ended up gathering a couple of things: the green hoodie, two crewneck sweaters, and a pair of slate grey sweatpants that looked impossibly soft.

“I–I think I’ll try these on,” He said, holding the small stack close to his chest like it might slip out of his grip if he didn’t hug it tight.

“I’ll hold your tea,” You added, taking the cup gently from him as he moved toward the changing room.

You leaned against the wall just outside, sipping your own drink slowly, content to wait.

And then, after a minute or two, the door creaked open.

Your breath hitched.

Because there he was–soft grey sweatpants hanging just right off his hips, cinched gently at the waist. A dark green hoodie with the tag still half-tucked under the collar, the fabric just snug enough to outline the lines of his chest and the breadth of his shoulders. His sleeves were bunched at the elbows, revealing strong forearms you always forgot he had until they were on display like this. His hair was still a little messy from earlier, his cheeks still pink, and there was something so painfully Bob about the way he stood there–awkward, shuffling his feet, eyes flicking up and then quickly back down like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“I-Is it…Okay?” he asked, his voice hesitant, but hopeful. “It feels…Like me, I think…” He looked like home. Like warmth poured into fabric and held in your hands. Like something you’d missed even before you’d ever had it.

You didn’t answer his question at first, you just let your eyes sweep over him, memorizing every line and fold.

Then you nodded, your voice barely more than breath.

”It looks great.” And for the first time in weeks, he smiled. It wasn’t a big one, just a small sincere curve of his lips.

But it was enough to show you that you were breaking through to him.

Bob let out a quiet breath, still standing in the doorway of the fitting room as if unsure whether he was allowed to be seen like this—so soft and unguarded. But when you gave him that look, the one that reached all the way down to the place in him that still doubted he was wanted, he stepped out fully.

“I–I’ll get them then,” he said quietly, gathering the small stack of new clothes against his chest again. “I…Uh…N-Need things that fit anyway…” There was a shy smile tugging at his mouth now–nervous, but real. The kind you hadn’t seen in weeks.

You handed him his tea back with a gentle brush of fingers, and he looked down at the cup like it was more than a drink. Like it was proof of something unspoken. Something important.

You walked beside him to the register, watching as he paid–hands fumbling a little with the card, thanking the cashier too softly, shifting awkwardly in place while they bagged his items. You could practically feel how tightly wound his nerves were, like the very idea of doing this in front of you was enough to set off a whole chain of overthinking in his head. But he kept glancing at you, too–like he needed to make sure you hadn’t left.

You didn’t.

You waited. Quietly. Steadily.

And when he turned back toward you, you smiled again. Not big. Not loud. Just steady.

The two of you wandered the mall after that, nowhere in particular–just drifting from one store to the next like nothing had broken between you. Like the silence hadn’t once turned sharp enough to bleed. You lingered near a small bookstore where Bob picked up a paperback and flipped it open with a flicker of interest; you guided him briefly through a stationery shop, pointing out pens you thought he’d like. There was something gentle about it all–something close to healing, like you were on that brink of mending everything back together.

You were standing near a shelf of scented candles in a small boutique that sold a strange mix of home goods and novelty items–everything from mugs with sarcastic quotes to little booklets of affirmations and bath bombs shaped like animals. Bob was beside you, thumbing the edge of a journal with a soft leather cover, his thumb tracing the stitching like he was trying to decide if it was worth picking up. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up again, and you could see a faint pink mark at the bend of his elbow–maybe from leaning against a counter too long, or maybe a training bruise he hadn’t noticed. It made your chest ache a little, how much you’d missed these small details. How much you’d missed him.

Your gaze drifted up–just idly, like looking for the next thing to wander toward–and then froze.

Across the mall’s broad walkway, nestled beneath a curved arch of dark wood and glass, sat a boutique lingerie store. You knew the kind. Low golden lighting. Sheer curtains hanging in the windows, filtering the sunlight into a soft, honeyed glow. The mannequins in the window weren’t the aggressive kind with red corsets and feather boas. No–these ones were elegant. Understated. They wore lace bralettes in blush pink, satin in deep forest green, high-waisted sets trimmed in delicate embroidery, and sheer robes that caught the light like whisper-thin smoke. The whole store was intimate without being overt. Classy. Soft. But undeniably sensual.

You could almost smell it from here: some blend of vanilla, amber, and whatever fabric perfume they used on the delicate silks and velvets.

You blinked.

Yelena’s voice echoed through your head, sharp and clear:

“Make it obvious.”

Your heart gave a strange little stutter. And then–without warning–a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. A slow, sly thing that bloomed without permission. The idea came out of nowhere, but it stuck. Bright and stupid but brave.

You glanced sideways at Bob.

He hadn’t noticed your change in expression yet. He was still reading the back of a candle labeled “Blueberry whipped icing.” The soft rise and fall of his chest was steady now. A good sign. He looked a little more grounded than earlier–still quiet, but a kind of quiet that meant he was starting to feel safe again. With you.

You didn’t want to push too hard. You didn’t want to shatter this fragile warmth that was finally returning between you.

But…

You wanted him to know.

So you cleared your throat lightly.

“Hey,” You said, careful to keep your tone breezy, “Can we check out one more store before we head back?”

Bob looked up, startled, blinking once.

“Uh–y-yeah, sure. W-Which one?”

You nodded subtly toward the other side of the walkway.

His gaze followed yours.

The moment he saw it his entire body stiffened, like someone had yanked a string inside him. You watched his jaw tighten just slightly. His eyes flicked away almost immediately, but not before you saw the faint pink rush to his ears.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

You smiled sweetly. Innocent.

”Wanted to just browse, see if I can find something.” You said, already beginning to walk toward the storefront, “I’m due for a little bit of a closet upgrade myself.”

Bob walked behind you, just a step off pace, like his feet weren’t quite sure they were allowed to follow. His grip on his shopping bag had gone white-knuckled, and the tea in his free hand barely sloshed–it was held that tightly. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You could feel the heat rolling off him in thick, clumsy waves–nerves and tension and that unmistakable Bob flavor of hesitation that meant he wanted to say something, but was afraid he’d combust the moment he opened his mouth.

The motion sensor bell above the entrance gave a delicate chime as you stepped inside.

Warmth. That was the first thing you noticed. The air was heavy with scent–rich amber, something floral, and a hint of musk that made you think of bare skin and tangled sheets. The walls were soft matte cream, accented with blush pink panels and gold railings. Velvet display tables lined the floor with bralettes folded like secrets and panties laid out in precise rows, every pair a whisper of silk or mesh or lace. The mannequins were tall, faceless, draped in slip dresses and see-through robes that shimmered when the light hit them. The ceiling lights were low and gold-tinted, casting everything in honey.

It didn’t feel like a store.

It felt like a bedroom someone loved you in.

Bob hovered just inside the threshold, blinking once, twice. His eyes flickered towards the displays and then were quickly pulled away–like just making eye contact with a lace thong might ignite him on the spot, because all he could picture was you in them. His jaw worked as he swallowed, throat visibly bobbing.

You moved casually to one of the racks, fingers drifting across rows of soft underwire and balconette bras. Pale lilacs, buttery creams, deep navy satins. You held up one and studied the lace against the light, just enough stretch to hint at comfort–just enough sheerness to suggest anything but.

Behind you, Bob stayed rooted.

He looked like he was trying to figure out how to hold his breath and exhale at the same time.

“Wonder who she’s going to wear that for…”

The whisper was cold. Low. Inside his skull, it slithered between his thoughts like oil on water.

“Probably someone who can touch her without trembling. Someone who doesn’t have to fight off every part of himself just to keep his hands at his sides.”

Bob stiffened.

The Void didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. He only had to lean close enough that the words touched a nerve already raw.

“You think she’ll let them take it off slow?” The voice purred, mockingly curious. “Or will they rip it off with their teeth?”

Bob shut his eyes at that comment, trying to shake it off as much as he possibly could, attempting to not show any weakness, or to make you aware of the fact he was hearing something.

When he opened his eyes again, you were holding two bras–one powdered blue, and the other a dark red–in one hand, and a sheer black babydoll slip in another. You glanced up at him with an expression that was maddeningly unreadable.

Casual, but not distant. Confident, but not arrogant.

Intimate.

Then you turned to the nearby fitting room attendant–a woman dressed in a long mauve cardigan and platform shoes that made her look taller than she was–and asked:

“Do you allow, like…Second opinions in the fitting room?” Motioning to Bob behind you. She glanced up from her clipboard and smiled.

”Course we do…Happens all the time.” You turned back to Bob, and this time your smile was unmistakable.

”Perfect, cause I’m going to need your opinion.” You said softly.

“I-I don’t know much about l-lingerie…” Bob stammered, frozen in place like his shoes were bolted to the floor.

You raised an eyebrow, tone light but edged with something quieter. “But you definitely know what would look good.” You turned just slightly, letting your voice drop just a little–low and warm, like a match striking the dark. “And maybe I value your opinion.”

That did it.

Bob swallowed so hard you heard it.

“…O-Okay,” He murmured, nodding once. His voice cracked just slightly around the edges, and he followed you past the velvet rope into the fitting room hallway.

The rooms were small–just a few feet wide–but the space inside felt private. Dim golden lighting pooled softly overhead, like candlelight filtered through sheer fabric. There was a bench beneath the mirror, a small side table holding a glass bowl of lavender-wrapped mints, and a faint scent of fruity body spray hung in the air–berries and peach and something a little more sugary than it needed to be. The floor was carpeted in pale rose, and the door had a long mirror mounted across it, angled to reflect the whole space in a soft, diffused glow.

“Sit,” you said gently, motioning toward the bench as you placed your items on the hook. Bob obeyed without argument, setting his shopping bag beside him. His knees knocked slightly as he sank down, hands fidgeting in his lap.

You reached for the hem of your sweater.

He inhaled sharply.

You peeled it over your head slowly–not teasing–but it still left the air crackling. Beneath it, you wore a soft, ice-toned bra that hugged your figure perfectly, the lace delicate across the cups, and the straps tucked lightly over your shoulders. Your skin was warm from the air in the store, flushed faintly from the earlier walk.

Bob didn’t dare speak. But his breath hitched again.

There was a mirror in front of you. You met his eyes in it.

He was already looking.

You lifted the two bras, powdered blue in one hand and dark red in the other, the lace delicate and soft beneath your fingers.

“Which one should I try on first?” You asked, keeping your tone even, but watching him carefully in the mirror.

His lips parted. “W-Whichever one y-you want,” He said, too quickly. His voice wobbled a bit, but he didn’t look away.

“Hmm.” You considered. “Then blue it is.”

You turned your back slightly–not to hide, but just enough to unclasp the bra you were wearing. You let the straps fall from your shoulders, slow and smooth, the lace sliding down your skin like a secret. You didn’t cover yourself immediately. You didn’t rush. You let your chest rise with a slow breath, your bare skin catching the warm light like satin, full and soft, your nipples slightly pebbled from the air.

You could see him in the mirror.

Bob looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

His knuckles were white against the bench. His thighs were tight. His eyes locked on your reflection with reverence and disbelief, lips parted like he was about to speak, but couldn’t find words. Like he was choking on awe.

You clasped the powdered blue bra in front first, then twisted it around your torso to hook it at the back. The lace molded to your breasts beautifully, lifting them just enough, shaping you with a soft elegance that made you smile faintly to yourself.

“Oh,” You said, tilting your head at your reflection, “Wait…I’m missing something.”

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your sweatpants, and began to push them down slowly–inch by inch, letting the soft fabric slide along your thighs, past your knees, pooling at your ankles.

You stepped out of them in just your red underwear.

They were lace-trimmed–soft, but revealing. Dark red against your skin, high at the hips, clinging just enough to show the dip of your waist and the curve where your thighs met.

“I guess you’ll just have to picture the matching color,” you said, voice warm and coy, glancing back at him through the mirror.

Bob looked like he might combust.

His eyes darted from your back to your hips, then quickly to your reflection again. His jaw was clenched tight, but his breathing was uneven–shaky in that way you’d come to recognize when his emotions were spiraling between restraint and something far deeper. Something harder to control.

You stepped closer to the mirror, smoothing a hand over your hip.

“I like the way this one fits,” You murmured, more to yourself than to him, but still loud enough to let it hang in the air like perfume. You ran your palms lightly down the lace of the powdered blue bra, watching your own fingers in the mirror–how they traced the delicate embroidery along the cups, how the fabric hugged your shape like a secret.

Bob’s breath was shallow. You didn’t have to turn to know. You could feel the heat coming off him from across the room like it had its own gravitational pull.

Your eyes met his in the mirror.

He was already looking–face flushed, mouth parted slightly, the soft tremble of his hands now visible where they gripped the edge of the bench.

“I-It looks…” He started, voice catching in the back of his throat. He swallowed thickly. “…It looks really nice.”

You raised a brow, a smirk drawing up on your lips. “Nice?”

His gaze flicked away instinctively, but he couldn’t keep it there. His eyes found you again–first your reflection, then the lace against your chest, and back to your mouth.

“I–I mean it looks…r-really good. On you. I mean…” He was unraveling by the syllable. You let the silence stretch for a beat, then hummed softly as your fingers continued gliding over the cups. You shifted your weight a little, hips tilting as you turned sideways in the mirror.

“Definitely a contender,” You sighed thoughtfully.

Then, without turning around, you reached for the next piece.

The babydoll slip–black, sheer, soft as smoke in your hands. It shimmered subtly in the golden lighting, the thin mesh draping across your fingers like a sigh.

You unclasped the powdered blue bra again, letting it slide from your body with one smooth motion. You didn’t cover yourself.

Bob’s inhale was so sharp it sounded like pain.

You stepped slightly back from the mirror, barer now than you had been before–shoulders relaxed, chest lifted with slow breath. Your nipples had peaked again in the cold air. You knew what you were doing. But you weren’t mocking him. This wasn’t a power play.

It was clarity. Honesty. Boldness.

You bent forward slowly to slide the babydoll over your thighs, letting the hem fall like liquid ink as you straightened. The mesh was translucent–barely there–and the neckline dipped into a deep, soft plunge that framed your chest beautifully. The fabric caught on your curves in all the right places before settling delicately around the swell of your hips.

Bob stared like he’d forgotten his own name.

Because when you bent forward, his eyes had dropped–not out of lechery, but because something inside him shattered. The long slope of your back, the shape of your ass in those red lace underwear, the stretch of your thighs beneath sheer fabric–it burned into him like holy fire.

And then–

“She is divine.”

The words didn’t come from Bob.

They rang in his head–low and velvet and terrible in its beauty. Sentry’s voice.

“She’s carved from the very atoms that undo me. She was made to be worshipped. Look at her. Look at her and tell me that heaven doesn’t kneel at her feet.”

Bob blinked, eyes wide and glassy.

Sentry wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t demanding control. But he was there.

Watching. Wanting.

“Let me touch her,” The voice whispered again, smoother this time. “Let me hold her the way she deserves. Just once. Just once, I swear–”

Bob pressed his palms hard to his thighs. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even breathe properly.

Because even without Sentry’s voice curling like gold-leaf flames through his thoughts, the image in front of him would’ve undone him.

You adjusted the thin straps gently, your fingers brushing across the neckline. The mesh hugged the curve of your breasts and fell soft as shadow over your waist. You looked like something from a fever dream–ethereal, vulnerable, and completely, deliberately real.

Then you turned slightly, catching his gaze again in the mirror.

The hem of the babydoll swayed just above mid-thigh, sheer and impossibly delicate. You brought your fingers down to it, rubbing the mesh slowly between your thumb and forefinger–absently, like you were testing the texture, like this was just another thing to consider.

But it wasn’t absent.

Not with the way his eyes followed every movement like they were tethered to your hands.

You turned around slowly.

Bob was still sitting on the bench, his back rigid against the wall, his hands planted hard on his thighs like they were the only things anchoring him in place. His jaw was slack, his lips parted. His pupils were blown, but not entirely black–there was still a sliver of that tender blue left in them, touched now with something gold and shimmering around the edges. The faintest glow. Like sunrise barely breaching the horizon.

They weren’t just his eyes anymore.

They were all watching you.

And god, he looked so beautiful like that–wrecked and reverent, trembling and quiet, staring up at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

You stepped closer.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

His eyes trailed up your body–your thighs, the curve of your hips beneath the mesh, your waist, your breasts barely concealed beneath the sheer fabric. And then they met yours again, wide and pleading.

And then, quietly, hoarsely, like the words were made of splinters:

“W-Why are you doing this t-to me?”

His voice cracked in the middle–soft and aching. He looked up at you like you had your hands around his ribcage and were squeezing. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted you to let go or hold tighter.

The lighting in the room caught his face just right–glossed over and glowing. You saw it clearly now, that strange shimmering in his irises–blue and gold, and something ghost-white blooming near the pupils. A storm barely held at bay.

You tilted your head, slow and deliberate, your tone laced with innocence.

“Doing what?”

His breath hitched.

“T-Torturing me…Y/N…”

The way he said your name–it landed like prayer in the quiet.

You didn’t answer right away. You just stepped closer, close enough for your knees to touch the edge of the bench, close enough for the hem of the slip to brush his knuckles.

His fingers twitched. Tightened. Dug into his thighs like he was trying to keep them there. Trying not to move, not to reach, not to shatter.

You shook your head softly.

“I’m not torturing you…” You murmured.

Then you leaned down slowly, slowly–until your lips hovered near his ear, until your voice was a secret you whispered against his skin.

“I’m making it obvious.”

And then you took his wrists.

Gently. Carefully. Like he was something sacred.

You guided his trembling hands up, your fingers wrapped around his wrists like ribbons, until they reached the curve of your hips. You placed them there–held them there.

Warmth.

His palms grazed the mesh first, then the shape of you underneath. He didn’t grip. Not yet. His breath stuttered like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. But then you gave him a tiny nod–barely perceptible, but real.

He got the hint.

His fingers spread slightly, molding to your skin. One thumb brushed lightly over the edge of the lace waistband. His breath caught like it physically hurt, and he looked up at you like you’d handed him the sun and told him not to blink.

He was already shaking.

You watched his expression shift–fear and awe, restraint and need, all woven together. The Sentry’s reverence. The Void’s hunger. And Bob’s aching, terrified love.

“Y/N…” He breathed, like your name was the only thing holding him together.

Then you just whispered:

”Touch me Bob.”

He gulped audibly, before he began to move slowly, like he thought rushing might wake him from a dream he wasn’t ready to lose. His palms traced the curve of your waist with agonizing care, sliding from the edge of your hips down over the soft slope of your thighs. His fingers splayed slightly, grazing the lace along the top of your underwear, then drifting lower. Each pass was like worship–like the act of memorizing, not exploring. He breathed out softly, the sound shaky, a quiet exhale against the electric silence of the room.

You let go of his wrists then and brought your hands up slowly, fingers brushing along the curve of his jaw until your palms framed his face, cradling him with a tenderness you hadn’t dared give voice to until now.

His skin was warm–feverish almost. You rubbed your thumbs lightly under his eyes, brushing along the shadows there, and his breath hitched. His lashes fluttered shut, lips parting just slightly, like he was absorbing every ounce of contact through his bones.

God, he was touch-starved.

You could feel it in how he leaned into your hands without even realizing it, like he was afraid if he pulled away, he’d lose the only safe thing left in the world.

You leaned down.

And pressed a kiss to his cheek–slow and gentle. You felt the tremble run through him like a current.

Then you whispered, barely louder than a breath:

“Do you know how long I’ve liked you, Bob?” His jaw clenched. You felt the subtle twitch beneath your fingertips–right before his nails grazed your thighs, dragging lightly through the skin just beneath the mesh. Not enough to scratch. But enough to leave a trail of heat in their wake.

He shook his head.

Not in disbelief–but like the truth was too big to imagine. Too painful to hope for.

You kissed his other cheek–longer this time. Slower. Your breath curled against his skin as you whispered:

“I’ve liked you since the very beginning…” Your voice cracked just faintly with the weight of it. “…I thought I was unworthy of you.”

His head snapped slightly–not harsh, just desperate–as he finally opened his eyes and looked at you again. And for a moment, all you could see was grief. Longing. The pain of every silent night and missed opportunity that had nearly broken the two of you apart.

And still, his hands didn’t stop moving.

They drifted up again, this time underneath the sheer babydoll, sliding over the skin of your waist, and your ribs slowly. He stopped at the waistband of your underwear–just resting there, barely touching, thumbs rubbing soft circles against your hips like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to be here.

You leaned in again–closer this time.

And kissed him.

It was slow. Deep. Sensual.

Not rushed. Not greedy.

It was the kind of kiss you gave someone who’d been starving for too long. Someone who didn’t know what it felt like to be wanted in the open. Someone who still didn’t believe he was enough.

Bob moaned into it–so soft, so desperate it broke something inside you.

His arms wrapped around your waist before he even realized they had moved. He pulled you in tight, like gravity wasn’t enough on its own. His hands slid along your back and dipped beneath the mesh to hold your skin like it anchored him to this moment. His lips trembled slightly against yours, but he didn’t pull away.

If anything, he kissed you harder. Like he couldn’t bear the thought of the space that had existed between you ever again. What started as soft and reverent turned hungry in a heartbeat. Bob’s mouth opened just slightly, enough for his teeth to catch your bottom lip, the faintest scrape sending a spark straight to your core. You gasped into him–eyes fluttering–and your fingers tightened in his hair, threading through the golden strands and tugging gently, just to feel the way he responded.

He groaned.

It was guttural–low and raw and laced with a desperation you hadn’t heard before. It rumbled out of his chest like he couldn’t contain it, like your touch had coaxed something from the deepest part of him that had been waiting for permission to surface.

His hands slipped downward, slow but deliberate, ghosting over the curve of your hips, down the backs of your thighs–and then suddenly he was gripping you, lifting you just enough to guide you into his lap.

You straddled him.

The motion made your sheer slip flutter like smoke around his knees, pooling soft against his hoodie. Your thighs slid across the firm shape of his lap, settling on either side of him. You could feel him now–hard beneath you, restrained but unmistakable–and it made your breath catch again, the heat between your legs pulsing in time with your heart.

Bob’s hands curled into your thighs, like he needed to hold on or risk falling apart completely. His mouth found yours again with more force this time–messier, wetter, desperate in the way he kissed you like he was trying to drink you in. There was no hesitation anymore. Just need.

One hand slid up your back, warm under the slip, his palm splayed between your shoulder blades, pulling you down into him. The other stayed low, gripping the swell of your thigh, fingertips brushing against the crease where your leg met your body. The way he held you–tight and trembling–sent shivers down your spine.

You moaned softly into his mouth, rolling your hips once against him–slow and intentional. The friction made both of you gasp. He bucked up instinctively, just slightly, just enough, and you broke the kiss with a shaky inhale, your forehead pressing to his.

He looked wrecked.

Flushed and panting, eyes half-lidded and dazed with lust. His chest heaved beneath your hands as you smoothed them along his jaw and down to his collarbones, feeling the pulse hammering in his neck like it might burst through skin.

“I–I don’t know h-how to stop,” He whispered, voice frayed and cracking like old paper. “You…Y-You feel like heaven…”

You smiled softly, still breathless. Your hands cupped his face again, grounding him.

“I know.”

His hands moved again–one sliding along your ribs, the other dipping beneath the hem of your underwear now, just barely brushing the curve of your ass. You shivered.

“I’ve w-wanted you for so long…” He admitted, like it was being torn from him. You kissed him again–quicker this time, mouths opening, tongues brushing in heat–but as your hips rocked once more against him, you felt the coil tightening too fast.

His hands were trembling. His breath was shaking. And you knew if you didn’t stop now, you wouldn’t.

Your breath hitched–just once–before you pulled back.

Still straddling him, still shaking, still so close it felt like any more contact might ignite both of you into ruin. But you reached up, pressed your hands to the sides of his face, and whispered through ragged breath:

“…We can’t do this here.”

Bob’s eyes searched yours–wide, dazed, glassy with restraint he was barely holding onto.

“I want to,” You continued, voice low, your forehead resting against his. “God, I want to. But not like this. Not here. Not where I can’t fall apart properly. Not when I can’t take my time with you.”

He made a sound in his throat–half-groan, half-whimper–and his hips rocked up into you once, instinctively, helplessly.

You gasped, eyes fluttering shut for a second as his erection pressed against your center through the thin layers. Heat bloomed through your core like wildfire.

His hands trembled against you.

”I-I agree…” He whispered. But his voice crack, like it nearly broke him to say it, “I d-don’t want our f-first time t-to be rushed. I c-can’t…” His words were barely audible now, and you could hear the raw self-control in them, stretched to its limits.

With shaking hands, he shifted beneath you, guiding your hips off him gently–like it hurt to let you go. His fingers gripped the waistband of his sweatpants, adjusted awkwardly, then quietly, discreetly tucked himself up into his waistband to conceal the obvious hardness straining against the fabric. He hissed through his teeth at the contact–too sensitive now, too desperate–but he made himself breathe through it.

You slid off his lap fully, legs still trembling, and reached forward with slow, tender hands to fix his hair where your fingers had tugged it out of place. His eyes closed at your touch, his whole body leaning forward like he was still chasing the heat of you.

You smiled faintly, still breathless. Your voice was a hushed vow.

“I’m gonna change,” You murmured, pressing one last kiss to his jaw. “Then we’re gonna buy these…”

You stepped back just enough to meet his eyes fully, gaze dark with promise.

“…And speed back to the compound. Because I want you so fucking bad right now it hurts.”

Bob nearly collapsed.

His knees buckled slightly where he sat, his head tipped back against the wall like he needed the cold surface to keep from slipping under. A choked noise escaped him–almost a laugh, almost a moan–and he covered his face with both hands, exhaling like your words had hit him in the soul.

You leaned forward, just close enough to murmur in his ear before pulling away.

“Get ready, Bob. Because when we get back…I’m not holding back either.”

And then you turned toward the hooks on the wall, your slip still clinging to your skin, your thighs still warm from where you’d pressed into him.

Behind you, Bob stayed silent.

But if you had looked, you would’ve seen his hands still trembling in his lap… and a faint golden glow returning to the edges of his irises–bright, divine, and waiting.

———————

The drive back to the compound was electric. You could feel it in the air–like static clinging to your skin. Bob sat in the passenger seat, trying so hard to keep his breathing steady, his hands folded neatly in his lap for the first five minutes.

But then…His hand slid to your thigh.

It wasn’t casual.

It wasn’t accidental.

His palm settled there slowly, like he was testing a boundary he was terrified to cross–but desperate to claim. The weight of it was warm, grounding. But his fingers…They weren’t still.

They flexed.

Gripped.

