#i love when he does that with his arms in the first one

[thebarneschronicles]

Nine Lives

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Synopsis: Bucky Barnes drives you insane—in every possible way. The bickering, the reckless plans, the way he smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. But when a mission goes sideways, leaving you both bloodied and too close for comfort, the tension between you ignites into something impossible to ignore.

You can keep pretending. Keep fighting him. But Bucky isn’t one to back down—especially when he knows you don’t really want him to.

Trigger Warnings: Bullet wounds, unprotect sex (wrap it before you tap it!), p in v, dirty talk, BUCKY BARNES (he needs his own warning)

Author’s Note: I had been tinkering with a few scenes in this and the Thunderbolts trailer made me finish it. Hope you like it! B x

-- Bucky Barnes was going to be the death of you.

Whether it was because he got on your last nerve or because you were desperately, irrevocably, undeniably in love with him—either way, he’d be the reason your heart stopped beating.

And honestly? It might happen in the next five minutes. Because God help you, the man was insufferable.

The room smelled like burnt coffee and bad decisions.

Sam stood at the front, gesturing at a holographic map as he laid out the mission plan, his voice steady and patient—too patient, the way a parent speaks when they know their kids are about to cause problems.

You were paying attention. You really were. But out of the corner of your eye, you could see Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed– and looking bored out of his mind.

Every once in a while, he flicked his gaze to you, not saying anything. Just watching.

And you knew that look. That I’m about to do something reckless and you’re going to yell at me for it look.

You gritted your teeth.

“—we’ll go in through the east entrance,” Sam continued, pointing at the building layout. “Stealth is key. No unnecessary attention.”

Bucky made a quiet sound. It wasn’t quite a scoff, but it was close enough.

Sam’s jaw flexed. “Got something to add, Barnes?”

Bucky shrugged, like the whole thing was barely worth his effort. “I just think you’re overcomplicating it.”

Your brows shot up. Oh, here we go.

Sam closed his eyes, visibly counting to ten. “What part is complicated?”

Bucky shifted, pushing off the wall. “The part where we’re tiptoeing around like we’re on a damn field trip. We go in, take out the threats, get what we need. Done.”

You turned in your chair, slowly. “Take out the threats?”

Bucky smirked. “What?”

“What?” you repeated, voice rising. “You mean brute force? Like some kind of rabid raccoon?”

Sam sighed deeply, rubbing his temples.

Bucky grinned, which somehow made it worse. “I’d say more wolf, but sure.”

Your grip tightened on the edge of the table. “Barnes, if you go off-script, I swear to God—”

“Relax, doll,” he said, casual as anything. “I’ll mostly follow the plan.”

Your eye twitched. “Mostly?”

Sam exhaled sharply, muttering to himself. “I should start charging overtime for this.”

Bucky wasn’t done, though—he turned that damn smirk back on you. “You do love bossing me around, don’t you?”

And that? That was the last straw.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood, planting your hands on your hips. “We are sticking to the plan, Barnes. No improvising. No wandering off. No turning this into some solo hero death mission.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, inhaling through gritted teeth as you fought for patience you absolutely did not have. “Why is your solution to everything brute force? Sam has a plan. A good plan. A plan that does not involve you punching your way through every obstacle.”

Bucky folded his arms across his broad chest, looking completely unfazed. If anything, he seemed amused. “First of all, rude. Second of all, my way works.”

“You mean it works when it doesn’t get us killed?” you shot back, voice rising. “Which, by the way, is not a guarantee.”

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to grin. “C’mon, doll, you’re overreacting.”

And there it was. That goddamn nickname.

You felt it like a spark in your bloodstream, a rush of heat you refused to acknowledge. Instead, you rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “Don’t ‘doll’ me, Barnes. I’m serious. We are sticking to the plan.”

“I am sticking to the plan,” he said, far too casually. “I’m just… modifying it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Modifying it?”

“Enhancing.”

“You mean ignoring it?”

He shrugged and you had never wanted to strangle and kiss someone in equal measure more in your life.

God, this man was going to be the death of you.

You took a slow, deep breath, curling your fingers into fists at your sides. “Bucky. No modifications. No enhancements. No Barnes-ifying the plan.”

He tilted his head, looking irritatingly pleased with himself. “Barnes-ifying? Huh. I kinda like that.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Of course you do.”

Sam, who had been observing this entire exchange with the long-suffering patience of a saint, let out a loud sigh. “Are you two done? Or should we clear the room so you can work out all that tension?”

Your head snapped toward him. “There is no tension.”

Bucky, the absolute menace that he was, had the audacity to murmur, “Oh, there’s tension.”

Your entire body went rigid. Your face felt hot. You whirled back to him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest. “I will kill you.”

His lips twitched. “I’d love to see you try, doll.”

You weren’t sure what infuriated you more—the way he said it— doll —like it was his own private joke, or the fact that you liked it. Loved it, even. That it sent a pulse of something traitorous through you, something that made you want to either punch him or grab him by the collar and—

No. Focus.

You squared your shoulders, planting your hands on your hips. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Barnes. You’re going to follow the plan. No making things up as you go along. Got it?”

His blue eyes glinted with something unreadable. “And what if I don’t?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Then I’ll personally make sure you regret it.”

Bucky grinned, slow and wicked. “Kinda looking forward to that.”

Your breath hitched. Your brain short-circuited. You opened your mouth, then shut it again, because there was absolutely nothing appropriate to say to that.

Oh. Oh, that son of a—

Bucky chuckled, clearly enjoying the way he’d just rendered you speechless. Then he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping to something low and smug.

“Face it, doll,” he murmured. “You’d miss me if I was gone.”

You scoffed, even as your stomach flipped. “I’d miss arguing with you. That’s it.”

“Mm-hmm.”

The knowing look on his face made you want to smack it off. But more than that, it made you want to—

Nope. Not going there.

You exhaled sharply, turning on your heel. “I’m done. Sam, let’s go before I change my mind and let him get himself killed.”

Sam snorted, giving Bucky a pointed look. “See what you did? Now you’ve pissed her off.”

Bucky only smirked, watching you walk away. “Nah,” he said, mostly to himself. “She likes it.”

—

You didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

And do you know why? Because you knew—knew—he wasn’t lying.

Bucky Barnes didn’t say things he didn’t mean. He wasn’t the type to play games with words, wasn’t the type to tease just for the hell of it. If he said there was tension, if he said you’d miss him, then he meant it. He knew.

He knew before you did.

And that was the worst part.

You had no idea when your constant bickering turned into something else, something deeper, something dangerous. One day, you thought you hated him—the next, you realized you couldn’t imagine a world without him in it.

It had terrified you.

So you fought.

You fought harder, argued louder, refused to let him see just how deeply he had burrowed into you. You clashed over the stupidest things—his reckless plans, his stubbornness, the way he called you doll like it was a secret between you. Because if you didn’t fight, if you let the walls slip for even a second, you weren’t sure what would happen.

And it infuriated you.

How dare he?

How dare he make himself at home in a corner of your heart you didn’t even know existed? How dare he take up permanent residence there, until that tiny space expanded into the whole damn thing?

How dare he make you want him when you were supposed to be angry at him?

How. Dare. He.

The memory took over before you could stop it…

It had been a disaster from the start.

The mission was supposed to be a simple recon—go in, get intel, get out. No unnecessary engagement. No close calls. No getting shot.

But Bucky Barnes? He didn’t believe in simple.

You were fuming as you dragged him into the safe house, your grip tight on his arm, ignoring the way his blood seeped through your gloves. He was bleeding all over the place, but of course, he still had the audacity to smirk at you.

“You’re manhandling me, doll.” His voice was rough, teasing. “If you wanted to get handsy, you could’ve just asked.”

You pushed him down onto the rickety cot in the corner, none too gently. “I swear to God, Barnes, if you don’t shut up, I will make your injuries worse.”

Bucky groaned dramatically as he flopped back, far too casual for someone who had just taken a bullet to the shoulder. “You’re so mean to me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—should I be nice to the guy who just got himself shot?” You tore open the med kit, grabbing a pair of scissors and snipping at the sleeve of his tactical suit. 

Bucky’s smirk vanished. “Hey, whoa—this is a perfectly good jacket.”

“You’ve bled through half of it, Bucky!” You glared at him, slicing the fabric open with zero hesitation.

Bucky scowled. “Still wearable.”

“Still ruined.”

“You’re ruining it more.”

“Oh my God—do you wanna keep arguing, or do you want me to keep you from bleeding out you reckless, metal-armed asshole?”

Bucky huffed a laugh, because of course he did, the sound painfully casual. “Little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Your hands shook as you tore open the med kit, fingers fumbling over the supplies. “Shut up.”

“Oh, come on, doll, it’s just a—”

“Don’t you dare say ‘scratch.’”

Bucky sighed, dropping his head back onto the cot. “I’m not bleeding out.”

“You got shot, you dick,” you snapped, peeling the fabric away to get a better look at the wound. Through and through, just above his bicep. A clean hit, but it would scar if you didn’t take care of it properly.

Bucky peered at the wound like it was barely an inconvenience. “It is just a scratch.”

Your eye twitched. You gritted your teeth, pressing an antiseptic wipe to the wound with zero mercy.

Bucky hissed, body tensing as he glared at you. “Jesus—are you trying to kill me?”

“Oh, now you feel pain?” You didn’t let up, pressing a little harder just for good measure. “You didn’t seem too concerned when you ran into a hail of gunfire like a rabid golden retriever with a death wish.”

Bucky scoffed. “Golden retriever?”

“You just charged in, Bucky! What part of ‘stealth mission’ do you not understand?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I had to.”

“No, you didn’t!” You grabbed a fresh gauze pad, pressing it against the wound. “Sam and I were handling it just fine before you decided to be stupidly heroic.”

“Doll, you were cornered,” Bucky argued.

“No, I was waiting for backup.”

Bucky gave you a pointed look. “You were outnumbered and had a jammed weapon.”

You locked your jaw. Because okay, maybe that was true.

But he didn’t have to jump in front of a bullet for you.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound unimpressed. “I was fine.”

“You were two seconds away from getting shot.”

“I know, Bucky!” You slammed the antiseptic wipe against his skin, not caring when he hissed. “But you didn’t have to—you didn’t—you— I told you not to do it!” you cried out. “But no, you just had to go full Terminator and jump in front of a goddamn bullet for me—”

You stopped.

Because suddenly, your throat was too tight, and your breath was coming too fast, and you hated that the panic was winning, that it was spilling over.

You weren’t just mad.

You were terrified.

Bucky blinked at you, actually looking concerned now, which only pissed you off more.

“Doll—”

“You think you’re indestructible, don’t you?” You threw the used gauze aside, grabbing another one, your hands shaking as you pressed it to the wound. “Just because you have the serum, you think you can—can take all these stupid risks—”

Bucky sighed, clearly exasperated. “I heal faster than you do, sweetheart. It’s not that deep.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Oh, fuck you, Bucky!”

His eyebrows shot up at that.

“You think the serum makes you invincible?” you seethed, eyes burning. “Is that why you keep throwing yourself into danger? Why you never hesitate before taking a hit? Why you jump in front of bullets like it’s your damn job?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but you weren’t done.

“Guess what, Barnes? The serum doesn’t make you immortal! One day, your dumbass luck is going to run out! And what then?”

Bucky stilled, blue eyes searching yours.

But you were unraveling too fast to stop now.

“I swear to God, Bucky, I’m gonna lose my mind if you keep—” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice cracking. “I can’t—I can’t keep watching you do this to yourself.”

Something changed in Bucky’s face. The teasing, the smirking—it all vanished.

You didn’t want to see whatever was in his eyes.

You dropped your gaze, fingers moving on autopilot, taping the bandage down over his shoulder. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but you pretended not to notice.

You felt him watching you.

For the first time since the mission, Bucky was quiet.

The weight of it pressed against your chest.

You swallowed hard, clearing your throat. “Just—just try not to die next time, okay?”

Bucky let out a slow breath, something almost amused slipping into his voice. “Not really my style, doll.”

You snapped your head up, narrowing your eyes at him. “Yeah, I noticed. You’ve got a real stubborn track record of coming back from the brink of death.”

Bucky grinned, slow and lazy, like he couldn’t help himself. “What can I say? I’m persistent.”

Your jaw tensed.

“Yeah? Well, I don’t want to be the one watching you zero out your nine lives.”

The smirk disappeared.

A flicker of something serious passed through his eyes—so fast you almost missed it.

For a second, you thought he was going to say something that would change everything.

But then, as quickly as it came, he shoved it away.

He exhaled a soft chuckle instead, shaking his head. “You worry too much.”

You clenched your jaw, standing abruptly. “And you don’t worry enough.”

Bucky watched you, his expression unreadable.

You grabbed the med kit and turned away, before he could see just how badly your hands were still shaking.

Because the truth was—

You weren’t sure what scared you more.

The fact that Bucky Barnes kept coming back from the brink of death—

Or the fact that, one day, he might not.

–

You exhaled sharply, shoving the memory aside.

No. Not thinking about that.

You couldn’t.

Because if you let yourself sit with it for too long—

If you let yourself acknowledge how much he meant to you—

You weren’t sure how you were supposed to breathe through it.

Bucky must have sensed the shift in you, because as you stalked ahead, fuming, he was suddenly there—keeping pace beside you, his presence entirely too much. Too close, too solid, too him.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured. “That’s never a good sign.”

“Maybe I just ran out of things to say,” you snapped, not looking at him.

He made a low sound, somewhere between a scoff and a chuckle. “That’ll be the day.”

You whirled on him before you could stop yourself, jabbing a finger into his chest. “Do you enjoy driving me insane, Barnes? Is it, like, a hobby for you?”

His lips twitched, that damn smirk already forming. “I mean… yeah. Kinda.”

You let out a frustrated noise, turning on your heel, ready to put as much distance between you and that insufferable smirk as possible. But before you could take two steps, his fingers curled around your wrist—gentle, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks.

The warmth of his skin against yours sent a jolt through you. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t forceful, but it was steady, intentional. And for a split second, you couldn’t breathe.

When you looked up, his blue eyes were locked onto yours, unreadable, intense.

“I’m not trying to drive you insane,” he said, his voice softer now, but laced with something heavier, something that made your chest feel tight. “I’m just trying to figure out why you won’t admit it.”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Admit what?”

Bucky tilted his head slightly, studying you like he was searching for something, peeling back layers you weren’t ready to let him see. His gaze dragged over your face, lingering—too long—on your lips before flicking back up.

Your breath hitched.

He was going to say something else. You knew it. Could feel it. But whatever he saw in your expression made him change his mind at the last second. His features shifted, the quiet determination giving way to something smug, teasing. A deflection.

“That it’s a good plan.”

Your pulse stuttered.

This wasn’t what he wanted to say. Not even close.

But he was giving you an out. Letting you pretend, letting himself pretend, like this was still just another argument. Another round of your never-ending bickering instead of… whatever the hell this was becoming.

And that? That scared you more than anything.

“It’s not,” you shot back, seizing the escape he’d handed you. You took a step back, yanking your wrist free of his grasp. “It’s stupid. It’s reckless, and it’s going to get one or all of us hurt if we do it.”

Bucky’s jaw tensed, his smirk faltering for the first time. His eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them before he asked, voice quieter, but rougher—”Why do you never take my side?”

The question hit like a sucker punch.

It knocked the breath from your lungs, left you reeling in a way you hadn’t expected.

“I—” The words caught in your throat.

He wasn’t teasing now. Wasn’t throwing out some cocky remark just to get under your skin. This was something real, something raw, and it left you woozy.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Second time I’ve got you speechless today, huh? Must be a new record.”

His voice was light, teasing again, but the look in his eyes said something else entirely.

Then, before you could recover, before you could shove something sharp and defensive between you, he turned and walked ahead—leaving you standing there, heart racing, breath unsteady.

Completely, utterly furious at him.

And even more furious at yourself.

Your hands curled into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as you forced yourself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t let him get to you.

Except he had. He always did. And the worst part? He knew it.

You glared at the back of his head as he walked ahead like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just thrown you completely off balance and left you scrambling for solid ground.

Why do you never take my side?

You hated that the question still echoed in your head. That it stung in a way you weren’t ready to unpack.

You stormed after him, your boots crunching against the pavement. “Barnes, we’re not done talking about this.”

He didn’t stop, didn’t even turn around. “Seemed pretty done to me.”

Your jaw clenched. “God, you are infuriating.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that once or twice.” He threw a glance over his shoulder, his smirk still in place, but his eyes? His eyes were still sharp, still waiting.

You caught up to him in two quick strides, grabbing his arm to yank him to a stop. “Don’t walk away from me.”

Bucky arched a brow, glancing down at where your fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket. “Thought you couldn’t stand being near me, doll.”

You ignored the way your stomach flipped at the nickname. Ignored the way your traitorous hand lingered for a second before you let go.

“That plan of yours?” You crossed your arms, tilting your chin up. “It’s reckless. And you know it.”

His smirk faded, just slightly. “And what if reckless is the only option?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know that too.”

Bucky let out a slow exhale, running a hand through his hair. “Look, I get it. You think I’m some idiot who just punches his way through problems—”

“I know you are,” you shot back.

He glared at you, jaw ticking. “But maybe—just maybe—I actually know what I’m doing this time.”

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, but something in his expression stopped you.

There was no smugness, no teasing. Just raw frustration, something worn down underneath.

You stared at him, chest rising and falling too fast, the words dying on your tongue.

“Right,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. “Should’ve known better than to expect you to trust me.”

The words weren’t loud. He wasn’t even looking at you when he said them. But they landed like a slap.

Your breath caught. “That’s not—”

“Forget it.” 

— 

Shockingly, Bucky had followed Sam’s plan.

And—even more shockingly—it had gone wrong.

In the end, brute force had been the only way to get all three of you out alive.

You weren’t sure when the dust had settled, when the ringing in your ears had finally faded enough for you to hear your own breathing again. But when your vision cleared, Bucky was still standing.

Standing over a pile of bodies, bloodied and exhausted, his chest heaving with exertion.

There was a split in his lip, a gash across his forehead, and a bullet graze along his ribs, the fabric of his tactical suit dark with blood.

And you hated it.

You hated how your stomach twisted at the sight of him hurt. Hated the way your fingers curled into fists at your sides to stop yourself from running to him, from touching him, from grabbing his face and checking.

Most of all, you hated that you had doubted him.

Bucky Barnes had a century of combat experience. He had spent his entire life surviving fights he shouldn’t have walked away from, and still, you had dismissed him. Still, you had refused to listen.

And now? Now all of you were bleeding. All of you were shaken.

But the worst part—the part that made your throat tighten and your breath shudder—was that Bucky wasn’t even gloating.

No smirk. No I told you so.

Just silence. Just his sharp, assessing gaze, scanning the aftermath like he was still bracing for another fight.

By the time Torres had you all back on the plane, you were shaking.

The adrenaline should have worn off by now, but the weight in your chest only grew heavier. You knew—you knew—Bucky would heal faster than you or Sam. Logically, you understood that.

But logic wasn’t stopping the tightness in your throat when your eyes landed on the bruising around his temple.

It wasn’t stopping the way your fingers trembled as you grabbed the first aid kit and sat down in front of him, against every warning screaming in your head.

Bucky exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the seat. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding,” you shot back, voice sharper than intended.

“So are you.”

You ignored that. “Just—hold still.”

For once, he didn’t argue. But when you reached for him, when your fingers ghosted over his skin, his gaze flickered—just for a second—to your hands.

He noticed.

Noticed the tremor in your fingers, the way they weren’t steady.

His brows drew together, just slightly. He didn’t say anything, but you felt his stare, felt the question lingering on the tip of his tongue.

Your breath hitched. You curled your fingers tighter around the antiseptic wipe, focusing too hard on dabbing at the cut on his forehead.

When he flinched, you huffed. “Big bad super soldier can take on twenty guys at once but can’t handle a little stinging?”

His lips twitched, but the teasing was half-hearted. “Not my fault you’re rough.”

You shot him a look. “I wonder why.”

His jaw flexed. “You do like making things difficult.”

“Oh, I make things difficult?” You shook your head, pressing a little too firmly as you cleaned the wound. “I don’t remember me running in headfirst with zero regard for a plan.”

Bucky scoffed. “Right, because your plan went so well.”

You froze, fingers stilling against his skin.

His voice hadn’t been sharp, but the words still landed heavy in your chest.

“You didn’t have to follow it,” you murmured.

Bucky let out a slow breath. “Yeah. Well. I did.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and weighted.

You forced yourself to move again, forced yourself to focus on the cut rather than the way his eyes lingered.

Your throat was dry when you spoke. “You were right.”

His expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air.

“We should have done it your way,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

Bucky’s fingers curled over the edge of the seat. He didn’t speak, didn’t move, but you knew he was watching you.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice quiet. “Didn’t do us much good, did it?”

You pressed your lips together. “Would’ve gone a lot worse if you hadn’t stepped in.”

His eyes flickered. His jaw worked, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy for it.

“You don’t have to say that,” he murmured.

“I do.” Your voice wavered, but you swallowed hard, pushing through it. “Because I was wrong.”

Bucky was still. Unreadable.

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped lower. “That an apology?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was no real fire behind it. “Don’t push your luck, Barnes.”

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, doll.”

But his eyes? His eyes told a different story.

—

The hum of the jet was steady beneath you, the vibrations deep in your bones, but it did nothing to ground you. The cabin lights were low, throwing long shadows across the metal walls. Sam was already passed out in the back, his breathing even, the tension from the mission finally easing from his shoulders.

You should be doing the same. You should be closing your eyes, letting exhaustion take over, shutting out the memory of the chaos you’d just escaped from.

But you couldn’t.

Because Bucky was still watching you.

He sat across from you, silent and unreadable, his blue eyes darker in the dim light. He hadn’t spoken since you finished patching him up, but he hadn’t stopped looking, either.

It wasn’t his usual sharp-edged irritation or teasing smirk. No playful bickering, no cocky remarks about how he’d been right. Just this.

Something softer. Something heavier.

Something you weren’t ready for.

“You should get some rest,” he murmured, voice low and rough around the edges.

You shook your head, fingers curling into your palms. “I’m fine.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, like he didn’t believe you. “Yeah? You don’t look fine.”

You hated that he could see it. The tremor in your fingers, the tension in your shoulders, the way you were still breathing too fast, like your body hadn’t realized the fight was over.

You hated that he noticed. That he cared enough to notice.

And then—because you were tired, because you were furious, because he had almost died and you were still trying to claw your way back from the sheer panic of it—you snapped.

“You could have died, Bucky.” Your voice was sharper than you meant, thick with something you didn’t want to name.

