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solxamber · 2 months ago

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Workplace Hazards: Romance || Idia Shroud

You're a feral SS-class Esper with no off switch. He's an anxious shut-in SS-class Guide just trying to game in peace. Through lies, HR nightmares, dramatic near-deaths, and one candy ring proposal, you accidentally become soulmates. Government benefits may or may not be involved.

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Life, in its infinite wisdom, had decided to take a sharp left turn off the highway of normalcy and drive screaming into the wormhole of cosmic horror.

One day you’re just a person trying to buy goat milk, and the next, the sky rips open like a microwaved burrito, belching out monsters that look like someone tried to 3D print your worst nightmare with a spaghetti code of malice and slime. Scientists call them "Gate manifestations." Everyone else calls them "oh no no no NO—"

But humanity, being the scrappy little infestation it is, adapted. Not by solving the actual problem (of course not, that would require shutting up billionaires and redirecting global funds from "missile measuring contests"), but by evolving. Or rather, mutating—suddenly a percentage of the population started exhibiting terrifying, physics-optional powers.

These people are called Espers—a sanitized title that really just means "Congratulations! You are now licensed to punch interdimensional horrors in the face and traumatize yourself in the process."

Now, if the Espers were just laser-wielding sad little soldiers, that would be one thing. But no, their powers came with a side effect: unmanageable psychic noise. Think psychic radiation plus the emotional intensity of a sleep-deprived theatre kid on their third espresso shot.

This is where Guides came in. Not to lead anyone (the name is misleading, like “boneless chicken wings” in Ohio), but to stabilize Espers before they exploded into a Category Five Meltdown and leveled half a city block because someone forgot to restock the vending machine.

Guides don’t just talk you down—they shove their psychic aura into your brain like a weighted blanket made of competence and condescension. They are therapists, emotional janitors, and living surge protectors. Some are kind. Some are terrifying. Some, unfortunately, are hot.

So now the world runs on a system: gates appear, Espers go in and fight, Guides catch them when they fall out twitching and covered in monster goo. Rinse. Repeat. Cry. Go to therapy if you’re lucky. Take a nap if you’re not. Don’t die. (Please. HR paperwork is a nightmare.)

And if you’re very unlucky—like catastrophically, cosmically doomed—you fall in love with your Guide.

But that’s not your fault. That’s life now, baby.

You’re an Esper. A good one, actually. Or you were. You were ranked S-Class and living the dream: minimum paperwork, maximum destruction, and you had a Guide who made you drink tea and pretend your trauma was a garden to be tended. You even humored him and tried to visualize your “inner zen koi pond” until the koi started screaming back. Good times.

But then came The Incident.

Now, to be fair, the gate had looked normal. It wasn’t your fault it turned out to be a Class Alpha Instability Spiral—whatever the hell that means; you don't read the reports, you're just the explosion part of the team.

It also wasn’t your fault the emotional stress made you unlock a new tier of Esper abilities mid-battle. And it definitely wasn’t your fault that you accidentally bent the laws of physics so hard that five square kilometers of space-time decided to just... sit this one out.

But sure, blame the walking psychic warhead. Classic.

Congratulations! You're now SS-Class. The extra “S” stands for “Somebody please help.” Your previous Guide has politely resigned, citing “irreconcilable sanity differences.” HR gave you a pamphlet called So You’ve Accidentally Become a Government Weapon, and you were told your new classification required a compatibility reassignment.

Soul-sorting algorithms that spat out exactly one name. One room number. One very troubling lack of further details. Because while every other high-ranking Guide had reviews, commentary, threat assessments—your new match had... whispers.

"Doesn't take anyone."

"Turned down a whole squad of Espers."

So naturally, you knocked on the door.

Then knocked again.

And on the third knock, after contemplating whether this was some elaborate prank designed to push you into spontaneous combustion, you heard it: a whispered, "Come in," like the voice of someone who’d been emotionally concussed by mere social interaction.

The office was dark. Not ominous-dark, more... someone-didn’t-want-to-pay-the-electric-bill dark. The curtains were drawn. The monitor light was the only glow in the room, and behind it was a figure so slouched, so cocooned in hoodie and existential dread, you almost mistook him for a sentient couch cushion.

Idia Shroud.

SS-Class Guide. The Anti-Social Sorcerer. The Mothman of Mental Stability.

He looked up at you like you were the ghost of an unpaid internship and visibly recoiled.

"Hi," you said, very brightly, like this wasn’t clearly a mistake and the man before you hadn’t just contemplated leaping through the window to escape human contact.

He blinked. Slowly. "You're the SS?"

“Apparently,” you replied, sitting down calmly and very much not vibrating with barely-leashed doom energy. You folded your hands in your lap like someone who hadn’t just melted part of the training center during compatibility testing. “And you're going to be my Guide.”

That clearly short-circuited something in his brain because he made a strangled wheeze that sounded like a laptop dying.

So, obviously, the next logical step was pretending to be emotionally stable.

“Yes, I’ve been told I have excellent boundaries,” you said, lying through your teeth. “I meditate. I go to therapy. I drink water.”

Your nose might have twitched at the last one. Idia squinted.

“I’ve... seen your incident reports.”

Ah. Well. Time to double down.

“And yet,” you said, flashing a smile that could win awards for Most Suspicious Aura, “the test matched us. Fate, right?”

Idia looked at you like fate had personally wronged him.

You maintained eye contact. Calm. Cool. Collected. Just another emotionally well-regulated citizen of the world, absolutely not about to snap and launch a fireball into a vending machine if it ate your coins again.

And to your surprise, after a long, tense silence and a muttered line that sounded suspiciously like, “If I ignore it, maybe it'll leave,” he didn’t kick you out.

He just sighed. Opened a drawer. Pulled out your file like it physically hurt him.

And so it began.

You and the man who looked like a sleep-deprived curse word.

Esper and Guide.

Chaos and more chaos.

Willing participant and deeply unwilling participant.

Honestly, this was going to go great.

Idia sits next to you like someone forced him into a live-action horror movie adaptation of his worst social nightmares. He perches at the very edge of the couch, knees turned sharply away from you, shoulders hunched like he’s expecting to spontaneously combust just from proximity. He’s sweating. Actively. You can hear it.

He doesn't look at you—doesn’t dare to. Eye contact might trigger some kind of emotional subroutine he’s buried under six years of anime quotes and avoidance. So instead, he glares at the floor like it owes him money and says in the driest, most pained voice you've ever heard:

“…I’m going to initiate touch now.”

You blink. “Cool. I won’t bite.”

“Statistically, there’s still a 17% chance.”

Before you can ask how he got that number, he reaches over—very gingerly—and clasps your hand like it’s a ticking time bomb. It’s the least affectionate, most clinical hand-hold imaginable. And yet—

Your brain goes silent. Completely. All the psychic noise, the static, the ghost of that one Gate entity that’s been whispering “eat drywall” for three weeks straight—gone. You breathe out, deeply, for what feels like the first time in months.

“Oh,” you say, blinking slowly. “That’s… good. That’s really good.”

Meanwhile, Idia has gone stiff as a corpse. He looks at you, then at your hand, then back at you like you’ve just transformed into a philosophical dilemma.

“How are you alive?” he asks, genuinely horrified. “You’re… you’re an unstable esper. Your baseline resonance is like an overcooked spaghetti noodle wrapped around a hand grenade. You should be fried. You should be paste. What the hell have you been doing for guidance?”

You shrug. “My last guide made me listen to podcasts. And sometimes put a warm towel on my neck.”

Idia just stares at you in disbelief. “A warm towel?! A warm towel?! That’s like trying to fight a house fire with herbal tea!”

You grin at him, relaxed in a way you haven’t been since your promotion. “Hey. I’m adaptable.”

Then you wink.

He jerks his hand back like you just slapped him with a legally binding marriage proposal. “Okay, what does that mean?! Are you flirting? Threatening me? Both?!”

You stretch luxuriously on his couch, now absolutely high on the absence of psychic distress. “Wouldn’t you like to know, Guide boy?”

He looks at you like he’s re-evaluating every decision that led him to this moment—including being born.

You close your eyes, content, while Idia frantically Googles “how to tell if your newly assigned Esper is insane.”

You don’t need to see him to know he’s panicking.

But you feel better than you have in weeks.

You exit the Gate with all the dignity of a baby deer on roller skates. Technically alive, mostly upright, and riding the high of “I didn’t die today” like it’s a stimulant. There’s smoke rising from your gloves, your hair’s doing a very bold interpretation of ‘windblown,’ and you’re about three seconds from either vomiting or adopting nihilism as a full-time lifestyle.

And then—you spot him.

Your Guide.

Idia Shroud.

He’s lurking in the far corner of the clearing, half-shielded by a vending machine and what looks like pure, unfiltered spite. His hood’s up, his glowstick hair is practically vibrating, and he’s watching the post-Gate Espers like a cornered Victorian orphan who’s about to throw hands over the last piece of bread.

One comes within five feet of him and he physically recoils, clutching his comms tablet like it’s a crucifix. You're ninety percent sure he hissed.

So naturally, you make a beeline for him.

“Hi honey, I’m home,” you chirp, still crackling with energy like a downed power line.

He jolts like you just poured emotional commitment down his spine.

“Oh my GOD,” he mutters, dragging you by the sleeve like you’re radioactive (which, in fairness, you might be). “What took you so long?! I was standing here surrounded by—by unregulated feelings and eye contact and—oh my god, one of them tried to hug me.”

You let him pull you behind a barrier, where he sits you down with the dramatic flair of someone absolutely done with his entire existence. He doesn’t even wait—just snatches your hand and starts stabilizing you like he’s diffusing a bomb, holding on like letting go might summon the apocalypse.

Instant, blessed silence.

Your brain, which had been screaming like a dial-up modem on fire, goes quiet. Your chest unknots. You remember that oxygen exists and taking it in is actually encouraged. You sigh, blissed out, while Idia makes a face like he just stuck his hand in radioactive soup.

“I know it was, like, a gate collapse or whatever,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the skyline like he’s begging some higher power for patience. “But maybe next time don’t take so long to get out? You were in there for seventy minutes. I counted. Every second was emotionally damaging.”

You grin, eyes still hazy. “Aw. You missed me.”

“I panicked,” he snaps. “There’s a difference. I had a backup plan. It was called ‘run.’”

You lean toward him with a smug little hum. “You care.”

“I don’t care,” he says immediately, voice cracking like a damaged violin string. “I just don’t want you getting so emotionally unhinged you come back here all weepy and soulbond-seeking and—” he gestures vaguely. “Clingy.”

“I’m not clingy,” you say, still not letting go of his hand.

“You’re currently latched onto me like a trauma koala,” he deadpans.

You wink. “So you do care.”

Idia looks at you like he’s actively calculating how many regulations he can violate before someone notices. His expression lands somewhere between “why me” and “I should’ve become a dental assistant.”

But he doesn’t let go.

In fact, he shifts slightly so you can lean against him more comfortably. Not that he says anything about it. No. That would imply emotional maturity and gross things like “communication.”

Instead, he mutters, “You smell like space lightning and poor decisions.”

You beam at him. “Thanks. It’s my natural musk.”

And despite everything—despite the chaos, the imminent paperwork, and the looming threat of another Esper trying to trauma-bond with him—Idia doesn’t move away.

You’d like to think it’s because of your immense charm.

He’ll tell himself it’s just because it’s the most efficient way to keep you from frying your nervous system.

But deep down—deep down—he’s already doomed, and you both know it.

Congratulations. You’ve adopted a reclusive Guide with the emotional range of a scared wet cat.

And he cares.

Desperately.

You were having a very productive day doing absolutely nothing.

Flat on your bed, hoodie pulled over your face, limbs at the exact angle of maximum immobility, you were experiencing true stillness. The kind of stillness monks meditate decades to achieve. You hadn’t moved in hours. If someone were to enter your apartment right now, they’d probably mistake you for a corpse, but with worse fashion sense.

And then your phone rang.

You ignored it. Of course you did. Whoever it was could wait. You were on a spiritual journey to become one with your mattress. But it rang again. And again. And then came the messages. Ping. Ping. Pingpingpingping—

With the groan of someone who’s known true peace and been dragged back to hell, you reached for the phone.

[Guidia]: B-Class pest in hallway. Halp. He's monologuing. [Guidia]: SOS. EMERGENCY. COME NOW. I’M NOT KIDDING. [Guidia]: HE'S OUTSIDE MY OFFICE. HE HAS A CLIPBOARD. [Guidia]: I’M HIDING BEHIND MY ROLLING CHAIR. [Guidia]: IF YOU DON’T COME I’M FAKING MY OWN DEATH.

You stared at the messages. Debated pretending you didn’t see them. Debated harder. Lost.

Twenty minutes later, you're standing in front of the office building, internally mourning the loss of your free day and dressed like a walking stress nap with an energy drink in hand. You shuffle into the building, make your way to the guide floor, and as soon as you turn the corner—

There he is.

A junior Esper. Knocking on Idia’s door with the determined rhythm of someone trying to summon either a guide or God himself.

You slow down, then stop completely a few feet away, watching the scene with mild interest and the deadpan curiosity of someone who’s just been pulled out of bed to witness this madness.

He looks fresh out of training. Blue hair perfectly combed, posture painfully upright, shoes that don’t have a single scuff on them. He’s also got that nervous, earnest vibe that screams “will fill out extra paperwork if asked.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

He turns, a bit startled, then gives you a hopeful little smile.

“I’m here to meet Guide Shroud,” he says. “I heard he’s an SS-Rank and that he has only one Esper on his schedule, so I came to ask if he’d consider guiding me!”

You blink slowly. “You’re…?”

“B-Class!” he says proudly. “But I’ve been training hard. My instructors say I’ve got potential!”

You resist the urge to say “uh-huh” and pat him on the head. It is bold, you’ll give him that. You’d admire it more if you weren’t already picturing Idia foaming at the mouth behind the door.

Before you can respond, the door opens a crack—and a pale hand shoots out, grabs your wrist, and yanks you inside like you’re being abducted.

The door slams shut behind you. You spin and there’s Idia, crouched behind his desk, wide-eyed and absolutely vibrating with panic.

“WHY is he still out there,” he hisses.

You shrug. “He’s got dreams?”

“I SAW THE CLIPBOARD.”

“What’s on the clipboard, Idia.”

“I DON’T KNOW. GOALS? AMBITIONS? A LIST OF ICEBREAKER QUESTIONS?”

You give him a flat look. “So you dragged me out of bed—on my day off—because a baby Esper wanted to talk to you?”

“Did you SEE him?! He’s wearing a BUTTON-UP. He brought a PEN.”

“And your solution is what? Hide in your office until he dies of old age?”

“YES,” he says, without shame.

You sigh, long and dramatic. “Fiiiine.”

“You’ll get rid of him?”

“Yes.”

“WITHOUT making a mess?”

“No promises.”

You step out of the office, roll your shoulders, and walk up to the junior Esper with your best tired-but-stern government-employee face.

“Hey,” you say. “Guide Shroud can’t take you.”

His face falls. “Oh. Why not?”

“He’s bonded.”

“Oh.” He looks down, disappointed. “Wait—bonded? Like, permanently?”

“Yep.”

“…To who?”

You tilt your head and flash a smile. “Me.”

A beat passes.

“Oh,” he says again, eyes wide. “I—I didn’t know. That’s amazing. Congratulations! You two must have a really powerful connection.”

You nod solemnly. “We do. He definitely doesn’t hide under the desk every time I sneeze.”

“I hope someday I get to experience something like that,” he says, eyes shining.

You pat his shoulder like the elder cryptid you are. “Maybe. But for now, go back to your training. Don’t skip on the cardio. Gates love people who skip cardio.”

He scurries off with a polite bow and a visible resolve to become the best version of himself.

You reenter the office. Idia’s peeking from behind his chair like a horror movie extra.

“Gone?”

“Gone.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That you’re soul-bonded to me and emotionally unavailable.”

Idia goes still. Then slowly slinks out of hiding and collapses into his chair like a dying star.

“I can’t believe you just lied to a government-registered Esper,” he mutters.

“I can believe I did it to get my day off back.”

“…Fair.”

You yawn, stretch, and head for the door. “Anyway, congrats on our fake bond. I expect fake anniversary gifts.”

“I'm gonna submit a fake complaint to HR.”

“Romantic.”

Idia glares.

You blow him a kiss and leave.

You realize just how feral Espers are for high-grade Guides when one tries to poach yours in broad daylight, in public, with the social grace of a raccoon trying to steal your fries at a bus stop.

You’ve just finished a gate run, which—if you ignore the part where you took on three more phantoms than assigned, broke your regulator, and got launched through a wall—went rather well. Minor details, honestly.

Idia, however, is not ignoring any of that. He is, in fact, still cataloging your crimes in a tired monotone that suggests he’s preparing a very long, very strongly worded complaint for HR. Possibly engraved on stone tablets.

“You absolute menace,” he mutters, slumped against the wall beside you. “You promised—promised—you wouldn’t go after the untagged ones unless backup arrived, and what did you do? You ran at it. With a stick. A stick.”

“It was a long stick,” you say helpfully, grinning as you lean a little more of your weight against him, fully aware he’s too drained to push you off.

“I had to leave my desk, you tyrant,” he hisses. “Do you know what it’s like being forced to cross a city-wide barrier while wearing socks with holes in them?! My soul is chafing.”

You laugh, and the sound is light and easy, the kind that says this is all routine for you now—him grumbling, you ignoring, the two of you attached at the hand like mismatched puzzle pieces that somehow just work.

It’s been nearly a year since you first met, and though Idia still resembles flight response in human form, he doesn’t flinch when you touch him anymore. He doesn’t hide behind walls of screens and sarcastic muttering. These days, he’ll even look you in the eye if he’s feeling particularly emotionally reckless.

And today, you’re halfway draped against his side, gripping his hand like it’s your personal grounding wire, while he complains about your irresponsibility with the dulled, weary cadence of someone who has long accepted his fate.

Everything is calm. Peaceful. Slightly sweaty, but serene.

Until it happens.

You feel it first—a disturbance in the air, a sort of psychic shift like a mosquito entering your periphery. And then a hand—not yours—wraps around Idia’s other hand.

You both freeze.

You turn your head slowly, like a haunted doll in a horror movie, and lock eyes with the offending Esper: a stranger, grinning with the unnerving intensity of someone who’s never once respected personal space in their life.

Their grip is firm. Their eyes are gleaming. You get the immediate and unshakable impression that they brush their teeth with motivational speeches and do pushups while listening to alpha wave affirmations.

“Hey,” they say brightly. “I felt your energy from across the lot. You’re an SS-ranked Guide, right? I need a sync. This is urgent.”

You blink. They just walked up. Grabbed his hand. Started a conversation. Like you’re not right there. Like you’re not holding his hand already.

Idia makes a noise. A terrible, high-pitched, panicked noise that sounds like a dying computer fan combined with a stress wheeze. His grip on your hand turns into a death clamp so intense you briefly lose sensation in your fingers.

You can feel his aura spiking erratically, his hair going from blue-flame to fire-hazard, his whole body broadcasting something between fight and flight but mostly error404.human.exe has stopped responding.

The other Esper keeps smiling.

So naturally, your half-dead, gate-fried, emotionally responsible brain decides to handle the situation with grace, poise, and logic.

“That’s my bonded Guide, how dare you?” you say loudly, voice ringing across the field like you’ve just declared war at a royal banquet.

The Esper blinks. “Wait—bonded?”

You stare them down with the weight of a thousand lies and the calm of someone who has absolutely no plan but is fully committed to whatever this is now. “Yes. Bonded. Anchored. Spiritually entangled. Aether-twined in the eyes of the Bureau and every known deity.”

The Esper takes a step back. “Oh. I—I didn’t realize, you weren’t listed—”

“It’s private. Sacred. We don’t believe in paperwork,” you say solemnly, as if this is an ancient vow passed down from your ancestors and not something you just made up to avoid watching Idia break down like a damsel in the middle of a syncing field.

“I—I’m sorry,” they stammer, already backing away like you’ve slapped them with a restraining order made of pure energy. “I didn’t mean to—good luck with your, um. Bond.”

And then they run. They actually run. Kick up dust and everything.

You turn back to Idia, who’s frozen in place like his entire reality has blue-screened.

“What,” he croaks, “the hell was that?”

“A problem solved,” you say, settling back into your lean like nothing happened. “You’re welcome.”

“You told them we were bonded. In public. Do you have any idea what you just—? That’s a federal registration. There’s ceremonies. There are retreats. I’m going to start getting targeted ads for matching sync robes!”

You shrug, resting your head on his shoulder with the peacefulness of someone who knows, with every fiber of their being, that they have zero intention of fixing this. “Eh. If the ad algorithm knows something before you do, maybe it’s just fate.”

“You’re the worst,” he whispers, deeply and with feeling.

And yet, his grip doesn’t loosen. Even with both your hands clasped like that, even after the emotional equivalent of a car alarm going off in his soul, he keeps holding on.

So really, you figure everything’s fine.

After one little white lie (okay, two), things spiraled faster than you expected. Who knew that telling two different Espers that you and Idia were bonded would spread like someone set the office gossip group chat on fire and dumped rocket fuel on it?

Now you’re both sitting in HR.

The room is sterile in that special, soul-draining way that only HR offices can achieve—walls too white, chairs too plastic, a single wilting plant in the corner that’s seen more existential dread than most therapists.

You’re slouched in your seat, one leg bouncing like a ticking bomb, while Idia sits stiffly beside you, arms folded, looking like he wants to sink through the floor.

He's glaring at you with the intensity of a thousand blue suns. You can feel the judgment radiating off him like he's trying to guilt-force an apology through sheer mental anguish.

"Look," you mutter, nudging his boot with yours. "It’s not that bad."

"You told people we were bonded,” he hisses under his breath. “Twice. You turned it into an office-wide feature presentation. They sent us an official celebration cake, do you understand how terrifying that?”

You grin. “People love love.”

“I’m allergic to attention,” he snaps. “Do you know how many people tried to make eye contact with me this morning?”

“I made your life more efficient. Think about it—if we just roll with it, you never have to guide another Esper again. No more weirdos grabbing your hand in public. No more field calls. No more small talk.”

Idia pauses. You can see the moment he processes it. He goes very, very still, like a prey animal realizing the trap is actually a very comfy bed with Wi-Fi.

“…If I say we’re bonded, you're the only Esper I’ll ever have to guide,” he murmurs, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like he’s consulting an invisible divine entity. “I could work from home forever. No more missions. No more rando Espers breathing at me. I could build an AI version of myself for you to sync with. I wouldn’t even need to be conscious.”

“There you go!” you whisper, triumphant. “Fake it till we make it. Just smile, nod, and look like you tolerate me.”

“I don’t know how to smile on command.”

“Perfect. That’s our natural chemistry.”

Before he can spiral further, the HR door opens and a clipboard-toting, tired-eyed official waves you both in.

You sit. Idia sits like he’s never sat before. The HR guy folds his hands and gives you both that “I don’t get paid enough for this” expression all HR personnel master within the first week of their job.

“So,” he says. “You’re claiming a bond. You understand that means your sync scores, mission pairings, and emotional resonance charts are now considered federal data.”