Curled gently into the softness of your skin where your sweatpants were bunched up mid-thigh. His thumb dragged a slow, agonizing stroke along the inside, brushing just beneath the fabric, right where the heat of you still pulsed from earlier. The contact was searing. Deliberate. Just barely restrained.

You sucked in a quiet breath, knuckles tightening on the steering wheel.

Bob didn’t say anything. But you could see it in his jaw—the way it flexed, locked, trembled. He was holding back. Every time his fingers inched higher, he stopped himself. Every time your legs shifted wider to invite him closer, his hand tensed like he was fighting himself not to slide his fingers past the waistband and straight into the wet heat waiting for him.

His forehead pressed lightly to the passenger window, eyes shut tight, breath fogging the glass. You didn’t need to hear the words to know what he was thinking.

It was written all over him.

I want her. I need her. I can’t lose control. Not yet. Not here.

But god, it was killing him.

And it was killing you.

The second you pulled into the underground garage of the compound and shifted the car into park, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the entire drive. His hand slid away reluctantly, fingertips dragging along your thigh like he didn’t want to leave the heat of you.

You didn’t speak. You just moved quickly–grabbing the shopping bags, handing him his, your hands shaking faintly as you both made your way across the garage toward the elevator.

The doors opened with a soft chime.

You stepped inside.

And the moment they closed behind you–

He dropped everything.

The bags hit the floor with a soft thud.

And then he kissed you.

There was no hesitation this time. No fear. No silence.

Just lips crashing into yours, hands gripping your waist, pulling you into him like he needed to feel your heartbeat to survive. His mouth devoured yours–hot, messy, open. Tongues sliding, breath catching. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was starving.

You moaned into it–high and breathless–and your fingers flew to his hair, threading through the light brown strands and tugging, pulling, just to hear the noise it dragged out of him.

He groaned into your mouth–deep and ragged–and the sound nearly dropped you to your knees.

His hips pinned you gently to the elevator wall, just enough pressure to feel the tension simmering through both of you. One hand gripped your jaw, the other slid under the hem of your hoodie, palm splayed wide across your back, hot and insistent.

You didn’t stop kissing him. You couldn’t. Your hands slid down his chest, grabbing fistfuls of the hoodie that still smelled like cedar and warmth and him, clinging as his tongue swept against yours again, this time slower. Dirtier.

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open–

Empty hallway, no shoes, meaning nobody was there.

Thank god.

You broke apart with a gasp, both of you breathing like you’d just survived something. Bob’s eyes were glassy, his cheeks flushed, his lips wet.

Without a word, you both grabbed the bags–awkwardly, fumbling through the haze–and half-stumbled into the hallway. The bags were dumped just inside the entryway, forgotten the second they hit the floor.

Then he grabbed you again.

Lifted you.

You squealed, legs wrapping around his waist like instinct, arms flinging around his shoulders. He kissed you again immediately–hot, breathless, unrelenting. Your back hit the hallway wall once, a gentle thud, before he adjusted you higher, hands gripping under your thighs.

You moaned into his mouth as his tongue slid over yours again, kissing like he was burning from the inside out.

And he was.

Bob groaned against your lips, stumbling forward as he carried you–still wrapped around him–down the hallway, toward his room. You nipped at his lower lip, then kissed it better. You dragged your hands through his hair again, tugging just enough to make him gasp your name into your mouth like a confession.

He barely made it into his room.

The door slammed shut behind him with a muffled thud, his hand still pressed flat against it while the other clutched you tight to his body–your thighs locked around his waist, breath hot and mingling as he chased your lips again like a man starved. He didn’t even bother to turn the light on. He didn’t need it.

The afternoon sun spilled through his window in golden ribbons, catching in his messy hair and painting long streaks across the floor, the wall, your bare thighs where they clung to his hips. It made everything feel dipped in amber–molten and slow and holy.

He pulled back for just a second–just to look at you–and then carried you toward the bed in a few staggering steps. The second his knees hit the edge, he dropped you onto the mattress with a breathless grunt.

You bounced lightly on impact, letting out a startled giggle as your back met the sheets. Your hair fanned across his dark comforter like a halo, and your eyes sparkled in the soft light. Bob just stood there for a second, staring.

His hair was a complete mess–flushed cheeks, chest rising and falling fast beneath his hoodie, lips kiss-swollen and parted like he was still catching up to what was happening. But his eyes looked like they were drinking in the sight of you. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Then he dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed and leaned over you, catching your mouth again in a kiss that was gentler this time—slower. He kissed down your jaw next, reverent and shaky, then down your throat, his lips soft and open, trembling against the skin of your neck.

And then, like it broke loose from him before he could stop it, he whispered—

“G-God, I can’t believe you’re on m-my bed right now.”

His voice cracked on the word “bed,” and the wonder in it made your heart catch.

You laughed softly, breath brushing his cheek as you reached up and cupped his face.

“Well…” You murmured, stroking your thumb along the edge of his jaw. “You better believe it. I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, glassy and overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with all the softness you were offering. You traced your fingers down his cheek, and he leaned into the touch instinctively–then turned his head and pressed a kiss to the very tips of your fingers. One, then two, then three. Each kiss was slow, sacred, like a promise he couldn’t speak out loud.

And then–wordlessly, breath trembling–he sat up just enough to tug the hem of his hoodie over his head. His shirt followed, wrinkled and clinging, and when it came off, your breath caught.

God, he was beautiful.

Not just in the obvious way–though that was undeniable. He was all lean lines and pale shimmering skin, scattered with light brown freckles and stretch marks that caught in the light like constellations. But it was the rawness of him that undid you–the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his stomach tensed as your eyes moved over him, the way he looked down like he was afraid you’d flinch or look away.

You sat up without a word and ran your hands slowly along the ridges of his stomach, smoothing your palms over the heat of his skin. He gasped quietly at the contact, breath catching in his throat, but didn’t stop you.

You leaned in, pressed a soft kiss just below his sternum. Then another, a little lower. Then another along the edge of a faded scar near his ribs.

“You’re so fucking handsome, Bob,” You whispered between kisses. “Do you know that?”

He shook his head–too stunned to respond–and you laughed softly against his skin, letting your mouth trail lower. You kissed the slope of his abs, the dip of his waist, the notch between his hip and belly, letting your lips worship every inch like it was sacred. His hands hovered near your shoulders, shaking slightly, like he didn’t know whether to touch you or to fall to pieces.

“I could do this forever,” You whispered.

He let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a whimper, his hand coming to rest lightly at the crown of your head. Just the tips of his fingers. Just enough to anchor him.

You looked up at him from where you knelt between his legs, kissed his navel one more time–and then you felt it.

His hands sliding down slowly to the hem of your sweater.

They hesitated.

Shaking.

“C-Can I?” He whispered.

His voice was so reverent. Like he was asking to peel back the sky.

You nodded.

“Please.”

And then–very carefully, like he was unwrapping something fragile—Bob tugged your sweater up and over your head, slow and tender, his fingers brushing your skin like he didn’t trust himself not to tremble.

The sweater hit the floor, and the golden afternoon light spilled over your body like it was meant to find you there. His hands hovered midair–still trembling slightly from where they’d dragged your sweater off–his breath held tight in his chest, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to look, even now. Even after everything. His eyes were wide and glassy, lips parted, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, gaze dragging slowly over every inch of you like he was memorizing a prayer in real time.

Not because of what you were wearing. Not because of what you weren’t. But because it was you. Because you were here. In his room. In his bed. In his light.

The sunlight struck you like it was trying to worship too–glinting off the curves of your collarbone, catching in the soft line of your bra, painting warm shadows between the valley of your breasts and the slope of your shoulders. You looked almost surreal like that–so warm and real and close. Like a daydream he hadn’t dared put words to.

He exhaled–slow and ragged–and brought one hand forward, palm outstretched, fingers splayed like he was reaching toward something celestial.

His voice, when it came, was soft. Awed.

“Y-You’re…You’re r-radiant…”

The word barely made it past his lips.

You gave him a small, teasing smile, though your heart ached with the way he looked at you–like you were something sacred that might break if touched too roughly. Like if he blinked, you might be gone.

“You make it sound like I’m glowing,” You whispered.

He nodded without hesitation.

“You are.” And then finally, he touched you.

His fingertips met the soft skin of your waist first, brushing just above the band of your underwear, and sweatpants.

They lingered there, delicate and trembling, as if your warmth might scorch him. Then he slid them up slowly—achingly slowly—over your ribs, along the side of your body, until his palm flattened just beneath your breast. He stopped there. Just breathed. His forehead gently bowed until it pressed to your sternum like he was saying grace.

“I-I don’t…” He murmured against your skin, “I d-don’t know how I’m s-supposed to survive this…”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head, and whispered against the crown of it, “Think we just need to take it one step at a time…I’m sure you’ll be okay.”

He groaned quietly–like the weight of that kindness broke something in him–and kissed the center of your chest. Then he kissed lower. And lower. His mouth moving with aching gentleness, like every kiss was a vow.

When he reached your bra strap, he paused. Pressed a final kiss to the edge of the cup.

“C-Can I take this off?” He asked, voice hoarse with restraint.

You nodded slowly, arching slightly to help him.

He unclasped it with careful fingers–then pulled it away like he was parting the curtain of a temple. His eyes drank you in with a hunger that was soft, not frantic. Worshipful. Full of wonder and heat. His eyes drifted over the soft slope of your chest, the way your breasts rose and fell with your breath, the subtle curve of skin that caught the golden afternoon light like it had been painted there just for him. He didn’t speak at first. Just exhaled slowly, shakily, like the air itself was too heavy to hold.

Then, slowly, he lowered his head.

The first kiss he pressed to the top of your breast was featherlight. His lips barely grazed your skin before pulling back again, his breath shaky as he let his mouth trail across the other side. A small, broken sound escaped him.

“Oh my g-god…” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Y-You feel…you feel so soft…”

He brought his hand up next–tentatively–his fingers trembling slightly as they cupped the underside of one breast. His thumb brushed gently along the outer curve, then rose higher, tracing lightly across the peak without quite touching your nipple. His palm was warm–big and careful, like he didn’t want to squeeze too hard and break the moment.

“I-I didn’t know skin could be this s-soft,” He stammered, his breath catching again as he glanced up at you–eyes glassy, wide, rimmed faintly in gold and white. “Y-You’re…y-you’re beautiful. You’re–y-you’re so–”

He broke off, shaking his head slightly like the words just couldn’t come fast enough. Like none of them were enough.

Then he dipped his head again–lower this time.

His lips trailed slowly toward the center of your chest, kissing along the swell until they hovered just beside your nipple. His breath fanned warm against the sensitive skin there, and he hesitated for a beat–watching your face.

You met his gaze. And nodded.

Your fingers slid gently into his hair, threading through the soft waves at the crown of his head, grounding him.

That was all the encouragement he needed.

He leaned in and kissed right beside your nipple. Softly. Gently. Like a promise. Then again, this time a little closer. Your breath hitched, your grip tightening just slightly in his hair. His lips brushed over the hardened peak, not yet sucking, just dragging over it, teasing. His tongue flicked once, testing the heat of you there.

You gasped.

And that sound made something snap loose in him.

He groaned–low and shaky–then parted his lips and sucked your nipple into his mouth.

The heat of it sent a shock through you. His mouth was so warm, so tender–his tongue swirling softly as he drew you in deeper, sucking just enough to make your hips twitch beneath him. His eyes didn’t close. They stayed open–locked on yours, half-lidded and burning with something too big for either of you to name.

You saw it then–the faint shimmer of white blooming in his pupils, gold dust clinging to the edges like light at the center of a storm. But it was still him. He was in full control.

Your head tilted back as you moaned, your fingers tightening in his hair as he sucked harder, moaning softly against your breast like the taste of you undid him. His other hand rose to cup the untouched breast, squeezing gently, thumbing the nipple as his mouth continued lavishing the other. You could feel his fingers shake, even now. Could feel how hard he was trying to stay grounded, to stay present. Not because he didn’t want to lose control.

But because he wanted you to know he was choosing this.

Choosing you.

Every second. Every touch.

He moaned again against your skin, then pulled back just slightly–your nipple slipping from his mouth with a soft, wet sound. His lips were red now, kiss-swollen and damp, his breath heavy and ragged. He looked up at you again, and god, the look in his eyes–

Wrecked, and still trying to believe this was real.

“S-So beautiful…” His mouth was already moving to your other breast. His tongue traced a slow, trembling circle around the nipple first, warm breath hitting the damp skin as his hand continued to gently knead the other. Then he sealed his mouth over the soft peak and sucked.

Your back arched, a sound slipping from your lips that wasn’t quite a moan but something deeper, hungrier. He moaned too–low and hot–against your chest like the taste of you was dragging the restraint from his bones. His hips shifted at the same time, a slow grind of heat against heat, and the sudden pressure of him rubbing up between your legs made you cry out softly, gasping.

Your fingers threaded tighter into his hair.

He grunted softly against you, and then his free hand–shaking but sure–found yours, linking your fingers together like he needed to anchor himself. His grip wasn’t tight. Just intimate. A promise made skin-to-skin.

He pulled off your breast with a soft, wet pop, and his mouth was pink and glistening now, his lips parted and jaw slack like he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted, the way you looked writhing beneath him.

“G-God…” he whispered, breath hitching as he rutted forward again—slow, desperate, a grind that made your hips twitch up to meet him. “I–I want to worship every inch of you… I–I wanna taste every goddamn part of your skin until you’re c-crying my name.” Your eyes blew wide at that. Your breath caught. A sound–needy, wrecked–escaped you.

“Bob…” He sat up, only for a second.

Just long enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants. He glanced up for permission–barely–but you nodded, hips lifting instinctively. That was all he needed.

He peeled them off slowly–achingly slow–dragging the fabric down your thighs, over your knees, baring more of you with every inch, and he hummed at the sight of the red underwear before him, smiling. Your fingers curled into the comforter beneath you.

“Bob…Please…” He looked up sharply at that–like the sound of your desperation hit him somewhere primal.

And then he bent forward.

His mouth pressed kisses to the inside of one thigh. Then the other.

Slow. Gentle. Worshipful.

Then he did it again–lower. This time, his lips parted, and his tongue slid out just enough to lick a stripe upward along the soft skin near the edge of your underwear. You cried out, hips twitching, and his hands immediately pinned them gently down–holding you steady, grounding you.

He groaned–louder now–pressing his nose briefly to your inner thigh, his breath hot as he inhaled the scent of you. It made his whole body shudder.

You were soaked.

The dark spot on your underwear was undeniable, and when his eyes locked on it, he cursed again under his breath.

“Y-You’re so wet…”

“Bob,” you whimpered, breathless and shaking, “Please…Please touch me. I need your mouth, I–I need it so bad, I’m fucking aching.”

He pressed a kiss just beside the wet spot.

“Shhh…I-I’m gonna take my time with you…” He murmured–his voice lower now, slipping toward something more controlled but just as desperate. Bob pressed another kiss to your soaked underwear–right at the center this time–his lips lingering just long enough for the damp heat to soak into him, his breath shaking as he pulled back slightly.

Then he did it again.

And again.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses. Each one slower than the last, his mouth dragging across the wet fabric like he wanted to memorize the shape of you through it.

You whimpered, thighs trembling beneath his palms.

“B-Bob–” You gasped, voice cracking, “Please, please don’t tease, I c-can’t–god, I need you–need your mouth…” A broken sound spilled from his chest. Somewhere between a moan and a plea.

“Y-You don’t even know what you’re d-doing to me.” His fingers curled around the sides of your underwear, and you lifted your hips for him, trembling with anticipation as he slid the lace down your thighs–inch by aching inch. His knuckles brushed the heat of your slick folds as he worked the fabric over your legs, and his breath caught sharply.

When they hit your knees, he paused–pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh, then slid the panties the rest of the way off.

He balled the lace softly in one hand.

Then tossed them aside like they were no longer necessary in the world.

His hands returned to your legs, and this time he gripped them firmly–fingers splayed wide as he lifted them, draped them over his shoulders, and leaned in until your thighs framed his face like a crown.

You gasped, hips twitching upward toward him, but he just…Looked.

Stared like he was witnessing something holy.

And then he exhaled–slow and trembling–and lowered his hands to your stomach.

His palms spread flat against your skin, fingers splaying across the soft curve just above your hips. The warmth of them grounded you, anchoring you, keeping you from floating away.

“I’ve d-dreamed about this,” He whispered, voice trembling with awe. “About touching you here…K-kissing you here…Tasting you…” You whimpered again, one hand flying to his hair, the other clutching the sheets beside you. Your thighs quivered over his shoulders as he bent lower, his thumbs sweeping lightly over your skin, just enough to soothe, but not enough to still the trembling that rolled through your body.

Then he kissed your belly, right at the center.

A slow, open-mouthed kiss that left a trail of heat behind it, and when he pulled back, he blew softly against the spot–his breath cooling the wet spot.

He did it again. Lower.

Kiss. Warm. Lingering.

Then another gentle puff of air that left you gasping, your thighs tightening around his shoulders like your body was trying to anchor him closer.

“Bob,” you whimpered, arching just slightly beneath his touch, your hips shifting like they couldn’t stay still, not when he was this close, not when every breath against your skin made your core pulse with need.

He kept going.

Slow. Measured. Torturous.

He trailed kisses downward–along the soft curve just above your mound, the edge of your pelvis, the place where your thighs met the heat of your center–but never quite where you needed him. His eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time, half-lidded and blown wide with awe, his lips pink and swollen from kissing every inch of you but the one you ached for.

Your hips jerked.

One of your hands clenched the comforter; the other tugged desperately at his hair.

But his hands never moved from your stomach.

He held you there, palms splayed like a vow, thumbs brushing softly across your trembling skin while your legs shook around his neck.

You whimpered again–helpless, broken–and your head tipped back with a soft cry.

He lowered his head.

Pressed a kiss to your inner thigh.

Then another, closer to the edge of your folds.

Then, maddeningly slow, his lips brushed the crease just beside where you needed him the most–so close your whole body jerked.

You choked on a sob.

And then you felt his breath.

Hot and heavy.

And his voice–fragile but burning–just beneath it.

“G-God,” He whispered, eyes still locked on yours, “You’re so pretty when y-you’re begging me for it…”

Your breath hitched, before you let out a small laugh. High, shaky, and helpless.

Because it was true.

You were begging him. Practically sobbing for his mouth. And it was ridiculous and perfect and raw.

Bob gave the faintest smile–soft, wrecked, reverent.

“I-I know I’m gonna regret m-making you do that later,” he added, voice cracking just slightly, “Because when you get me back for it… It’s g-gonna destroy me.”

Your laughter melted into a groan.

”I’m…I’m glad you r-realized that…” Bob’s breath shuddered as he hovered there—face so close you could feel the heat of him, the faint tremble in his jaw as he fought to keep it together. His eyes flicked up through his lashes, locking on yours again. You were already wrecked, trembling, breathless, soaked.

And he hadn’t even started yet.

“W-Well then,” He whispered, his voice hoarse and reverent, like he was offering an apology and a prayer in one, “L-Let me make it up to y-you…”

And then he leaned in.

The first stroke of his tongue made your entire body jolt.

It was slow–just one, long, deliberate drag from the base of your folds all the way up, thick and warm and unhurried. You cried out, hips twitching helplessly, and his hands slid firmer over your stomach to ground you again. His moan vibrated against you, low and guttural, like the taste alone had knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Oh my g-god…” He whispered, his voice cracking apart at the seams. “You…You taste like heaven. L-Like I always knew you would…”

Then he dove back in.

It wasn’t gentle now. It wasn’t shy. It was consuming.

His mouth worked against you like he’d been starved for it–like it was the only thing that could keep him alive. His tongue slid into you, slow and deep, curling with purpose as he moaned against your heat, tasting the slick arousal that pulsed out of you with every trembling breath. He moved like a man who had dreamed of this for too long, cataloged every detail of you in silence, and now, finally, was committing every second to memory with his mouth.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

“B-Bob–” You gasped, high and broken, “Oh my god–”

He groaned again at the sound, the vibration rolling into you as his tongue worked in slow, reverent thrusts–in and out, savoring every drop of you before moving higher. When his mouth finally slid up to your clit, he licked over it once, twice–teasing, lazy strokes–before closing his lips around the swollen bundle of nerves and sucking. Hard enough to make your hips jerk.

Your cry shattered the quiet.

Your thighs clamped around his head instinctively, your back arching off the bed as pleasure slammed through your core like a wave. He held firm–anchored between your legs, groaning low as he kept sucking, then pulled back just slightly.

His mouth hovered, glistening and open, breath fanning hot over your skin. He looked wrecked–lips swollen, chin slick with you, pupils blown wide with lust and awe.

“I-Jesus Christ…” He whispered, his voice lower now, stripped down to something darker. “You taste like sin and sunlight…”

Your breath caught. Your entire body pulsed with heat.

“…And I-I’m never gonna get enough of it.”

Then he was back on you again.

His mouth latched to your clit like he needed to drink from you–his tongue circling, flicking, then flattening to drag over you in waves that left you gasping. One of his hands slid off your stomach, reaching for the fist that was still tangled in the sheets beside you. He laced his fingers with yours, palm to palm, gripping tight as his tongue pressed against you again–wet and hot and desperate. You sobbed his name. Over and over, like a prayer.

“Bob–Bob–I can’t–please, I’m gonna–”

He moaned in response, and the sound vibrated through your entire body. He looked up at you through his lashes–eyes glowing faintly now, gold shimmering at the edges of blue, burning with care and awe. And he didn’t stop. He kept licking, sucking, and teasing you with his mouth like he meant to worship you apart, one tremble at a time.

Your hips bucked. Your thighs trembled. And your fingers tightened around his.

And still he didn’t let go.

As if holding your hand was the most important part. As if every sound you made, every tremor, every sob of his name was sacred, and he was anchoring you to the earth with his mouth and his touch. And you knew you were close.

Because your vision began to blur and your breath stuttered.

His grip only tightened. His mouth sucked harder. His tongue swirled with purpose. And he groaned again like he could taste how close you were. Your thighs trembled harder now–quaking around his head like they were begging to close, to pull him in and keep him there forever. Your chest heaved, hips rising again, trying to meet the maddening rhythm of his mouth. But then–God–

Bob changed.

He growled softly against you–low, primal, almost possessive–and then he truly devoured you.

His lips sealed tighter around your clit, and his tongue pressed harder, flicking and circling in messy, hungry swirls. No more teasing. No more restraint. Just heat. Pressure. Purpose. The wet, obscene sounds of him eating you filled the room, slick and desperate and perfect, and your body–already on the edge–snapped.

Your fingers twisted violently in his hair.

Your other hand, still laced with his, squeezed hard–so hard your knuckles went white.

Your whole body arched off the bed as you cried out–loud and raw, his name a sob torn from your throat.

“Bob–oh my God–I’m coming–I–!”

You were writhing beneath him, bucking, legs trembling uncontrollably as the orgasm ripped through you like fire. Your thighs clamped around his head, your hips stuttering against his face, and he groaned against your core like he loved it–like he lived for the way you shattered under his tongue.

And he didn’t stop.

Not when your legs twitched. Not when you whimpered from oversensitivity. Not when your body shook so hard it felt like you might fall apart. He just kept licking–slow, filthy drags of his tongue, drinking down every drop of your release like it was sacred.

He moaned against your entrance again–tongue sliding in one last time to taste you at the source–then up to your clit, giving it one final suck that made your whole body jolt.

Only when he felt your trembling finally ease–when the spasms softened into aftershocks and your fingers went slack in his hair–did he finally pull back.

His lips were slick. His chin was drenched. His eyes were glazed and golden and wrecked.

He looked like a man undone.

And then–without a word–he kissed your inner thigh once. Then the other. Then the soft curve just above your mound. Worshipful. Devout.

And then he crawled back up your body.

Kissing as he went.

Your hips. Your belly. The center of your chest where your heart still raced. Your collarbone. The underside of your jaw.

By the time he reached your mouth, you were already panting again, lips parted and waiting.

And when he kissed you–it was filthy.

He didn’t hold back. His mouth was slick, desperate, open. He kissed you like he needed you to feel what you’d done to him–how drunk he was on your taste, how ruined he was from the act of loving you with his mouth. His tongue slipped between your lips, and you moaned loudly into him, tasting yourself on him–warm, sweet, dizzying.

And he groaned at the sound, deep and low in his throat, the vibration rattling through your chest.

When he pulled back, his lips were still brushing yours, his breath hot against your cheek.

And then–voice wrecked, rough, so low it was almost a growl–he murmured:

“Y-You taste like you were made for my mouth…And I swear to god, I’d spend the rest of my life between your thighs if you let me.”

Your breath caught. Your legs twitched. Your stomach clenched with fresh heat. You were wrecked and soaked and trembling, and you still wanted him so bad it hurt.

You swallowed, tried to catch your breath–and then smiled, slow and dark and shaking with need.

Your hand slid over his chest.

Your lips brushed his ear.

And you whispered–

“Your turn.”

He blinked—once, then twice—like his brain was trying to catch up to what you meant. And when it finally did, when the meaning soaked through the haze of lust and reverence still clinging to him, he nodded—slowly, shakily.

“O-Okay…” he whispered, voice so soft it was almost a plea. He swallowed hard, chest still rising and falling fast beneath your touch. “B-But you need t-to take it easy on m-me… I’ll e-end up finishing really quick…”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh–gentle and wicked all at once.

“Don’t worry,” you murmured, brushing your nose lightly against his, “Wasn’t planning on making you finish that easily.”

Bob let out a half-choked groan–part embarrassment, part arousal, part awe.

“O-Oh God…”

And then he did exactly what you wanted–let himself fall back against the bed. His hair mussed further into the pillow, cheeks flushed, neck exposed, arms slightly bent at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them. You could tell he wanted to reach for you. Desperately. But he didn’t. He let you take control.

You moved slow.

Straddling him gently, you leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth–then his jaw. Then lower.

The edge of his throat. The hollow of it. The line where his neck met his shoulder.

He shivered.

Your lips traced down to his collarbone, teeth grazing it lightly before you kissed the center. He was so warm. So tense beneath you. You felt it all–every twitch, every catch of breath, every time he shifted beneath your hips like he was already aching.

You smiled against his skin.

Then moved lower.

Your mouth trailed down his chest now, lingering on the freckles scattered across his pecs–those warm, honey-colored constellations that dusted his pale skin like someone had painted the stars on him. You kissed each one that caught your attention.

He whimpered.

Then gasped when your teeth grazed the meat of his pec, a little nip just beside his nipple.

“F-Fuck…” he breathed, hands fisting the sheets at his sides now, his eyes fluttering closed like he couldn’t handle watching you do this to him. “I-It’s t-too much–y-you’re…”

You kissed the center of his chest again. “You okay, Bob?”