His brow twitched, but his expression didn’t change. His voice stayed infuriatingly even. “Yeah. That’s kinda what happens when people shoot at you.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” His lips pressed into a thin line, his jaw tight. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing out there?”

“That’s not—” You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down your face. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean?”

The question hung between you, thick with unspoken things.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched you—his gaze steady, patient, like he was giving you the space to say it.

And God, you wanted to.

But the words sat like stones in your throat, impossible to force out. You clenched your jaw, tried to shove them back down, but they wouldn’t go away.

Because the truth was, you weren’t just shaken by the mission.

You were shaken by the way seeing him bleeding had made your stomach drop, by the way his pained groans had made your hands shake, by the way you had wanted—needed—to run to him, to wrap yourself around him and never let go.

You were terrified.

Because this wasn’t just anger or frustration or a heated argument in the middle of a mission.

This was Bucky.

And you couldn’t lose him.

So instead of answering, instead of trying to put words to the panic still rattling inside you, you did the only thing you could do.

You reached for him.

It wasn’t sharp or defiant, wasn’t out of frustration or anger.

You just—needed to touch him.

Your fingers brushed over his wrist, barely there, hesitant. A point of contact. Something to anchor you.

Bucky stilled.

For a second, he just stared at your hand, at the way your fingers curled against his skin like you weren’t even sure if you had permission to hold on.

Then, slowly, he turned his wrist under your palm, letting your fingers slide over his pulse point. His skin was warm, his pulse steady. Alive. Here.

Your throat went tight.

Bucky’s voice was quieter this time. Rougher. “You gonna tell me what’s going on in that head of yours?”

You swallowed hard, but you didn’t let go.

Your thumb ghosted over his pulse, barely a whisper of touch, but it still wasn’t enough.

You didn’t know what you needed, what you were searching for beneath your fingertips, but the slow, steady thrum of his heartbeat wasn’t easing the raw ache in your chest.

Your eyes flickered around the cabin.

Sam was still dead to the world, Torres nowhere in sight. The only two people awake on this jet were you and Bucky.

Something inside you snapped.

One second, you were gripping his wrist, tethering yourself to him like that alone would make this feeling go away. The next, you were moving before you could stop yourself—sliding out of your seat, crawling into his lap, wrapping yourself around him like holding on tighter would somehow keep him safe, keep him yours.

Bucky made a sound—something low, something confused—but his hands came up anyway, large and warm and steady as they settled on your hips, instinctive.

His breath hitched, and you felt it against your temple, the subtle shudder of his inhale.

You buried yourself closer, curling into his chest, fingers winding into the hair at the nape of his neck. His scent was everywhere—gunpowder and metal and something distinctly him—and you could have drowned in it.

“If you ever tell anyone I did this,” you muttered, voice muffled against his neck, “I will find ways to kill you.”

There was no bite to it. No real threat.

Just you—raw and exposed in a way you didn’t know how to take back.

Bucky let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a chuckle, but he didn’t pull away.

Didn’t tease.

Didn’t shove you off like he should have.

Instead, his arms shifted, wrapping around you fully, pressing you into him like this was what he had been waiting for, like this was something he had been needing just as badly.

Like he wanted to.

His metal fingers flexed at your waist, pressing against the fabric of your suit, a steadying grip. His other hand flattened against your back, tracing over the curve of your spine as if he was committing the shape of you to memory.

His touch burned.

His warmth was everywhere.

You squeezed your eyes shut, your fingers sliding from his hair to his cheek, brushing over the stubble there, the still-healing cut on his temple. And then—before you could stop yourself—you were tilting his face toward yours.

For the first time since the mission, since the gunfire, since you watched the blood dripping down his temple and felt your entire world tilt on its axis—you met his eyes head-on.

Bucky swallowed.

His gaze dropped—just for a second—to your lips.

It was enough.

Your resolve snapped like a frayed wire.

And before you could second-guess yourself, before you could remind yourself that this was Bucky, before you could convince yourself that you didn’t love him like this—

You kissed him.

It was desperate, messy—nothing like the slow, sweet build-up you had imagined in the deepest corners of your mind.

Your lips crashed against his, your hands fisting in his suit, pulling yourself closer, closer, closer, needing more, needing everything.

Bucky froze.

Didn’t move when your lips parted against his, when your tongue flicked against his bottom lip, when your teeth caught the cut there, tasting blood.

Didn’t react when you kissed him again, soft and searching, when your nose brushed against his, when you sighed against his mouth, the sound fragile and aching.

Didn’t kiss you back.

The realization hit slow, creeping in at the edges of your desperation, sinking its claws into your chest.

He wasn’t—

Oh, God.

The sting of rejection burned hotter than the wounds littering your body.

You tried to breathe, tried to steady yourself, but your lungs felt too tight, your hands shaking as you forced yourself to pull back, to put distance between you before you shattered entirely.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, a shaky breath washing over his lips. Your throat was tight, your vision blurring at the edges. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Your voice broke.

Bucky was still silent.

And that was somehow worse.

It took a second to register the weight of what you’d done, to catch up to you.

You had kissed him.

You had kissed him and he hadn’t—

Your stomach plummeted.

“I’m—” Your breath hitched, panic clawing at your ribs. “I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

You tried to untangle yourself, tried to scramble out of his lap, to preserve whatever dignity you had left, to put distance between you before you completely fell apart in front of him—

But then—

God.

Then his hands tightened on your hips.

Hard.

Before you could even get further, Bucky dragged you back against him, fingers digging into your skin, like he wasn’t about to let you go. He maneuvered you until your legs were astride his hips, your arms around his neck, your chest pressed to his.

Your breath stilled, eyes wide, heart hammering against your ribs.

His expression had changed.

The shock, the hesitation—it was gone.

In its place was something darker.

Something heated and unrelenting.

Something like want.

Bucky’s breathing was uneven, his lips parted, his pupils blown wide as his gaze flickered between your eyes, your mouth, back up.

Then—

Then his fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His metal hand trailed over your ribs, up your arm, curling at the back of your neck, tipping your face toward his.

And then, finally, he spoke.

“Doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked and low. “Can you do that again?”

Your stomach flipped.

“I—” You swallowed, your pulse hammering against his fingertips. “You didn’t—”

“I froze,” he cut in, jaw tight. “I won’t now.”

Oh.

Oh.

Your lips parted, heart stumbling over itself.

Bucky let out a breath, something between a laugh and a groan, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you. His grip on your hips flexed, strong and sure, and for a split second, all he did was look at you.

Like you were something he didn’t know how to handle.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to devour you or worship you.

Then—slower this time, more sure—he leaned in.

And kissed you.

You had been right.

Bucky Barnes would be your undoing.

He’d kill you with the way he kissed, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to ruin you, like he wanted to take you apart with nothing but the sweep of his tongue and the heat of his mouth.

You felt it—every glide of his tongue against yours, every careful press of his lips, every sharp inhale between kisses—like a spark lighting up your spine, sinking deep, settling between your legs with a heat so intense you could barely breathe through it.

You shook on top of him, the way he touched you sending shockwaves through every nerve ending in your body. His hands were everywhere—tight, possessive squeezes against your hips, reverent drags of his fingers down your back and thighs, gripping you like he never wanted to let go.

A whimper escaped you, completely unbidden, and Bucky groaned, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrated against your mouth.

Then, suddenly, his lips left yours.

You gasped at the loss—until you felt him move.

Felt the warm brush of his breath against your throat, felt his nose skim along the sensitive skin there before his mouth followed.

“Bucky—” His name left you in a sharp breath as he kissed down your neck, slow, teasing, his lips dragging over every inch of exposed skin he could reach.

The problem was—there wasn’t enough.

Your suit covered too much, kept him from truly touching you, and it was driving you out of your mind.

You arched into him, restless, desperate. “Take it off,” you whispered, the words spilling out before you could stop them.

Bucky stilled, his lips pausing against your collarbone.

His hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. Didn’t continue.

“Take it off,” you begged, fingers digging into the fabric of his suit, tracing over the zippers, tugging uselessly at the buttons, trying to feel more. “Please, take it off.”

His breath was uneven, ragged. “Doll, there are people—”

“I don’t care.” You tugged at his collar, leaning in, pressing another desperate kiss to the corner of his mouth. “They won’t see.”

Bucky’s hands flexed against your waist, like he was warring with himself.

You kissed him again, lips parting over his, trying to convince him, trying to make him understand, to feel just how badly you needed this, needed him.

He let out a shaky breath, his forehead pressing to yours, his chest rising and falling unevenly beneath you.

“Please,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Please, before you change your mind—I need this. I need you.”

That did it.

Something snapped in him.

The hesitation vanished.

And then, suddenly, you were weightless.

Before you could even process what was happening, Bucky was standing, lifting you effortlessly, your legs tightening around his waist as he carried you toward the back of the jet, moving with a singular, determined focus that made your breath catch.

Your back hit the cool metal wall of the jet, the impact sending a shiver down your spine, but you barely had time to react before Bucky was kissing you again—hot, rough, devouring.

You gasped against his lips, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life.

His hands roamed down your back, over your thighs, squeezing, gripping—and then, finally, finally, he found the zipper of your suit.

“I’m not changing my mind,” he murmured, his voice thick, edged with something raw that made you shiver. His fingers curled around the fabric, tugging just enough for you to feel the weight of his words. “And you’re not changing yours.”

You nodded without thinking, without hesitation, without fear.

There was a faint awareness of the reality around you—the steady hum of the jet beneath you, the wall of gear shielding you from the others, the knowledge that Sam and Torres were mere feet away. The fact that you were both bloodied and bruised from the mission, that maybe this wasn’t the time, wasn’t the place.

But then Bucky moved, and all of that faded.

The zipper came down in a slow, deliberate slide, the rasp of it against your skin sending a shiver down your spine. His hands worked quickly, efficiently, but gentle, pushing the suit down your arms until you could shake it off completely. The moment it was gone, he pulled your arms around his shoulders, guiding them to hold onto him, like he needed you to keep him close.

“Hold on to me,” he murmured, voice quieter now, almost reverent, before dropping to his knees.

Your breath caught, your pulse hammering as his hands gripped your hips, firm and unshakable, guiding the rest of your suit down your legs. His head dipped, his lips grazing the fresh bruise blooming along your hip. He kissed it once, then again—soft, lingering. Worshipping.

You swallowed hard, your fingers threading into his hair as he nuzzled along your thigh, your knee, before rising back to his full height.

“Not getting these off,” he muttered, his fingers ghosting over your soaked panties. You’d be ashamed if it weren’t for the way his lips parted, like he was desperate to get back on his knees, get his mouth on you, There was also something else. The look on his face - regret, you thought - like he wanted to take his time with you, but was disappointed he couldn’t.

His hands moved up your body, skimming over your waist, tracing along your ribs. You shivered at the sensation of warm and cold, flesh and metal. His eyes darkened at the sight of you trembling under his touch.

“We have to be quick.”

You nodded, obedient, but there was something clawing at your chest, something making your breath catch, making your hands shake as you reached for his belt, undoing it with frantic fingers.

“This—” You took a breath, sliding the zipper down, pushing his pants and underwear down in one swift motion. His cock sprang free, thick and hard, the tip already slick with pre-cum. You ached at the sight of him. Ached to drop to your knees and taste him.

Instead, you swallowed hard and met his eyes. “This isn’t how I imagined doing this with you.”

Bucky let out a low, disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Me either.” His voice was rough, wrecked, breaking apart at the seams. His lips brushed your ear as he groaned, deep and ragged, when you wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him slow, teasing. “Fuck, sweetheart—”

A shudder rolled through him, his forehead pressing to yours, eyes fluttering shut.

“But I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, voice thick with something dangerous, something devoted. “I promise.”

His arms wrapped around you again, lifting you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, your hips rolling forward to grind against him.

“Bucky—”

“You want this?” he asked, pressing you back against the cool metal wall, the contrast making you gasp. His mouth was everywhere—dragging down your jaw, across the swell of your breast, open-mouthed and hungry.

“I do. I—”

The words faltered on your tongue.

Your heart was hammering, your chest was aching. This was reckless. This was insane.

This was everything.

You squeezed your eyes shut, pressed your forehead to his, your lips brushing his with every ragged breath. “I want you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “All of you.” Your fingers twisted into his hair, tugging just enough for him to feel it. “Please.”

Bucky exhaled sharply, his grip tightening. “You have me.”

His words were iron, unbreakable, true.

Something cracked inside you.

And then—there was no more hesitation.

His lips crashed into yours again, raw and consuming, leaving no space between you, no air, no room for anything but him. His free hand slid down, tugging at your panties, dragging them to the side. Your own hand moved between you, wrapping around his cock, guiding him to where you needed him.

“Jesus, doll—”

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t careful.

It was one full thrust, his cock pressing inside you inch by inch, filling you completely, stretching you to the edge of pain. Your nails bit into his shoulders, your head falling back against the wall as a gasp tore from your throat.

You felt full. Too full.

Your legs shook around him, your walls clenching tight around his cock, the overwhelming stretch making your eyes slam shut, your mouth parting on a silent moan.

Bucky groaned, deep and wrecked, his forehead pressing to your temple. His body was shaking too, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps against your skin.

“Fuck,” he ground out, metal hand locking around your thigh, keeping you open for him. His other hand tangled in your hair, his grip tight, desperate. “Fuck, you feel—Jesus, sweetheart.”

Your breath hitched, your arms trembling as you clung to him. “I can’t believe you’re inside me,” you whispered, voice barely there, overwhelmed and ruined. “Oh my god, Bucky—”

He snapped his hips forward, and your world split apart.

The pleasure was sharp, blinding, a lightning strike surging through your veins. Your body clenched around him, gripping him so tight he groaned against your neck, his rhythm faltering for a beat. His hands tightened on your hips, metal and flesh both possessive, both desperate to hold on.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he choked out, voice strangled, roughened with something close to reverence. He thrust deep, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you, every sensitive place that made your stomach coil so tight you thought you might shatter.

“For you,” you confessed, arching into him, letting him feel it, letting him know. “All the time. Every time you look at me—”

Bucky snapped his hips forward, harder, deeper, tearing a cry from your lips.

“Shit,” he breathed, voice breaking, cracking at the edges. “Shit, shit—”

“You’re so deep,” you gasped, barely able to breathe. Your nails raked down his back, desperate, pleading, needing. “Bucky, I—I can’t—”

“I’ve got you, doll,” he groaned, pressing his mouth to yours, swallowing every sound you made as he ruined you completely.

Every thrust was a curse, every breath a kiss, and you were careening toward the edge so fast it was dizzying.

The pleasure ripped through you before you could warn him, before you could even process it. Your walls tightened, pulsing around his cock, body shaking so violently that he had to pin you to the wall with his hips, burying himself to the hilt, his hand cradling the back of your head, shielding you as you contorted in his grasp.

His mouth devoured your cries, catching every broken, pleading gasp as the orgasm tore you apart. It was an explosion that didn’t stop, that kept rolling through you, wave after wave.

You rocked against him, desperate for more, still chasing, still needing, barely hearing the way he rasped your name, telling you to slow down, telling you to look at him, warning you that he was—

“God, you’re heaven,” Bucky breathed against your ear, grinding deep inside of you, his voice wrecked, every syllable tinged with something broken, something beautiful. As you slowly came down, you could feel how close he was, how tightly he was holding on, trying to keep himself from falling over the edge. “I can feel you—fuck me, I should pull out.”

“No.”

It came out fast, urgent, a whisper laced with something dangerous. Your legs locked around his hips, keeping him trapped in your hold.

His entire body went rigid. His breathing stilled.

“Baby.”

Bucky’s voice was low, frayed at the edges, filled with disbelief. The word hung in the air between you, unspoken until now.

You froze.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you shouldn’t have given that away. Shouldn’t have let it slip, shouldn’t have handed him something so fragile, something you couldn’t take back.

But what was a drop to someone who was already drowning?

Bucky’s hands tightened on your hips, but he didn’t move. If he wanted to, he could have pulled you off of him without lifting a finger. You had always been painfully aware of how much stronger he was, how easily he could overpower you.

And yet, he stayed still, locked in your hold. Completely at your mercy.

You swallowed, your fingers shaking as they curled into his hair, pulling him closer, refusing to let him run.

“C’mon, doll,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, stealing a kiss that felt like it was more for him than for you. “Let go.”

His hips rolled, his pelvis grinding against your clit, making you whimper. Your body was still trembling, still oversensitive, but fuck, if he kept going just a little longer—

“I want you to cum inside me,” you pleaded, your voice trembling, your nails digging into his skin.

Bucky froze.

The words echoed between you like a shot fired into the silence.

His hips stilled. His breath hitched. His hands trembled where they held you.

You had to bite your bottom lip to keep from crying out, from begging him to move.

“Doll,” he rasped, warning in his tone, his forehead pressed to yours. He looked wrecked, as undone as you felt.

“Stop arguing with me,” you shot back, voice shaky, grinding against him, dragging your soaked, sensitive heat over him, pulling a moan from his throat so deep it made every hair on your body stand on end.

“Fuck,” he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder, his grip on you bruising.

“I want this.” You tightened your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer, wrapping him in you, cocooning you both in the moment. “I’m begging you, Bucky. Please.”

“It’s—” He swallowed thickly, voice strangled.

“Irresponsible, yes, but what’s a little irresponsibility?” A breathless laugh escaped you, but your voice broke at the end, too raw to keep up the teasing. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m on the pill.”

His jaw clenched.

“I need this,” you whispered, the truth clawing up your throat before you could stop it. “I need you.” Your voice cracked, your breath hitched, emotion swelling too fast, too much. “You don’t get it, I—”

You didn’t even realize you were crying until he softened.

Something in his eyes clicked, something changed, and suddenly, his arms were wrapping around you tighter, his hands cradling your face like you were precious, like you were fragile, like he had to hold you together before you broke apart completely.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, kissing your temple, your cheek, your jaw. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

And then he moved.

His thrusts were slower, deeper, his lips brushing yours between each movement. His hands wandered, soothing, worshipping.

“Giving you exactly what you want, yeah?”

You nodded frantically, breath labored, losing yourself in the way he felt, the way he surrounded you, consumed you.

“Don’t pull out,” you begged, voice barely there, a whisper of devotion, of desperation.

Bucky let out a shaky breath, forehead pressed to yours. “I won’t, baby,” he promised, voice breaking. His pace picked up, hips rolling against yours, pushing deeper, harder, dragging against your oversensitive clit in a way that had you whimpering. “Gonna fill you up like you wanted.”

Your toes curled at the words, at the image, your walls fluttering around him.

“Oh, please don’t stop,” you gasped, rolling your hips, needing, aching.

Bucky groaned, his head dropping back as his rhythm faltered, as he snapped his hips harder, chasing the end, giving you what you wanted, giving you everything.

“Fill me up, baby,” you pleaded, your voice a broken, desperate thing. “Make me yours..”

And that—

That was what finally broke him.

Bucky snapped.

A curse tore from his throat, his grip on you bruising, unrelenting as his hips slammed into you, chasing the inevitable, giving you everything. His rhythm turned frantic, needy, his body demanding what you had just offered.

And you took it.

You craved it.

Your body tightened around him, coaxing him deeper, begging for more. Every thrust was an answer to a question neither of you had spoken aloud, a declaration in the language of skin and breath and longing.

“Fucking hell, sweetheart,” he gritted out, his forehead pressing to yours, his breath hot against your mouth. His hand slid down between you, his metal fingers finding your clit and pressing, rubbing tight circles, dragging you back to the edge with him.

Your body shook, every muscle tensed, the pleasure sharpening into something unbearable, something deadly.

“Bucky—”

“I know, baby,” he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges, his own body trembling as he held himself back, as he waited for you. “Give it to me.”

You did.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave, knocking the air from your lungs, blinding in its intensity. Your body locked around him, your hands clutching desperately at his shoulders as the pleasure ripped through you in violent, unrelenting waves.

And that was it. That was everything.

Bucky followed, slamming into you one last time before breaking, burying himself as deep as he could go, a shuddering groan torn from his chest as he spilled into you, filling you like he promised. You felt it as his warm cum Costas your walls, so much of it you weren’t sure there wasn’t some spilling out.

His body trembled, his arms locked tight around you, holding you close as he gave in, as he let go, as he let himself have this.

For a moment, there was silence.

Just the sound of your breathing, labored and uneven. The quiet, lingering shock of what you had just done.

Bucky’s forehead pressed against yours, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his heart hammering so hard you could feel it through his suit.

Neither of you spoke.

Neither of you moved.

You stayed like that—wrapped around him, his cock still twitching inside of you, his arms cradling you like you might disappear if he let go.

You let your eyes drift shut, your fingers tracing slow, lazy circles against the back of his neck, the weight of him comforting, grounding, even as reality started creeping back in.

You should let go.

You should move.

You should say something.

But when Bucky finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face gently, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones—

The words died on your lips.

Because he was looking at you like you had just ruined him. Like you had just changed something fundamental inside of him.

Like you had just made him yours.

And you had.

Slowly,, Bucky eased his grip, his arms still wrapped around you, his hands still mapping the shape of you, like he needed to memorize every curve, every ridge, every place he’d touched.

His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—soft, tender kisses that made your heart clench, made something deep inside you ache.

It felt too big.

Too much.

But you couldn’t stop touching him.

Your fingers traced the lines of his jaw, the stubble rough beneath your touch. You pushed damp hair out of his face, ran your knuckles down the slope of his nose, his cheekbone, memorizing him the way he was memorizing you.

A hand slid up to cradle the side of your face, his thumb tracing your cheek, his expression unreadable.

When he finally spoke, his eyes were soft, but serious.

“You meant it,” he murmured.

It wasn’t a question.

You swallowed, lips parting, breath hitching.

“Bucky—”

His other hand was still pressed to your lower stomach, like he could feel himself inside you, like he could brand this moment into your skin.

“I felt it,” he whispered, almost to himself. “The way you—” He exhaled sharply, like the words were too heavy to get out.

You closed your eyes, trying to give yourself some kind of reprieve from the enormity of it all.

“Don’t run from this.” His voice was so calm, but it cut through you like a knife. “Please, doll.”

Your throat tightened.

You weren’t sure if it was the aftershocks of pleasure or the overwhelming emotion of it all, but your body was still trembling—and Bucky felt every bit of it.

His arms tightened around you, securing you to him, anchoring you.

“I’m not running,” you whispered.

He pulled back just enough to search your face, like he didn’t quite believe you.

And maybe you didn’t quite believe yourself.

Because what came next?

What happened after this?

There was you before Bucky Barnes.

There was you after Bucky Barnes.

And they weren’t the same.