“Absolutely,” you say confidently.

“Nope,” Idia says at the same time.

The HR guy pauses. “Right. Let’s just verify a few details.” He flips through the clipboard. “When did you begin your relationship?”

“About eleven months ago,” you reply smoothly.

“Two months ago?” Idia echoes, blinking. “Wait, what?”

“Where was your first official sync?”

“Field 17,” you say.

“The cafeteria,” says Idia.

A silence. You shoot him a quick look and whisper, “Why would we sync in the cafeteria—”

“I was thinking of lunch!” he hisses back.

HR guy clears his throat loudly.

“Okay,” he says, clearly fighting for patience. “Can you describe the moment you knew you were psychically compatible?”

You nod solemnly. “He touched my hand during decompression and I felt peace.”

“...When I almost blacked out from terror on field 206” Idia mutters.

You both blink at each other. There’s a horrible, choking silence.

The HR guy just sets down his pen, pinches the bridge of his nose, and sighs like he’s about to file for retirement. “Are you sure this is a real bond?”

Panic grips you like a sudden gust of wind. You think, fast. There’s only one thing left to do, one final act of desperation.

You rise from your chair.

Idia blinks. “What are you—oh no.”

You drop to one knee. “Oh yes.”

You pull out a ring. It’s a candy ring, the one you were saving in your jacket pocket for a sugar crash emergency. It sparkles like cheap sugar-coated destiny.

“Idia Shroud,” you say, with all the theatrical sincerity of a soap opera star in a season finale. “From the moment we synced, I knew you were the only socially avoidant, high-strung disaster I wanted to illegally claim government benefits with.”

Idia makes a noise that’s one part static feedback, one part soul exiting the body.

“Will you continue this extremely bureaucratically convenient charade with me?” you say, offering the candy ring with reverence. “For the tax write-offs and the peace of never having to talk to anyone else ever again?”

The HR guy is stunned. Mouth open. Not blinking. Probably buffering.

Idia stares at the ring. Then at you. Then at the HR guy. Then at the ring again.

“…I hate you,” he whispers, but lifts his hand anyway. “It better be lemon flavor or I walk.”

You slide the ring onto his finger like this is a fairy tale gone deeply, deeply off script.

HR makes a note. “...Right. Well. You’ll receive your bonding paperwork in three to five business days.”

And just like that, the meeting is over.

You and Idia walk out in silence, side by side, your new “engagement” ring glinting like the chaos it truly represents.

“...I hope you choke on candy,” he mutters.

“You love me.”

“No one will believe we’re bonded.”

“Oh, honey,” you grin, linking your arm through his. “They already do.”

These days, you and Idia have reached what scientists might call a stable orbit, and what HR calls a “gross misuse of company time and space.” But whatever. That’s between you, Idia, and the slowly dying office fern neither of you have watered in months.

You don’t bother him too much anymore—which is to say, you only rearrange his collectible figurines once a week now instead of every time you enter his office. And in return, he no longer looks at you like you’re an invasive species he’d like to report to pest control. Progress.

Sometimes, your days are quiet. Idia’s hunched over in his gaming chair, absolutely violating some poor boss monster on screen while whispering insults under his breath like, “Die, you HP-bloated RNG hellbeast,” and you’re sprawled face-first across the couch like a very emotionally fulfilled potato.

You’ve made a perfect depression nest out of spare jackets, your limbs dangling off the side like you’ve been freshly thrown there by fate itself.

You should be working. Technically. But Idia’s the one who put the “Do Not Disturb Unless You’re On Fire” sign on the door, so really, you’re just honoring the sanctity of that promise.

Other times, you swing by with takeout—because you both forgot to eat lunch, and if left alone, Idia will subsist off instant noodles and spite. You shove a container into his hand and collapse next to him on the couch, your thigh pressed against his as he awkwardly elbows you for space but doesn’t actually move away. Not that you’re keeping score.

(You are. You're absolutely keeping score.)

"Okay," he says, opening his container. "So this season's adaptation is garbage—they cut the backstory arc, the budget tanked, and the studio didn’t even animate the hair properly, it’s criminal. But the original light novel? Peak fiction. High literary art. Shakespeare is in shambles.”

You nod sagely as you munch on your fries. You don’t know what the hell he’s talking about—something about time loops and cursed bloodlines and a vampire love interest who’s actually a sentient program??—but you listen anyway.

Not because you care about the plot.

But because he talks with his whole soul, voice quickening, eyes gleaming like he’s just rolled a nat 20 on the Charisma check against social anxiety. He flails with one hand, gesturing wildly with his chopsticks like a tiny conductor of chaos, while his other hand never leaves yours.

And sometimes, in those moments—when he’s mid-rant, flushed with nerd rage, and you’re half-listening, half-dozing, fingers tangled with his—you catch yourself looking at him a little too long.

You catch the sparkle in his eyes, the way his shoulders drop around you, the way he stops stuttering when he gets excited and trusts you to listen even if you don’t understand.

And it takes every single molecule of willpower in your rapidly melting brain not to say anything.

Not to say how much you like these moments. Not to say how much you like him.

Because, sure, you’re fake-bonded. Pretending. Faking it for HR and for peace and quiet and to stop weird Espers from flirting with your favorite (and only) antisocial Guide.

But maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t mind if it weren’t pretend at all.

Despite being a somewhat unmotivated little gremlin who once filed a formal complaint about being asked to show up to a meeting before noon, you have a bad habit of pushing yourself too far when it came to gates.

Not for glory. Not for stats. Not even for the sweet, sweet serotonin of a job well done. No, you did it because you’d seen what happened when gates breached—when help came too late, when the wrong Esper got caught in the crossfire, when someone broke apart in a way no guide could patch back together.

You remembered one of your old friends, a Guide with the sunniest smile and a laugh that always rang louder than anyone else’s. Until one day it didn’t. They’d walked out of a particularly bad gate breach in stunned silence, hands shaking, mouth opening and closing like they wanted to say something—anything—but couldn’t. They handed in their resignation the next day.

So yeah. Maybe you were lazy about laundry and paperwork and showing up on time. But when it came to gates, you didn’t play around.

You fought like hell to make sure no one else had to go through what your friend did. You fought out of bounds. You fought monsters that weren’t yours. You fought so Idia never had to wear that hollow, too-still expression you remembered from that day.

And today?

Today was bad.

A sudden gate, not enough backup, and you were the highest-ranked Esper present. Which meant it fell on you.

You lasted twelve hours in there. Twelve hours of back-to-back fights, suppressing, clearing, burning through your stamina like your life—and everyone else’s—depended on it.

By the time the gate sealed and spat you out, you were barely standing. The world tilted hard to the left, your vision turned into that weird static-y filter they use in horror movies right before someone dies, and your stomach made a noise that might’ve been a scream. You took one step before your knees gave out.

You didn’t hit the ground.

Because suddenly, there were hands on you—arms catching you just before you collapsed, dragging you out of the danger zone with a surprisingly solid grip for someone whose most strenuous physical activity was switching charging cables.

You didn’t even need to see him to know who it was.

Idia. Your Guide. Your terribly anxious, semi-voluntarily associated handler, whose voice was sharp with panic as he dragged you to the safe zone and sat you down with all the gentleness of a malfunctioning robot.

“Oh my god—oh my god, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to die? Is this your new thing? Is this a hobby now?!”

You tried to respond but only managed a weak groan and a half-choke that might’ve been, “I’m fine,” or “I’m dying,” honestly it was 50/50.

He pressed his hands against your temples and started guiding immediately, energy steady and practiced. You felt the tightness in your chest start to ease, your pulse gradually slowing, your lungs actually filling up for once instead of fluttering like a dying balloon.

It was kind of nice. You hadn’t realized how close to blacking out you were until the static started fading. And then—

SMACK.

“OW—!”

“Shut up,” Idia hissed, yanking his hand back after slapping your shoulder hard enough to knock your soul a little looser. “You—you absolute fool of an Esper, you think I have time to be picking your half-dead corpse up off the ground like this?! I have three games on cooldown and a raid to prepare for next week and a life, you inconsiderate idiot!”

You opened one eye. “Wow, you’re yelling so much. Are you worried about me or just mad your stream got interrupted?”

“I’m both,” he snapped, color rising fast in his cheeks. “This—this can’t happen again. If you do this again, I’m gone. I’ll walk. I’ll— I’ll turn off my communicator. I’ll delete my file. I’ll fake my death. I will abandon you.”

You hummed, barely keeping your head upright. “You’d never.”

“I would.” His voice cracked like glass under pressure. “Don’t—don’t you dare test me. I mean it. I don’t want to… I don’t want to see you like that. Not again.”

You blinked at him slowly, the weight of exhaustion settling back into your limbs now that the adrenaline had burned out. And maybe it was the guiding haze, or maybe it was just him, but you let yourself rest.

Just for a little.

Because despite the dramatics and the hissy fit and the aggressively uncoordinated yelling, you knew what that panic meant. You knew what his hands trembling over yours meant.

And if your Guide was threatening to fake his own death for you, well… wasn’t that kind of romantic?

You took a few days off after The Incident™, otherwise known as You Being A Reckless Maniac Who Nearly Died On The Job While Your Guide Watched In Real-Time. The official report called it “extreme physical exertion in a high-risk environment.” You called it “a regular workday.”

But now, by some miracle of medical leave and your supervisor’s desperate plea for you to “please just stop doing this to us,” you were free.

And what did you do with your precious, well-earned downtime?

You healed your soul.

Which, for the record, looked a lot like wearing the same hoodie for three days, eating spicy chips with reckless abandon, and watching a reality show so unhinged it had to be imported from three countries over and aired exclusively at 3 a.m. due to moral concerns.

It was everything you wanted. Stupid people making stupid choices while you lived vicariously from the safety of your couch.

You were mid-cringe—some poor contestant had just confessed their love to the wrong twin—when someone knocked on your door.

You paused the TV and blinked. You weren’t expecting anyone. Delivery? Nah, you hadn’t even ordered anything today. Maybe the neighbors—

You opened the door and froze.

Idia stood there. Hoodie too big. Hair slightly frizzed as usual. One hand holding a plastic bag that looked like it could house a small cow, the other awkwardly dragging a suitcase. A suitcase.

You stared at him.

He stared at you.

Then, without saying a single word, he walked right in. No greeting, no explanation, just brushed past you like he’d done it a hundred times before and knew exactly where he was going.

He set the bag down with a thunk, the suitcase with a thud, plugged a drive into your media player with all the confidence of someone who had practiced this, and loaded up an anime you didn’t even recognize—something with neon colors, probably three timelines, and a cast of beautiful characters with extremely tragic backstories.

Then he turned to you.

And stared.

Not a single word. Just pointedly stared until you sighed, flopped back down on the couch, and scooted over to make room for him.

He joined you immediately. Threw a blanket over the both of you with the elegance of a man conducting a sacred ritual. Pulled your hand into his and laced your fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Still didn’t say anything.

You glanced at him. “So… are you living here now?”

No answer.

“Did you bring me snacks at least?”

He reached into the bag with his free hand, pulled out your favorite candy, and passed it to you without looking.

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re really committing to the whole silent anime protagonist thing, huh?”

He finally opened his mouth.

“Shut up. The sad backstory part is about to start.”

And that was that.

Apparently, your healing arc had a guest star now. One with a suitcase, great taste in melodrama, and a grip on your hand that never loosened.

You wake up with a distinct sense that something’s wrong.

Not life-or-death wrong. Not “gate-breach-imminent” wrong. More like “you-fell-asleep-in-a-position-that-defies-basic-anatomy” kind of wrong.

Your limbs are a mess. There’s a hoodie-clad arm loosely wrapped around your waist. Your face is very much pressed into someone’s collarbone. Someone who is radiating body heat like a human furnace. And you, like the enlightened creature you are, sniff before you register what your eyes are seeing.

Wait.

You blink blearily, and that’s when you realize: the human furnace is Idia Shroud.

You’re practically draped over him. Your leg is slung over his hips like you own him. His fingers are curled gently in your shirt like you’re his last tether to life. It’s less “sleepover” and more “Netflix and accidental marriage.”

And just as you situation begins to settle in, he stirs.

You freeze.

He opens his eyes.

And then—it happens.

He makes a sound. A terrible, wretched sound. Like a dying Roomba. Or a haunted fax machine possessed by a demon with asthma.

Then he squints down at you, eyes wild with confusion and betrayal.

And with a trembling breath, he whispers, “…I hate you.”

You blink. “What.”

“I hate you,” he repeats, louder this time, like you’re hard of hearing and he’s your dramatic high school ex. “I hate you. This is all your fault.”

You squint. “Did the genre shift? Are we friends to enemies now? Or, like, lovers to enemies to something worse?”

He sits up with you still partially on him and gestures dramatically at the tangled blankets like he’s presenting evidence in court. “Look at this. Look at what you’ve done to me. I used to be a recluse. I used to avoid human interaction. I had peace. Quiet. I had ten hours of gaming time per day.”

“You still have that,” you point out. “You just make me sit in the room now and pass you snacks.”

“Exactly!” he snaps. “I started liking it! I started looking forward to your dumb commentary during boss fights! I started… craving your presence like some kind of socially-adjusted moron!”

You stare.

He rants on, wild-haired and red-faced and approximately one and a half steps from throwing himself out a window. “You fake proposed to get out of HR trouble! And then you stole my hoodie! And you keep showing up in my space and making it better and more tolerable and I hate you for it!”

Your mouth twitches. “You sure this isn’t just a confession disguised as slander?”

He glares at you. “Don’t flatter yourself. I am merely experiencing symptoms of long-term emotional contamination. Also known as affection. A known virus."

You’re laughing now, arms still loosely wrapped around him. “So you like me.”

“I can’t believe I fell for you,” he groans, throwing his head back dramatically. “Of all the people in this world, I had to fall for the unhinged disaster gremlin who pretended we were bonded because it was ‘funny.’”

“You asked me to keep the lie going!”

“Because you said we were soulmates in front of an HR rep with a clipboard!”

You grin. “Okay, but was I wrong?”

He makes a noise that sounds like a tea kettle having an emotional breakdown.

Then he slumps like he’s aged thirty years in three seconds and mutters, “Just reject me already so I can go die in some cold, dark corner of a server room.”

You kiss him.

It’s soft and simple and smug. Mostly because he’s still glaring at you and now he’s also short-circuiting. His ears go bright pink.

You smile against his lips and ask, “So. You wanna make the fake bond real?”

He glares harder. “You’re the worst.”

And then he kisses you again like he’s never been more offended to be in love in his entire life.

Idia hated that he was a high-class Guide.

It was like being the rare shiny Pokémon everyone wanted to catch, except instead of admiration, it came with a nonstop barrage of overcaffeinated Espers trying to hold his hand without warning and HR emails that read like increasingly desperate dating profiles: “This one is only mildly feral! Just give it a shot :)”

He didn’t want to “give it a shot.” He wanted to crawl into his anime pillow fort and watch seventeen episodes of Mecha Scream Force: Ultimate Uncut Directors’ Deluxe Edgelord Edition in peace.

And then your file landed in his inbox.

Subject: SS– BATTLE-LEVEL ESPER. NOTES: Known anomaly. Exhibits unpredictable energy flux due to post-gate mutation. Possibly cursed. Re: Sync pair recommendation – IDIA SHROUD. Good luck. [Attached: a video of you almost biting into a monster’s neck mid-fight]

Idia stared at it for a full minute. Then he closed the file, reopened it, and checked the name. His name.

“Whyyyy me?” he whispered to the heavens, even though he was indoors and had blackout curtains drawn so tightly it looked like the void itself lived there.

Clearly, he’d wronged someone in a past life. Probably a whole list of someones.

When you walked into his office, he expected chaos. He expected explosions. He expected you to tackle him to the ground screaming “LET ME ABSORB YOUR AURA” or something equally traumatic.

Instead?

You looked at him, grinned like this was a lunch break, and approached him.

Then you stuck your hand out like you were offering him a pen.

“Yo. You guiding or nah?”

Idia blinked. The sheer normalcy hit him like a truck.

You just kept smiling, not even a glimmer of feral gate trauma in your eyes, and said, “Wanna do the hand thing or are you one of those forehead touchers?”

Idia was so caught off guard he actually stuttered, “J-just hands is fine.”

“Neat,” you said, and took his hand like it was no big deal. Like you hadn’t allegedly suplexed a gate beast using only your pinky. Like you didn’t have a file thicker than some light novels.

And… that was it.

You let him guide you. No whining. No dramatic speeches. No weird vibes. Just sync.

When it was over, you looked at him and said, “Wanna grab noodles?” and then skipped off to bother a vending machine.

Idia stood there for several minutes, buffering like a corrupted cutscene.

You weren’t loud. You weren’t clingy. You didn’t even try to oversync. And your handshake? A solid 8.5/10. Firm, but not emotionally traumatizing.

He texted Ortho:

“I think I found a non-feral one. Do you think they’re a spy.”

Ortho replied:

“Or maybe they’re just not like the others.” “Bro do NOT fall in love.”

Idia stared at your file again that night. He looked at the chaos reports, the combat records, the notes scribbled in red pen by HR.

And then he thought about your stupid little grin and how you didn’t even complain when he made you wait twenty minutes while he charged his noise-canceling headphones.

Maybe—just maybe—you weren’t going to ruin his life.

Yet.

The first time Idia waited outside a gate for you, he genuinely thought, How bad could it be?

Spoiler: it was bad.

He was standing there with his coat flapping awkwardly in the breeze, hunched like a socially anxious gargoyle, trying to blend into the concrete.

But alas—there was no blending in when you were wearing a neon SS-rank Guide badge that practically screamed, “HELLO! I’m high value and emotionally unavailable for syncing, please invade my personal space immediately!”

Espers began swarming.

Like moths. No. Like moths with abs.

“Yo, you synced up with anyone?” said one particularly muscular guy who was chewing gum with the intensity of someone trying to seduce through molar power.

“Wanna test compatibility?” offered another, already reaching out like this was some kind of handshake.

“I could use a cool-headed Guide like you,” purred a woman who looked like she bench-pressed trucks in her downtime.

Idia, for his part, simply froze. Not because he was considering it. No. He was buffering. His brain was lagging so hard it was displaying the mental equivalent of the spinning beach ball of doom. Why were they all so close? Why was that one flexing?

He wanted to vanish. He wanted to dissolve into the sidewalk. He wanted you to COME OUT OF THE GATE ALREADY.

And then, like some kind of disaster-themed magical girl, you stumbled out of the gate with your jacket halfway falling off your shoulder, a smear of monster goo on your cheek, and your smile crooked from adrenaline.

You blinked at the scene. Idia surrounded by sparkle-eyed Espers. And you? You grinned like a menace and called, “Aww, were you being courted while I was gone?”

He immediately flushed three shades of cherry blossom pink and hissed, “W-would it kill you to come out faster?! I almost got bond-napped!”

You just laughed, clapped him on the shoulder (with the force of a medium earthquake), and said, “Don’t worry, Shiny Badge. I’ll be faster next time.”

And shockingly… you were.

Next gate, you practically threw yourself out as soon as the rift closed, stumbling directly into Idia like you were being ejected from a monster meat blender.

He squeaked. You beamed. And every other Esper in a ten-foot radius suddenly looked like they’d just found out their crush was married.

“You happy now?” you asked, trying to wipe blood off your face with a wet napkin. “Did I make it in time to preserve your purity?”

“I am never wearing that badge again,” Idia muttered, clinging to your arm like you were his emotional support chaos.

But secretly?

He was just a little happy you’d listened.

A few months into this partnership—not that Idia was counting (he totally was, he had a spreadsheet tracking your interactions and categorized emotional events, but that’s beside the point)—he was enjoying what he considered peak compatibility.

You didn’t ask invasive questions. You brought snacks. And most importantly, you didn’t try to poke at his psyche with metaphorical chopsticks like all the other Espers seemed to enjoy doing.

So when a baby B-class Esper showed up outside his office and refused to leave, he had one reaction.

Panic.

He were earnest. Bright-eyed. Starstruck. Speaking through the office door in a tone that suggested he was auditioning for a sports anime.

“I just believe it’s my destiny to be guided by the best! And the system says you have many open slots!”

Idia, crumpled in his gamer chair like a depressed shrimp, texted you in the most pathetic SOS syntax he could manage.

SOS. B-Class pest in hallway. Halp. They’re monologuing.

To his relief and eternal confusion, you actually showed up. On your day off. Dressed in sweatpants and judgment, hair a mess, holding an energy drink in one hand and existential dread in the other.

He thought—great, you’d flex your seniority, threaten the rookie with HR, maybe gently suggest they find a less traumatized Guide.

But no.

You looked at the Esper, and said, “Sorry. He’s bonded. To me. Permanently.”

The B-class Esper’s eyes widened with sparkling heartbreak. “O-oh. I didn’t… I didn’t see a bond registration?”

You didn’t even blink. “It’s private. For, uh… spiritual reasons.”

The kid left with a sniffle and a salute—a salute, like they’d just witnessed a great romantic tragedy.

And you?

You slurped your energy drink and said, “You’re welcome. You owe me dinosaur nuggets.”

And Idia, poor Idia, just sat there in the background with his hands halfway to his face, mumbling, “I’m gonna fling you out the window. Then I’m gonna follow.”

He just curled up in his chair, stared at the ceiling, and began calculating how long he could fake his own death before HR caught on.

And the worst part?

The lie worked too well.

Idia had survived a lot of things in life.

He’d survived MMORPG guild drama. The Y/N self-insert fic someone wrote about him that got 80,000 kudos and a spin-off comic. That fic someone wrote about him marrying Malleus in a pasta-themed AU that still somehow had an 8k comment thread.

But this?

This was unforgivable.

He was in HR. Again. With you. And no one had even punched a hole in the wall this time. This was all preemptive HR. Preventative HR.

The worst kind of HR, because it meant someone somewhere thought he might be a problem. Him! A problem! As if he didn’t already take up negative space in most social situations!

And you—you, the original source of his misfortune—you were just sitting beside him like you hadn’t just committed the equivalent of marriage fraud by loudly claiming, in front of at least seven witnesses and a vending machine, that the two of you were bonded.

Permanently. Irrevocably. Like a pair of idiot soulmates who'd stumbled out of a romcom written by an unpaid intern.

As if the “we’re bonded, teehee” debacle with the B-class Esper wasn’t enough to shave a year off Idia’s already stress-shortened life, it had happened again.

Some random esper held his hand post-gate when you were both still high on adrenaline and trauma, and instead of, Idia didn’t know, punching them or using your words like a normal person, you just went “excuse me, that’s my bonded Guide, how dare you,” like you were a jealous ex.

That was the moment the rumors really took off.

And now here you were. Both of you. In HR.

Because HR had questions. Many questions. And neither of you had done the bare minimum, which was maybe talking about what fake answers you should give in advance. Like you didn’t even rehearse. Not a single shared Google Doc. No coordinated lies. Just vibes.

So when the HR guy (who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else on the planet, including the bottom of a sulfur pit) asked, “When did the bond occur?” you said October 3rd and Idia, with absolute confidence and zero hesitation, said March 22nd.

There was a pause.

Not a silence. A pause. The kind that echoes through generations.

