#it’s not enough to listen to this clip i need it inside of me like an implant to carry around at all times

[hyunpic]

HYUNJIN’S FULL SOLO STAGE

[marvelstoriesepic]

Different, this time

Pairing: Fuck buddy!Bucky x Reader

Summary: After the hospital visit and the doctor’s diagnosis, Bucky is plagued with guilt. He won’t touch you again until he is absolutely sure that you’re okay. Once you manage to reassure him, you both discover what it truly means to make love, rather than just fucking with suppressed feelings. And it’s overwhelming in the best way.

Word Count: 10.3k

Warnings: (18+) explicit sexual content, mdni; sickly sweet smut; oral (f receiving); fingering; soft aftercare; mentions of physical pain during sex (past); mentions of cervical bruising; slight mentions of medical scenes; panic attacks (graphic and mentioned); guilt; emotional distress; crying; themes of healing and emotional vulnerability; sad!Bucky; panicked!Bucky; sweetheart!Bucky; lots and lots of worried!Bucky

Author’s Note: Help, I might have ruined myself for any other real man with this. Y’all, this is my first time writing smut, so please be kind!! But I'm not gonna lie, I genuinely loved writing this. Soo I guess, this won’t be the last time you'll have me sharing some smut!! To make things clear, this is the second part to In too deep!! Btw, I was a bit nervous about whether I’d be able to get back into writing longer fics so smoothly, after the 2k drabble challenge, but I’d say I’ve managed lmao. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part One

Masterlist

The car is too quiet.

Outside, the streetlights flicker as if they’re forgetting how to glow.

You are in the passenger seat, watching the world blur past in smudges of gold and grey, your hands folded in your lap, afraid of what they might do if left unsupervised.

The car makes a soft and steady sound beneath you but everything inside feels tight. Too tight.

Like a breath, you haven’t taken.

Bucky hasn’t said a word since you left the hospital.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. White like fear. White like bone. White like guilt.

You glance over at him.

He’s staring straight ahead, eyes fixed, unmoving. His jaw is locked so tightly it looks like pain. There is a muscle twitching beneath the skin. Just beneath the hinge of his jaw, like something trying to break free.

The dashboard casts its pale light against his side profile. The soft stutter of passing streetlamps blink shadows across his hardened face.

You try to speak softly. “Bucky-”

“You sure you’re okay?” he interrupts, fast. Too fast. His voice is low but cracked, words splintering on their way out.

You nod before you realize he’s not looking. “Yes,” you say, slower. “I’m sure.” He’s asked about fifteen times in the last twenty minutes. But you think it actually should be you asking him.

The doctor told you that it was a cervical contusion in that although soft but clipped and clinical tone. Said that the bleeding would stop, that the pain would ease, that you were going to be fine - physically.

And the way Bucky flinched after that suggested he was perhaps doing worse than you.

He’s asked a few questions, asked how to treat it, asked what you might need, asked what he can do, but his voice was rough and close to giving out. He sat beside you in that too-white room, hands clenched in his lap, jaw locked as though he could grind down the guilt if he just kept his teeth pressed hard enough. He kept looking at your legs, at the blanket they gave you, as though he was waiting for the blood to start flowing again. As though he’d never trust your body not to break under him.

He listened when your doctor explained that it was moderate, but healing and there would be no lasting damage. You should just give it time and be gentle.

But Bucky didn’t hear healing.

He only heard damage.

He hadn’t said anything after that anymore. Just nodded, once. Swallowed hard. Signed the papers with a hand that shook so violently you had to cover it with yours.

You watch him now, his breath thinning.

“Buck,” you ease softly. “I’m okay. She said it’s healing, alright? I’ll be fine.”

Bucky shakes his head once. Sharp. A slice through the silence. “She said it could’ve been worse. That it could’ve-” He swallows loud, and doesn’t finish the sentence.

“But it’s not,” you remind him gently, almost wanting to reach out but not knowing if he needs that right now.

But Bucky doesn’t answer.

Then, you do reach for his arm, tenderly. Fingers brushing over his sleeve. But he flinches. Not from you. From himself. From the memory.

“Buck-”

“I should’ve noticed,” he snaps, and his voice breaks. Just a little. A fracture, clean through. “You said yes. You always say yes, and I- I should’ve seen it- I should’ve fucking known-”

His foot slips heavier on the gas.

The lane lines start to blur.

“Bucky,” you say again, firmer.

But he doesn’t answer.

His eyes dart from the windshield to the mirrors, unfocused. His shoulders have hiked up around his ears. His left hand twitches, his right one follows, tapping the wheel with restless, erratic beats.

His breathing is shallow. Too fast.

You can feel the swell of something too big inside him, pressing against his ribs, rising like floodwater. His grip on the wheel has gone rigid, too stiff for control. His shoulders are locking up.

“Bucky-”

His chest heaves harshly.

He blinks - once, twice - too slow.

His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle fluttering beneath his skin. His breath is sharp, teeth grinding as he sucks in through his nose and lets it out in gasps through his mouth.

“I hurt you,” he croaks, voice undone, shredded. “I fucking hurt you- I was inside you- I didn’t even see-”

The wheel jerks. Just for a second. Enough to drift too close to the lane line.

You shoot forward in your seat. Alarm ringing in your ears.

“I-” he gasps, blinking fast. “Y/n, I can’t- I can’t- I didn’t mean- I didn’t mean to-”

Reaching over to grab the wheel, you wrap your hands about Bucky’s, forcing it steady.

“Okay, okay, I got it. I’ve got you, baby. But we have to pull over.”

Bucky is trembling now. Hands frozen. Breath ragged. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face, catching the glow of a red traffic light.

You guide the car gently to the side, one hand over his as you steer, the other flicking on the hazards, keeping your voice and your movements calm for the sake of Bucky’s rising panic attack even as your heart thunders in your chest.

Bucky brakes too hard and too fast, the tires stuttering on the asphalt as though they are afraid of where he’ll go if they don’t stop him. The moment the engine falls quiet, the silence screams.

And Bucky falls apart.

His head drops forward. Hands over his eyes. Whole body shaking.

He’s still in the driver’s seat but he’s not in his body. His breathing is wild. His chest is heaving in sharp and panicked pulls and you realize he’s trying to get in air but can’t. His left hand is rashly fumbling for the door handle to keep himself tethered.

“Bucky,” you whisper, already unbuckling your seat belt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

But he doesn’t hear you. He is stuck in some dark, echoing place inside himself and it won’t let him out.

Without hesitation, you move over the console and climb into his lap, settling gently on his thighs, facing him, your knees pressed into the edges of the seat.

Your hands come to his face, cradling it carefully - thumbs brushing over the hollow beneath his eyes, the flushed heat of his cheeks. His skin is clammy, cold.

He still can’t breathe.

You press your forehead to his. Anchor him.

His eyes squeeze together tightly.

“Hey, hey. Look at me, Buck. It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He shakes his head, choking out words you can’t make out because they all end up in a sob.

“James,” you start, and this time your voice is different. This is the sound you make when you’re scared and concerned and you need him to come back. “James. Breathe with me. You’re here with me. We’re okay.”

He shakes his head again, but it’s jerky, frantic.

“I hurt you,” he whimpers. “I hurt you. I should’ve known. I should’ve stopped-”

“No, no. Stop. Listen to me,” you whisper, voice low, brushing his tear-damp hair back from his face. “You checked in on me and I told you I was okay. I said I was fine. You trusted me, Bucky. That’s not your fault.”

He’s still trembling. Still trying to outrun the guilt in his lungs.

But you don’t move. You stroke his hair back, kiss his temples, his forehead, his nose.

His eyes finally meet yours. They are wide and wet and red, brimming with horror. He looks as though he wants to disappear inside himself.

You keep hold of his face, brushing tears away so tenderly. “It was my body. My voice. You didn’t know, and I didn’t tell you. That’s not on you. You never hurt me on purpose. I need you to hear that, Bucky.”

His chest heaves once, twice, then breaks apart with a cry. He pulls you closer, buries his face in your neck. His arms wrap around you like a man drowning.

“I’m sorry,” he sniffs again and again. “I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes and run your fingers through his hair, slow and grounding.

“I know,” you whisper back. “I know you are. But you don’t have to be. I just need you here with me. Right now. Just breathe, Buck.”

And you guide him through it. Deep breathes. In and out. He follows.

And you hold him. As though he’s the one who’s breakable now.

****

You’ve never known silence like this.

Not the kind that’s empty. Not the kind that comes after slamming doors and burnt-out candles and sharp things unsaid. No, this silence is soft. Living. It seeps into your lungs and expands with each inhale, as though it wants to make space for something new.

Bucky is in the kitchen, stirring a spoon through a mug of tea as though it’s the most important thing in the world.

You’re sitting on his couch, knees tucked to your chest, wrapped in one of his henleys that hangs too big on you in all the right places. It’s quiet in your head for the first time in what feels like weeks.

The sky outside has folded into a kind of blue that feels more like velvet than color. The windows are cracked open, the summer breeze floating in, lazy and gold-edged, breathing over your skin like a whisper of someone who never learned to shout.

You’ve been here since late afternoon.

And everything smells like home at his place. Like Bucky. Cedar and cotton and chamomile. There’s a ticking of the wall clock he always pretends not to hate. Next to you lay the neatly folded blanket Bucky always pulls onto your lap when the AC kicks in too high.

Bucky brings you the tea like he always does and doesn’t let go of the mug until he’s sure your fingers are steady around it.

Then he sits down beside you, careful and close. His arm brushes yours and then he pulls back as though even that was too much. His eyes search yours. They always do now. As if he’s checking the weather behind your gaze before he says anything.

“You feelin’ okay?” he asks, voice rough. He probably hasn’t spoken all day before you came over.

You nod, and it’s mostly true. “I’m okay,” you say softly. “I promise.”

The TV is playing something you’re only half-watching, some indie movie with subtitles and sad music.

Bucky lets his arm drape behind your shoulders, over the back of the couch and you hear his fingers tracing the stitches in the seam of the couch. His gaze drifts to the TV but you know he’s not really watching. His eyes flick across the screen but his mind is somewhere else still. You don’t have to guess where.

That weight, that guilt, hasn’t let up.

And it’s not just the incident itself - it’s the panic he spiraled into afterward, the way you had to calm him down when you were the one who had been in pain. That’s what sits the heaviest on him, you think. That you comforted him, wrapped your arms around his trembling frame, and whispered soothing reassurances while your body was still in fresh pain.

You watch the line of his profile, the glimmer of the screen painting shadows beneath his cheekbone. He hasn’t shaved in a few days, and there is a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there when you were only fuck buddies.

You’ve talked a lot. About everything. The incident. The aftermath. Your relationship. About what it all means and what it doesn’t, about what you both want and what you both fear. The hard words are behind you now, sorted and softened. And you’re not just his maybe anymore. You’re his. Official. Quietly, fully.

And still, he treats you as though you might not be. As though you’re a snowflake he caught in his hands and he’s afraid to close his fingers.

He’s still scared. Scared of doing something wrong. Scared of missing something again. Scared of hurting you again. You feel it in the way he touches you now - fingertips like feathers on your skin, always asking with and without words if you’re okay. Always watching, always listening.

He treats you like glass now. But glass that’s already cracked.

And you’ve tried to tell him again and again that you’re fine.

But Bucky has always been hard on himself. Especially when it comes to you and your well-being.

His fingers brush your shin slightly and the contact strikes, heat blooming low in your stomach.

You shift closer and Bucky’s attention snaps to you. He watches you move, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips and then darting back up, catching himself. You’re not sure if it’s nerves or habit, that reflex to hesitate.

But he’s been hesitating for weeks.

Weeks of healing. Weeks of slow walks and softer kisses and quieter touches.

You haven’t had sex since.

You wanted to. You were ready. But Bucky wanted to wait. To be sure. To be careful. To do it right this time.

And you let him. You let him wrap you in all that caution and care. Let him fuss and hover and bring you your favorite snacks, let him hold you through the night without reaching for anything more than the sound of your breathing against his chest. You let him because it’s what he needed.

But you are fine now.

Your body doesn’t ache anymore. You’ve healed. Fully. You know this because you’ve checked. Alone. With your fingers and your breath and the soft test of space. And you’ve told him, more than once. But Bucky is stubborn with his guilt, protective.

So you’ve waited. Because you love him.

But you notice the way Bucky keeps glancing at you, his eyes catching on your thighs, the shape of your mouth, the way his shirt hangs loose on your frame every time you wear it.

You notice it right now.

Moving your feet, you place them right on Bucky’s lap and feel the shift in his thigh muscle beneath you. The way his hand on your shin stills, the way the hand behind your shoulders drifts closer, then stops, fingers curling as though they’ve touched a flame.

“Movie’s boring,” you murmur, leaning your head on his shoulder, voice lazy with comfort.

He chuckles, a little breathless, a little nervous, low in his chest. “Didn’t even know what it was.”

His eyes catch yours. He’s looking at you as though you’ve said something profound.

Your hand slips up to cup his cheek, your thumb sweeping gently across the faint stubble there. His eyes flutter shut for a moment, as though your touch still startles him, still humbles him.

“Hi,” you whisper.