[pochaccoups]

cw — nsfw content minors dni, pregnant sex, size/strength kink, daddy kink, cheol calls reader ‘mama’ once, breeding kink, choking, light degradation, creampie. sequel to put a baby in me.

There’s something different about Seungcheol since he got you pregnant.

It’s not the increased attentiveness to you, or the more frequent spoiling and doting on you, or how extra protective and touchy he’d become. These things you saw coming.

It’s something physical. His aura had changed. Something about him is more… virile. Even more than before.

It’s hard not to notice it as he steps out of your en-suite bathroom with a towel around his hips, hair damp as he pushes it back out of his face, stray droplets of water dripping down his gleaming skin here and there over rippling, veiny muscles and full pecs.

“When did you get so big?” you say to your husband, hoping he doesn’t notice the way you’re squeezing your thighs together.

Seungcheol raises his eyebrows, his mouth curling into something smug. He brings his arms forward and flexes them so that the muscles in his biceps pop. “You finally noticed.”

Normally you would consider throwing something at him for acting so cocky, but frankly your second trimester hormones have turned you into a wild animal. Unfortunately, his stupid display makes your entire body swelter.

“I’m bulking up so that I can be big and strong for you and the baby,” he continues, and for a second your entire vision flashes white.

Between your legs you’re throbbing so hard it hurts, and in your brain there is only Seungcheol’s shoulders, his pecs, his arms, his cock. You need it in you. You’ll die if you don’t get it.

“Fuck me?”

Seungcheol laughs, but he can’t conceal the gleam of arousal in his eyes as he watches you crawl across the bed and tug at the towel that’s covering what you crave.

“I just showered, my love,” he says without a single ounce of actual sincerity. He doesn’t even flinch when you unwrap the towel, let it drop to the floor, and take his cock in your hand as you stroke him to full hardness.

“And you have a pregnant wife who needs to get fucked or she’ll die, so what are you gonna do about it, daddy?”

He bites his lip for a split second, then he’s scooping you up in his thick arms and laying you against the heap of pillows at the headboard, slotting himself between your legs. His mouth is hot on yours, his tongue licking into you, while his hand sneaks its way between your legs and presses at your crotch.

“Do you want my mouth or my fingers first? Or both?” he quips, gazing at you through half-lidded, lust-filled eyes.

“Neither. Just want your cock in me, daddy,” you whine, reaching for his dick again.

“You know the drill, my love, I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Cheol, I’m soaking wet twenty-four-seven because of the hormones. I’ll be fine,” you say, tugging at his cock like a minx.

Your husband is torn. One part of him wants to treat you with care; against your own judgement, he wants to open you up slowly for him like he always does, like the routine you both know. The other part, the part that is the reason you are as spoiled and adored by him as you are, sees no joy, no point, in not giving you exactly what you want.

The latter part also happens to be more animalistic, clawing its way to the forefront of his mind.

“If you insist,” he grins, tugging your shorts down your legs, spreading you apart for him, but not before he swipes a pillow from beside your head and tucks it underneath your lower back like you’re weightless. The action alone sends arousal flooding out of you.

He wastes no time then, prodding at your dripping cunt with his tip before he lines himself up with your hole. You gasp when he pushes in, slides every last inch into your heat without any resistance until he’s balls deep, until you’re stuffed full of him. While you’re you moaning from the mind-numbing stretch of his cock, his hips fall into a steady rhythm of rutting in and out of you.

His hands find themselves at the hem of your t-shirt, pushing it up over your swollen belly and over your tits too, bunching it up just under your neck.

“So beautiful, god,” he muses, drinking in the sight of you, his pretty wife, full of his child, while his warm hands dance all over your skin. “And all mine.”

He thinks you want to be coddled and pampered and made love to.

“Fuck me hard, daddy,” you whine, clawing up his biceps with your nails. It’s not enough to have him inside you, fucking you lazily like this. You’re greedy, hungry, for more.

There’s reluctance in his eyes as he stares at you, as he gives a glance at your belly. Usually it makes you swoon, how considerate he is of you, but right now it’s pissing you off.

“Ah, but, honey-” he starts, only to be cut off by you.

“I’m not made of glass, Cheol, so use those big muscles of yours and fucking pound me.”

He hisses at the way you clench your pussy around him, taunting him, his hand flying to the base of your neck. “Fuck. You’re being awfully demanding.”

“I think it’s only fair considering you knocked me up,” you grin, watching as he reels his hips back just to slam back into you.

“And who was begging me to a put a baby in her?” he teases, punctuates it with another harsh thrust that makes your mouth drop in a pathetic whimper.

He watches how your eyes roll back finally, feels the way your cunt clamps down on him again, and realises you weren’t being dramatic at all. You were craving a good, hard dicking down from him, and he sees that now, and he knows your cunt can take anything he gives you, so he leaves behind any hesitation, any mercy, and he starts to fuck you hard.

The switch is almost immediate. The tenderness leaves his eyes, replaced with something much darker, and all of a sudden Seungcheol is grunting as he pounds into your sopping hole, his grip on your neck tightening just enough to keep you pinned to the bed. His hips move fast, meeting yours with wet claps of skin against skin, and hard—so hard that the bed frame starts to squeak.

“Ah, f-fuck, Cheol!” you cry, clawing at the sheets beneath you as he hooks your legs over his arms and grabs at your hips, fucking your entire body along his length. His arms bulge as he manoeuvres you as he pleases, his shoulders so broad. The sight makes you hot, makes you gush even more of your juices until the sheets are a mess.

“Huh? Too much, baby? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” he growls. “Wanted to get fucked like a slut.”

“S-so big, daddy- ah!” you squeal, your nerves on fire with overstimulation as his cock carves open your walls, punches at your sweet spot again and again. The thing about pregnancy is it’s made you a hundred times more sensitive—everything he does, every touch, sends floods of hot, sparking pleasure through you and straight to your core.

You’re also warmer inside, and, like you said, wetter. Tighter, somehow, too. Seungcheol has to use twenty years of the mental discipline he’d learned from his training to not bust then and there from the way your pussy clings to him, tries to pull him inside and keep him locked there.

And he wants so badly to let you. Fuck, how he wishes he could stay inside your heat forever. He curses the Korean entertainment industry and he curses capitalism. He wasn’t born to be an idol, nor to work. He was born to stay buried in your sweet cunt, to keep you filled forever, to put baby after baby inside you.

Something compels him to bend over you, though he’s cognisant of your bump, and to catch your lips in a deep, heated kiss that makes your brain short-circuit. His cock is enough to make you go dumb, but his kisses are what kill every last thought in your brain, until all that’s left there is how good your husband’s dick is.

“My pretty mama,” he coos, hovering against your lips. His frame covers you entirely. “You take me so good, don’t you?”

“Yeah, f-fucking love your cock,” you sigh, grasping at his shoulders only for him to straighten up again a second later, back to letting you admire his figure.

He angles your hips up a little, hitting even deeper now with every stroke, his cock jumping as you reach for his abdomen so you can rake your nails along his soft tummy, behind which is a set of hard, toned muscles. You’ve always loved that he’s not just sharp, hard lines like stone, that when you cling to him, your fingertips sink into thick skin that’s only tough when he flexes.

Seungcheol nearly draws blood from how hard he bites his bottom lip, watching you writhe and whine and moan from the way he jostles you, as your tits bounce from the force of his thrusts. His handsome features are twisted into pure concentration and utter bliss as he pounds away at you, determined to make you come undone while simultaneously holding off his own release.

“Wanna cum, daddy,” you keen, tears brimming your eyes. “Want your cum, too. Wanna be full of you.”

“You’re already full of me,” he laughs, full of mischief. “What, my baby in you isn’t enough? Greedy little cumslut.”

“Cheollie, please! Right there.” You’re whining, your hand dipping between your legs to rub at your swollen clit, and you see stars starting to form.

“Cum on my cock for me, baby, and I’ll give you my cum,” he moans, gritting his teeth as your walls tighten around him and your soul starts to leave your body before he can even finish his sentence. His heart leaps and twists with adoration and love as your tears finally spill over, as you tremble and shake in his hold, rapt with unimaginable bliss.

Your orgasm makes him let go, too, and finally he gives in to the hot, velvety chokehold of your pussy. He cums with what’s almost a whimper, lurching forward so that he can burrow into you impossibly deep and empty every last drop of his seed into you.

Even though he knows he gave you exactly what you asked for, Seungcheol can’t help the post-nut guilt that creeps up on him about the way he’d handled you—so vulgar. It’s even worse now that you’re carrying his baby. He’d fucked you like a toy, not the mother of his child. He’s a disgrace of a man.

Then there’s you, blissed out, skin glowing from being well fucked. You bat your eyelashes at him.

“Twenty minutes is enough for you to recover, right? Because I’m riding you next.”

[beloveds-embrace]

(dukedom au, but you are gone for a week cue four men yearning)

The estate feels terribly empty without you.

At first, John tells himself it is only because the house is large and his duties are many. It is a fine excuse- an easy one. He can pretend, for a little while, that his mood is not soured by the absence of your voice at breakfast, by the fact that your perfume no longer lingers in the halls, by the cold, empty side of the bed where you normally sleep.

A week. A mere week, and yet John feels as though you have been gone an eternity.

The others are no better.

Johnny, usually so full of mirth, lingers in the kitchen longer than necessary, creating dish after dish that no one eats. He sets out a plate for you at every meal, stares at it as if willing you to appear. Sometimes, in a fit of frustration, he abandons the dining table entirely and takes his meals in the kitchen, where the staff quietly shuffle around him, their own hearts aching for the absence of their beloved duchess.

Kyle keeps himself busy, burying himself in the estate’s affairs. He goes over reports he has already read twice over, polishes the silverware himself when he thinks no one is looking. John finds him in your sitting room one evening, carefully dusting the spines of your books, though that is hardly his duty.

And Simon, ever so composed, ever so unreadable, is perhaps the worst of them all. He disappears for hours at a time, taking long, aimless rides through the countryside, returning only when the moon has risen high in the sky. He never says where he goes, and no one dares ask, but John knows it is longing that chases him from the estate. When he is not riding, he is haunting your parlor, sitting in your chair by the fire, fingers tracing over the embroidery of the cushion you had so painstakingly stitched by hand.

John had thought himself a patient man. He had been patient when you were wed, when you were shy and uncertain in his home. He had been patient when you discovered his lovers, when you had laughed instead of recoiled, when you had slowly, slowly, let yourself be drawn into their warmth.

But this- this absence of you-

John is not patient now.

He receives your letters, of course. Short, sweet things, penned in your careful hand. You speak of your relative’s health, of the weather, of how you miss the estate and the men who reside in it. You ask if Simon is eating properly, if Kyle is getting enough sleep, if Johnny is not overworking himself. And John- you ask of him too.

I dream of you, my love. I think of you often. Of all of you. Do you think of me?

John exhales, rubbing a hand over his beard as he stares at the parchment. He is sitting at his desk, the candlelight flickering, casting long shadows over the room.

Do you even need to ask?

He folds the letter carefully, setting it atop the others in his drawer. The mere thought of you dreaming of him makes his body ache in ways he cannot put to words, even as he pens a reply for you. He does not mention how empty and lifeless the the estate is without you- you must be worried already by your relative’s health and tired still from the long journey. He can’t put more on your plate.

Though, he hates how the days pass slowly.

By nightfall, John sits alone in the drawing room, a fire crackling low in the hearth, but the seat beside him is empty. Your embroidery frame remains untouched. He glances at it, at the last piece you had been working on- a delicate bloom of violets, only half-finished- and finds himself running a finger over the fine thread.

“Ridiculous.” He mutters under his breath. And yet, he does not move from his place, staring into the fire as if waiting for the sound of your footsteps.

In the kitchen, Johnny kneads dough with more force than necessary, his arms sore from the effort. He does not complain, but his movements are sharp, restless.

Johnny knew he would miss you. He had expected it, had braced for it when he kissed your cheek in parting and told you to travel safely. But knowing it and feeling it are two different things.

The kitchen is too still. He finds himself setting out two teacups in the morning instead of one, expecting to hear your soft voice asking what was for breakfast. He catches himself reaching for the honey you like, only to stop halfway and set it back down with a sigh.

He spends more time than usual baking, filling the kitchen with scents of warm bread, sweet pastries, things you love. The staff enjoy it, of course, but they aren’t you. They don’t smile at him with that particular look in their eyes, don’t sneak tastes of jam off the spoon when they think he isn’t looking.

On the fourth evening without you, Johnny sits at the long dining table, his hands folded in front of him as he stared at the empty chair where you usually sat.

“I should’ve gone with her.” He mutters, drumming his fingers against the polished wood.

“You wouldn’t have been allowed,” Kyle replies, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “She wouldn’t let you drop everything just to follow her like a lost pup.”

Johnny huffs, but he doesn’t argue.

Kyle, ever dutiful, remains composed, but there is an air of unease about him. The routine of the estate is well-kept, yet something is missing. Someone is missing. He finds himself checking the front gates more often than usual, as if expecting your carriage to appear earlier than usual.

Kyle keeps himself busy. He always did, and this week is no exception. The house still needs running, duties still need tending. But even as he works, he feels the weight of your absence like a missing piece of a puzzle.

He notices it in the small things. The way the household staff move, more subdued, missing the warmth you carried into every room. The way the evening routine feels… off. You had a habit of lingering in the hallways after supper, speaking softly with the maids, the footmen, offering a kind word or a knowing glance when someone needed it.

Without you, the house feels colder.

Kyle does not sigh or linger by windows, does not wallow the way Johnny or John do. But on the fifth day, when he enters the library to set fresh candles, he pauses by your reading chair. One of your books lays open, a silk ribbon marking your place. He reaches for it, smoothing a hand over the page before exhaling slowly and setting it back down.

That night, he locked the doors a little later than usual, waiting- just a little longer- for the sound of your return.

Simon, meanwhile, says nothing. He does not pine aloud, nor does he linger like the others. And yet, there is no denying that your absence gnawed at him.

He had been the last to fall for you, the last to let you into his heart. He thought himself made of colder things, of old scars and solitude, yet you had settled into his life as if you had always belonged.

And now, you were gone.

Simon finds himself drawn to your rooms, not stepping inside, but lingering just outside the threshold. He will not enter without you there. But he stands in the hallway sometimes, late at night when even the candles had burned low, and simply… listens.

There is no sound beyond the distant hoot of an owl. No soft breathing, no rustle of your gown as you move through the rooms.

He closes his eyes.

“Come home soon, Duchess.” He murmurs, voice lost to the empty halls.

The estate is not whole without you.

By the seventh day, they are restless.

John stands at the front of the house, hands clasped behind his back as he stares down the road. Johnny hovers in the entrance hall, pacing. Kyle has ensured everything is perfectly arranged for your return. Simon has taken to standing in the courtyard, watching the horizon.

And then- at last- the distant rumble of carriage wheels.

They do not rush, do not appear desperate, but the moment your carriage comes into view, relief ripples through them.

The door opens. You step out, your gaze sweeping over them- soft, surprised at the intensity of their presence. And then you smile, and it is as if the week of longing melts away in an instant.

John steps forward first, taking your gloved hand and kissing it, but his grip lingers. Johnny barely restrains himself from pulling you into an embrace. Kyle exhales, tension easing from his shoulders. Simon says nothing, but the way he looks at you speaks volumes.

“You’re home, Duchess.” John murmurs.

Your smile widens. “I am.”

And at last, the house is warm again.

Dukedom au masterlist

[hoshifighting]

hiii, so imagine OT13 head canons in which they are rough but soft at the same time, like deepthroat while stroking your hair, or pounding while holding hands

how seventeen mix soft and rough at sex

WARNINGS: smut, +18

seungcheol: fucks you like a ragdoll, talks to you like you're a whore, holds your face like youre made of glass. his hands cradling your face like you’re the most delicate thing he’s ever touched. “so fucking pretty, my little slut, do you like when im destroying this pussy like this huh?” and when you try to look away, all shy, his thumbs tilt your chin back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes. “don’t hide from me~~~ let me see you drip cum around my cock.”

jeonghan: taunting at first, tilting your chin up like some princess-movie to make you look at him while he fucks into you balls deep, his grip firm in your hair. “what, baby? too much?” he coos, but his free hand is tracing delicate lines down your arm, llips brushing over yours like a secret, his next thrust knocking the air from your lungs.

joshua: he’s got you spread out beneath him, your ankles over his shoulders, deep inside you, his hands gripping your waist so tight it’s gonna bruise. he presses a kiss to your knee, then another to your ankle, eyes warm despite the filthy things he’s doing to you.

junhui: hand is firm in your hair, “mm, love hearing you like this.” and when you tense up, hands grabbing at his arms, he laughs, but it’s sweet, i feel like he gives this fun sex vibes, where you laugh, cum and feel loved at the same time (really hard to not fall in love for him in a situationship).

hoshi: will fuck you hard, with a cute and protective talk. he’s gets your back arched, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your waist, keeping you still as he pounds into you. “baby, baby, baby—fuck. you okay, love? still with me? want some water? a pause? no? should i continue? okay, i got you.”

wonwoo: will be touching you, caressing you all the time. arm locked around your waist, keeping you close as he fucks up into you. “shh, baby.” his other hand it’s everywhere—sliding up your back, gripping your ass, threading through your hair, like he can’t get enough of touching you.

woozi: listen to me: CHEST-TO-CHEST PRESS. if he has been mean and overstimulates you, for example, and you're squirming, or overwhelmed, he will press you down the bed with his tiddies, making you stay in place. BUT in a softer case, he will do it if you need some grounding, if you are getting in subspace... he will make sure you're protected/shielded by his big body.

minghao: fucks you rough as fuck, but trails the points of his fingers to make you shiver! of course that you can shiver from the very action of his cock sliding in and out of you, but he loves doing this because he gets so hard at the sight of you squirming under the tips of his digits.

mingyu: i feel like he would give you a desperate forhead kiss in the middle of it. he will be destroying your insides, and then he kisses your forehead, keeping his mouth there, because he gets so soft when he is about to cum. “so fucking perfect, baby.”

seokmin: he will be doing all types of stimulaton down there. masturbating your clit, fucking your pussy while you are using a plug. WHILE DOING THAT LITTLE NOSES CARESSES, tickles, strokes, fondles, i don't know what to call it.

seungkwan: eye-contact-obsession??????? needs to see you. has your face FRAMED in his hands, forcing you to look at him, even when it’s too much. “uh-uh, baby. no hiding.” his thumb brushes over your cheek, his gaze locked onto yours, and when your eyes threaten to flutter shut—he tuts, tilting your chin back up. “nah, keep ‘em open. lemme see you.”

vernon: will wrap his big hand around your neck, in a very romantic way—just like he does when he is kissing you—,but would end up choking you at the end. making you feel very surprised when he moves from a caressing and light wrap, to a tighter and sexier one.

chan: fucks you hard until you see the bulge of his enormous cock on your belly, and then caresses the bulge with his thumb. cutely. too cutely, like you arent crying, squirming, screaming, wetting the bed over it.

[heliosunny]

I've read a manhwa with the plot of MC being in a marriage of convenience with the ML in their first life and they work hard to make it work/feel like an actual marriage but the guy didn't give it much thought so they died and in their second life, the MC just decided to not focus on the guy but that somehow attracted the guy's attention

So that premise with Mydei (or Phainon, I just thought it suited Mydei more) where in reader's first life they had loved him and dedicated their whole being to him but they end up dying so in their second life they were more confrontational and willing to potentially piss off Mydei but that just had the opposite effect on him.

Bonus I guess if he remembers what reader did after a certain time and makes him fall harder (or go full on yan route idm)

Yandere!Mydei x Reader

[Artist]

You had loved him once.

It was a quiet, steady love, the kind built on careful devotion rather than reckless passion. A love that manifested in the way you always reached for his hand in public, in the way you made him pomegranate juice exactly as he liked it, in the way you handled every social obligation so he wouldn’t have to. A love that, despite being arranged, had been genuine on your part.

Mydei, however, had never given you much thought.

Your marriage had been one of convenience, a political arrangement that benefited both parties, nothing more. You knew that. You had known it from the start. But knowing didn’t stop you from hoping, didn’t stop you from trying to be someone he could come to love.

Yet you had tried.

You learned his preferences. You shielded him from trivial nuisances. You defended him against enemies in court. You ensured his home was warm when he returned, even if he never cared whether you were there waiting or not. You gave him everything you had to offer, even as your own needs went unnoticed, unfulfilled.

And then, one day, you died.

It was an illness, slow but inevitable. The kind that ate away at you little by little until there was nothing left to give. You had fought to stay by his side, to live long enough for him to notice you, to care. But as you lay on your deathbed, your body weak, your breath shallow, Mydei had stood beside you with the same unreadable expression he always wore.

“It’s unfortunate” he had said, his voice calm. “But there’s nothing to be done.”

He hadn’t held your hand. Hadn’t begged you to stay. Hadn’t even asked if you were afraid. And so you died, alone in a marriage that had never truly been shared.

But then, against all reason, you awoke again.

A second life. A second chance.

And this time, you wouldn’t waste it on him.

----

The first time you met Mydei again in your new life, he had the same detached expression, but this time, you weren’t the same.

“Oh. It’s you.” he said, mildly surprised.

You stared at him, deadpan. “Tragic, isn’t it?”

He blinked at you, clearly taken aback. In your past life, you would have smiled softly, eager to please. Now, you met his gaze with all the warmth of an ice sculpture.

“You seem different.” he noted, as though observing the weather.

“Yes, well, dying does that to a person.” You crossed your arms. “But don’t worry, I’m not here to cater to your every whim anymore. I have better things to do.”

His brow furrowed slightly, a reaction so subtle you might have missed it if you hadn’t known him so well. It was funny. For the first time, Mydei found himself unsure of how to proceed.

Days turned to weeks, and you continued to avoid him as much as possible. When you couldn’t, you treated him with polite indifference.

“Here, I brought you tea.”

Mydei raised a brow. “Tea?”

“I just grabbed the first thing I saw.” You sipped your own drink with a smirk, watching as he hesitated before taking a sip. No more pomegranate juice, but you made no move to correct it. Let him suffer.

He gave you a long, unreadable look, then quietly finished the tea anyway.

You weren’t sure when it started, but Mydei began seeking you out more often. Not for anything important, just small, meaningless interactions that, in your first life, he would have ignored entirely.

“You’re busy” he observed one day, watching you pour over books in the library.

“You’re perceptive” you deadpanned, not looking up.

“I can help.”

You finally met his gaze, incredulous. “You? Help? With something that doesn’t benefit you?”

“I’m capable of generosity” he replied smoothly.