He nodded quickly–too quickly. “Y-Yeah, y-yeah, I just–y-you’re killing me…”

You continued your descent.

Lower now. Down the gentle slope of his abdomen, where muscle twitched beneath his skin at your touch. You traced your tongue along the soft trail of hair that led lower, then kissed the spot just below his navel.

That’s when you felt it.

The hardness beneath his sweatpant and boxers–thick and straining, the outline unmistakable against the fabric. He was ready. So ready it nearly made you groan just from the heat of him pressing up into your thigh.

But you didn’t rush.

You kissed around it.

Along his hips. His lower stomach. The spot just above the waistband.

He whimpered again–this time louder, more desperate.

His hips shifted up instinctively, trying to get friction, contact, anything.

You just smiled–sweet, dangerous–and looked up at him.

“Bob,” You murmured, brushing your hand slowly over the waistband, teasing your fingers just beneath it, “What do you say?”

He was panting now. Eyes wide, lips parted, sweat gathering at his brow. His voice cracked when it came.

“I-I’m… I’m sorry f-for teasing you…”

Your eyes glittered.

“Oh?”

He nodded frantically, breath hitching again as your hand slipped fully beneath the waistband–but didn’t pull it down yet.

“P-Please…” He gasped, chest arching up toward you. “I-I’ll never do it again…P-Please, I-I c-can’t–just–please…” Your smile turned downright sinful.

“Good boy,” You whispered.

Your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers together–tugging them down slowly, until the fabric cleared his hips and the tension finally gave way.

You sucked in a breath as he sprang free–thick and flushed and already leaking, the tip glistening with pre-cum and twitching ever so slightly as the cool air hit him. He was…Big. Bigger than you’d expected. Bigger than anyone you’d ever seen before. Long, heavy, impossibly hard, the flushed head slightly curved and swollen with need. And the moment you stared, it hit you in a new way.

His thighs were trembling, his chest heaving. His whole body was braced like he was fighting not to lose it just from being touched.

“Holy fuck, Bob…” You breathed, and the awe in your voice made him twitch again.

He whimpered—actually whimpered—and leaned up onto his elbows, his eyes wide and desperate, golden light faint at the corners of his irises now.

“I-It’s n-not usually… I mean–I-I don’t–” His voice cracked, flustered, like he was about to apologize for the way his erection stood proud and leaking for you, like he was embarrassed for how ready he already was.

You reached out and wrapped one hand gently around the base of him, fingers barely managing to meet. You gave the slightest stroke, thumb brushing along the underside–and watched the way his breath stopped. His hips stuttered upward just barely, like he was trying not to buck.

”Don’t apologize.” You cooed, licking your lips slowly as your eyes dragged up to meet his again. You leaned down, so your breath ghosted over the tip, and his whole body stiffened.

Then your tongue flicked out.

One slow, teasing lick–just a soft, playful swipe across the head, collecting the salty bead of pre-come that had formed there. The taste hit your tongue, warm and slick and uniquely him, and your mouth curled into a smirk as you pulled back just enough to speak.

”You taste so good Bob.” And he felt his arms give out. He dropped back to the bed with a helpless groan, one hand flinging over his face, the other clutching the comforter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this plane of existence.

“I-I c-can’t–oh fuck, I c-can’t survive this…”

You let your grip slide higher along his shaft, fingers gliding with slow, steady pressure until your hand circled just beneath the head. He twitched again, and your thumb gently teased the tip.

“Poor thing,” You murmured, voice syrup-slick and sinful, “Already shaking for me?”

His head tipped back with a moan. “P-Please…”

You bent down again–this time kissing the tip, soft and slow.

Then you opened your mouth.

You took just the head in first, lips sliding over the crown, tongue swirling gently as you let him sit heavy and hot on your tongue. He moaned loudly, his hips twitching again, barely restrained, and his hand shot up to grip the pillow behind his head.

You pulled back, slowly, with a slick pop, then looked up at him again–your lips glossy, your voice low.

“You okay?”

He nodded frantically. “I-I don’t know how m-much of this I-I can take…”

You grinned.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Then you took him back into your mouth–this time deeper, slower, letting your lips stretch around him, inch by inch. You felt every pulse, every twitch of his erection as your tongue pressed beneath the shaft and your throat adjusted. He groaned so loud it echoed through the room, raw and wrecked.

Your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach, slow and firm, while your tongue swirled and licked, teasing that sensitive ridge just beneath the head as you bobbed up and down in a rhythm that had him panting.

“F-Fuck–oh god–please–you’re gonna–g-gonna kill me…”

And you just moaned around him–low and hot–sending vibrations through his entire body. You didn’t stop.

Not when his thighs tensed. Not when his breath hitched. Not even when his hand left the pillow and dropped to your shoulder, fingers flexing like he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold on for dear life.

You kept going. Letting him slide deeper with each pass of your mouth, your lips gliding down his shaft as your tongue pressed and curled beneath him–dragging along the sensitive underside just to hear the way he gasped, then choked, then whimpered your name.

Your hand worked in tandem—fisting around the base of him in slow, steady strokes that kept time with the rhythm of your mouth. And the sounds he made were everything. Guttural, helpless, and pleading. Like he didn’t know whether he was supposed to worship you or fall apart for you.

Then his voice cracked.

“J-Jesus–” He gasped, hips stuttering upward as you took him deep again. “I-I’m–f-fuck, I’m close–!”

You pulled off instantly.

Not cruelly. Not abruptly. Just smooth, controlled, intentional.

His erection slipped free of your mouth with a slick pop, strings of spit still connecting your lips to the tip as it twitched in the air–wet, flushed, leaking.

Bob choked on a sound–half sob, half whimper–and his eyes flew open, dazed and pleading. His chest heaved beneath you, rising and falling in uneven, desperate bursts as his hand shot forward like he didn’t understand why you’d stopped.

You licked your lips.

Saliva coated your mouth, your chin, even your cheek, and you wiped at it absently with the back of your hand–eyes locked on his the entire time.

He looked destroyed. Pink-cheeked and sweat-damp, pupils blown wide and blinking like you’d just left him in the middle of a battlefield without a weapon.

“W-Why’d you…?” He whispered, voice cracking on the edge of devastation. You giggled, sweet and sinful all at once. Then leaned in–close enough for your lips to brush the underside of his jaw.

“I told you,” You murmured, voice velvet-wicked and dripping heat, “I wasn’t planning on letting you finish that easily…”

Bob whimpered again–audibly this time–and his hips twitched like they couldn’t handle the tension coiling inside him. He looked down at himself–still fully hard, twitching, slick from your mouth–and then back at you like you’d committed an act of holy betrayal. You smiled wider.

Then, slowly, you let your hand curl around the base of his erection again–just enough to feel him throb beneath your touch.

He gasped–eyes fluttering shut, head falling back onto the pillow.

“And besides…” You added, voice lower now, dripping promise, “If you’re going to cum anywhere…” You leaned up, brushing your mouth beside his ear, your breath hot and deliberate as your body shifted higher–lining yourself up along the length of him, not yet taking him, just letting him feel the heat of your soaked core hovering, “…It’s gonna be inside me.” His whole body jolted at your words–like the thought of being inside you, of finishing inside you, hit him somewhere primal.

His hands found your hips–hot and trembling–his fingers splayed wide like he was trying to hold himself together with touch alone. You watched the way his throat bobbed, how his eyes flickered down to where your body hovered just above him, and then back up again.

“I-Is it…Is it safe?” He asked softly, voice frayed and wrecked and barely holding together. “I-I mean, f-for you…?”

You smiled–slow and knowing–and leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth, letting your lips linger just long enough to feel the way his breath stuttered.

“Yes, Bob,” You murmured, brushing your nose lightly against his. “I’m clean… and I’m on birth control.”

He exhaled–shaky and hot, like he’d been holding the breath in his chest for days–and the sound of it ghosted across your lips.

But before you could tease him again–

He moved.

Fast.

You let out a surprised yelp–half laugh, half moan–as he rolled you underneath him in one sudden, fluid motion, his body moving like instinct, like he couldn’t take it anymore. Your back hit the mattress with a soft bounce and your hair splayed across the pillow as you looked up at him–eyes wide, mouth parted in shock.

“Bob!” You gasped, breathless with laughter.

But he was already there–already kissing your neck.

His mouth found the pulse point just below your jaw, then lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat as you laughed and moaned beneath him. One hand cupped your hip while the other braced beside your head, his chest flush to yours, heat rolling off his skin in waves.

“I-I knew…” he whispered between kisses, his voice ragged and thick, “I knew you’d be the person who w-wrecks me like this.”

Your breath caught. And then you smiled–soft and wicked and full of everything you hadn’t said yet. You reached up, cupped his face gently between your palms, and you kissed him like you were trying to pour the very ache of your love into his mouth, like you needed him to feel how much you wanted this–him. Not just now. Not just physically.

But all of him Forever, if he’d let you.

He moaned into your mouth, hips rocking down instinctively, grinding the thick length of his erection against your soaked core. You gasped into the kiss, fingers tightening against his jaw as he rutted forward again–slow, teasing strokes that slid his length right through your slick folds, nudging against your clit every time he rolled his hips.

“F-Fuck,” He whispered, voice cracked with need, “Y-You feel so wet…I-I can feel how bad you want it…”

“I do,” You breathed against his lips, “I want you so bad, Bob. I want all of you…”

That undid him.

He pulled back just enough to look at you–really look at you.

His eyes were wide, pupils blown, lashes damp at the corners. His lips were kiss-swollen and pink, and his breath stuttered as he propped himself on one elbow and reached down between your bodies with his other hand.

You felt it when his fingers wrapped around himself again–heard the soft, wet sound as he dragged the flushed head of his erection through your folds one more time. Up and down ever so slowly.

Your hips twitched.

And then he found your entrance.

He paused, just for a beat.

His eyes flicked up again, searching your face, checking one last time.

“Y-You sure?” He whispered.

“I’ve never been more sure,” You breathed, hand sliding down to rest over his thudding heart.

That was all he needed.

He pushed forward.

The first inch made your whole body tighten–heat blooming in your core like something sacred breaking open.

He was thick. Stretching you already. But he went slow like every second mattered. His breath stuttered as he pressed in deeper, eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t look away. Your mouth parted, a soft moan falling from your lips as you felt him sink inside you, inch by careful inch, filling you with such deliberate tenderness it made your eyes sting.

“Oh my god,” You whimpered, back arching slightly, thighs trembling, “B-Bob…”

He was shaking too–sweat beading along his brow, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to lose it from just the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“G-God…” Bob gasped, voice shaking as his hips rolled forward another inch. “You’re t-taking me s-so well, Y/N… You’re stretching around me so g-good…”

Your breath caught, hips twitching as he filled you deeper, the weight and width of him making you gasp. You could feel everything–every slow inch of him, every tremble in his arms as he held himself up, every quake in his breath as he tried to keep from sinking into you too fast.

Your arms slipped around his shoulders, pulling him closer, your nails digging into his back—not harsh, not clawing, just enough to leave small crescent reminders that you were there. That this was real. That he was inside you.

And still he pushed deeper.

Bit by bit.

Agonizing. Perfect.

Until he bottomed out–his hips flush with yours, the thick head of his cock pressed just barely against your cervix.

You gasped, your whole body jolting softly beneath him. “Ah–B-Bob–just a little careful…”

His eyes flew to yours, wide and wrecked. He nodded quickly, breathless. “Y-Yeah. Y-Yeah, I got you. I-I’ll take it slow…” You nodded, teeth catching your bottom lip as your legs curled tighter around his waist. He was trembling now—arms braced on either side of your head, his body a taut wire strung between reverence and restraint.

He kissed you.

Soft and deep, his mouth pressing to yours with a desperation that made your chest ache. Then he pulled back just enough to move–slowly.

He slid out–inch by inch–until only the tip remained inside you, slick and hot and pulsing. And then he thrust forward again.

Gentle.

Deep.

Your moan was soft, trembling, like it had been carved from somewhere sacred inside you.

Your eyes fluttered open, and his were already there–locked on yours.

And oh god, the way he looked at you.

Like he was drowning in the sight of you. Like your face was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

His hips rolled again–smooth and slow–pressing into you with that same impossible depth.

You whimpered softly, your nails digging into his back again, and for a second, you half-worried that it might hurt him–but he didn’t react.

Not a flinch.

He just kept moving steadily. Like your body was the temple and he was made to worship inside it.

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his voice cracking as he whispered:

“I-It’s like you w-were made to hold me l-like this…” You whimpered again, hips rising slightly to meet his next thrust, and the friction—slow, full, rhythmic—made your toes curl.

His hand slid to your face, cradling your cheek with a tenderness that made your heart stutter. He kissed you again–deeper this time–tongue sliding against yours in a slow, sensual rhythm that matched the motion of his hips.

“I-I love the way you sound…” He murmured against your lips. “Love the way you look at me like I’m s-someone worth this…”

You moaned into his mouth, your body trembling beneath him, and he didn’t stop.

His thrusts stayed slow, steady, deep.

His praises never stopped either.

“You’re so b-beautiful…You feel so fucking good around me… I-I could stay inside you forever…”

Your breath hitched, your eyes fluttering as another slow stroke dragged a cry from your throat. “B-Bob…”

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Always.”

And he rocked into you again, his breath ragged and mouth still brushing yours as he filled you over and over, every thrust a promise, every kiss a prayer.

Your hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and your voice–low and breathless–shook against his mouth.

“F-Faster, Bob… please.”

His hips paused, his breath catching. His eyes opened just enough to meet yours–wild and warm and so full of emotion it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

“You sure…?” He whispered, his voice cracking with restraint, with reverence.

You nodded, lips brushing his cheek. “Yes. I want to feel you. All of you.”

He groaned like you’d just ripped something out of him–deep and raw and ragged. Then his hips rolled forward again, a little harder this time. A little deeper. You gasped, your head tipping back against the pillow as he started to move faster–still gentle, still careful–but with a new kind of rhythm. One that made your whole body arch to meet him.

Every thrust dragged a soft cry from your lips, and he swallowed each one with kisses–down your jaw, across your cheek, then lower, to your neck. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin there, just beneath your ear, and you shivered as his breath caught.

“I c-can’t stop kissing you,” He whispered. “Y-Your skin–your neck–fuck, you taste like everything I’ve ever needed…”

Then he bit you.

Just once–just enough to leave the faintest mark. And before you could even moan his name, his tongue was there, licking the spot like he could soothe it back to calm. But it only made you shake harder beneath him.

“F-Fuck, Bob–” You gasped, nails dragging lightly down his back now, digging in just enough to make him whimper. “You feel so good–so deep–God, you’re perfect—”

He let out a broken noise, hips stuttering, and the next thrust hit deeper, grinding gently against the soft barrier of your cervix. Your moan was wrecked—high and ragged and unrestrained.

“Y/N,” He moaned hoarsely, eyes fluttering shut, his voice so low and hoarse it barely sounded human. “Y-You’re squeezing me so tight–I-I can feel you pulling me in–I can’t–fuck–”

His forehead pressed to yours, his breath trembling against your lips as he kept thrusting, deeper and faster now–wet and hot and slippery with everything you’d given him, the sound of your bodies joining filling the room like something sacred and messy and alive.

His moans were desperate–soft at first, then deeper, throatier, more broken with every roll of his hips. You could hear the tremble in them, like he was fighting himself with every breath, trying not to fall apart too fast.

“You’re so good for me,” He whispered against your mouth, voice frayed with awe. “Y-You’re everything–I can’t–I don’t ever wanna leave this body, this bed, this moment–”

You whimpered, your hands clawing at his shoulders now, your whole body rolling up to meet each of his thrusts, matching his rhythm even as your legs trembled around his waist.

“I’m s-so close,” You gasped, “Bob, I–I’m gonna–”

“I feel it,” He moaned, and he didn’t stop moving—just kept pushing deeper, grinding slower at the end of each thrust now like he was trying to drag your orgasm out of you with his body. “C-Come for me, baby–please–I-I wanna feel you lose it–I w-wanna feel it all–”

And it was messy now.

So messy.

Your slick was coating him, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you. Your moans were tangled with his–louder now, echoing off the walls, hot and unfiltered and desperate. He was shaking on top of you, muscles taut, chest slick with sweat, the tension in his body barely held together by the grip of your hands on his back.

Your nails dragged down his spine again, and he let out the loudest moan yet–a broken, reverent cry against your shoulder.

“I-I can’t–I c-can’t hold it back much longer–” He gasped.

“Don’t,” you whispered, panting against his mouth, “Don’t hold back. Just f-fuck me, Bob…P–Please.” You whimpered.

He growled–soft and wrecked–and his next thrust was deeper, smoother, the angle perfect. You shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave–rolling through you in waves that left your whole body writhing, crying out, sobbing his name. Your thighs locked tight around his waist. Your arms clung to him like a lifeline.

And he felt it.

Felt you tighten, clench, squeeze him so hard it almost pushed him over the edge with you.

He groaned–loud and hoarse–and kissed you through it, his thrusts slowing just enough to ride out the quake of your orgasm, whispering broken praises between each kiss.

“You’re so b-beautiful like this–so perfect–so good–so fucking good for me–” His hips stuttered once–then twice–shallow and trembling as he tried to hold on. But the way your walls pulsed around him, still fluttering from your orgasm, dragged a guttural moan from deep in his chest.

“F-Fuck–I’m gonna–oh my god–” His voice cracked, and then he thrust deep.

All the way in.

One last, hard, perfect stroke that ground right up against your cervix–flush, thick, shaking.

And he came.

You felt it.

The hot flood of it–spilling deep inside you, thick and molten. His whole body shuddered, his arms trembling as he clutched you, forehead dropping to your shoulder with a small, broken sound.

“Ah–fuck–ngh– Y/N–” His whimper was soft and wet, lips brushing your skin as he moaned through his release. He stayed buried inside you as he came, throbbing, pulsing with every wave, hips twitching in small jerks until it slowed–until all he could do was breathe. His arms folded under your shoulders, and he let himself settle on top of you with a low, shaky sigh. His weight was warm and grounding, not heavy–just enough to make you feel wrapped in him, surrounded by him.

You sighed too–soft and slow and utterly wrecked–and your nails grazed lightly up his back, dragging in gentle, satisfied lines over sweat-slick skin.

“Holy shit…” You whispered, your voice breathy with awe and disbelief.

Bob let out the faintest laugh–hushed and dazed and still short of breath. Then his lips started moving again. Everywhere. Pressing lazy kisses to your throat, your shoulder, the slope of your collarbone, the space beneath your ear. Tiny, messy kisses. Adoring ones. He couldn’t stop.

“Y-You’re unreal…” He murmured against your skin. “C-Can’t believe I’m here. With you. Inside you. Like this…”

You smiled, your heart fluttering.

He shifted–just enough to raise his head and look down at you, cheeks flushed, lips red, hair a golden, tangled halo. You reached up, cupped his face with one hand, and ran your thumb gently along his cheekbone, pushing his hair out of his face int he process.

“Hi,” You whispered.

His chest rose with a warm, broken laugh, and his hand came up to cradle your face in return–his palm cupping your jaw like it was precious.

“Hi,” He breathed, voice still trembling.

You both giggled–giddy, overwhelmed, barely able to process the way the world still felt like it was glowing from within.

Bob leaned in, kissed you softly–slow and messy and open-mouthed, like he was still drunk on you. Then, with visible effort, he pulled back and sat up slowly, his cock still sheathed inside you, twitching slightly from overstimulation.

You whimpered softly at the shift, and his hand rubbed along your thigh.

“I-I’m gonna pull out,” He informed quietly. “Just…Real slow.”

You nodded, biting your lip.

He moved gently–so gently–and as he slid out of you, you both gasped softly. You could feel it instantly: his cum already dripping out of you, thick and warm and sticky against your inner thighs.

Bob saw it too. His eyes widened slightly. He let out a soft groan.

“Y-You’re already leaking…”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, trembling slightly, before carefully gathering what had come out of you on them and pushing it back into you. You jolted at the suddenness, back arching slightly with a small gasp.

“B-Bob!”

“Shhh,” He murmured, kissing your knee as he slowly pushed his fingers deeper. “W-Want to make sure you keep a l-little bit of me in you… F-For a little bit longer.”

Your cheeks burned.

He pulled back just slightly and watched–mouth parted, breath trembling–as his fingers glistened, slick with the mix of you both. He looked enchanted by it. Awestruck. And when he pulled them out, you reached for his wrist before he could wipe them clean.

You brought his hand to your mouth.

And licked.

His eyes nearly rolled back.

You wrapped your lips around the tips of his fingers and dragged your tongue along them, tasting the arousal still warm on his skin. The mix of your essence and his. His breath hitched sharply. His other hand gripped your hip.

“F-Fuck,” He whispered, voice barely holding together. “That’s… god, that’s so hot…”

You smiled against his fingers, slowly letting them slip from your mouth with a soft, wet pop. His gaze stayed locked on you, eyes dark and glassy.

And then he said it.

Voice low. Reverent. Almost dreamlike.

“I could die right now…And it’d still be the most beautiful moment of my life.”

You laughed softly–your laugh shaking a little this time, because of how honest it sounded. How completely undone he looked saying it.

And then you tugged him back down into your arms.

Because you needed to feel him again.

Because his body, warm and wrecked and trembling, belonged right there–with you.

He let out a small, contented sigh, nuzzling his nose gently into your cheek as his arms wrapped around your waist. His body still trembled faintly from the aftershocks, and he was warm–so warm, like his skin was humming with leftover sunlight and your name.

“…Y-You know…” He murmured against your temple, voice hoarse and shy in a way that was almost too soft to hear. “I-I really…Really like you. R-Right?” You blinked, and then a laugh bubbled up from your chest–sweet and wrecked and giddy.

You tilted your head back just enough to meet his eyes, your smile tugging crookedly at your lips as you whispered, “If that mind-blowing sex wasn’t a testament to that, I’d be interested to see what is…”

Bob flushed deep red. His laugh cracked as it left him–quiet and breathless, like it had been knocked loose by your words. He kissed you again–softly, lovingly, like he didn’t want to stop.

When he finally pulled back, he was still smiling, cheeks pink and eyes glassy.

“We…W-we should drink some water,” He said, voice low and dreamy and still a little unsteady. “A-And then do it all over again…M-Maybe in your room this time…”

You arched a brow, your grin turning sly. “Oh yeah?”

He nodded solemnly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “W-We’ve got to c-christen both beds…F-For evenness.” He nodded solemnly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “W-We’ve got to c-christen both beds…F-For symmetry.”

You laughed—loud and unrestrained this time, the sound muffled only slightly by his lips as they brushed along your shoulder.

“Get the water bottles,” you said, running your fingers slowly through his sweat-damp hair, “And I’ll take you up on that offer.”

He groaned softly against your skin, already rolling off the bed with a dizzy grin whispering, “A–Anything for you.”

524 notes · View notes

lalacliffthorne · 2 days ago

Text

🖤 the fake dating scheme 🖤

Azriel x Reader

part I

summary: trying to convince your best friend you're not hopelessly in love by pretending you are in a relationshop? bad idea. panicking and kissing the first male in sight? terrible idea.

notes: new series? check. fake dating trope? check. (if you can guess which book this idea is based on, you'll get a kiss and a cookie)

______________________________________________________________

“Please?" Mor pouts before raising her brows and beaming softly. “I swear to you, I could find you someone – like this.” She snaps her fingers, and I sigh, feeling my lips quirk a little even as I struggle not to roll my eyes.

“I don’t want - someone.” Picking up my glass, I frown when I realise that it's empty.

Damn it.

It's Saturday night, and Rita's is vibrating with the thrum of laughter and music. It's the kind that sends warm shivers down your spine, sucking you in when you listen for too long. Fae are dancing, their bodies weaving and winding, laughing and shimmering in the lights.

I haven't been keeping count, but according to Mor, I have not been out with her and the others for over three moons now. In my eyes, it's no reason for an intervention, but Mor thought otherwise and showed up at my apartment unannounced, forcing me to dress up before dragging me out of the door.

Apparently, not having a very important mission the next morning meant I either went willingly or she'd get Cassian to show up on my doorstep and get me.

The thought makes me huff a soft smile, and my eyes flicker over the crowd. I clock Cass over at the bar, flirting with one of the bartenders. Neither Rhys nor Feyre are anywhere to be seen, having disappeared to do the Cauldron knows what, and Azriel –

My heart leaps a little, and I can’t stop my eyes from searching for a tall, lean figure, wings shrouded by shadows and dark, tousled hair -

Blinking and pulling myself together, I quickly drag my gaze away from the crowd - only to find Mor’s already on me.

My heart plummets a little.

The Blonde watches me, and slowly, a gentle crease appears between her brows. For a moment, she seems to hesitate. Then she squints lightly and calls over the noise: “Is it because of him?”

I barely keep myself from wincing.

“You know, I am still trying not to be insulted that you've never told me who it is.” One corner of Mor’s lips twitches in a soft laugh, but her eyes flicker over mine, careful, hesitant, and a little worried.

My heart swells and tightens at the same time.

She is too good. Worried instead of upset that her best friend, who fights her way through brawls and delivers threats with a cheeky smile, has been hopelessly pining after the same male for the better part of a century and refuses to tell her who it is.

But I can’t tell her.

I haven’t told anyone.

Because saying it out loud means admitting to it.

Admitting that I fell, like a fool. Headfirst. Crashed and burned for someone so entirely out of my league, it is almost ridiculous.

As long as I don't tell anyone, I can pretend that I haven't. That it's nothing but a silly infatuation that will eventually fade away.

I nearly grimace.

Hopefully.

Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I crunch my brows. "Don't worry, that - is all over."

Mor’s eyes flicker over my face, and she looks so obviously not convinced that something tightens in my chest.

“Really. It’s – I’m fine, I'm alright, I’m -”, the more I talk, the deeper the worried crease between Mor’s brows grows, and I feel my breath hitch.

And before I can stop myself, before I can think; just because I simply can't stand the way Mor is staring at me, like it causes her chest to ache knowing I'm in love with someone so hopelessly that I won't even tell her who it is - I blurt out the first thing appearing in my head capable of making that look disappear.

“I’m seeing someone.”

My heart leaps high, and I barely keep my eyes from widening.

Bollocks.

For a moment, Mor and I simply stare at each other, seemingly both in a comical way of neither us quite believing what has just come out of my mouth - though the reasons for that are very different. Then Mor blinks, and the corners of her lips slowly curve upwards into a giddy smile.

“What?”

“I,” I try to stop my eyes from growing even wider, “yes. I mean, it’s - casual, not serious, but -”

I blink again and swallow.

Mor begins to beam brightly.

I want to disappear under the table.

“Oh my Gods; is he here?”Her gaze darts towards the crowd like somehow, she can make out the nonexistent someone in the sea of Fae.