He swallows. Opens his eyes. Immediately, they drop to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. And again.

“Hi,” he breathes.

You lean in first.

The kiss is gentle. Familiar. Something well-loved.

He tastes of cinnamon and hesitation. He kisses you with a kind of slowness that seems almost like another apology, another question if you’re okay.

His hand finds your waist, the other brushes the back of your neck, and they hold you so carefully you want to cry. You press closer. Push into the kiss. Let it deepen.

And for a moment, with a soft groan, he lets go.

His grip tightens. His mouth opens. His body leans into yours, chest brushing chest, thighs pressing close.

His mouth moves with yours as though it remembers exactly where it left off. Deep. Thoughtful.

You sigh against him. The movie flickers behind your closed eyelids.

Your name escapes him in a breath, his hands tighten a fraction, shaking slightly. His breath stutters, the kiss deepens, and suddenly he’s pulling away.

His brows are furrowed and he looks at you slightly panting. “What are you doing?” he asks, cautious, worried.

You blink, lips swollen, a little dazed. You answer with a small, amused tilt of your head. “I’m kissing my boyfriend.”

He flushes visibly, face burning red, but he doesn’t smile, and that line between his brows doesn’t ease. His jaw flexes. “I just- I know we’ve talked,” he starts, voice hushed, breathy. “And you say you’re okay, but I just don’t wanna rush this. You know? I don’t want to push you. Or hurt you. Or do this just because I’m-”

He shifts slightly, adjusting himself. The movement reveals the hardening outline of him in his sweatpants.

“I’m not rushing, Buck. We-”

“I am though. I didn’t mean to- but it got kinda- fast, and-” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is tight now. “I just need to be sure, doll. I need to know you’re okay. Completely.”

You press your forehead to his, arms slipping around his neck. Your voice is a soft brush. “I am okay. Really. It’s been weeks, Bucky. Everything’s healed. The doctor said it. I said it. And I’m telling you again.”

He swallows. You feel it. That pulse in his throat working hard to steady itself. He looks at you, hard. Searching. Maybe trying to see inside you.

“I just… I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything.” A rough tremor runs through his voice.

“I don’t,” you ease quickly, shaking your head. “I want this, Bucky. And I’ve been listening to my body. I’m okay.” Leaning down, you kiss his jaw, just below his ear. He shivers. “And I trust you.”

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. His voice is thick, strained. “Still. I don’t wanna rush you. Not if there’s even a part of you that’s unsure. I mean- hell, what if- what if something hurts again? I couldn’t-”

You stop him gently with a hand to his chest. “Then we stop. Just like that. And we talk. Just like we’ve been doing.”

He stares at you for a moment. And you can see how words pool behind his eyes but don’t make it to his lips.

“Okay,” he whispers then, voice coarse. “Okay. Just… don’t want you to ever feel like you have to fix me by doing this. Don’t wanna take something from you just because I’ve got issues.”

“Hey.” You shake your head, fingers in his hair now. “That’s not what this is. I want this. I want you.”

He groans, quiet and exposed, tilting his head back against the cushion. His hands grip your hips. He’s flushed, already half-hard against your thigh and visibly trying to hide it.

You smirk a little. “Let me help with that.”

His eyes widen. “Doll-”

“I feel fine, baby,” you repeat, patient, but smiling. “I promise.”

“I’m not gonna let you do something just for me.” A rasp in his voice makes his words sound slightly scratchy.

You tilt your head. “Then maybe it’s for me. Ever think of that?”

He groans softly, hands squeezing you. “I’m trying to do the right thing-”

“Then let me show you I’m okay,” you state warmly.

His eyes close. A beat. Two. Three. He breathes out, slow.

You grin, your hands tracing circles over his chest. “I’m healed. I’m ready. You’re my boyfriend. What’s the problem here?”

He laughs something broken, something between admiration and disbelief. Then he sighs, eyes soft.

“You’re really okay?”

“I am.”

Pressing a tender kiss to your temple, he whispers into your ear, voice gravel. “We’ll go slow, yeah? Real slow. And you tell me if anything hurts, or if you’re uncomfortable.”

You nod immediately and brush his cheek lovingly and soothingly at the pain that’s still lingering in the corners of his voice. “I promise.”

****

He doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t dare.

Bucky lays you down as though you’re something he’s never been allowed to hold before - as if someone plucked the stars from the sky, wrapped them in silk, and gave them to him with a whispered don’t drop this.

It’s not rushed. It’s not eager. It’s not even lustful, not exactly.

It’s love. In slow motion. In devotion. In the way he arranges your body like a painting.

The cotton sheets are warm beneath you. Bucky kneels beside you, hovering, breathing slow and tight through his nose.

His hand cups your face. And he’s looking at you as though you are light. A glowing and living thing that he’s afraid to reach for too fast, he’s afraid of casting shadows on.

His gaze is soft and dark and unblinking. You can feel how full it is, how heavy. And it warms you. Like honey across your skin. Like sunrise slowly coming alive.

You smile up at him. “Bucky.” His name sounds like an invitation. Open. Safe. As though it belongs between your lips.

“I’m here,” he says, hardly a whisper. “You sure?” he asks, his voice low. Throaty. Careful. His thumb strokes your cheek as though it���s still asking.

You nod. But it’s not enough, so you pull him closer. Whisper against his mouth. “I want you.” A breath. “I trust you.”

He exhales all at once, and it comes out as a shiver.

After a pause, he leans down, kisses your forehead first. Then the top of your nose. Then, back to your mouth - and it’s gentle. It’s so gentle. As though he’s practicing reverence. Reminding himself you’re real.

“Tell me everything,” he murmurs. His hand on your cheek, your waist, your thigh. “I wanna know what feels good. What doesn’t. I want to hear every sound you make. I want to see your face every second. I wanna be right here with you, baby. Every second. You don’t gotta be quiet with me. Not ever.”

You nod, breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. Because this is love in a language that isn’t words.

And he’s fluent in it. Fluent in you.

His fingers slide up the hem of the shirt you’re wearing - his shirt. And he pauses again.

“Can I take this off?” His voice is low. Strained. Still asking. Still making space.

You nod again. “Please.”

He swallows. You feel the tremble in his hands as he lifts the fabric slowly, cautiously, peeling away something important. He watches your face the whole time. Checks for flinches. For hesitation. For any sign that you might change your mind.

You lift your arms for him, and he helps you out of it without ever breaking eye contact.

And suddenly your chest is bare.

And Bucky hasn’t looked away from your face.

You almost laugh. Maybe you even almost cry. He’s so careful. As though he genuinely wants to memorize your expression with every inch of skin he reveals.

Only after a beat - when you don’t hide, don’t shift away - do his eyes begin to travel downward.

You watch him watching you. And it’s not hunger you see. It’s awe.

He seems to see you in full color and it makes your skin prickle with pleasurable heat.

His fingers trail down your sides, featherlight. Your ribs. Your hips. He touches you as though he’s learning you all over again.

Then his thumb glides up to brush the underside of your breast. You feel him exhale through his nose, shaky.

“God,” he whispers, rolling the words out with care. “You’re so beautiful.”

You don’t say anything. Just reach up, tangle your fingers in his hair. Pull him down to kiss you again, slow and long and open.

And he melts.

He moves over you, between your legs, still careful, still holding most of his weight off you. And he takes his time kissing you, your lips, until his mouth follows the path of his hands. Trailing across your collarbone, down to the softest parts of you. Every kiss is a question. Every breath against your skin is a vow.

When he reaches your stomach, he pauses again. Resting his forehead there like a man at prayer.

He takes another shaky breath and you soothe your hands over his dark locks, treading your fingers into his hair. Your thumb traces the back of his neck, bringing him back to the present.

He exhales. It sounds like surrender. “You gotta know how much I love you, baby.”

You do. You’ve known it since that day those few weeks ago. You know it by the way he moves. By the way he treats you. By the way he touches you. By the way he doesn’t rush.

“I love you too, Buck,” you whisper sweetly and his breath is broken against your skin.

He presses a kiss to your hipbone. Then lower.

His hands are back at your thighs now - sliding under, lifting gently. He kisses the inside of your knee, then the soft skin just above it, his breath trembling.

“You’ll tell me if anything doesn’t feel right,” he says, looking up but not taking his lips off your skin.

“I will,” you promise, getting breathless already.

“And if you want to stop-”

“I’ll tell you,” you assure him, softly, firmly.

He nods.

Then he leans forward and lays a kiss over your pubic bone. So worshipful. So loving.

You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until his fingers ghost over the waistband of your underwear - and stop there.

“Still okay?” he breathes, so quiet, it almost doesn’t make it out of his mouth. But it carries so much. Every syllable wrapped in worry, wrapped in memory. He’s still afraid something will crack open inside you if he touches the wrong place, the wrong way.

You nod.

But that’s not enough.

“Say it,” he whispers, and there’s a tremor in his voice again. “I need to hear you say it.”

You reach for him. Take his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the apples of his cheeks. His skin is warm, flushed. His eyes are already glassy.

“I’m okay, baby,” you whisper, your voice soft but sure. “I want you to do this.”

With a pained exhaled sound and fluttering lashes, he nods and goes to kiss your thigh again. Then the dip of your hip. Then right beside the soft curve of your center. You feel the warm puff of his breath against the fabric and it makes your hips twitch.

And then he hooks his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and pulls them down. Slowly. Unwrapping something too precious to tear.

He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t let his gaze wander greedily. He watches your face, every second of it - watching for hesitation, for discomfort, for pain. But all you give him is anticipation.

When the fabric slips down your thighs, past your knees, and finally off the ends of your toes, he sets it aside so carefully it almost makes you laugh. As though it’s something important.

Then he settles between your legs again. And he just looks.

He drinks in the sight of you, as though he’s parched. As though you’re the first drop of water he’s seen in weeks. His tongue darts out, barely wetting his lips. His hands spread your thighs wider, gently. Tenderly. As though he’s parting pages in a sacred text.

“You’re so-” he swallows. “Jesus, you’re-”

But he doesn’t finish.

He lowers his mouth to you instead.

The first kiss between your legs is featherlight. Half a breath. But it makes your whole body arch, your breath stutter.

Bucky groans softly into you - a sound of both restraint and desperate, helpless desire.

“Sorry,” you pant, chest rising too fast. “I didn’t-”

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he rasps, voice dark with awe. “God, that was- do it again.”

And you do. You can’t help it.

He licks you again - slower this time. Broader. Firmer. His lips move with practice, but not routine. There’s nothing careless about the way he touches you. Every movement is deliberate. As though he’s re-learning you. Learning how you feel like being his. Utterly and completely. Studying the way your body blooms beneath his mouth.

And he keeps checking in.

He doesn’t ask again with words. He does it with his eyes, every time he lifts his gaze to yours. He does it with his hand, the way he curls his fingers around your hip but doesn’t grip, the way he strokes his thumb along your skin in circles, grounding you. The way he takes hold of your hand with his other, encouraging you to squeeze him in your pleasure.

You moan. Soft and breathy.

And Bucky’s whole body reacts - you can see it in the way his hips shift against the mattress, the way he groans into you as though your pleasure is his own.

And he’s holding himself back, still. You can see it in the tight line of his shoulders, the way his hand shakes a little as it holds your thighs open. He’s painfully hard. You can feel the heat of it, see the outline pressing into the sheets, but he doesn’t move to relieve it.

Because this moment is for you.

This is your healing, your pleasure, your gift.

And god, does he worship you.

He takes his time.

He kisses you between licks, soft and open-mouthed, as though he can’t decide whether he wants to devour you or just memorize you. His tongue moves in slow, perfect circles. Then strokes up. Down. Gentle flicks, patient and watchful. Never too much, never too fast.

He listens. Learns.

Every time your breath catches, every time your hips twitch and your fingers tighten against his hand and the sheets, he adjusts. Builds on it. Builds you.

“Tell me what feels good,” he breathes against you.

“Everything,” you gasp, struggling to take in air.

“Yeah?” He kisses your clit once, then again, light and tender. “Right here?”

You nod, too dizzy to speak, sighing softly.

He hums into you. “So good, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Your hands reach down, weaving through his hair and he groans when you pull just slightly.

He’s hard and leaking and untouched, but he still doesn’t seem to care. You’re shaking beneath his mouth and that’s all he needs.

“Bucky,” you whimper, high and trembling. “I’m- close-”

“I’ve got you,” he utters, fingers tightening just slightly on your hips. “I’ve got you, baby. Let go for me.”

And you do. You let yourself fall.

Gasping, shaking, your thighs clenching around his head and Bucky holds you through it. He stays there, mouth softening against you, kissing you through every aftershock. You don’t see him watching you. Slowing his movements. Letting you come down in your own time.

And when he finally comes up, his lips are wet and his eyes wild with wonder.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod. Voice gone. Words gone. Heart full.

And all he does is smile. The softest smile in the world.

You continue trembling when he climbs up your body again.

His hands frame your ribs, then your face, then your hair - as if he can’t decide which part of you he wants to hold first. His mouth is damp from you. His pupils are blown. But even with the flush of his skin, the pulse in his throat, the strain pressing hard against his boxers - he doesn’t rush.

He doesn’t even reach for himself yet.