You scoffed. “Sure. And I’m the Empress of the Universe.”

To your growing unease, Mydei only chuckled, as if thoroughly enjoying the challenge you presented. If he had ignored your love in your past life, he now seemed intent on prying into your every thought in this one.

You weren’t sure which was worse.

What made it all the more complicated was that Mydei had no idea you had already lived and died once before. To him, this was just the first time you had ever looked at him with anything less than quiet admiration. And while he couldn’t understand what had changed, he was undeniably intrigued.

-----

The third prince’s birthday celebration was an unavoidable event. No matter how much you wanted to stay far away from Mydei, you were both expected to attend.

Dressed in formal attire, you entered the grand hall, carefully ignoring Mydei’s presence beside you.

As expected, the noble ladies flocked to him almost immediately, their voices sickly sweet.

“Mydei, you look as composed as ever” one simpered, lightly touching his sleeve. “Surely you must save a dance for me?”

“And me as well” another chimed in. “It’s not often we get to see you at these gatherings.”

You sipped your drink and turned away, uninterested.

Mydei, however, seemed less inclined to entertain them. His gaze flickered to you, watching your utter lack of reaction.

“You’re ignoring me” he murmured, stepping closer.

You didn’t even glance at him. “Congratulations, you’re learning.”

His lips twitched slightly, as if amused. “Are you jealous?”

You turned to him at last, offering the driest look you could muster. “If I had a single grain of salt for every second I cared, I wouldn’t even be able to season a meal.”

He chuckled. And you had the distinct feeling Mydei wasn’t going to let you ignore him forever.

Sensing your chance to leave, you excused yourself quietly and slipped away. You navigated through the bustling crowd until you reached the gardens, where the young third prince stood alone, watching the lanterns flicker above. You wished him a happy birthday, exchanged brief pleasantries before excusing yourself, intent on leaving before anyone noticed. Unbeknownst to you, Mydei had followed—watching from the shadows as you spoke to the young prince with a warmth you had never once given him in this lifetime.

The door shut behind you with a quiet click as you stepped into your quarters, letting out a sigh of relief. The evening had been long. You had done your part, made an appearance, and now you could finally shed the pretense of civility and rest.

You barely had time to unfasten the heavy jewelry weighing on your ears before there was a knock at the door. Your brows furrowed. It was late. Too late for someone to be calling on you unless it was urgent.

Still, you already had a sinking feeling about who it was.

“Enter” you called, bracing yourself.

The door opened, and sure enough, Mydei stepped inside. His usually pristine attire was slightly disheveled, his coat unbuttoned at the collar. But what truly caught your attention was the way he moved, slower, more deliberate, as if something was weighing on him.

He had never been one to drink, and yet, something about him seemed... off.

You sighed. “It’s late, Mydei.”

“You left early” he countered, shutting the door behind him. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it—something quiet and simmering beneath the surface. “Without informing me.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed your permission to retire for the night” you replied dryly, turning away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“I saw you” Mydei interrupted.

You stilled. “Saw me?”

“With the third prince” he clarified, stepping closer. “In the gardens. You seemed… close.”

You exhaled through your nose. “He’s a child, Mydei. I was wishing him a happy birthday.”

“And yet, you looked at him with more warmth than you’ve ever spared me.”

You turned to face him then, brows arching. “Are you jealous?”

Mydei didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studied you. He took another step forward, invading your space, forcing you to tilt your head slightly to maintain eye contact.

“Would it matter if I was?” he asked at last.

You scoffed, stepping back. “No. Because it wouldn’t change anything.”

Mydei was a man of control. To be thrown off balance, to be met with resistance where he once found compliance, was undoubtedly foreign to him.

Good. Let him feel what you had felt all those years.

You turned away, signaling the conversation was over. “Go sleep, Mydei. We have nothing more to discuss.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, finally, he let out a quiet chuckle, a sound devoid of humor. “You truly are different now.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t look back.

Because if you did, you might have noticed the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides. And you might have realized that Mydei was far from willing to let things be.

-----

Over the next few days, Mydei seemed to have an unusual amount of free time. His duties, which once kept him busy, were now seemingly cast aside. Wherever you went, he was there.

It started subtly: walking in step with you through the halls, his presence a quiet shadow. Then it grew bolder. Sitting beside you at meals, his knee brushing against yours and never pulling away. Standing behind you, fingertips grazing the small of your back under the guise of guiding you forward.

You would have ignored it, written it off as coincidence—if not for the way his touch lingered. The way he reached for your hand absentmindedly, as if it were second nature.

One evening, as you sat by the window, lost in thought, you felt it again, his hand, warm and steady, against your shoulder. A familiar presence, yet wholly unfamiliar in its intent.

“You’ve been avoiding me” Mydei murmured.

“I’ve been living my life” you corrected, not looking up.

His fingers curled slightly, almost as if to pull you closer, but he hesitated. “And yet, somehow, I find myself a part of it more than before.”

You turned to him then, meeting his gaze directly. “Perhaps you should ask yourself why that is.”

A smirk ghosted his lips, though his eyes held something heavier. “Oh, I have.”

You had tolerated it long enough. Mydei’s constant presence, his lingering touches, the way he hovered around you as if he had never been indifferent.

The final straw came when he followed you into the private study, an intimate space he had never once stepped foot in before. You slammed the book you were holding onto the table and turned to face him, irritation burning in your chest.

"Enough!" Your voice was firm, unwavering. "What exactly do you want from me, Mydei?"

He arched a brow, unfazed. "I would think that’s obvious."

You scoffed. "Obvious? You ignored me for years, treated our marriage as a mere obligation, and now—now you cling to my side like a shadow. Why?" Your breath hitched slightly, but you pushed forward. "Is it because I no longer chase after you? Because I finally see this marriage for what it is?"

A flicker of something passed through his eyes—something unreadable. He took a step closer, but you raised a hand, stopping him in his tracks.

"No" you said sharply. "No more. This ends now. I want a divorce."

For the first time since his sudden shift in behavior, Mydei’s expression darkened. "You don’t mean that."

"I do." You met his gaze head-on. "I refuse to stay shackled in a marriage that was never real."

He exhaled slowly, as if reining himself in. "And what makes you think I'll allow it?"

Your fingers clenched into fists. "Because it’s not your decision to make."

"You truly have changed."

You didn’t back down. "And I intend to keep it that way."

His eyes lingered on you, calculating, something darker stirring beneath the surface. Then, as if making a silent decision, he took another step forward.

"Then let's see how far you’re willing to go" he murmured.

-----

Determined to push him into agreeing, you invited Duke Laurent, a respected noble and someone with a clear interest in you, to visit. If Mydei would not agree to divorce out of reason, perhaps jealousy would make him let go.

Just as you began conversing with the duke, Mydei’s arm suddenly snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against him. You stiffened at the public display of intimacy, something he had never once shown before. The duke’s expression remained polite, though there was clear tension in the air.

Mydei leaned in, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear. "You think bringing another man here will make me release you?"

He turned his gaze to the duke, his expression composed but lethal. "You see, we are still very much married."

Before you could shove him away, he tilted your chin up and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of your lips, just enough to make the moment scandalous.

"Mydei—" You hissed, shoving at his chest, but his grip remained firm.

Then came his final blow, spoken with a smirk against your skin. "If you truly wish to fulfill the divorce, then surely, as tradition dictates, our marriage must bear an heir first. Otherwise, it would be incomplete."

The audacity of it, the sheer arrogance—

Fury surged through you. Without thinking, you leaned in and bit his shoulder, hard enough to make him tense, hard enough to leave a mark through his fine fabric. Just hoping it'll make him let you go. He inhaled sharply, but instead of anger, something else flickered in his gaze. Interest.

His grip on you tightened, fingers pressing into your waist. "How intriguing" he murmured, almost amused. "You’re becoming more and more fascinating."

You could only glare, breathless with anger, as he leaned in even closer. "I’ve decided—I shall never let you alone."

That night, Mydei made his final decision.

You found yourself restless, pacing in your chambers, feeling trapped in a game you never agreed to play. The door creaked open, and you didn’t need to turn to know it was him.

"Leave!" you ordered without looking up.

Instead, he stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. "You asked for a divorce. I gave you my terms," he said smoothly. "But I have a better idea."

You turned, narrowing your eyes. "I don't care for your ideas, Mydei. I want my freedom."

"And I want you," he countered effortlessly, closing the distance between you. "So, it seems we are at an impasse."

He reached out, tracing a hand over your wrist. "You see, I’ve realized something," he murmured, his voice quieter now, almost reverent. "I cannot let you go."

"Then you will have to learn."

"No" he whispered, leaning in "I will simply ensure that you never wish to leave."

This was no longer a battle of marriage or freedom.

This was war.

Then, his voice dropped to a chilling whisper. "If you try to run, I will find you. If you seek another, I will ruin them. And if you deny me..." His fingers trailed over your throat, "I will make sure you have nowhere to go but back to me."

"You wouldn’t dare."

"Wouldn’t I?" The smirk on his face only triggered you more. "You forget, my dear, I am not a man who lets go of what is his. And you? You belong to me."

A slow, measured pause before he added, "So fight me if you must. Hate me, struggle, scream. But in the end, you will always return to me. I will make sure of it."

---

Another day passed. Nothing happened. Until-

You were sitting stiffly in your chambers, the weight of Mydei’s last words still pressing against your mind.

Mydei entered, once again without your consent.

A goblet sat before you, filled with deep crimson liquid—the rich, unmistakable hue of pomegranate juice. It was his favorite, something he drank often, something he had tried countless times to get you to enjoy.

“I had the servants prepare this just for you” Mydei said smoothly, swirling the liquid in his own goblet. “It would be such a shame if you ignored my gift.”

You hesitated, glancing at the drink. Something about his tone made you wary, but refusing would only stretch this moment further. You reached for the goblet, only for Mydei to intercept, his fingers ghosting over yours as he picked it up himself.

“Let me.”

His hand cupped your chin, tilting your head slightly. Before you could react, the cool rim of the goblet pressed against your lips, the sweet aroma of pomegranate thick in the air. The moment the liquid touched your tongue, warmth flooded through your body. A strange, numbing sensation curled through your veins, heavy and inescapable. Your limbs felt sluggish, the world turning soft around the edges.

Your breath hitched as your body betrayed you, sinking against the silk sheets.

Through your hazy vision, you saw Mydei standing by the door, watching. His expression was unreadable, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Rest well, my dear”

But he didn’t leave.

Instead, he moved closer, his fingers brushing against your cheek before he slid into the bed beside you. His arms wrapped around you, firm yet deceptively gentle, caging you against him. The warmth of his body seeped into yours, and in your hazy state, resistance felt… unnecessary.

“You’ll understand soon” he whispered, his breath fanning against your ear. “You don’t need to fight anymore. Just listen to me.”

Your thoughts wavered, slipping further into a fog. Your body felt too heavy to move, your mind too sluggish to argue. His presence, once suffocating, now felt… inevitable.

Through the night, he held you close, his grip never loosening. Each time your thoughts stirred, his voice was there, murmuring soft reassurances, reinforcing his presence, reminding you he was always there.

By the time morning light crept through the curtains, your mind was no longer as sharp as before. The idea of pulling away seemed distant, unnecessary.

He was still here.

His arms remained locked around you, as if this was how it had always been. His breath, slow and even, ghosted against the side of your neck, warm yet oppressive.

“Awake already?” His voice was low, thick with the drowsiness of someone who had slept well.

You swallowed, trying to shift, only to realize just how intimately entangled the two of you were. One of his legs had hooked over yours, anchoring you beneath the weight of him. His fingers, idly tracing over the fabric of your nightclothes, stopped just at your wrist, where his hold subtly tightened.

You were trapped.

“I need to get up” you muttered, voice still hoarse from sleep.

Mydei didn’t loosen his grip. If anything, his arms curled around you more securely, pressing you deeper against his chest. “You don’t, actually,” he murmured. “Stay.”

Something in his voice made your stomach twist. There was no plea, no request, just the quiet certainty of a man who had already decided what would happen.

“I have things to do” you tried again, frustration slipping into your tone. “You can’t just—”

“Can’t I?” Mydei interrupted lazily, propping himself up on one elbow so he could look down at you properly. His hair was slightly tousled, falling over sharp eyes that gleamed with something unreadable. “You haven’t been well. I think it’s best if you rest today.”

“I feel fine” you lied, pushing against his chest.

He caught your wrist easily, his thumb pressing against the rapid beat of your pulse. “Do you?” His smile was slow, knowing. “You still look dazed. You’re warm. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were falling ill.”

Mydei had always been perceptive, dangerously so. And in this moment, with your thoughts still sluggish, you knew you were at a disadvantage.

“Mydei,” you tried to keep your voice steady, “what did you do?”

His grip on your wrist didn’t waver, but his expression softened into something almost… fond.

“I’ve merely helped you see things clearly.” His fingers traced over your knuckles before he lifted your hand, pressing a slow, lingering kiss against your palm. His lips curved against your skin. “You always try to run. You make things so difficult for yourself.”

“You drugged me.”

Mydei sighed, tilting his head as if mildly disappointed. “It was just a little something to help you relax. To stop you from making rash decisions.” He leaned in closer, his nose grazing against your cheek before his lips brushed against the shell of your ear. “You wouldn’t want to make any rash decisions, would you?”

A surge of unease coursed through you, your body screaming to move—to fight. But your limbs still felt leaden, and Mydei knew it. He had planned for it.

“I thought we had an agreement” you gritted out. “You can’t keep me here like this.”

“What do you mean by 'keep you'? You’re mine, my dear. You always have been.”

Your breath hitched as he finally released your wrist—only to cup your jaw, forcing you to look at him properly.

“You’ll understand soon enough.”

[1shirt2shirtredshirtdeadshirt]

Right?!

- Jim's orphaned nephew Peter

- Jim witnessed genocide on Talus IV

- What was the deal with Ruth, anyway?

- Leila Kalomi?! Like, does Spock have an illegitimate baby, or?

- Well? Did the half black half white alien races really die out or not?

- What is a dog with a horn alien called?

- The TOS crew academy days?

- Is Gary Mitchell actually dead or is he rolling with the Q's now?

- On that topic, IS TRELANE A Q OR NOT? TELL USSS

- What happened to Daystrom after The Ultimate Computer?

- Lenore from Conscience of the King would have made a badass follow up villain, what happened to her?

- YOU MIGHT WANT TO CHECK THE GUYS YOU DUMPED ON CETI ALPHA FIVE 💩

- Where on earth did Uhura and Scotty come from later in the movies? WHERRRRRRE there's more build up between Kirk and Spock throughout the entire span of TOS and the movies than there ever was with Scotty and Uhura and then BAM

- Do George and Gracie repopulate the humpback whale population? WHERE DID PAST WHALE LADY END UP IN THE FUTURE AFTER? IS SHE WHY WE HAVE CETACEAN OPS?!

- Why does Jim shave his chest and arms in the TOS era but then gives it all up in TMP? Was the breakup THAT BAD?

- Why were we robbed of Spock's slutty Vulcan lingerie look for Kolinar?

- Why didn't they show us Uhura becoming the first human to learn to play Vulcan lute/lyre/harp WHAT ARE WE CALLING IT OFFICIALLY

- Did the Tribbles have a military in the Tribble Klingon war? WHO WAS THEIR LEADER?! Was it a gigantic Tribble that never broke down into smaller ones? General Trichobezoar?

- What is the deal with Tellarites. I need more. WHY DO THEY PAINT THEIR THREE NAILS RED? Or are they just naturally fire engine red?

- Does Spock wear eyeshadow because it's a human thing, or a Vulcan thing? I NEED THE MORNING ROUTINE.

- Did those advanced aliens that pitted Kirk against the Gorn ever touch base with us again after promising they would once we advanced a little more? Are they just more Q pulling one over on us, or some other form of omnipotent being?

- SPACE ABE LINCOLN. 😳 . . . No real question here really outside of "did that shit really happen, or was the weed particularly sticky that night?"

- WHY DOES EVERYONE EAT FRUITY PEBBLES IN SPACE

- When does Kirk first tell Spock he loves him? Because we all know when Spock took his sweet ass time working his way up to it in TMP, but we also all know Jim's ass was in love with him well before then.

WHAT DOES THE R STAND FOR ON THE TOMBSTONE, GARY? DO YOU NOT KNOW YOUR OWN BEST FRIEND'S MIDDLE NAME IS TIBERIUS?!

I love when Star Trek throws an incredibly traumatic back story at one of their characters, and then we just never mention it in any other episodes ever again. Like yeah, Kirk went through a genocide and mass famine crisis when he was a child. Well, anyways, let's talk about something else now.

[ariestrxsh]

dealer!chris x dealer!reader

💸 content warning: smut/angst (in later chapters; this one's mostly just suggestive), mentions of hard drugs and guns, enemies to lovers, slow burn

💸 summary: you and chris spend the night hanging out on his roof after your first day of making sales together.

there will be several parts to this story, and they will contain sex, drugs, violence, use of weapons, and a lot of things that could be triggering if you've ever been apart of the drug world or loved someone with an addiction. i don't mean to glorify drug use, selling, or anything like that, but i wanted this story to be realistic, so it does appear like a somewhat "glamorous" lifestyle to chris and the reader in the first few parts. i want to make it very clear that when you get involved in the drug world in real life, you usually end up in one of two places: the ground or prison.

WHEN SPARKS FLY

chapters: | intro | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 |

The sun sank slowly below the skyline, and the evening turned to nightfall as you and Chris finished up your last deal of the day. You'd been showing him all the stops, introducing him to your customers, and teaching him the way you did everything.

He got into your passenger seat and sighed as his head fell against the headrest, really wishing he had a joint right about now. "Damn, ma. I can't believe how much money we made today," Chris mumbled, slouching down into his seat. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the wad of cash he'd made for the day.

"I know, and we're only a third of the way through the product," you smiled back, doing the math in your head about the potential profit. "I could never work a 9 to 5," Chris sighed, sifting through the $100 bills. "Can't believe I just made in a day what it would take some sucker to make in two weeks at some office job."

You fastened your seatbelt and turned the key in the ignition, admiring Chris, who brought his fingers to his lips and slowly licked them as he separated the crisp hundreds. "What are you thinking about, ma? My tongue or my fingers?" Chris flirted, catching you staring out of the corner of his eye and giving you a seductive smirk as he ran his tongue along the pads of his fingers again, flitting through his money.

You squeezed your thighs together as you bit down on your lip. For a moment, you were thinking about both at the same time. You hated the effect he had on you, the way he knew how to get inside your head, intrude on your thoughts, and invade your sexual fantasies. "You're fucking gross, Chris," you replied, rolling your eyes and trying to hide how turned on you were.

He responded with a chuckle, knowing that he was getting to you even if you wanted to deny it. "So, am I dropping you off at your girlfriend's house?" You asked, reminding him that he had one. "Nah, can you drop me off at my place? I'm staying home tonight," Chris requested. "I can do that. Just tell me where to go," you replied, your eyes darting around between the road in front of you, your side mirrors, and your rearview.

"So, have you told Daisy yet?" You asked, your gaze flickering over at Chris, who was shaking his head. "I'll tell her, ma, when I'm ready," Chris grumbled. He knew you were right. He knew he had some things to work out, like telling his girlfriend the real way he made his money or dealing with the fact that he was finding himself sexually attracted to his new business partner. He stole another glance at you from your passenger seat as the fantasy he'd had the night before flashed through his mind, praying you wouldn't notice the tent forming in his jeans.

When you pulled into Chris' driveway, he thanked you again for the ride. "I can't believe I've been sober for eight hours," Chris mentioned, bouncing his leg as you parked. "No wonder you've been so uptight today," you teased him. "Maybe you should come smoke with me since you're always uptight," Chris smirked, nudging you in the arm with his elbow, but his offer was genuine.

You gave him an annoyed look, but you couldn't hold back the smile that spread across your lips. "I don't smoke weed, Chris. I haven't since I was a teenager," you replied, fidgeting with the material of your black steering wheel cover. "Why not?" Chris wondered, surprised by your admission. "I like being clear-headed. I don't like feeling out of control," you shrugged.

"We're on a floating rock in space, ma. The idea that you have control over anything is an illusion," Chris laughed, reaching for his door handle. "C'mon. Come inside. Do you drink? I've got a beer with your name on it if you wanna hang out with me for a little."

You were quiet for a second. It wasn't often that people invited you to hang out or just do something fun with them, and for a moment, you thought maybe you could use it. "I could stay for one beer," you responded hesitantly, nervously rubbing the back of your neck. "That's what I'm talking about, ma. Let your hair down once in a while," Chris replied, beaming with a smile.

You trailed behind him, staring down at your shoes as you followed the pattern of the stepping stones that led to his front door. "Oh, shit. I forgot my house key at Daisy's place," he sighed, running his finger through his hair. You rolled your eyes and crossed your arms over your chest. "Do you need me to take you to Daisy's place after all?" You huffed, slightly annoyed at the situation.

"Nah, it wouldn't do any good anyways. She's at work. Plus, this won't take long," Chris said, pulling a pin out of his pocket and fiddling with the lock. You nervously looked around, worried someone was going to see him picking his lock and call the cops or something, but in a matter of seconds, you heard a click, and you watched as he turned the knob. His door creaked open, and he glanced back at you with a mischevious smile.

"Okay, now you're just showing off," you replied, raising an eyebrow. "What can I say, ma? I'm good with my hands. Gotta show you my skillset somehow," Chris playfully winked at you. You scoffed, biting back a smile. A part of you liked the way he couldn't keep himself from making sexual innuendos and flirting with you.

"If you need me to pick a lock on a deal, though, you're splitting the money 50/50 with me," Chris told you, stepping into his living room. "What kind of shady shit do you think I'm up to, Chris? I'm just selling coke. Not robbing people," you joked, following him in. "You never know," Chris peeked back at you over his shoulder with a smirk on his face.

"This is it," he announced, raising his arms to present his place to you. It was a dimly-lit, relatively small place, but it had a safe, cozy vibe to it. "I like it," you told him, your eyes scanning them room. You noticed his sprouting marijuana plants in the corner sitting beneath his grow lights and an old shelf beside it that was littered with comic books and novels you'd never heard of.

His house faintly smelled of weed and sandalwood, like how Chris always smelled, and you found the familiar scent comforting as it wafted through the air. He directed you over towards his couch and motioned for you to sit. You sat down, awkwardly perching at the edge of the couch cushion.

"C'mon, ma. You can relax. Kick your feet up," he told you, heading over towards his fridge to give you that beer he promised you. You exhaled and slowly leaned back into his sofa that was much softer than you imagined it would be. Chris twisted the cap off the bottle and handed it to you. The red and white label that read Stella Artois stared back at you, and you hesitantly reached out and took it.