“And where did it happen?” the man asked again, in the voice of someone whose therapist was going to be hearing about this in excruciating detail later.

You, smiling: “Field 17.”

Idia, barely restraining a grimace: “The Cafeteria.”

Another silence. This one more like an oncoming freight train.

“Do you at least know each other’s middle names?”

Idia blinked. “They have a middle name?”

You, helpfully: “His is ‘Trouble.’”

The HR guy looked like he aged six years in that moment. He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed deeply, and began massaging his temples in slow, pained circles like a man who had seen the abyss and wished it had swallowed him.

And then.

Then you moved.

Idia saw it happen in slow motion. You stood up. Reached into your hoodie pocket. And pulled out something shiny and crinkly. Something artificial. Something glowing with malevolent intent.

A Ring Pop.

A goddamn Ring Pop.

“Don’t do it,” Idia whispered, “I swear to everything, if you—”

You dropped to one knee in the middle of the HR office like you were auditioning for a live-action soap opera.

“From the moment we synced,” you said, voice loud, clear, and completely free of shame, “I knew you were the only socially avoidant, high-strung disaster I wanted to illegally claim government benefits with.”

ILLEGALLY.

CLAIM.

GOVERNMENT BENEFITS.

In front of HR.

Idia's soul left his body. Again. He was nothing but a faint outline of smoke and anxiety in the shape of a man.

The HR guy did not react. He simply stared into space like he had become untethered from time and reality. Somewhere in the distance, someone’s computer pinged. A bird hit the window. The printer made a noise like it was trying to weep.

Idia looked at the Ring Pop. It better not be raspberry flavored. The worst possible option. The flavor of betrayal and poor decisions.

“If it’s not lemon, I walk,” he muttered, even as he extended his hand like the fool he was.

You beamed like you’d just won a reality show. Slipped the candy ring onto his finger with great ceremony. He stared down at it, sticky sugar starting to melt onto his knuckles, and wondered what series of decisions had led him to this moment.

You leaned close as you walked out of the office and whispered, “We’re truly fraudulently bonded now. I hope you’re happy.”

“I’m the opposite of happy,” Idia hissed. “I am… anti-happy. I am negativity incarnate. We are legally entangled. We have created an HR file. I’m going to have to explain this to Ortho.”

You smirked.

“Tell him it was a shotgun wedding. He’ll love it.”

You didn’t let go of his hand.

And—God help him—he didn’t let go of yours either.

It definitely got worse before it got better.

Ortho, for one, did not let him live it down. Not for a second. There was a party. A full-on celebratory bash. With banners. One of which read “Congrats on Your Emergency Government Sanctioned Soul Marriage!” in Comic Sans.

Idia had tried to crawl into the floor. The floor, unfortunately, remained solid. He was forced to attend the party in body, if not spirit.

Ortho had even made a slideshow, complete with sparkly transitions and lo-fi music, documenting “every known moment of you two being disgustingly bonded.”

There was cake. The cake said “Congrats, You Played Yourself.” It tasted like guilt.

But… after the glitter and humiliation settled… things became weirdly good.

You didn’t treat him differently. That was the weird part. You still flopped dramatically across his office couch like you’d just fought a battle with gravity and lost.

You still made horrendous snacking noises and tried to convince him to watch cursed reality TV. You still made offhanded jokes during his games that were so sharp and stupid that he had to pause the cutscene and stare into the screen like it was a black void of disbelief.

He never laughed—obviously—but his shoulders shook a little sometimes. Just from rage. Definitely.

Sometimes, you brought him takeout. Unprompted. Just dropped it on his desk like a raccoon delivering tribute and started poking through your own container.

You always let him talk about whatever show had emotionally ruined him that week. You even listened. Like, actually listened. Nodded at the plot twists. Called the villain a loser. Asked about the fan theories. Like what he said mattered.

And sometimes, when you were too distracted counting shrimp in your fried rice, brows furrowed like you were solving a shrimp-based tax puzzle, Idia would stare at you.

Not in a creepy way. Just in a very... intense... anime-protagonist-moment kind of way. Like if someone added a wind filter and dramatic music, it would be a whole romantic B-plot arc.

He’d stare and think: Please don’t change. Please don’t leave. Please let this be real, even if it’s dumb. Even if it’s fake government paperwork and Ring Pops and nonsense. Please let this nonsense stay mine.

And then you’d look up mid-chew, mouth full, and say something like, “Do you think shrimp ever get existential crises about tempura?”

He’d immediately look away, ears red, heart a mess.

He was doomed.

Absolutely, sugar-glazed, takeout-fed, soul-bonded doomed.

There was an emergency gate.

Idia was outside. He’d been outside for twelve hours. That was twelve hours of sunlight exposure, twelve hours of people trying to talk to him, twelve hours of not knowing if you were dead or just being dramatic. Which, okay, to be fair, the line between the two was thin when it came to you.

He paced. He vibrated. He glared at anyone who so much as breathed in his direction. Someone tried to hand him a water bottle and he hissed like a wet cat.

Every five minutes, he checked his comms, even though he wasn’t cleared for internal updates. SS-ranked Guide my ass, he thought bitterly, hands twitching. Can’t even get an accurate live feed on the one maniac I’m synced to.

He told himself—repeatedly—that he was only mad because he had to wait outside for twelve whole hours. That it was purely logical rage. That the sun had permanently crisped his skin and fried his nerves and this was just normal vitamin-D-overload fury.

He was a filthy liar and he knew it.

He was anxious. He was anxious because you were in there alone. Well, not alone—technically there were other Espers—but they were all juniors. Babies. Snot-nosed kids who couldn’t fight their way out of a tutorial level.

You were the highest rank inside. Which meant you would push yourself. Which meant he had to sit there for twelve hours imagining every possible worst-case scenario his very creative and extremely deranged brain could come up with.

So when you finally stumbled out—filthy, bleeding, and doing your best impression of a half-dead Muppet—Idia didn’t even think. He caught you before you hit the ground, arms wrapping around you like instinct.

You were half-conscious, mumbling something about how the last monster looked like your elementary school English teacher, and Idia just about blacked out.

He dragged you to the side with the strength of pure panic and adrenaline. You were barely upright, clinging to him like a sleep-deprived spider monkey, and he was guiding you with shaky hands and a full-body tremble of what the hell, what the actual hell, what is wrong with you.

And then—he slapped your shoulder.

Hard.

Harder than someone with his spaghetti-noodle limbs had any right to.

“Are you out of your mind?!” he snapped, voice cracking. “Do you have a single functioning brain cell?! Were you trying to die in there? Is that it? Were you like, ‘Wow, you know what would be awesome today? Ruining my lungs and my Guide’s entire life in one go’—was that the plan?!”

You wheezed a laugh and gave a thumbs up.

He smacked you again.

“You can’t do that again,” he said, quietly this time, guiding aura flaring warm and sharp around his hands. “You can’t. If this happens again, I swear, I’m done. I’ll walk. I’ll turn in my license. I’ll go live in the woods and talk to raccoons. I’ll abandon you. I’m serious.”

You blinked at him, eyes bleary. “That’s dramatic.”

“So are you!” he snapped, and ran another guiding pulse through your body, scowling.

You slumped into him, letting the energy steady your limbs, and mumbled something about him being overprotective.

He told you to shut up.

You smiled.

He didn’t mean it about leaving.

But you didn’t need to know that.

You took a few days off after the gate incident. Not that Idia was keeping track. Not that he had an entire spreadsheet titled “Gate Trauma Recovery: Dumb Gremlin Edition” with daily updates on your recovery status that he absolutely did not check every thirty minutes.

But okay, maybe he was spiraling a little.

Because no matter how many games he played or anime episodes he queued up, he couldn’t get the image out of his head—you, bruised and burned and half-conscious, slumping into his arms like you were seconds away from not existing anymore.

It lived rent-free in his head. It had set up a cozy studio apartment in his cerebral cortex and was not paying utilities.

So, naturally, like any emotionally repressed SS-rank Guide with the common sense of a decorative rock, he packed a suitcase.

In went his portable gaming setup. His backup backup controller. Six different cords for reasons known only to the universe. Two sets of headphones. His lucky gamer hoodie. A USB fan (essential). And then a bag of snacks roughly the size of 6 corgis, filled with everything from neon sour gummies to obscure off-brand Pocky flavors.

Then, in a fit of either romance or psychosis (jury’s out), he showed up at your front door.

You opened it mid–reality show binge, wearing pajama pants with some loud pattern that made his eyes hurt. He stood there, suitcase in one hand, snack bag in the other, looking like a socially anxious door-to-door apocalypse salesman.

Neither of you spoke.

Because what was he supposed to say?

“Hi, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way your breathing was shallow and your skin was cold and I panicked so hard I packed my whole life into a bag like we’re running away from a zombie uprising and now I’m here because not seeing you for three days makes me feel like I’m gonna hurl?”

Absolutely not. He would rather eat drywall. He would rather die.

So instead, he walked in silently like a weirdo, set his stuff down like it was totally normal, and plugged in his drive into your media player like this was just a casual day.

You, either out of kindness or shared delusion, didn’t question it.

You just moved things over on the couch to make room and handed him the blanket. Like this was normal. Like he hadn’t just barged in with a small suitcase of emotional instability and bad coping mechanisms.

He put on a new anime. One he’d been saving. One he hadn’t planned on watching until you could roll your eyes and make your dumb little commentary at the plot holes.

You leaned against him, not saying a word.

And he held your hand like you hadn't absolutely blown up his entire emotional firewall. Like he hadn’t nearly lost you. Like this wasn’t already his favorite memory.

He didn’t say a word the whole episode.

But his fingers stayed curled around yours like a promise he was too much of a coward to say out loud.

Idia woke up with a full-grown human person draped across his body like a weighted blanket with boundary issues.

His brain booted up slowly—first registering the dull ache in his spine from sleeping on your disaster of a couch, then the soft warmth of your face smushed into his shoulder, and finally the fact that your entire existence was currently entangled with his like some kind of romcom final episode cuddle position.

He did not survive twelve hours of panicked gate-waiting, emotional damage, and spontaneous suitcase-packing for this.

Actually, no. That was a lie. He absolutely did. And if anyone dared to move you right now he would bite.

But unfortunately for him—and also, somehow, for you—he had the emotional self-control of a feral raccoon near a garbage can of feelings. So when you stirred a little and blinked sleepily at him, he opened his mouth and said the first thing that slithered out of his traitorous brain.

“I hate you.”

Your eyes focused slowly. “...Huh?”

“I hate you,” he repeated, voice cracking like a cursed record. “I hate the way you act like it’s totally normal to almost die in my arms and then go eat egg tarts like it’s no big deal. I hate that you lie to HR like it’s your full-time job. I hate that you keep doing stupid dangerous things and now I can’t function unless I know you’re alive and breathing and not about to faceplant into death.”

You blinked. Then—as if you weren’t being confessed to in what could only be described as a monologue from a melodramatic anime villain—you grinned.

“You sure this isn’t just a confession disguised as slander?”

“I—!” Idia made a noise so high-pitched only dogs could hear it. “I can’t believe I fell for you. Out of everyone. I fell for a chaotic war goblin who proposes with candy rings and lies to government officials like it’s foreplay.”

You were still grinning.

“Okay,” you said, ridiculously chipper for someone in a horizontal cuddle chokehold. “So do you wanna actually permanently bond and make it official or are we just going to keep emotionally edging each other until one of us passes out?”

Idia stared at you like you’d just offered him the keys to the universe and then spit directly on his soul.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Short-circuited a little.

Then, quietly—so quietly you almost missed it—he said, “...Only if you still have that candy ring.”

You beamed. “I always carry the candy ring.”

He looked like he wanted to crawl under the couch and die from happiness. Instead, he pulled you closer and mumbled against your forehead:

“You are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Then he kissed you again like he never wanted to let you go.

You and Idia actually end up permanently bonded.

Legally. Emotionally. Spiritually. Psychically. All of the above.

You signed the forms (well, you dramatically slammed them onto the HR desk and said, “Guess we’re actually married now, huh?” while Idia tried to phase through the wall from secondhand embarrassment), synced up your brain waves or whatever, and boom—done.

And honestly? It doesn’t feel like fireworks. Or fate. Or some dramatic crescendo of music and soulmates.

It feels like wearing your favorite hoodie.

It feels like sleep.

It feels like finally putting your phone on Do Not Disturb and flopping face-first onto your guide.

Gates still suck. They still open at 3 a.m. when you're already two bites into a reheated burrito. They still spit out eldritch horrors that look like tax fraud made flesh. And yeah—you still fight recklessly. You're still you.

But now there’s a pause before you push too hard. Now there’s a voice—his voice—filling your head mid-fight going, “Hey, I don’t mean to backseat or anything, but MAYBE don’t solo the three-headed acid wolf?”

And you listen. Mostly. Sometimes. At least you try.

Because you remember what it was like, the way his hands shook the first time he caught you after a gate—your blood on his shirt, your laugh too weak, your legs folding like bad origami. You remember the way he smacked you while guiding, voice cracking, saying, “Don’t you ever do that again or I’m uninstalling myself from this entire dimension.”

So you ease up. A little. For him.

Life is still a mess. You're still a mess. Idia is a different flavor of mess, like the kind that alphabetizes their video game collection but forgets to eat lunch.

But it’s your mess now.

Sometimes, you watch terrible reality shows together and he pretends not to care but makes offhanded, emotionally devastating comments about character arcs. Sometimes, he lets you nap on his shoulder as he games and blushes violently if you drool on him.

Sometimes, he just sits next to you with your pinkies intertwined and doesn’t say a word—but you feel it anyway. That weird quiet peace. That “please don’t ever go into a gate without telling me again” kind of love.

And sometimes, when the world isn’t ending and your head isn’t splitting and the shrimp-to-rice ratio is finally correct, you kiss his cheek mid-battle and he yells, “This is emotional sabotage during a DPS rotation!” but he doesn’t pull away.

Life is chaos. But hey, at least now it’s your chaos. And you’ve got a socially anxious gremlin who chose you—every unhinged, exhausting part of you—on purpose.

And you’d choose him every time.

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #idia shroud x reader #idia #idia shroud #idia x reader #twst idia #guideverse x reader #guideverse #࣪ ִֶָ☾. guideverse

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lilaccmilk · 4 months ago

Text

The City Needs Me (But I Need You More)

He had to go to patrol the city at night.

You knew that. He knew that. But the thing was, you both were ignoring the said fact. He’s the city’s protector for heaven's sake, but here you were—on his lap as he continued kissing you. His lips trail over your neck, your jaw, your hands—anywhere he can reach. “Just one more,” he whispers, but you both know that's a lie. He was into the whole superhero thing wayyy before you came into his life. And now? You're his world, his everything, he feels that he should rethink his decisions. He so desperately wants to spend his time with you, to not cut dates short every time the city 'needs' him. He needed you more. He wanted to spend time with you, to be normal, to be by your side.

So yeah, nothing about his kisses was mindless, in fact, his mind was full of you— your breath, your heartbeat, your scent, your touch. His lips chase yours like a sinner chasing salvation, with such raw desperation, it lights up your heart. He pulls you closer— impossibly so, and trails his kisses up your neck, marking you, owning you. His breath mixes with yours, clouding your senses in a haze that numbs your mind. Fuck, it was so hard for him to let you go to breathe without following up with small pecks. Trailing kisses over your collar bone, softly sucking a mark over your skin.

"You have to go patrol" you softly start, his lips worshipping you still, "the city needs their strong hero."

"Your kisses make me strong," he murmurs, voice soft, "and I need to be the strongest for you." Your fingers curl into his suit, holding him close. "You don’t need to be the strongest," you whisper, eyes searching his, "just be mine." And he freezes. A quiet, strangled noise leaves his throat as he drops his forehead against yours, completely destroyed by your words. His breath is shaky as he chuckles, brushing his nose against yours. His hand snakes around your waist, pulling you closer, mumbling against your lips.

“One last kiss, pretty girl.”

superhero au: Gojo Satoru, Yuuji Itadori, Ino Takuma (JJK), Xavier, Rafayel (L&DS), Peter Parker, Miles Morales, Dick Grayson, Ken Sato, + your favs!

#gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo #yuji itadori x reader #yuji itadori #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #love and deepspace xavier #xavier love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #peter parker x reader #miles morales x reader #dick grayson x reader #ken sato x reader #titans x reader #spiderman x reader #ultraman rising

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aleese1111 · 2 months ago

Note

hii! Could you pleaaase make a baekjin x fem!reader x seongje, i haven’t seen anything like this and ik you’ll write it goooddd 🥹🫶🏻

three wolves, one flame | geum seong je x union!reader x na baek jin

summary: they run the city’s shadows with cold hands and colder eyes—two boys circling the same girl like orbiting wolves, too stubborn to say they care, too loyal to walk away. in smoke, silence, and bruised affection, they protect what they won't name.

warnings: [slow burn] violence, blood, language, implied emotional trauma, smoking,

author's note: i lowkey fell in love with this one. contemplating if i should turn this into a series or just mini chapters because i have no idea on how to continue this.. so please lmk, anyway! requests ,,

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , one .. two .. ??

the air inside baek jin’s office always smelled like old paper, cigarette smoke, and something faintly metallic—like blood that never quite left the floor. the room was small but efficient. a modest desk sat tucked against the far wall, cluttered with files and an aging laptop baek jin used for both homework and union logistics. behind him, shelves groaned under the weight of ledgers, envelopes, and binders—some labeled, some not. a coat rack stood near the door, his school uniform jacket hanging neatly as always, untouched and ghost-like.

on the couch, which was barely wide enough for two, she sat cross-legged, a thick folder open on her lap. her fingers were stained with ink and nicotine, flipping pages with practiced speed. her brows were drawn tight in concentration, but her mouth was already forming insults.

“you’re breathing too loud. move.”

beside her, seong je let out a long, lazy exhale, smoke trailing from his lips. “it’s my lungs. want me to stop breathing next?” his thumb scrolled absently on his phone.

“you say that like it’s a bad idea.”

“you like having me around. admit it.”

she snorted. “i’d rather put out this cigarette in my eye.”

baek jin didn’t look up from his desk. this was routine. predictable. he only paused for a second when seong je flicked a crumpled receipt at her face, smirking when it bounced off her forehead.

“touch me again, i will rip your ears off and mail them to your mother,” she said, without even flinching.

“joke’s on you, she’s already deaf.”

that earned him a hard jab to the ribs with the sharp edge of a folder. he groaned theatrically, tipping his head back against the couch and blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

“i swear to god, you're like a feral cat with a calculator,” he muttered.

“and you’re a hemorrhoid with a motorcycle license.”

baek jin turned a page. the yelling had escalated, but it was background noise. normal. expected.

the argument died the same way it always did—abruptly and without resolution.

she slammed the folder shut and stood. the air shifted. joon and gyung, who had been waiting outside the office door like loyal shadows, straightened as she stepped out.

“collection day,” she said simply, already moving.

seong je rolled his shoulders and stood with her, but she didn’t wait. joon and gyung fell in line behind her like trained dogs, their footsteps echoing as the group left the safe walls of the bowling alley and stepped into the dusk.

@ . !

they found them behind a school, deep in the alley that smelled like piss and motor oil. it was a place for things that didn’t want to be seen—perfect for business.

a few boys loitered under the flickering light. low-ranking union lackeys, careless with the rules. she stopped a few feet away, her presence slicing through the tension like a box cutter.

“you’ve got my money?” she asked, voice cool, indifferent.

one of the boys stepped forward. too confident. too dumb. “you don’t get to bark orders at us, bitch.”

seong je was sitting nearby, on a low concrete barrier, smoking. he didn’t move. not yet. he was watching, the way a wolf watches another predator test its luck.

she didn’t blink. “you’re two days late.”

the guy stepped closer, nudging her shoulder. once. twice.

“maybe you wait a little longer,” he said with a smirk. “maybe say please.”

behind her, joon and gyung tensed. she didn’t say anything, just gave a lazy glance to her left.

gyung understood the signal.

the jab to the gut was fast and brutal—air left the guy’s lungs like a popped balloon. he stumbled back, wheezing, while the others flinched. two of them ran.

“go,” she said calmly.

joon darted after them.

only two remained: the one bent over in pain, and another who hadn’t moved yet, watching with wide eyes, deciding if he wanted to be stupid or not.

she crouched beside the first guy, lit another cigarette with a flick of her lighter, and exhaled slowly.

“you work for me,” she said. “you pay, or you bleed. got it?”

the second guy tensed—fight won the war in his brain.

he lunged.

he never reached her.

seong je was a blur of violence—one second on the edge of the scene, the next driving a fist into the boy’s face hard enough to drop him instantly. no words. no warning. just pure, sharp brutality.

he didn’t stop.

fists rained down, calculated and furious. blood splattered against the wall. the sound of bone meeting flesh echoed through the alley.

she stood slowly, arms crossed, cigarette glowing.

“enough,” she said.

seong je didn’t look at her right away. his fists paused mid-motion. then he stood, blood staining his knuckles, breathing hard.

she met his eyes for a moment. something silent passed between them. then she turned and walked away.

“get the cash,” she called over her shoulder.

gyung moved without question.

seong je wiped his hand on his shirt and lit a new cigarette. he glanced once at the boy groaning on the ground and then followed her into the dark.

business, as always, was done.

@ . !

the streets were quieter now. the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows that swallowed the cracks in the pavement. she walked ahead, cigarette still burning between her fingers, the orange tip flaring with every drag. her steps were calm, composed, like she hadn’t just threatened teenagers and watched one get half-pulped into a brick wall.

behind her, seong je followed. blood still clung to the ridges of his knuckles, crusting dry in the creases, but he didn’t care. he never did. he flicked his own cigarette aside and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

they walked in silence for a while, their footsteps echoing softly in rhythm. the kind of quiet that buzzed—static thick with unspoken things.

“you know,” seong je finally said, “you could’ve told gyung to handle it before that dumbass even touched you.”

she didn’t look at him. “he barely touched me.”

“he pushed you.”

“and i didn’t fall. so?”

he scoffed, catching up until they walked shoulder to shoulder. “you’re insane.”

“says the guy who beat someone half to death over a shoulder nudge.”

he grinned. “you like it when i get violent.”

she rolled her eyes. “i like it when you shut the fuck up.”

“but you let me handle it.”

“i let you burn calories.”

seong je laughed under his breath, a short, dry sound. “you’re welcome, by the way.”

“for what?”

“for being your unhinged guard dog.”

“you’re not my anything.”

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he glanced sideways at her—at the bruise just barely starting to form on her collarbone where the guy had pushed her, at the cigarette held steady between her fingers, at the calm, calculated cold in her eyes.

he liked her too much. it was a problem he hadn’t figured out how to fix.

“...you patched me up last week,” he muttered. “don’t pretend like you don’t care.”

“i patched you up so you wouldn’t bleed on baek jin’s couch.”

“sure,” he said. “totally believable.”

she slowed a bit, enough that he noticed but didn’t comment. she glanced over, squinting at him through the dimming light.

“you’re bleeding,” she said flatly.

“you always say that like it’s a surprise.”

she stopped walking. so did he.

“you’re an idiot,” she said, stepping in close. her hand reached for his face, thumb brushing a cut on his cheekbone. it was rough, not tender—like everything she did. “you didn’t have to go that far.”