He’s just looking at you. As though you’re art. His. And he’s still trying to build sense around that.

You lift a hand to his face. Trace his cheekbone, his brow, and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering.

“Your turn,” you whisper.

Uncertainty flashes through his eyes. “Only if you’re sure. We can stop here, baby.”

You smile warmly. “I’m aching for you, Barnes. Can’t leave me hanging here.”

His throat bobs. His cheeks burn deeper, as though you’ve spoken something too tender, too vulnerable.

But he nods.

And slowly, Bucky rises to his knees.

His fingers go to the hem of his shirt and you watch the fabric lift over his stomach, up his ribs, his chest, and then finally over his head.

And it never gets easier seeing him like this.

He’s stunning.

He is solid and sculptured and beautiful. His shoulders broad and corded with muscle, his waist lean, his skin golden in the soft bedroom light.

And still, he looks at you as if you are the masterpiece.

He hisses softly, when he frees himself out of his boxers, hard and heavy and flushed dark at the tip. He’s leaking, aching, but even now he doesn’t let that take over.

He braces above you, forehead pressed to yours, one hand sliding down to cup your face again.

“You’ll tell me,” he insists lowly, “if anything feels wrong.”

“I promise,” you respond quietly.

“And you’re sure you’re-”

“I feel perfect,” you interrupt gently. “Because of you.”

His breath hitches. You feel his body tense.

And still, he hesitates. He glances down your body, past your hot skin and the slick heat still dripping between your thighs. His fingers hover just below your navel.

“Let me- just one-” he murmurs, already sliding a hand between your legs. “Just want to make sure-”

But the moment his fingers glide through your folds, and he feels how wet you still are from his mouth, he lets out a deep, strangled groan.

His gaze jerks up to yours. Wide. Disbelieving.

“Oh,” you tease softly. “Surprised?”

He reddens deeply. Face and neck and chest. Even the tips of his ears turn pink. He twitches against your thigh.

“You really didn’t know what you were doing to me?” you whisper.

His eyes dart away for half a second - bashful. Then back to yours.

He leans in. Presses his lips to your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth. A trail of kisses.

“I just wanted to take care of you,” he breathes thickly. “Didn’t even think about- fuck, baby.”

You giggle softly, stroking the back of his neck. He groans again, burying his face in your neck and staying there for a few heartbeats, clinging to you.

But his hand stays between your legs. He doesn’t dive in. Just lingers. “Still have to make sure, yeah, baby?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod, soft. “Okay.”

And then he moves. Slowly. Carefully. He pulls his head back and his eyes fall between your legs. Then back to watch you. Watch your mouth, your eye, your breath.

His fingers dip lower, about to touch you in a way that means everything. You see his throat work around a swallow.

He sinks one finger in, soothingly and dragging it out. His other hand braces beside your hip as though he needs the ground. He stops at the first knuckle.

Watching your face. Searching. Always looking for a sign of pain.

You sigh, your mouth parting on a soft moan. Not from discomfort.

From relief. From the feel of him.

Bucky’s gaze flares.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod. “Yeah,” you breathe out.

He pushes in a little deeper. Then again. Until the full length of his finger is buried inside you.

You whimper. Arch, just slightly. His name slips out.

And Bucky stills. Blinks. As though the sound alone managed to take his breath away.

“Oh, fuck,” he exhales in a sigh. His gaze is so focused on you. He is all you can think about.

You bite your lip, watching him with stars in your eyes.

His fingers curl a little inside you and your breath catches again, back arching. And that has him groaning under his breath, leaning forward as though he just needs to be closer, deeper.

He kisses your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

And with his eyes on yours, he gently and ever so cautiously slips in another finger beside the first. This time even slower.

Your body shifts to accommodate him and he feels it. Feels the way you welcome him, wrap around him. How warm you are. How soft.

His breathing stutters.

You moan again.

And still, he stops. Right at the knuckle. Eyes locked on yours.

“You okay?” he rasps, halfway there to lose his voice.

“Yes,” you manage to get out, voice almost pleading. “More, Bucky, please-”

And he gives you more. Goes deeper. Until both fingers are sheathed inside you and he’s filling you just enough to make your toes curl, just enough for his name to fall off your tongue again in a way that almost leaves Bucky gasping.

He watches you. He doesn’t blink.

He curls his fingers gently, once, and when your hips lift off the mattress just a little, when your mouth falls open and your eyes flutter shut in pleasure, he groans again. Buries his face in your shoulder. Just like before.

“Jesus Christ,” he exclaims roughly.

You stroke the back of his neck.

His hands still inside you, as though he needs a second to breathe.

And after a few shaky breaths, he starts moving again. Fingers stroking that spot deep inside you, slow and perfect and gentle. His lips brush your shoulder. Your collarbone. He kisses your heart, trying to memorize how it beats.

And even though you feel his swollen member against your thigh, red and ready, he doesn’t move to use it.

Because you’re not ready until he is sure you are.

Not just wet. Not just eager. Ready.

So he watches you. Watches every moan. Every gasp. Every quiver of your thighs, every arch of your spine.

Until you fall apart on his fingers.

And it’s the way you come undone under the gentlest version of his touch, that truly seems to make him need you.

He slides his fingers out slowly after he guides you through your high, like an apology, like a thank you.

And meets your eyes. They are full. His voice is low when he speaks. Hoarse.

“Okay,” he starts. “Okay. I’m gonna start slow.”

You nod, biting your lip.

And he reaches down to line himself up.

There is a pause. A beat of stillness.

You feel the head of him pressing just barely against you. His breath catches. Your breath catches.

His eyes snap to yours. “Tell me if-”

“I will,” you promise, eagerness in your tone. “Just get in, honey.”

He pushes in. The stretch is slow. So, so slow.

You feel every inch of him, and he feels it, too. His mouth falls open, eyes wide, as though the sensation shocks him. As though it’s different now to be inside you, to be with you like this, now that you wholly belong to each other.

He groans - soft, drawn-out. The sound is being dragged from deep in his chest.

You clench instinctively, and he curses under his breath, forehead dropping to yours, eyes staying on you.

“Shit, baby- fuck-”

You hold onto his shoulders. His waist. Anything you can reach. You’re both shaking.

But he doesn’t push in all the way. Not yet. He pauses halfway in, breathing ragged, eyes continuing to search your face.

You talk before he can ask. “You can keep going.”

“Promise me.”

You kiss him. Sweet and slow and sure.

“I promise.”

And so he moves - just a little more - and the moan that rips out of him is wounded, as though pleasure hurts. As though being this close to you is almost too much.

But he doesn’t let himself close his eyes. Doesn’t let them move away from your face.

And when he’s finally seated fully inside you, his hips flush against yours, you both just breathe.

Still. Connected.

He doesn’t move at first. Just holds himself there - deep inside you. Anchoring himself to the moment, to your body, to the fact that you’re okay. That you want this. That you’re here.

And he’s trying not to cry.

You can see it in the way his lashes flutter, in the glassy sheen on his cheeks that catches the light.

His forehead leans against yours, breath hot over your mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he whispers. One word. As though it contains a hundred.

“It’s okay,” you whisper back. “You’re okay.”

His eyes stay open. You don’t think he’s blinked since he pushed in.

They are pinned to yours like if he looks away for even a second something might go wrong. He’s watching your eyes for any sign of pain. And you know he won’t close his own until he knows you’re safe.

“I can feel how hard you’re holding back,” you start quietly, gently, fingers brushing the sweat-damp strands from his forehead. “You can move, Buck.”

He doesn’t. His throat bobs. Jaw flexing.

“God,” he breathes. “You feel so good- too good- but I don’t want to- fuck, baby, I don’t want to hurt you again-”

“You won’t. You say it firmly, but still with a sweet voice. Your thumb strokes the dimple in his chin. “You didn’t before. It wasn’t your fault. And it’s not going to happen again.”

He breathes in as though your words might soothe something broken in him. But still, he doesn’t move. Not until you speak again.

“I need you, Bucky.”

And something in him crumbles. Slowly, painstakingly, he pulls his hips back just an inch, then slides forward again, keeping his eyes on yours the whole time. He’s watching, reading, studying every twitch of your mouth, your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every breath you take.

“Is that-” he breathes, “-was that okay?”

You nod, voice thick. “Yes. Yes, Buck, it’s perfect.”

And he moves again.

Tiny, tender thrusts. Gentle. Devoted.

It’s not even about pleasure, it’s about closeness. About the feeling of him. The heat of his skin. The tremble in his arms as he holds himself up above you. The way he groans, low and broken, every time he slides a little deeper.

His eyes won’t leave you.

Not even when his lashes are heavy with heat and he has to force them to stay open. Not even when his mouth opens and he exhales a shaky, stuttering breath that tells you he’s feeling everything. But he fights to keep them open. To see you.

You run your fingers through his hair, trying to get him to let go. “I feel good, baby. I’m okay.”

But he just shakes his head. Leans down and kisses you. Slow. Melting. Deep.

“I want to watch you feel good,” he says huskily. “Need it. Need to make sure.”

And then he thrusts a little deeper.

It’s so painfully careful but still enough to steal your breath. You gasp, clutching his shoulders, hips rising to meet his.

His eyes roll back. His whole body shudders. “Fuck,” he groans. “Don’t do that. God, sweetheart, you’re ruining me.”

You smile through the moan that slips past your lips. “That’s kind of the point.”

He laughs, a real and broken little laugh, but it cracks at the edges. He is overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by you.

He rocks into you again. A little deeper. A little more sure. Still slow, still soft - but he’s feeling it now, letting his hips follow the rhythm you’re building together.

You cling to him.

He is panting. Tiny tremors running through his arms. His left hand slides beneath your back, holding your closer, lifting your chest to his so your hearts are touching - so he can feel every beat of you against him.

His voice is low and trembling. “Tell me again,” he pleads, strained. “Please, tell me it’s okay-”

“It’s better than okay,” you gasp, nails dragging down his back. “I’m perfect. You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

He kisses you. Desperate now. His rhythm falters for a second, too lost in the way your mouth tastes.

Then he pulls back, just far enough to look at you. His gaze is devastated. Open. Admiring.

“I love you,” he sighs.

And your heart bursts.

You take his face in your hands, voice breaking with feeling.

“I love you too.”

And it happens slowly. Then all at once.

He watches you fall apart as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful. As though your pleasure is a sunrise he never thought he’d survive long enough to see. As though every sigh, every gasp, every whisper of his name is another stitch holding his broken heart together.

You feel him shaking. Hear him whisper things he doesn’t seem to know he’s saying. “Shit, baby, look at you- so perfect- so good- fuck, baby-”

One of his hands grips beneath your thigh, thumb stroking soothing circles into your skin. The other tangles in your hair, holding your forehead to his as though he needs the connection to stay whole.

He’s watching your face as if it’s a map. Tracing every change in expression, every whimper and moan, every flicker of ecstasy that breaks across your features.

And you can feel it building. Low and hot, coiling tight in your belly. Your body trembling, hips lifting to meet his in soft, desperate little movements. Your breaths coming fast, faster. His name spilling from your mouth, making him shudder.

“Buck- Bucky- I’m- don’t stop.”

He falters. Just once. Just enough for him to whisper. “You’re close.”

You nod, gasping.

And that’s all it takes for him to shift slightly. Just enough to hit the angle he knows drives you insane. He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, lips at your ear. “Let go for me, my sweetheart. Please. I’ve got you. Always got you.”

And your whole body locks around him, your voice breaking into something wild and soft, pleasure cursing through your veins, hot and blinding and complete.

You come with his name on your tongue.

His eyes snap shut.

That’s all it takes.

He gasps, chokes on a breath, and then he’s gone - spilling into you with a groan that sounds like heartbreak and heaven all at once. His whole body arches, hands gripping you tight, holding on for dear life, burying himself in you. As though he wants to pour every ounce of his love into you and never come back.

His mouth meets your shoulder, kissing your skin as though he has all the time in the world.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “I’ve never- fuck- never felt anything like that.”

Neither have you.

Because this wasn’t just fucking. This wasn’t the kind of sex you’ve been having for so long.

This was something else.

This was love, laid bare. No games. No fear. No walls. Just skin and breath and heartbeats and truth.

He stays inside you. Doesn’t dare move. Not yet.

His face is tucked into your neck, breath hot and trembling.

You card your fingers through his hair, kissing the shell of his ear, the slope of his shoulder. “You okay?”

He nods. A slow, solemn little nod. Then pulls back just enough to look at you.

And the look in his eyes is too much.

As though he’s never going to recover from this. He doesn’t want to.

He brushes his fingers down your cheek and kisses you leisurely.

“I love you,” he says again, still searching for air. “More than anything.”

You whisper it back. Because you do.

Bucky keeps hovering above you even though he already brought you home. The way he presses his lips to your temple and cradles your jaw in his palm as though you’re the last delicate thing in the world.

You breathe him in. He breathes you in. His forehead rests against yours, sticky with sweat, the kind of closeness that makes time irrelevant.

“You okay?” he whispers quietly. His voice cracks right down the middle.

You nod, throat too tight for words, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t take the nod as final. His eyes scan your face as though he is trying to read between the lines of skin and breath and silence.