Chris plopped down on the couch beside you, and you watched as he sprinkled a bit of ground weed into his rolling paper. You peered down at his rings and his fingers at the way they skillfully handled the joint, tucking the paper in and folding it in on itself.

His gaze flickered up at you as his tongue darted out, and he licked a long, slow stripe across the edge of the joint. His lips curled into a suggestive smile as he noticed you watching him, but you acted unamused, pulling your eyes away from his. You held the bottle up to your lips, taking a small, refreshing sip, the bubbles fizzing against your tongue as you relaxed further into the comfy couch.

You peered down the hall to an open door at the end. The room was dark, but you imagined it was probably Chris' bedroom. You found yourself wondering what it looked like, how comfortable his bed was, and how hard it would be for you to keep your hands off of him if you ever found yourself alone with him in there.

"You coming?" Chris asked, pulling you out of your thoughts and standing to his feet as soon as you'd gotten comfortable. "Coming where?" You wondered, giving him a perplexed look. "To the roof. The view's great up there," Chris responded, making his way towards the back door.

You hesitantly followed him back out into the cool air of the backyard where he had a ladder propped up against the side of his house. "C'mon, ma. I'll hold your beer. You start climbing the ladder," Chris told you, extending his arm to take your bottle from you. "Yep. Just smoking and drinking on a roof. What could possibly go wrong?" You muttered under your breath as you wrapped your fingers around the cold, metal rungs.

"Don't worry, ma. I'll be right behind you, so if you fall, I'll catch you," Chris' breath tickled your neck as he pressed his warm body into yours. Your heart skipped a beat, and you felt your breath hitch in your throat. It was the closest you'd ever been to him. You were just glad you were faced away from him, so he couldn't see the unmistakable look of desire written in your expression as heat radiated off his skin.

You cleared your throat and regained your composure. "Is that your gun, or are you just happy to see me?" You snarked at him, peering over your shoulder in an attempt to take control of the situation again. Chris chuckled, but he didn't answer you, leaving it up for interpretation. You started to hesitantly climb the ladder, and Chris followed closely behind, keeping his promise to not let you fall as he held your beer in one hand and the unlit joint between his lips.

The two of you made it to the roof, and Chris handed you your beer once the two of you got settled. The star-filled sky hung overhead as you looked out at the horizon. You saw the tops of the other houses, the city lights scattered across the skyline, and the waves crashing on the beach shore off in the far distance. You brought your bottle of Stella Artois up to your lips and took another sip as you took in the view. There was something about this perspective that made your problems feel smaller and less pressing.

"Pretty cool, isn't it, ma?" Chris asked beside you as you heard the flick of his lighter sound as he held the flame up to the end of his joint. You quietly nodded, surprised by how much you could see from Chris' roof. "So, ma. What do you say we get to know each other better and play your favorite game, twenty questions?" Chris smiled over at you with the lit joint pinched between his two fingers.

You rolled your eyes, but you didn't have an excuse this time. There was no work to be done, and there was nowhere to go to avoid his questioning, so you took a deep breath and another swig of your drink. "Okay, fine. Hit me," you finally replied after a moment of hesitancy.

"Where do you go to clear your mind?" Chris wondered, his gaze locked on you. "The beach. I like the waves. The sounds of the seagulls. Feeling the sand between my toes. It's peaceful," you shrugged. Even though the question wasn't a very personal one, you felt vulnerable answering.

"What about you, Chris?" You wondered aloud. "You're looking at it," Chris said with his joint tucked between his lips. He didn't need to explain anything further. You could tell why this was the place he went to sort out his thoughts.

"Alright. What kind of music do you listen to?" You blurted out, not sure of what to ask him next. "Anything, really. But I prefer indie over everything else," he told you. "Okay, play me your favorite song," you told him, gesturing towards his phone he had sitting beside him. He picked it up, staring back at you as he thought about it for a moment. "Alright," he responded, scrolling through the saved albums on his phone until he came across AM by Arctic Monkeys. No. 1 Party Anthem started playing through the speaker of his phone, and you nodded in approval as the melody filled the space between you.

"If you could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would you choose?" Chris asked, turning off his phone screen and letting the song play softly in the background of your conversation. You thought about it for a moment. "See, I wanna say Pablo Escobar or something, but I think I'd want to have dinner with one of those druglords who flew under the radar so well that we don't even know their names," you replied. "Damn, ma. That's a good answer," Chris mumbled with the joint hanging from his lips.

He glanced up at you as if silently reminding you it was your turn to ask a question. "What did you think of me when you first met me?" You wondered aloud. You gave him a look like he should be careful about how answered this question. He cracked a smile, remembering the first time you'd approached him and threatened him for selling his weed on your block and trying to steal your customers. "I thought you were tough. Not the kind of woman you want to mess with. I also thought you were super hot," Chris admitted. You blushed, hoping Chris couldn't tell in the glow of the moon.

"What's one thing you don't leave the house without?" Chris asked you, pulling a long drag from his joint. "My keys," you sharply responded, subtly teasing him for having to break into his own place earlier. He let out a laugh. "And my gun," you told him. You sipped on your bubbly drink, noting that the song had changed.

Why'd You Only Call Me When You're High started to play as you glanced back over at the blue-eyed man beside you. "If you could change one thing about yourself, what would you change?" You asked, peeling the label off your beer bottle. "Nothing," Chris smirked over at you. "Nothing?" You reiterated, furrowing your brow. "Nothing," he repeated. "You're a little cocky, aren't you?" You shot back. "I prefer confident," Chris chuckled before he pulled from the joint again.

"What do you think the most important quality in a friend or partner is?" Chris asked after a few seconds of silence. "Honesty and loyalty," you said without hesitation, and Chris nodded in agreement. "You?" You asked. "Probably just someone who isn't going to bail when things get hard," Chris sincerely responded.

"What's your biggest fear?" You asked him, the questions getting deeper and deeper. "Losing the people I love," he answered, staring down at the build-up of ash on the cherry before flicking it off. "How about you, ma?" He returned the question. "Trusting the wrong person and getting hurt," you responded almost immediately. "I get that," Chris answered, his gaze still fixed on you.

"What's your guilty pleasure?" Chris asked you, his luscious lips curling into a smile as he awaited your response. "Probably those dumb reality shows," you admitted, your cheeks growing warm. "Really? Never took you for a girl who likes trash TV," Chris teasingly nudged your arm. "Daisy loves that shit, too."

"What's one of your guilty pleasures?" You asked Chris. He bit down on his lip as he looked you up and down. He knew what he wanted to say, but he knew it would be crossing the line of just playful flirting and venturing into uncharted territory, so he came up with something on the spot.

"Watching the trash TV with her. I'm always making fun of her for watching The Bacholorette and shit like that, but then I find myself watching it with her and getting all invested," Chris confessed.

"I totally get it. Like, I started watching it as a joke at first, and then you get to know the people. Then you start wanting them to end up together," you said, glancing up at him, and his eyes met yours. The song changed again, and you listened as the lyrics came through:

🎶 If you like your coffee hot, let me be your coffee pot. You call the shots, babe. I just wanna be yours. 🎶

The two of you stared at each other in a comfortable silence for a moment, Chris taking a puff of his weed as you took a swig of beer. "So, what does Daisy think you're out doing all day when you're working?" You wondered, raising an eyebrow at him. "As far as she knows, I work in sales, which isn't totally a lie. She just doesn't know about the drugs," Chris shrugged. "Yeah, she doesn't know about the most important detail," you scoffed, tapping on the glass of your bottle.

"Why are you always judging me for that, ma? I've got my reasons. Why are you so pressed about it?" He asked, sounding a bit defensive. "I had an ex who kept things from me, like how much money he owed certain people. He put me in a lot of dangerous situations. Don't want to watch you do the same shit to Daisy," you murmured, letting Chris in more than you had up until this point. "I didn't know, ma," Chris said, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder and relaxing his jaw. "You know, I'd never intentionally hurt her. Or you."

"It doesn't matter, Chris. You can be the most well-intentioned person in the world and still hurt the people around you," you responded. He was quiet for a few minutes, mulling over what you said.

"Your ex? Alex?" Chris wondered, blowing out a cloud of smoke against the night sky as he recalled Joe using that name earlier. "Yeah. My dumb fuck ex. He got himself killed because he owed the wrong people money," you said in a dry tone. "Holy shit. Ma, I'm so sorry," Chris whispered. "Don't be. He deserved it," you muttered under your breath.

"Hey, I have a question. Why do you always call me ma?" You chimed in. "It's just a sign of respect. That's all," he shrugged. "Why? Does it bother you?"

"No. It's fine. I don't care what you call me. You gotta stop looking at me like that, though. Looking like you're gonna kiss me or some shit," you accused him, following his gaze that danced between your eyes and your lips as you took another drink of your beer. The song changed again.

🎶 How many secrets can you keep? 'Cause there's this tune I found that makes me think of you somehow, and I play it on repeat until I fall asleep. 🎶

"I'm not looking at you any type of way! Maybe you're projecting because you wanna kiss me," he shot back. The sexual tension between the two of you was thick, and for a moment, you each thought about it. The temptation was there, and it was strong. You wanted to pull him as close as you could, passionately press your lips against his, and tangle your fingers in his soft, brown hair, but you didn't want to ruin your business relationship with him.

Chris thought the same, wondering what it would be like to kiss you, but he didn't want to screw up what he had with Daisy, and he didn't want to give you the wrong impression. He diverted his eyes, glancing down at his joint that had burned down to the roach, and he put it out. "Get enough of the view, ma? I'm getting kind of tired," Chris chimed in as you admired his profile in the moonlight.

For a moment, you forgot he was talking about the scape of the city from the roof. "Oh, right. Yeah, of course. I should probably go," you said, fiddling with the empty bottle in your hand. "You can stay the night if you need to," Chris motioned towards the alcoholic beverage you'd finished off, but he knew he was playing with fire the moment the words left his mouth, inviting you to stay the night.

🎶 Do I wanna know if this feeling flows both ways? Sad to see you go, was sort of hoping that you'd stay. 🎶

The two of you exchanged a look like you both knew it wouldn't be a good idea. Even with you both sleeping in separate rooms, you each knew deep down that a closed door wouldn't be enough to deter you two from the temptation. "It's cool, Chris. It was just one beer. I'll just grab a glass of water, sit on your couch for twenty minutes, and I'll be fine to drive," you told him. Chris picked up his phone and paused the song. "I got you, ma. I'll help you down."

You felt elated once you were finally sitting back down on Chris' couch, sobering up. You weren't sure if it was a buzz from the alcohol, an adrenaline rush from being on the roof, or just the way you were starting to feel around Chris.

Chris gave you some crackers to help "absorb the alcohol," because he had "heard somewhere that it does," and even though you'd only had one beer, it was sweet that he cared enough. You also both just knew that you had to sober up, because staying the night wasn't an option unless you were both prepared to give into the force that was pulling the two of you together and end up doing something that could hurt Daisy or hurt your business relationship.

So you were munching away on Ritz crackers on Chris' couch after your single beer, and once you felt like the effects of the alcohol had worn off, you made a comment about how late it was getting and about how you should probably get going.

You left, following the same stepping stones you'd used when you walked up. When you approached your car, you reached into your empty pocket for your keys just to remember you'd left them on Chris' coffee table. "Shit," you whispered, realizing you were going to have to do a walk of shame back up to his front door after giving him shit for forgetting his keys earlier.

Chris had already started to get ready for bed, shedding his layers and slipping into a pair of flannel pajama pants when a soft knock sounded at his front door. He peeked through the peephole to make sure it was you, his heart racing and secretly wondering if you'd come back to kiss him or confess your feelings for him, his mind swirling with half a dozen possibilities.

He turned the doorknob, and when you saw him, your eyes were immediately drawn to the fact that he was shirtless. "Uh, sorry. I forgot my keys," you told him, unable to conceal your smile at the irony of the situation. "Oh, you mean, the keys you don't go anywhere without?" Chris asked, leaning against the door frame and indulging in the fact that you were doing nothing to hide the fact that you were checking him out.

"Yeah. Those ones," you smirked, biting down on your lip. "I'll go get 'em, ma," Chris chuckled at you as he turned to retrieve your keys. You found yourself holding your breath as your gaze danced over the definition of his back muscles in the soft lighting of his living room.

He handed them to you, and as you took them from him, his hand brushed against yours. You both exchanged a look that was heavy with the words unspoken between you, but you also both silently agreed it was for the best. "Okay, goodnight," you said, unconsciously batting your eyelashes at him. "Goodnight," Chris smirked, eyeing you up and down as you turned to walk away before closing his door again.

As soon as you made it to your car, you reflected on the way you acted and how stupid you must have sounded, silently kicking yourself. You didn't harp on it for long, though. Your embarrassment was quickly overshadowed by the intoxication and bliss you felt from being around such an attractive man who was beginning to make you smile more than he made you roll your eyes.

taglist: @skye-44 @faiyaz555 @idrk2292 @chrisclean @drewswife @trevorsgodmother @sofisturns @milo-the-dog @rockstarchr1s @bluetalia @xaristhings @nomusic-nodreams @birkinbratsworld @wastelandzella @bsturnzmtts @sturniolo-girl @theyluvme-2315 @jassturn @brookiecookie-18 @maggot3647 @slut4chriztopher @strnlslvr @sleepysturniolo @lvrsturniolo @sofieeeeex @imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @matts-myloverboy @witchofthehour @whoahoahoahoahoa @ilovechrissturniolosposts @smt-obsessed @sturnioloxlver @that1fangirll @hrtz4alex2211 @drewstarkeys @sp3ncerslvt @sturniolo-munch44 @jakewebberswifee @ssturniolooss @thenickgurl @sturniolo-fann @sst7niolo @babysturniolo @chestersturniolo @riowritesitall @camzeecorner @mattsturnixlo @annedebeijer @scorpioosworld @mattlover-00

[madelynraemunson]

Valentine’s Day is coming up and I can’t help but wonder how ex!husband Eddie would handle it. Would he break my heart? Break my back? Please Maddy I NEED to know 🙏

a/n: HE’S BACKKKK i’m clutching my chest 🫶🏼 how about some wholesome heartbreak for valentine's day? i tried to incorporate aspects of the original ST universe into the universe that is ex-husband!eddie. i hope you sweethearts enjoy ♥️

“valentimes” day

ex-husband!eddie x ex-wife!reader

summary: you and eddie share a dance when your wedding song unexpectedly comes on the radio…just like old times :)

contains: fluff, mutual-pining, topic of divorce, co-parenting

“if you’re lost, you can look and you will find me — time after time.”

divider from: @strangergraphics

word count: 1.4k words

‘Valentimes’ Day.

It’s what Junior likes to call it. At first you tried to correct him, telling him to drop the M and replace with N, but you decided to partake in the innocence. After all, nothing lasts forever.

Like the muddy footprints on the light wooden floors.

"I'M RIGHT ON YOUR TAIL!" Junior roars, chasing after his siblings with candied pretzels in his mouth. "GET READY TO FEEEEEL... MYYYYY... WRAAAAATH!"

You know what does seem to last forever though? The sugar high your kids are getting from their Valentine's Day candies.

“Walk, kiddos,” you scorn. “If we’re gonna get ourselves dirty, please take it outside.”

You watch as your Mini-We's respectfully pile out the door, marching in a single-filed line in their crowns and capes their dad had made for them not too long ago. And as you continue to cook, a hearty stew for a heart-filled day, you hear a jangling of keys at your front door.

The only other person who has direct access to your house is Eddie; and assuming he's adhering to the family tradition, you expected no one else.

A familiar sing-song whistle sounds from the entryway as Eddie makes his grand entrance. You smile as your ex-husband comes into sight — hands full with presents you couldn't quite make out yet — ready to greet you how he usually does every Feb 14th for the past few years.

“Yo.”

“Hello, hello!” you chime. “Look who’s become a one-tripper.”

“I know, I’m gettin’ better and stronger by the day,” Eddie chuckles. He closes up the space, welcoming you in his bubble with a hug and offerings for the day. “Flowers... for you…"

You blush in flattery, welcoming the Thanks-For-Having-My-Kids floral arrangement into your arms.

"Aaand chocolate," Eddie adds. "obviously.”

“Ooh, nougat."

“Uh huh," he smirks, proudly. "Everyone loves a nougat moment. I also got these teddy bears with wicked Rock-N-Roll soundboxes for the kiddos. Left them on your couch though. It's a surprise."

Eddie's always been such a stellar dad. No matter the occasion, he always made sure the kids felt included, and always made sure you felt appreciated for all your efforts. He shows out every Valentine's Day, and Mother's Day too. Just because you two have separated doesn't mean your past has been erased. Eddie wants you to know that this commitment is for a lifetime, no matter what it may look like to others.

"Thank you."

You walk over to the island to set your gifts down, then gesture for your ex-hubby to sit so you two can engage in some small talk.

Also, 'cause you’re nosy.

“Any plans tonight?”

“Eh, it was just to drop these off,” Eddie shrugs. “Might go to the bar later with some old high school friends. Try to talk up some ladies...”

“Groovy,” you smirk, eyebrows dancing.

“What about you?” Eddie inquires.

“Mama’s having a night in,” you sigh, taking a bite of some nougat. “Gonna pour myself a glass of wine and read a spicy novel before bed.”

“Mm,” Eddie hums. He crosses his arms, leaning forward to meet your gaze. “The one about the long-haired-adonis-with-steel-pecs-and-a-popped-linen-collar who comes to save the day?”

You cock an eyebrow. “You snooping through my book pile, Fabio?”

“No, you’re just predictable,” he teases.

♡

Your kids remain occupied, playing "beach" in the sandlot, away from the intimacy of the two of you.

Junior is using his disposable camera to take pictures of birds. Beside him, Elijah is digging a hole of sorts, and your daughter Aubrey is off in the corner, making faint heart-shaped etchings in what's left of the sand.

She sighs in dismay.

“I like candy and balloons, but this holiday makes me sad,” Aubrey frowns. “I used to be happy when Mom and Dad were together.”

“But they weren’t happy,” Elijah points out. “Now they are. It’s better this way, Aubs.”

“I wish there was a middle for everyone, though,” Junior says. “Like a halfway-happy.”

♡

Back in the kitchen, you and Eddie continue to catch up. You talk about the kids and how school and clubs are going. Elijah has a crush on a girl in his PE group. Aubrey wants to do cheer. Junior wants to perform in the talent show, but he's having trouble rallying some friends.

And you... well, you were burning through your book piles and watching grandiose Hollywood dating shows, sometimes also dancing around the kitchen to whatever Grocery Store-esque song comes on the radio.

"Can't believe you still have this thing," Eddie tsks, taking the rusty vintage boombox in his hand.

"It still plays the good tunes though," you shrug. "Why would I retire it now?"

Eddie shrugs in agreement, putting the boombox back where he got it. The song currently playing soon fades into the background while the radio host's voice comes back into focus.

"Another great hit from KISS!" the host announces. "I hope everyone is having a beautiful V-Day so far. We're gonna slow it down for you, Hawkins! Here's some Cyndi Lauper for ya — this is Benny and you're listening to WSQK Radio."

A nostalgic tune fills the air, the melodic, dreamy atmosphere reminiscent of a much simpler time.

You and Eddie look at each other in shock, hold the gaze for a few seconds, and burst out laughing.

<< Lying in my bed, I hear the clock tick and think of you >>

"Of course," you shake your head.

"What are the odds?" Eddie blushes, lightly punching the island with his fist to ease the tension. "Our first dance song."

It was a beautiful ceremony, your wedding. Wayne had too much to drink and was waddling around giving everyone hugs. The "kids" you grew up watching took a dramatic plunge into Lover's Lake at the end of the night. And during the dance, it was if, only for a moment, you and Eddie were the only ones on the dance floor, redefining the fabric of time because while it felt like an eternity, it seemed to have passed by in a second.

<< Flashback, warm nights, almost left behind >>

Time is a thief. That was nearly a decade ago.

"C'mon," Eddie encourages, grabbing your hand.

You're instantly launched back to present day. "What?"

"We're doin' it."

"Doing what?"

"Dancing."

You allow Eddie to take the lead, just how he always does when you two would embark on adventures. He whisks you away from the island and towards the dinner table for enough space to move.

"Eddie..." you stumble into him, chuckling nervously. "Really?"

"I mean..." he says, his chocolate eyes a-gleam. "Why not? For old times sake. While the song is on... while the kids are busy..."

His hands seek your hips and find them immediately. Your breath hitches as you take in the glory of him, his timeless face, and the aroma of petroleum from his day job. He's still the same Eddie. His love is pure energy. Never destroyed, just simply transformed. And you can't wait to explore more of this new form of love.

"I'd love to."

You two begin to sway, the essence of your wedding night illuminating through the dimming kitchen. Eddie smiles into you, his forehead nestled against yours, a strand of his wavy hair tickling your eyelashes that sit prettily against your lids.

<< If you're lost you can look and you will find me Time after time >>

Before you know it, the late winter sunset melts into nightfall and your kids, with chattering teeth, begin to pile back inside.

"Brother! Help me with my shoes!" pleads Junior.

"Please," Elijah reinforces.

"Please."

Suddenly, Aubrey gasps.

"Look!" she whispers to her brothers, pointing with an excited finger. "Mom and Dad!"

<< If you fall, I will catch you, I'll be waiting Time after time >>

"So beautiful," Eddie murmurs into you as you two sway in each other's arms. "You always have been...so damn beautiful."

The warmth was like Christmas morning... a belated gift for the kids to watch two homes become one, for just a brief moment. You and Eddie are too busy wrapped up in one another to notice the biggest smiles on your children’s faces, hope flickering in their eyes as if their worlds were right-side up again.

“Halfway-happy,” Junior whispers breathlessly.

It was their (and your guys’ too, let’s be for real) happiest “Valentimes” Day in a while.

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[zepskies]

HEADCANON: Man Flu

Pairings: Dean Winchester x Reader || Beau Arlen x Reader || Soldier Boy/Ben x Reader || Boaz Priestly x Reader

HC: When Dean Winchester, Beau Arlen, Soldier Boy (Ben), and Boaz Priestly get sick, how would they act when you (try to) take care of them?

AN: After reading I Got You by @bettystonewell (Dean x Reader) and The Best Kind of Medicine by @lamentationsofalonelypotato (Soldier Boy x Reader), I realized that I've never actually written a sick-fic before. Here it is in headcanon form, since you guys seem to like these! lol 💜

Also adding Priestly to this lineup for the first time because some of you have been requesting more of him recently. 😉

Tags/Warnings: Established relationship, hurt/comfort, sick-fic, some needy affection-starved men who don't want to admit they're needy, lots of fluff.~

Dean Winchester

He's not sick. Because he doesn't get sick.