“he was gonna hit you.”

“i had it handled.”

“yeah,” he muttered, not smiling anymore. “but i don’t like watching people touch you.”

her expression didn’t change. not much. maybe a flicker in her eyes. maybe.

she shoved his face gently to the side with the palm of her hand. “possessive freak.”

he grinned again. “you love it.”

“i tolerate it.”

“that’s practically a love confession coming from you.”

she started walking again. “say one more word and i’ll smoke my cigarette out on your forehead.”

he laughed, trailing behind her.

and behind the sarcasm and bruised knuckles, there was something solid between them—twisted, loud, dysfunctional.

@ . !

by the time they reached the back entrance of the bowling alley, the sky had faded to charcoal grey. the neon sign buzzed above them, flickering like it was trying to decide whether to die or hang on another day. she pushed the door open with her shoulder and stepped inside, the familiar scent of oil, dust, and stale air greeting her like a second home.

seong je followed her, hands still in his pockets, quieter now. at the door to baek jin’s office, he hesitated. she paused, looking back at him.

“i’m heading to the internet café,” he said, voice casual, but his eyes lingered on her a little longer than necessary. “need to blow off some steam.”

she shrugged, already reaching for the doorknob. “go waste your brain cells.”

he smirked. “you love me dumb.”

“don’t flatter yourself.”

she pushed the door open and stepped inside. he didn’t follow.

“patch your hand,” she added over her shoulder. “or don’t. maybe it’ll rot off.”

“aw, worried about me,” he teased.

she gave him the finger without turning around.

he chuckled and walked off, footsteps fading down the hall.

inside, baek jin didn’t look up as she entered. he was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, pencil in hand, methodically underlining something in one of the ledgers. the room felt quieter without seong je in it—thicker, somehow.

she dropped her bag beside the couch and sank into it with a tired exhale. the tension hadn’t left her body yet, but it always faded in here. in this space where time moved slower, where baek jin never asked more than she wanted to give.

“you’re back early,” he said after a moment, eyes still on the paper.

“boys ran faster than usual.”

he nodded once. “anyone give you trouble?”

she pulled another cigarette from her pocket. “one tried. he didn’t try again.”

this time, baek jin did look up. his eyes flicked to her shoulder, narrowing slightly. “you’re bruised.”

“occupational hazard,” she muttered, lighting up.

he stared at her a second longer, then stood. she watched him cross the room in that quiet, deliberate way he moved—like he didn’t waste energy on anything that didn’t matter. he disappeared behind her for a moment. when he came back, he tossed his jacket over her.

she stiffened slightly, cigarette hovering near her lips.

“still cold,” he said simply, sitting back down.

“i’m not cold.”

“you always say that.”

she didn’t take it off.

they sat like that for a while. just the two of them. him scribbling quietly. her smoking in silence, baek jin’s jacket draped over her shoulders like it belonged there.

no yelling. no banter.

just stillness.

the only sound for a long while was the scratch of baek jin’s pencil against paper and the occasional soft crackle of her cigarette.

“you let seong je come with you again,” baek jin said eventually, not looking up.

she snorted. “he follows me around like a leech. what am i supposed to do? spray him with bug repellent?”

“he’s loud,” baek jin replied calmly.

“so are you, when you feel like it.”

“not with fists.”

she gave a half-smirk, flicking ash into the tray on the coffee table. “you jealous?”

“no,” he said plainly. “he’s reckless. you’re not.”

“he only steps in when i let him.” she tilted her head against the back of the couch, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. “you know that.”

baek jin hummed, noncommittal, and went back to his work.

for a while, there was nothing but silence again. not awkward. not empty. just their kind of quiet.

“you still live off convenience store food?” she asked after a minute, squinting at him.

“i eat what’s easy.”

“that’s not eating. that’s survival.”

“i survive just fine.”

“could’ve fooled me,” she muttered, stretching out along the couch. “you’re gonna die from sodium poisoning before you even graduate.”

“and you’ll die from chain-smoking before i do.”

“touché,” she murmured, a tired smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

her voice grew softer, like sleep was already tugging at her edges. “...how do you do it?”

baek jin paused, pencil hovering over the paper. “do what?”

“stay calm all the time. even when shit hits the fan. even when everyone’s losing their heads.” her voice had dropped low. “how do you not break?”

he was quiet for a beat.

then, “because if i break, everything else does.”

she didn’t answer. her breathing was slowing now, cigarette burned out in the ashtray. she was curled on her side, one arm under her head, the other tugging baek jin’s jacket closer around her like she hadn’t meant to.

he glanced up, setting his pencil down soundlessly.

she was already asleep.

he stood, walked over with soft steps, and crouched beside the couch. carefully, he pulled the jacket tighter over her frame and adjusted the pillow under her head. for a second, his hand hovered near her temple, like he wanted to brush the hair away from her face—but didn’t.

baek jin’s face didn’t show much. it never did.

but something flickered in his eyes. something quiet. protective.

then he stood, returned to his desk, and went back to work.

behind him, she slept soundly under his jacket, breathing even and steady.

and outside, the world kept turning. dangerous. unforgiving.

but in here, for a little while longer, it was still.

✶ ᶻz .ᐟ , one .. two .. ??

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hollyoongs · 2 months ago

Text

𝐖𝐇𝐘 𝐒𝐎... 𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐓? 𝗟𝗘𝗘 𝗛𝗘𝗘𝗦𝗘𝗨𝗡𝗚 (TBR: JULY 5TH)

prólogo you were raised behind bulletproof glasss, luxury and polished speeches that got you bored every single time. The daughter of the President—the nation's sweetheart. Always elegant, charitable, untouched by scandal. A clear symbol of peace in a city rotting from the inside out. But the most wanted man alive that watched you through the tv doesn't buy the act.

elenco joker!heeseung and daughter's president fem!reader

género smut with plot

antes de leer since it's something new I'm trying, the normal kinks I write will get heavier as I implemented: the use of knife play, heavy choking, exhibitionism, heavy humiliation, blood play. If you don't like this type of story, then calmly leave as you wait for other stories in my page

# palabras +800 (est. +10k)

Your head was starting to hurt; flashbulbs exploded in rhythmic bursts, as if they wanted to drown the room in white.

You stood at the podium with your smile rehearsed, shoulders straight and perfectly neat hair, giving the press and your father exactly what they came for after his speech.

"As always," you start off, "I'm so glad that my father is deeply compromised with this beautiful country as well as the overwhelming support of the citizens. Our mission remains the same—to restore peace, safety, and hope to those countries. Because we deserve it."

The room clapped, and you did a small bow, your eyes flicking over the sea of suits and cameras as you tried not to linger. You delivered answers to foreign policy, crime spikes, and rumored threats the government was trying to exterminate.

"Miss, if I may?" Your voice turned slightly toward the man standing near the front row. You recognized him as Park Jongseong, from Belift News.

"Yes, Mister Park?"

"Any comment on the Joker's latest stunt? Twenty officers are dead in District 7, and he left a note—addressed to you."

The air shifted, the room hushed, and whispers started to get obvious as they waited for an answer.

Nonetheless, your soft smile didn't drop. "The man you're referring to is a domestic terrorist, not a celebrity. My family and this administration refuse to dignify his theatrics with personal attention."

"So you're saying it wasn't meant for you?"

Then it was the fucking bait.

You could feel yourself getting warmer, fingers curled slightly around the edges of the podium. Your jaw tightened—barely showing any emotion. You let out a small chuckle.

"I'm saying that lunatics crave attention. And this clown in particular doesn't deserve mine." Your response earned several murmurs from the room—some approval, some unease. Your gaze travelled across the room, and that's when you saw him.

It was a second, maybe even less, to the man at the far back slouched in a dark coat. No press badge hanging around his neck or a notepad and pen in his hands. He was simply smiling, right at you.

You held your poise, gave the usual thank-you, and stepped down from the podium. But even as your security ushered you away, even as the applause resumed and the questions dissolved behind you, your mind buzzed.

By the time you made it down the long hall with the tapping noise of your shiny clean heels as background noise, your nerves were like a roller coaster. You entered your dressing room and shut the door behind you, dead silence as you rested your body against the door, shutting your eyes.

"You got shook."

Your heart dropped at the voice of Heeseung; he stepped out from the shadows, twirling a small knife between his fingers like it weighed nothing. His smile was as practiced as yours, no soul in it.

"Just once," he said, gaze raking down your body, "but I saw it."

A genuine smile left your lips as you walked to him; you pressed your body against his, arms draping around his neck like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"Baby!" you whispered. Heeseung raised a brow, that eerie grin still carved into his face. "Are you playing nice now, sweetheart?"

"I've missed you." His hand found your waist, casual with the slightest touch of tenderness.

"You just told a room full of reporters I was nothing."

The knife in his hand went behind you, dipping lower, tracing the curve of your spine through your tailored blouse, not a single cut in it, although he wanted to do it. You knew it.

Your lips brushed his jaw. "Didn't say I didn't think about you, Daddy." After you said that, his lips took dominance over yours. Rough and needy, as if he didn't fuck the life out of you a couple hours before.

"You know I hate lies, sweetheart."

His words were murmured into your mouth as his tongue swept past your lips like he owned the air you breathed. You gasped into the kiss but didn’t pull away.

You never did. Not from him.

Not when his fingers clutched at your hips like his life depended on it. Not when that damn knife was still ghosting over your spine to remind you that he could cut if he wanted. That he might, if you said the wrong thing.

“That wasn’t a lie,” you whispered against his lips. “Just politics.”

He laughed—a sharp and quiet one. “You think I care about politics? You think I give a single fuck what you say behind a podium when I can still taste your cunt on my tongue from this morning?”

You let out a moan when a smack landed on your clothed pussy, hating that he could hear it. Hated that it gave him satisfaction.

Because it did. His grin widened.

“Thought so.” He shoved you against the vanity table, and it rattled under the impact. Somewhere, a compact case hit the floor and cracked open.

You didn't care, putting more focus on how your nails sank into his back and the way his hands shoved your skirt up with no regard for modesty.

You moaned for a monster, letting yourself be ruined... again.

─── TY CONCEPT PHOTOS FOR THIS! had to cut the teaser up a little bc it was getting LONG long, but I'M actually really excited for this one, hope you all bounce up for this one tho

𓄴 TAGLIST (OPEN): @hoonprksung @ziiao @rikimuraaaa @enhxlvr @jngwonu @deobitifull @isagistar @immelissaaa @rosepetals09 @sofiafromvenus @goldendwann @ivyleyun @chvconn3 @iilyri @nshmrarki @jungwoneez @meiskra @filmnings @minniejenseo @fancypeacepersona @sqaerl @stercul1a @mrsjohnnysuh @iveivory @prttygrl-world @heejakeyy07whtv @armybomb-infires @jaylaxies

#𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗹𝑦𝑜𝑜𝑛𝑔𝑠! ৎ ˚⋅#heeseung smut #enhypen hard hours #enhypen smut #kpop smut #enhypen #enha smut #heeseung x reader #enhypen imagines #enhypen x reader

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kiba-uwuzuka · 1 month ago

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Bitter Sweet Café

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x reader

summary: five times Bucky orders a black coffee, and one time he takes your suggestion.

word count: 4.7k+

author's note: this is the first fic i've ever posted! this is also my first attempt at reader insert, so bear with me! all reblogs and likes are greatly appreciated!! ‪❤︎

this has also been cross posted on my ao3!

The morning rush at Rise & Grind Coffeehouse was slower today, some merciful god looking down at you so that you might have a breather on this early Tuesday morning. Spring was here, shaking off the frost of winter, reminding people that it was okay to come outside and feel the sun.

You wipe down the espresso machine, appreciating the lull that was soon to end. You often worked the morning shifts, it freed up your afternoons to take a walk around the city or return home and unwind with a good book or some mindless tv.

The doorbell rang as another customer walked in. You look up, calling out a greeting. “Welcome to Rise & Grind!”

The man was someone you had never seen before; tall, broad shouldered, wearing a long black overcoat and a finely pressed suit underneath–the kind that looked allergic to color or fun. His facial hair was short but neat, his eyes tired and apprehensive as he took in the brightly colored cafe.

“First time in?” You ask, your lips curving in a slight grin as he walks up to the counter. His posture was straight and his expression was serious, like a man on a mission for caffeine in enemy territory. He definitely looked out of place here with his monotone color palette.

“My regular place closed down recently.” His voice was quiet, measured, but not unfriendly. “This one’s on the way to work.”

You nod, understanding. Independent coffee shops in the city were a hit or a miss. “Well, what can I get you started with? Maybe a Sugar Cookie Frappe?” You suggest, giving him a playful smile. “It’s been a real hit lately.”

He levels a stare at you like you had just personally ran over his cat. “A what?”

“A Sugar Cookie Frappe.”

“...Why would anyone drink that?”

You raise your eyebrows. “Some people like flavor?”

He looks apprehensive, almost offended. “Just a large black coffee. Whatever your.. Most normal medium roast is.”

You huff a laugh as you type his order into the system. “No cream or sugar, I’m assuming?”

“You would assume correctly.” He said dryly.

“One large, boring coffee coming right up.” You say, and write the order on a cup. He makes a noise that could perhaps be a chuckle as you write medium roast, maximum mystery in place of a name, and he pays with a card.

You don’t mean to look at his card, but you catch a glimpse of a name. Barnes. Familiar, but you couldn’t place your finger on it.

It takes you no time to make his simple order, which is probably good for you. Questions were on the tip of your tongue, but he didn’t seem the type to give you a real answer. You hand the finished coffee back to him with the lid on tight and a sleeve on the cup, your fingers brushing a bit as he takes the hot drink from you. He looks at the cup like it might poison him, and you snort a bit.

“Have a good day, mystery man.” You say with a wave as he walks to the door. He leaves without a word, but you're almost certain that he might have smiled.

It had been two days since that mystery man came into the cafe.

Not that you were counting.

But you did look up ‘Barnes’ as soon as your shift ended. You told yourself it was because the name sounded familiar, vaguely historical. A quick google search confirmed what your gut had already suspected.

James Buchanan Barnes.

New York’s 12th Congressional District Representative.

Mid-30s (appearance wise). War veteran (WWII, specifically). An interesting metal arm that you realized you mistook for a glove when he first arrived at the cafe. You barely remembered a historical paper you did on the Avengers in college, and wondered why it took you so long to recognize him.

Your search only came up with headlines and boring congressional interviews, no nonsense such as social media or anything he was currently up to in his private life. No fun, no flavor.

So when he walks in again – same time, same coat, same dry stare – you’re smiling a bit brighter than you probably should be.

The cafe is quiet this morning, the faint whirr of the grinder blending in with the lo-fi music playing over the speakers. A few people were tucked away in the corners, tapping away at their laptop for some midterm paper, probably. When he approaches the counter, you tamper down your school-girl excitement – you don’t want to scare him off.

“Morning.” He says, almost apprehensive.

You tilt your head, a small smile playing on your lips. “You’re back.”

He regards you for a moment. “All the other coffee shops are out of the way.” He says lightly, almost like it was an excuse he just made up.

You can’t help but grin, and tap your screen awake for his order. “May I suggest our Cotton Candy Cloud Macchiato?” You say breezily, knowing it would probably make him rethink his entire life choices.

He narrows his eyes, most certainly offended. “Do I even want to know what that is?”

“It has edible glitter.” You say with a sparkle of mischief in your eye.

He scowls. “No.”

You laugh, and type in his order in the system. “Alright, alright. One large black coffee. No cream, no sugar, no joy.”

There’s a pause as you write zero sugar, zero joy on his cup, and he exhales a short breath of a laugh. “Do people not get regular coffee anymore?” He asks, looking at you with a slight smirk on his face as he slides his card into the machine to pay.

You look over your shoulder at him with a sly grin as you brew his coffee. “There’s enjoying coffee, and then there’s drinking it like it’s a punishment.” His order is simple and done almost instantly, you place the lid and sleeve on and slide it to him. He hums, picking the cup up and inspecting it like it might bite back.

“Tell me something, Congressman Barnes.” You say casually, wiping your hands on your apron. “Is the joyless monotone vibe a politician thing, or a personal choice?”

His eyes narrow, but only slightly. “You looked me up.”

You gave a noncommittal shrug. “I may have seen your name on your card.”

He glances at your apron, where a name tag might be, but your boss wasn’t a fan of such things. He looks back up at your eyes, the direct eye contact making your heart stumble a bit. “Are you always this nosy?”

You grin, shameless. “Only with regulars.”

That gets another faint smile – barely there, but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting it. You take that as a win.

“You planning on making fun of me every time I come in?” He asks.

“Only if you keep denying joy and exciting flavor.”

He takes a sip, eyes still on you over the rim of the cup. He hums, seemingly satisfied with the drink, and turns to leave. “Then I guess I’ll see you again.” He lifts a hand in a small wave as he heads to the door.

You smile, soft and warm. “Till next time.”

It’s the middle of the lunch rush, and the cafe is buzzing. Apparently everyone in the city has decided that this is the place to get mediocre Wi-Fi and overpriced croissants. You’re practically vibrating off of three espresso shots, you’re two orders behind and you’ve already spilled mocha sauce all over your apron at least once.

Which, of course, is exactly when you see him.

You lift your head away from some overcomplicated almond milk situation to call out the usual greeting as the door chimes, catching sight of the tall man scowling at the sight of the line ahead of him. He lingers by the door for a moment, seeming to consider his choices, when he catches your eye. A flicker of recognition flashes in his eyes, and he joins the line with disgruntled reluctance.

You catch yourself smiling a bit and take over for your coworker at the counter who was getting overwhelmed with the line. When it’s his turn, he raises an eyebrow at you. “I came by the other day, you weren’t here.” He says casually with a smirk. “I didn’t know this place existed without you.”

You laugh, feeling a bit warm and gooey inside that he looked for you. It had been about four days since you had last seen him, and you couldn’t help but feel your pulse quicken under his intense blue-eyed gaze. “Am I hearing that you missed me?”

“I wasn’t suggested some sugar-filled heart attack inducing drink, if that’s what you mean.” He snorts, but you notice he didn’t deny your question.

“Speaking of,” you start with a grin, “Why don’t you try our S’more Mocha Madness? It even has mini marshmallows.”

“Tempting.” He says in a voice that is not tempted at all.

You shake your head almost teasingly, tapping in his order and grabbing a cup. Still bitter, with a side of coffee, you write on the cup, turning away to brew his drink. It’s simple and quick, and you turn back around just as he finishes paying, sliding him the cup. “Here you are. Large, medium roast, no joy and extra bitter – just how you like it.”

He snorts, picking up the cup. “Are you always this aggressive with your customers?”

“Only with people who actively reject happiness.” You say with a sly grin. The line grows behind him, but you can't find it in you to care. “You know, at some point you’re going to have to try something new.”

“I sit through six-hour budget hearings.” He says dryly. “I know how to outlast you.”

You narrow your eyes, a teasing smile tugging at your lips. “So this is a power struggle now?”

“I'm a congressman. This is the closest thing I get to winning a debate.”

You laugh despite yourself, and he watches you with a hint of a smile on his lips. Not in a predatory way, not even flirtatious, just… Present. Like you’re the only thing in the room worth focusing on. It makes your heart skip a beat, and you’re sure it’s not from the excess amount of espresso in your system.

“Well, we do have a reward system here, you know.” You say, wiping your hands with a clean rag. “You might even get a free latte one of these days, Barnes. Maybe even something with sugar in it.”

“Don’t push your luck,” He says with a snort, but it comes out a bit softer than he meant, something more teasing and playful than that first day he came in.

He picks up his drink and nods his thanks as he disappears behind the line and out the door; moving like a man who was well experienced moving silently and unnoticed.

You take the next customer, giving them a smile that was much more real than your usual customer service attitude, a warmth lingering in your chest for the remainder of the day.

Rain was pouring unrelentingly outside, a storm had moved in the night before and seemed to be here to stay. You opened the coffee shop by yourself this morning–the rain made it too difficult for any of your coworkers to come in–but it also kept away the usual Monday morning rush. Only a few wet and determined loyal regulars trudged their way into Rise & Grind, leaving you behind the counter doing some idle sweeping.

It had been a whole week since you had last seen Congressman Barnes, (James? Mr. Barnes? What do you call him?) and you couldn’t help but overthink your last encounter. Maybe you were pushing it with your teasing? You’ve only met a handful of times, and you’re pretty sure he doesn’t even know your name.

You were busy sweeping up fallen coffee grounds from when you emptied the grinder when the door jingled, announcing another brave soul who survived the torrential downpour outside. ”I’ll be with you in a moment!” You call over your shoulder, sweeping the pile into the waiting dustpan.

When you turn, dustpan and broom in hand, you almost jump at the sight, nearly scattering the coffee grounds everywhere again.

Like you summoned him from your internal lamenting, there he was. Standing before the counter like a half-drowned rat, his hair slicked back with rain and his long black overcoat dripping everywhere. Exhaustion wore heavy on his shoulders, bags under his eyes showing countless days of minimal sleep. His beard was still short but rough and in desperate need of a trim. His face softened a bit when your eyes met – not necessarily a smile but… Relieved, almost. Kinder.

“Congressman Barnes.” You say lightly. He physically cringes at the name as you tip the dustpan into the trash, and set the dustpan and broom away.

“Bucky.” He says.

You lift an eyebrow. “Bucky?”

He shrugs as you lean against the counter. “I’ve been Congressman Barnes for a very long, exhausting week.” The corner of his mouth tugged into a tired, lopsided smile. “My friends call me Bucky.”

The familiarity in his tone throws you off a bit, but a soft smile of your own plays on your lips. “Well, my friends call me ____.”

“____.” He repeats softly, like he’s testing the name out on his tongue. You can’t deny the way your stomach flutters with butterflies at the sound of him saying your name.

You tap the order screen awake, trying to push down the soft feelings and potential swooning you were getting just from him saying your name. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.” You say lightly, curious but not outright prying.

He sighs, the sound nearly bone deep with exhaustion. “Yeah, sorry. Its been.. A rough week.”

“I can tell,” you say, raising both brows slightly. “I figured you were off somewhere being important, or wrestling with some government things.” You were not going to admit that you had almost convinced yourself that you had scared him away.

He huffed, pushing his wet, rain soaked hair back, his metal fingers gleaming in the light of the cafe. “A bit of both, I guess.”

You type in his regular order, not teasing him so much about it this time. He truly did look tired, and probably needed this coffee for more than the caffeine.

Still… You really couldn’t help yourself.

“You know,” you say slowly, earning a playful narrow-eyed stare from Bucky as you grab a cup. “We do have this wonderful Peach Hibiscus Tea that might revive your soul a bit.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, like he was remembering how to smile. “I don’t think I’ve got a soul left after the way this week went.”

“All the more reason, then.” You grin, writing soul healing caffeine on the cup.

He snorts like he was trying not to, and pays as you turn around to make his coffee. Not a laugh, but close enough. Real.

You turn back around and slide the warm drink towards him. He holds it, looking like he was savoring the warmth it brought to his hands, both metal and real. You lean to the side, reaching into the display cabinet next to the register, and pull out a blueberry muffin. Still soft and fresh from when they came out of the oven when you opened this morning. You place it on the counter, and push it towards him.