I barely keep myself from wincing.

“I – I don’t – I don’t actually know, but – I’m going to get myself another drink, do you want one –“ Pointing over my shoulder, I'm already sliding out of the booth, barely suppressing the urge to bolt like a deer and instead sending her what I hope is a cheeky smile instead of a terrified look.

Mor nods and beam, and I quickly turn around and feel my heart pang painfully against my ribs as i widen my eyes.

Oh Gods.

♡

My thoughts start racing as soon as I weave my way through the crowd.

What the hell was I thinking?

The little white lie that's meant to soothe Mor’s worries and keep her off my back is doomed to be very short lived, because – there is no one. I am not seeing anybody, because I – am awfully, stupidly in love with someone who is so incredibly out of my league it is almost funny.

I'm not quite sure when the spark has turned into something more. Something that makes my heart thrum at the smallest brush of rough calloused fingers.

I just know that for some cursed reason known only to the Mother herself, it was instant, the little hitch in my heart’s rhythm when Rhys introduced me to the male shrouded in shadows a little over a century ago.

My heart swells and tightens, and I inhale softly and sharply, trying to focus.

This is a disaster. What am I supposed to do now? Act like there is someone?

No, Mor would become suspicious quickly if I didn't actually have anyone to show for.

Make someone pretend with me?

I barely keep myself from snorting a giggle.

What a terrible idea. That would never work; I’ve read enough novels to know that something like that is bound to end in certain disaster.

My eyes flicker over the males scattered all over the wide room, one more exceptionally beautiful than the next, many looking at passing females in interest.

I slow, something churning in my chest as I crunch my nose and swallow.

On the other hand… I am at the one spot in the city where there are more males than I dare to count – given this circumstance, do I really have another choice?

I swallow slowly.

This is an awful idea.

A completely harebrained, ridiculous idea.

But even though I wreck my brain trying to come up with an alternative that is not telling Mor the truth – I can’t find one.

This is my only way out.

Unless I want to go and confess to Mor about my lie, inevitably leading to having to explain the why.

Yes, that is really not an option.

Which means – I have to pick someone. Randomly. And pray to the Mother and the Cauldron and anyone else who is willing to listen that that person won’t mind if I rope them into pretending to be my casual, not serious relationship for the night.

I feel my heart leap against my ribs.

This is by far the worst idea I’ve ever come up with.

Breathing out, I swallow before loosening my shoulders and starting to let my gaze quickly flicker over the crowd.

Alright.

How does one pick a pretend lover?

First step: Rule out those who are obviously taken. Then those which one's instincts mark as a clear No - either because they are staring at the passing females a little too intently, or because are very obviously not interested in females at all.

Which leaves me with quite a lot less options than I have expected.

I swallow harshly.

Gods, maybe there's somebody I vaguely know, who I can just walk up to and say Hello, I really need your help, I have been an idiot, please could you help me so my best friend stops looking at me like I’m causing her the greatest heartbreak in all of history -

My eyes flicker over a male in the crowd, and my heart skips softly, my thoughts stilling.

Because even though I’ve just caught a glimpse at him, looming in the shadows, hair dark and shoulders broad, towering over the crowd - it's enough to realise he seems familiar.

My heart leaps into my throat, and before I can think about it, stop myself with any rational thought, I start pushing forward.

Something begins to thrum against my ribs, stronger and harder with every quick step.

With dignity. Act like this is natural. Maybe hug him and hope he gets the point and plays along; do not loose your composure, do not do or say anything stupid or irrational or -

I catch a glimpse at blonde hair and red lips from the corner of my eye, and my heart jumps into my throat.

And before I can think, before I can hold myself back, my hand darts out to grab the male’s arm and tug him around – and again, the words simply tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“I’m really, really sorry, but I need to kiss you,”, I whisper quickly, my hands slipping up over broad shoulders, and before I can stop myself, I pull the male down and stretch to press my lips onto his.

My breath catches.

Oh.

The male's lips are soft and cool. He tastes like ale and honey and something else, something that makes my fingers curl into his shoulders and my body shudder -

Hands, big and rough, close around my sides, just below my ribs, and my heart plummets as I ready myself to be pushed away.

But instead, they tighten. I can feel them flexing, their grip shifting. Then a low sound breaks from the male's throat, and he draws me closer, my chest pressing against his.

My breath hitches, and I slide my hands over his shoulders, bury my fingers in the soft hair at the back of his head, something swelling in my chest as I cling to him. He's tall, so tall he has to dip his head even though I am stretching to meet him. His body feels lean and steady and solid, easily holding up my weight -

Something cool brushes against my back; I suck in a soft breath, and a familiar scent rises into my nose.

My heart leaps painfully, and I still.

I know this scent.

My heart breath catches for another eason entirely, and I feel myself freeze.

Oh no.

Somehow, I manage to draw back, breaking the kiss, my heart pounding when I fall back onto my heels, forcing my eyes to open, my lips tingling and something rising into my throat -

Amber eyes clash with mine, and my eyes widen.

Oh. Shit.

Azriel's staring at me. Even in the dim lights, I can see how strangely hazy his eyes look, slightly unfocused as he blinks slowly. His cheeks seem almost a little flushed, and his lips are standing slightly agape as his throat moves in an absentminded swallow. He's still so close, his scent filling my lungs, his chest pressing against mine, his hands wrapped around my ribs -

The shadowsinger blinks again. Then he opens his mouth.

His impossibly deep voice brushes down my spine like a feather light touch, hoarse and strangely disoriented.

“Did you just kiss me?”

Staring up at him with wide eyes, I try to keep my breathing even, try to fight the rising panic in my chest.

“No…?”

Azriel’s grip shifts. I can see the moment the strange haze in his eyes begins to dissolve. His gaze becomes clearer as it pierces my face, and the muscles in his cheeks shift as I watch the traces of his usual scowl starting to form, the deep crease between his brows and the set in his jaw as shadows rise beyond his wings. His fingers dig into my ribs, and my heart rises into my throat.

Shit, shit, shit -

Quickly, before Azriel can commit murder in a public space or I can do another stupid thing, I slide my hand into his and slip past him, pushing into the crowd and pulling him with me.

If I'm lucky, Mor is watching and thinks we’re going somewhere private.

Which we are.

Only for very a different reason than what she might assume.

Azriel's long, calloused fingers tighten around mine, and I feel my heart swell and plummet at the same time.

Cauldron, he's going to kill me.

♡

Azriel lets me drag him with me until we reach a bench at the Sidra. Since he could just plant his feet and I would not be able to move him even if I threw my whole weight against him, I take it as a tentative sign that he isn’t too mad.

Or maybe he's simply still in shock and he'ss going to rip me to shreds the second he's recovered.

The river reflects the golden lights of the city and the galaxies high above, the crisp air clearing my head just far enough that when I slow down and turn around to face the shadowsinger, I feel the urge to just sink into the ground in mortification. Or drown myself in the Sidra. Or –

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, feeling my heart leap against my chest. “I am so sorry, I –“ My voice dies.

I have forgotten how tall he is. How much he towers over me, how small he can make me feel by simply dipping his head to look down at me, wings looming, shoulders shrouded in darkness.

His eyes are stormy as they pierce mine, dark and unreadable.

I realise I'm still holding his hand.

Quickly, I slip my fingers out of his, trying to ignore the way the cool air brushes against my skin where seconds before, his rough palm pressed against mine.

Azriel's fingers twitch, then they curl against his palm.

He's probably having to keep himself from strangling me now instead of after my explanation.

I swallow. Then I slowly step back and sink down onto the bench, rubbing my palms over my face.

Gods, this is a nightmare.

"I'm so sorry. You have every right to be mad at me. It was so stupid." I raise my head to look at him, and my heart leaps against my ribs in soft panic. "I didn't mean to, I swear, I just - panicked."

Azriel is still watching me, brows drawing together like a scowl is threatening to form on his face, eyes firmly locked onto mine, and I feel my breath hitch and blink. The pressure around my throat tightens, something in my chest squeezes painfully, and for the third time this night, simply driven by panic I blurt out without thinking: "Mor is onto me about me liking somebody."

Azriel stares at me. His shadows pull inward. A muscle in his jaw shifts, and I shrink a little.

Crap.

Quickly, I start talking.

"I know, that's - a ridiculous reason. But she knows, she knows that I've stupidly, ridiculously fallen, and she's worried, because I have never told her who it is, but I can't," I widen my eyes and raise my shoulders, "but she was trying to convince me to let her set me up, and when I wasn't responding the way she thought I would, she figured that it's because I am still hung up on that person, and while that's stupidly true, I also just really don't want her to set me up, I cannot handle that pressure, but she looked so heartbroken and I couldn't stand it, so I blurted out without thinking that I am seeing somebody, that I'm over -" My eyes meet amber ones, and my voice dies.

My heart leaps into my throat, and I blink, swallowing and mumbling: "Him."

Azriel's eyes pierce mine, deep, dark, unreadable.

I blink, raising my brows. "But I'm not. I mean, I'm not - seeing anybody, but I needed to convince her that I am, to make her stop looking at me like that." I feel my chest tighten as I raise my shoulders in a helpless shrug. "So I figured I would have to find somebody to help me pretend. And I thought I would pick someone I knew, because they were more likely to play along, but I couldn't find anyone." I blink. "Well, until I saw you." Quickly, I raise my brows. "Except I didn't even realise it was you, because it was dark and full and I was panicking, which is why I didn't just ask you like a sane person would do, but instead just -" Again, my voice dies, and I feel my shoulders sink in desperation when I mumble sheepishly: "Kissed you."

Azriel's jaw shifts, and his stormy eyes flicker over my face.

"I'm so sorry." I exhale and close my eyes, wincing. "I-I'll make it right. I swear. I'll explain to Mor what happened, that there's nothing going on between us, that it was just a stupid mistake." I swallow, rubbing my forehead.

For a moment, there's silence. The Sidra gently laps at the walls of the river bank, the soft waves of the river the only sound in the night. Then Azriel's low voice brushes over my skin, slow and calm.

"Or you don't."

I blink. Then I raise my head.

"What?"

Azriel watches me as he slowly crosses his arms, leaning back against the stone balustrade. His eyes are steady and unreadable. "You could let her believe that what she saw is true." His deep voice is low, rasping over my skin. "Make everyone believe it is."

Something swells in my chest until it feels a little hard to breathe.

With parted lips, I stare at Azriel.

"Why would you do that?" My voice is soft.

Azriel's eyes pierce mine. Then he blinks. "Cass and Rhys have been on me lately. About putting myself out there."

He looks so offended by the sentiment, a soft giggle bursts from my throat before I can stop it.

"Pretending this is real wouldn't just calm Mor, it would also get them off my back - at least for a good while until they have found some other project." Azriel's gaze flickers over mine, steady, calm.

Something starts thrumming against my ribs.

Azriel watches me, shadows curling around his shoulders. "You can say no."

My heart leaps against my ribs.

"No,", I blurt out hastily. Then I blink and hastily add: "I - I mean, yes. Not no. Yes, to that, not no -"

Azriel calls my name, and his deep voice makes me fall quiet with a sheepish wince.

For a second, I'm almost sure I can see the corner of his lips curve. His eyes flicker over my face. Then he lightly raises a brow.

I stare at him, my heart pounding against my ribs.

This is a terrible idea.

A hugely terrible idea.

Cause it's not just pretending to be in a relationship - it's pretending to be with the very male who is the reason I'm in this position in the first place. The one who manages to make my breath hitch with a glance, and my heart leap into my throat with nothing but the ghost of a touch.

It's a sure recipe for disaster, heartbreak and misery.

On the other hand…

What have you got to lose?, a quiet voice in my mind whispers. You've been in love with him for a century. It's not like you can end up having even more feelings for him. Maybe pretending to be with him is finally going to make you understand that it's never going to work. Maybe he's terrible to be with!

I almost huff.

Sure.

My heart squeezes gently.

But maybe this is exactly what I need to finally wake up and get over him.

I exhale and swallow. Then I raise my head. My eyes meet Azriel's, deep and dark and unreadable, and something flutters softly against my ribs.

Breathing out, I nod once. "Let's do it."

@azrielshadows1nger @waytoomanyteenagefeels @secretlyhers

@icey--stars @ailyr92 @xadenswhore

@azriels-mate2

#azriel #azriel x reader #azriel imagine #azriel fluff #azriel fic #acotar #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction #acotar x reader #acowar #acomaf #az imagine #az x reader #az fic #azriel x female!reader #azriel x f!reader #az/reader #azriel/reader #lalacliffthorne

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bluelillybooks · 1 day ago

Text

Missing In Action

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Word Count: 8.2

Summary: When Azriel doesn’t return from a mission on time, Y/n does her best to find him. (Sorry I’m no good at summaries)

Warning/Notes: Angst?????????? I don’t really know how to categorize my posts, but there is brutality and dark themes in this one (Death, kidnap etc.). So read at your own discretion, if there’s any warnings I need to add, please let me know. Hope you enjoy!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Time dragged slowly by, a dusting of moonlight peeking through the ornate windows that allowed for a beautiful view of Velaris. Homes and businesses alight with fae of all kinds, night had always been the best time of day to witness the beauty of Velaris. It was a view that, typically, Y/n would be in awe of, sitting in a comfortable lounge while reading her favorite romance novel and sipping a smooth chamomile draught.

A warm, calming way to spend each of her nights.

Tonight couldn’t be more different.

The room absorbed the light menacingly, devouring it whole and leaving nothing but cold, miserable darkness. The normally inviting aroma now sat heavy in her stomach, the chill of the room engraving itself into her bones. The last time she had been in here, Azriel had been with her– the first time in weeks she had allowed herself to be near him, to revel in his presence.

He had been trying to soothe her, finding her in a state of disarray from one of her more tragic reads. Tears streaming down her face, heavy breathing faltering when he reached out and tried to capture her tears with his thumbs, a task far more difficult than he had realized. If she hadn’t been so distraught, she may have noticed his incandescent gaze, and the slight tilt of his lips, as he tried desperately not to let her see his smile, looking on in wonder at a girl so emotionally fraught by fictional characters, that his shadows had woken him in the middle of the night to try and offer her comfort.

Tonight she paced the length of the room, her long silk robe chasing after her feet with each step, the uncoordinated way her body moved causing her to trip quite a few times. Her hands had run through her hair over and over again, eventually she had started pulling it out. The small pile, now clasped desperately in her hands, the only thing providing any sort of warmth to her frost-in-cased body.

Azriel was late.

He should have been home hours ago.

A few days ago, Rhys had received reports concerning dozens of Illyrian women and girls going missing in some of the smaller Illyrian camps nestled along the outskirts of the Steppes. Rhys had been especially concerned because Devlon, the War Lord of Windhaven– a larger Illyrian camp– had been the one to report the women as going missing. Ordinarily, the wretched male, who thought women belonged inside completing chores and bearing children, would never show an ounce of concern for the lives of a few women. But when women started disappearing in his camp, the man had finally decided to do some investigating, enlightening Rhys when he realized how big of an issue this had become.

The women had started disappearing three days prior to their meeting, there had been no information on their vanishings, no screams or witnesses to any acts. The camp would reawaken for their day, only to realize that family members, all women, had disappeared in groups of three sometime during the night. One group each night, nine total from Windhaven.

After the first night, Devlon had ordered even more of his men to stand guard, not that it made much difference–Illyrians were a warrior race, born and bred for fighting and protecting their kind– The added patrols and enforced curfews hadn’t changed anything, no one had seen anything. The women had been present before bed and then… poof, gone, as if they were never there at all. No bodies had been found, nothing to indicate foul-play.

Digging deeper, Devlon had somehow managed to find six other camps, small ones, that had the same issues going on, but for far longer. As far as the Inner Circle could track, the first disappearance had occurred four months prior, only one woman vanishing at a time. It seemed, the longer time went on without anyone connecting the dots, the more confident the culprits had become, eventually becoming efficient at kidnapping women in troves.

To say that Y/n’s heart felt like it had been carved out and skewered would be an understatement. How could they have not known about this? Sure, the smaller camps weren’t usually heard from all that often, only being visited on the rare occasions that something important had come up and needed to be addressed. Cassian visited all the camps, but there were so many, that sometimes it took months to get back to one’s he’s cleared. Not to mention Azriel’s spies, they did all sorts of things for the Spymaster, and she knew that he kept some in the War Camps to ensure that women were being properly trained.

But– in the past six months Azriel had been working more, with the threats of the Mortal Queens and Koschei, everyone had been working overtime, she supposed that perhaps, now had been the perfect time for these sick sadists to infiltrate, they were distracted, and had let things slip through the cracks so easily. Too easily, a menacing voice in the back of her head spat.

As Azriel’s second-in-command, a spy trained for two hundred years under his wing, she should have been more present, should have helped Cassian with his trips to the camps, she should have pushed, done something.

Y/n couldn’t stop the bile that rose to her throat, having only a moment to find the nearest potted plant before losing the contents of her stomach into the poor shrub.

Rhys had sent Cassian and Azriel to the camps immediately, the two leaving not more than thirty minutes after their meeting with Devlon had begun. She hadn’t been enlightened on the exact details of the mission, but she could make an educated guess based off of the years she’d worked with the Inner Circle. No doubt, Cassian and Azriel would split up, both men death-incarnate and capable of hitting more areas quicker, if not slowed down by having to visit one at a time. They would have had to question people, search nearby areas, look for anything that could give them some sort of lead. Devlon would stay and help in Windhaven, and Azriel and Cassian would each take three of the smaller camps, the latter traveling to the camps that had been hit first.

Cassian had come back earlier today, his face grave and sullen, but ultimately with no further information that could help with the women’s whereabouts or who had taken them. He had found out, however, that the camps he visited all had one thing in common: they all conformed to the order of having women train with little to no fuss. They were all camps that had a proactive approach to the change in the law. Devlon may have given Cassian and Rhys issues regarding the women training, but the past month, he had been on top of it, hadn’t been forcing women to complete ungodly amounts of chores before having mere minutes left for training.

Could this all stem from a group of people who truly despised the idea of women learning how to protect themselves, learning how to fight? Y/n knew they existed, had seen first hand how cruel men could be in the face of a well-trained female, someone who could put their disgusting and misogynistic views on full display for all to see.

Shaking her head, she tried to remain focused. Amren and Mor were working on the details, Nesta scrying for any information she may be able to find. Y/n had had the unfortunate task of holding down the fort at home, making sure that Nyx and the people of Velaris remained unharmed while everyone else did their best to put an end to this nightmare.

She hated having to stay behind while everyone else, all of her family, put their lives at risk, while those poor women could be injured and in need of help.

Things had really taken a turn for the worst when Cassian had returned, though, without Azriel. The Spymaster apparently never showed at their meeting location, Cassian waiting hours for him to no avail, he’d eventually reached out to Rhys, letting him know Azriel was MIA. The High Lord, worried about both of his brothers, had told Cassian to return home, that they would all reconvene to go over their next steps.

That’s where they are now. Rhys and Cassian heading the conversation, Feyre trying to soothe a devastated Nyx, the boy still too young to understand what was happening, but his instincts helping him sense the worry of those around him. Elain sat quietly in the corner, tears streaming down her beautiful face, hands clasped so tightly on her skirts the knuckles had turned white. Nesta scryed at the table, butting in every now and then with her thoughts on the conversation. Mor stood leaning over the scrying board, the space under her hands creaking as she tried to get more information from Cassian about his visits, fury a clear mask on the blonds face as she kept shooting looks over to Amren where she sat quietly at the end of the table, taking everything in.

Y/n stopped pacing, standing before the window, doing her best to calm her rushing pulse and her rapidly-growing lack of control.

Each tick of the grandfather clock seemed to be mocking her. Laughing at her each second that her friend remained missing. Somehow she had let Rhys and Feyre convince her that leaving in the middle of the night to try and find him wouldn’t do any good. Something about it being dangerous, she had stopped listening once she realized they wouldn’t allow her to go, trying to leave despite their qualms. It was only when she realized that the House of Wind agreed with them, slamming any doors she tried to go through in her face, that she had calmed herself down enough and just started panicking, instead.

Azriel always came home, he never missed check-ins or drop-offs, out of all of them, he had always been the most vigilant. So where the hell was he? Why hadn’t he contacted anyone? Not even a shadow had made itself known in the hours he’d been gone. In two hundred years, this had never happened. Azriel was her boss, her senior spy, the person she trusted most with her life, a family member she held so close to her heart, she had almost been able to convince herself he meant the same to her as all her other family members did. That somehow he didn’t hold her entire being in his hands without even knowing it. Anything to ensure the solidity of her place within his life.

He had never not contacted her if something went wrong, so where is he? Her mind screamed, and screamed, and screamed. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, everything swam around her, hitting her in every direction, not a singular thought being able to finish before the next knocked it from its place.

She grabbed at her scalp again, her eyes closing as a blinding pain shot through her chest, her skull, panic clawing up her throat like a beast finally being released after years of captivity, consuming all her senses.

Someone was screaming.

She thinks it might be her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/n had a secret.

One she had been trying to bury in the deepest crevice of her soul for months, to hide from her family, from him.

For years, she trained under Azriel, learning how to fight, how to lurk around corners, how to bleed into the background. He taught her how to gut a man without getting a lick of blood on her, and how to hit a moving target with so much force it knocked grown men clear off their feet.

One didn’t simply train under the terrifying Spymaster of the Night Court and not accomplish dangerous and difficult tasks. She was one of the best, good enough to be considered his second, a place amongst her family she had earned, and is grateful for.

Of course it helped that she had the ability to read and elicit emotions, an empath of sorts. She could visualize a person’s emotion and pluck it right out of them, she had been able to help people rid themselves of fears and anxieties, had been able to feed into the warming emotions that helped a person heal. On the opposite end, however, the side she honed so thoroughly, she could cut a grown man down with a simple flick of her wrist, sat a far scarier beast. One she rarely allowed to surface out of fear of falling victim to herself.

Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian had found her when she was twenty-two, beaten and left for dead on the edge of an embankment, clinging to life so loosely they hadn’t been sure she was even still alive until their fae hearing heard the faintest pulse. The roaring of the river nearly blinding them to the noise.

Rhysand hadn’t even taken a moment to consider bringing her back with them and helping her heal, allowing her safe sanctuary for however long she needed. He hadn’t expected anything from her. He was the first man to give her something without expecting anything in return.

After months of getting to know the much smaller Inner Circle and trusting Rhys enough to tell him about her abilities, he had offered her a job that she accepted with little to no other information. She could still remember the grin that had lit up her High Lord’s face, laughing about how he hadn’t even had a chance to tell her how much she’d be making. It hadn’t mattered, she’d wanted to prove herself to them, to these wonderful people who had helped her grow, and she would make the same choice over and over again.

So, when she found out about her mating bond with the Spymaster, it had complicated things. She hadn’t been surprised, she had actually thought they might be mates for long before the bond snapped. She had always felt a sense of security with Azriel, something that everyone else in her life had to earn, something that usually took months, if not years. But, with him it had always been as simple as believing him, as feeling like she knew him deep in her soul. Which, she supposed she did.

But, being Azriel’s mate complicated so many aspects of theirs and their families lives. For one, he’d been pining over Morrigan for centuries, ridiculously obvious for someone who called themselves a spymaster, but she digressed. Then, when he finally seemed to move on from her, Elain had entered the picture. Sweet, innocent Elain who liked speaking to plants and baking.

In all honesty, Y/n had mastered the art of acting like she didn’t care so effectively, that one day, Azriel stopped being her first thought in the morning, and the last one before she fell asleep. She had gained control of a beast that had run rampant for the first few decades of knowing him, something he had helped train her to do without realizing. To her, it had been worth more to keep their friendship and working relationship, than risk losing him all together because of a pitiful crush a young girl had on her mentor.

Everything had changed nine months ago, though. Apparently, she discovered, if you keep a beast chained long enough, it will eventually break free– and bite her right in the ass in the form of a mating bond.

Gods, the Mother certainly had a sense of humor.

Azriel had been sparring with Cassian the moment the bond snapped. She had found herself having to remind herself not to think about Azriel in any way other than a friend more frequently, as of late. Doing her best to avoid the male at any given moment.

So, when she noticed him in the training ring that morning, she tried to spin on her heel, intending to get as far away as possible. The absolute last thing she needed was to witness Azriel in his half-naked glory. Sweat and sunlight gleaming perfectly off of his skin, gaze alight with unfiltered arrogance as he pushed the General Commander closer and closer to the edge of the ring. His fist connected with Cassian’s face so swiftly, he had the male cursing at the crunch his nose made, doing his best to ignore the blood as it slithered down his face.

Y/n had stopped, only for a moment, but it was long enough for Azriel’s gaze to connect with hers, his eyes widening at the sight of her, the first time in weeks he had been able to get her to meet his gaze. And, unfortunately for the Spymaster and his second, that moment of distraction allowed Cassian to punch Azriel so hard he’d careened backwards, falling on his ass.

When Cassian’s fist made contact with Azriel’s face, the bond had snapped, her world completely tilting, her hand having to grasp the door’s frame to avoid falling on her ass like her mate. She had lost control of her breathing, fighting the instincts to go to him, to help him, to beat the hell out of Cassian for daring to lay a hand on her mate.

She could hear a ringing in her ears as the small golden thread had made its way from her heart to his, fighting against her hold on the door, as she did her best to keep her feet firmly planted where they were. She thought she might’ve heard her name being called, not daring to look back and see both men’s eyes on her shaking figure.

She had used her abilities then, and shoved her emotions down, down, down. She had planted them deep within her soul, far enough that she ran the risk of not being able to find them again, but it was a risk she had to take to get herself out of this moment without completely falling apart… or jumping Azriel. Or bashing Cassian’s teeth in.

For nine, agonizing months she kept this secret to herself, didn’t allow herself to think about it, held it far enough away that she had started questioning whether she imagined the entire thing.

Then she’d cross paths with the shadowsinger, something she never seemed to realize he tried so desperately to make happen, and it would all come rushing back. A cycle that kept repeating over and over again.

One that sucked the life from her each time it made a reappearance.

It didn’t matter how far she ran from her problems. They always seemed to catch up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Her head lay on something soft, voices surrounding her on all sides as she slowly came to.

“If nothings wrong with her, why was she screaming like that? Why did she pass out?” A steel voice demanded. Rhysand.

Gods, why did her head hurt so badly?

“She had a panic attack. It overwhelmed her body so much her mind took control when she couldn’t, it’s a safety mechanism built into all of us.”

“You didn’t hear her, Madja,” That sounded like Cassian, panic clear in his voice. She groaned inwardly, she hadn’t meant to add more stress to her family’s already full plates. She tried to sit up, but her body didn’t seem to be connected to her thoughts. “Her screams were so painful, I’ve never heard anyone scream that way.”