“I’m serious, doll,” he murmurs, a little firmer now. “You tell me if something feels off. Anything. If you’re sore, or-” he pauses, swallows a cough, “or if it hurt. Even just a little.”

Your hand finds the curve of his jaw, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone, damp with sweat and tenderness. “I’m okay,” you reassure him sweetly. “I promise, baby. I feel good.”

His brows twitch. He wants to believe you.

“I mean it,” you add, lips brushing against his. “I feel more than good. I feel amazing.”

That finally does something to him. His shoulders drop. His hands tremble a little less. But even still, his gaze keeps drifting downward - to where your bodies meet, joined in the slowest, softest way you ever have. Searching for signs of pain that your mouth hasn’t admitted yet.

And then, quietly, with a softness you’re still surprised at - he slides out of you and down the bed. Down your body.

You blink. “Buck?”

“I just wanna check,” he says, already reaching for a soft towel. “Not tryna be weird, just-” his throat bobs. “Just need to know you didn’t start bleeding again.”

You open your mouth, not able to say anything.

Taking hold of your hand, he kisses the back of it before continuing. Every movement is careful, tender, hands working as though he’s handling silk. He wipes you down with warm water, his brow furrowed with a worry so profound it makes your chest ache. He doesn’t rush, not once. His eyes move up to yours every few seconds, silently asking for consent all over again.

“Still okay?” he inquires quietly as he folds the towel, already looking like he wants to run a warm bath and wrap you in a blanket of cloud and honey and safety.

“Still okay,” you nod, voice thick with emotion.

“Good.” He exhales for the first time in what feels like minutes. “Good. You tell me the second that changes. I mean it. I’ll pull the moon out of the damn sky if it hurts you again.”

You smile watery. He kisses your thigh.

And then he lifts you, scoops you into his arms with a care that feels so incredibly intimate. Carrying you to the bathroom, he is holding you so close that your heart forgets what it’s like to feel anything but safe.

With a kiss to your shoulder and your forehead, he sets you down on the edge of the tub.

He draws the bath. He adds your favorite bubbles. Lavender and eucalyptus steam curling through the air, filled with comfort.

He tests the temperature and while it fills, he kneels between your legs, rests his cheek on your thigh, and places more kisses into the bend of your knee, your hip, your ribs.

“D’you feel it?” he asks then, quietly. Almost nervous. Voice low and hoarse.

You run your fingers through his hair. He melts under your touch.

You think you know what he’s talking about.

Because all those times you slept with each other before, it was fast, frantic, bodies tangled and pressed into stolen hours, trying to pretend it didn’t matter.

It never felt like being held in a way that spoke louder than words. Never felt like being chosen in the silence after the fact. Never felt like someone saying I love you without needing to say it.

But tonight, it did.

“Yeah,” you answer, just as silent. “It never felt like that before.”

He lifts his head. Eyes soft. “That a good thing?”

“A very good thing,” you answer, almost teasingly, grinning.

And Bucky’s smile comes wide and real. His hands move up and down your shins. He leans in. Kisses your knee. Eyes on yours.

And when he guides you into the water, hands warm at your waist, his eyes track you constantly, scanning your face, your body. Watching. Worry never leaving, but love, too - love stretched wide across every inch of his face.

He joins you once you’re settled, pulling you into his lap, your back to his chest, water lapping around your waists. His arms wind around you, tightening comfortably, his heartbeat thudding against your back.

He kisses your shoulder. Rests his head in the crook of your neck.

The bath water cradles you as though it knows how hard your body worked tonight, how loved it was, how careful the man at your side has been, every moment before and after.

Your knees are tucked to your chest, curled in his lap, spine pressed to his sternum. His arms are heavy around your waist, long fingers spread wide and warm beneath the surface of the water. One palm pressed flat over your stomach, the other stroking a gentle line up and down your thigh, so painstaking, as though he never wants to stop touching you. He holds you as though you are his heart made tangible.

You breathe together. Quiet. Slow.

The ache between your legs is not painful. It’s soft. A memory of something beautiful.

You feel Bucky’s heartbeat thump against your spine. He kisses your neck. Again and again.

Then - so quiet, so gentle, almost afraid - he asks again. “Are you still okay?”

And it shouldn’t be much. It’s just a check-in. One of a hundred he’s made tonight. The softness in his voice, the worry gathered beneath his breath - it should feel comforting.

But instead, your chest caves in.

Your throat locks up.

You blink once, twice, and suddenly you can’t see. Everything blurs.

Because he means it. He really, truly means it.

Because he loves you. So goddamn much. And he’s holding you as if you matter more than air and he touches you as if you are a living poem and you can still feel him inside you, loving you - and your heart can’t hold all of it. It’s too much. It spills over.

Because he’s been so careful. His hands were so tender and his mouth so full of praise and his eyes tracked you the way the earth tracks the sun. Because even now, when it’s over, when the candle he lit up before getting into the tub flickers low, and the air smells of eucalyptus and his thighs are soaked through with warm water, he still won’t stop caring.

And it hits you. All of it. Everything. The past weeks. The pain. The panic when you tried to scrub away the evidence alone in the very same bathroom you’re in right now and bolt out of his apartment. The way he broke through the door just to get to you, how he wiped you off with hands that trembled but never once let you go.

The guilt he carried. The way he flinched for days when you touched him back. The softness he offered even when he had none for himself.

And now this.

This perfect, intimate thing you just shared. This feeling of being held in a way no one ever held you before. It’s all too much. The bath, his arms, the way he holds your ribcage as though he’s matching your breath. The most amazing sex you’ve ever had. The way he whispered into your shoulder as he moved inside you with so much care.

You want to answer him. Want to tell him you’re okay. But nothing comes out.

You can only inhale sharply, the sound catching in your throat.

And Bucky stills. Goes completely stiff.

You don’t speak. You can’t. Your overflowing heart won’t let you.

Bucky shifts behind you. “Baby?” His voice is quiet. But not calm. Never calm, when it comes to your silence.

And you stay silent. Turning your head away.

His arms tighten and you feel him trying to look around at your face. “Hey, hey. Honey. What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Are you- did I- did something hurt again? Are you hurting? Something feel wrong?”

You shake your head, but his voice is shaking harder.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he croaks in a whisper, his fingers coming to cup your jaw, about to tilt your head, but you don’t want him to see the tears forming, don’t want him to panic. He is frantic, not sure what he’s afraid of more - your pain or your silence. “C’mon, baby, please talk to me. I- did I do something? Did I hurt you and you didn’t wanna say? Are you bleedin’?”

You can feel him check the water for any signs of red and you hate yourself for not getting your voice out of your throat. But the only thing coming up is a choked breath.

“Talk to me.” He talks fast, swallowing words, swallowing breaths. “Please, baby. You have to tell me. You’re scaring me.”

He can’t see you like this. Not with your face turned away, not with your chest shaking in silence. So he moves, carefully but with uncoordinated and frantic hands, guiding you to turn in his arms until you’re straddling him in the water, your body trembling with the force of emotion you hadn’t braced yourself for.

You try to speak, but all that comes out is a wet hiccup of a breath and a soft, unsteady sob - not from pain, not from fear, just from everything. Your chest stings with it. Tears fall. Two, three, falling down your cheeks.

And Bucky panics. “No, baby, no, please don’t cry. Fuck, I don’t-”

He’s sitting up straighter now, water sloshing around you both, almost lapping over the tub. His face crumbles. His hands scramble, checking your sides, your arms, trying to study every inch of you, to figure out what’s wrong here, where it hurts, what he missed.

“Shit, shit, I knew it! Baby I knew we should’ve waited. I shouldn’t have- fuck- I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry- please talk to me-”

“No,” you finally manage, voice cracking, catching his hands and trying to squeeze the quiver out of them. “No, no, Bucky- I’m okay, I’m okay.”

But his eyes are wide, a glossy sheen already there and you would like to kick yourself. The guilt is already spinning in those pretty blue depths, the fear and dread all bubbling and building and ready to crescendo into another panic attack.

You press your forehead to his. You breathe in, slow. You breathe out. Your hands move to cup his cheeks. “It’s not that,” you breathe, and your voice is wet and cracked and soaked in love. “It’s not- Baby, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

His breath is uneven, hectic. He doesn’t blink.

You kiss his lips. A soft, barely-there brush. “I’m just overwhelmed.”

His brow furrows. His hands pull you closer to his chest, but his eyes stay locked on yours.

“I’m okay,” you whisper. “I’m not in pain. I promise. It’s just-” You break off with another hiccup of a laugh-sob. “You’re being so wonderful. And it’s been so much. In the best way.”

Bucky stills. Eyes blinking fast, jaw tight with the restraint of a man trying not to fall apart.

You pull back to look at him clearly. “I just-” you try to laugh, but it’s mostly just a breath shivering on the edge of something enormous. “I love you. So much. And it just- hit me. How much. I’ve never felt like this before. And it was just a lot, all at once.”

Bucky stares at you as though you split the earth open beneath him.

And then his hands are everywhere. On your cheeks. On your back. In your hair. Holding your face, trying to keep you in this moment with him. As though this is the most important moment in his life.

“God.” He chokes on a breath, and his lips land on your forehead, your nose, your eyelids, kissing your tears away. “You- you’re crying because you love me?”

You nod against him, laugh through your tears.

He exhales and his whole body sags with it.

“Shit,” he breathes, voice wavering. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

He presses you even tighter into his chest, cradling the back of your head. “Fuck, you scared me. I thought I hurt you again. I thought- thought I messed it all up again.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You didn’t. Not even close.”

He is breathing harder than before, but the panic is softening now, bleeding out into the warmth of your body against his.

“I just love you so much,” you repeat, voice just a small breath. “And I didn’t expect it to feel like this. This… intense.”

He nods against you. Kisses your temple. Then your cheek. Then your wet lashes. “Yeah,” he exhales and there is a sheen to his voice, as though it passed through his own unspilled tears on the way out. “I know what you mean.”

You bury yourself against him, cheek to his chest, and his arms curl tight around your back. He rocks you just slightly, water lapping quietly against the porcelain, even now wanting to soothe you, hold you through it, make sense of all the things your tears said before your voice could.

His touch never stops. Always checking. Always there. One hand rubbing soft circles into your hip. The other brushing your damp hair back behind your ear.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” you apologize eventually, brushing your nose against his cheek.

His laugh is soft and shattered, something frail, but there’s relief in it. Adoration. “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You tilt your face up. Find his lips. It’s not a kiss that needs anything. It’s not even a kiss that asks. It’s just gentle. Soothing. Comforting. Sweet. Home.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper softly.

And his eyes are shining.

He presses a kiss into your hair, then another. Then three more in a row because he can’t help himself. And he tells you he loves you, because he can’t help himself.

And he doesn’t let go. Not for a long time.

He won’t let you move. Not until the water cools. Not until the stars settle outside the bathroom window.

He won’t let you reach for a cloth or dry yourself off or even think about standing without him.

He refuses to let you go through one more thing alone.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable.”

- C. S. Lewis

[abbotjack]

Overtime .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪₊ ⊹˚

pairing : dr. jack abbot x reader x dr. michael "robby" robinavitch

summary : You told yourself you were just taking your time. Just late for a blind date Samira set up. But the truth is, you stayed behind on purpose. You listened to their voices. You waited. You weren’t supposed to want this—not from them. But you've been holding it in for too long. And they’ve been watching you just as closely. INSPIRED BY PREVIEW FOR NEXT WEEK'S EPISODE.

warnings/content : Threesome (M/F/M). Vaginal and oral sex (f. receiving). Set in a hospital locker room. Praise, light power dynamics, subtle possessiveness. Emotionally restrained men. No m/m interaction. No protection used. Yeah really no plot just filth

word count : 4,672

18+ ONLY, not beta read. Please read responsibly.

The trauma bay smells like alcohol swabs and synthetic latex, and something heavier clinging underneath—stale blood or antiseptic, it’s hard to tell which. Someone’s wiped down the counters but not the floor. There’s still a puddle under the base of the gurney, shiny and half-dried, not enough to slip on but enough to keep you standing a little off-center.

You leave the curtain half-drawn behind you as you head toward the locker room. Not in a rush. You don’t move like someone eager to get out—you move like someone delaying something they haven’t put a name to.

Your body’s on autopilot. The kind of post-shift shutdown where your hands still flex like they’re gloved, your spine’s too straight from twelve hours of standing, and you haven’t realized how hungry you are until your stomach knots around nothing.

The hallway lights feel too bright. The door handle cold against your palm. You step inside and let it swing shut behind you. The air is still. Not silent, exactly—just muffled. Contained. The hum of the vents.

You stop at your locker and open it. A half-eaten granola bar sits on the shelf next to your spare scrubs. Your hand rests on the hem of your scrub top. You don’t pull it off.

You just stand there. Listening.

Not to yourself.

To them.

From somewhere down the hallway you can hear Jack and Robby trading tension like it’s clinical procedure.

“You pushed the paralytics too early,” Jack says, voice low and clipped. “She wasn’t ready.”

“She was already bottoming out,” Robby answers. “I didn’t see you moving any faster.”

“If I waited, we would’ve had a stable line.”