He raises an eyebrow, and you shrug. “On the house. You look like you could use a pick-me-up.”

He doesn’t argue, doesn’t fight it. He picks it up, almost carefully, and regards you for a moment. His lips pull into another crooked smile, warmer this time. Softer.

“Thank you.” He says quietly, and you can tell it wasn’t just about the muffin. You smile, glancing down at your hands as you absentmindedly wipe them on your apron.

“Just doing my job.”

“It’s not just your job.” He says softly, making you look up again.

He lingers around for a bit. Not long, just enough time for him to finish the muffin. You two talk quietly, despite the cafe being empty and the rain still pouring. You tell him about the ridiculous orders people come up with, and he tells you what ridiculous things the old men in the Senate say nowadays.

It’s the longest you two have talked, and the longest that he’s stayed in the cafe. When he finishes his muffin and departs, he does so slowly, like he doesn’t actually want to leave. You smile and wave him goodbye, your heart warm knowing he’ll be back sooner or later.

The air was filled with humidity the next morning, the storm finally blowing away and leaving behind wet, sticky air and puddles everywhere. You got the morning shift again, and hoped for another slow day (and maybe a certain congressman). You slipped into the rhythm of opening the cafe with practiced ease, a routine you’ve done hundreds of times in your time of working at Rise & Grind.

You had the doors unlocked for barely ten minutes when the bell jingled, the noise echoing in the silent cafe – the music had yet to be turned on. It wasn’t uncommon for an early riser or someone pulling an all-nighter to walk in as soon as you had opened, but it was still far too early to deal with customers. Regardless, you turned to the door with the regular greeting on your tongue and a smile forced on your lips before you see who stepped inside.

Bucky Barnes stood just inside the door, his eyes sweeping the empty cafe in a way you’ve noticed him do before. His eyes were clear and bright when he saw you, a slight pleased expression on his face as he came up to the counter. He looked refreshed, maybe even vibrant. His coat was dry and he even looked like he got a full night of sleep.

“We just opened.” You say with a smile that was much more genuine as he joins you at the counter. “Are you that desperate for bitter-filled punishment?”

He huffs out a laugh, shrugging. “Desperate, yes. Bitter? The day is young, and I am a pessimist.”

You squint at him. “Are you smiling?”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.” You say with a beaming grin. You study him for a moment, then turn to the menu with a dramatic hum. “Hmm, let’s see. You look like you are in great need of our Unicorn Fuel Mocha Latte, I think.”

“Unicorn fuel?” He repeats, like you just suggested committing a war crime.

You point at the menus behind you, in the latte section.

“Why is this the second drink you’ve recommended that has edible glitter?”

You shrug. “Some people like to have fun, Bucky.”

He looks back at you, narrowing his eyes but an amused expression on his face. “No way.”

“Come on,” you say, grinning. “Live a little.”

“I am living. I actively choose life. That’s why I’m not ordering that.”

You laugh, shrugging in defeat as you reach for a cup, his order already typed into the system. “Alright, alright, fine. Back to the most boring coffee known to man.” You write faithful and bitter on his cup.

“Who even names these things?” He asks in disbelief as he continues to read the menu while you make his drink. “Birthday Cake Iced Latte? Banana Cream Cold Brew?”

“My boss, actually.” You laugh. “She’s quite proud.”

When you hand the drink back to him, he makes no move to leave. He takes a sip, and leans against the counter, regarding you with those blue eyes. “So, I never did get around to asking you. Do you often google your customers?”

You pause mid-wipe on the counter, looking up at him. “Only the ones who drink coffee like divine punishment.” You say teasingly, but truthfully you don’t quite know why you looked him up in the first place.

“Oh yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “And what did you find?”

“Mostly congress stuff, nowadays. A piece on you in World War II. Buzzfeed did an article on you, you know. Most importantly, no social media.” You shook your head in mock shame. “You are practically impossible to stalk online. It’s tragic, really.”

He chuckles a bit. “Social media isn’t really my thing. Too much.. Noise.”

“Makes sense.” You nod sagely. “You seem pretty.. Old fashioned.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you calling me old?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Aren’t you like, 110? How’s your back feeling?”

He laughs, a real one, the noise coming out like a surprise. “Do you treat all your regulars like this?”

You couldn’t help the small smile rising on your lips. “Not all my regulars are so interesting, after all.”

He made a small, curious noise in response, his eyes glinting a bit with amusement as he took another sip of his coffee. “Well. I'm glad that you find me… interesting.” His voice was soft and low, his eyes meeting yours over the lid of his cup.

You fought the rising blush on your cheeks, the eye contact and sound of his voice making your heart thud in your chest. He headed to the door with a slight smirk, pausing before he exited. He turned to you, and raised his cup a bit.

“See you later, ____.” He said, giving you a wink, and was out the door before you could stumble together your words.

You spent the rest of the day smiling like a fool, thinking that maybe he found you just as interesting.

Saturday brought in a different type of rush – the regular 9 to 5ers usually taking the weekend to stay home or run errands – leaving a more relaxed crowd to come into the cafe.

The cafe was buzzing with activity, people at almost every table catching up with friends or huddled in groups with laptops. The sun was bright and shining outside, making people come out to enjoy the fresh weather and a good cup of coffee.

You wiped down one of the empty tables, sighing. You hadn’t seen Bucky since Tuesday (you had already given up on denying the fact you counted the days between his visits), but you weren’t as worried that you did something wrong this time around.

You had only met a handful of times, but there was something about him that made your heart flutter. The way he smiled, soft and rare. The way it was so easy to talk to him, something effortless and comforting. He lingered in your mind more than you cared to admit.

Your coworkers had already caught on, teasing you about your not-so-subtle crush, but you hadn’t bothered to deny it. Why would you?

Still, part of you held back. He was a congressman, after all. A former ally to the Avengers. (Part of the Avengers? That never did get clarified, in the end.) He was a man with nearly a century of a past, and a future shaped by headlines and handshakes.

And you were… Here. Behind the counter. Watching the door, wondering if he ever thought of you the way you found yourself thinking of him.

You finished cleaning the empty tables and walked back to the counter, pushing those thoughts out of your mind. You huffed to yourself, and glance at the clock. You had just about ten minutes left in your shift, and then you would be free to go grab some lunch and head home. Just as you got behind the counter, the door jingled with the arrival of another customer. You looked up, standing at the register, and raised your eyebrows in surprise.

Bucky Barnes, here on a weekend. He was obviously off work, his outfit was much more casual than you had seen. He had a navy henley on with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing one muscular forearm and more of his metal arm than you had ever seen before. He wore dark jeans and sneakers, and gave you a slanted grin as he walked up to the counter.

“I didn’t know you existed outside of the weekdays.” You say, your eyes openly taking in his relaxed appearance. “Or had any other clothes.”

Bucky chuckled, running his metal hand through his hair. You couldn’t help but admire the way the dark metal gleamed in the light. “I do actually have a life, you know.”

“Do you?” You ask with a tilted head and narrowed eyes, a small teasing smile playing on your lips.

He gives you a dry look, making you laugh a bit. He shakes his head, a small smile rising on his face. “Alright, alright. What’s the weekend special you’re having? I’m sure it’s something equally horrifying to the abominations you’ve mentioned before.”

“Have you such little faith in me?” You muse, and glance up at the menu with a thoughtful hum. “Perhaps our Honey Oatmilk Latte?”

He paused, then nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

You turn back to him, blinking in surprise. “What?”

“I mean, it doesn’t sound that bad.” He shrugs. He looks at your surprised face, and grins a bit. “Just don’t send me into cardiac arrest, alright?”

You huff a laugh, and grab a cup. “Such high standards,” you tease, shaking your head. You step away from the counter as he pays, and begin to make his drink. It was a simple latte, espresso with oatmilk, honey and a dash of vanilla and cinnamon. It wasn’t overly sweet, not too complicated, but you wanted to make sure it was perfect.

You turn back around and slide the drink to him, an almost nervous smile tugging at your lips. He picks up the cup and gives it a look.

“What, no passive-aggressive notes today?” He asks, amused with an eyebrow raised. You roll your eyes playfully, waving him away.

“Positive reinforcement, and all that.” You shrug, but you don’t take your eyes away from him as he gives the drink a small sip.

He’s quiet for a moment, considering the flavors, then raises both his brows. “This is.. Pretty good, actually.”

“Wow, look at that.” You couldn’t help the smug grin on your face as you lean against the counter. “A compliment? And you doubted me, what a shame.” You shook your head. “You could have had so many good drinks by now.”

He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Well, we’ll just have to make up for lost time now, won’t we?” His grin makes your stomach twist, and you find yourself trying not to blush.

You glance away, at the clock, and realize it's about five minutes after your shift ends. Bucky glances that way as well, before looking back at you. “Ah, my shift is over.” You say, feeling a bit awkward now. He often came by in the mornings, or that one time you had an afternoon shift. You step back, and then shuffle awkwardly to the back to hang up your apron and clock out.

When you come back to the front, Bucky is still there, standing a bit aways from the counter. He smiles softly at you as you come up to him, your bag slung over your shoulder. “Have you had lunch yet?” He asks, almost too casually.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Is this you asking me out on a date?”

He purses his lips, and takes another sip of the coffee. “I might have waited to come in when I thought your shift ended.” He shrugs. “There’s a deli shop I like, just around the corner. Why don’t you join me?”

A smile tugs at your lips, your heart practically leaping out of your chest. “My, my. You let me pick your drink, and now a date. Have I worn you down that much?”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling softly out of his chest. “You can tell me what I should get there, too, if you’d like.”

You laugh, and he leads you out of the cafe. The bell over the door jingles as he pushes on it and holds it open for you. Your heart is light and you can’t keep the smile off your face, and it delights you to see a smile on his, something more genuine than you’ve seen in the whole time you’ve known him. He looks down at you with a gleam in his eye, and you know you’ll never be wondering for the next time he comes around.

my very small taglist <3 -

@makehydrafictionagain

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very-merry-birthday · 20 days ago

Text

Lust

Lust Gluttony Envy Sloth Greed Pride Wrath

Summary: Dean can't think straight when you're around, wanting nothing more than a moment alone with you, but when a case brings you to a church, can he keep his hands off?

Warnings: Smut, Unprotected sex, Religious imagery, Sex in a church, biblical slut shaming?... Everything that comes with Dean dressed as a priest.

Dean eyed you carefully as you straightened out Sam's clerical collar, biting your bottom lip in concentration.

Normally by this time he'd already have fucked you once, maybe twice even, all noise and skin and hedonistic pleasure. It didn't matter that you were barely ever in the same state, both of you hunting all over the country, whenever you landed in the same place, he knew you would be up for some fun. He wasn't completely sure what you were. Fuck-buddy seemed too crass, booty-call too casual, friend with benefits too... Friendly. All he knew was when a hunt put you in the same city, you would call him to whatever outdated motel you'd found yourself in, and he'd come running.

Except this time. Because this time you'd both promised Sam you'd be on your best behavior until the hunt was done.

It wasn't like you hadn't hunted together before. In fact that's one of the things he enjoyed most about his time with you, the way you'd cut through a vampires neck without missing a beat, or exorcise a demon without a second thought. But normally that would end with a fuck in the back seat of the Impala, or a blowjob so mind blowing he'd still be jacking off to the thought months later.

Ever since Sam caught wind of how distracted Dean was getting, though, he'd be trying to tell you both to back off, cool it for a few days until the hunt was done. When he'd phoned you, telling you him and Dean were in the area, that they had a case you might be interested in, you'd agreed to his conditions easily, your mind fixed on the hunt. Dean was more difficult to persuade, the idea of seeing you and not immediately taking you back to his motel room so you could moan his name for hours on end being incomprehensible.

And he'd turned out to be right- kind of. While you seemed to be holding up okay, his need for you was causing more distraction than actual sex ever did.

"Dean-" Sam clicked his fingers in front of his brother's face, "-are you even paying attention?"

He blinked hard, trying to clear his thoughts, "Yeah- uh- what?"

"She asked if you're ready to go?"

Dean looked at you again, biting your bottom lip in a smile, knowing you'd caught him out.

"Yeah, I'm ready..."

You walked over to him, smoothing out the creases on the shoulders of his black shirt, the feeling of your hands rippling over him making him hold his breath. You took another look at both of them, a grin from ear to ear, "You two look positively virtuous."

That's more than could be said of your outfit, a short white dress that Dean couldn't work out if you genuinely thought made you look innocent or you were only wearing to rile him up. The truth was a bit of both, having chosen something you knew would help you fit in with the church going congregation while also giving Dean, who spent more time looking at your legs than your face, something to gawk at. Of course, he didn't know you'd opted not to wear any underwear either, conscious that he'd have to break sooner or later.

You smoothed out your dress, trying to keep your secrets to yourself as you all climbed into the Impala, just three devotees on their way to Sunday church.

Dean couldn't focus on anything else but you in the rearview mirror. Even as you and Sam spoke, your minds on the case, building a plan step by step, he didn't pay any attention. Instead he thought back to the last time he'd had you in the Impala, a hunt down in Georgia that left you both desperate for release. He'd made out with you for hours, savouring your taste as the windows had steamed up, hiding you away from the world.

"What I don't understand-" You were looking directly at him in the mirror now, coaxing him out of his distant state, "-is how either of you think you're going to get away with pretending to be priests."

"I know my fair share of Latin, darlin'." He laughed, looking back towards the road.

"Do you know anything about the bible though?"

"Enough to be convincing."

By the time you got to the church your plan was fully formed. They'd act as visiting priests, how they managed to pull those strings you had no clue, while you'd go in as part of the flock, all of you seeking out as much information as you could, as quickly as you could.

Dean let you out around the corner, to avoid any suspicion, and almost called the whole thing off as he watched you walk away from the car, your dress looking even more scandalous from behind. Sam swatted his arm to focus him again, and they drove off to fulfill their part of the plan.

Your life as a hunter consisted mainly of having to get people to like you enough to spill secrets, and as soon as you turned the corner and saw the group of old women gathering outside the church, you knew this would be no different.

You assimilated quickly, making up an excuse for your newness easily: "My Grandmother is just so sick I couldn't stand the idea of her being alone in a different state. But my goodness, I couldn't miss church even for one week, I just had to come here!" That seemed to soften them up, and they quickly started letting you in on the gossip. You weren't sure any of it was particularly useful to the case, but you had to admit it was fun hearing about Brenda's daughters date mishap, and how the mailman had knocked up Sandra's sister.

As you made your way towards the pews you made sure to sit next to a lady in a lime green dress who seemed to be the most loose lipped of them all. You relaxed into the hard wood as the mass began, the only thing on your mind being the hope that the boys were making better progress than you. You kept an eye out around the room for them as the priest spoke, unable to spot them anywhere, suggesting either they'd managed to hide themselves away successfully, or they'd never even made it in the church.

As you reached the 45 minute mark, you finally saw him. Dean, tucked into the side of the church, biting his lip nervously. You tried to catch his eye, but his were firmly fixed on the front, lost in thought. You couldn't deny how good he looked in his mock-priest outfit, the black shirt only extenuating his solid figure, his shoulders wrapped tight, and the collar- well from the second he'd put it on you couldn't think of anything else.

"And now, visiting from St. John's church," the priest was looking over at Dean, focusing your mind back on the room, "I invite Father Rose to come up here and speak to you all today."

As you watched Dean walk up to the front of the room, all eyes on him, you could only imagine what situation they'd got themselves in for him to have to do this. You could picture them both scrambling, the stuttered excuses. You hoped this meant Sam was somewhere getting the answers you needed. Dean just needed to stay as congruent as possible.

"Lust!"

So much for not standing out.

"What is lust?" He spoke calmly, gently, almost- sensually. You knew he'd spotted you, but he was avoiding any eye contact as he looked around the room. "It's desire. Passion. Yearning."

You pushed together your already crossed legs. This wasn't fair - Dean was never fair. His lingering looks, his hand brushing over your skin. But this was something else. You felt a coil forming in your core as his silky voice filled the space.

"The bible warns us of lust. Warns us that we must flee from the sin, no matter how much we want our desires filled. And you may be desperate for it. Desperate to be filled over, and over, and over."

You glanced around the room. You couldn't tell if anyone else was hearing his double entendres, but all your new friends seemed just as enamored as you.

"I must admit, I have fallen for the sin of lust before. I have lusted for desires of the flesh. But what does the bible say? For the desires of the flesh are against the Spirit, and the desires of the Spirit are against the flesh."

You really wished he'd stop saying flesh.

"And desires of the flesh are merely superficial. They're messy, and indecent and... Confusing."

You never expected Dean to be describing your relationship, or lack thereof, as confusing. After all he was the one always lauding just how simple it was. You could tell he was padding for time now.

"But we must flee from temptation. The temptations of pleasure, of indulgence, of self gratification. For the Bible tells us," he turned to look directly at you now, punching the air from your lungs as his jaw tensed for a moment before continuing, "that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart."

You had to admit he sounded like he knew what he was talking about.

"Because you can commit the sin of lust even with your eyes. With only your eyes you can still caress, still touch, still... Taste."

Even he knew he was pushing the metaphor.

"I want everyone now to close their eyes and sit with me in this moment of thought. Please, think of a moment you have lusted, when your desires have been too much to bare, think of those moments now."

You kept your eyes open, fixed firmly on him. Only once he was certain everyone else had closed theirs did his face break character, a grin. You shook your head gently, he could tell you were amused even if you were trying to look stern. He shot you a wink, both of you minds filled with every moment you'd had together, naked, sweaty, moaning.

"And if everyone could once again open their eyes for me..."

You weren't even listening anymore, your thoughts placed firmly on him, on his lips.

It took you a moment to realize he was now walking away again, clearly his homily was over. Your new friend leant down, poking you with an elbow, "Well wasn't he just a tall drink of water."

"I'm not sure he's quite my type." You smiled at her, warmth over your face hiding your exasperation.

"Well why don't you go speak to him, you're both new to the Church after all."

You tightened you jaw, looking over at where he now stood, "You know what, I think I just might."

The moment the service was over you shuffled out of the pew, your mind fixed firmly on one thing. You made your way over to him, his eyes on your body as you walked to the front. Clearly, many other members of the congregation had the same idea, a small group now talking in front of him and their priest. You pushed through gently, meeting Dean's eye.

"That was an enlightening talk, Father." You smiled at him, all innocence.

"Thank you." His jaw tightened, the shoe was on the other foot now.

"It really gave me so much to think about. I'd love to hear more about your thoughts on sin, on how we can truly come together to resist such a wicked thing."

The small huddle turned to him, expectantly. He coughed gently, clearing his throat, "You know it's just such an interesting topic. Why don't you take a walk with me and we can discuss this further."

He placed his hand on the small of your back, pulling you away from the tangle of other people; clearly this was a demand, not a request.

The second you were out of sight his lips were on yours, his hands desperate and frenzied, grabbing at your jaw, the back of your head, your waist.

You broke away from his kiss, looking at him with as much purity as you could muster, "We can't, Dean, we promised." Your words didn't stop your hands, which were now tugging at the bottom of his shirt, trying to get to his abdomen.

He pushed his face into the crook of your neck, "Sam's not here, sweetheart, please I'm desperate."

"Not here, it's too public, it's a church for God's sake!" But your hand came up to the back of his head, pushing his mouth against your skin. You leant into him, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and motel soap.

He nestled into you, his lips pressed against you, sending fire through your body, "Follow me, I know a place."

He half guided, half dragged you through a twist of hallways that seemed far more modern than the church, clearly him and Sam had had enough time to get a simple understanding of the place. His hands were on your hips as you moved, mouth still messily attacking you any chance he got. He pushed you into a small space, barely any light filling it as you became aware of your surroundings.

"Dean, this is a confessional box."

"So?" His hand found your inner thigh, needy for you.

"It's not exactly private!"

"Be quiet then." He guided his hand up between your legs, expecting to be met with the resistance of fabric but instead finding you bare, "You- you're not wearing-"

"God, Winchester, you're getting too predictable." You rolled your eyes, pressing your lips against his once again as you fumbled with his belt buckle.

He pushed his fingers through your soaked folds, and you rewarded him with a moan as he sent waves of pleasure through you. Not wanting to waste any time, he pushed two fingers into you, thrusting hard as you wrapped your arms around his neck to keep yourself steady. You rolled your hips in time with his movements, pornographic sounds filling the small space.

He reached up with his other hand towards his collar, intending to release himself from it's hold, but you stopped him, grabbing his wrist with a stern look, "Keep it on."

He looked at you with amused surprise, pulling his fingers out of you and moving towards your clit, rubbing it gently with small circles, "Oh you've come here to worship?"

You bit your lip, unable to form any words.

"I'll give you something to worship. On your knees, sweetheart." He pulled his fingers away, pushing them against your lips as you sunk to his knees before him, making you taste yourself. He sat back, groaning at the image of you in front of him, his fingers lazily shoved in your mouth.

He pulled his own cock out, letting it spring free from his pants, giving it a few firm strokes as he looked down at you, your eyes firmly fixed on him. You leant forward, wrapping your lips around it's head as he rolled his head back with a groan. You pressed your tongue against his slit, the taste of his precum filling your mouth as you wrapped your hand around the base. He lifted his hand to the back of your head, holding you there as you lapped at his tip, beginning to move your hand, stroking his length.

"Fuck-" He had his eyes closed, his head pressed against the hard wood of the box as he swore through gritted teeth.

He pushed your head down lower and you let him fill your mouth, his cock pressing against the back of your throat as you swallowed him down. You bobbed your head gently, his length throbbing within you, his panting becoming strained as he got closer to the edge.

You choked on him, his hand pushing you lower. You let your fingers ripple down his abdomen, looking back up at him with wide eyes, his own gaze falling back on you as he bit his bottom lip hard.

"Come 'ere." He murmured, pulling you back off of him before he reached his peak.

You stood up, his hands reaching out to your waist, jerking you towards him. You hitched your dress up only slightly as you moved to straddle him, your lips crashing together once again as he lined his cock up with your entrance.

You sunk down onto him quickly, sucking in a breath at the feeling of him stretching you out. He groaned again as you began to roll your hips into him, his own body moving in time with yours to push himself as deep into you as he could.

You lent down, your mouth pressed against his ear, your voice a breathless whisper, "Forgive me Father... for I have sinned..."

He looked back at you with a wicked smile, one hand gripping your hip tighter as his other moved up to trace a thumb over your bottom lip, "Go on."

"It has been... too long since my last confession-"

He eyed your lips, his hunger for you evident.

"-These are my sins..." You wrapped your arms over his shoulders to keep yourself steady, "... I've lusted after you, I've - fuck- I've been tempted by you, and I'm only going to be tempted again... and again... and - Jesus- again."

You felt your climax rising as he pounded into you, keeping your rhythm steady with his grasp. He kissed you again, his mouth heavy and messy, open mouths panting into open mouths.

"For these and all my sins... I am- fuck I'm gonna come."

He chuckled lightly into you as you sped up your movements, holding his shoulders tight.

He pushed his mouth against your jaw, his breath hot against your skin, "You still on birth control?"

You panted against him, "-Yeah."