Dean claims he has the constitution of a horse, but you still take the beer out of his hand before he can take a sip at 10:00 a.m.

He's too busy interrupting himself, namely by coughing half a lung, wheezing, blinking teary eyes -- the whole phlegmy nine yards.

Sam shakes his head, casting you a look that frankly says, Good luck.

He knows his brother is stubborn as hell, and one of the things Dean dislikes most is being fussed over for "no reason." Being seen as weak. Not being able to just shrug his shoulders and shake it off.

To be fair, Dean tries. Except this time it's accompanied by a body shiver and a reluctant sniffle. His pallid face is drawn, and his usually strong and solid frame looks unsteady as he leans a hand on the War Room table.

"Okay, come on, Rambo. Let's get you back into bed," you say, guiding your boyfriend back to the room you share with him.

"I'm find," he insists, even as he begrudgingly accepts the gentle pressure of your hand on his back and shoulder, pushing him down to the bed.

"Sure you are, baby," you say with a smirk. "You're in the primb of libe."

Dean shoots you a narrowed look. Damn you for forcing him to binge-watch all those episodes of Friends late at night when you both can't sleep.

Right now he's Monica, trying to convince you he's in tip-top shape, while you're Chandler, just trying to get him to use tissues instead of his flannel sleeve to wipe his runny nose.

After taking his boots off, you get him to change out of his jeans and back into his sweatpants. Then you manage to get him to lay down under the covers with the promise of coming back with medicine and soup.

"I don't want soup, damn it," he grumbles. You just roll your eyes and rub his arm.

"Just rest. I'll be back with the Vicks."

As you might expect, Dean is not an easy patient.

He refuses to drink tea, but he does down the pills you bring for him, with a measured toss of his head that still makes his head swim. He groans.

He swallows a couple of cautious spoonfuls of the soup, pausing when he realizes that its warmth actually feels good down his sore and scratchy throat. It tastes pretty good too, especially with the warm, buttered slices of bread on the side.

"You made this?" he asks.

"Mhmm," you nod, smiling. If nothing else, good food will pacify this man. "Chicken and wild rice, made especially for you."

"Hmm. S' good," he nods in reply. He manages to finish the bowl.

He has to admit, if just to himself, that he does feel like shit.

He won't admit that the way you're rubbing his back, the gentle pressure of your nails between his shoulders and down his spine relaxes him, makes him feel better.

He knows that you care about him. That you love him. But this is one of those moments where it hits him, just how much.

It's a little overwhelming. A heavy swell of pressure fills his chest, so he tries not to let himself think about it for very long.

(He fails.)

After he's done eating, you take the plates away and help him back into bed. You linger there, slipping your fingers through his soft brown hair and pressing a kiss to his clammy forehead.

"I really need you to rest, okay," you say quietly. "If you need anything, just text me or Sam. Don't get out of bed."

Dean grasps your hand before you can move away from him. Since you're probably going to wash your hands anyway, he lays a kiss on the back of your hand.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

Beau Arlen

Sheriff Beau Arlen is the type to run himself into the ground because he's so damn into his work.

He wants to do well in his station of responsibility, and he feels like he has to make up for his performance during the summer madness of Buck Barnes and Avery...and everything in between.

You just have to make Beau realize that he needs to slow down, before he well and truly burns himself out.

You put your foot down one morning.

He tries to get out of bed but has to pause, his head swimming. He takes a couple of steadying breaths while sitting on the edge of the bed.

You notice with a frown. "Hey, you okay?"

"Fine. Just fine," he answers a little too breathlessly. He raises a hand to his head. His throat is sticky and coarse. He wrinkles his nose when he also feels a sneeze coming on.

"Just need a...a...mugh-ah-ha-hugh."

His coughing sneeze makes you grimace. You didn't even know someone could sneeze and cough at the same time.

"Aw, babe. You're sick," you say as you move over to him, resting a hand on his back. He shakes his head and groans.

"Nah, can't be sick. Gotta lot of work to do today," he says. His voice is like gravel blended with broken glass. It would actually be sexy, if for the distinctly un-sexy way he tries to clear the great wad of phlegm from his throat.

He tries to rock himself onto his feet, but there he sways on the landing. You hurry out of bed to grab his arm and steady him.

"Oh no, you don't. Back into bed," you say.

"Aw, sweetheart. I'll be fine--"

"No. Lay down. You're not going in today," you say more firmly, all while you tuck the man back into bed with the blankets covering him.

"All right, all right. No need to be so pushy," he can't help but tease.

It earns a small smirk on your face. It seems like his man flu hasn't yet deprived him of his sense of humor.

"I thought you liked that though," you reply. You sit on the edge of the bed and rub his chest. He groans in defeat.

"Can't believe this," he grumbles. "Today of all days--"

"There's always going to be another case. This is your body telling you that you need to slow down," you tell him. "So how about this. I'm gonna call in one of my sick days, and we'll bunker in together."

You stroke his bearded cheek. He quirks a smile, grabbing your hand and squeezing warmly.

"How long until I'm allowed out, warden?" he asks.

"Until you can stand without keeling over," you dryly reply. A smile tugs at your lips. "Remind me to stop by CVS to grab you a Life Alert."

"All right, har har haugh--" His sarcasm ends on a very real, wheezing cough. Your amused smile drops. You relent from your teasing and stroke his chest once more.

"Okay, just rest. Let me get you some actual medicine and I'll be right back."

He stops you by grabbing your wrist. "Hey, uh...can I have some chicken noodle soup later?"

"Of course, baby. I'll swing by the store now and get some stuff for you."

"And some saltines?"

"Saltine crackers on the side. Got it."

You're about to head to the bathroom to brush your teeth before you start getting ready to go to the store, but once again, Beau's needy hand stops you.

"Before you go, some tea with honey and lemon would be good. Just something for my throat," he croaks.

You smile and nod. "Yeah, for sure. That'll be better for you than coffee."

"Oh, and can you gimme that quilt over there?" he asks, pointing to your favorite knitted blanket at the edge of the bed. You graciously lay it over his form and drop a kiss onto his forehead.

"And some cough drops. Thank you, darlin'," Beau adds.

Your lips begin to press together, but you nod and continue getting dressed.

You can already tell this man is going to settle into you taking care of him just fine.

Soldier Boy (Ben)

Neither of you thought it was possible, considering his super genes that allowed him to eat and booze and drug harder than Andre the Giant and Keith Richards put together.

But one day, your over six-foot super soldier goes down hard. The warning signs came the night before, when you could hardly sleep with the way he was snoring like a grizzly bear.

In the morning, he wakes bleary-eyed with a runny nose and a coughing fit hard enough to shake the bed.

"Fuck," he groans, dragging a hand over his face before he turns onto his back. "This's gotta be some kind of bullshit hangover."

You move over to him in bed and feel the intense warmth of his clammy forehead. Your brows draw together in concern.

"No, I think you're sick."

"Not possible," he grumbles. "I haven't been sick since..."

Well, since he was a kid, probably. He won't admit it, but he's surprised he still has that memory lodged in the back of his mind.

It comes to the forefront now: your hand on his cheek unknowingly mimics his mother's gentle touch, her soft, kind voice.

"Aw, my sweet boy. Let's get you feeling better."

He can almost recall the floral scent of her perfume, echoes of it in the shampoo you use.

Ben claims he's fine, that he doesn't need your help or want the medicine and tea you bring for him. (He tries the tea, grimaces, and spits it out when you're not looking.)

He's a sourpatch grumbly patient who only begrudgingly stays put in bed when you ask him to. He doesn't mind lying around and watching movies all day, not to mention episode after episode of Below Deck. It reminds him that he wants to get back into boating.

"Hey, sweetheart," he calls to you from the bedroom, his voice croaking all the while. "I'm getting you a yacht for Valentine's Day. You want it all white, or throw in a bit of gold? Actually, check out this one with the navy trim."

You roll your eyes to yourself when you step back into the room. You're carrying a tray with a large bowl of soup and a fifth of whiskey. He claims the latter will help soothe his throat, and you don't have the heart to argue with him when he's clearly feeling so shitty.

"You mean you're getting you a yacht," you reply wryly. "We live in the city. Where the hell would we put a boat?"

"In a yacht club, where it belongs," Ben retorts. He hooks an arm around your waist and peruses what you've brought him on the tray. He doesn't look all that interested.

"Look, I know you're not exactly a soupy kinda guy, but this'll make you feel better," you say.

"Why can't you put some fucking steak in it or something?" he grouses. He tries and fails to hide another wet cough.

"Why can't you just eat what I lovingly made, just for you," you snipped back.

He rolls his eyes at your attitude, but he pipes down. In that silence, he's conceding that you have a point. There was a time were all he had to do was glance in someone's direction, and there'd be some fucking moron to fulfill his every whim.

Now, you're probably the only one in the world that would actually do what you're doing...

Cooking for him, putting your heart into it, for the simple reason that you do care.

Ben takes the bowl of soup from your hands. Raising a brow, you offer him the spoon as well.

He eats without further complaint.

You smile and reward him with a sweet kiss on his forehead, brushing his hair back as you do so.

"See? That's not so hard, huh?" you can't help but needle him. "It's okay, baby. I'll take care of you."

He eyes you dryly, but he won't admit that there's a different kind of warmth coiling in his chest.

Boaz Priestly

"Uuuughhh, babe," he groans. "I feel like death on toast."

You're standing beside the bed with a smile playing on your lips. You brush back his for once un-gelled hair back from his face. It's weird to see it all limp and lifeless, slightly damp with sweat.

"Unironically, I should make you some toast," you reply. "What kind of medicine do we have?"

Priestly unearths his head from under his pillow to look up at you with miserable red-rimmed eyes and a sniffling, stuffy nose. "Can we count the tequila in the mini bar?"

"Maybe later," you laugh. "How are we on groceries?"

Priestly struggles to think. He takes your hand and rubs it back and forth across his chest. Maybe your sweet, loving touch has the power to clear away his congestion without him needing Vicks. Too minty.

"We have that pastrami I brought back from the shop," he says.

"That's six days old already," you shake your head.

"Aw, that's still good," he argues. "But uh, other than that, I think I have half a cheeseburger left from last night."

Last night's date at TGI Friday's, he means.

You heave a sigh. "Okay, clearly I'm going to the store. You just stay in bed and rest. Drink your tea."

He grimaces like a child. "I don't like tea."

"I know you don't like tea, but you need to drink it. It's good for your throat and your immune system."

He groans and flops back over onto his stomach. You bite your lip against a smile. He's such a whiny baby when he's sick.

Talk about Man Flu.

"Come on, be a good boy for me," you say, smacking him lightly on the ass. "Soon enough you'll feel better."

A smile creeps across his face where it's pressed against his pillow.

"Know what would really make me feel better?" he hedges. He tries to guide you down to him by tugging on your hand, but you resist him.

"Oh, no. You're not gonna get your germs all over me," you say.

"Hey, what happened to in sickness and in health?" he croaks. Even while under the weather, he's still plenty strong enough to grapple with you. He manages to yank you down. Laughing, you stumble into a seat on the edge of the bed.

"Huh, I don't remember exchanging any vows. You see a ring on this finger?" you tease, flashing your bare hand in his face to try and distract him and weasle out of his grip. "I can jump this ship anytime I want."

Priestly pouts. His arm hooks tighter around your waist. "Huh, guess you got me there..."

He turns his head and coughs roughly into his arm. Your amusement fades into concern and sympathy. You lay a hand over his chest while he struggles.

Once again, he clasps his free hand over yours. He glances up a bit hesitantly into your eyes.

"Well, maybe it's time there should be something on this finger," he murmurs.

You blink your eyes wider. Your head tilts, wondering if you just heard him right. Is this delirium fever talking, or is he serious?

"O-Oh yeah?" you ask.

Priestly tries to gauge your reaction. Seeing your face break out into a cute, shy smile raises the corners of his lips. Hope blooms in his chest, right beneath your hand.

"Yeah," he says, trying to clear his cracking throat. "I mean, if you're okay with that. If it's not too soon--"

You slip your fingers over his plush, chapped lips, and your smile brightens.

"When you're feeling better, you can ask me that question properly."

AN: 😆 I hope you liked the first ever addition of Priestly!! It was so fun to try and write him again (it's been a while lol). Feel free to imagine this vignette in the same storyverse as The Miracle Man and Code Red.

But I also hope you enjoyed the "Big 3," as I call them, even though Russell is starting to give Beau a run for his money on one of those slots. 😂 Let me know which guy you had the most fun reading on this one! 💜

And if you want even more fluff before Valentine's Day, check out my friend @waynes-multiverse who just posted her set of V-Day headcanons with Dean, Soldier Boy, Beau, and Russell: Headcanon: Valentine's Day 💕

Join My Patreon 🌟 Get early access to new stories, bonus content, and first looks at upcoming stories, send me requests, and more!

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[the-silver-peahen-residence]

Megumi sighed shaking his head at this, even if he didn't want anything happening to him. Or worse; if she finds out. Though, it seems he said his answer.

"Um....well...Todo-san." Kisho goes to give him a nervous smile, "The type of woman I want to go for...is um." God..why does he feel that he is going to get beat up?

Fuck. He is going to crack.

"Someone that I truly cherish from the top and bottom of my heart. Because..." He shuts his eyes tightly. "I want someone who is kind, brave even if they aren't brave but pushes through, someone is strong but is okay with me protecting her, and um....someone I want to go on adventures with. So yeah...that's my type."

He said it.

Now it's up to Todo. He thinks of his answer yet he was thinking of the other one from before. How his arms remain crossed that he was thinking towards it.

What was his answer to this one?

"That......was...." that's when he grabs Kisho and started shaking him.

"A NORMAL ANSWER!? I THOUGHT THIS GIRL YOU WANTED WAS YOUR TRUE QUEEN OR PRINCESS!? WHAT SORT OF ANSWER IS THAT!?" He said now shaking him.

"TODO, NO!!" Megumi said trying to stop him while Hana sweatdrops.

"A WOMAN OF YOUR LOVE SHOULD BE ALWAYS FIRST! YOUR QUEEN! YOUR GODDESS! DO YOU EVEN LIKE THIS GIRL!? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?!? DX" he shouted.

~~AT the girls dorm building~~

The girls from the dorms heard.

"What was that?" Nobara asked seeing Miwa and Yuria sweatdrops. However, Miwa knew. "oh no...seems like Todo was asking that question again and didn't like the answer.." she said shaking her head.

"Hey Yuria? Wasn't Miko out shopping today to get some snacks for everyone?" Nobara was sweatdropping but Yuria blinks only for her to widen her eyes.

"Uh oh..."

Megumi gives a 'Yes he's serious just go with it' look hoping that Todo don't do anything because of the badger finds out, she would lose it herself. He didn't need another added to that list. It's bad enough Kinie and Sukuna lose it!

Todo waited for his answer with arms crossed.

"Well…I like black…raven-head, beautiful smile, fair skin, and uh? Amazing eyes that I want to look at for a long time! Skin that is vibrant that I can't look away." He begins. "Soft, warm, and uh…" He gulps a little as Eito is now perching on the railing.

"Hmmmmmm..." He was listening to this but keeps his eyes focused on Kisho. "Yes? Anything else?" Todo said.

"And uh…."

"Come on friend. You must have something else to add to this. You have to finish your answer!" Todo said.

"Is this really needed Todo-"

"YES! THE LAST ANSWER WAS SOMETHING I DIDN'T LIKE SO HIS OTHER ANSWER SHOULD BE GOOD!!"

[leighsartworks216]

Meeting the Parents

Sylus x gn!Reader

Inspired by this post by @yes-no-maybe-soo

Dialogue taken straight from his tete-a-tete introduction with some stuff removed for the story

Warnings: hurt/comfort, domestic fluff, established relationship, death, cemetery, anxiety, lies of omission, cuddling, kissing, crying

Word Count: 1,564

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“Sy?”

“Hm? What is it, sweetie?”

You play with his fingers where they lay over your stomach. His body is sculpted to fit perfectly along your back, strong arms holding you securely, protectively, as you’re just waking up and he’s supposed to be going to bed.

You bite your lip, grateful that he can’t see your face or the warring thoughts blatantly expressed on it. “Would you want to meet my parents?”

He presses closer - if such a thing is even possible - tucking his face into your shoulder where he plants lazy kisses. “Why are you asking me about this now?”

“Well, Tara got a new boyfriend and she was telling me about how important meeting the parents can be,” you admit slowly. She’d gushed about it for an entire lunch break, in fact. Rambling on and on about how meeting his parents went, and how her parents just love him, and how big of a step it is in a relationship. ‘The most important step!’ she’d emphasized. It weighed on your mind since. “And I just thought… maybe you’d want to meet mine?”

There’s no way he doesn’t hear your heart racing in your chest. It’s impossible for him to miss the nervousness in your fiddling with his fingers, or the subconscious way you stretch out your legs to tangle with his. But if he does notice any of it, he says nothing.

He kisses over your pulse, intertwines your fingers, and hooks his leg over your hip, as though this is nothing more than a lazy Sunday morning.

“I’d be honored to meet them,” he whispers, soft and tender in a voice reserved just for you.

“Today?”

He chuckles warmly. “If that’s what you want, sure.”

You squeeze his hand, then pull it tighter around you, holding it to your chest like a plushie you’ve decided to cuddle. “You should get some sleep, first. We can visit them for lunch.”

“Oh? Are they already expecting me?”

“No… but they never mind visitors.”

He hums, a low sound that rumbles in his chest, and buries his face into your warm skin. “Whatever you say, kitten…”

His snores fill the air a moment later.

-

Sylus takes meeting your parents more seriously than you thought he would. He took a shower before you, and when you came out, he was meticulously going through his wardrobe to find the perfect outfit. Nothing too flashy, but nothing too casual - something suited for setting up a good first impression. A towel is still around his shoulders, hair dripping onto it in his focus. It brings some much needed levity into your aching heart.

“Sit down,” you chide him. He does so with a knowing smirk, but it droops back into a frown as he thinks on his options.

“Which shirt do you think?” he asks. You fluff the towel over his hair, squeezing out the water soaked into the thicker sections of his locks. Once it’s dried enough, you comb your fingers through his hair to brush it out. He’ll style it himself, of course, but you love feeling it so wild and unrestrained like this.

You look up at the two shirts hanging up side by side in the closet. His collared-shirt red-sweater combo on one side, or his simple white shirt. Both are casual, put together. A softer appearance compared to his usual black attire. He could choose either - they’re perfect for coming off as disarming and charming without flaunting his wealth - but he’s asking you.

You hug him around his neck from behind. “What’s wrong?” he asks softly.

You shake your head. “Nothing.” Still, you linger a moment longer before you pull away with a kiss to his cheek. “The red one. It’s my favorite.”

“The red one it is.”

-

You offered to drive this time. Unusual, given his proclivity for driving you anywhere you could ever want to go, but you play it off as it being in Linkon, your territory. He teased you lightly, but passed over the keys without a fuss. If you wanted to be the one to drive him to meet your parents, that’s your right.

After having to majorly adjust the driver’s side seat to account for your height, the drive itself is simple. Familiar. You know the way like Sylus knows his armories. Though, you know you can’t play it off forever. In just a few short miles, the ruse will be up. You tap along the steering wheel. How much longer before he figures it out? Or, if he already knows, before he says something about it?

You pull the car into the gravel parking lot and cut the ignition. You shyly look to the passenger side. Sylus looks straight ahead through the windshield, brows pulled together in a frown.

“Sweetie…”

You get out of the car before he can say anything else. Before he can back out. Look at you like you’re crazy or like you’ve betrayed him for keeping this a secret for so long. His door shuts a moment after yours. The small rocks shift under his nice shoes as he rounds the car. You don’t look at his face as you take his hand in yours and lead him through the big wrought-iron gate.

Rows upon rows of headstones, statues, slabs cover the area. Carefully tended grass peeks up in the spaces between. A path is formed from foot-traffic alone, guiding you deeper into the cemetery like a gentle hand on your shoulder. You know the way by now.

The wind blows through, the birds chirp their songs, the noise of the cars is distant… It’s peaceful. Sylus says nothing. You pretend to focus on the stones by your side to avoid looking at him.

You curse Tara for planting this idea in your head in the first place.

Soon enough, you slow to a stop in front of a wide headstone. Two names are engraved on it. Four dates. And a message. You picked it out just for them.

The silence grows unbearable. Hot. You wish you could sink into the ground, where hundreds of hands could hold and assure you. Where Sylus can’t see the tension in your shoulders as you anticipate him leaving.

He squeezes your hand. For the first time since arriving, you look at him, watching as he kneels down in front of the granite stone. And… he’s smiling. The furrow in his brow is gone. He looks at ease.

“Are you their parents? I’m Sylus. I’m your child’s boyfriend,” he introduces himself. He says it all like he’s talking to them. Speaking directly to your parents just before an awkward family dinner. “I run a family-owned business that covers a range of services and offers various products. We deliver fruit and even sell state-of-the-art technology, for example. My business has been doing well, and I work with a lot of talented individuals. If you’re interested, I’d be happy to discuss it in more detail another time.”

You slowly sink down to your knees beside him. You can’t stop staring at his face.

“My hobbies are very simple. I collect vinyl records, play the organ, and occasionally sing. According to your child, my singing isn’t too bad.” He looks at you, shooting you a playful wink. Your vision starts to blur. He turns back to the stone.

“I live alone and I have a relatively flexible schedule. I stay at my base most of the time. Otherwise, I’m in a hotel for business meetings or go to my private ranch when I need to unwind. I own several beautiful horses, and one of them has grown particularly fond of them. The two of them often frolic together at the ranch.” In that same soft voice reserved just for you, he says, “I like seeing them be carefree and happy.”

The first tears break free with a choked sound. He lets go of your hand to wrap his arm around your shoulders, drawing you into his side. You hug his waist tightly.

“While it might not be obvious at first glance, I’m very good at taking care of people. Because of our time together, I developed new interests. I enjoy taking them to auctions and fashion shows.” He draws you in a little tighter, but his attention remains on the names before him. “I like seeing them shine. And their happiness is my happiness.

“As for the future…” He speaks with conviction, as though trying to fully prove to your parents his worth as your boyfriend. “I’ll always support them with whatever they want to do. I’ll also stand by their side without question.”

You press your face in his chest. He shifts on his knees to face you, wrapping his other arm around you in a full hug. He presses a gentle kiss to your head.

“How did I do?” he whispers.