“If you waited, she would’ve lost her airway.”

It’s not yelling. They don’t yell.

It’s quiet. Controlled. So precise it hurts to listen to. Like they’ve done this before—not just here, but in a hundred trauma bays before this one, in years they never talk about.

You know the way they argue. You’ve watched them do it across body bags and shift changes. But this time, you don’t move on.

You just stay.

You reach for your phone.

8:07 PM – SAMIRA don’t ghost me

8:08 PM – HIM still good for 8?

8:08 PM – SAMIRA please go i told him you were hot like ER hot he’s new he’s NORMAL u need normal just flirt kiss him if he’s not annoying

You stare at the screen for a long moment. Type out :

Still at work...

Then delete it.

The plan was simple. Leave on time. Shower. Maybe mascara. Meet Samira’s friend for a drink somewhere tolerable. You hadn’t been optimistic, but you’d said yes. You even wore a lace black bra, not too sheer, just something that made you feel like a person under the hospital layers.

But instead, you’re still here.

The voices carry again.

“You want clean intubation? You wait for visualization.”

“You want a pulse? You don’t wait at all.”

And then, clear as anything, you hear it—

“You always think you’re right.”

“That’s rich coming from you.”

You’re halfway out the locker room before you realize you’re moving.

One hand still on the doorframe, body loose with something between exhaustion and defiance.

You don’t think. You don’t plan it.

You just lean into the hallway, and say,

“Looks like two old white guys who still can’t figure out how to intubate a patient.”

The silence that follows is surgical.

Jack’s head turns slightly at the sound—reflexive, automatic—but the second he sees you, something shifts.

A flicker of recognition. Like a signal’s been hit.

His shoulders square. His mouth goes still.

He turns the rest of the way. Not fast. Just… deliberate. Like a spotlight locking on. His eyes skim your face, your chest, then back to your eyes—taking in everything and giving nothing back.

Robby follows a second later. He’s already smiling like he can’t decide if he’s impressed or pissed.

“Oh, I know she’s not talking about us,” Robby says.

“Well I know she’s not talking about me,” Jack mutters.

You lift a brow. “And if I am?”

You hold their stares for a breath longer than you should. Then you turn. Not fast. Not flustered. Just… done.

You walk back into the locker room without a word and leave the door open. You don’t have to look to know they’ll follow.

And they do.

Jack enters first—quiet, unreadable, his presence pressing in without needing to speak.

Robby follows a beat later. He exhales, half-laughs under his breath, and says :

“You’re mouthy today.”

“I’m post-shift,” you reply, not facing them yet. “And this is the third time this week I’ve heard you two go at it like divorced dads at a resuscitation workshop.”

“You’re still here,” Jack says, watching you. “Why?”

You shrug. “I had a date.”

Robby’s brow arches. “Had?”

“Supposed to meet someone. Samira’s friend. He just moved back to Pittsburgh.”

“You're not going?”

You glance over your shoulder at them. “Clearly I’m running late.”

You don’t wait for their response. You just pivot—slow, deliberate—like the conversation’s over. Like you didn’t just hand them the truth in a sealed envelope and walk away from it.

Jack shifts. Robby studies you.

You add, quieter now, without turning back :

“Figured if I stalled long enough, maybe I wouldn’t have to go at all.”

A beat.

“Guess I’m just not in the mood.”

“Not in the mood for what?” Jack asks.

You hesitate—just for a second.

“Nice,” you say.

And that’s when it happens. That snap in the room. Like someone closed a valve too fast. The pressure spikes.

“You wore lace,” Jack says.

You stop mid-step. Turn slowly. Blink.

“Excuse me?”

“That strap peaking out doesn’t look standard. You wore lace under your scrubs.”

Robby’s gaze flicks down, measured. “On a trauma shift.”

“It’s what was clean,” you lie.

It sounds false the second it leaves your lips—thin and fast, like you’re trying to sweep something off the floor before anyone notices. And both of them notice.

Robby doesn’t correct you right away. He just tilts his head, eyes flicking briefly down the center of your body—not ogling, but noticing. He lingers at your waist, then lifts his gaze back to your face, calm and unshaken.

Then, without a hint of mockery,

“No,” he says softly. “It’s what you picked.”

The quiet that follows isn’t comfortable. It vibrates.

You shift slightly, the hem of your scrub top sticking to your lower back. Your chest feels too tight in the tank beneath it. The lace underneath is starting to itch, but not from discomfort—just awareness. The fact of it, now exposed, somehow makes it feel sharper against your skin.

Jack’s still watching you—shoulders squared, hands at his sides, not moving. But it’s the stillness that unsettles you. The patience of it. Like he’s already read the outcome and is waiting for you to catch up.

“And you stayed,” Jack says, voice low.

Not accusing. Not surprised. Just the truth.

You look toward the exit, like that’ll help you regain control. Like pretending you’re still on your way out will change what’s already unfolding.

But you don’t move. You don’t even blink.

His voice drops—not teasing anymore. Just steady. Clinical. Like he's reading vitals straight off your chart, and he already knows how the story ends.

“You haven’t changed. You didn’t go to your car. You didn’t even unclip your badge.”

Robby's voice cuts in—smooth, but anchored with something harder.

“You’ve been waiting.”

A pause.

“You missed your date on purpose.”

You laugh, too quickly. It’s not convincing. It’s the kind of sound you make when you feel the edge of something sharp and pretend it doesn’t hurt.

“Right. Because standing around while you two argue like it’s foreplay is a great way to spend a Friday night.”

Jack doesn’t even flinch. “You mouth off in the pit. You flirt without smiling. You track us when we speak.”

You shift your weight. “I track everyone.”

“Not like this,” Robby says, voice tighter now, like the act of calling it out is doing something to him too.

Jack’s eyes narrow—not in anger. In certainty. “You ask us questions you already know the answers to. You stall your movement when we pass you. You hold the vitals clipboard like it’s a shield and a dare.”

“You wait for our shift overlaps,” Robby adds, voice lower. “You take the longest hallway. The one that goes past trauma, even when it’s not the most direct.”

“You hold eye contact longer than anyone on this floor,” Jack murmurs. “Until it matters. Then you look away.”

And you do.

You already did.

You didn’t even realize you dropped your gaze until Jack took that step forward and the room got hotter.

You look down at your shoes like that means something. Like it gives you back a piece of yourself.

But it doesn’t.

Jack sees it.

You hear it in his tone—how something in him tightens.

“You think we don’t see it?”

Robby’s voice is quiet, but it lands heavy. “You think we haven’t wanted to say something sooner?”

Your pulse climbs to your throat.

You make yourself look at them—at both of them.

Their faces are unreadable, but not blank. You can feel it radiating off them—attention. Restraint. Intention.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask.

Jack doesn’t hesitate.

“Because the second we say it, we’re not just talking anymore.”

The air between you cracks open.

You feel your stomach dip, your chest clench, your calves tense like they’re bracing for something that hasn’t touched you yet.

The silence this time is worse.

It lingers.

It buzzes.

You realize you’ve been holding the edge of the locker the entire time—so tight your fingertips are red.

You swallow, but your throat sticks.

Then you say it :

“You think I wore this just to get your attention?”

Robby doesn’t move. His voice doesn’t change. But his gaze drops—slowly—to your clavicle. He watches the way your pulse shifts under the skin.

“Did you?”

You try again. “No.”

It barely makes it out. Too breathy. Not defiant—just unraveled.

“Then why aren't you going on that date?”

You know the answer. You’ve known it since you stood in front of your locker too long. But saying it? That’s something else.

“Because I didn’t feel like sitting across from some guy who’s never set foot in an ER and explaining why I showed up thirty minutes late and still covered in adrenaline.”

You look at them now, full on.

“I’m good at this. I’m better than good. And I’m not going to spend the night pretending I’m smaller just to make someone else feel bigger.”

Jack’s gaze sharpens—not cruel, not even surprised. Just locking in. Like a monitor flatlining and spiking at once.

“He wouldn’t have known how to talk to you,” Robby says. It’s not a dig. It’s a diagnosis.

Jack, quieter now, “He wouldn’t have known how to see you.”

You almost respond.

But your mouth stays open and useless. Because they’re right. And you hate that some part of you wanted to hear it from them.

Robby steps forward. Not crowding you. Just present. Enough to tilt the room.

“But we do.”

Jack’s voice is a whisper of heat.

“We’ve seen you. All along.”

It sinks into your chest.

You feel your jaw twitch. Your vision tightens.

Jack continues. “We’ve watched you lead. Watched you pull two lives back from the edge this week. Watched you make choices most residents would’ve hesitated over.”

“You think we haven’t noticed that your hands don’t shake when it matters?” Robby says. “You think we don’t see how much it costs you to keep control all the time?”

“You’ve been waiting,” Jack says again. “You just didn’t know if we’d be the ones to break it.”

You shiver. You don’t know if it shows.

Your breath catches on something inside you, and suddenly you’re braced between them—not physically, but gravitationally. Like they’ve closed in without moving.

“I don’t—” you start, but Jack’s already stepping behind you.

“You don’t have to lead right now,” he says, voice low, close to your neck. “You don’t have to perform.”

“You already did,” Robby says. “And we saw it.”

“You’ve been better than most of the other residents for months.”

“You just never let anyone say it.”

“You called the chest tube before I did,” Jack says. “And you did it without hesitation.”

Your whole body aches now. Your shoulders. Your legs. Your hands. All of it. Like tension has been your armor and now it’s slipping, inch by inch, to the floor.

“You moved,” Jack says, “like someone who knows what they want.”

Robby watches your face. Your breath. “Do you?”

You try to answer. Nothing lands.

Jack is behind you. Close enough now that the air bends. That your spine straightens without permission.

“You want permission,” he murmurs.

You nod, barely. “Permission for what?”

"To stop pretending you don’t need this.”

“To be seen.”

Jack, a little closer, a little deeper, “To be told you’ve been good.”

You inhale sharply.

Jack leans in—his breath just behind your ear.

“You’ve been so good.”

You break.

“You’re standing still,” Robby says softly. “For the first time all day.”

And it’s true. You don’t remember when you stopped pacing, bracing, pretending. But you’re still now. Still and shaking and too full of something you can’t name.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat.

“You’re not supposed to do anything.”

“Just stay,” Robby says. “Just let go.”

Your fingers slip from the locker. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. And when Jack leans closer—

“Say it,” he whispers.

Your voice cracks.

“Close the door.”

And Jack moves.

The lock clicks.

The air shifts. And you're not the same.

It’s not that it gets hotter. It just presses down—thick, charged, intentional. You’re not used to this kind of quiet. Not in the locker room. Not between them. Not like this.

You don’t turn around. You just stand there—heart hammering, breath shallow, arms loose at your sides—because the thing you’ve been circling for weeks? It’s not circling you anymore. It’s here. It has you.

Jack doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. You feel him behind you like a current. Stillness, held so tightly it hums.

Robby’s in front of you, leaning back against the lockers. Watching. Palms braced behind him. His gaze is steady—assessing, not predatory. Like he’s watching your vitals rise in real time.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for. But then Jack says—

“Turn around.”

You do. Slowly.

Your pulse is in your throat now. You’re not trembling, not really. Just over-aware of everything—the heat of your own skin, the way both of them are looking at you like they’ve already decided.

“Take off your top,” Jack says. Calm. Commanding. A tone you’ve only heard once before, during a double code. It made your hands steady then. It makes them ache now.

You peel your scrub top over your head. Fold it. Set it down.

“Tank too,” he adds.

You hesitate for half a second. Then you reach for the hem and lift.

The fabric clings slightly, damp from heat and wear. As it pulls over your head, the lace edge of your bra drags against your ribs—cool, sharp, suddenly too exposed.

You know they can see it now.

Robby shifts off the lockers, gaze steady.

“That’s not the kind of bra someone forgets they’re wearing.”

Your mouth dries out.

Jack’s eyes rake over your chest—slowly, deliberately—and when he speaks, his voice lowers.

“Take it off.”

Your hands fumble at the clasp, just for a second. It’s not nerves. It’s exposure. You’ve stripped down a thousand times in hospital locker rooms, but never like this. Never while being watched.

The lace hits the floor. You don't reach for it.

Jack steps in close enough to ghost his fingers over your collarbone. He doesn’t look at your breasts. He looks at your face.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to see you like this,” he murmurs.

Behind you, you feel Robby’s warmth draw near. He’s not touching you, but his presence is a second gravity. You’re caught in the pull of both of them.

“You’re not shaking,” he notes, voice low.

“Should I be?” you ask.

Jack’s eyes flicker.

“We’re not going to be gentle.”

Your breath catches.

Robby moves behind you, hands bracing gently on your waist, not grabbing—just anchoring.

“You want us to take it from here?” he asks. “You want to stop thinking for once?”

You nod. Not because it’s polite. Because it’s the only thing left in you.

Jack leans in. “Good.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s not soft. It’s not rough either. It’s contained—all sharp control, jaw tense, mouth firm, tongue deliberate. Like he’s tasting you to see if you’re telling the truth.

You kiss back. Open-mouthed. Hungry. Barely holding your balance.

Robby’s hands trail up your sides as you kiss Jack, fingertips dragging gently over your ribs, your sternum. When Jack breaks the kiss, you’re already breathing hard.