You kept your movements steady, both of your breaths thick against each other, fingers digging into one another's bodies. You could tell how desperate he was to come as you continued to grind against him, only holding out in the hope you'd crescendo together.

You bit down hard on your lip to hide your moan, your body quaking with pleasure as you pushed yourself to the edge. You came quickly, your body shaking, a wave of pleasure striking through you.

At the feeling of your pussy clenching around him he finally allowed himself to release, his seed spilling into you as you arched your back, letting him fill you. You pressed your face into his shoulder as both of your movements faltered, focused more on your pleasure than your rhythm. He gripped your hips tighter as gratification wracked his body.

You continued to move against each other slowly, your body slumping against him as you felt his load dripping out of you around his cock. You sat for a moment longer with him buried inside you before carefully sliding off of him, holding onto his shoulders to steady your shaking legs.

You felt his cum leaking down your inner thigh, dipping your fingers down between your legs to swipe the mixture of his juices and yours away, bringing it back to your lips and popping it in your mouth as he stared at you, his jaw hanging. You gave him another smile, pulling your fingers back out as you swallowed the taste down, biting your bottom lip.

He met your grin, his thumb holding your chin, "Fuckin' sinful."

You flattened out the bottom of your dress, trying to pull yourself together, suddenly regretting your lack of underwear. He stood, guiding you back out the booth as he rebuckled his belt.

Sam stood opposite, his jaw tight as he shook his head, staring you both down, "You're kidding me-"

#dean winchester #dean x reader fanfiction #dean x reader smut #dean x reader #dean winchester fanfic #dean #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fanfiction #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural smut #supernatural reader insert #smut #spn smut #spn #dean smut #reader insert smut #Dean Winchester x reader #Dean Winchester x reader smut

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kabr0ztrousers · 5 months ago

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how about fem reader being kidnapped by aliens and being touched and experimented on by there weird science tools. And then aliens needing readers milk to feed there babies cause it's better than theres.

Happy to oblige, and thanks for your patience! Without further ado, here's:

Kabr0z Writes Episode 25: Suddenly, Sci-fi

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

CWs: Alien abduction; kidnapping; dubcon; noncon; weird science; sextoy use; drugging/intox; hucow; overstim;

###################################

You didn't often get chance to come out here. You used to live much closer to the moors, but had to move into the city for work. You don't own a car, no point when there's trams and buses everywhere, so it's only when something brings you back to your hometown you get to revisit your old stomping grounds and reminisce on the past. You wished it had been on better terms, but the funeral was weeks ago now, and the old house you grew up in now sat empty, ready for the buyers to move in. You doubt you'll ever find the excuse to come here again now.

You shiver. From the brisk January winds, from the weight of memory.

There's a sound, you're not sure where from. More of a feeling than a noise, like a purring engine, heard from underwater.

Light. All around you, a perfect circle of blinding azure light. Your skin tingles and you notice dirt and pieces of grass floating up past you. Your hair looks as though you're in a swimming pool, floating beneath the surface, spreading out in a soft brown halo around your head. Your stomach flips and you're no longer in the moors. You're in a room, lit by that intense azure light. You screwed your eyes shut against the glare, you could still see the blue but it's less painful this way. There's a chittering sound around you, like marbles being shaken in a jar. The light cut out. You opened your eyes.

The room is still very blue, but lit much softer now. The bare walls and floor a dull silver. The chittering was still happening. You remembered something, that conspiracy nut at work always said if you think you're on an alien spaceship, you should stomp out some numbers. What were the numbers? You racked your brain. Two, three, five, seven, eleven? Whatever, it sounds like a plan.

You start stamping. You're not sure what doing maths at them will achieve, but they do seem to take notice. You finish stamping eleven times, and something taps back. Thirteen taps. You hesitate. 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, what next? Again you tried to think back to conversations you earnestly tried to not have at the time. Seventeen. Still not sure why, you stamped seventeen times, carefully counting your steps. The chittering started again. Louder, more insistent. The. The door opened. Whatever it was that stepped out into the room was in some sort of bodysuit, it looked pretty heavy-duty, and whatever it was he was holding you didn't want to get on the bad side of it.

You allowed yourself to be shepherded to another room, the alien keeping you at a distance from itself.

It was a curious sight, it had six limbs you could see: two legs and four arms. It only came up to about your shoulder, at a guess, but had a pronounced slouch so you weren't sure if it would normally be that short or if you just had the jailor with terrible posture. It showed you to a bench and motioned towards it. You sat, assuming that's what "pointing at the knee-high table" means in their culture.

That, on reflection, was a mistake.

More of the azure light bathed you. You couldn't move a muscle, paralysed where you sat. The alien opened a cupboard hidden in the wall and pulled forth a long stick with a hoop on the end. Weightless and unable to resist, it was an easy job for it to lie you down and take a bladed implement to your clothing, stripping you naked with effortless cuts. Once it had satisfied itself that every stitch of fabric was removed and you were quite immobile, it removed its suit.

A huge beetle-like creature stood before you. Mandibles chittering that rattling language into a device stuck to its thorax.

It pulled more tools out from the wall. Smaller ones, less for herding at arms length. It stood over you and started prodding you, dictating notes at your reaction. At least, that's what you guessed it was doing, it might just make that noise.

The tests got steadily more invasive. Once it had satisfied itself poking you, it started pushing devices inside you, one went into your mouth, one in your ear, it opened your legs and pushed thin probes into your asshole and your pussy. Was it taking your temperature?

It withdrew the probes, and pushed a tube into your mouth. You could see something inky-black start to flow down from the ceiling into some clear piping running down near you. You couldn't look around to see what was happening precisely, but you could guess. Something bitter flowed over your tongue from the tube. You gulped it down on reflex. It stung going down, like drinking indigestion. You could feel your heart start to race and your cheeks redden. Your whole body felt like it was blushing. Your clit started to tingle and throb. Your pussy ached and clenched. Your breathing caught and your eyes rolled as you felt hornier than you ever have before.

The alien thrust pushed something up to your pussy, and you came immediately. You heard it scurry back as your abs clenched in time with your cunt and you felt a stream of fluid escape you. You've never squirted before, who would've guessed all it newded was a cocktail of alien drugs.

The orgasm died down, but the neediness remained. You didn't care about the whole abduction thing. If you could speak you'd be begging it to fuck you. You didn't need to beg. It pressed something against you again. Again your whole body bucked and clenched, but it wasn't deterred now it knew what to expect. Something round was pushed into you. It only went an inch or so in, but you could feel the shape of it. Curved upwards, the end nestled exactly on your g-spot. A chittered command. It started to buzz. You felt your back arch as an animalistic groaning wail escaped you. You were shaking again, being held in an orgasm for minutes before it dies down. You could still feel it buzzing, driving you to another. Tears welled in your eyes as your aching cunt clenched and leaked in protest.

The alien kept taking notes, repeating the same pattern of chittered speech when you climaxed again and again. The repeated orgasms were taking their toll. Your mouth was dry but for the drip of bitter drug, your legs were twitching and aching, your abs were on fire.

Then it pushed a needle into your arm.

You couldn't see it coming this time, but you felt something hot in your veins. Your skin felt as if it was on fire, then freezing. Your breasts started to ache. With every fresh orgasm you felt hot, then cold, then your tits would ache more, over and over.

Ten? Fifteen? You don't know how many times you came until it happened. You felt a stream of milk spray from your nipples. Spurting out of you, pulsing in time with the painful clenching waves.

The chittering was manic, as though the creature was possessed. Devices were secured to your tits, probes suckling the milk from you in gentle sips, the new sensations only serving to speed up the frequency with which you kept cumming.

You don't know how long ago that was, time is meaningless here.

You were moved to another facility, then more women joined you, then men started to appear too, hooked up to similar machines.

An alien had come to your bedside once doing its rounds of the inmates. It explained in broken English, they had bought Earth in a land deal, and most humans are now livestock for them. They don't believe in eating sentient beings, but humans produce edible byproducts, which can be extracted.

So here you are. A dairy cow for aliens.

Forever

#############################

A/N: There's one more sci-fi story in the requests box, which will be tangentially attached to this but not really. I might reuse the alien race, they're fun.

If you want to see anything, get anything, or ask anything please don't hesitate! I'm hungry for ideas and inspiration, I won't judge, and I won't name you if you don't want

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bullet-prooflove · 3 months ago

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Baby, It's Gonna Be Alright: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @dizzybee03 @cosmic-psychickitty @puredicks @queenslandlover-93

Companion piece to:

Lipstick (NSFW) - It's love at first blow job for Dr Robby.

Crisis - Robby has a bad day.

ASMR For The Soul - Robby doesn't sleep when you're not around.

Bunny - Robby discovers you've been keeping secrets.

Something To Complain About (NSFW) - You ignite the ire of Robby's neighbour with your bedroom noises.

Noise Cancelling - Robby discovers his neighbour keeps a spreadsheet of your antics.

Poolside - When Robby's had a really shitty day he always ends up whereever you are.

The Betting Pool - Robby discovers that his collegues have been taking bets on his relationship.

Fifty Shades of Robby - Robby's collegues see the truth of his relationship when they find your Instagram.

Dumb Bitch - Robby exhibits his protective side when another man steps on his territory.

Stop Compressions, Start Compressions - Robby loses everything in the aftermath of Pittfest.

24 Hours - Robby refuses to leave your side in the aftermath of the shooting.

Saftey Rail - Abbot gets real with Robby when he finds him on the roof.

Robby listens to ‘Baby' by Robert Bradley's Blackwater Surprise the entire drive to the beach house, he plays the song on repeat because it reminds him of the first day he saw you, the song playing on his ear pods as you stood at the edge of the pool talking to Jake. Your eyes had flickered up to meet his, the left side of your mouth quirking up into a smile and he was a goner from that moment on.

He needs to hold onto that memory right now, to keep it close because he needs to believe that everything is going to be alright between the two of you. That he didn’t fuck it up because the way the two of you left things…

It wasn’t good.

You’ve been telling him you needed to get out of the city for weeks now, that it was too raw, too suffocating and he just kept taking shifts, working all the hours that God sent because he wasn’t ready for what would happen when he finally stopped to take a breath. He didn’t want the entire world to crash down on him during those moments of quiet.

Three days ago he’d come home to find the apartment empty and a note on the kitchen table.

I don’t know if you’re just not hearing me or if you’re choosing to ignore me, it had read. But I need the space to heal and I can’t do that in the city.

You’d taken enough clothes with you to last a couple of weeks.

Robby had headed straight back out to work the next day, just like nothing had happened because he didn’t want to face the possibility that he was tanking his marriage.

The lights are still on when he gets to the beach house despite the late hour. His chest constricts as he sits in the driver’s seat, staring at the door, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

Did I fuck this up? He asks himself before he forces himself out of the car. There’s only one way to find out.

He slings his holdall over his shoulder, taking the porch steps two at a time. As usual the door is unlocked, normally that would drive him absolutely crazy but not tonight. He steps over the threshold and there you are standing on the stairs wearing his Pittsburgh Penguins jersey and black cycling shorts. Your hair is damp from the shower you’ve just taken, falling across your features as you continue to descend.

“Hi.” He whispers, his voice barely more than a rasp.

“Hi.” You say, your arms lacing around his neck, drawing him in close. He buries his face in the curve of your throat, holding onto you like a lifeline, immersing himself in your presence.

“I’m a fucking asshole.” He mutters, his eyes stinging as he clings to you.

“No Robby.” You whisper, your breath ghosting in his ear. “I promise you you’re not.”

Love Robby? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#dr robby #dr robby x reader #the pitt #michael robinavitch x reader #michael robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch #noah wyle #robby #robby x reader

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epicbuddieficrecs · 3 months ago

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Epic Buddie Fic Rec | March 10th-24th 2025

Work has just been.... a lot. Feels like the only thing getting me through the week is 9-1-1 Thursdays. Anyway. It's a long one cause you're getting two weeks. Bon appetit.

Complete

it has no name (no guarantee) by withmeornotatall/ @chronicowboy (S8E11: Holy Mother of God Coda, Pre-Buddie | 1,1K | General):

"H-hey, E-eddie." Buck isn't sure why he stumbles over Eddie's name. He's had enough practice over the past few days. Said it enough times in his life that it should be able to slip out seamlessly every damn time. "Hey, Buck." And there's Eddie sounding sure and confident and a little tired and warm and soft and so much like his best friend. Buck aches. "Just finished unpacking. Told myself I couldn't call until I was done. Incentive, y'know?" (or: eddie calls, buck blurts some things out, they're totally normal best friends)

all my life, there you go Chapter 29. Sleeping in by trysetmeonfire (Post-S8E9: Sob Stories, Eddie Back From Texas | 1,2K | Mature):

Buck shuffles a little and Eddie thinks for a moment maybe- but he just snorts a little and keeps dreaming. Eddie tries to tamp down on the kind of sleepover giddiness bubbling up in his chest — wake up wake up wake up — and takes the opportunity to watch his best friend. His- whatever. Whatever they are now that Eddie knows what kissing him is like, quickly and quietly in his parent’s backyard, now that Eddie has stumbled his way through a question — “Why are you- why did you- all of this- do you- do you-“ — and Buck had frowned a little, not in an unhappy way but in his serious way, and had heard the real thing Eddie had wanted to know, and said “Eddie- of course I love you.”

is it enough now by foxwatson/ @eddiediazes (S8E11: Holy Mother of God Coda, Pre-Buddie | 1,4K | Teen):

“I’m not in love with you,” Buck blurts out as soon as the ringing stops on the other end of the phone. There’s dead air on the other end of the line, but the kind that’s filled with background noise - a distant hum, some breathing sounds, just enough for Buck to know that Eddie heard him. buck finally calls eddie. he's still working through some stuff. he's kind of a disaster, honestly.

city lights, without you (they don’t even shine like they used to) by farfromthstars/ @doeeyeseddie (S8E11: Holy Mother of God Coda | 1,5K | Teen):

“It wouldn’t be so crazy,” Maddie said, and she didn’t even sound surprised. Is this something she’s thought about before? Do his sister and his ex really think he’s secretly in love with Eddie? And if Maddie thinks so, does Chimney do, too? Fuck, does everyone think he’s pining after Eddie? ~ buck is not in love with eddie. definitely not.

I’ve pined for you my whole life (morning, noon, and night) by paleredheadinascifi (S8E11: Holy Mother of God Coda | 1,7K | Teen):

“Where did you do it?” Eddie asks in one quick breath. “Hmm?” Buck hums. “Sorry I - - I. Nevermind. Sorry. It’s none of my business,” Eddie croaks, and whatever that is in his voice is what finally clues Buck in. “Oh. Oh,” he gasps. “Where did I - - where did we sleep together?” Or, Buck calls Eddie after 8x11.

sanctioned departures by littleghost/ @ghostlandtoo (S8E10: Voices Coda | 1,9K | General):

Buck gets his sister back and loses his best friend in the same week.

a fool for you by staticsilencee (S8E11: Holy Mother of God Coda, Getting Together | 2K | Mature):

“You did what?” Eddie asked, his voice sounding faint over the phone. Buck groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “I moaned your name! I don’t know why man, I just– Tommy said a bunch of stuff after– after. And I can’t work any of it out, and I know this is probably weird but I really need my best friend right now.” -or- Buck accidentally moans Eddie's name after he bring Tommy back to his place- oops!

keep me by you by euadnes/ @kananjarus (S8E11: Holy Mother of God Coda | 2,5K | Teen):

"It's funny you say that," he says. His voice has gone so soft Buck thumbs the volume up, his heart in his throat. "My date tonight ended early because I too would not shut up about the amazing guy I apparently couldn't get over. And he didn't enjoy being used a rebound. Or at least that's how he put it." Buck didn't hear that right, right? He realizes his mouth has fallen open, a few seconds too late. He scarcely dares to breathe. "He -? Wait, you were on a date with a - a guy?" Eddie cocks his head, quirks his mouth. "That's the part of the conversation you're focusing on?"

Buddie Versus The Kiss Cam by explorerofworlds (Basketball Date, S8 | 3K | General):

Buck and Eddie take Tommy’s tickets and go to a basketball game together. While there, they end up on the kiss cam! Or the kiss cam fic.

I just want it to be you by Lihhelsing/ @lihhelsing (S8E11: Holy Mother of God Coda | 4K | Mature):

Five times someone calls Eddie Diaz to talk about Buck and one time Eddie calls Buck instead.

realizations by staticsilencee (S8E11: Holy Mother of God Coda, Getting Together | 4K | Teen):

“Are you okay?” On the ground, his phone screen was still lit, a call with Eddie displayed on the screen. Through the haze of panic, Buck was at least relieved that he hadn’t managed to start a video call. I think I’m in love with you. Oh God, I think I’m in love with you. “Yeah, I– everything’s good, I think I just– butt dialed you, or something.”

loose-tongued, in love by wenttoafortuneteller (Getting Together | 4K | Teen):

“Get home safe,” Buck says. Then, as always, he thinks: I love you. Eddie goes very, very still. His breathing stutters to a stop. There’s a strange expression on his face, his mouth twisting in that way it does when he doesn’t know what to say. Buck squints blearily at him. “What?” A muscle in his jaw twitches once. Twice. The muted light illuminates the quiet movement of his throat as he swallows. “What’d you just say?” “Get home safe,” Buck repeats, a yawn overtaking the last word. “Why…?” Or: the one where Buck, drowsy and delirious on pain medication, confesses his love to Eddie without realizing it.

24 Hours by xylodemon/ @xylodemon (Post-S8E10: Voices, Getting Together | 4K | Not Rated):

Chimney asks, "Who are you texting?" "Eddie." "Really? He's only been gone… what—? Two hours?" "Two hours and thirty-one minutes." "Not that anyone's counting." (Or, Buck and Eddie in the the first 24 hours after Eddie leaves.)

Coming for you by diazsdimples (Eddie Moves to Texas, PWP, Phone Sex | 4K | Explicit):

The idea of Buck on his bed, in his house, wearing his shirt, while he touches himself really does something for Eddie. It makes the small, possessive beast that’s curled up inside his chest purr with contentment. The beast that shouldn’t really exist, because Buck isn’t really his. His phone pings again with another text from Buck. OR Eddie moves to Texas, Buck moves into his house, and neither of them really know how to handle it. Good thing phone sex solves all problems!

How to supreme an orange by paleredheadinascifi (Post-Chris coming home, Getting together | 5K | Teen):

"I don’t like oranges.” “Since when?” Eddie frowns. “You used to love oranges.” Christopher shrugs. “I don’t like them anymore.” And that’s fine, really. Tastes change. Christopher doesn’t have to like oranges. It’s just that he does. Christopher loves oranges. Christopher has loved oranges since the first time he tasted one, Eddie watching on over a shaky video call from the desert. Or, Eddie knows his kid, and his kid loves oranges. Buck knows both of them better than Eddie realized. He shows it in various citrus-based ways.

stay in the line, stay in the line by Elgney (S4E5: Buck Begins | 5K | General):

"The other firefighters were very kind. We got to hear a lot of stories about you. They seem to like you a great deal." Or: two missing conversations from Buck Begins.

Don’t Think About It Too Much, Too Much, Too Much, Too Much by fruitsdoesnotknow/ @fruitsdontknow (Post-S8E11: Holy Mother of God, Chris Coming Home, Getting Together | 6K | Mature):

“My friend, my…. Eddie’s like that. He’s a single parent, too. Big worrier. He nests. Uh,” Buck dips his head down. “Loves his kid more than anything. That’s where he’s coming from, now. Picking up his son, Christopher.” “Your Diaz boys,” she clarifies, a warm look in her eyes, and Buck feels his cheeks heat up. “Yeah.” *** Eddie and Chris finally come back to Los Angeles. Buck has some realizations, and confessions, to make. Good thing Eddie's got some of his own to share, too.

softer, harder, in-between by mostardent/ @laracrofted (S8E9: Sob Stories, Jealous Eddie, PWP | 6K | Explicit):

“He was hitting on you!” “So? Who cares?” “I care. We’re married!” Buck blinks. And blinks and blinks and blinks. “Okay. Hold on. What?” One of Eddie's potential renters flirts with Buck, and Eddie is super normal about it and doesn't at all lose his mind over the idea of Buck dating the man who moves into his house.

I'll take your chaos and your crooked in a heartbeat by heartbeatdiaz/ @lonelychicago (Post-S8E10: Voices, Eddie Goes to Texas, Getting Together | 6K | Teen):

He shakes his head, trying to clear the thought before it can settle. Eddie isn’t dead. He’s in Texas, doing what’s best for Christopher. And Buck—Buck has to get over whatever this is. Swallowing hard, he moves to grab one of his own boxes, dragging it toward the hallway. But then, out of the corner of his eye, he sees it. A single, forgotten cardboard box in the far corner of the living room. In big, black letters, written with marker, it reads: EDDIE — KEEP. It’s not one of his. He is sure of that. or: Eddie leaves a very important box behind and Buck spirals.

the things i wanna hear by stevesconverse (Post-S8E6: Confessions, Chim's Bachelor Party | 6K | Teen):

— or the one where Buck finds a video of him and Eddie making out at Chimney's bachelor party.

we get back to my house (your hands, my mouth) by weewooforever (Post-S8E11: Holy Mother of God, PWP | 7K | Explicit):

Eddie finds out that Buck fucked Tommy in his house. His reaction to finding this out is perfectly normal.

I missed your skin when you were east by Lihhelsing/ @lihhelsing (Post-S8A, Getting Together | 7K | Explicit):

Maybe Buck had gotten used to people leaving. So much so that it didn’t affect him anymore. His life would keep going even if his best friend wasn’t there anymore. Eventually, he accepted that nothing would feel different. He signed the moving truck away and sat on the porch stairs, one almost warm beer in hand as he waited for Eddie to get home. When Eddie did, Buck almost felt like something was different about him, but then figured it was just his imagination. Buck left his half-drank beer on the porch of Eddie’s former house shortly after Eddie had left him the same way. Half-drunk. Unchanged. OR; Eddie leaves, and Buck's life stays the same. It's when he comes back that everything changes.