You sob. It’s ugly and gross. Your chin wobbles and your face contorts as tears stream in an endless tirade, soaking into his sweater. His large hand rubs up and down your back patiently. Your voice cracks as you croak out, “They would’ve loved you…”

He ducks his head down, pressing his cheek to yours. Sweet kisses brush away your tears. “I’m sure I would have loved them, too,” he assures. And you know he isn’t lying. “Just breathe, sweetie. I’ve got you. I’ve got you…”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0

[arcadia-smith]

Unrequited love. (I will always think that this is something that breaks hearts painfully slow)

Simon Riley x Reader.

You’ve always known that loving Simon Riley was a dangerous thing. Not because of the nightmares that clawed at his mind or the ghosts that followed him like a shadow. No, it was dangerous because he never saw you the way you saw him.

And maybe that was your fault. Maybe you should have walked away before the feelings sank in too deep, before your heart curled around him like ivy, clinging even when it hurt.

But you never did.

Not when he smiled at you, a rare thing that made your chest ache. Not when he held you close after missions, his breathing unsteady, as if he needed to remind himself that you were still there. And certainly not when he whispered your name like a prayer in the quiet hours of the night.

It was easy to believe you meant something to him.

Until her.

She was everything you weren’t. Soft laughter and bright eyes, warmth in the way she touched him, an ease in how she held his attention. And he looked at her the way you had spent years looking at him.

You remember the exact moment you knew.

It wasn’t when he first mentioned her name, or even when he started spending more time away. It was when he showed up at your door, eyes shining in a way you’d never seen before.

“She said yes,” he breathed, almost disbelieving.

And you smiled.

God, you smiled so wide it hurt, because that’s what friends do. They don’t break apart in front of the people they love. They don’t let the cracks show.

So you pulled him into a hug, let him crush you in his arms as he whispered about how happy he was. You buried your face into his shoulder, blinking back the sting in your eyes, swallowing the lump in your throat.

Because he never looked at you like that.

And he never would.

—

You don’t go to the wedding.

You have an invitation, of course. It sits untouched on your counter, the elegant lettering spelling out his name alongside hers, mocking you every time you pass it.

Soap calls. Gaz texts. They ask if you’re coming, if you’re okay, if you need anything. You lie through your teeth, tell them you’re sick, that you’re busy, that you don’t want to intrude.

Simon doesn’t call.

You don’t think he notices your absence until much later.

Maybe it’s when the party winds down, when he’s alone for the first time in hours, when the realization creeps in like a whisper.

Maybe it’s when he looks around the reception, searching for you without even realizing he’s doing it. When he catches Soap's somber expression, the way Gaz avoids his gaze.

Maybe it’s not until years later, when the honeymoon phase fades and real life settles in. When he finds himself thinking of you in quiet moments, wondering why you aren’t around as much anymore, why it feels like something is missing.

You relocate. A different base. A different team.

You relocate to spare yourself.

—

Years Later

The news reaches him too late.

Simon is sitting in the common hall, watching the rain streak down the window, when his phone buzzes. He answers out of habit, not expecting much.

Soap's voice is quiet. Too quiet.

He barely hears the words over the rushing in his ears.

A mission gone wrong. Too much blood lost before help arrived. You were alone, left behind by your new team.

Gone.

The funeral is small. Simple. He doesn’t speak. Just stands at the back, hands clenched into fists, watching as they lower the casket into the ground.

Soap stands beside him, but no one else does. Not her. Not his wife. She hadn’t asked where he was going, and he hadn’t told her.

Because how could he explain it? How could he explain the way his ribs felt like they were caving in, the way his lungs burned with every breath? How could he explain that this loss felt different than any other?

He doesn’t cry.

He doesn’t say goodbye.

He just stands there, watching as they cover you with dirt, as the last piece of you disappears from his sight.

And for the first time, he wonders if maybe—just maybe—he loved you all along.

But now, he’ll never get the chance to tell you.

And that is the worst part of all.

—

Months Later

It happens on a quiet night.

Simon is going through old boxes in the closet, looking for something long forgotten. His wife is asleep in the next room, unaware.

He’s sifting through old mission reports, books, scraps of things that don’t matter—until he finds it.

A letter.

His name is scrawled across the front in your handwriting, the ink slightly smudged, like you hesitated before writing it.

He shouldn’t open it. He knows that.

But he does anyway.

His hands shake as he unfolds the paper. The words blur in front of his eyes, but he forces himself to focus.

Sim,

I don’t know if I’ll ever send this. Maybe it’s just for me. But if you’re reading it, then I guess I wasn’t brave enough to say it out loud.

I loved you. I loved you in all the ways a person could love someone. And I never told you because I knew—God, I knew you didn’t feel the same. And that’s okay. I never expected you to.

I just wanted you to know.

I hope she makes you happy. I hope she gives you the kind of love I always wished I could.

And I hope, someday, I stop wishing things had been different.

—Y/N

The paper crumples in his grip.

His chest is too tight, his throat burning as he squeezes his eyes shut.

Because fuck.

He should have known.

Should have seen it.

But it’s too late.

It’s too late, and you’re gone, and all he has left is the ghost of what could have been.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part of all.

[beardedjoel]

i cannot stress enough that prompt #15 on the first list is SOOOO smother coded, imagine on a hot summer night joel and blossom are up late and just yapping and looking up at the stars (blossom would def make a joke about how one of the constellations reminds her of joel) and then one thing after another he's fucking her raw and deep into the ground, when they're done blossom has grass stains on her dress or something (ALSO JULIE CONGRATS ON 5K YOU FUCKING DESERVE ILY)

thank you so much for sending this in and the kind words bby! beyond appreciate your patience from sending this in months ago 🤧 sorry for the delay! i had so so much fun writing this one though hehe because it really was very smother coded and it felt so natural for them. stargazing really does feel like something they'd do together often, especially after the way it goes for them here!

sea of stars — joel x f!reader

request: "stargazing that turns into sex". sent in as part of my 5k celebration! could be read as a standalone daddy joel if you really wanted to but it is rather smother-y and written with them in mind 😋

wc: 2.9k

warnings: dry (wet?) humping, piv, dirty talk, ddlg / daddy dom!joel + sub!reader

Sticky, thick air clings close to your skin, your hopes of beating the late night heat of summer by opening all the windows dashed as the house remains a stuffy, sweltering prison. You wished for air flow more than anything, a fan, and Joel promised he would do his best to find a working one for the two of you someday. You knew it was unlikely to ever materialize, but Joel would do his damndest to never give up on something that you’d so sweetly asked for.

“Can’t sleep, daddy,” you murmur, rubbing your burning, tired eyes and rolling over to face him. Despite the heat, your naked body gravitates towards him, your longing for him unable to be quelled by it and the layer of sweat that seems to permanently live on your skin. His arms find you, bringing you close, clammy limbs tangling together but neither of you caring, lethargic in your movements.

“I know, sweetheart. ‘M sorry,” he replies, stroking your hair soothingly. “It’s jus’ a heatwave, darlin’, these usually only last a few days. Should be out of it soon.”

You nod, still feeling pitiful, sighing and rolling onto your back as Joel’s arms retract, the both of you trying to cool off again. After a few silent beats, Joel sits up in bed, watching you blink listlessly at the ceiling.

“Alright, up. I’ve got an idea,” he says.

You clamber off the mattress half in a daze and he hands you a ball of thin fabric - your nightgown that had been discarded before you got in bed. Sheer and lovely and see through, you pull it over your head, the material thankfully feather light on your skin. Joel feels better knowing you’re covered up for what he has planned. It’s odd, how deep the possession runs, knowing that nobody else is within miles of this place, but still feeling that pull to keep you as only his to see. It didn’t hurt that you always looked almost too alluring in the clothing he picked out for you.

After tugging on a pair of briefs, Joel leads you outside, snatching a throw from the back of the couch as you pass. A sigh of relief leaves your lips as you step past the threshold, the cooler air sweeter than anything as it caresses your skin. 

“Few degrees makes all the difference, don’t it?” Joel says, and you quickly agree with a happy little hum. His hand on the small of your back, he guides you away from the cabin, stopping where a clearing of trees reveals the night sky to you, the moon only a tiny sliver shimmering in the distance, hardly providing any light. You strain your eyes slightly, comforted by the warmth radiating off of Joel reminding you he’s right there.

“Lay down,” he tells you, and you pause, wondering if he can see your face scrunched up in confusion as both of your eyes still adjust to the darkness. “Jus’ trust me,” he adds on at your hesitation, kissing the side of your head.

You lay down on your back, the cool grass beneath you making you smile as goosebumps briefly prickle your skin. You’d started to lose hope that it was possible to find relief in heat like this. Folding your hands over your stomach, you see Joel kneeling down next to you, hear him groan quietly as his knees crack on the way.

“Now tell me what you see, honey,” Joel says, settling next to you.

The obvious answer is right above you, twinkling dots littering the black sky. Their serene beauty transfixes you as you simply mutter, “Stars.”

“Mhm,” Joel confirms, propped up on his elbow to face you. “Pretty, ain’t they?” His fingers tease along your scalp, brushing backwards in rhythmic, soothing strokes. Lulled by his touch, you simply nod, letting the sea of stars swim in front of your eyes.

“You know any constellations?” he asks, laying onto his back to gaze at the sky with you.

“Mm, not really. Can you teach me?”

“Don’t know very many myself.” He pauses, scanning the sky for a few quiet moments. “Well I know that one there. ‘S the big dipper, but everyone knows it. Y’see the handle? An’ the big spoon part too?”

Joel’s hand envelops yours, guiding it to point towards the constellation. You squint, focusing your eyes to try and see it, but shake your head, making a contemplative little noise. “Kind of,” you say, twisting your lips to the side. “Wait… yeah, I see it, daddy! Right there…” You move your hand with his in a line, showing that you see the handle.

“You got it, princess.”

Both of your hands fall to the side, staying interlinked as you quietly observe the beauty floating above you, suspended in the clear sky. You’ve completely forgotten about the heat, the restlessness that had plagued you these last few hours. The air stays cool enough to take the edge off, your skin finally free from that grimy layer of sweat it seemed to carry at all hours during this heat wave.

“What’s that one?” you ask, finger pointing high into the night sky.

“I- I don’t know if that is one, darlin’,” Joel replies amusedly, trying to follow your eyeline. “We’ll get you a book on it, maybe, you’ll be a pro in no time.”

You give a bright smile at his offer while trying to make out more shapes in the twinkling expanse above. “What about that one?” you ask impatiently, pointing again. “It kind of looks like a face, maybe. Maybe it’s you,” you turn your head, giving him a cheeky grin as you laugh.

“Silly girl,” Joel chides you with a chuckle, reaching over to pinch your cheek for the teasing. “You know that daddy doesn’t know everything, right? Despite what it may seem.”

You giggle quietly, shaking your head. “You do know everything, daddy. Isn’t that one of the rules?”

“Knowin’ best f’you and knowin’ everything are very different, blossom,” he says playfully. “An’ especially when it comes to this… constellation stuff, I ain’t ever thought to learn them before, really. Sometimes it’s nice to just… look at ‘em. Thas’ been my philosophy, at least.”

“It is nice…” you mutter dazedly, feeling lulled by the serenity of the sky, the quiet noises of the forest surrounding you, the rustle of a soft but gladly received breeze blowing by. 

“Feelin’ better?” Joel asks, rubbing his thumb over your hand.

“Mhm. Much better,” you reply, sounding more subdued. The heat had made it harder to keep your composure throughout the last few days, leaving you on edge and worried you would inadvertently snap at Joel, resulting in a punishment. It had been a while since he’d had to dole one out, but the memories of them alone makes your body feel flush with need.

You did hate getting them, yet craved the heated attention from him that came with it. You curl a little closer to him at the thought, rubbing your thighs together.

“I can cuddle you again, daddy,” you tell him, making Joel’s chest vibrate with a tiny chuckle.

“You didn’t want to cuddle your old man before?” You can practically hear the daring raise of his brows in his voice.

“Too hot,” you insist innocently, tucking your face near Joel’s armpit and poking him in the side. He makes a noise of agreement as he playfully swats you away. You’d noticed the same from him during this heatwave - the way his body wanted to gravitate towards yours as usual, but even your insatiable Joel had found it too stiflingly hot to give you what you both desired as often as normal.

Now, however…

His energy shifts, hand slithering down your back, making goosebumps crop up as you shiver. Even less than a few days without his touch has your nerves frazzled the second his hands are on you again, greedily making their way down to your ass, squeezing hard at the plush skin there.

A needy growl pulls up from Joel’s throat, leaning forward to press his lips to your ear, wrapping them around your ear lobe and suckling. Another wave of goosebumps trails over your entire body, a helpless cry whimpered out. 

“Ain’t had enough of you these last few days…” he murmurs into the shell of your ear, raspy and heated. Your breath catches and you clench between your legs, your core moving towards his without thought, throwing a leg over his. His hand tightens on your ass, yanking you closer until you can feel the hard shape of his cock press into you. The thin fabric of both of your clothing does little to hinder either of you, and you start rolling your hips against him, whining.

“Poor baby is needy without her daddy filling her up constantly, isn’t she?” Joel taunts, his other arm slipping underneath you to grab your other ass cheek, now starting a steady, faster rhythm against him.

“Daddy…” you manage to whine breathlessly, your mind only focused on the feeling between the two of you, brain going fuzzy with need. He seems to grow harder, his cock desperate to break the confines of his clothing, to wear down the fabric of your dress with the way he’s moving you in earnest now. You gush between your legs, built up tension from the last few days that hadn’t been sated well enough coming back in full force. 

The fabric of your dress pressed further between your legs starts to grow damp, catching on your poor clit and sending little waves of pleasure buzzing through you. You moan quietly, only forlorn little breaths that Joel eats up, fueling him to keep forcing you to rut into him.

“I w-want -” you try to speak, but the bulge in Joel’s briefs reaches deeper between your thighs, your entire body twitching. 

His lips find your earlobe again, biting gently before turning to your neck and nibbling there. “What does my blossom need, hm? Use your words…”

You whine in response, thrusting inward at the same time Joel urges your hips forward, moaning louder. You pant, angling yourself to get off even easier on him, feeling an obscene amount of moisture seeping onto your dress, soft squelches filling the air as it leaks onto Joel’s briefs, too.

“Christ, baby, my little girl is a needy fuckin’ thing isn’t she,” Joel punches out in disbelief, losing control, his hips twitching harder into yours, chasing his pleasure.

“I-Inside…” you manage to choke out.

Joel tsks. “Not ‘till you give me one,” he demands. You immediately double down on the rocking of your hips, letting yourself get lost in it until your body is burning, so close to reaching that bliss. His cock leaks for you, adding to the wetness sticking to the clothing between you, sweat forming on your brow and neck and everywhere else now, too.

The climax hits you in a hurried burst, leaving just as quickly, not the release you’d been hoping for. You groan in frustration as you come down, clinging to Joel’s sweaty chest.

“Pl-please, daddy. I’ll do anything…” You beg him, your skin prickling and hot with frustration, the heat slowly making you irritable again.

“Anythin’? Ain’t no different from any other day, princess.” He teases, mocking you with that drip of condescension he does so well. It only riles you up further, and you move to untangle yourself from him to move into the position you know will give you the relief you need from him. Before you can get on your hands and knees, Joel grabs you by the waist, pulling you into where he still lays, your body fumbling into his solid chest as it clunks back to the ground. His lips press to your ear, your body tight to his as one arm holds you by the torso, the other near your neck. “Nuh-uh. You know you don’t get to decide how I take you. That ain’t how this works,” he grits out, ruthless.

Whimpering, that odd mixture of excitement and fear coursing through your veins, you smirk, struggling slightly in his hold to egg him on, your ass wriggling into his crotch. Joel clocks it immediately, moving to reach between you and tug down his briefs and tear your dress off where it already barely covers your ass.

“Gonna make me crazy, bein’ a little brat like that, baby. We both know that ain’t you. She’s a good girl. Right?” He presses his cock between your thighs, forcing it through to your entrance, teasing you when you remain silent. “Right?! Say it, sweetheart. Tell daddy you aren’t a brat.”

“I-I’m not…” Just the tip of his cock presses inward and you grit your teeth, holding back the pathetic, desperate begging you really want to spit out. “I’m not a brat, daddy, I promise. I just -”

“You need daddy’s cock, I know.” He interrupts you with a press inward of his hips at his words, sinking the thick length of himself inside of you. You squeal, the noise turning to a moan of relief as he slides in easily, your slickness already coating everything, including the way it’s dripping down the inside of your thighs.

“What are you then, if you ain’t a brat?” Joel sits perfectly still, his well practiced restraint palpable between the two of you. You want him to move, you need him to move, to fill that void you’d been missing for the last few days.

“I’m a g-good girl. I am… I am… I-I’m good, see?” You keep perfectly still with Joel for a long beat, letting him make the final call on whether or not you’ve been good enough. One of your hands grasps tightly into the grass to pour out your pent up frustration, nails digging into the earth.

Joel cranes his neck to kiss the side of your head. “That’s right. Thank you, blossom. Good girls get a reward from their daddy, too.”

You nod eagerly, and in a flash Joel’s body is on top of yours, forcing his cock to plunge deeper inside of you as you lay belly down. He yanks on your hips, bringing them upwards and begins to thrust steadily and surely into you. Your g-spot immediately feels the change in angle as he starts to press on it, your pussy pulsing around him, still sensitive from the last climax.

“Y-yes, yes…” you groan out, the top half of your torso still pressed into the ground going deeper into the grass with each bounce of your body on Joel’s thrusts. He smacks your ass and you yelp happily, heat radiating from there into pleasure at your core when he does it again.

“S-shit… baby, come for me. Want to hear you, want to feel you. Daddy a-ain’t gonna last…”

Something about his desperation pulls your insides taut, makes you clench harder around him. His hand reaches to your clit, rubbing urgently as he pounds into you. “Come, f-fuck, come, blossom. Now.”

His command, always your bidding, follows that same pattern now, sending you toppling over the edge. You come hard, your legs trembling, sinking lower to the ground so that you’re almost flat, your knees unable to hold you up. The pure abyss of pleasure rocks through you for those few, perfect moments as Joel pants above you as he pistons his hips faster. He suddenly yanks himself out of you, leaving you empty and trembling. You hear the squelch of your slickness in his hand, pumping his cock a few times before the hot splattering of his cum hits your back, soaking through your dress.

Joel sighs, collapsing next to you on his back, tucking himself back inside his briefs. “S-sorry, baby. I needed that too, I guess,” he says, sounding more sheepish than usual.

“I liked it,” you tease him, genuine in your words. You roll to your side, sitting up slightly and glancing down at your dress with a frown. Through the dark, your eyes more well adjusted now, you can see the stain smeared across the front of it. It isn’t the first time that grass stains have invaded your wardrobe from a passionate moment like this, but you like your dresses pristine for Joel, always worried about him getting it out for you. “My dress…” you lament.

Joel’s lips pull up into a smirk. “Afraid the back ain’t any better.”

You giggle, flustered and still shy after all this time at the thought of what you and Joel do together after the moment passes. “You made a mess this time, daddy.”

His lips find yours, pressing a deep kiss to them. “Can’t help that it looks good on you. You want to go change?”

“Too tired now. Want to sleep.” You shake your head, blinking at the night sky again, studying the stars with heavier lids now. The cooler outside air, despite your recent activities making you sweat all over again, starts to dry it quickly, leaving you pleasantly comfortable and sated. Joel’s plan seemed to work wonders, this setup much better than it had been trying to fight for sleep inside the stuffy house. Your limbs feel lazy and heavy, body still humming from your climax, every part of you comforted when Joel moves to hold you.

He smiles softly, placated to see you so at ease now. Joel reaches for the throw blanket, unraveling it and setting it at the ready for when you inevitably start to get chilly in your sleep. 

“You sleep then, sweetheart. Daddy’s got you.”

[inkedinshadows]

if ur still taking requests may I please ask for prompt #22 with cassian? it can be fluffy or smutty or both 🥰 thanks love ur blog btw!! 🩷🩷🩷

Starved For Your Touch

Pairing: Cassian x f!reader

A/N: Hi anon! Thank you so much <33 I wanted to include smut but inspiration for fluff found me first! I love drama queen cassian, hope you enjoy it 💕

Prompt: "You're such a tease today."

Warnings: none really, just a very tiny short piece of angst if you really squint

Word count: 1.5k

You had recently realized just how much Cassian craved physical contact, and your new favorite pastime was denying him of it. You wanted to see how far you could push him before he snapped.

Apparently, just a day.

You chose a short summer dress, fully aware of the way it hugged your curves and made your legs look longer. Cassian wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you, and you were determined not to let him touch you.

When you walked into the living room, he was lounging on the couch with Rhys and Mor. You greeted them with a smile, and Cassian’s face lit up when he saw you. Without interrupting the conversation, he reached for you, but you stayed just a few inches out of reach, merely brushing his hand with a teasing smile as you made your way to the kitchen.

When you walked back out a few minutes later, you let him grab your hand and pull you closer. You knew he wanted you to sit on his lap. You both loved it. But today you didn’t, opting instead to settle on the couch beside him. He frowned but didn’t comment.

“You look lovely, sweetheart,” he said instead. “This dress suits you.”

“It really does,” Mor chimed in from her armchair. “Which means your hands will be all over her in three… two…”

You and Rhysand chuckled, but Cassian grinned. He didn’t even try to deny it.

“Actually, I have to go,” you announced, cutting the moment short.

Cassian stilled, his arm half-lifted as he was about to drape it over your shoulders. “You’re leaving already?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I’m going shopping with Elain, remember?” You patted his knee before standing and looking at Mor. “Want to join us?”

Her smile widened. “You know it.”

You leaned down to kiss Cassian, just a brush of your lips against his—more a promise of a kiss than an actual one. He tried to keep you there, to deepen the kiss, but you pulled back.

“Always eager for more,” you murmured, and booped his nose. “I’ll see you for dinner.”

Following Mor to the front door, you turned back to wave at Cassian, catching the stunned expression plastered on his face.