“Bench,” he says.

They guide you to it. You sit, knees slightly apart, spine straight.

Jack drops to one knee in front of you. His hands go to your waistband. He looks up. “Yes?”

You nod again. “Yes.”

He slides your scrub pants down slow, watching your face. You don’t look away. Your underwear is next—low-cut, black, delicate. His thumbs hook into the sides and pull them down in one smooth motion.

Now you’re bare. Fully.

And they’re both still fully clothed. That does something to you. Something low and sharp and needy.

Jack’s hand smooths up your thigh. His eyes stay locked on yours.

“You’ve been so fucking good,” he says. “You kept it together all shift. Gave everything to your patients. Took nothing for yourself.”

He leans in.

“That ends now.”

Then his mouth is on you.

His tongue starts slow—flat, firm pressure over your clit, no teasing. No buildup. Like he’s been waiting for this and he’s not wasting time.

Your hips twitch, but his grip locks you down—one arm slung under your thigh, the other braced across your stomach, holding you exactly where he wants you.

You can barely breathe. Your hands scramble for something to hold.

Then you feel Robby behind you.

He climbs onto the bench, one knee beside your hip, chest flush to your back. His arm wraps around your shoulders—steady, grounding—and his mouth finds your jaw.

“Relax,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “Let it happen.”

Jack’s mouth moves with maddening precision—every flick, every circle deliberate. Not fast. Not gentle. Exactly what you need. Like he’s been studying the way you breathe for weeks.

You whimper. It escapes before you can catch it.

“Good,” Robby whispers. “That’s good. Let us hear you.”

Jack groans low into you and your hips twitch again. You can’t help it.

“Jack—” you gasp.

He doesn’t stop. His grip tightens. You feel his tongue change rhythm, pressure intensifying just enough.

And then—

You come.

It hits like a wave, cresting hard and then crashing down your spine. Your body shakes with it. Jack holds you through the whole thing—never backing off, never letting up until you’ve ridden it to the end.

When he finally pulls away, his mouth is wet, eyes dark. Controlled.

“You’re going to come again,” Jack says.

You barely have time to breathe before he stands and undoes his belt.

Behind you, Robby doesn’t move far. His hand slides up, slow and deliberate, until it rests gently at your throat—not choking, just there.

His mouth finds your ear again.

“You’re safe,” he murmurs. “We’ve got you.”

Jack pushes his pants down just enough. His cock is thick, flushed, hard.

He strokes himself once. Twice.

“You want this?” he asks.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“You ready to be fucked like you deserve?”

You nod. “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

Your thighs go weak at the praise. It shatters something soft inside you.

Jack lines up. Grips your hips. Pushes in slow—inch by inch.

He’s big. Stretching. Real.

You gasp. Clutch his arms. He groans when he bottoms out.

“You take it so well,” Robby murmurs behind you.

Jack starts to move—deep, even thrusts. His hips roll, grinding against your clit every time. You can’t stay quiet. Not with the way he fills you, not with Robby’s hands on your skin, not with both of them murmuring praise you didn’t know you craved.

“That’s it,” Jack growls. “Take me.”

“You’re doing so well,” Robby breathes, lips at your neck. “So fucking good for us.”

You’re going to fall apart again.

“Jack—”

“I’ve got you,” he pants. “Don’t hold back.”

You don’t.

The second orgasm is messier. Sharper. It rips through you like a current, and this time, when you cry out, Jack slams into you and holds.

You pulse around him. He groans.

And then he comes—hips pressed deep, cock twitching inside you, a low growl caught in his throat.

The locker room goes still.

Your head drops back against Robby’s shoulder. You’re breathing like you just ran a trauma code—fast, uneven, body humming from the inside out.

Robby’s arms stay wrapped around your waist, anchoring you.

“You okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing the edge of your jaw.

You nod.

Jack’s still inside you, hands gentler now—steadying your hips as you both come down.

“You did so well,” he says, quiet and low.

You exhale. A shaky laugh escapes—half-sigh, half-something else. Robby kisses your shoulder. Your skin still buzzes with aftershock when Jack finally pulls out.

You whimper—barely audible, not from pain, but from the absence. The sudden ache of being empty.

Robby doesn’t let you fold in on yourself. His arms stay around you, his chest flush to your back, his hands firm at your ribs. Holding you there.

“Easy,” he whispers, brushing damp hair from your neck. “You did so fucking good.”

Jack steps back. His pants are still open. His cock glistens, softening, but he doesn’t tuck himself away. Doesn’t move far.

He just watches.

Your eyes flutter open.

Robby shifts slightly behind you—just enough to look down at you from the side.

“She’s not done,” he says, voice quiet but certain.

Jack doesn’t answer. But the way his jaw clenches—you know he agrees.

“You okay?” Robby asks again, lips brushing your temple now.

You nod.

He smiles, slow and crooked. The kind of smile that means something soft is about to feel dangerous.

“Good girl.”

Your body jolts at the words—like your nerves haven’t caught up yet, like the phrase reached something deeper than muscle.

Jack smirks. “She likes that.”

“She loves that,” Robby murmurs. “Don’t you?”

You nod again. This time slower. Your throat is too tight to answer out loud.

“Up,” Robby says gently. “Let’s get you on your back.”

He helps you shift—guiding you gently by the waist as you lie back along the bench, your spine pressing into the cool surface, legs still parted and loose from the high.

Then Robby slides down from the bench. Jack doesn’t move. He stays where he is, leaning against the wall.

Arms folded. Cock still out. Watching.

Robby presses your legs apart with both hands, thumbs stroking gently along the inside of your thighs.

Then he lowers his head. Close. Close enough that the heat of his breath makes you twitch.

“You’re soaked,” he murmurs.

“She’s a mess,” Jack says. “Made for it.”

You let your head fall back. Your chest rises, tight with expectation.

Then Robby’s tongue licks slow up your center, and your hips jolt.

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t test the waters.

He dives in.

He eats you like it’s his job. Like he’s been thinking about this for weeks.

And maybe he has.

His mouth is precise — all tongue, lips, and breath — alternating pressure and rhythm, soft where Jack was firm, deep where Jack was tight.

You’re gasping by the second pass. Your thighs twitching.

Jack steps in, crouches beside the bench. His hand finds yours and grips it — firm, grounding — as Robby mouths your clit and groans into you.

“She’s close already,” Robby murmurs, not lifting his head.

“She’s been close since I pulled out,” Jack mutters. His free hand trails along your breastbone, tracing lazy lines between the soft curves of your chest.

“You holding back on us, sweetheart?” Robby says, flicking his tongue against you.

“No—” Your voice breaks. “I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” Jack says.

Robby’s mouth works faster now, tongue circling, flattening, sucking you into the space between his lips and holding you there while your body starts to shake.

“I’ve got her,” Robby murmurs.

Jack strokes your arm, smooth and slow. “Let go.”

You do.

The third orgasm rips through you. It’s a full-body collapse — thighs trembling, fingers digging into Jack’s arm, head thrown back. You moan loud this time, and neither of them shushes you.

Robby doesn’t stop.

He works you through it — mouth never letting go — until your legs start to twitch uncontrollably and your voice cracks from the noise caught in your chest.

“Easy,” Robby says. “That’s it.”

You’re gasping. Trembling. Raw.

Jack leans in, kisses your jaw. Then your mouth. Then your cheekbone.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs. “You should see yourself right now.”

Robby finally pulls back, chin soaked, breathing hard. He leans in and kisses your inner thigh—slow, reverent.

“You’ve got nothing left to prove,” he says.

You want to answer. You can’t. All you can do is lie there, letting them both touch you, praise you, look at you like you just gave them something holy.

Which maybe you did.

You smile, lips swollen, hair plastered to your forehead. You exhale slowly, like your body’s still remembering how to breathe.

Robby runs a hand through his hair and rises to his feet, then offers his arm without a word.

You take it. Let him help you sit up, your legs shaky. Jack is already tucking himself back into his boxers, and zips his pants without a word.

He doesn’t wipe himself off. Doesn’t look away.

He moves like he’s still in it—like he’s taking every part of you with him.

No one says anything.

You find your clothes from where they were dropped and pull them on slowly. You don’t bother with the bra.

You grab your phone from your locker where it was buzzing, thumb hovering over the screen for a second too long.

9:12 PM – SAMIRA well??? did you kiss him?? is he weird pls tell me you didn’t ghost again girl don’t make me call the ER, i swear this guy is TOO GOOD to waste!!! if you’re hiding in a supply closet again i’m going to strangle you

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter. “Samira’s texting me.”

Jack lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Robby leans in just enough to see.

“She really thought you were gonna make it to that date, huh?”

You snort, exhausted. “She probably already told him I got called into another trauma.”

Jack wipes a hand down his face. “Not technically a lie.”

Robby smirks. “You gonna tell her the truth?”

You lean back against the lockers, phone still in your hand, and exhale.

“What—‘sorry, got fucked on a bench instead’?”

Robby whistles low under his breath. “Yikes.”

“Bit much,” Jack agrees, but he’s not even trying to hide the smirk.

“Pretty sure you’re done with blind dates,” Robby says.

You slide your phone into your pocket, still smiling.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I am.”

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Hey, Sergeant

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> Yelena offers you a job, but you want to meet your new boss before you agree.

Disclaimer: Mentions of guns, fighting, swearing. Reader is trained as a Widow, Bucky has a massive crush. Not Proof Read.

He’d had a long day. Between training, meetings, mentoring and dealing with rush-hour traffic in New York; all Bucky wanted to do was get home, cook a decent meal, watch some TV and go to bed. 

But, instead, he was forced to fight. 

He knew something was off the minute he walked inside. There was a new smell. Not the perfume Natasha wore, or even whatever sage stick Wanda was burning. Something that he didn’t recognise. 

But no one was inside. 

There was a cup in the sink, still half filled with coffee. Someone was still drinking it. Leaving his groceries on the kitchen island, he touched the mug. It was still warm. Someone was definitely inside. But they hadn’t come out yet. They were hiding. 

Bucky looked around, reaching for the weapon locked under the kitchen island. “I know you’re still here.”

Bucky listened out. A noise came from the pantry. As he moved over, he made sure he was still covered before opening it up. No one. 

Kate had just left the crackers balancing on one of the baskets, again. 

Slowly, Bucky moved around the room. Making sure to check every hiding spot, he kept his eye out in case someone snuck up on him. 

And they did. 

From round a corner, you and Bucky came face to face. Your eyes, length of your hair, shape of your lips; each part of your face imprinted itself on his mind. If you got away, he’d still remember you. 

“Who are you?”

“What is it to you?”

“You’re in my home.” Bucky told you. 

“I’m here on invite,” you told him before reaching for his gun. 

“What-” Bucky reached for yours. 

You’d both switched positions. Bucky was against the wall. You started moving backwards as he walked forward. 

“Who invited you?”

You smiled, your hand unwavering. “You seem pretty interested. Why don’t you guess?”

Bucky was stunned. Who the hell were you? 

“Guess?”

You nodded. “Isn’t there something on your schedule for today, Sergeant Barnes?”

Bucky just stared at you. “Okay. Quit messing around. Who the fuck are you and why are you in my home?”

Rather than answering, you reached for your gun again. Before you knew it, you and Bucky were against the floor. He was above you. 

He shook his head. “Not Hydra. Too eager. Hacker? Friday never signalled-”

You hit him just hard enough to roll yourself, trapping him under you. “Nice guess, but no.”

“You know, when I said you could meet him first, I didn’t mean like this.”

You both turned and looked at the door where Yelena was standing. “Are you done?”

You looked back at Bucky with a smile before standing up and getting off him, swiping your gun back as you did so. You checked the clip before making sure the safety was on and clipping it back to your side. 

“Yelena, what the hell-” 

“Before you yell, I brought her here.”

“Who is she?” Bucky asked, standing to his full height. 

“She is your new assistant.”

“Assistant?”

Bucky turned and looked at you. You stood at ease. Like everything that had just happened…didn’t. 

“I thought I told you I don’t-”

“Yes, you do. And there’s no point arguing with me, Bucky, because your scheduling is awful. You need help. And since you wouldn’t accept a Shield recruit, I brought Y/n.”

Bucky turned and looked at you. “You’re Red Room?”

You shook your head. “Red Room adjacent.”

Bucky closed his eyes for a split second and shook his head. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I found her and she’s your new assistant. I trust her, Bucky.”

Bucky just looked away from Yelena and back at you, needing more than just one sentence. 

“I was trained like I came from the Red Room. Secret files and footage my aunt got a hold of. Trained me up. Sent me to work. Few years later, Yelena found me thinking I was one of the brainwashed trainees.”

“And you’re, what? A secretary now?”

You chuckled and sat down. “I worked in an office through high school. It’s been a while but,” you looked around Bucky to Yelena and back to him. “It seems like I might be the only viable candidate.”

Bucky glared at Yelena, but she wasn’t accepting any excuse. 

“You need someone, Bucky. And it’s either Y/n or Hill comes down here with a Shield Rookie.”

Bucky sighed. He couldn’t take another Shield Rookie. 

“Monday.”