That’s what you do (when you love somebody) by scarmaddiewrites (Eddie Moves to Texas, Getting Together | 7K | Teen):

Buck can’t go home. He physically can’t, so he avoids it at all costs, until he doesn’t. Or The five times Buck avoids his house and the one time he never wants to leave

can you see what we are? (it’s all there written down) by kabnd/ @polkadotk804 (Canon, S2 onwards | 8K | General):

April 25, 2019 - Buck, genuinely distressed in the middle of the night in the bunkroom, presumably to Eddie (overheard by me, Chim): “Do you think that cat from the ‘hang in there’ poster is dead? Like how long do you think that little dude really hung in there?” Eddie, who I think was still mostly asleep: “At least he left a legacy.” OR: Maddie starts a shared note to document Buck and Eddie-isms…it gets just as unhinged at you’d imagine and tells their story from the perspective of the 118 & Co…and then Chris comes home!

smiling through it all by stevesconverse (Canon Divergent, S2E1: Under Pressure | 8K | Teen):

“So what’s your real name, then?” Eddie asks, sipping on his own drink—a whiskey he’s swirling around in the glass constantly. “Evan,” Buck says coyly, quickly adding, “But nobody really calls me that.” “Evan,” Eddie echoes, the sound dripping off his tongue like thick honey. “I like it.” It almost makes Buck regret to ever abandon it in the first place, driving a shiver down his spine. Almost. “And what’s Eddie short for? Eduardo?” he quickly shifts the conversation, stirring his drink and popping another peanut into his mouth. Eddie shakes his head and chuckles. “Edmundo,” he corrects him, then winks at Buck with a low, “But nobody really calls me that.” or the one where Buck and Eddie have a one-night-stand two days before Eddie starts at the 118.

think i know where you belong by stevesconverse (Eddie&Chris Go Back To LA, Roommates, Accidental Kiss | 8K | Teen):

“Bye,” Eddie mumbles distantly, and when Buck finally manages to open his eyes again, Eddie is halfway out the door already. Puzzled, he just stands there, listens to the slam of the door and the starting of the truck outside, his mind spinning and his lips still tingling. Eddie has just kissed him. Actually kissed him, like it was the most normal, casual thing in the world, like this was what they always do, a routine they follow, a dance they’ve learned. Except it’s none of that.

meet me in the afterglow by literalmetaphor (Established Buddie, Hurt/Comfort | 9K | Explicit):

“We need a safe word,” Buck says. “You know, to make things as clear as possible.” “I feel like no works just fine,” Eddie says. Buck lets out a breath, because, sure, it probably will, but he needs assurance here. He needs something straightforward, simple, maybe something easier than Eddie telling him no. Maybe something easier than Eddie saying it’s too much. He’s never been great at that. “Just, humor me, okay? Communication is key with stuff like this.” Eddie’s laugh is soft, kind of incredulous, but he meets Buck’s eyes, and there’s a relenting fondness in them. “You think, what, you’re gonna be so good it’s gonna scramble my brain out of knowing how to say no?” An answering laugh tumbles out of Buck, peppered with the exasperation at the back of his throat. “I think this is new for you, and I think you should have options.” OR Eddie has to use the safe word.

love of my life, can't you see? by wenttoafortuneteller (S8E11 Spec, Crack | 10K | Teen):

“I asked Josh out,” Buck admits. It’s cartoonish how quickly Eddie’s jaw drops; how his eyes bulge out of his head. Buck rubs the back of his neck, sheepish, waiting for him to say something. There’s still silence. Buck frowns at his screen. “Eddie? Hello? I think you froze.” “I’m here,” Eddie says slowly, eyes still comically wide. “I just think I might have misheard you.” “Oh,” Buck says, and repeats himself. “I asked Josh out.” “Okay. So I didn’t mishear you.” Eddie scrubs a hand over his face. “Can I ask why?” Or: Maddie nudges Buck towards Eddie, Buck misunderstands horribly, and Eddie suffers over FaceTime.

I can roll with all the punches (if you hold a couple back) by Elgney (Canon, S1-S2 | 13K | General):

“I need someone like you—someone who can keep up with him, and have his back, and maybe eventually even rein him in, should that be a thing that is humanly possible to do,” said Bobby, smiling warmly over the remaining half of his sandwich. “Oh, I see,” said Eddie. And he did now. That’s what Bobby’s whole hard sell was about—it wasn’t personal, it was about Eddie being the top of this class. “I know the type. You see guys a lot like that in the military.” “Oh, no,” said Bobby, “I didn’t mean to—well, what I mean is, I don’t think you have seen a lot of guys like Buck, to be honest. I don’t think there are a lot of people like him.” ----- Hen & Chim discussing the new probie; Buck's forgotten shield ceremony; Eddie's first shift with the 118. Or: three early impressions of Buck, through the eyes of his future found family.

hopeless, breathless, burning slow by mostardent/ @laracrofted (Post-S6E11: In Another Life | 14K | Mature):

He knows Eddie worries about him. Everyone does, but with Eddie, it’s not the same. He doesn’t look at Buck like he still has one foot in the grave. Eddie looks at him like he prayed for a miracle and God gave him Buck. In the pale blue-green light, Buck lifts his gaze mid-sentence and finds Eddie already looking at him. His hands are shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders down. He looks at ease, relaxed and peaceful, a fond smile on his face, coaxed from the corner of his mouth. One of his Christopher smiles, except Eddie’s gaze rests steadily on Buck, so maybe it’s a different kind of smile, one just for him. His dark eyes are warm and bright as afternoon sunshine, brimming with happiness, and it’s the most real Buck has felt in weeks. After the coma, Buck struggles to feel real and unofficially moves in with Eddie. (Or, Eddie hovers and Buck burns.)

listen for heaven by marviless/ @marviless (S8, Eddie Moves to Texas | Getting Together | 15K | Teen):

There’s a long pause before Buck answers. “Yeah, I do,” he says. “I felt alone for the first twenty something years of my life.” “What about now?” Eddie asks, and he’s not even quite sure what he means. What about now, right in this moment? or what about now, now that I’m gone? Buck chooses to answer the former. “I’m never lonely when I’m with you,” he says simply, softly. Eddie, Buck, and six phone calls.

Finding You by Sabs/ @memequeme (Soulmates AU, Eddie Goes to Texas, Getting Together | 16K | Teen):

Eddie leaves for Texas on a Tuesday and Buck feels it in his heart before he even exits the airport. He starts to feel it in his body on a Thursday. Or: Soulbonds are rare, spontaneous bonds are practically unheard, but Buck and Eddie have always been anything but conventional.

🔥been lost for a while by trysetmeonfire/ @try-set-me-on-fire (Canon Divergent, Nurse Eddie, S2 | 17K | Mature):

Eddie's wife has been dead for two weeks. There's a firefighter in bed five. These are not necessarily related facts, but Eddie will have a hard time separating them out, later. — A story, in many ways, about holding hands

you're more than a heart can take by Elgney (Eddie Coming Out, First Date | 19K | Mature):

“Come on, you’re telling me you wouldn’t consider sneaking into a storage closet with me?” “Obviously, I would!” Eddie was whisper-yelling now, and Buck wasn’t sure exactly what point he was trying to make, but he was enjoying every second of this. “But one of us is going to have to have restraint and it has to be the—the one with the most experience.” Buck felt his mouth drop open in delight. “Eddie,” he admonished. “Are you calling me a whore?” “No!” said Eddie, looking increasingly flustered. “I just mean—clearly you have the power to do—” he gestured at Buck, “that, so you have the—the responsibility to, like, use it. Responsibly.” “Did you just quote Spiderman?” Eddie propped his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands, groaning dramatically. “I’m going to die. The first date, and I’m going to die.” “Been there, wouldn’t recommend it.” --- Buck and Eddie and the first date.

under pressure by brewrosemilk/ @gayhoediaz (Established Buddie, First Time, PWP | 22K | Explicit):

“It’s not funny,” Eddie sighs, knocking the back of his head against the kitchen cabinet as he brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “Oh, come on—it’s a—it’s a little funny,” Buck argues, amusement thick in his voice as Eddie feels his hand curl around his own wrist. Eddie takes a breath, and drops his wrist to rest over his own knee as he turns to meet Buck’s eyes, arching his own eyebrow in question. Or: Buck and Eddie have grand plans for their first time, it's just unfortunate that their bodies don't seem to be getting the message.

🔥 boy, we ain't got nothin' to lose by Elgney (Amnesia, Post-S7E5: You Don't Know Me | 26K | Teen):

“They just follow it around, copying it and helping it and bothering it so much that it's like, worn down into loving the duckling back and looking out for it.” “So,” said Eddie, furrowing his brow. “In this scenario, you are—” “A baby duckling, newly hatched into the world with no idea what’s going on.” “And I am—” “The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes.” ---- Eddie has no idea how to cope when a temporary case of amnesia causes the return of Buck 1.0. Buck has no clue why his future self hasn't made the moves on his hot best friend. It all goes pretty well, considering.

🔥 Your Fake Name is Good Enough For Me by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Canon Divergent, Changeling AU, Post-S8A | 37K | Mature):

When a younger man claiming to be Evan Buckley is apprehended by Pennsylvania police, Buck's past and present are thrown into question. Buck must work with Bobby and Athena to discover who he really is, and what that means for his family.

🔥paving hell with energy by Elgney (S8E9 Spec, Kidnapping, Getting Together | 52K | Not Rated):

Oh, fuck him, did he almost sleep with a serial killer? Distantly, he thought, Hen and Chim are never going to let me live this down. And then he thought, I might not live at all. ----- Buck is having a hard time dealing with Eddie's impending move to El Paso and resorts to some Buck 1.0-style coping mechanisms. Unfortunately for everybody, this backfires in spectacular fashion. Especially for Eddie, who waited until now to realize he was in love with his best friend. OR: Buck and Maddie get kidnapped. Eddie spirals.

Part 1 of not how the damage gets done

You tried to run (I tried to tie your shoes) by Elgney (Established Buddie, Fluff | 6K | General):

“Do I want to know what’s going on here?” Bobby asked. “Normal stuff,” Buck shouted from where he was, back on the couch. Eddie snorted down at his form, feeling fond and avoiding eye contact with Bobby, who must have stared down Chimney instead, because a second later he was fessing up. “We’re making them fill out their HR relationship forms separately, and then we’re going to compare them, Newlywed Game-style.” ---- Buck and Eddie fill out the LAFD's Consensual Relationship Agreement paperwork, Chim and Hen are over them already, and Bobby is just trying to make lunch and commit as few HR violations as possible.

Part 2 of not how the damage gets done

WIP

🔥 Doe & a Drop of Golden Sun by ohstars/ @oh-stars (Canon Divergent, Dad Buck | 14? | 60K | Teen):

Buck doesn't mean to keep secrets from everyone, but he also can't talk about the pain he experiences on a day to day basis. With his nine-year-old living across the country and his custody limited to one monthly visit, Buck doesn't know how to share this part of himself. How does he tell his team of six years that he's had a kid this whole time? How does he tell his sister? How does he tell his Edd-- best friend? It's fine. The universe isn't going to give him a choice in the matter when the worst thing imaginable becomes his reality.

🔥 for all the haunts and homes of menby euadnes/ @kananjarus (Canon Divergent, Post-Apocalyptic, Station Eleven Crossover | WIP | 17/18 | 169K | Mature | Warning: Violence):

The year by the old calendar is 2025. Home is gone. Home is a failed rescue mission and an echo of a memory. Home is a lost boy living in a wooden house by the sea. But first, there was a promise. Christopher, when it's safe, I'll take you back to your father. Buck had all but given up on keeping it after the world had died and everyone in it. But just as some oaths refuse to be forgotten, so the same can be said about the endurance of love.

Podfic

🔥[podfic] a cold world for such a long life by nuuma // fic by Daisies_and_Briars/ @cal-daisies-and-briars (Post-S7 | 1-1.5h | Teen):

Eddie befriends Bobby's estranged older brother in a virtual support group for queer adults struggling to come out. The only problem? He has no idea that's who Charlie is.

🔥[Podfic] Even in Winter There is Eranthis by Favourite_alias for letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/ @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Hades/Persephone AU | 45K | Explicit):

Buck is supposedly a god. Supposedly. But he's got no idea what his domain is or what role he plays in Olympus. When he meets Christopher, a young boy lost and trying to find his father, he helps Chris get home - and ends up accidentally binding himself to the Underworld. Now bound to Eddie, the god of the dead, Buck must spend half the year with him in the Underworld while winter reigns above. But even as something grows between them, there are still trials to endure. Just because the gods are not mortal... does not mean they cannot die.

🔥 [Podfic] Further Than Blood (Or Than Bones) by Favourite_alias for letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/ @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (Vampires AU | 5-6h | Explicit):

Once, Eddie chose to save a newly turned against his better judgment. Five hundred years ago, Buck was saved by a rescuer he thought was a hallucination. Now they're together again and about to find out just how far either of them will go to try and deny what they are to each other.

#epic buddie fic rec #buddie fanfic #buddie fic #buddie fanfiction #buddie fic rec #buddie

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highvern · 7 months ago

Text

Nights Like These

Pairing: Kim Mingyu x f!reader

Genre: fluff, neighbor!au, Nightwing! mingyu based off this, bartender reader

warnings: very dumb people (mingyu x reader), suggestive but no explicit smut

Length: ~2k

Note: merry gyumas!!!!! this is revenge for spider woo from @gyuswhore if you hate it, it's bc i wrote it in like 3 hours. thank u @the-boy-meets-evil i will be enacting my revenge on you soon. MWAH!

summary: On nights when you close the bar late, a friendly hero always happens to be around to walk you home and share his woes about the crush on his neighbor.

m.list

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

With the rain pounding down in thick sheets, you rush home. On nights like these, when you're the last one out of the bar, completely alone, are always the worst. The bus doesn’t run this late but at least you’re only a few blocks from your apartment. A ten minute run if you don’t stop.

The rain abruptly halts. Not that you’re lucky enough for the storm to pass but because someone falls into step beside you. “Need an umbrella?”

You don’t even need to look to know who it is. He always shows up when you have the closing shift. The man who runs around the city in a spandex suit and calls himself Nightwing.

The first time, some creep had been trailing you from a distance. Thankfully, most of the businesses on the way back to your apartment stayed open later, the nice apartments have doormen so you could run into one at a moment's notice. But as soon as you noticed the weight of a gaze on your back it vanished with a short scuffle. When you turned to find the source of noise, Nightwing stood guard as the creep spirited away.

From that night on, if you got off after midnight, he was there to escort you home.

The first few times he followed from a distance. A couple yards, then ten feet and then one night you waited for him to walk beside you like a normal person. Most nights you were too exhausted to make conversation but he kept you both entertained, asking easy questions or staying silent if you were particularly irritated. But usually, on those nights you felt his eyes on you from one of the alleys you passed, or from the rooftops. He gave you space but kept you safe. Even when you insisted there were far better things for him to do in a city that never sleeped. People who needed him more. But Nightwing shook you off each time.

“This storm came out of nowhere,” you say, huddling closer. He’s big, taking up most of the space by default. You try not to touch him but the heat of his body is pleasant considering your soaked clothes, chilled straight to the bone.

“Yeah, downtown is already flooded.”

“Already walked all the other girls home there?”

“Ha-ha,” he huffs. “I actually work in an office there.”

Oh. In all the nights he’s chaperoned you home, he’s been careful not to reveal too much about himself but some things naturally slip out. He wants a dog but is never home enough to take care of it. One of his friends burnt a fish in his apartment and wasn’t allowed to come back. He tried reading some of the books you talked about but wasn’t a big reader. This is the first time he’s offered information so personal.

“So even superheroes have day jobs?”

“Gotta pay rent somehow.”

“Maybe take up being a security guard. Or Uber but walking women home late at night.”

“Nah,” he smiles, a flash of white teeth between pink lips. “I do that for free. Part of the job.”

You hum in acknowledgement. Sometimes you think maybe he likes walking with you. But as he said, it’s a part of his job. His civic responsibilities to protect the street from creeps and weirdos. Besides, the only other personal information you know about him is the fat crush he has on the girl in the apartment next to him.

“How's your neighbor?” you ask.

“She’s okay. Still acts like I don’t exist.”

“I doubt that’s true.”

“You said she’d like it if I gave her something I cooked, I did.”

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“Damn.”

You think of your own neighbor and how grateful you are that he does something similar. Mingyu was overall, a great neighbor. Grabbed your packages from the mailroom and left them on your doormat when he could, shared food if he made too much which was frequently, and managed to keep his rowdy friends quiet when they were over. But you typically only spoke to him in passing. Strictly neighborly. How are you? They didn’t pick up the trash today? Can I borrow some salt? By the way, I made an entire pot of spaghetti and I cannot eat it alone. Want some?

Recently he offered more and more. A blessing really because by the time you got off work you were too exhausted to cook and too broke to justify paying for the fees for delivery. Everytime he offered you food though you weren’t sure what to do with the tupperware. He was rarely home when you were; conflicting schedules. Last time he brought you the extra brownies from his office party. The tote bag full of clean containers sat next to your door for whenever you saw him but lately he’d been MIA.

Maybe Nightwing’s neighbor felt the same way. If he had a job and ran around town at all hours it was unlikely there was a good time for them to talk.

“Have you tried asking her out?”

“Yes.”

“And?” Your shoulder brushes his arm but you ignore the contact. Not like you can feel much with the numbness from the freezing rain.

“No luck.”

“Maybe she’s shy.”

He levels you with a look meaning that clearly isn’t the problem. For a second you wonder what he looks like without the mask. The tiny scrap of blue, black, and white obscuring so much. Obviously, he’s handsome. Maybe she’s a little intimidated. You would be. Even if his neighbor didn’t know who he really was, he had an aura around him.

And even if he wore baggy clothes, they wouldn’t hide his physique or height.

But you can’t dwell on those thoughts because then you think of your neighbor who is also tall and muscular, and somehow reminds you of a golden retriever.

“Well, you seem normal enough. Even though you wear a weird amount of spandex for a grown man.”

He laughs, the edges of the umbrella shaking with him and exposing you back to the elements but you don’t mind. The sound is rich and warm, forcing the chill away. “What is a normal amount of spandex?”

“Probably zero,” you joke. “Maybe you should just ask her out. Honesty is the best policy or whatever.”

“Or whatever. I’ll remember that.”

“Well,” you sigh. The front of your apartment is in view. Nightwing will wait until you’re inside to leave, tucked safely behind the glass door and up the stairs out of sight. He hands you the umbrella for the last fifteen feet he always refuses to accompany you, and disappears out of sight.

You don’t tell anyone who walks you home at night. It’s a nice little secret between you and the city’s hero. But sometimes you wished you could. If only to explain how confusing it is that Nightwing reminds you of Mingyu. A bizarre thought. Mingyu is an architect and hardly has the time for a pet, let alone to save the city every night. You leave the thought at the threshold of the stairwell.

The trek upstairs takes longer than you’d like. Five flights of stairs down is a lot easier than five flights up and with your limbs just now warming up, it's a process to rally enough energy to climb even the first few. Good thing is with it being so late, you aren’t at risk of holding up a line to the top.

By the time you reach the third floor, the sensation returns to your extremities. By the fifth, the only thought in your head is a shower and the cozy warmth of your bed.

As you reach the final steps, shuffling like a zombie, the universe decides your night isn’t over yet.

Your neighbor, hair washed from a shower, white shirt and pajama pants wrapped around his figure, emerges from the opposite staircase, where the trash chute is. Maybe you have a crush on Mingyu but half the building does too. He’s a good neighbor, he’s nice, and he’s handsome.

Okay, maybe it’s a big crush and you can’t figure out if he’s just nice or if all the nice things he does mean a little bit more. You should probably ask Nightwing what he thinks the next time he walks you home. He’s a guy, he’d know.

But right now, Mingyu gets to see your best impression of a drowned rat.

Lovely.

“Hey,” he says. His door is at the top of the stairs you just climbed, and yours at the top of the stairs he just climbed. When you pass by, you can’t help but get a whiff of his body wash. Cedar, citrus, and soap mingling pleasantly.

You grunt in response. “Hey, Mingyu.”

“Late night?”

“Something like that.”

You both stand in the hallway, waiting for something else to say but nothing comes up. Somewhere below a door slams and the patter of feet echoes through the stairwell.

Mingyu turns away first. “Well, good night.”

“Wait!” you call, cringing at the harsh reverb of your voice.

He whips around, eyes wide, cheeks rosy. Like a little kid with their hand stuck in the cookie jar.

“I have your containers! I’ve been meaning to give them back.”

“Oh.” He deflates slightly but you pay no mind.

You shove the metal of your apartment door open and rummage through your kitchen for the tote full of plastic containers. When you exit, Mingyu is waiting on your doormat, hands in his pockets.

Racking your brain for something – anything – to say, you blurt. “Um, the brownies you made were great.”

That pleases him. Behind the thick rim of his glasses his eyes soften, cheeks lifting from a shy smile. “Thanks. It’s my mom’s recipe.”

“That’s nice.”

Neither of you move. Content rather than awkward. At your back, the rain pounds against the windows, thunder clapping, an occasional streak of lighting. A dull lullaby.

“Hey,” he starts. “Would you ever wanna hangout? Like a date?”

You couldn’t have heard that right.

“A date?” you parrot.

“Or not! It doesn’t have to be a date if you’re not interested or…”

“A date sounds nice,” you grin, cheeks bursting. “What are you doing in thirty minutes?”

“Watching Survivor.”

“I’ll bring the popcorn. I just need to shower really quick.”

Mingyu blinks like he can’t believe any of it. Like you agreeing to hangout with him was never an actual option or that this entire thing is a fever dream. It’s cute.

“Ugh—” he swallows. “Yeah! Okay. Just…knock wherever!”

Tucked away in the steam of the shower, you scrub and shave and scrub again. Feeling a little more human with each minute. You don’t bother with make up or anything fancy. Mingyu asked you out with mascara running down your cheeks in the hideous shirt the bar makes you wear. The bar is incredibly low.

Settling on some sweats and a hoodie, you make the trip down the hall to 6F and knock just like Mingyu said. You sit a safe distance away on the couch but like two magnets you and Mingyu draw closer and closer until his arm is over your shoulder with a pretend stretch and you’re nodding off against his chest.

At some point, you both move to his bed. Or Mingyu asks and carries you across his apartment when you nod. His bed sounds like a great idea. The storm clears by the time you wake up. The first thing you do when Mingyu blinks awake, arm curled around your back like you considered leaving, is leave a gentle kiss on his jaw.

You give him a better one as a thank you for coffee, and another when he makes pancakes. He lifts you onto the counter, taking place between your knees as thanks for the perfect whip cream smiley face decorating said pancakes.

Next time you see your spandex clad friend, you’ll have to let him know honesty really is the best policy.

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alotofpockets · 6 months ago

Text

Clingy | Vivianne Miedema x Man City!Reader

5k celebration prompt: "Do you really think she likes that you're so clingy?"

Woso masterlist | Words: 1.3k

-----

You had been at City for a few years now, and your teammates knew you well. They knew you loved the team, and hanging out together, but they also knew that you weren’t as affectionate as most of them were.

Never did your teammates think anything of you not being affectionate with them. It wasn’t something everyone enjoyed, and they knew that. They were just happy to have you around.

However when Viv joined the team, all of a sudden they saw a shift in your affection.

The first time they noticed something was when you were on the bus, sitting next to Viv. Her head leaning on your shoulder, after she had fallen asleep. Most of your teammates had seen the moment, but figured Viv had just nodded off, and you didn’t want to wake her.

But it wasn’t just that moment. It didn’t matter in what environment you were, Viv always found a way to be near you.

When walking towards the pitch for training, Viv would loop her arm through yours. You never shrugged her off, and your teammates noticed there how naturally you let it happen.

During drills at training, she would nudge your shoulder ever so often while waiting for the next drill. Sometimes it was to point something out, other times it was to joke around.

Even during games. When you and Viv would both sit on the bench, she made sure to sit next to you. When someone would try to squeeze in, she would subtly shift so she could keep her spot next to you.

When you were out with some of the girls, they noticed that Viv would place her hand on your arm or leg casually, like it was the most normal thing ever. It might be a normal thing for most people, but for you it wasn’t.