Rhys just looked amused.

~~~~~~

Cassian was waiting when you returned home a few hours later.

Mor and Elain had already come back, but you’d stayed behind to buy one last item—a flimsy piece of lingerie you thought he might like.

“How long have you been standing there?” you asked as the door closed behind you. “Not since the girls came back, I hope.”

“I saw you arrive through the window.” Cassian pushed off the wall and stalked toward you, an accusatory finger pointed in your direction. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at what you assumed was supposed to be an intimidating expression. It never worked on you. He could be intimidating when he needed to—he was a warrior and a general, after all. But when he pretended, his lips jutted out slightly in a pout and a small crease appeared between his brows.

“And what is it?” you inquired, trying to walk past him and up the stairs. You were carrying a few full bags and just wanted to drop them off in your room.

Cassian’s arm shot out to block your path. “You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart. Not until you tell me why you haven’t kissed me all day.”

You cocked your head. “I have kissed you today,” you retorted.

He scoffed. “Only three times and they were just little pecks.” Then, as if it was obvious, he added, “Which don’t really count.”

“Oh, you poor big baby,” you chuckled. “What if I’m just saving the best for last because I bought something I know you’ll like?”

Cassian’s eyes darted to the bags in your hands. He tried to peek inside, but everything was neatly wrapped. He looked back at you. “Something like…?”

You smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Before he could stop you, you slipped under his arm and headed for the stairs. “I’ll leave these in our room,” you warned as you began the short climb. “And if I find out you snooped around, I’ll return the surprise.”

Cassian’s outraged gasp followed you up the stairs. You could practically see him clutching his chest, as if your words had struck him like a dagger to the heart. “When have I ever done something like that?”

“Cassian,” you scolded, not even bothering to turn around.

“Alright, alright.” You could hear the smile in his voice. “I promise.”

~~~~~~

When you joined the others downstairs, some were already gathered around the table, their choice of seating casual as always. But Cassian had saved you a spot beside him, and as you approached, you leaned in to kiss his cheek.

“Thank you, my love,” you murmured, making sure to brush your fingers along his wing as you settled into your chair.

He inhaled sharply, drawing a pointed look from Amren on his other side. She merely rolled her eyes before turning back to her conversation with Azriel.

“Sorry,” you quipped, feigning innocence. “I didn't mean to.”

Cassian narrowed his eyes. “What is going on?”

You shrugged off his question, focusing on filling your plate. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His gaze remained fixed on you, tracking your every moment. Holding back a laugh was harder than you’d expected, but you schooled your features into an unreadable expression.

“You’re such a tease today,” he muttered. “The dress, the kisses, now my wing…” His eyes darkened slightly as he watched you take the first bite of your food. “And this morning, when you got me so worked up only to slip out of bed before I could—”

“Cassian.”

Both of you looked up. Rhysand sat directly across from you, his brows raised. It was the same look he wore when waiting for someone to admit they had done something wrong.

“What?” Cassian scowled.

“If you really can’t avoid discussing your personal life during family dinner, at least keep your voice down.” Everyone was looking at you now, but Rhys went on, an amused smirk appearing on his lips. “Besides, I’m sure Y/N has a good reason for keeping you high and dry.”

Laughter rippled around the table, but Cassian only glowered. With a smile, you placed your hand on his thigh, hidden from the others’ view. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, pressing another soft kiss to his cheek. “I’ll make it up to you.”

He simply grumbled, “Oh, you will.”

The rest of the dinner passed uneventfully. Your hand lingered on Cassian’s leg, but he paid it little attention. He seemed distant, glancing toward Azriel more than once throughout the meal. The Shadowsinger merely raised an eyebrow each time their eyes met.

Had you gone too far? Maybe you shouldn't have teased him in front of the whole family.

When dinner ended and everyone moved into the sitting room for drinks, you watched as Cassian left without a word. You made to follow him to apologize—for real this time—but Azriel pulled you aside before you could.

His expression was so grim that you paused before you could ask him to talk later.

“What’s wrong?” you asked instead.

Azriel hesitated. “I’m worried about Cassian. Is everything okay between you two?”

Your heart sank. Of course Azriel had noticed, but for him to be concerned enough to pull you aside… maybe you had really pushed Cassian too far. You needed to talk to him as soon as possible to explain things.

“No, Az, it’s fine,” you started, trying to explain. “It’s just that I—”

Your words turned into a startled scream as two strong arms suddenly wrapped around you, lifting you off the ground.

Cassian’s laughter boomed in your ears as he crushed you to his chest. “Got you!”

Your hands flew to his forearms, your heart pounding. “What… what are you doing?” you mumbled, still trying to make sense of what was happening.

Azriel’s lips curled up into a smirk. “Good luck with him,” he said before slipping away to join the others in the sitting room.

“What…?”

Cassian began striding toward the stairs, still holding you from behind, your feet dangling uselessly above the floor.

“You shouldn't have let your guard down, sweetheart,” he murmured in your ear. “You really thought you could tease me all day and get away with it?”

Azriel. He had distracted you just long enough for Cassian to sneak up behind you.

Cassian set you down on the first step, only to spin you around and scoop you up again. “Now I’ve got you, and you’re not going anywhere. You have a whole day to make up for.”

You wrapped your arms and legs around him as he started up the stairs. A breathless laugh left your lips. “So you’re not mad at me?”

“Worse than that.” He grinned, his hands sliding from your thighs to your ass, squeezing playfully. “I’m touch-starved. So why don’t you start fixing that?”

This time, you obliged him, cupping his face and pressing your lips to his before he even reached your bedroom door.

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @ivy-34

1k taglist: @onebadassunicorn @thegoddessofnothingness

[inkdrinkerworld]

You give yourself a haircut before your date with Remus, his reaction doesn’t disappoint in the slightest wc: 609

“Close your eyes Remmy!” You announce as you hear the front door open. Your heels click clack against the tiles as you hustle to the living room.

You’ve just finished styling your hair and getting ready for yours and Remus’ date and you’ve done something you think he’s going to love.

You love it, so you’re pretty sure he’s going to as well.

“What did you do?” There’s amusement in his voice as you step into the living room and find his hand over his eyes and his other one holding a bouquet of the year’s first tulips.

“Thank you for the flowers,” you lean up and kiss his lips, sticky gloss coating his as you pull back but all Remus does is rub his lips to father with a smile.

“Presumptuous, it could very well be for the woman I sweet talked into the table overlooking the pier.”

You hit his chest softly with a scoff. “Maybe I shouldn’t show you.”

Remus coos, wrapping his arm around your waist as his lips coast your neck. It makes your skin heat at how aware he is of you even with his eyes covered.

“Please show me baby,” his words are practically branded into your skin and you sigh.

“Move your hand,” you say softly, leaning back as he does so he can see you fully.

Remus groans when his eyes focus, hands appreciative when they reach to the ends of your hair.

“My love,” there’s a bit of husk to his voice that you weren’t expecting but as he twists a curl around his finger and gives you another once over you can’t help but feel a bit bashful. “You cut it!” You nod, nibbling on your lip as Remus gives you his full attention. “You look so good.”

You smile- beam is a better word- under his compliment, even more so when his fingers tickle the base of your neck.

“Would I mess it up if I ran my hands through it?”

You shake your head, curls sticking to the dewy setting spray you’d used.

“That’s kind of the point of it. To look a bit like bed head.”

Remus groans again, setting the flowers down and sinking both his hands into your hair and pulling you closer for a kiss.

Remus kisses you like he’s been thirsty all day and you’re a drink of cold water.

Just before he pulls away, he nibbles on your bottom lip and sighs all pleased.

“You’re gonna send me into cardiac arrest, dove.”

He sounds all breathless and it makes your heart hammer even harder against your chest.

“I’m not trying to.”

Remus laughs, pecking your lips again before stepping back to take in your entire outfit.

You’re in a deep wine purple dress, the skirt of it falling to mid-shin. The bodice is snug to your curves with a square neckline that makes you look even more beautiful. You’re also wearing the necklace Remus had gotten you as an anniversary gifts a few years ago- rose quartz on a dainty chain that sits just along your collarbones.

Remus didn’t notice it before but you smell amazing too- like caramel, honey and milk.

“You’re definitely trying too, dove.”

You giggle bashfully, even more so when he reaches back for the flowers and hands them to you.

“Thank you, Remmy.” You give him another kiss, glad that you’d just done liner and gloss because he’d look a mess if you’d worn your lipstick- not that Remus would mind all that much.

“Can I take a photo? I’m due a new lock screen.”

You’re a few minutes late for the reservation but Remus has his new lock screen photo and a few kisses beneath his shirt as well.

[witherby]

I need anything and everything of jason being Mouses favourite. (The Littlest Wayne AU)

They get a snack/ meal - Jay Jay has to take a bite first before they eat

They have a new toy- Jay Jay has to see and play

I’ll take anything you can think of.

I am obsessed. The AU is amazing

-🤍💜

Say less! I love Jason Todd and so does Flittermouse! By the way the word count is 3100+ lol oops

The Littlest Wayne: Fist Bumps

Masterlist is Here!

"This is stupid."

"Shut up, you're just mad you won't get picked."

Tim kicks Damian in the shin, who retaliates by kicking him back much, much harder in the ankle. Tim cries out, about to start a fight, but one stern look from Alfred settles them both down. They continue to sit beside each other without fuss, and soon everyone is all neatly lined in a row while Hal uses his ring to keep you safely suspended in a bubble, playing with a little rattle.

"Alright," Dick says excitedly, "we're going over the rules one more time! No jingling any shiny objects for Flitty to chase after, no getting out of line to get closer to them, and Bruce, no bare skin! We're gonna have Hal set them down and see who they come to first."

"This isn't gonna go the way you think it's gonna go," Bruce says, endlessly amused. "Please, none of you get your feelings hurt."

"Nobody's gonna start cryin', relax," Jason says, lounging on the floor between Damian and Hal. "Kay, we ready?"

A chorus of agreement follows, and Hal gently lowers you to the floor. They all immediately call your name, or variations of your nickname, waving their hands and patting their laps to get you to come to them. Your eyes widen, startled by the sudden rush of noise, and turn your head to assess everyone across the room.

You lock on to the man you want, the binky in your mouth bopping up and down excitedly, and you start speedily crawling to Jason.

"I KNOW that's fuckin' right!" He yells, scooping you into his arms and gently tossing you in the air a couple inches, then peppering your face with kisses. "I'm the favorite you little freaks. Kiss my ass."

"Okay, whatever, we knew that already," Dick says, "now it's time to see who the second favorite is. Put them down and go away so we can play again."

"Be nice to your brother," Bruce says. Dick flicks Bruce in the ear and he scowls. "Ow. Be nice to me."

"Fine. Gotta know who my competition is for the number one spot in Mousey's heart, even if I'm winning by a landslide." Jason carries you across the room and sets you back down. "You stay for a sec, kay? Pound it." He picks up your chubby arm and makes you give him a fist bump, then walks away from you.

Before they can even start a second round of the game, you're shuffling after him again. Christ, it's adorable.

"It's because they can still see you, Todd," Damian says, scooping you up to put back in starting position. "Duck behind the couch."

Jason rolls his eyes but complies, bending down until he's out of sight. When the rest of the family calls for you again, you shuffle forward like you're going to crawl to Hal, but you veer past him and around to the back of the couch to get to Jason again.

"Oh my god, they've developed object permanence already," Tim says. Jason's triumphant laughter fills the room as he lifts you up to give you more kisses. His endless delight and your happy squealing softens the blow to everyone else's egos.

"This game sucks anyway," Dick mumbles, crossing his arms in defeat. "What idiot even came up with it in the first place..."

--

"You ask."

"Uh, no? You ask? I don't care."

"Yeah but he tolerates your questions. I don't wanna get my jaw blown off."

"Then don't ask, dumbass. It's so easy."

Jason clears his throat, causing the two goons to stiffen up and turn to face him. One of them looks upset that he was caught unaware, and the other looks one wrong move away from pissing himself.

"Hi, boss," they both greet.

"Whatcha talkin' about?" Jason asks, taking a half-step closer. "Cause last I checked, I sent you both over here to do quality control on our newest drug shipment. And I'm not seeing a lot of that gettin' done."

He turns to the more frightened man. If he didn't have his helmet on, he would've sneered at him.

"So what's the hold up? Need me to sew some mouths shut? Hmm? Want me t'cut out your fuckin' tongue? That'll motivate you real fast, I bet."

"We'll get right on it, boss," the other, clearly smarter, henchman states. "We were just. Uh. Wondering why there's... why there's a baby strapped to your chest."

Jason looks down at you. You stare right back at him, making a soft cooing noise around your Red Hood-themed binky, and reach up for his mask. He gently takes your hand instead, feeling your tiny fingers curl around the leather of his gloved pointer. He's smiling sweetly at you, despite no one being able to see it.

"This is M," he says by way of an answer. "Won't be an everyday occurrence — couldn't find another babysitter so I assured the dad I'd keep 'em safe for the night."

He doesn't mention that your dad is also his dad, and that when Jason tried to leave to do his vigilante work, you screamed the house down and would only calm down in his arms, therefore he had no choice. So here you are, strapped to his chest in a onesie padded with kevlar and vital-tracking tech, while your favorite brother carries your diapers and formula around in the same duffel he stashes his guns.

And because you're his favorite, too, he secretly hopes you throw more fits so he gets to hoard you all to himself again. Taking a few minutes to tickle your tummy or gently rock you in his arms stops him from losing his patience and blowing out the brains of several subordinates tonight — which his men clearly catch onto, because they all start telling him how nice it is to see such a cute and perfect and pleasant, life-saving baby hanging around.

Fuck yeah it's nice. S'cause you're the coolest baby ever. Jason gently makes you fist bump him.

--

"AHHH!"

Jason is out of his chair and bolting across the Manor before his brain fully registers your screaming through the baby monitor. There's surprised exclamations and footfalls not far from him as his thunderous steps stir up a commotion, but he doesn't care about that.

There are very few times in his life when he's moved this fast. Large, expansive rooms fly by him in a blur of color. He takes the stairs six at a time. If a door he needs to get through is closed, he's breaking it down with a well-placed hit with his shoulder and moving on.

When he gets to your room, he stops to yank the door open because he doesn't know if you're near it, and darts inside with a sharp shout of your name.

"What's wrong!?" He pants, zeroing in on you immediately. You've rushed into your wardrobe and climbed inside it, red-faced and crying as a crow flaps haphazardly around the bedroom. The shattered glass on the floor gives him the missing context, and he snatches the bird out of the air with more force than necessary while the adrenaline spike is still scrambling his nervous system.

Bruce is the second person to rush into your room just moments after, crouching by your hiding spot with furrowed brows and a soft, slightly winded voice.

"Are you hurt?" He asks. You whimper but shake your head, fat tears rolling down your little cheeks, and lift your hands. Bruce picks you up without hesitation and stands up.

"Jaylad?" He says, still in that gentle tone. "You alright?"

Jason doesn't answer. He's not alright, not really. The rage he'd built up thinking someone was in here hurting you is still burning through his veins, and with no outlet for it, he's struggling a bit.

Bruce doesn't take offense to his lack of response. He just offers you a small, reassuring smile and bounces you a bit in his arms.

"Let's go find Grandpa and snuggle up with some hot chocolate," he murmurs. "Jay-Jay will hang back and make sure your bedroom is safe for you."

"No!" You sob, leaning around your father's broad shoulders to reach for Jason. "Want Jay-Jay!"

"You can spend time with him in a little while, Mouse," Bruce says, starting to carry you out of the room. Your protests get louder and more frantic, pushing against him to no avail.

"Want Jay!" You repeat, sobbing openly. "Jay-Jay! Want, p'ease!! Jay-Jay!"

"Bruce," Jason utters through grit teeth. His father stops, only a few steps down the hallway, and turns back to him. "It's fine. I'll take 'em, you clean up the mess."

"...are you sure?" Bruce frowns, visibly cautious. He looks down at the bird still flapping helplessly as Jason holds it by the neck, firmer than strictly necessary.

Jason takes a step towards the broken window and tosses the crow out. After a second of frantic flapping, it straightens itself out and flies away with panicked sqawking.

He turns to you and holds out his arms. They're only trembling a little bit, but the edges of his vision are still tinged with green. Bruce hesitates to pass you over.

"I've got it," Jason murmurs, "I'm calm enough. Gimme my fuckin' sibling before you piss me off worse, B."

Bruce nods slowly. He brings you back into the room and hands you off to Jason. Your arms circle his neck and cling on tight, and you bury your face in his chest as you cry. It breaks his heart that you had such a bad scare. He can see the half-completed Lego build you were playing with on the floor in front of the window and hopes Bruce can get all the glass shards out between the bricks and carpet.

Jason carries you out of your bedroom and down the corridor to his. He leaves his door cracked open and flicks on lights as he goes, then brings you to the en-suite bathroom.

"Okay, Mousey," he mumbles, trying to set you on the sink's vanity. You clutch him tighter and whimper, and it drives a spear right through his chest. "Kid, I'm not goin' nowhere. Jay-Jay's right here, I just wanna make sure there's no glass on you."

A little more prodding and the compromise of you holding one of his hands gets you to relent. You sit miserably on the counter as your sobs slowly die down, and Jason tediously checks your hair and clothes for any bits of glass that may have landed on you when the crow crashed into the window. The slow, repetitive motions help quiet the last of his anger until he's just tired and concerned for you. He finds a couple tiny pieces, but your skin is unblemished and when he asks if you're hurt, you shake your head, which then calms him entirely.

"Alright, great job," he murmurs. "Come here, we'll go bother Alfie t'give us an icecream sammy before dinner and then cuddle in the main living room. Good plan?"

You sniffle, wiping the last of your tears away. Your cheeks are flushed and puffy. "Yeah, good pwan..."

Jason kisses the top of your head and offers you his fist. You gently bump yours against his, then lift your arms again to be picked back up. He obliges, refusing to put you back down for the rest of the day. When it's time for bed, you don't wanna go back into your room, so he spends the evening reading his current novel with a dim book light while you snooze away on his chest.

--

He's livid. Jason's got a hole in his leg and he can't run away from the rival gang leader pointing a gun at his head, and he's fucking livid.

"My first death was way cooler," he mutters. "Got blown up and everything."

"What the fuck are you saying?" The other man scowls. "I never could understand you through that thick-ass helmet."

"I'm saying, if you're gonna go down as the guy that killed the Red Hood, at least make the execution something fuckin' noteworthy," Jason rants, the pain making him bitchier than usual. He waves his hands for emphasis, pointing at the gunman much like a mother scolding her child. "Ohh I shot him and watched his brain splatter everywhere! So has every single marksman ever. I'm worth more than a bullet in an alleyway. The fuck do I look like, Bruce Wayne's folks?"

"Whoa, man," the shooter says, lifting his free hand to scratch the back of his head. "Let me get this straight. You're not mad I'm gonna kill you. You're that mad I'm not gonna kill you...in a cooler way?"

"Excellent listening ears, bucko! Gold star!" Jason coos, clapping. "Immolation, decapitation, tossin' me in an acid pit — fuck me, I'll take a stab wound over a bullet! D'you know how skilled you gotta be to get close enough to stab Red Hood to death!? If not for me, do somethin' that'll raise your own paltry street cred, shit. You're so fucking boring."

The man doesn't get another chance to weigh his options. The darkness of the alleyway pounces on him, sucking him into the void while he shrieks like an animal. Jason slumps against the wall and watches the shapeless darkness warp and twist, the gun abandoned on the ground in the gunman's initial panic. He feels his heart rate slow when you step out after a minute, wearing a thick jacket over your pajamas and a domino mask over your eyes as you hurry towards him. A flash of irritation makes him scowl as he realizes one of the others woke you up for this, when you aren't even a vigilante to begin with. The culprit's gonna get their ass beat as soon as he recovers enough to track them down.

"Okay," you stammer, kneeling next to him on the ground with a first aid kit. "Okay okay okay...Alf — umm, Agent A? I'm here, what do I do?"

"Remain calm, Flittermouse. All will be well," Alfred soothes you over the comms. Jason feels the adrenaline steadily exiting his body now that he's registered that he's safe. Now, it's a fight to stay conscious so you don't freak out even more than you're currently doing. He's so proud of you for coming out here despite the blatant fear.

Your hands shake as you pop the kit open and pull out the field tourniquet. Alfred instructs you on how to set it up, and Jason gently adjusts it when you wrap it a little too close to the bullet wound in his thigh. He grits his teeth as you tighten it, refusing to make a peep, and gives you a quick thumbs up when you tie it off.

"Okay, I stopped the bleeding. Do I bring him home, now?" You ask.

"As long as he has no other injuries, the medical bay is ready for you to transport him back to the cave."

"M'good, Mousey," Jason says, lifting his fist. "Sorry you had to come rescue your cool big bro. S'not your job."

"I was the one who could get here the fastest," you reply. After a moment's hesitation, you bump his fist with your own. "You're gonna be okay."

"M'gonna be okay," he echoes, knowing you need that confirmation. "Saved my life, kid. I'll do all your chores for the next week."

That gets a wet laugh out of you. You hug Jason tight and the shadows of the alley pool underneath your bodies. Jason closes his eyes and hugs you back, a steady anchor in the free-falling sensation entering your darkness gives him.

"My heroics are only worth a week of chores?"

"S'better than the rest get," he says. "They get one chore. Not even a whole day, just one chore."

You bury your face in his shoulder as the void swallows you and him up.

"You're my favorite, too, Jay-Jay," you mumble. Jason smiles as he loses the battle for consciousness.

--

"Good afternoon; welcome to Truce Juice. Would you like a moment with a menu or are you ready to order?"

Jason leans his hip against the counter and takes a menu off the small, laminated stack you've got sitting there, glancing over the options. Behind the helmet, he smiles as he remembers all the late nights you pulled him and your other brothers into the kitchen to taste test these drinks and snacks, desperate to make things that would appeal to many people. He remembers how proud you were to graduate from your culinary courses and the victory cry you let out when you found insurance willing to cover the building.

You smile warmly at him, waiting patiently for him to choose something off the menu for the first time in your brand new business.

"Black coffee," he says, voice warped by the modulator in the helmet, "two sugars."

"What size?" You ask, tapping it into the screen in front of you.

"Large. And a turkey panini, with avocado and pesto."

"Toasted?"

"What other fuckin' way would anybody get a panini?" He muses aloud. To strangers, he would sound angry, but you can tell he's genuinely asking. You just shrug and keep the soft smile on your face.

"You'd be surprised. Your total's on the screen; will that be cash or card?"

Jason reaches a gloved hand down. It glides past the pistol strapped to his thigh, eliciting nervous gasps from bystanders in the cafe, and into the pocket underneath, drawing out a plain, tri-fold wallet. He pulls out two hundred-dollar bills and huffs at you to keep the change, then saunters over to the pick-up counter to wait.

He crosses his arms and watches you scuttle around behind the counter, genuinely happy to make food and drinks for anybody that comes in. So far, you're uninjured and you've been able to stop any rising conflicts in seconds, which he's endlessly thankful for.

When his order is ready, you hand it to him with another bright smile.

"Alright, mister Hood, here you go. Have a great day!"

Jason nods, about to turn away, when he sees you hold your fist out in his periphery.

He grins, heart fit to burst, and bumps it back.