Madja sighed, her hands roving over Y/n’s arms, a warmth encasing the places she passed, making it hard for her to stay awake.

“Y/n isn’t like the rest of you, her abilities make it harder for her to separate her emotions from those around her. She feels things ten times more than the average fae, she can’t help it–it’s a part of her gifts. She has had episodes like this in the past, but she’s usually better at containing them, keeping them to herself so as to not worry you lot.”

The silence was deafening. Murmuring that she couldn’t make out floated above her, why were they speaking so low? It made it hard to eavesdrop.

Madja told the truth, this happened more than she cared to admit. It was difficult for her to read the emotions from those around her without mixing them around with her own, sometimes feeling like an outsider in her own body. She had gotten better at it with age and practice, but when in high-stress situations like this– her mate missing– she was basically a ticking-time bomb. It also didn’t help that she had been confined in a small space with eight people feeling varying degrees of intense emotions.

If she had been thinking more clearly, not so worried about what was happening, she would have noticed the signs. Her clammy hands, the cold that seemed to bite at her skin, the headache that seemed to thicken with every passing moment… her inability to breathe properly.

Yes, this had happened so, so many times. It never got easier.

And, she had kept this information from most of her family, not wanting to worry them, or make them feel like she needed to be taken care of. She knew they wouldn’t hold it against her, but that hadn’t changed the fact that she hadn’t wanted to feel dependent on them, or as if she were taking something from them by asking for help.

Azriel had known, though.

They had traveled together for centuries, completing hundreds of stress-inducing missions together. He always helped her through them, offering soft touches and kind words as he held her through the worst of it.

She felt tears stream down her face.

“Have you found him?” She asked quietly, breaking the silence.

Blinking her eyes open, she tried to sit up, her head spinning at the motion, nausea rising once more. A hand– who she could only assume was Madja– held her firmly down, a chastisement rolling off the older fae’s tongue.

Her family seemed to hold their breath, none quite sure how to respond, how to let her down, she guessed.

Rhysand is the one who finally spoke, ever the High Lord, “Not yet, we haven’t been able to get a good reading on him, and I can't reach him via his mind, his shields are firmly in place.” He paused, contemplated his next words, “Some of us are about to head out to search–”

Y/n sat up, ignoring the roaring in her skull, the pinpricks dancing along her vision, “I’m going.”

“Absolutely not,” Mor said, her worry evident in her voice. “You’re hardly in any state to be out there searching for something we don’t even know what is.”

“I don’t care,” she hissed, more venom in the words than she had ever used to speak to a member of her family. “He is out there, and I am not about to sit back and wait for information while my mate could be lying dead somewhere.”

She spoke without thinking, without realizing what she said. Standing up, shoving the dizziness down. “Madja said I’m fine physically, I can get my abilities under control for a few hours, I’m going.”

Her family all stared at her, mouths agape, the House finally seemed to agree with her, as if taking pity on the poor women. It laid leathers out for her to quickly change into.

“You know?” Cassian whispered, as she headed towards an empty room to change in, the three words stopping her in her tracks.

Rhys’s head snapped towards Cassian, disapproval written all over his features.

Oh gods.

She turned to face the male slowly, “What do you mean?” Her words were clipped, terrified of the meaning behind his words.

Cassian clamped his mouth shut, something burning beneath his gaze as he looked anywhere but at her.

“We can discuss that later, we need to hurry,” Rhys jumped in, shutting down the line of questioning entirely.

She wanted to push him, to make them tell her what they knew. But, he’s right, there were more important things going on. She couldn’t afford to be distracted.

She did not look back as she left, she’d be able to interrogate her family later, once everyone was home and safe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/n searched deep within her for that thread she had discovered all the months ago. Dug and pulled and ripped pieces of her soul away until she found where it had been buried.

The golden thread had withered, since the last time she allowed herself to feel it, it’s once strong warmth now dull and frigid as she acknowledged it.

Please, I know I was selfish and ignored the bond you blessed me with, but– but I need to find him, and I may be the only person who can. Please, let this work.

She gave a silent prayer to the Mother, hoping that her plan would work, it was the only one they had.

She gave the thread an experimental tug, a small pull that she was sure wouldn’t rip the poor, desolate thing.

She didn’t feel anything.

Desperation frosted her soul.

Her eyes shut tight in concentration, she felt Feyre take her hand, a silent offer of support. They had decided that Y/n would pull on the bond, see if she could feel where it attached on the other end. Rhysand would occupy a space in her open shields so that the two of them could winnow wherever it led.

It took a few more tugs, Y/n feeling better about how hard she could pull on the bond. The longer she acknowledged it, the more it seemed to blossom with life, with a warming sensation lighting her chest.

Surely that meant he couldn’t be dead. It would be a cold, useless cord attached to her soul if that were the case.

She felt Rhysands talons scratch lightly across her mind, as if soothing her thoughts, being in her mind allowing him full access to her worries.

Then she felt it, a feeling that caused her to jolt forwards, her body falling forwards at the sudden intrusion within her chest, Rhysand barely managing to hold her still where they stood, his hand clasping her upper arm, ready to winnow them at a moment’s notice.

She had felt a tug.

Her gaze snapped to Rhys’s, her confusion evident… Did that mean he knew? That he felt the bond, too? Was that what Cassian had meant, that Azriel already knew of their bond? Did he not want it? Y/n’s thoughts raced around her head so quickly she felt Rhys tense, trying to keep her grounded, focused on the task at hand.

Try it one more time, Y/n, I should be able to follow his lead. Rhysand spoke in her mind, his voice effectively scattering her spiraling thoughts.

Caressing that bond once again, she tried sending her fear and worry down it, hoping if he realized how worried they all were, he’d have the courage to respond again.

Then, the world turned to stark darkness, her body held tightly against Rhys’s side as he winnowed them away.

Her feet landed on cold, hard ground. A twig snapping beneath her boots as Rhysand released her, making sure she was steady on her feet.

Taking in her surroundings, blades in hand, head more clear than it had been in days, she allowed her instincts to take over, to guide her.

The first thing she noticed was the smell. Blood and rot permeated the air, her nose involuntarily scrunching as it tried rejecting the acrid smell. The brutal cold soaked her skin, causing goosebumps to rise beneath her leathers, the warmth of the fur-lining doing little to keep out the bite of the harsh winters in the Illyrian Steppes.

Then her gaze locked on a large field, mounds of dirt and open holes scattered along the plot, and she swore– were those bodies lying next to some? Her hand came to cover her mouth, anger, fear, hatred all seizing within her body.

Where is Azriel?

Rhysand moved before she did, beelining for something she had yet to acknowledge. In the center of the field, the plots of unbound earth seeming to circle it–in an almost ritualistic way– stood an alter, an Illyrian male pinned to it, knifes displayed in his wings, the blades imbedded so deep in the wood that they had no trouble holding up the two hundred pound male. His cries of agony had sputtered off into small, near silent whimpers.

And stood before him, raging darkness swarming around him chaotically, stood Azriel. Truth-Teller in hand, blood covering every inch of his body.

Y/n moved without thinking, her mind chanting at her to get to him, to make sure he was okay. Why is he standing? He should be sitting down if he’d sustained major injuries. Why didn’t he seem to care that his safety mattered to his family?

Why hadn’t he told them where he was?

She tried to shut that voice out of her mind, she didn’t want to jump to conclusions, none of them knew what had happened to the Spymaster in the last three days. She could only imagine the horrors he’d witnessed. The way this would haunt him for years to come.

Finally, after what felt like hours, she and Rhys had both crossed the field, meeting Azriel in the middle.

The shadowsinger did not address them, some of his shadows coming to greet her, their usually warm nature towards her all but gone as they tried dragging her closer to their master, eating the distance between the two.

She knew Rhys had already begun speaking to his brother, trying to figure out what in the Mother’s name was going on here, how this had happened.

That didn’t stop her from stepping towards her mate, though. Making sure there were no other fae around but the three of them, and the bastard who hung before them. There were bodies scattered around, she closed her eyes briefly as she realized they were women. Illyrian women with their wings ripped off.

Vomit climbed up her throat, grief washing over her. Azriel’s head whipped in her direction, concern lining his features as he took her in, his gaze roving over her as if she had been the one missing in action for hours.

She could smell the blood on him, but thankfully, none of it seemed to belong to him. She took a breath, taking a step closer to her mate. He seemed to watch her like a hawk, as if one wrong move could send either of them fleeing in the opposite direction. Then he turned back to Rhys, a viscous look on his face.

“You brought her here?” He snarled, the first words she had heard him speak in days. Neither she or Rhys missed the accusatory tone laced with his exclamation.

“As I’m sure you’re aware, she does what she wants.”

“I’m right here,” she hissed, “And I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, you overgrown bats.” Irritated at how they were speaking about her as if she were incapable of defending herself.

They ignored her. Protective instincts seeming to lead Azriel’s words into battle.

“They are kidnapping and sacrificing women, Rhysand, and you brought her here. What if I didn’t have it under control, what if she got hurt, if they got ahold of her?” He demanded, the words flying out of his mouth like acid.

Truth-Teller remained in his scarred hand, slightly worrying over the safety of their High Lord, Y/n reached for him. Her hands met his, slowly peeling his fingers off the hilt one at a time. He tensed, turning to look at their hands. His death-grip on the blade made it nearly impossible, but as she set the weapon free from its confines she slid her fingers into his. Squeezing once, twice, three times, relaxing only slightly from the feel of his skin against hers. She didn’t care that his hands were covered in blood, standing next to him had been the only time today she felt any semblance of safety.

His eyes bore into hers, an anguished expression passing over his features quickly before his usual stoic, uncaring mask slid back into place. He turned back to Rhys, still intent on fighting about her as if she weren’t right here.

She rolled her eyes, focusing rather on their surroundings, keeping an eye out just in case.

At least he hadn’t let go of her hand.

Maybe he felt just as safe holding hers, as she did holding his.

She could allow herself to pretend that he was hers in this moment, even if only briefly. His hand tightened around her, pulling her slightly closer to him.

“She’s your second, and not once, in two hundred years has she ever needed to be coddled, why would that change now? Neither you or I would ever let anything happen to her,” The High Lord gave his Spymaster a meaningful look. “I couldn’t very well tell her no when she is the reason we could find you.”

Azriel swallowed, his back rigid, his shadows were surrounding her figure, covering every inch of her skin that they could reach, almost as if to hide her from the nightmare they were living in.

Rhys stepped forward, a pleading look in his eyes, as if begging for his brother to understand. “I was worried about you, brother. She was worried about you. It’s not fair to keep her from things, dangerous as they may be, to ease your peace of mind.”

She recognized some of his words. Reminiscent of something she had once told him when he’d kept the dangerous nature of Illyrian pregnancy in high fae women from Feyre.

She smiled at her High Lord, appreciation and love for her friend– her family– shining in her eyes.

Azriel’s gaze locked on hers once more, “Stop looking at him like that,” his teeth gritting together, “Please.” He ground the last word out, as if remembering to be respectful in his out of control male instincts.

She sighed, sending an apologetic glance to Rhys before scowling at Azriel. They were definitely going to have to talk about the bond now. She groaned.

Anger remained evident on Azriel’s face throughout the exchange, but–she knew it wasn’t aimed at her or Rhys–well, maybe a little towards their High Lord– She knew that he was angry with the situation with how far out of control this had become. Before he could open his mouth and piss her off further she spoke to him softly, but firmly.

“You’ve been missing for hours, Azriel. We have all been going out of our minds with worry, trying to get in touch with you. We didn’t know if you were alive or injured or safe. If I did that to you–” she couldn’t help the catch in her voice, eyes leaving his, his stare too intense.

“You would skin me alive, ban me from missions for– for forever, probably.” Head shaking, she had to take a step back, dropping his hand in the process. Maybe the extra space would allow her to gather herself. “I would have never done that to you. Especially knowing we’re–” A tortured sentence that she cut off, too scared to say the words aloud, or to him, at all. “I certainly wouldn’t stop you from entering a situation just because it’s dangerous.”

“You don’t understand–” He shook his head, his eyes pleading.

“Then explain it to me!”

She knew they shouldn’t be doing this here, that it would be far more appropriate to have this conversation in the safety of their home. And without an audience.

But, he had terrified her today, so much so that she had thrown all disregard out of the window, she had a panic attack that she was still feeling the effects of, despite her insistence on coming. She wanted answers, and she’d be damned if she waited until he could practice his responses, or quell the demons swarming from within him that made his filter disappear.

He looked away from her, a tick in his jaw as he searched for his patience, his words.

Rhys stood back, watching the male hanging from the altar with unwavering hatred. Y/n assumed he was using his Daemati powers to see if there were any survivors as his brows pinched in concentration, sweat lining his face. Trying to give them a bit of privacy.

“I am not upset that you are here because I don’t think you can protect yourself. I am not even upset that you are here, I know you can take down any threat that so much as breathes in your direction.” He took a long, dragging breath, his hands tightening at his sides. She could see how desperately he searched for what to say, the male wasn’t exactly known for explaining himself or his feelings.

“But, my brother who knows what you mean to me,” A sharp look pointed towards said brother, “who is worried about my safety, my life, didn’t stop to consider what would happen to me if anything were to happen to you,” he shook his head disbelievingly, landing softly against yours.

Understanding flashed across both Y/n and Rhysand’s faces, the latter no longer looking at his brother with irritation, but rather empathy. If anyone knew the struggles of mate bond, it would be him.

“Okay,” she said softly, a silent acceptance of his anger. She clasped his hands with hers, her eyes relaying that they would talk more about this later, when they weren’t surrounded by death.

Azriel bowed his head, a submission that signified his understanding of what she meant. His apology. She could feel his guilt, his sorrow for how the day had turned out. She tried to understand his thought process, tried to understand that he had probably been so caught up in putting an end to this and finding information out, that he hadn’t realized how much time had passed, hadn’t even thought his family may be worried for his safety.

Her eye twitched, just slightly. He never seemed to realize what his absence did to those who cared about him, always believing he was expendable, that his fate didn’t matter. It made her sick.

Finally offering an explanation, he loosened a breath, hair falling forward. His chin dipped, shame coating his features as he whispered, in a broken voice, “they’re all dead.” A despairing agreement from Rhys, the only response.

Y/n’s eyes shut tightly, her body tensing as what she already feared became a reality.

“They ripped their wings off in a sacrificial ceremony to the old pagan deities. Sixty-seven Illyrian women and girls, slaughtered because of these sadistic occultists,” he snarled the last words, aiming them towards the male that hung loosely before them, his breaths becoming slower and shallower the more time that passed.

So low that if they hadn’t had fae hearing they never would have been able to decipher his words, he spoke, “Our Gods need to feed just as yours do.” A terrifying, wet sounding laugh bubbling out of his throat.

Horror spilled into her, her fingers flexing against her own blades, willing her to carve this sorry excuse of a male to pieces and feed them to the monster who lived in the pit of the library.

Instead, she settled for eating his fear. She ignored the disapproving sound coming from Azriel as she took a step closer, wrapping her power around the fear the Spymaster had brought forth in this disgusting fae. She stroked and exploited that feeling, heightening it so abruptly that the front of his pants became coated in piss as he trembled. She watched as life began draining from his eyes, the strands of his hair rotting into a blistering white color as she ripped every happy and pleasant emotion from his being. Leaving him with nothing but a cold empty shell of fear, guilt, shame, hatred, and disgust. She wanted this male to die more than she had ever wanted anything, how dare he play God, taking these women from the safety of their homes and then justify their deaths with his religious fanaticism bullshit. She wanted to be the last thing he saw, pride taking over as he realized that he would meet his end at the hands of a woman, not the two males standing at attention behind her.

He began thrashing, cursing her until he finally ran out of breath.

“We need to get the others, we have a long day ahead of us.” Rhys said softly, anger behind his violet eyes for what his people had endured right under his thumb.

They would need to identify the women, and then return their remains to their families, set up proper barriels and commence funerals for each and every one.

Things would need to change, protocols put in place, and Y/n wanted to be leading those changes, wanted to be the one to ensure the safety of women within the Illyrian race, they had suffered for far too long at the hands of men. And, Y/n would do anything to ensure that something like this never happens again.

Rhys met her gaze, nodding his head in understanding and agreement. They would figure the details out later.

Dawn crested over the mountain side, the early morning rays of light making the devastation of this place all the more noticeable. It was then she noticed the mass grave set to the south of the field, it wasn’t filled with bodies, though.

No.

It was filled with wings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks had passed since that day in the Illyrian Mountains.

Days and nights blending together in a blur as the Inner Circle worked hard to smoothly put everything back in order. At least, as much as they were able to. Massacres like this weren’t easy to fix, especially when it came to reassuring their people that they were safe and could rely on the court officials who had let them down in so many ways.

Y/n had been so busy she hadn’t had a chance to see Azriel much the past few weeks, the spymaster busy with his own tasks for rebuilding. He and Cassian had been responsible for tracking down any members that hadn’t been present the night Azriel had found the women–using information he’d fileted out of the Illyrian male he’d kept alive.

He’d explained how he came to be in that clearing to them once he returned home, a dark, haunted look lingering behind his hazel eyes.

It had taken a day and a half for Azriel to find where the women had been taken. Following a lead from one of the young Illyrian women in one of the smaller camps. Her sister had gone missing along with two other women a few weeks prior to the Spymaster’s arrival. They had been playing in the woods when the young girl lost track of her sister, only to find her in a dazed state, a strange symbol drawn on the back of her neck in what looked like blood. Not able to get any information from her, the young women had made their way home. The next morning she had awoken to her mother’s frantic search for her eldest daughter.

The young girl had drawn the symbol for Azriel, she’d done her best to remember it after the weeks that had passed. His shadows scouring nearby areas for anything that resembled the symbol. They had come across the altar, calling for Azriel in an agitated state.

He hadn’t realized what he’d stumbled upon before he’d had to take action. He hadn’t had time to reach out to Cassian, making the decision to continue on alone, afraid that any time wasted would lead to more devastation. When he arrived, most of the women had already been killed. But, six or seven still remained, barely breathing from the days of torture they’d endured. Once the men responsible had realized the Spymaster of the Night Court had found them, they began slaughtering the remaining women ruthlessly, trying to stop any of them from getting out alive.

Az had killed seven of the men, ending their miserable lives too swiftly for his liking, but he had managed to keep one of them alive long enough to question him. Thoroughly. That was when Rhys and Y/n had found him.

She knew he blamed himself for the women who had died once he arrived, that their screams haunted him in the night. She had been swarmed by nightmares the past few weeks, a mix of his and her own. Unable to escape the hell that her subconscious locked her into each time the moon came out.

She hadn’t gotten much sleep the past fourteen days.

After six days of following leads and tracking the men down, both the Commander and Spymaster were positive that they had captured all of those who remained, now wasting space in the latter’s dungeons beneath the Hewn City where she had no doubt they’d receive far worse treatment than they’d ever been able to deal out.

Going over new laws and ordinances that Rhys, Feyre, Amren, and Y/n had worked religiously on the past few weeks, the war camps finally seemed to be finding their rhythm again, daily life going on as it once had.

They still had a lot of work to do, but they were making progress, and they had to take what victories they could, no matter how little.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

More weeks passed by, some so quickly she hardly noticed the growing chasm in her chest. Others passed slowly, as if her life were passing by her in slow motion, waving as it went. Leaving her behind without so much as a second glance.

Initially, she and Azriel hadn’t seen or spoken to each other because of how busy they’d been. But, work had slowed down marginally, allowing for the Inner Circle to breathe a little more freely, and Azriel still avoided her like she had the Illyrian flu.

If she passed him in the hallways he quickly dipped into his shadows before she could call out to him, he avoided her regular training times all together, and did his best to go on solo missions, claiming to Rhys he needed to remain focused.

His behavior was really starting to get on her nerves.

If he didn’t want this bond, then, as much as it would break her heart, she’d rather have him suck it up and just tell her. Dragging out a brutal crushing of souls just seemed cruel and unnecessary.

Stuck in some never ending limbo that she couldn’t seem to find the way out of. She’d tried tugging on the bond, only to be met with a cold, bitter resistance.

She still had no idea how long he’d known about it for, or how he’d found out, or why instead of telling her, he had told Rhysand and Cassian.

It’s not as if she were mad at him, she had kept the bond a secret, too. But, she had done it out of fear of losing someone who had never once shown romantic interest in her. She had done it out of fear of disrupting her family’s dynamic so wholly, they may never be the same.

She had always wanted the bond with Azriel. She would take the scraps off his plate if it was all he ever offered to her. There just hadn’t been a world in which she could imagine him ever loving her the way she loved him.

Now all of her fears were coming true the longer he avoided her. Their friendship might as well be in the can, he hadn’t spoken to her for weeks, and even before then there had only been a few times over the past nine months they’d interacted normally.

And, well, that had been her fault.

Y/n halted in her path to the library, stopping so swiftly, air kissed her cheeks and hair in a windowless hallway.

Azriel had only been avoiding her for five weeks. Before he had left for the Illyrian Mountains, he had always been around, chasing after her shadow in the light of day, looking for her in the crowds of people, always making it difficult for her to go more than a day without having some sort of contact with him.

He had wanted to be around her despite what, she now realized, was an infuriatingly annoying dance of avoidance she had subjected him to for months?

Gods, what was wrong with her? Who handles adult situations that way? How could she possibly have felt any justification in her anger towards him. He was only doing what she had done, and it had been for a significantly shorter amount of time. If anything, she deserved this.

Did he think that she hadn’t told him about the bond because she didn’t want it? Had he known about the bond for months like her, trying to figure out if it had snapped for her yet? Was he avoiding her because he thought it was what she wanted?

No, no, no, no.

That sounded so much like something Azriel would do that she physically cringed as the thought thundered across her mind.

She needed to fix this. She had to track down the Spymaster of the Night Court, one of the most elusive fae alive, and keep him from slipping from her grasp.

Thankfully, Y/n had been trained by the best.

#acotar #azriel #azriel x reader #acotar fanfic #cassian acotar #rhysand

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deliciousangelfestival · 2 days ago

Text

Her Turn Now - 1

Character: CEO!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Summary: Twin sisters. Opposite worlds. The eldest is a tough, no-nonsense soldier. The youngest is a quiet, hardworking corporate girl. They rarely meet—until the younger sister collapses from stress, hiding months of workplace bullying.

Furious and protective, the soldier twin trades places with her. Heels off, boots on. Now, the office has no idea what's coming.

She doesn’t play nice. She doesn’t play fair. And while she's serving justice in a pencil skirt, the ruthless CEO starts to take notice…

Main Masterlist || If you enjoy my work, please consider buying me a coffee on Ko-fi 🙏🏻

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , -

The wind changes.

Hot and dry, it kicks sand over the bodies cooling in the sun. Your rifle hangs loose in your grip now, barrel lowered, fingers flexing to shake off the stiffness. The shot was perfect. You always make it perfect. But perfection doesn’t quiet the unease crawling up your spine.

You stand, brushing the dirt from your pants as Ortiz approaches, helmet tucked under his arm and grinning like a fool.

“You ever miss?” he teases, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Only when I want to,” you reply, dry as the desert air.

He laughs and offers a knuckle bump. “Clean job, Captain. You’ll get the brass off our backs for at least two weeks.”

Behind him, Casey whoops and twirls her rifle like a baton. “Permission to call this op a goddamn masterpiece?”

“You’d call it that even if we lost a leg,” Dom snorts, limping slightly with his pack slung uneven on his back. “You get weird after adrenaline.”

“Shut up, Dom,” Casey says, tossing him a canteen. “We pulled it off. No casualties. No surprises. That deserves at least one drink.”

“Ten,” Ortiz corrects. “We’re going home, remember? Full leave. We’ll be stateside by midnight.”

Cheers go up again. Someone claps you on the back, but your mind’s already drifting.

Home.

It’s a word that never feels quite real to you. You’ve lived longer in war zones than anywhere with walls and blankets that weren’t standard issue. But your sister’s there. She is your constant. Her soft voice over the phone. Her awkward texts. The way she tries not to make you feel guilty for never showing up.

You’re thinking of her when you board the transport. When the team settles in with helmets off and boots kicked up, comparing bruises like trophies.

Ortiz nudges your shoulder as the engines roar. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks.”

“No, seriously,” he says. “When’s the last time you actually rested during leave?”

You raise a brow. “What are you, my mother?”

“Nope. Just the guy who has to carry your grumpy ass through every op.”

There’s laughter, the kind that only comes after a mission survived. The kind that releases tension built over days of silence and killing. It’s always loud after the quiet. Always messy after the clean shot.

As the transport lifts, Dom leans forward. “So what’s the first thing everyone’s doing when we land?”

“Pizza,” Casey answers immediately.

“Beer,” Ortiz adds.

“Shower,” someone mumbles from the back.

You smirk faintly. “Sleep.”

“No boyfriend waiting, Captain?” Casey teases.

You just stare at her. That shuts her up.

The hum of the engine fills the space between conversations. Outside, the sky turns golden with sunset. The kind of view that makes people homesick.

Your phone vibrates.

You frown, glancing at the screen. Unknown number.

You step away from the others, pressing it to your ear.

“Hello?”

“Is this Miss McCain? The emergency contact for Levi McCain?” The voice on the other end stumbles. Young. Nervous. “I’m calling from Central Hospital. Your sister was just admitted.”

Your stomach tightens.

“What happened?”

“She—she overdosed. We think it was intentional. She’s stable… for now. But… we don’t know how long she was alone.”

Everything stops.

The engine hum. The voices. The light.

You stare ahead, unblinking, as the nurse keeps talking—but you’re no longer listening.

Ortiz appears beside you, reading your face like a battlefield map. “Captain?”

You shove the phone into your vest and push past him.

“I need a vehicle. I need to get to her.”

“Wait, what happened?”

“She’s in the hospital.” Your voice is low. Firm. “She almost—” You bite it back. “I need to move.”

“You’re supposed to report to the Colonel,” Dom says, confused.

“Screw the Colonel.”

You’re already walking.

Ortiz curses and signals the rest. “Gear up. We’re going with her.”

And without question, they follow.

Because no one’s ever seen you panic. Not once. Not in fire, not in blood. But now your steps are too fast, your hands are shaking, and your silence is loud enough to make them all afraid.

You’ve never asked for help.

But this time, they don’t wait for you to ask.

🏥🏥🏥🏥

“Levi McCain? Is she here?” you demand, breath sharp and uneven, as you rush to the front desk of the ER.

The nurse behind the counter startles, eyes darting from you to the uniformed soldiers flooding in behind. “Uh… yes. She’s in—uh—room six. But please—”

You don’t wait. Your boots hit the linoleum with a jarring rhythm, your team trailing behind in shocked silence.