The girls had never seen you let anyone get so close to you, and they kept being amazed. They couldn’t wrap their head around the fact that you let Viv be so clingy, while usually you didn’t even like when people touched you in general. Were you just letting it happen because you didn’t want to make Viv feel bad? Or were you enjoying it as much as she was?

It was the first movie night since Viv joined, that someone decided to voice their thoughts. The movie started and to no one's surprise, Viv sat down next to you. It didn’t take long for her to get comfortable and cuddle into your side, her legs resting on yours.

About halfway through the movie, you got a call. “Sorry, I have to take this.” You whispered into Viv’s ear. Gently pulling your body away from underneath hers. Some of your teammates shot you questioning looks. “It’s okay, just keep playing the movie. I’ll be right back.”

You moved into the hallway of Jill’s apartment, closing the door behind you to block the noise that was coming from the living room before you picked up the phone.

Viv looked after you, sad to have lost the comfort that you were giving her. Alanna noticed the longing looks she was sending to the door. “Viv, do you really think she likes that you're so clingy?" The question came out rougher than intended, but Alanna went with it anyway.

Her head turned to Alanna and the rest of the girls. “Yeah, why wouldn’t she?” Viv asked with her brow slightly furrowed. Surely if you didn’t like her doing so, you would have told her by now.

The movie was paused and all attention was on the conversation now. “Well, it’s just that I’ve never seen her be touchy with anyone. In fact I’ve seen her push people off or tell them off when they’re touching her for too long.”

Some of the girls chuckled, and Lauren added, “It’s commonly known that she doesn’t like it when people touch her.” A statement that came with a few nods from the rest of the girls.

Before you could say anything, Jill jumped in. “Yeah, well you guys don’t know y/n outside of City. I grew up with those two, they’ve always been like this.”

Kerstin build up Jill’s point more. “Literally. When I joined them at the national team, I for real thought they were dating.”

Viv’s cheeks turn red at Kerstin’s words, peaking the interest of the team even further than the conversation about if you liked the clinginess or not.

You returned to the living room and all eyes were on you. It felt a little uneasy, so you quickly sat down next to Viv again. But instead of her leaning into your side like she usually did, she kept sitting up straight. It looked like she was actively making sure that she wasn’t touching you.

The whole situation felt awkward. The movie paused, and all eyes on you. Well, all eyes except Viv’s, who seemed to be ignoring you at all costs. “Can someone please tell me what’s going on?”

Jill exchanged a quick look with Alanna before speaking up, deciding it was best if she took the lead in answering. “We were just talking about how close you and Viv are. Nothing bad!”

Your eyes narrowed at the addition of the ‘nothing bad’. No one ever added that when that was the case.

"Right," Lauren added, trying to lighten the mood but failing miserably. "We were just saying it’s surprising—since you’re not usually, you know, touchy with anyone."

You look between them, a frown forming on your face. “Okay, and?” You didn’t like when people analysed you in the first place, but why did they have to bring Viv into it?

“Well,” Alanna spoke up after the rest of the team seemed to hesitate. “we were wondering if you’re actually okay with it. You don’t really let people touch you ever. But Jill said you two have been this way for ages, and that’s kind of where the conversation ended.”

Viv’s posture and refusal to meet your eye, suddenly made sense. They had said something to make her doubt herself, or even worse make her doubt you and your actions.

“Seriously?” You snap at them, feeling the anger boil inside your chest. “Don’t you have something better to do than analyse who I let into my personal space?”

The team looked taken back, not expecting your anger. You realised it had come out sharper than intended, so after taking a deep breath, you softened your tone. “Look, I know I’m not the most affectionate person, but it’s Viv. I don’t mind Viv being clingy. And if you think for a second that I would let anyone do anything that I didn’t want, you don’t know me at all.”

The team knew very well that you knew you would stand your ground and not let anyone walk over you, so they should’ve realised that you would’ve also not let Viv do something you didn’t like.

Finally Viv looked up at you, her fingers still fidgeting with the sleeves of her hoodie. “You really don’t mind?”

You shake your head and reach for her hand. “No, not at all. I like it even.” With a gentle tug at her hand, you pull her back into your side.

The rest of the girls kept watching you, as you pulled Viv closer and wrapped your arm around her. “Can we please move on and continue watching this movie?”

Viv lightly chuckled at the girls mumbling their sorry’s as they turned back to the TV. You squeeze her a little tighter. “Don’t let them get to your head. If you ever question something, please just come to me.” She nodded her head, and got comfortable again.

-----

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averycutesalamander · 3 months ago

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ok SOMEBODY at hoyo knew what they were doing with that encounter in the new event right

reader + boothill are already in a relationship. gn reader. nsft / 18+ content. extremely poor hardware etiquette in the form of wire play. you know how it goes. also on ao3

For a split second, when Boothill pulls you into that alley hours after dark, you're certain that you're about to have to beat some mugger's ass for daring to lay hands on you. But as you whip around, you see familiar eyes – so you suppose you should spare him the pain.

"What in the ever-loving fuck is wrong with you?" you scold, swatting him away; you hiss when your knuckles smack right into his metal.

"What, ain't ya happy to see me, sugar?" he bemoans, and you frown when you hear his voice. The normally subtle static that's beneath it has multiplied several times over, crackling like he's speaking over an old radio.

"I'd be a lot happier if you didn't scare the shit out of me," you mutter dryly. "What's up with your voice?"

He sighs in a way that seems genuinely weary, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. "Yeah, that's why I pulled ya in here." He raps his knuckles on his abdomen, and something about the hollow sound feels exceptionally humorous right now. "Somethin' went all fudgin' screwy, n' now I'm havin' all sorts a' problems. Vision's shortin' out, mostly. Sensitivity settings are all forked up, too."

You frown, now genuinely concerned. "Are you alright, honeybee? Any pain?"

His lip quirks a little fondly. "Nah. Just a pain in the ash, if ya feel me. Real issue is that I can't reach the damn panel that's causin' problems."

"…So why don't you go to the mechanic?"

"Well, I would, but there's nobody safe in this city, n' I've got a target lurkin' around here somewhere." He scratches his cheek, looking particularly annoyed. "Don't wanna leave n' let the bastard slip while I'm gone, but if I go for him now, my eyes might go out at a bad time."

You nod slowly. "So you need me to give you a hand, huh?"

"If it ain't too much trouble," he drawls, as if he doesn't love to pester you at every possible opportunity.

Slowly, you smirk, leaning against the wall of the alley. "I think you're forgetting something."

For a moment, he blinks at you cluelessly. You can practically see the gears churning in his brain. When it finally clicks, he rolls his eyes and sighs like you've just sentenced him to death, although he can't quite contain the little quirk of his lip.

"Please, sweetpea?" he whines.

"You can do better than that," you tut, waggling your finger at him dramatically.

He sighs even harder than the last time, and suddenly, he has you on the back-foot, because he steps close and leans toward you, one hand braced on the wall next to you. Your heart stutters in your chest when he hooks a finger under your chin, his mouth twisting into a victorious grin.

"Pretty please, angel? Won't ya give your poor ol' lover a hand?" he purrs, the heat of his breath washing over your lips. "I'll be good for you, honey. Promise. I can reward ya, too, if that's what you're after."

You blink at him, your brain completely empty. "I– Um…"

He leans just a bit closer, so close to your lips that you can almost feel the warmth of him, and you make a strangled noise when he suddenly freezes, scowling heartily. "Eyes just went out again," he grumbles, pulling away. You're immediately dissatisfied with the distance. "Can't even see the look on your face now."

God, he is such a bastard. "Alright, alright. Let's get on with it." Then, you grin wickedly. "Pants off."

He gapes at you. "What the fork did you just say?"

You bark out a laugh. Worth it. "Well, I don't know where the panel is. Could be in your ass, for all I know."

He guffaws, shaking his head fondly. "It's on my back."

"Close enough."

He grumbles something under his breath, then turns around.

"Right, uh…" There's a faint click, a whirr, and a hiss, and suddenly, one of the plates near the center of his back pops open ever-so-slightly. "See the plate above the chargin' port? The one that just came loose? Should be a lil' button ya can push behind the dip at the top. Uh… Press twice."

You hum as you lean closer, following his direction. Your touch is gentle, but he shivers anyway as you find the button. You press it twice in rapid succession, jumping a little as the plate pops out even further, sliding up and out of the way – but you're even more startled by the way he hisses, hunching against the wall.

"Son of a–" he grits out.

Your heart jumps with alarm. "You okay, bee?"

"Yeah, j– just… Sensitivity's all over the place right now," he says, sounding strained.

Damn. This must be worse than you thought. Now you're sort of regretting teasing him. "Right. I'll be careful."

You kneel down behind him, fumbling to grab your phone and turn on the light. Now that you can actually see, you more carefully examine the structure within. The titanium structure of his spine is blocking most of your view, but you'll have enough space to stick your hand in around it. It's a surprisingly organized nest of wires, but damn are there a lot.

"Uh… circuit board near the top left," he says, a subtle shake to his voice. "Should be some loose wires in there, if I'm right."

You squint, having to kneel a little further to get a glimpse of it. You angle your phone light, and sure enough, you can see the one he's talking about. There's a kaleidoscope of colored wires attached, but two of them are dangling and disconnected.

"Yeah, I see them. There's a black one and a green one, and a red one that looks kinda loose."

He sighs with some measure of relief, his voice crackling with static. "Plug those back in, n' it should be good. Ports should be labelled."

Carefully, you reach in, fixing your fingers around the black wire. But the moment you line up the connector and start to fit it into the corresponding port, he gasps raggedly. You freeze, your eyes darting up in concern. You can see his fingers digging into the brick beside him, shaking subtly.

"Are you alright?" you ask, genuinely worried.

He makes a strangled noise in reply, and the moment you pull the wire away, he slumps like a puppet with cut strings. You can hear his whole body rattling, the metal plates clinking against each other in a way that might've been comical if you weren't so concerned.

You can hear the audible noise of him swallowing. "I– I'm fine. Just…"

Suddenly, it hits you.

You've helped him with issues like this before, and you know what he sounds like when he's in pain. This is very decidedly not like that. If anything, it sounds a lot like…

"Oh my god," you blurt before you can stop yourself. "Are you– Is this–"

"Shut your damn mouth," he whines, and in a blink, the entire situation flips on its head.

You grin, wide and devious. "Baby's feeling a little sensitive, huh?" you croon.

"I said, shut your damn– Ah!"

He gasps when you press the connector against the port again, just barely fitting it in; you can see the plastic clips meant to lock it bending, ready to snap into place, but you're hovering just millimeters too far for it to be fully seated. You sit there, waiting as you watch him shake, oh-so quietly whimpering under his breath.

"Just– P– Please, just…" he whines, tight and desperate, and it goes right down your spine and settles in your gut. Fuck, it should be a crime to sound that pretty. He's so unfair.

Finally, you click it into place, and his whole body shudders like you just took the head of his cock into your mouth.

Oh, you can't believe you've never done something like this before. It's so hard to wreck a man that can literally numb his nerves at a moment's notice, but right now, he's utterly at your mercy.

"This don't even… I– I shouldn't be– be able to feel that," he pants.

You hum in consideration. "Are any of these wires connected to anything essential?"

He laughs in a way that's almost comically nervous. "W– What? I… No, but–"

You grab the blue wire on the left, pinch the clips locking it into the port, and pull.

His voice crackles with static as he moans, clapping a hand over his mouth to stifle the sound. You don't relent, though, because you press it right back in, jamming it into place mercilessly. His hips actually buck at that, and that plants a very, very devious thought in your mind.

Without pushing the clips in to unlock it, you grab the wire by the connector and slowly tug on it, applying pressure as his voice breaks.

"B– Baby, oh, you can't– I–"

Without letting go, you get to your feet, pressing as close to his back as you can. You fumble to turn off your phone light, then shove it carelessly in your pocket. With your newly freed hand, you reach around toward his front, resting your fingers on his belt and leaning in close to his ear.

"Take your cock out, bee," you purr, slowly beginning to slide the leather out of the loop. You can see him shiver at the sound of your voice so close.

"You're c– crazy," he hisses, then gasps as you reverse the pressure on the wire, now pushing inward against the circuit board. He doesn't stop you as you undo his belt, though, tugging it to release the buckle and letting it fall away.

"Yeah," you croon, your fingers seeking out the button on his jeans. "And you like it, don't you?"

You don't give him a chance to reply, because you suddenly switch over to the black wire again, going by touch as you pinch the clips and pull it back out. He makes a strangled noise, bucking his hips again as you lower his zipper.

You're proven right when you hear the subtle whirr of machinery, of his plates rearranging as he takes out his cock from its internal compartment. You grin wickedly, rewarding him by clicking the wire back into place. He moans, long and ragged into the palm of his hand, but he's so loud that it doesn't do much to muffle it.

"Careful, baby. Don't wanna get too loud, do you?" Without giving him time to recover, you swap over to where you think the red wire is, gradually beginning to rock it against the port but not letting it snap into place. "It'd be a shame if someone saw you like this, moaning like a little whore for me. Or maybe you'd enjoy that, huh?"

His hips jolt again, and you're certain that he's already dripping with precome. "T– That's not… You–"

You cut him off by grasping his tip, snickering quietly at the wetness you find there. So easy. He damn near wails at the pressure, his whole body shaking as he tries to strangle the sounds you're prying out of him. You're relentless, though, slowly pumping your fist down his shaft and smearing the lubricant under your touch.

"No? You wouldn't?" you hum. You lean closer, so close that your lips graze his ear. "You're such a liar. You're dripping, honey."

He shakes his head, but he can't deny the way that he shudders with the next pass of your hand. "'S not– Mm! N– Not fair–"

"Yeah, it isn't, huh?" You pinch the clips to prevent the wire from locking, then press it all the way in. "I could do anything to you right now, baby. And you probably wouldn't even be able to stop me."

Slowly, you start to rock the connector in and out, even and steady in the same rhythm you'd fuck him with. He pants into his palm, whimpering with every pass.

"Oh, but let's be honest… You wouldn't stop me anyway, would you?" you croon, grinning deviously. "You like this, don't you? You like being at my mercy?"

He doesn't reply, occupied as he is. He starts to buck his hips in time with the movement of the wire, fucking your fist with a desperation that has your mouth watering. You still your hand, forcing him to take initiative. He takes up the task in your stead without a breath of complaint, rocking into your grip desperately.

Slowly, you start to lightly twist the connector, feeling the resistance of the port as you ease the pressure on.

"Answer me, bee."

"Yes!" he gasps, and you smile, rewarding him for his honesty by releasing the wire. You go to a new one you haven't fiddled with yet, then pull it out without ceremony just to hear him whine.

"Good boy," you purr, and you can actually feel his cock twitch against your palm, his hips stuttering. God, that never gets old.

You slow down the pace you're moving the wire with, and a thrill runs up your spine when his hips instinctively follow your guidance. You tighten your grip around his cock just a little, listening to his breath hitch. You can hear the slick noise of him fucking into your fist, the sound of his precome smearing obscenely along the length of him. Part of you mourns the fact that you can't suck him off in this position, but the way he's shivering under your touch is too perfect.

"F– Faster, please– Oh! Please, sugar…"

The confirmation that he's following your pace is fucking intoxicating. There's something absolutely euphoric about having a man this powerful quaking under your touch, begging you for permission.

"Yeah? Greedy boy wants more?" you hum, nibbling at his ear just to feel him jump. Cruelly, you slow the pace of the wire even further, grinning when he whines in open frustration. Despite that, though, he follows your lead, slowing down to a crawl as his cock twitches under your fingers.

"Please. Need more. I'll– I'll do anything, baby, please," he whimpers, hunching even further against the wall.

A tempting offer, admittedly… But you have something planned already, so you'll let it slide for now.

You click the red wire back into place, then grasp onto the green. He takes a ragged breath when you slide it in, pinching the clips yet again to grant you free movement. Then, you start to rock it into him, just like before, gradually speeding up the pace. He moans brokenly into his palm, thrusting into your fist with a desperation that feels almost animalistic in its intensity. He chokes when you start to move your hand with him, his hips stuttering frantically as his cock twitches.

He gasps with the next pass, his whole body rattling. "I'm– Oh, honey, I'm–"

"Don't come yet," you murmur. "I'm not done."

He's shaking so hard that it might've been a little concerning if you weren't so busy savoring it. There's something so exceptional about wrecking him like this, about ruining him like this. With his plates open, you can hear the quiet hiss of his hydraulics tightening, shivering in preparation for a devastating orgasm. You can feel his internals heating up, the air around your hand steadily warming as his body fights to dispel the building heat.

He bows his head, his voice crackling as he groans. He's nearly unintelligible when he stutters, "I– I can't–"

"What, can't help yourself? Gonna come?" you croon, your voice tilting with mockery. "Go on, pretty boy. See what happens. Just don't be mad at me when you pay the price."

Eager to torture him, you speed up just a little more, tightening your fingers around his length as he struggles. His head shakes frantically, and he starts to babble; his voice is beginning to go out, rendering his words completely incomprehensible. You swear you can feel his heartbeat echoing through his entire body, rapid and thunderous. His fist is balled up tight, pressing hard against the wall as if the tension can save him. But he's the one fucking into your hand like a dog; he's the one moaning like a whore into his palm; he's the one tightening like a spring, ready to burst at a moment's notice.

With a whisper, you break him. "Come."

You can feel the moment he snaps like a bowstring.

He cries out your name as he reaches his peak, so loud that it makes your heart jump before his voice shorts out entirely. His cock jumps and twitches in your palm as come spills out of him, hitting the brick below in thick ropes. It'd feel like a waste if he didn't sound so fucking incredible right now. You follow his pace as his hips jerk, chasing the stimulation, dragging out his high for as long as possible.

It's almost a pity that his voice went out. He always sounds so fucking pretty, all broken and needy in a way that makes you hungry.

Gradually, he slows, his breath hitching uncontrollably as he bucks shallowly into your grasp. With a final whimper as you click the wire into place once more, he falls limply against the wall, still rattling with the aftershocks as he pants.

You really wish you could see him. The face he makes after he comes is always stunning.

…That'll have to wait, though – because you have unfinished business.

Without warning, you ruthlessly yank out one of the wires, smiling as a startled moan tears from his throat. It gets even louder when you rub your thumb tauntingly across his tip, cruelly grinding the pad of your finger into the very end of his head. Then, you start to stroke his cock again in earnest. Your grin widens when he jolts, struggling against your grasp as if he couldn't overpower you in the blink of an eye.

"B– Baby, wait, wait, I can't–" he pants, his voice straining, then breaking as you pull another wire.

"I told you you'd pay for it," you sing. "Don't act surprised."

You speed up, stroking his cock even faster as he twitches and squirms. You pull another, savoring the ragged moan that tears out of him.

"Mercy– Oh! Mercy, baby, please–"

You pull another. His hips jolt involuntarily into your fist.

"That's not the safe word," you coo.

You can't remember the last time you heard him this wrecked. It's glorious. He pants and whines, his back arching when you swipe your thumb across his head again.

"I'm–"

His voice cuts out entirely when you pull the next one.

You don't feel bad about it. If he really wanted you to stop, all he'd have to do it reach down and grab your wrist, or even just tap you twice. He's not going to, though.

You know very well that he loves this just as much as you do.

Which is why you don't feel guilty about pulling another wire, then another, then another, steadily speeding up the pace of your hand. With his voice cut off, the only noise is the sound of his heavy breathing, the obscene noise of you stroking his cock, the click of wires being disconnected, and the quiet hum of machinery that always radiates from him – though the latter is exceptionally loud right now. You can feel his body shuddering again, already forced back to the brink.

"Go on, bee," you purr. "Go ahead. One more time for me, sweet boy."

You plug in the cord connected to his voice just in time to hear the broken wail that wrenches from his throat. It's loud, and if nobody heard the two of you before, they probably have now – but frankly, you don't give a damn when he sounds that fucking pretty, that fucking perfect. You work him through it, remaining steady while he shakes and shivers under your grasp. Another load spills against the wall, though plenty of it leaks onto your hand this time, smearing under your fingers, thick and creamy and damn, you really want to taste him.

His comedown is much faster this time around, and it feels a bit like he crashes back into reality. The moment his whimpering changes, edged with genuine discomfort, you let him go. All at once, he slumps down into the wall, panting raggedly.

His breath hitches when you take your hand off his cock. You don't even think twice before laving your tongue across your palm, swiping up the mess he left there. It's as mild as usual, musky and tangy and a little salty, but it's the gesture that has your heart skipping more than anything.

When you get the worst of it off, you unceremoniously wipe your hand on your pant leg. No need for modesty at this point. "Want me to reconnect everything, honeybee?"

Wordlessly, he nods, moving with the sort of mellow lethargy that usually arrives on the coattails of orgasms. Your lips quirk, but, true to your word, you get back onto your knees to peer back into his internals.

You quickly switch on your phone light again (and make a mental promise that you'll clean it later), then get to work fitting everything back in their proper places. He shudders and whines with every click, but you don't tease him any further, certain that he's probably worn out by now. You make short work of the rest, and when you settle the final one into place, he sighs and somehow slumps even further into the wall.

With your phone returned to your pocket, you get back to your feet, watching with no small amount of interest as the plate on his back withdraws and clicks back into place. His body is so damn fascinating. You've got to ask him to give you a full tour, one of these days.

Now, though, you lean up and curl your arms around his waist, molding tightly to his back. He's warm, still dispelling the heat he'd built up, and you're shameless about basking in it. Although…

You can't help yourself. Smugly, you begin, "So, that–"

"Not a word," he growls, though you're somewhat relieved to note that his voice is back to normal.

You can't bite back a snicker. "Look, if I knew you were this into wire play, I would've–"

Your heart leaps into your throat when he whirls around, grabbing you by the throat and surging forward to press you against the opposite wall, though he's careful to shield your head from the brick with his other palm.

"You just don't know when to quit, do ya?" he rumbles, low and smoky. "Always runnin' your mouth like I can't make ya pay for it."

You freeze like a prey animal that's just realized it's been cornered. Your heart pounds in your chest, strong and fast. For a long, silent moment, he observes you with that glint in his eyes – that look that tells you that he's plotting.

Uh oh.

"Y'know, my joints are feelin' a lil' dry," he says carefully, his eyes burning into you. "I could probably use a lil' lubrication."

Uh oh.

He releases your throat and presses his hand on your shoulder, then slowly, steadily pushes you to your knees. Your eyes immediately gravitate toward his cock, and you swallow dryly at the sight; a heavy line of come is dripping from his head, tempting your lips, your tongue. He's so close that you would only need to lean forward just a bit to lick it away.

Your heart stutters when he grasps your jaw, forcing you to crane your neck up at him. His eyes glint red in the dark, and his grin is as sharp as his teeth.

"You'll help me out, won't ya, sugar?"

Oh, you're in trouble.

(How lucky for you that trouble with him is always fun.)

tag list ♥

@opheliaflavoredinstantnoodles @ikeagroceries @shadowstadium @theswashbucklingspy @cosmo112 @fxngtasy @rinzis

#sal.txt #cannot believe how fast i cranked this out honestly #boothill x reader #boothill #hsr x reader #gn reader #x reader #reader insert #smut #if i find any grammar errors in this im gonna end it all

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