You smiled up at him. “Great.”

Nearly a year later, it was still the best job you’d ever taken. Well paid – Yelena made sure of that. Lots of work – Shield made sure of that, for both you and Bucky. And just…fun. 

“James Buchanan Barnes!” You stood at the top of the hallway, your arms folded. Your voice was firm but not too mad. “So help me, God, if you don’t get your arse back here I will agree to Sam’s plan to set you up on a dating app.”

You and Joaquin watched as Bucky stopped walking. Despite his back being to both of you, you saw him take a big breath. You smiled and looked at Joaquin. 

He turned around and walked back up the hallway to both of you. “Fine. I’ll do it. But I’m not gonna enjoy it.”

“That’s what you think,” you mumbled loud enough for him to hear. He shot you a glare, but you weren’t so easily withered. 

Joaquin practically bounced on his feet. “Thank you. Seriously, Bucky.”

As he ran off in the other direction, pulling his phone out to make a call, Bucky turned to you. “I hate when you use my full name.”

“But I love your full name,” you smiled. Bucky just grunted and turned down the hall. 

“Thank you,” you called after him, your voice a little softer. He just waved you a hand. 

A week later, you were with Bucky in a tailor's shop. He was, yet again, messing with his collar. 

You tapped his hand away and stood in front of him. “You need to quit it. Everything will be fine.”

“I can’t breathe in this thing.”

“Be glad you’re not in a corset.”

He just gave you a look. 

You looked under the bow tie and fiddled with the buttons until they were undone. Pulling the bow tie from his collar, you looked around and judged different ties before picking one. You helped him tie it around his neck. 

“You should come with me.”

You laughed. “Yeah, right.”

“I’m being serious. Joaquin said I should bring someone. And you’re my assistant. Technically you have to do what I say.”

You just gave a half smirk to Bucky. “What do you think the likelihood will be for me to say yes?”

He chuckled. “I know, but…please?”

You looked at him, his blue gaze locking on yours. His voice was soft. “I’m gonna need someone with me. And, as much as I appreciate people wanting to talk, I don’t think I can take an entire night of small talk. Please?”

A soft smile broke out on your face. “Okay. But only if you stop fidgeting with your collar.”

Bucky nodded. “I think I can do that.”

A week later, Bucky was watching you descend the stairs of the gala making him instantly regret his decision on asking you to be his date. 

You looked…incredible. 

To him, you outshone everyone in the room. A floor length gown that made you look like nothing less than a Greek Goddess. And that smile of yours…

He was weak at the knees. His heart was practically leaping out of his chest and his fingers itched to hold you close to him and never let you go. 

Of course he knew you were beautiful. He didn’t spend practically every day with you and not notice. But that had been in a setting where he could set aside his most inner thoughts. He was your boss, technically. And you were his assistant. And also Yelena’s friend. 

But in front of him at that moment…

His thoughts couldn’t be shut off. Everything seemed heightened. The setting, the idea that you were his date, that dress…

“You’re staring.”

Bucky broke out of his trace for a moment and smiled. “Sorry. Can’t help it. You look stunning.”

You felt your cheeks heat and you looked away from him to gather yourself together. You looked down at the dress. “Thanks.” You looked back at him. “Yelena helped me pick it out.”

Bucky nodded. “She’s got good taste.”

You smiled. “Ready for the wolves?”

He turned a little and held his arm out to you silently. “You might not have let me pick you up, but you’re gonna have to let me be a gentleman at some point.”

You let out a soft chuckle and took his arm. “Okay, Sergeant.”

The entire night was…something else. Something fun and…a memory you’d cherish forever. 

Maybe he hated the fancy galas, but there was no denying Bucky Barnes looked good in a suit and tie. There was also no denying that he was a good dancer and you trusted him entirely. He was also nothing less than a gentleman. 

You even got him to talk to a few people outside of his normal social circle. And each time you did, he just held you a little tighter, practically anchoring you to him. Not that you minded. You didn’t plan on running. 

Maybe finding him a few more people to talk to just to extend the time you spent in his arms, sure. But not running. 

By the time you got back, he dropped you back home. 

“Thank you for coming with me tonight.”

You shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. It was fun.”

Bucky shrugged himself. “You still could have ditched it before. I wouldn’t have blamed you. But I’m glad you came.”

You looked at him and smiled. “So am I.”

Bucky waited until you turned a lamp on inside your home before he got back in his car and drove away, his mind wandering back to you each time the lights turned red. 

[pucksandpower]

Something to Lose

Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: when Lando starts driving like he has nothing left to lose after a stop-and-go penalty during the Qatar Grand Prix, you are left with no choice but to reveal that he does have something to lose … it’s currently growing inside you

Warnings: reckless driving and pregnancy

Based on this request

“Lando, calm down.”

Silence. The kind of silence that isn’t empty but buzzing with tension, the sound of static humming just underneath.

“Lando, you have to calm down.”

The voice over the radio is steady but edged with something close to panic. It’s Will, trying to sound composed and professional, but Lando doesn’t care. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, the sweat pooling in the fabric of his gloves.

“I’m fine,” he snaps, voice tight.

“No, you’re not fine,” comes the clipped reply. “You’re driving recklessly. You’ve already been warned twice about track limits. If you don’t-”

“I know what I’m doing!”

He’s not shouting, not quite, but it’s close enough. The car ahead of him looms into view, and he narrows his eyes. He’s lost so much time, too much time. Thirty-five seconds feels like a lifetime in Formula 1, and every fiber of his being burns with the need to claw it back.

“Lando, please,” Will tries again. “This isn’t just about you. Think about the team. Think about the other drivers.”

Lando sets his jaw, foot pressing harder on the throttle as he moves into the DRS zone. He’s close enough now, gaining. He can feel the adrenaline surging, the singular focus that blocks out everything else.

Except-

“Lando, you’ve got to listen.”

This time, it’s Andrea chiming in. There’s an edge of frustration to his tone, like he knows Lando isn’t going to.

“I’m fine,” Lando says again, more clipped this time.

“You’re not.”

He doesn’t respond. The car ahead is his target, and everything else fades.

In the McLaren garage, it’s chaos. Will mutters something under his breath, Andrea runs a hand through his hair, and Zak looks close to knocking the pit wall over in frustration. The radio crackles again, another futile attempt to break through.

“He’s not listening,” someone says, their voice low but frantic.

And then-

“Get her.”

Heads snap around.

“Are you serious?”

“Do you have a better idea?”

The silence that follows speaks volumes.

A headset is shoved into your hand before you can ask any questions. The words come in a rush. "He’s not listening to us. He’s driving like … just can you talk to him? Please.”

You blink, stunned, your brain trying to process what’s happening.

“On the radio? But I’m not part of the team. You’re not allowed to-”

“We’ll take the fine. Just please. He’ll listen to you.”

You hesitate, the weight of the request settling on your shoulders. Your fingers tighten around the phone. Somewhere in the pit of your stomach, there’s a familiar twinge of anxiety.

“Fine,” you say finally. “Patch me through.”

The radio buzzes, and then you hear him.

“Lando,” you say, your voice soft but firm.

There’s a beat of silence before his response.

“What?”

Just that one word, sharp and irritated. But you can hear it beneath the surface — the crack in his armor, the flicker of something vulnerable.

“Hey,” you say gently. “It’s me.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, and you press on, your heart pounding in your chest.

“You’re scaring them,” you say. “The team. They don’t know what to do with you right now.”

“I’m fine,” he says again, the words rote, mechanical.

“No, you’re not,” you counter. “Lando, I know you. I know how you get when you feel like everything’s slipping away.”

His silence is louder than anything he could say.

“You’re trying to prove something,” you continue. “I get it. But you don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”

“You don’t understand,” he mutters, voice low and strained.

“Don’t I?” You shoot back. “I’ve seen you like this before. I know how hard it is to let go when everything feels wrong, but-”

“It’s not the same,” he interrupts. “You don’t know what it’s like out here.”

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself.

“You’re right. I don’t. But I do know what it’s like to care about someone who doesn’t know when to stop. And right now, that’s you.”

He doesn’t answer, but you can hear his breathing, heavy and uneven.

You take a leap.

“Lando,” you say softly, almost a whisper, “think of the baby.”

The silence is deafening.

“What?” His voice cracks on the word, incredulous.

You swallow hard, your grip on the phone tightening. You hadn’t planned to say it, hadn’t even meant to — but now that the words are out, there’s no taking them back.

“I’m pregnant,” you say, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I wasn’t going to tell you like this, but Lando, please. You have to stop.”

The radio is silent for a long, agonizing moment. Then-

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “I wouldn’t joke about this.”

Another beat of silence.

“Are you serious right now?” His tone is softer now, laced with disbelief.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “I’m serious. And I’m scared, Lando. I’m scared for you, for us, for the future. But right now, I need you to stop driving like you’ve got nothing to lose.”

There’s a pause, the longest yet, and you can almost hear the wheels turning in his mind.

“I didn’t mean to-” he starts, but his voice falters.

“I know,” you say, cutting him off gently. “I know you didn’t. But you’re not just racing for yourself anymore.”

He exhales shakily, and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost defeated.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Okay, I’ll ease up.”

The tension in your chest loosens, just a fraction.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

The radio crackles, and the team’s voices flood back in, relieved and frantic. Lando doesn’t say much, just listens, his responses clipped but calmer.

In the garage, the atmosphere shifts. People exchange glances, half-shocked, half-relieved.

Back on track, Lando slows, just slightly. His movements are still precise, aggressive — but controlled.

And in the garage, you stand there, the phone still clutched in your hand, your heart racing.

“Is it true?” Someone asks quietly, their voice barely audible over the chaos.

You look down, swallowing hard.

“Yes,” you say softly. “It’s true.”

***

P10.

Not a podium, not even close to the result he wanted, but after the chaos of the race, it feels like a victory.

The team cheers faintly through the radio, their relief palpable. Lando barely hears it. His mind has been somewhere else since your voice cut through the static, since your words landed like a punch to the chest.

“I’ll meet you in the garage,” Will says over the radio, but Lando doesn’t respond. The car rolls to a stop in parc fermé, and he yanks off his steering wheel with more force than necessary.

The marshals wave him over toward the mandatory weight check. He doesn’t even glance at them.

“Lando!”

Their shouts barely register. He’s already pulling himself out of the car, helmet in hand, visor still down. His focus is singular, tunnel-visioned: you.

The rules? The procedures? None of that matters. Not now.

“Lando, you need to-” one of the officials tries again, but he brushes past them, moving with the kind of intensity that no one dares challenge.

His gloves hit the ground first, discarded in haste, then his balaclava. The crowd around him blurs into nothing — team personnel, photographers, journalists — none of them exist in his world right now.

He reaches the McLaren garage in record time, his breaths coming fast and shallow. The second he sees you, standing off to the side with your arms wrapped around yourself, he freezes.

You don’t notice him at first, your gaze fixed on the ground, your foot nervously tapping. Then someone points, murmuring his name, and your head snaps up.

The moment your eyes meet, it’s like the rest of the world falls away.

“Lando,” you whisper, but before you can say anything else, he’s crossing the distance between you in long, purposeful strides.

“Is it true?” He demands, voice low but urgent.

You blink, caught off guard by the intensity of his tone.

“Is it true?” He asks again, softer this time, his eyes searching yours.

You nod, your throat tightening. “Yes.”

His breath hitches. For a moment, he just stares at you, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he pulls you into his arms, holding you like he’s afraid you might disappear.

“You’re serious,” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your hair.

You nod again, your cheek pressed against his chest. “I am.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands still gripping your arms. His eyes are wide, almost disbelieving, but there’s something else there too — something softer.

“I don’t even know what to say,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to say anything right now,” you reply. “I just … I didn’t mean to tell you like that, but you weren’t listening, and I was scared, and-”

“I’m sorry,” he interrupts, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. For scaring you, for being reckless, for everything.”

You shake your head, tears welling up. “You don’t have to apologize. I just — I needed you to stop. I needed you to come back to me.”

“I’m here,” he says quickly, his grip on you tightening. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

The moment stretches, the noise of the paddock fading into a distant hum.

“I didn’t mean to put you in that position,” he says after a beat. “I should’ve been listening to the team, to you-”

“Stop,” you say softly, placing a hand on his chest. “We’ll talk about it later. Right now, I just need to know you’re okay.”

His lips press into a thin line, and he nods. “I’m okay. I promise.”

“Good,” you whisper, your voice trembling.

He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes fluttering shut. “I don’t know how I got so lucky,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

“Neither do I,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood.

A laugh escapes him, shaky but real, and it’s like a weight lifts from both of you.

“Lando!” Someone calls from behind him. It’s Will, looking equal parts exasperated and relieved. “You skipped the weight check. You’re going to get a penalty … again.”

Lando doesn’t even glance back. “I don’t care.”

“Lando-”

“I don’t care,” he repeats, more firmly this time. His focus stays on you, his hands still resting on your arms.

“We should go,” you say softly.

“Not yet,” he replies, his eyes locked on yours.

The circus can wait. For now, all that matters is you.