You reach the room and freeze in the doorway.

There she is.

Your twin.

Levi.

Lying on the hospital bed like a broken version of herself. Her skin, once vibrant and flushed with the soft glow of moisturizers and tinted creams, looks gray under the fluorescent lights. Her cheeks are hollowed, clavicles sharper. She used to wear soft pastels, delicate accessories. Now, even the hospital gown dwarfs her frame.

She looks like a stranger wearing your sister’s face.

A nurse adjusts her IV line, and that’s when Levi stirs. Her eyes flutter open, disoriented at first—then she sees you.

She blinks, frowns faintly, and turns her face away.

“Who told her to come here?” she mutters, voice rough.

“That’s the first thing you say?” you breathe out, the ache rising in your throat. You cross the room in two strides and kneel beside her bed. “That’s what you say to someone worried to death?”

You pull her into a hug, your arms wrapping around her fragile frame.

It feels like hugging a memory.

God, when did she get this thin?

You hadn’t seen her in eight months. The last video call, she had looked tired, but you figured it was just work. Stress. The corporate world was brutal. But Levi always looked put together. She was the polished one. The softer one. The one who smiled at strangers and didn’t scare boys off just by standing too straight.

Now, her spine juts through the back of the gown. You can feel every rib.

You pull back, your hands trembling as you study her face—sunken, pale, eyes rimmed with dark circles. She refuses to look at you. Shame? Guilt? You can’t tell.

“Levi,” you say gently, tilting her chin so you can meet her eyes. “Look at me.”

Her lashes flutter, and she finally meets your gaze. There's something broken behind them.

“What happened?” your voice is low, steady. “Did someone hurt you? A stalker? An ex?”

You hate how your mind is racing with threats. Levi was always the one guys fawned over. Back in school, your locker was left untouched. Hers? Overflowing with chocolates, roses, handwritten notes. The golden twin. The soft one. The one they thought they could handle.

She shakes her head.

“No,” she murmurs and pushes your arms away, slowly lying back against the pillows. Her movement is tired, almost defiant.

You stare at her. Frustration rising like bile.

“Levi.” You step back but your voice sharpens. “You’re in a hospital bed. Don’t act like you’re fine.”

She doesn’t answer.

“I’ll call Mom and Dad.”

“No!” she snaps, grabbing your wrist with weak fingers. Her eyes widen.

You freeze.

“Why?” you ask, heart pounding. “Why are you being so secretive?”

“If Dad finds out…” she swallows hard, tears welling but not falling, “he’ll kill everyone.”

Your breath catches.

“Everyone?” you repeat. The word hits heavy. “So it’s not just one person who did this to you? What kind of hell did you get dragged into, Levi?”

She gives a bitter, humorless scoff. “Problem? You think this is just one problem? I’m drowning in it. All of it. You have no idea how deep it goes.”

You crouch beside her again, your voice softening. “Then tell me. Stop talking in riddles. I can help you.”

She looks at you. Silent. Torn.

“I’m not asking anymore.” Your jaw clenches. “If you don’t tell me, I will tell Dad.”

She flinches, lips parting like she’s been struck.

“No—don’t. Please.”

You hold your ground.

“Then talk to me.”

Levi’s fingers trembled as she held onto the edge of the blanket. Her voice cracked when she finally spoke, “It started with the manager.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

She looked at you then, her eyes glassy, and the words came out in a shaky rush. “There was a budget report. A mistake. I thought I was helping when I pointed it out. I did it privately, not to humiliate him, I swear. But... after that? Everything changed.”

You stayed quiet, listening, though your fists clenched at your sides.

“No one would sit with me at lunch. People stopped answering my emails. My desk got moved… shoved into the corner like I didn’t belong. I started getting dumped with work. Not just mine—everyone’s. Even intern jobs. Like printing flyers. Making coffee. Picking up supplies.”

She laughed bitterly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I thought I could bear with it. Keep my head down. I didn’t want to cause trouble, I thought… maybe it would pass. But it didn’t.”

Your heart sank as you watched your twin’s composure fall apart piece by piece.

“I was the popular one, remember?” she whispered. “People used to like me. I didn’t know how to be invisible. And then the silence, the fake smiles, the isolation… It was too much. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I just… wanted to feel normal again.”

You noticed her hand twitch over the thin hospital blanket.

“I started taking antidepressants. Just one at first. Then two. Then I didn’t count anymore. I didn’t even realize how many I took today until I was on the floor.”

Her voice broke, and so did something inside you.

“Fuck, Levi…” you gasped, your voice sharp with disbelief and fury. “I’m gonna kill them.”

“No! Don’t,” she cried out, grabbing your wrist with all the strength she could muster.

“Why do you care about them when they nearly killed you?” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Do you even realize what could’ve happened today?”

She looked away, biting her lip, eyes stinging with tears. “Because it was my dream job.”

You stepped back, stunned. “Your dream?”

“You don’t understand…” she said softly, the words barely forming. “You’ve always belonged in the military, just like Dad. You fit in, you have command, respect. I don’t. I never liked the field, the isolation, the rules. I liked people. I liked the city, the rhythm, the energy. I wanted to work in a glass building, wear heels, drink overpriced coffee, and be someone.”

Her voice cracked again, and you saw the girl who used to twirl in front of her closet, planning outfits the night before school, asking for your opinion even though she knew you’d just grunt and shrug.

You exhaled through your nose, jaw clenched. She wasn’t weak. She had just been broken by the very world she thought would lift her up.

Before you could respond, the door creaked open, and a doctor stepped in—a woman in a navy scrub top and tired eyes.

“The patient needs to rest,” she said kindly but firmly.

You nodded, even though you didn’t want to let go of your sister again.

“Get some sleep, okay?” you said quietly to Levi.

She didn’t answer, but you saw her grip the edge of the blanket again—like a child afraid to be alone.

You gave her one last glance before stepping out.

The hallway outside the room was quieter now. Your team stood at a respectful distance. You waited for the doctor to finish checking Levi’s IV and then approached her.

“Doctor,” you said, voice lower now, steady. “Can I ask what exactly happened to my twin?”

The doctor nodded. “She’s under extreme psychological stress. High cortisol levels. Insomnia, malnourishment, emotional collapse. Her body is running on fumes. She’s lucky she didn’t go into cardiac arrest.”

You felt your stomach twist.

“She needs time. Not just physically—but mentally. If she keeps going at this rate, we’ll be seeing her again. And next time, it might be too late.”

“I agree,” you said with a firm nod. “She needs to rest. Whatever it takes.”

The doctor gave a soft sigh. “We’ll run a few more tests. If everything looks stable, she might be discharged tomorrow. But she’s not out of the woods.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

You left the hallway and walked outside the hospital’s automatic doors. The night air hit you like a slap—cool, heavy with city noise and distant sirens.

You sighed.

It felt like the adrenaline from the mission earlier had evaporated. The celebration, the cheer of your team, the taste of victory—it all felt meaningless now. Because the person you’d spent your life protecting had been suffering right under your nose.

****

“Boss.”

The familiar voice made you flinch. You spun around instinctively, your hand twitching toward your holster.

“What the—?” you breathed. “Ortiz?”

He stood just a few feet away, hands raised in mock surrender, the rest of your team fanned out behind him in the shadows of the hospital parking lot.

“What are you guys doing here?” you asked, heart still pounding from the scare—and everything else.

Casey tilted her head with a dry smirk. “You seriously didn’t notice we’ve been tailing you since you left the ER?”

You blinked. “No.” Honestly, how could you have noticed? Your mind was still spinning with the image of Levi’s pale face, the IV in her arm, and the way she clutched your wrist, begging you not to retaliate.

Your voice dropped, distant. “Wait… does that mean no one reported back to the Captain?”

“Well…” Ortiz rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “We sacrificed Dom instead. He’s probably getting chewed out by the Colonel right now.”

Despite everything, a breath of laughter escaped your throat. It was brief, but it grounded you for a moment. You looked at them—your team, your family in the field. And for the first time since Levi’s overdose, something settled inside you.

Casey stepped forward, voice softer. “We’re sorry about what happened to your sister.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Thanks. I mean it.”

Their presence helped. A little. Enough to make you stand straighter.

Your eyes darkened. “I’m gonna deal with those bastards who bullied her.”

Your tone dropped so low it vibrated with rage, and the shift in energy was immediate. The entire team stiffened. You were known to be ruthless on mission—but this was personal. The kind of personal that made trained killers hesitate.

Ortiz raised an eyebrow. “You never told us you had a twin.”

“I did,” you said without looking at him. “I said I had a sister.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t exactly say she looked like your mirror image.” Casey added, crossing her arms. “That was kind of a shock.”

You shrugged, eyes fixed on the concrete. “Levi and I... we used to be inseparable growing up. But we chose different paths. She stayed in the city. Corporate dreams, bright lights. I took Dad’s rifle and joined the army.”

You looked up, jaw set. “We don’t see each other as much now. I thought she was happy…”

Casey’s face softened. “You didn’t know.”

You shook your head. “I should have. She’s my twin.”

There was a pause. Then Ortiz asked the question everyone was thinking.

“So… you going to take revenge for your sister?”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, a slow smirk crept across your face. That dangerous, unhinged one that usually preceded a wild, nearly illegal plan.

“Of course,” you said. “Now we’re speaking the same language.”

Casey narrowed her eyes. “How?”

You cracked your knuckles and leaned against the hood of a parked SUV. “I’ve got a crazy idea. And I think you guys are going to think I’ve finally lost it.”

Twenty minutes later, anyone walking through the hospital parking lot would be confused—and maybe a little alarmed—at the sight of a group of soldiers in full tactical gear huddled in a tight circle, whispering like they were planning a heist.

Casey leaned back first. “That’s insane.”

“But you're not saying no,” you said with a grin.

She shook her head, exhaling sharply. “I’m not.”

Ortiz tapped the butt of his sidearm. “It could work. It’s risky as hell—but if anyone can pull it off, it’s you. Just depends on your timing.”

You looked at each of them in turn. These were the people who’d bled beside you, shielded you, and followed your orders into gunfire and chaos. Now, they were standing by you in a war that wasn’t waged with bullets—but with dignity.

You smiled, something feral in your eyes. “If I have you all backing me up, I can do anything.”

Casey extended her fist. “Then give them hell, boss.”

🏢🏢🏢🏢

Another day. But nothing about today felt normal.

You stood at the base of the high-rise tower, the glass windows reflecting the clouds above like the building was trying to scrape the sky itself. It was a far cry from the concrete and steel of the military barracks you were used to—no gun oil in the air, no shouted commands, no weight of a vest strapped across your chest.

And definitely no uniform.

Instead, you wore a fitted blazer over a soft cream blouse, a knee-length skirt hugging your frame, and black heels that clicked sharply with every step you took. Your hair was tied up neatly, your makeup done just like Levi would wear it—light, approachable, perfect.

Your spine straightened. You weren’t you today. You were Levi McCain.

You stepped through the revolving glass door, nodding slightly at the security guard stationed by the gate. Your heels echoed through the marble-tiled lobby as you approached the access gates. Flashing the ID badge that bore your sister’s name and face, you passed through without a word.

The elevator ride felt like a countdown.

By the time the doors slid open onto Levi’s floor, you were fully in character. Warm smile. Relaxed posture. You even adjusted your voice to match hers—softer, friendlier, a little hesitant.

Heads turned.

People paused mid-conversation, frozen like they'd seen a ghost. A junior associate dropped her pen. A guy by the water cooler stared like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“Levi McCain,” came a voice from the far end of the room.

You turned.

The manager. Mid-forties. Too much confidence for too little talent. She strutted forward, arms folded, a condescending smile tugging at her lips.

“You're back from your sick leave,” she said, loud enough for the entire floor to hear.

You kept Levi’s warm tone, smile intact. “Yes. Feeling much better, thank you for asking.”

You bowed your head slightly and walked past her, graceful and calm. But inside, your fists were clenched so tight your nails bit into your palms.

You scanned the office with sharp eyes. Levi’s desk had been pushed aside, away from the windows, tucked behind a pillar near the printer—out of sight, out of mind. Her nameplate was gone. Her chair was missing a wheel.

The woman next to that desk shifted uncomfortably when you met her eyes. She looked away immediately.

You placed your bag down slowly and took your seat—Levi’s seat.

So this is how they did it. No punches. No bruises. No screaming. Just slow, silent cruelty. Isolation. Overwork. Smiles that meant nothing and eyes that cut deep.

You glanced down at the corner of the desk. A tiny scratch in the wood. You imagined your sister sitting here, day after day, alone, drowning in work that wasn’t hers, pretending it didn’t break her.

It broke her anyway.

But they hadn’t counted on this.

They didn’t know that Levi McCain had a twin with military training, a temper, and a very different definition of what justice looked like.

You crossed one leg over the other and cracked your knuckles discreetly under the desk.

They didn’t use their fists here. But that was fine. You’d show them how.

*****

The car hummed steadily along the highway.

Ortiz had one hand on the wheel, the other tapping lightly to the rhythm of a rock song playing low from the speakers. Casey sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, occasionally glancing at the rearview mirror.

In the back seat, Levi stirred—eyes fluttering open. Her head leaned against the window, a small crease on her brow as she blinked, confused.

She straightened up slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her voice was groggy, soft. “Where... where am I?”

Casey twisted around in her seat, meeting her eyes. Even after a full mission, bloodshed, and chaos, the sight of Levi still sent a chill down her spine. Same face. Same eyes. But the expression—fragile, hesitant—was nothing like her twin.

“You’re safe,” Casey said gently. “We’re taking you home.”

Levi’s eyes widened, panic rising fast. “Where is she? Where’s my sister?”

“She’s handling your problem,” Casey replied, voice calm but firm. “Everything will be alright.”

Levi shot forward in her seat, fingers gripping the headrest in front of her. “No. No, no, no—you don’t understand! Anyone stuck in a room with her... they won’t survive!”

Ortiz laughed under his breath, eyes still on the road. “Well, that’s the point.”

He and Casey exchanged a knowing smirk as Levi shrank back in her seat, looking horrified.

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koenigami · 12 hours ago

Text

0,613 centimetres

tags : caleb x fem!reader, fluff, talks about caleb's mechanical arm, smut, caleb's chest appreciation, nipple play (m!receiving), dry humping, 1,5k words

The scent of vanilla and cherries permeates the air as you step into your bedroom. He’s using your body wash again, you grumble as you finish up neatly folding the laundry and putting every piece of clothing on its designated place.

Just as you’re about to put the empty clothing basket away, the bathroom door opens, revealing a flushed, half naked and freshly showered Caleb. The white soft towel covering his lower half doesn’t leave a lot to one's imagination, especially at the way it’s hanging low enough to grant you a peak at the dark coarse hair below his navel.

It’s his own strained grunt that pulls your head out of the gutter.

“Caleb?” With a frown on your face, you set the basket that’s been perched on your hip back down on the floor before you pad across the room.

With one hand pressing into the right side of his chest, he turns his arm in slow circles a few times forward before he does the same motion in the opposite direction. The pain etched grimace on his face makes your anxiety immediately go into overdrive, and gently, almost as if scared that you might make his discomfort worse, you place a hand on his cheek to get a better look at him.

“Is it your arm? Does it hurt?” It’s been a while since he’s had another flare up, and it usually only happens after he’s over exerted his evol during a mission.

“Nah.” He huffs out a soft laugh at your worried demeanour before leaning in to press a quick peck on your forehead. “Must have overdone it with my workout yesterday. That’s all, Pips.”

Your wary gaze follows Caleb as he walks around the bed and discards his towel before slipping a pair of fresh boxers on. Already used to his casual white lies, you don’t let him off the hook that easily and corner him against the wardrobe.

“Are you sure? We can call the doctor if you want. It’s been a while since your arm’s been under maintenance.” Instinctively, your fingers reach out to his to intertwine them. His left hand. You always make sure he can feel your warmth. “I know you don’t like it, which I get since it must hurt like a bitch but in the long term it’s better because-”

One single kiss. It’s enough to silence you as well as nearly take your breath away, partly because Caleb tends to only pull away when he realises that beside your lips, he also needs oxygen in order to live.

“Hey, calm down. I swear, I’m fine.” He briefly closes his eyes as he pulls your hand up to his lips, and your heart skips when his warm breath ghosts over your knuckles. “My arm doesn’t hurt and is completely fine right now. My chest is just a little sore, that’s it.”

Oh.

“So, you’re not in pain?” You stare at him blankly as he pulls back, and decides to plop down on the bed. It creaks under the sudden weight and strain, yet Caleb is too focused on getting a whiff of the fragrance of the freshly changed sheets. You always use this one when you do the laundry at his place, and sometimes he even wonders whether you’re trying to pavlov him into missing you only harder once you’re back in Linkoln. Because once the scent of the sheets has subsided, there’s not a single trace of you left in his bed.

The smell, the warmth- all of it gone.

“Nope.” He pops the p, and crosses his arms behind his head. Apparently, that single is enough to stretch his overused muscles since his self sufficient smirk falters for a brief moment as he hisses in pain. “Well, more like the good kind of pain.

“Want me to massage them for you?” Your proposal shoots out of you instantly, and you can barely bite your smile back as you watch Caleb freeze visibly. His eyes shyly wander around your room before he gathers his bearings and clears his throat.

So easy, you think.

“For… me? Baby, don’t get me wrong but that sounds more like you’d do it for your own amusement.”

With nothing but utter faux innocence, you clasp your hands behind your back as you stand at the foot of the bed and blink at him. “So… is that a no?”

…

“Get your ass over here.”

That’s how you end up straddling his hips. Caleb watches you from underneath you, and follows every of your little moves. From mindlessly throwing the bottle of lavender oil somewhere across the bed, to the way you warm the drop of oil you poured in your palm. Almost sensually, you rub your hands and he instinctively has to busy his own by holding onto your thighs and caressing the soft flesh there.

With each of your hands on one peck, you carefully start to knead at the sore muscles, trying to find a rhythm and pressure that feels comfortable for him. They do feel tight, you note as you let your fingertips glide a little higher up to his shoulders before you resume your assault on his pectorals.

You try to avoid his half lidded eyes, yet what you can’t escape are the sounds of his occasional hitch of breath or the little gasps that he lets out when you find a particularly sore spot. They go right to your core, and you don’t doubt that he must have noticed it too at the way you slowly become fidgety, having to readjust yourself several times on his hips.

“Ngh!-” Your hands immediately still. Only when you eventually look at him, do you notice the blush dusting his cheeks, his ears, all the way down to his neck. You notice his raw bitten lower lip. He really must have tried to keep himself from making too many noises, huh?

“Did I hurt-”

“No. No, don’t worry. You didn’t-”

And you know you didn’t. Yet, you couldn’t contain this growing need inside you to see him writhe beneath you. To see him struggle with forming a coherent sentence, with keeping his eyes locked with yours without having to avert them every few seconds.

“Oh, so you don’t like it? Want me to stop?” Slowly, with almost cat-like movements, you crawl slightly higher until your face hovers right above his, until there’s no escaping you.

“That…that’s not it.” His pupils are blown wide, like a black hole swallowing the surrounding lilac of his iris until all that’s left is you in their reflection. “You just grazed my…”

You watch him swallow, and his Adam's apple bob as the meaning behind his words finally registers in your brain. Oh.

Somehow you haven’t even noticed how hard his nipples have gotten until now, and it only fuels this desire inside you further.

Caleb’s chest quivers with a shaky sigh once your lips find their way to his pecks. You start at his collarbone, and leave a path of soft peck all over his warm skin. Kiss after kiss, after kiss… until your hot breath ghosts over one of his hard peaks, and goosebumps rise all over his body.

“Baby, what are- fuck.”

His hand slips into your hair on the back of your head, unsure about whether he should push you off or keep you in place as your tongue flicks over his nipple. His whimpers vibrate against the back of his throat as he desperately tries to keep them in, but you’re making it so… so hard.

“I-Is that part of the massage?” He curses when cold air suddenly hits his spit coated chest, only to see your pursed lips turn into a smug grin.

“Yeah, let’s go with that.” You hum almost contentedly as you give his other side the same treatment, without noticing the mess that you’re slowly making on his boxers. Not like Caleb isn’t partly responsible for that mess himself-

Yet as your hips start to move in tandem with his, your shorts chafing against his briefs, Caleb nearly loses it.

He swears he could cum just like this. With your lips around his nipples, and his weeping cock rutting against your clothed pussy, but it’s not enough. It never is with you.

“Cay-” His name slips out of your mouth as a moan when he pulls you off him by your hair, not wasting another second before he’s throwing you on the bed, hovering now above you. Caging you between his arms and thighs.

Both your chests heave sporadically as you momentarily stare into each other’s eyes. That is before he notices the wet spot on both yours and his bottoms, and feels his eyes nearly roll back into his head.

“Shit… ‘S my turn now, baby.” He groans, and rolls your tank top all the way up to free your tits before dives in.

#love and deepspace caleb #caleb #lnds caleb #caleb x mc #lads caleb #caleb xia #caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb smut #caleb love and deepspace #caleb lads #caleb lnds #caleb fluff #caleb drabble #{ caleb <3 }

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orellazalonia · 2 days ago

Text

Laptop Warfare

Summary: In your cat form, you relentlessly sabotage Bucky’s attempts to work by sitting on his laptop, messing with his reports, and opening multiple tabs; forcing him to revert to handwriting like it’s the 1940s. (Bucky Barnes x shapeshifter!reader)

Word Count: 1k+

A/N: I want to create a mini-series similar to this but have reader shift into different kinds of animals. Anyways, enjoy more cat shenanigans. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

Bucky Barnes was not what you'd call a tech-savvy man, but he’d gotten used to the basics.

He could handle mission logs, internal reports, and the occasional strongly-worded email to Stark with minimal suffering. That morning, he even made coffee without breaking anything. Things were going well.

Then you, in your most annoying form: soft, smug, and four-legged, jumped onto the table with a thud. See, you started this infuriating habit of annoying your metal-armed teammate. After all, his reactions were too priceless to resist.

He didn’t even have to look up to know you were planning something.

“Don’t.”

You let out a soft meow, too innocent to trust.

He kept typing while you sat beside the laptop. Tail curled neatly around your feet. Just watching.

He narrowed his eyes.

“I mean it.”

Another soft, purring mewl. You blinked up at him. All wide-eyed, pure, and completely harmless.

Then plop.

You landed directly on the keyboard, your entire floofy body sprawled across the keys like a warm, vibrating puddle.

The screen flickered as you mashed four separate function commands at once. The report on infiltration routes vanished.

“No- hey! I didn’t save that!”

Bucky leaned over, trying to gently lift you off.

You melted into the keyboard like wet spaghetti.

“Come on, sweetheart.”

He tried again. You stretched dramatically, rolling onto your back and extending your claws in every direction like a lazy sun god. The screen beeped and a random browser opened. Then another. And another. Somehow you had 17 tabs open and a YouTube video about “How To Boil Water” playing in the background.

Bucky stared at the screen then at you. You yawned innocently, completely unbothered.

“That’s it.”

He picked you up like a toddler with attitude under the armpits, your fuzzy arms outstretched. You could see the betrayal in his eyes. You dangled in the air, tail twitching for a moment before he set you on the floor. You stared up at him and waited three seconds.

Then leapt back up and planted yourself exactly in the same spot. This time with a little extra tail flick into his coffee.

The sip he was halfway to taking halted midair.

“Are you serious?”

You purred and licked your paw.

He exhaled slowly. You could almost see him counting to ten. “Okay. Fine. You win.” He reached behind the couch, pulled out a dusty old notebook, and a pen.

You blinked. Slowly. Smug.

“Happy now?” He muttered, beginning to handwrite his mission log like it was the 1940s.

You curled up, content, purring over the keyboard while the laptop screen faded.

He muttered something about “goddamn cats” and “Stark’s fault” but didn’t move you again.

Ten minutes later, Steve walked in, saw the whole scene, and paused.

“…You writing reports by hand now?”

“She won’t let me type.”

Steve squinted. “Can’t you just move her?”

“I’ve tried. She becomes heavier. It’s unnatural.”

You blinked up at Steve, completely motionless. Your mind already planning something else to get back at Bucky for calling you fat.

He started laughing. Loudly. “She’s your problem now, Buck.”

Bucky sighed and kept writing. You didn’t even bother looking up. You’d already won.

By the next morning, you were still a cat.

Still smug. Still fuzzy. Still very much in control, but you had graciously moved spots sometime within the night.

Bucky looked like he hadn’t slept. His hair was a little messy, his now untouched coffee was colder than it should be, and his posture screamed a man defeated by pounds of fur and spite.

You were currently draped across the back of a couch, tail flicking slowly. Watching. Waiting.

When he sat down at the table and opened his laptop again, now freshly charged with a report half-written, you stretched. You then jumped down with a soft thump, and padded over, silent as a whisper.

He saw the shadow of you moving in the reflection on the screen.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You meowed sweetly and hopped onto the table with your most innocent blink. Then, without breaking eye contact, you sat squarely on the keyboard again.

Bucky sighed and dropped his forehead onto the table.

You purred.

“I swear to God,” He muttered, “I’ve fought HYDRA agents less persistent than you.”

You just made yourself more comfortable, curling into a neat loaf. The screen dimmed again. The report? Gone. Replaced with articles about cat behavior, one open Amazon cart containing 30 cat toys, and somehow, a dating site page.

Bucky looked up, absolutely done. “Are you trying to ruin my life?”

You chirped and flopped onto your side. A clear victory pose.

That’s when Tony walked in, sipping his drink and eyeing the scene.

“…Still refusing to shift back, huh?”

“She’s gone full gremlin mode,” Bucky muttered. “She won’t let me work. She sleeps on my face. She bit my sock yesterday.”

Tony smirked. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“I tried to out-stubborn her.”

Tony laughed. “You tried to out-stubborn a shapeshifter in cat mode. That’s on you, Barnes.”

Bucky glared as Tony took out a small device. “What is that?”

Tony tapped a button. A little laser dot appeared on the floor. You lifted your head immediately, ears perking.

“Oh no,” Bucky groaned.

Tony moved the dot slowly across the floor.

You stared. You stalked.

Tony flicked it once.

Pounce. You slid across the hardwood like a tiny panther.

“NO!” Bucky shouted. “Don’t reward her! That’s like giving Loki the Tesseract when he’s bored!”

But you were already chasing the dot like your life depended on it, slamming into a chair, knocking over a throw pillow, then skidding into a bookshelf as you pounced again with feral energy.

Tony was dying laughing. “Oh, this is so going on the security feed.”

Bucky just dropped his face into his hands. “I can’t live like this.”

You leapt up onto the table again and batted at the laser on the laptop screen.

It closed his report.

Again.

Bucky looked up slowly, jaw clenched.

You flopped over and licked your paw, grooming like none of this had anything to do with you.

He stared for a long, long second.

Then leaned back and muttered, “That’s it. Stark, make me a second laptop. A decoy one. Covered in catnip and self-destructs when sat on.”

You meowed.

Tony grinned. “I’m so glad I installed cameras in this room.”

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #marvel fic #marvel x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fic #Shapeshifter!reader

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storiesforallfandoms · 2 days ago

Text

the unexpected date ~ eddie munson;stranger things

word count: 3690

request?: no

description: when the biggest jackass in school asks her on a date, her best friend finds himself saying things he doesn't mean out of jealousy

pairing: eddie munson x best friend!female!reader

warnings: swearing, angst, use of y/n, eddie is jealous, jason sucks ass

masterlist (one, two, three)

"You look like you're about to explode, sweetheart," Eddie noted as his best friend scurried into class seconds before the final bell rang. "What's got you so happy? And so late?"

She gave him a playful glare. "I'm not late. The bell rang after I sat down."

"You're late for your own standards. You didn't even meet me at my locker."

(Y/N) shrugged and opened her notebook. Eddie noted that she was ignoring his first question. (Y/N) always told him everything, and vice versa. They had been best friends for so long. They never kept secrets from each other. He couldn't imagine something exciting that she'd want to keep a secret from him. Unless it was a secret for him, but that couldn't be it.

Before he could ask again, their teacher called for the class attention. Eddie snuck a few glances at (Y/N) throughout the class. She kept her attention on the lesson, which furthered Eddie's suspicions. Not that (Y/N) wasn't a good student or anything, but she never paid this much attention. He could tell she was purposely avoiding him. And if she thought he wasn't going to grill her when class ended, she was sorely mistaken.

It seemed she knew that, though, as she didn't try to immediately run when the bell rang. She grabbed her things, stood from her desk, and waited for him. Eddie laid into her the second they started for their next classes, "You're hiding something from me, and as your best friend, (Y/N), frankly that hurts. So, what gives?"

"It's..." She sighed. "I know you're going to freak out when I tell you."

"Well, that sounds promising," Eddie joked, trying to hide the unease he was starting to feel.

(Y/N) stopped. Eddie came to a stop and turned to face her. She looked nervous. It made Eddie nervous. They told each other everything, no hesitation. The fact that she was struggling made him think every worse possible scenario: she was moving, she was dying, she wanted to quit Hellfire. But then he remembered how happy she looked when she first walked into class, and he was both confused and nervous.

Finally, (Y/N) said, "I was asked out on a date."

There was a slight squeeze on Eddie's heart, but he managed to laugh as he felt himself relax. "That's it? You were nervous to tell me that, sweetheart?"

"By Jason."

And there it was. Eddie's heart dropped to his stomach. "Jason? As in...Carver?"

(Y/N) nodded.

"Okay...you said no." She was silent, chewing on her lip anxiously. "(Y/N), please tell me you said no."

"I...said yes."

"What?!"

(Y/N) tried to shush him as passing students gave the two of them looks.

Eddie couldn't believe it. He felt like it was some sick joke (Y/N) was pulling on him. There was no way that Jason Carver had actually asked her on a date, and there was even more no way that she had said yes. Jason Carver was the biggest jackass in all of Hawkins. He made it his life's mission to make Eddie's life a living Hell, and (Y/N) had been a witness to that since the start. She would never agree to go on a date with him.

"(Y/N), you can't be serious," he said. "Tell me you're kidding. Tell me you didn't say yes to going on a date with that asshole!"

"He seems sweet!" she argued. "Like, he was so nice when he asked me out."

"Yeah, I get the sense that he's a real kind soul when he and his friends are threatening to beat the shit out of me."

"Come on, Eddie. There might be more to him than that. What if it's all just an act?"

"Then why would you want to go out with a guy who pretends to be a dickhead because he's popular? I mean, seriously (Y/N), I didn't think you were this stupid."

A look of hurt crossed her face. It would've killed Eddie normally, not just her hurt but the fact that he caused it. But there were so many emotions bubbling up inside of him - anger, hurt, jealousy - that he could hardly bring himself to care.

"I'm not stupid for giving someone a chance," she said. Her voice was so soft that Eddie wouldn't have heard her if she wasn't standing right in front of him.

"You are if it's Jason fucking Carver!" Eddie snapped.

Her eyes became glassy. She tried to stutter something out, but Eddie had had enough. He was turning away and storming down the hallway before either of them could fully process the whole situation. (Y/N) watched him go, confused and hurt, not knowing that the second he had turned his back on her, Eddie had started crying, too.

~~~~~~

Eddie didn't talk to (Y/N) for the rest of the week. She tried - she waited for him by his locker, she'd pass him notes in class, she'd sit next to him at lunch. She even tried calling his trailer. But Eddie kept ignoring her. It was very obvious to the rest of the group that something was wrong, and it was making everyone very uncomfortable. Especially on the day when (Y/N) finally gave up on trying to talk to Eddie and walked into the lunchroom with Jason's arm around her shoulder. Upon seeing it, Eddie's face had gone red with anger and he had loudly stormed out of the lunchroom.

The next day was the day of (Y/N) and Jason's date, so Eddie stayed home from school. He couldn't bare to face either of them knowing what was going to happen that night. Wayne tried to talk to him about it, but Eddie brushed him off so he dropped it.

That night, when Wayne was gone to work and it was just Eddie in the trailer, the phone started to ring. He was in his room, still moping in bed, but he sat up very quickly when the first shrill ring sounded. He wanted to answer it, but what if it was (Y/N)? Wayne had been answering the phone all week, so whenever she called he had been the one to answer. But Wayne wasn't here now for Eddie to beg him to answer, and what if he answered and it was her?

Why would she be calling, idiot? You've made it very clear you don't want to talk to her.

But what if it was?

Finally, after debating for far too long, Eddie answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Where were you today, man?"

Eddie deflated. "Hello, Henderson."

"Are you feeling okay? The guys were worried."

"I'm fine. Just wasn't feeling up for school today."

"Is it because of (Y/N)?"

Eddie plopped down onto the couch. "It has nothing to do with (Y/N)."

"Come on, man. We've all noticed how tense things have been between you two all week. And the fact that she hasn't sat with us at lunch while you've been there."

"Listen, it doesn't matter to me who (Y/N) goes on a date with. If she wants to stoop so low as to date a jackass like Jason Carver, then that's her prerogative. But that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it."

"I mean, yeah it sucks that it was him she agreed to date, but we both know it's not just that that you're upset about."

The urge to hang up washed over Eddie like a tidal wave. He realized he was gripping the phone too tight when the hard plastic edges dug into his hand. He loosened his grip and sighed heavily.

"I'd be less mad if it was anyone else," he finally said.

"I know you would be," Dustin said. "But we both know you'd still be jealous, and that's just as bad."

Eddie couldn't argue with the kid. He knew Dustin was right, and Dustin knew he was right, too. He could swear up and down that things would've been different if (Y/N) had dated anyone else, but he knew deep down that no matter who she agreed to date, he would've pushed her away. She was his best friend, she had been for years, He couldn't imagine his life without her. So that's why he had to hold her at an arm's length if she was dating someone else, because his jealousy would push her completely out of his life.

Like it had now.

"Fuck," Eddie swore under his breath. "Dustin, I gotta go."

He hung up before Dustin could respond. He had no idea if (Y/N) would be home, but he had to apologize to her. Even if he had to wait outside for hours until she came back from her date. He had to tell her he was sorry. He had to push through his feelings so he could keep his best friend.

Eddie got into his van and drove to (Y/N)'s house. It was late enough that he expected her to still be out, but to his surprise there was a light on in her bedroom when he pulled up. He knew he could've knocked at the front door like a normal person, and (Y/N)'s parents would've let him in and let her go up to her room to see her. But as anyone in Hawkins would tell you, Eddie Munson was not a normal person. So, instead of taking the easy, normal route, he instead went to the tree that was next to her bedroom window. The tree had been around as long as Eddie had remembered, and when the two of them were kids, Eddie would climb it to sneak into (Y/N)'s room back when her parents had a "no boys allowed" rule. Now it was a "no boys except Eddie" rule, so he didn't have to sneak in. But, he thought maybe, for old time's sake.

Climbing the tree wasn't as easy now as it had been all those years ago. Once upon a time, Eddie enjoyed being outside and doing physical activities. Before he was introduced to music and roleplaying games and weed. And it had been so long since those days that the only physical activity Eddie did now was the bare minimum during PE to make the teacher happy. Jumping up to grab hold of a branch, and then trying to pull himself up onto that branch was definitely more than the bare minimum. He had some strength in his arms from playing guitar, but not nearly enough to look impressive as he got up into the tree. He was glad (Y/N) wasn't watching.

Once he was up onto the branch, he peaked into (Y/N)'s room. Luckily, he wasn't looking in on anything that would feel too voyeuristic. (Y/N) was on her bed, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a tank top, reading. It was hardly date attire, but then again maybe it wasn't a dress up date. What kind of dates to jocks bring girls on, anyways? Do they go to sports games? Take them running to see how fit they are? Or do they just go to whatever popular makeout spot and hope to get laid?

Eddie shook his head to get rid of the thoughts. He didn't need to be blinded by his jealousy again. He was here to make things right. He had to stay focused.

He shuffled as far out as he felt was safe (he had definitely gotten bigger since the last time he sat in this tree and he wasn't about to risk breaking off the branch and falling to his near death) and leaned forward to gently knock on the window. He watched as (Y/N) quickly dropped the book and looked towards the window in confusion. When she saw him, her eyes widened. He wondered if she would actually acknowledge him, or if she'd close the curtains and ignore the fact that he was there. Maybe she'd call out to her parents and they would force Eddie to leave.

Instead, she put her book aside and approached the window. She opened it and said, "What are you doing?"

"I came to talk to you," he replied.

"And you had to climb up a tree to do that?"

"Well, I could've just knocked, but I saw this thing and thought...hey, for old time's sake."

She looked at him for a long time. Eddie gave her a small smile and shrugged, hoping that would be enough. Finally, (Y/N) moved away from the window and gestured for him to come in. His move from the window into her bedroom was less than graceful, but he didn't make any noise that would alert her parents that he was there, and that was the impressive part for him.

"You've been avoiding me all week and now is when you decide you want to talk?" she asked as she shut the window.

"I know. I've been an asshole."

"That's truly an understatement." She crossed her arms and looked at him, expectantly. "Go on then. Say whatever it is you came here to say."

Eddie sighed. Truthfully, he didn't know what he had come here to say. He had an idea, but he hadn't actually planned anything to say. So, he just let the words come out without really thinking about them.

"First, I want to say I am sorry for being a jerk, but I'm not sorry for how I reacted over finding out that you said you'd go on a date with Jason Carver. I get you wanted to see the good in him, or whatever, but (Y/N) you had to know I wasn't going to take this news well. He's the biggest bully in all of Hawkins High, and the Hellfire Club has been his main target since day one. Of course that's going to make me upset to find out that my best friend is willingly going on a date with that guy."

(Y/N) sighed too, letting her arms drop to her side. Her defense has fallen, Eddie thought to himself.

"I know," she said. "I knew you weren't going to be happy when I told you. I just didn't expect for you to insult me like that, and then to completely ignore me all week? That hurt like Hell, Eds. We could've had this conversation days ago, but it felt like you just wanted to forget I ever existed."

"I did," Eddie admitted. "But also...I didn't. Of course I don't want to pretend like you never existed. You're my best friend. But getting that news hurt so much that it felt like it would be easier to just pretend than to try and talk to you about it. I'm sorry I hurt you. I know nothing I can say or do can make up for the fact that I did indeed hurt you, but I hope that an apology can at least be a start in making it up to you."

To his surprise, (Y/N) smiled and wrapped her arms around Eddie's waist. He hugged her back, gratefully. The few days of no contact felt like torture, but now everything was behind them. He had his best friend back.

(Y/N) went back to sit on her bed and Eddie sat across from her in her desk chair. He hated to have to ask, but it's what a best friend would do. "So...how was your date with Jason?"

(Y/N) made a face. "Didn't happen."

"What?" She shrugged like it was nothing. "Nuh-uh, sweetheart. You're not getting off that easy. What happened? Just yesterday he was all showing you off to his friends as if you were his brand new shiny basketball trophy."

"He was, but then he came up to me today at my locker with a different shiny trophy on his arm." When Eddie looked at her blankly, (Y/N) clarified, "Chrissy."

She didn't need to explain any further. Eddie knew Chrissy, and he knew all about her relationship with Jason. Everyone did. Even the lowest of the high school food chain knew all about the ups and downs of Chrissy and Jason's relationship. For the last two weeks, they had been in the lowest of downs; a breakup. They had never fully broken up before, and no one expected it to last. Until a week came and went and they were still giving each other the cold shoulder.

Eddie felt himself tensing up as he started to put the pieces together. "Do not tell me that jackass used you to make Chrissy jealous."

"Okay, I won't tell you."

The anger was starting to come back to him, but this time it was anger for his friend. "I can't believe he did that to you! And in front of the whole school. If he was just trying to make Chrissy jealous, he didn't need to parade you around to his friends yesterday and then humiliate you by being back with Chrissy today."

"It wouldn't have worked if he didn't make it public," (Y/N) said. "Sure, news spread like wildfire about our date, but he had to seal the deal somehow, and I knew that it would have to happen before our date because there was no way he was going to actually go through with it."

"Wait, you knew this was all just to use you? Like, even when he asked you out?" (Y/N) nodded. "And...you still said yes?"

She shrugged again. "Yeah. I mean, of course Jason Carver isn't going to go on a date with anyone who isn't Chrissy Cunningham. Especially someone like me. He only asked me out because I was the least likely person he would ever date, which would get Chrissy's attention, and it would get under your skin."

"And you still said yes knowing all of that?"

"I did." She paused, like she was debating on what to say next. Finally, she said. "I had to move on."

"From what?"

Another hesitation. She was looking down at her discarded book when she said, "From you."

Eddie felt like the world started spinning around him. Those two words echoed in his head, giving him hope for something he had wanted for so long, but still being too afraid to get excited or hopeful about it. "What do you mean?"

This time, there was no hesitation. It was as if the dam had already been broken, so (Y/N) couldn't stop the flood of words that came with it. "I mean that I have had a crush on you since middle school and I never told you because it's weird because we've been best friends since we were kids and I didn't want to ruin our friendship, but I held out hope for so long that maybe you liked me too and I finally came to the realization that I had to let you go and move on, and unfortunately Jason was the first person to ask me out since coming to that conclusion and even though I knew he was only asking me out to make Chrissy jealous, I said yes in hopes that maybe we would actually go on one date and it would be enough for me to finally move on."

While she was rambling, Eddie moved from the chair to her bed. He sat in front of her, still letting her continue her ramble, until finally he took her face in his hands and pulled her in for a kiss.

It was perfect. It was everything he had ever dreamed it would be. Her lips were soft and still tasted like the strawberry lip balm she had every day. He had wanted to taste that lip balm for so long, and now he could cross it off his bucket list.

When he pulled away, (Y/N) looked at him in shock.

"Is now a bad time to say I've had a thing for you since freshman year?"

"Yes!" she exclaimed as she hit his arm. "Why did you never tell me?!"

"The same reason you never told me about your crush!" he argued. "How was I supposed to know you liked me, (Y/N)? You never told me either!"

"I tried to drop hints!"

"I'm a boy, we don't pick up on hints!"

"Well, how about this for a hint?"

She grabbed his shirt and pulled him in for another kiss. It was quick, like she did it just because she was able to now, and when she pulled away she was beaming. Way more than she had been after Jason had asked her out - which Eddie was now realizing was just fake excitement for the date. But this was real happiness, and it was because of him.

Eventually, the two of them were laid on her bed, (Y/N) in Eddie's arms. The amount of happiness he felt could not be put into words. He had wanted this moment for so long, and now that it was happening he felt like he might be in a dream. He kept discreetly pinching himself just to make sure it was real.

"You know my parents are going to change the no boys except Eddie rule?" she asked him. "Actually, they may freak out if they find you here now."

"Your parents love me," Eddie said. "They won't freak out."

"Should we test that?"

"No!" Eddie quickly covered her mouth, even though he was at least 99% sure she wouldn't actually have called out to her parents. "Maybe we tell them about this at a time where I haven't snuck into your bedroom."

(Y/N) giggled. "Okay, deal."

"Maybe...we could tell them when I pick you up for a date. Like...a real date."

(Y/N) moved her head so she could look up at Eddie. "And you won't bail on me the day of for a blonde cheerleader?"

Eddie laughed. "I'd never bail on you, sweetheart. You're the only one for me."

"Then it's a date."

~~~~~~

toss a coin to your witcher!

ko-fi.com/storiesforallfandoms

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson imagine #joseph quinn #joseph quinn x reader #joseph quinn imagine #stranger things #imagine #one shot #fanfiction #fanfic #fandom

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katnipp · 2 days ago

Text

you chose me— sakura miyawaki

genre: FLUFFF

synopsis: y/n surprises sakura with an espeon plush — and sparks fly over nerdy love and soft cuddles

—

they were supposed to be buying laundry detergent.

that was the original plan.

a casual sunday errand, one reusable bag, iced americanos on the way home — no drama, no chaos, just vibes.

instead, y/n was currently speed-walking away from sakura through the third floor of the mall, muttering, “don’t follow me. don’t look. you’re banned.”

“you’re acting suspicious,” sakura called after her. “what are you doing?”

“nothing!”

“you’re walking directly into the pokémon store.”

“YOU SAW NOTHING.”

and just like that, she vanished inside the glowing pop-up shop, ducking behind shelves of plushies like she was on a mission from god.

sakura sighed and leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, completely used to this kind of behavior.

she tried to pretend she wasn’t intrigued. she even pulled out her phone. but when she saw the pokéball-shaped sign out of the corner of her eye, a little flicker of something soft tugged at her chest.

because she knew exactly what that store sold.

and more importantly—she knew exactly what it meant to her.

⸻

it was a memory she rarely talked about.

but once—late at night, curled up on the floor of y/n’s apartment, legs tangled, playing pokémon violet on her switch—sakura had whispered something.

just a quiet little confession, barely a sentence.

“i used to pretend espeon was my best friend.”

y/n had blinked at her, surprised.

“like, when you were little?”

“mm. still kinda do. she was elegant. smart. loyal. she evolved with happiness during the day. that always felt like… i don’t know. hope.”

sakura had paused, then added, like it embarrassed her:

“i wanted her as a plush. the good kind. not the ones with the stubby legs. but they never had the right version.”

y/n had just smiled.

“i’ll get it for you someday.”

sakura didn’t think she meant it.

⸻

fifteen minutes later, y/n came sprinting out of the shop, holding a pokémon center bag like it was the holy grail.

“okay,” she announced, cheeks flushed, voice bright. “do not freak out. okay? just—close your eyes.”

“no.”

“please?”

“you dragged me into a shopping center side quest.”

“for love,” y/n insisted.

sakura sighed. but she did it. she closed her eyes.

“okay,” y/n whispered. “hands out.”

sakura obeyed.

and something soft — plush — familiar and warm — landed in her palms.

“open.”

she opened her eyes.

and froze.

it was her.

the espeon.

long, silky lavender fur. stitched gem on her forehead. curled tail. elegant pose.

the espeon — 2022 sinnoh anniversary plush, korea-only release, discontinued in under a week, exact stitching sakura had obsessed over for months. the one she’d lost in a crane game in osaka. the one she almost bought online but backed out of because it cost eighty-seven dollars plus shipping.

and now… it was here. in her arms.

real.

“you remembered,” sakura whispered.

y/n looked smug and very, very proud. “of course i did.”

“this is the rare drop. the accurate tail. they always mess up the tail but—oh my god, the ears too, they’re actually aligned—” she blinked hard. “the fabric’s soft-matte… they even used the pearl-stitch seam pattern…”

“…are you crying?” y/n whispered, a little concerned, a lot delighted.

“no. no. i’m just—overwhelmed.”

“you’re definitely crying.”

“shut up.”

but she was hugging the plush to her chest like it was priceless. like it was hers. like it was something she’d waited her whole life for.

“you don’t understand,” sakura said softly, eyes still on the espeon. “she evolves with friendship. during the day. and she’s a psychic-type. her power comes from connection and loyalty. she’s misunderstood, but elegant. she’s—”

“you are so nerdy.”

“you’re the one who just bought me a sentimental plush with region-specific tag printing.”

y/n blinked. “is that… real?”

“yes,” sakura whispered. “it has the serial from the jeju release. she’s legit.”

y/n burst out laughing. and then, before she could stop herself, grabbed sakura’s face and kissed her forehead.

“you are literally the hottest person alive.”

“for knowing plush tag lore?”

“yes. keep talking about evolution stats. i might actually pass out.”

sakura shoved her, flustered.

“you’re ridiculous.”

“no, you are,” y/n said. “you named your trainer character saku-champion93.”

“you snooped on my switch?”

“you left it open.”

“i had a fully EV-trained umbreon backup team!”

“you’re so hot when you talk about egg hatching.”

sakura covered her face.

y/n just laughed and held her hand, letting them wander down the mall aisle like nothing else existed. the espeon plush stayed tucked between them, her tail bouncing with every step.

⸻

they didn’t talk much on the train home. just leaned against each other in the seat, soft music in their earbuds, the city passing by in lazy blurs.

sakura still clutched the plush. her fingers kept brushing its soft fur, like she couldn’t quite believe it was real.

“she needs a name,” y/n said eventually.

sakura blinked. “she already has one.”

“what?”

“lunaria.”

y/n paused. “you named her before?”

“she was my espeon in platinum. i used her in every battle. she had calm mind, shadow ball, psychic, and baton pass. she was in my pokémon league headcanons. she wore a tiny cape.”

y/n was speechless. “you’ve thought this through.”

“of course,” sakura said, voice soft. “she was my comfort character. when i didn’t have a lot of friends, she was who i talked to.”

that shut y/n up for a full thirty seconds.

then—

“you’re cuddling her more than me.”

sakura blinked. “what?”

“i’m just saying. she’s in your arms. i bought her. shouldn’t i get the snuggles?”

“she understands me.”

“unbelievable.”

“you said you liked when i talked about stat spreads.”

“i do! i just didn’t think i’d be outcompeted by a plushie.”

sakura smirked.

y/n glared at the espeon.

“…i don’t trust her.”

⸻

that night, y/n came out of the bathroom to find sakura already in bed, curled up under the blanket, murmuring softly to the plush in her arms.

“you were always the strongest,” sakura whispered, stroking the ears. “don’t listen to what they say about flareon. you were never outclassed.”

y/n stood there for a full ten seconds.

then turned around and went back into the bathroom to scream into a towel.

⸻

and later that night—

y/n posted a photo on instagram: sakura asleep, drooling slightly on a pillow, espeon tucked tight in her arms.

caption:

she chose the plush over me but like… i get it.

comments:

chaewon: you really lost to a psychic cat huh

yunjin: LMAO THE DROOL

kazuha: this is the cutest thing i’ve ever seen

eunchae: can i have a plush gf too :(

sakura didn’t mind the teasing.

she was too busy dreaming of gym battles, sunlight, and love that evolved exactly when it was meant to

—

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deadhands69 · 1 day ago

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Bra Shopping with fem!Shigaraki

half head canon // half x reader type story not really sexual but it does contain photos of bras + the whole thing is about boobs so might not be sfw or appropriate for everyone; not setting an age limit to read it since we all know what bodies are just use your own discretion

While I absolutely love the head canon she'd have cute little A cups, I think that would only be true for blue-haired-staying-in-playing -video-games-and-plotting-instead-of-consistently-eating-anything-with-nutritional-value Tomura.

As soon as she starts training and eating consistently, genetics would kick in and I mean:

While I don't think anyone would have stopped her from buying bras, I also don't see Kurogiri having the best advice on how to look for anything of that nature. Especially if she hasn't shown a need for it.

And, sure, you absolutely noticed that she filled out, but you weren't about to tell your girlfriend what she should be wearing. That is, until the complaints rolled in:

"Why do they bounce so much? Are they supposed to be like this?" Tomura grumbles after a mission.

"Like what?" you ask.

Tomura stares down at herself, concerned, while wiggling back and forth. You almost laugh.

"Yeah, that–that's normal."

"Oh," she mumbles. "Well, how do I make them stop hurting when I jump?"

That's when you decide it's time to go bra shopping. You pick a place with a lot of options. Conveniently, they also do fittings. Tomura is nervous through the process. You ask if she assumed bra-fitting would be some sort of laser scanner that creates a 3d model of you that spits all of your sizes out; she doesn't answer. Instead of expensive technology, the grey haired woman with a length of tape works her magic and it's over before Tomura can even complain about having to stay still for so long.

"32D. Look for the blue tags," the woman says before walking away.

Tomura looks down at herself wide eyed and cheeks flushing before glancing back at you for validation.

"Yeah, that sounds right," you reassure her. "You did have a pretty big growth spurt. Come on, let's look around."

Initially, you thought she would pick the first simple black thing she found and go with that. That's how she usually shops. However, Tomura has seen cute bras before and wants to feel pretty. She's not explicitly saying that, but her selections reflect it, in their own way. They also let you know: she has no idea what she's looking for. So, she ends up with a completely random assortment of things on her first trip into the fitting room.

"Do you need any help?" you ask from outside the curtain. There's a long pause before she answers. "Uh, I don't think this fits right."

"Can I see?" you ask.

Tentatively, she pulls the curtain back, giving you a peak at what she tried on. Well, tried to try on.

"Uhm," you say politely while trying to find the right words, "I think your arms go through this strap?"

"Oh," she mumbles, "uh, I don't think this one is going to work for me. Or this one," she hands you another strappy black bra, "I liked it on the mannequin but now it's kind of scary."

"That's reasonable," you say. She hands you another.

"And this one. I don't like the," she gestures under her boobs, "the hard part?"

"Underwire?" you ask.

"Yeah, that part. I don't like it."

"Okay." You hang them both on the rack behind you, "fortunately it sounds like you're just looking for a little support most of the time?"

"Most of the time. Maybe more on missions. And," her cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink as she nervously scratches her neck. "And it might be fun to look cute sometimes?"

"You're always cute."

"You know what I mean, y/n."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. Why don't you try on that last one while I find you a few more?"

Knowing vaguely what she's looking for, you grab a few more. A sports bra for her missions, two more comfortable options, and another that looks comfy but cute.

When you come back, Tomura has unsuccessfully crammed herself into the last of her selections. It was her size, however, the fit isn't quite right for her anatomy. The result of that is the majority of her spilling out over the top of the cup.

"I don't think this is doing much," she says while poking at the sides of her boobs.

"I don't think that's what it was designed for. Try these."

She does.

Fortunately, all of your selections fit her well. With a little reassuring that you do, in fact, find her cute in them even if they aren't covered in too many straps and other things that scare her, she decides to buy them all.

Now, Japan gets to see her as the symbol of fear – but only you know she's wearing a lacy red bralette under her villain clothes.

[bnha masterlist]

taglist: @kitkat13001 @kennys-partner @amira-44820 @its-evee16 @thesecond2demonking

@shigarakislaughter @dance-with-me-in-hell @minniessskii @vaval3ntin @ykyouluvme

@dummi666 @lotus-flower420 @nonominchan @softnfuzzy @mysticalhills

@reireitaka @crwavee @baby-pink-flowers @drlucichen @frieren-imposter

@lou-the-naga-queen @multifandomidk @love-for-yoosung-kim @xytraxpy @venom-barf

@shiiigaraki @thetinas21 @spam-1

#I think eventually she'd grow more muscle and end up like a 34C #wrote this on a whim and decided to share it #happy pride #or something #fem shigaraki #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki x you #shigaraki tomura x reader #fem shigaraki x reader #fem!shigaraki #tomura shigaraki x reader #tomura x reader #my hero academia #bnha #bnha x reader #my hero academia x reader

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emperordinozenmon · 12 hours ago

Text

Roommates

Despite Dio’s love of fantasy I had him write something a bit more down to earth.

Yuma was jolted awake by a cacophony of sounds no one should have to process before sunrise—screaming, moaning, and the unmistakable gnashing of teeth.

He stared at the ceiling for a moment, dead-eyed, willing the noises to be anything else. A horror movie. A particularly aggressive raccoon in the vents. Anything but what he knew it was.

With a long, theatrical sigh, he swung his legs out of bed and trudged toward his bedroom door. As he opened it, the sounds only intensified, confirming his worst suspicion.

There they were. Niles and Sunny. His roommates. Half-dressed and tangled on the living room couch like a pair of exhibitionist eels, completely unbothered by the fact that they had walls and doors in this apartment.

Yuma didn’t even flinch. His eyes briefly locked with Sunny’s over Niles’s shoulder—an awkward moment of accidental acknowledgment—and then he quietly closed the door.

Back in the safety of his room, he reached for his speaker, turned the volume up to something just below “deafening,” and flopped back onto his bed.

“I need a new roommate,” he muttered, the bass thumping beneath him as if agreeing.

By the next afternoon, the mission had begun.

He started scrolling through roommate matching forums, housing apps, even mildly sketchy subreddits. A few interviews and even more red flags later, he stumbled upon someone with the username RedRacer95. Their profile picture was a pixelated image of Red Racer from Gekisou Sentai Carranger, and their bio simply read:

“Just trying to keep my engine clean and my vibes cleaner.”

Yuma raised an eyebrow but kept reading. The way they typed—direct, meme-literate, and just self-deprecating enough—made him think this was probably someone in their early twenties with at least a functioning grasp on hygiene and personal space.

The two hit it off quickly, trading messages about toku shows, bad roommates, and the eternal struggle of splitting Wi-Fi bills. Yuma hadn’t even met them in person yet, but for the first time in a long time, he felt cautiously optimistic.

Maybe—maybe—he’d finally found someone who wouldn’t traumatize him on a Tuesday morning before coffee.

Three months later.

The morning was unusually crisp for late summer, and Yuma was standing outside his new apartment complex with a dolly full of boxes, balancing a coffee cup between his teeth and internally repeating his moving mantra: Don’t drop anything, don’t make eye contact with weird neighbors, don’t drop anything.

So far, so good.

He glanced down at his phone again. Red Racer—his future roommate, texting under their real name now—had said they’d be a little late but were bringing snacks and energy drinks. Yuma assumed that meant some guy in joggers and a racing tee who’d pull up in a beat-up hatchback blasting Eurobeat.

So when the black luxury van pulled up and a small cluster of people jumped out—stylists? handlers? security?—he nearly dropped the dolly.

And then she stepped out.

Eunbi Kwon. Not just a K-pop idol. The K-pop idol. The one with three platinum albums, a sold-out world tour, and a rabid fanbase that once doxxed a radio host for mispronouncing her name. She was casually dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, but her face was unmistakable.

Yuma blinked. “…You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

She spotted him, grinned, and jogged over—totally unbothered by his slack-jawed stare. “Yuma?”

“Uh. Yeah.” He tried not to stare. Failed.

She offered her hand. “Red Racer. But you can call me Eunbi now.”

He didn’t shake her hand. He just looked at it, then at her again, then at the dolly, like this was some kind of elaborate prank and the punchline was in one of his boxes.

“You—you’re Red Racer?” he asked finally, voice cracking like a teenager hitting puberty for the second time.

“Technically I’m RedRacer95, but yeah.” She shrugged. “I told you I loved Carranger. Why’d you think my username was ironic?”

“I don’t know, everyone’s ironic on the internet,” Yuma blurted. “I thought you were like, a guy. In a hoodie. Eating ramen. Not a—K-pop juggernaut with her own Funko Pop.”

Eunbi laughed, bright and unfiltered. “I mean, I do eat ramen. Usually after midnight. Sometimes shirtless.”

Yuma was absolutely, positively malfunctioning.

She leaned in slightly, amused. “So, we still roommates? Or do I need to find someone else to split the rent?”

“I—I—yeah, no, yeah, we’re—this is fine. Totally fine. Great.” He pointed at the dolly. “That’s your half of the kitchen.”

“Sweet. I brought kimchi and three slow cookers. Let’s ride.”

As they entered the building together, Yuma couldn’t help but look at her sideways, still trying to reconcile the meme-loving tokusatsu nerd he’d messaged with the woman walking beside him—glamorous, chill, and absolutely real.

Somewhere deep in his soul, he heard the faint cry of thousands of stans screaming in jealousy. And then the quiet, creeping realization:

He was going to die trying to pretend this was normal.

But the longer they lived together, the harder it became to keep up the charade—mostly because Eunbi Kwon, global icon, was startlingly, disarmingly normal. Clingy, sure. Occasionally dramatic. But normal in the kind of way that made you forget who she was until you saw her face on a billboard and remembered that you’d seen her eat string cheese in a Snorlax onesie the night before.

When she wasn’t booked, filmed, photographed, or swept away to rehearse choreography at ungodly hours, she was home—barefoot, barefaced, and curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her like a burrito. She and Yuma—Yumaton, as she stubbornly insisted on calling him in full like some sort of Digimon evolution—would marathon Digimon Tamers, Carranger, or whatever off-brand mecha series they were currently obsessed with. They argued over opening themes, ranked transformation sequences, and once spent an entire night trying to figure out if Agumon could beat a Gundam in a fight.

It was chaotic. And easy. And kind of perfect.

As days blurred into weeks and weeks into months, something subtle shifted. They didn’t just share space—they began to share pieces of themselves.

Eunbi, once cryptic and media-trained to within an inch of her life, started cracking open. She’d pad into the kitchen in the middle of the night with bed hair and eyes still heavy from sleep, mumbling about dreams or the pressure to keep smiling during interviews. Yuma didn’t press. He just listened. Let her talk. Made her tea.

And somewhere in that soft, unspoken space, they became friends. Real ones.

Yuma started keeping her favorite peach ramune and honey butter chips stocked in the fridge without her asking. He even learned how to cook the particular kind of bland comfort porridge she liked when she was sick or emotionally fried.

He also dusted off her little Christmas tree once a week—the tiny plastic thing she had proudly placed in the middle of their dining table the day she moved in. It was glittery, crooked, and decorated with mismatched charms and fandom pins. It stayed up year-round. At first, Yuma had thought it was a joke. But Eunbi treated it with sincere reverence, occasionally rearranging its tiny ornaments like it was a sacred altar.

In return, she tried not to blast Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” every time she came home, though sometimes the temptation got the better of her. On those days, Yuma would just sigh and let her dance through the apartment in oversized socks like it was December 24th.

They fell into that rhythm without noticing—inside jokes, shared playlists, quiet understanding. It wasn’t glamorous, or dramatic, or anything out of a tabloid. It was better.

It was theirs.

And in the quiet corners of those days, Yuma started to realize: maybe this wasn’t so hard to pretend was normal after all.

Maybe, it was.

The elevator dinged on the 9th floor with the usual sluggish groan, and Yuma stepped out, shoulders hunched under the weight of another long shift. His bag felt heavier than it should’ve, his earbuds were dead, and the sunset had already dipped below the buildings, leaving the hallway cast in that sterile blue-gray of early evening.

He just wanted to get inside, kick off his shoes, and maybe sink into the couch like a corpse.

He unlocked the apartment door and pushed it open, already toeing off his sneakers—only to be hit with the comforting hum of the living room TV and the familiar jingle of anime dialogue in the background.

He blinked.

Eunbi was sprawled on the couch in an oversized hoodie, legs curled under her, a half-empty can of Sprite balanced precariously on the armrest. On screen, Oresuki played, its chaotic romantic hijinks washing through the room like low-level emotional static.

She looked up the moment he walked in.

Her face lit up.

“Yumaton!!” she squealed, practically throwing the can onto the coffee table as she jumped up.

Before he could even respond, she bounded across the room in socked feet and launched herself into him, arms wrapping tightly around his torso.

Yuma staggered slightly, caught off guard, but instinctively steadied her. “Whoa—careful, you’re going to break something. Possibly me.”

“I missed you so much,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “It’s been forever.”

“It’s been eight hours,” Yuma deadpanned, though he didn’t move to let her go.

“Eight agonizing hours,” she corrected dramatically, squeezing tighter. “And I finished the first arc of Oresuki alone. I suffered. In solitude.”

He chuckled, low and tired. “Truly, the greatest tragedy of our time.”

Eunbi pulled back just enough to look up at him, her eyes soft, her expression suddenly quieter, more honest.

“I’m glad you’re home.”

Something in the way she said it landed differently. Not casual. Not performative. Just… full of something warm and unguarded. Like she meant it—not just because he paid rent or brought her favorite snacks or killed spiders in the bathroom. But because he was the one who walked through that door. Because she missed him.

Yuma’s heart stuttered, the fatigue from the day sinking a little more gently now.

“I’m glad I’m home too,” he murmured.

She smiled, radiant and crooked, and tugged him toward the couch. “Come on. I saved the best episode. We’re watching it together, or I riot.”

He let her drag him down into the cushions, the hoodie she wore soft against his side, the can of Sprite fizzing gently in the background.

Outside, the city buzzed on without them.

Inside, it was warm. Familiar. Home.

It started as a distraction.

Yuma had been sitting at his desk, supposed to be working on a client’s branding mockup, but instead he found himself idly scrolling through his browser tabs. His fingers moved on autopilot. One moment, he was flipping through color palettes. The next, he was on a ticketing site.

LE SSERAFIM – Seoul Encore Show.

He hesitated. His cursor hovered over the event banner.

It wasn’t like he’d never listened to their music before—Eunbi played their songs around the apartment all the time, usually while dancing in pajama shorts and an old Twice hoodie. Sometimes she’d drag him into spontaneous choreography practice, laughing as he flailed helplessly through half-remembered moves. He’d grumble about it, but the truth was, he always looked forward to those moments.

Still, he couldn’t explain why he clicked on the ticket page.

Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was muscle memory. But within seconds, he was scanning seat maps and availability.

Without thinking, he selected two tickets. Good seats. Not nosebleeds, not VIP. Just… good.

One for him. One for her.

His thumb paused over the checkout button.

That’s when it hit him.

Wait—why am I buying two?

He stared at the screen.

It wasn’t just the act itself. It was the reflex. He hadn’t even questioned it. As soon as the idea had entered his head, he’d assumed Eunbi would be coming with him. That they’d go together. That she’d throw on a bucket hat and mask, hum along during the ballads, maybe grip his hand when the crowd roared too loud.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

Oh.

It felt like someone had pulled a curtain back in his mind, revealing a room he’d been living in without realizing.

The late-night conversations. The way he automatically checked the fridge for her favorite snacks. How he’d started noticing when her laugh was genuine and when it was one of the fake ones she used on camera. The comfort of her head resting on his shoulder during movie marathons. The ache in his chest the one time she was gone for a whole week and didn’t text back until the fourth day.

He hadn’t just grown used to her presence.

He needed it.

I like her.

It was quiet. Simple. Obvious in hindsight.

And terrifying.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the two digital tickets still waiting to be confirmed. His heart thudded—not fast, but deep, like the beginning of a song that was just starting to build.

Was this stupid? Maybe. She was Eunbi Kwon—bright, untouchable, beloved by millions.

But when she was home, curled up on their couch in mismatched socks and humming along to anime openings with Sprite in her hand—she felt like his.

He clicked confirm.

The tickets slid into his inbox with a soft ding.

Yuma closed his laptop slowly, like the sound might echo through the apartment and give him away. But everything remained still. The quiet hum of life beyond his door. The knowledge that in a few minutes, she’d probably emerge from her room asking if he wanted to finish Oresuki.

And he would say yes.

Because he always said yes to her.

And maybe… maybe soon, he’d find the courage to say more.

Meanwhile Eunbi was going through her own little realization of her own.

The studio was hot, loud, and soaked with the faint scent of body spray, floor polish, and sweat.

Eunbi had been at it for hours—breaking down steps, adjusting her angles, and counting beats under her breath while the track played on repeat. Her new comeback was intense. Faster choreography. Tighter transitions. More emphasis on power and sharpness. She loved it—but it was the kind of love that came with bruises and exhaustion.

She missed her couch. She missed Digimon. She missed—

WHACK.

Her foot slipped just slightly during a spin, and her balance shifted the wrong way. She caught herself quickly, but not before knocking her elbow into a speaker stand.

“Ah, crap—” she muttered, clutching her arm and trying to shake it off.

Then, deadpan, in perfect English: “Well, that sucks. I’mma go jump off the roof.”

The music cut out instantly.

All eyes turned to her.

A beat of stunned silence passed. One of her backup dancers—Jiwoo—lowered her water bottle mid-sip, eyebrows raised.

Eunbi blinked, then waved it off casually. “Oh, that’s just my roommate. Yuma. That’s his signature saying. He says it like five times a week.”

Everyone relaxed, half-laughing, half-staring. Jiwoo narrowed her eyes with a smirk.

“Wait… Is this the same guy who takes care of your little Christmas tree shrine and keeps your Sprite stocked like it’s medicine?”

Eunbi grinned sheepishly. “Yeah. That’s him.”

Jiwoo let out a soft laugh, shook her head, and walked away, muttering something about “must be nice.”

Eunbi turned back toward the mirror, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, but her reflection looked a little… off. Not wrong, just softer.

She replayed the moment in her head. How natural it felt to invoke Yuma like he was part of her day-to-day language. Like a second heartbeat. The way her body had instinctively leaned toward the idea of him—his sarcastic commentary, his sleepy-eyed smiles, the dumb jokes he’d mutter under his breath just to make her laugh.

Without warning, a small ache bloomed behind her ribs.

Not painful. Just… present.

I miss him.

Not home, not my bed. Him.

His voice in the morning. His hoodie she always stole. The way he looked at her sometimes, like she wasn’t an idol at all—just a girl who loved tokusatsu and put too much sugar in her tea.

She shook herself out of it, snapped her fingers, and called for the music to start again. She had a show to perfect. A comeback to own.

But as the beat dropped and her body moved through the steps like muscle memory, she couldn’t help the way her mind drifted—

—to the weight of Yuma’s arm slung lazily over her shoulder as they fought for the last chip. —to his voice humming some dumb Digimon song from the kitchen. —to the unshakable thought:

I wanna go home. I wanna go home to him.

Eunbi had just fifteen minutes between rehearsals. Her makeup artist was touching up another dancer, and her choreographer was resetting the sound system. So she did what any exhausted idol would do in the lull—curled up in the corner of the practice room, hoodie pulled over her head like a tent, and let the hum of the studio fade into the background.

She didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But exhaustion crept in like warm fog, and before she knew it, her mind was drifting.

⸻

They were back in the apartment, lights dimmed, the TV flickering with nostalgic warmth. The Digimon Adventure tri. movie was playing, the voices of old characters filling the room like a lullaby of childhood.

Yuma was sitting beside her, in that hoodie she always stole—except now it was off, tossed somewhere, and he was in a fitted black tee that made her mouth go dry in that not-so-innocent kind of way.

She was curled against him, blanket pulled over both their laps, her head resting on his shoulder.

“Hey,” she asked lazily, “which Digimon makes you think of me?”

Yuma glanced down at her with a smirk, his eyes soft but mischievous. “Mastemon.”

She blinked. “Mastemon? Really?”

He nodded, voice low and teasing. “Sweet, compassionate, noble… but also? Built like a war goddess. A literal body for sin.”

Eunbi’s face burned. In the dream, she could feel the heat rising to her cheeks.

“Yuma!” she gasped, swatting his chest halfheartedly.

He just grinned. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

She opened her mouth to argue, to fire back with some quip—but nothing came out. Because deep down, she liked hearing it. Liked the way his voice wrapped around her name, the quiet heat in his eyes when he looked at her like she was both sacred and dangerous.

And then, as if possessed by some other version of herself—bolder, braver—she leaned in.

“Well then,” she murmured, eyes half-lidded, lips just a breath away from his, “let’s sin together.”

Yuma didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

He tilted his head just slightly, a crooked smile playing on his lips as he closed the gap—

⸻

And then she jolted awake.

The fluorescent lights above her buzzed softly. Her hoodie was bunched beneath her cheek, her phone had slipped to the floor, and her heart was racing.

She blinked rapidly, disoriented, her pulse pounding in her ears.

It had been a dream.

Just a dream.

But her body was still warm from it. Her lips tingled. Her chest felt like it was holding something back—something real.

Oh no.

She sat up slowly, brushing a hand through her hair as the lingering sensation of Yuma’s voice echoed in her memory.

Sweet, compassionate, noble… body for sin.

She covered her face with both hands, groaning. “I’m so in trouble.”

This wasn’t just a crush. Wasn’t just comfort. She had feelings—messy, spiraling, very real feelings.

For her roommate.

Her best friend.

The boy who refilled her Sprite and rolled his eyes when she blasted Christmas music in April. The one who bought her a Digimon plush last month without saying anything, just because he thought it looked like her.

Eunbi sighed, pulling her knees to her chest.

She didn’t just miss Yuma. She wanted him—in the movie night, hoodie-sharing, falling-asleep-on-the-couch, heart-racing kind of way.

And now she knew.

No more pretending.

No more brushing it off.

She was in deep.

By the time they both were done with their work weeks they had dragged themselves back to their apartment.

Friday Night

The door creaked open at nearly the exact same time.

“Ugh,” Yuma groaned as he trudged in, bag sliding off his shoulder like it had personally offended him.

Eunbi followed seconds later, baseball cap pulled low over her face and sunglasses still on despite it being well past sunset. “I swear, if one more person asks me to ‘just show a little more shoulder’ in rehearsal—”

“—I’ll start flipping tables,” Yuma finished for her with a tired smirk.

She snorted, kicking her shoes off and dumping her gym bag. “God, you get me.”

They barely even said hi. No hug. No big reunion. They just drifted into each other’s space like two puzzle pieces slotting into place after a long day apart.

The front door clicked open just as Eunbi was toeing off her shoes. She turned her head at the same time Yuma did, both of them standing there—slumped, drained, and looking like they’d barely survived the week.

“…you look like roadkill,” she muttered, voice hoarse with fatigue.

Yuma dropped his keys in the dish by the door and gave a low, gravelly laugh. “Takes one to know one, babe.”

She smiled—tired, but real—and without thinking, held out her arms.

He stepped into the hug without hesitation, resting his forehead on her shoulder for a long beat. No tension. No awkwardness. Just quiet, bone-deep comfort.

Eunbi flopped onto the couch with a long sigh. Yuma dropped beside her, leaning his head against her shoulder. She patted his thigh. He rubbed her back.

And then, without thinking—

“Wanna help me make fried rice, babe?”

“Yeah, sure, love,” Yuma murmured, yawning as he stood.

Neither of them blinked at the pet names.

⸻

Saturday Morning

They shuffled around the kitchen in oversized hoodies and mismatched socks. Yuma was stirring eggs. Eunbi was chopping green onions, still humming a Le Sserafim B-side under her breath.

“Careful with your fingers, baby,” Yuma said without looking.

“You’re the one who almost dropped the pan yesterday, sweetie.”

He snorted. “Touché.”

They brushed past each other, instinctively pressing soft kisses to each other’s cheeks in the narrow kitchen space like it was nothing. Like they’d been doing it for years. Like it was normal.

Eunbi didn’t even realize she’d stolen his hoodie until he tugged at the sleeve and said, “Hey, is that mine?”

She pulled it tighter and grinned. “It’s ours now.”

He rolled his eyes, but his smile betrayed him.

Eunbi was pouring pancake batter into a hot pan while Yuma hunted for the maple syrup with one eye still closed. She was wearing his gray sweats. He was wearing her headband to keep his bangs out of his eyes.

“Don’t burn it again, babe,” he said without looking.

“I swear to God if you jinx me—” she muttered.

They brushed past each other. He kissed her cheek instinctively. She grabbed his waist as she reached for a mug behind him. Neither acknowledged it, because it was so normal now.

Yuma watched her grab the last Sprite from the fridge and grinned.

“You owe me one.”

“I owe you like, twelve,” she said with a smirk, cracking an egg with one hand like a pro. “Keep tally.”

Sunday Afternoon

They were in a blanket pile on the couch watching some off-brand fantasy anime with terrible animation and amazing music. Their phones buzzed occasionally, but neither looked at them. Eunbi’s head rested on Yuma’s thigh, and he absentmindedly played with the drawstring on her hoodie.

Yuma reached for the envelope on the coffee table.

“Oh,” he said, almost like it wasn’t a big deal, “got us something.”

Eunbi sat up slowly as he handed her the tickets.

Two glossy passes to Le Sserafim’s Seoul concert. Front section.

Her brows lifted. “Wait. You got these?”

“Yeah,” Yuma said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was looking for a concert to go to, just something fun, and I saw their dates. I guess I just… I dunno. Reflexively bought two. Thought it’d be cool to go with you.”

Eunbi blinked, holding the tickets like they were delicate. “You thought of me?”

“Of course I thought of you,” he said simply. “You’re my favorite concert buddy.”

There was something in his voice—light, casual—but underneath it… something else.

She was quiet for a second, then smiled a little. “You know we’ve been acting like an old married couple lately, right?”

Yuma tilted his head. “Have we?”

Eunbi gave him a look. “You call me babe. I kiss your cheek when I’m cooking. We share hoodies and playlists and I literally can’t drink Sprite now without thinking of you.”

Yuma laughed under his breath. “Well. When you put it like that…”

“Yuma.”

His gaze softened, and he leaned in, elbows resting on his knees.

“I didn’t mean to fall into this,” he said quietly. “But I didn’t fight it either. You… make it easy.”

Eunbi’s throat went tight. Her fingers curled around the tickets. “Yeah,” she whispered. “You too.”

They sat there, quiet and close, the room glowing gold from the late afternoon sun.

Outside, the city kept moving.

But in their little apartment, time held still—for just a second longer—as two best friends quietly realized they weren’t just best friends anymore.

The Night Before the Concert at a cozy izakaya tucked in a quiet Seoul alley—paper lanterns swaying in the breeze, the scent of grilled meat and sake in the air. While Eunbi and Yuma were on a double date with Niles and Sunny avoiding their feelings.

Yuma was sipping a plum soda, hunched slightly over the low table, while Niles theatrically argued with the server about whether or not “extra garlic” meant “a stupid amount of garlic.”

Sunny, cheeks already flushed from one shot of soju, leaned closer to Eunbi, whispering loud enough for the whole table to hear, “You know what’s wild?”

Eunbi blinked, chopsticks hovering over a sizzling plate of pork belly. “What?”

“You and Yuma are a better couple than me and Niles,” Sunny declared, grinning like a drunk prophet. “And me and Niles are literally married.”

Eunbi coughed—choked, really. Her hand flew to her chest.

Yuma’s head jerked up. “Wait—what?”

Niles groaned into his beer. “It was a Vegas thing. We don’t talk about it.”

Sunny waved a dismissive hand. “That’s not the point. The point is that you two—” she gestured between Eunbi and Yuma with her chopsticks, “—are grossly domestic. Like, I half-expected you to bicker about who left the towel on the bathroom floor and then kiss on the mouth.”

“Sunny—” Eunbi hissed, cheeks glowing scarlet.

Yuma laughed nervously. “It’s not like that…”

“Oh, babe,” Sunny said sweetly, “you call her ‘baby’ in three different tones depending on whether she’s tired, mad, or wearing your hoodie.”

The table went dead silent.

Even the sizzling grill felt like it stopped mid-pop.

Eunbi stood up abruptly. “Excuse me. Bathroom.”

Yuma shot up right after her. “Same. Too much soda.”

Sunny lifted her shot glass to Niles with a smug little smirk. “And that’s how you break a years-long stalemate, honey.”

Inside the quiet dimly lit Bathroom Hallway away from the laughter and clatter of the izakaya.

Eunbi was leaning against the wall, arms folded tightly over her chest, lips pressed into a line.

Yuma approached carefully, standing just close enough to share the space, but not close enough to assume anything.

“She was joking,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” Eunbi replied. “That’s what scares me.”

Yuma blinked. “Scares you?”

Eunbi exhaled slowly. “Because it wasn’t wrong. Not really. We’ve been doing this dance for months. Cooking together. Sleeping in each other’s hoodies. Saying goodnight like it means something.”

“It does mean something,” he said, without hesitation.

She turned her head, eyes searching his face.

“It does?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Yuma nodded, throat tight. “I didn’t buy those tickets just because I like concerts. I bought them because I wanted to go with you. Because you’re the person I want beside me—whether it’s screaming in a stadium or watching Digimon reruns in our pajamas.”

Her breath caught.

“And if you’re scared,” he added, “then I’m right there with you. But I’d rather be scared with you than keep pretending we’re just roommates who accidentally became each other’s favorite person.”

Silence.

Then: a soft, shaky laugh from Eunbi.

She looked at him, eyes misty, lips curling into a smile. “God, I was really about to kiss you in a bathroom hallway, huh?”

Yuma’s voice dropped. “What if I want you to?”

Eunbi took a step closer. “Then don’t stop me.”

And just like that, the dam broke—not with fireworks, but with a shared breath, a soft laugh, and the taste of plum soda and longing on a kiss that had been waiting months to happen.

#k-pop fanfic #kpop fanfic #kwon eunbi #eunbi fanfic #izone eunbi

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