[malsmind]

“𝐟𝐢𝐱 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞.”

contains ➛ ★ unprotected sex ★ dirty talk ★ pet names ★ big dick!matt ★ dom!matt ★ creampie ★

𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦!

word count: 1.8k

you’d been pushing him all week. the eye rolls. the biting little comments. the short, clipped responses. acting like every word out of his mouth was a burden. he’d let most of it slide—at first. just threw you a look every now and then, that tight-lipped glance that meant cut it out. sometimes with a hand at the small of your back, sometimes with a muttered “fix the attitude.” but tonight? yeah. tonight was the last fucking straw. because you’d done it again—in front of everyone. you’d spent the entire dinner brushing him off, arms crossed, giving him one-word answers like you weren’t sitting beside the man who’d die for you. and he’d warned you, low in your ear as his hand slid around your waist:

“fix the attitude before i do it for you.”

but you didn’t listen. so the second the door shut behind you both back home, it was over. you barely got two steps inside before your back hit the wall with a quiet thud, matt pressed flush against you, both hands braced at either side of your head, his jaw clenched so tight you could practically hear his teeth grind.

“you done?” he asked, voice low, rough.

you blinked up at him, half defiant, half breathless. “with what?”

his head tilted, tongue pressing into his cheek.

“don’t play stupid,” he muttered, voice tightening. “you know exactly what.”

his eyes dragged over your face, down to the lips you kept pursing in annoyance all night, then back up again.

“week straight of attitude. talkin’ to me like you don’t even wanna be near me. and then tonight?” his hand slammed flat against the wall beside your head, making your breath hitch. “you think you can embarrass me in front of everyone and i’ll just take it?”

you swallowed hard, heat crawling down your spine.

“what, you gonna yell at me now?” you mumbled, trying to keep the bite in your voice.

but matt just scoffed, dark and humorless, his hand dropping to your hip, gripping it hard enough to make you squirm.

“no,” he said, leaning in close, lips brushing your ear. “not gonna yell.”

he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes.

“gonna fuck that attitude outta ya.”

your breath hitched. he dragged you away from the wall with one hand locked around your wrist, leading you to the bedroom like he was sick of wasting time, like he’d already decided exactly how this was gonna go down. when he shoved you onto the bed, it wasn’t rough—just firm. controlled.

“on your back.”

you hesitated for half a second too long and got a warning look that made your stomach twist. you laid back. matt stood at the edge of the bed, shirt pulled off in one smooth motion, belt unbuckled slow just to make a point.

“you wanna act like a brat, baby?” he muttered, climbing over you, eyes locked on yours. “fine.”

he kissed you hard, catching your bottom lip between his teeth, swallowing the little gasp you let out. “but don’t think for a second you get to run this.”

you barely managed a nod before he was dragging your clothes off, tossing them carelessly to the floor. his hands were rougher than usual—still careful, still him—but full of frustrated tension, like he’d been holding back for too long. and once he was inside you, there was no mistaking it—this wasn’t slow or sweet. he was deliberate. deep, punishing strokes that made your thighs shake, your fingers scramble for something to hold on to.

“still mad at me?” he growled into your neck, hips snapping forward so hard your back arched.

you whimpered, shaking your head, breathless.

“didn’t catch that, baby.”

“n-no,” you gasped.

his lips brushed your jaw. “you gonna keep talkin’ to me like you don’t need me?”

you couldn’t even answer. his rhythm didn’t slow—not until you were trembling beneath him, hands fisting in the sheets, eyes wide and watery.

only then did his mouth soften against your skin, kisses trailing down to your shoulder, his hips easing slightly as he murmured, “there she is. my girl.”

you barely managed a breath.

“next time,” he muttered, voice still rough but steadier now, “you got a problem? use your words.”

you nodded, dazed. he kissed you again, gentler now.

“that’s what i thought.”

you could’ve just laid there. breathless, aching, legs still shaking from how he’d just handled you. you could’ve let the tension melt away, softened under the way matt hovered over you like he wasn’t still pulsing inside you, like he didn’t still have all that fire smoldering behind his eyes. but you didn’t.

you looked up at him—smirk tugging at your lips, voice hoarse—and said, “you done being dramatic?”

matt blinked. a beat. then his jaw set.

“you think i’m bein’ dramatic?” he asked slowly, one eyebrow twitching.

you nodded, eyes glinting with something daring. “mhmm.”

his palm came up to cup your throat—not tight, not dangerous, just enough to ground you in the sharp shift of mood. you knew that look. you loved that look.

“alright,” he muttered, pulling out just to flip you over in one smooth motion. you gasped, barely catching your breath before he gripped your hips, dragging you up onto your knees.

“since you got so much attitude left—lemme take care of it proper.”

you tried to shoot back another snarky comment, but the second he sank back into you, deep and unrelenting, the words died in your throat.

“mhhh, got nothin’ to say now?” he growled, thrusts hard, rhythm brutal. “all that mouth, and now you can’t even talk?”

your hands scrambled forward, clawing at the sheets, your voice caught between a moan and a cry. he was big—he always felt big—but right now, he was everywhere, knocking every breath, every sound, every thought straight out of your body.

“go on, say something else smart,” he taunted, hand coming down hard on your ass, a smack that made your thighs tremble. “or you finally learnin’?”

you gasped, tried to say his name—tried to sass him again, even if your voice shook. but he leaned over your back, chest flush against you, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades to hold you down while he fucked you through it.

“nah, baby. you wanted this,” he murmured low against your ear, still relentless. “you wanted to push me. so don’t go gettin’ quiet on me now.”

your knees were giving out, voice cracking, body wrung out and twitching under him. still, you tried. one last push.

“m-maybe if you weren’t so easy to piss off—”

he cut you off with a sharp thrust that made your vision white out.

“what was that?” he snapped, hand curling around your waist to slam into you harder, deeper. “say it again.”

you choked on a moan, body jerking.

“that’s what i fuckin’ thought.”

he didn’t stop—pace brutal, control firm, hand gripping your hips like he owned you. it didn’t take long before your cocky defiance fell apart completely, reduced to gasps and broken whimpers, your head turned into the mattress as your body trembled. and finally, when you couldn’t take another second, when your pride cracked like glass under the weight of him, you sobbed it out,

“m’sorry—i’m sorry, matt, i swear—”

his rhythm slowed just enough to let the words land, breath heavy behind you.

“yeah?” he muttered, voice dark and breathless. “you done with the fuckin’ attitude now?”

“yes—yes, promise—i swear—”

“exactly.” his grip tightened. “you don’t fuckin’ talk back at me. not like this. y’got it?”

you nodded frantically, tears hot in your eyes.

“good,” he whispered. and then he kissed your shoulder—soft, sudden. the only softness he gave you.

but it was enough. because you trusted him. and he knew exactly where the line was—and how to pull you back once he’d walked you right up to it. matt’s grip softened just enough for you to breathe. his pace remained relentless, but there was something different now. something deeper. the power in his hands, the way his body leaned into yours, wasn’t about punishment anymore. it was about something heavier—something that tethered you to him in ways words couldn’t explain. you were shaking. your muscles ached, and every inch of you felt alive, stretched, and full of him in the most overwhelming way. you couldn’t quite catch your breath, your chest rising and falling with every thrust that was filling you so completely. you were in that sweet space between surrender and craving—where everything was just a little bit too much, and yet you needed more.

“matt,” you gasped, voice barely more than a whisper, broken and desperate. he heard it, though. he always heard you. always knew when you were on the edge.

his hand slid up your back, pressing you further into the bed, keeping you grounded as his hips surged forward again, rough but calculated. his size was a consuming force, but he used it with purpose, each movement deliberate, forcing your body to adjust, stretch, give in to him.

“y’feel that?” he breathed into your ear, his voice strained with effort but still commanding. “feel how fucking big i am inside you?”

you nodded your head, biting down on your lip to suppress the cries threatening to break free. your body was overwhelmed, but in the best possible way, and the pressure was building—slow and steady, until it was unbearable.

“say it,” he muttered, breath hot against your skin. “tell me how much you love this fuckin’ cock.”

you barely managed the words through the tightness in your throat. “i love it—fuck—matt. s’ so f-fuckin’ good”

he groaned, his thrusts deepening, the rhythm relentless, pushing you toward that final edge.

“good girl,” he muttered. “good fucking girl.”

it wasn’t long after that—when the world went white, and your body tensed as the release hit. everything tightened, your back arching off the bed, your breath catching in a final, desperate gasp as you finally let go. matt followed right after, his own release spilling deep inside you, the tension in his body unraveling as he collapsed over you. he wasn’t gentle as he settled into the bed beside you, both of you panting heavily, slick with sweat, bodies tangled together. for a moment, neither of you moved. the only sound in the room was the heavy, synchronized breathing.

finally, matt spoke, voice softer now but still carrying that possessive edge. “you good?”

you let out a breathless laugh, your chest still rising and falling unevenly. “yeah. definitely good.”

he smiled, a small, satisfied curl of his lips. his hand found yours, squeezing gently. “good. i ain’t gonna be so nice next time. swear to god you need to fix that fuckin’ moody shit.”

and in that moment, all the tension, the teasing, the power play—everything—melted away. you were left with nothing but the feeling of him, still close, still real, holding you through the aftermath.

© 𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝

lace divider by @kodaswrld

[hipsdofangirl]

“baby”

seungcheol x reader

contents: sfw, fluff mess, idol au, established relationship au, repetitive use of word “baby”, kkuma is seungcheol’s daughter

summary: seungcheol finds out he is a grandpa at age 28 in his own way / seungcheol comes home to his (growing) family

wc: 1111 (hehe)

“where’s your toy?” you coo.

kkuma stares blankly at you, sitting pretty. you slap your hands on your knees with an exaggerated grin decorating your face.

you repeat, enunciating each word, “where is your toy?”

she pants with a smile—the crooked pink bow clip melts your heart bit by bit. she stands up and spins in a circle, searching for something; the clopping of her nails against the hard-wooded floor reminds you that she needs her nails clipped, and your boyfriend will no doubt get her groomed for that to be completed.

the fluffy small cloud faces you, tongue out and involved in her desperate recovery mission. she moves her head to the right then the left; you can’t help but huff air with a smile, observing her cute yet calculated movements. her smile fades as she sniffs lightly. there is one more attempt to push kkuma over the edge.

“where is your baby?” you reiterate.

like a sleeper agent, something inside of her awakens. her head moves back to the right, regaining that same grin she trots into the hallway out of your sight.

you stand up, kneecaps cracking from being on the floor for some time; you keep your gaze locked from where she last left your sight, anticipating little patters to get louder.

soon enough, kkuma emerges from that hallway with a plush hello kitty doll, bigger than her own body, being dragged across the floor; if only it was real you could imagine the doll’s face painted with agony of living another day of torment while being lifelessly lugged.

you smirk and clap your fingertips together, creating little yet audible sound. “there she is! do you have your baby?” you babble.

in response, kkuma shakes her head and therefore her body and therefore the doll. you nod your head in respect and walk to the kitchen. kkuma continues her tirade and saunters over to the living room, plopping herself right in front of the couch with baby in hand.

—————

after the sun has been set for some time, the front door creaks open. soft yet heavy footfalls patter against the floor.

from your spot laying on the couch, you glance towards the noise in the dark, only your phone and tv providing light. you sit there and listen: you hear deep breaths and rustling of fabric before something collides with the floor. a defeated grunt comes from the entrance still: you chuckle quietly and turn your phone off, turning onto your stomach to lay on.

you click your flashlight on. the perpetrator standing there being your boyfriend, seungcheol. his eyes widen yet dim quickly when he made contact with the light. he covers his eyes with his hand and sets down the rest of his stuff. you turn off your flash and get up to immediately flick on the living room lights. you stroll to him with a not-so hidden grin.

he takes one glance at your expression before huffing, “you heard me struggling yet here you are taking a photo of me like i’m a cryptid.” your grin hurts your cheeks at this point; he gives one of his own as he watches you.

“you try so hard to be quiet when you come in, it’s hard not to see you as one.” you counter.

his eyebrows raise and grin deflates. “well you should be in bed right now. i swear you don’t have to wait up for me, i’ll be fine.” you both hear little paws barrel towards you. seungcheol’s dimples return once again as he squats, palms open.

“cause this little girl will always be there to greet me.”

you playfully scoff, leaning on the wall, observing the interaction. “yeah because she knows she will get a treat.” kkuma licks his fingers as he scratches underneath her chin.

you squat down yourself and her attention was instantly caught. you gently unclip the bow from the top of her head and smother it in your/his pant pocket.

as you give her your own soft head pats and aggressive spouts of rubs, seungcheol gaze is stuck on your face, basking in the intimate moment he secretly waits for after every day of intense idol-life.

he would never say it, but he appreciates how you wait; he doesn’t understand how you are able to keep waiting after all this time—for him. he glances at the floor, he shouldn't keep you waiting, should he?

kkuma’s rhythm of her happy dance kept him in a trance, but for some reason it stopped? seungcheol blinks and doesn’t see his little girl in front of him. he glances up at you for some clarification as you shuffle his things around, grabbing his workout clothes to put in the washer.

seungcheol blinks again. where did one of his princesses go? every time he arrives home, she follows him wherever he goes. is his little girl growing up?

he mindlessly follows you and stutters with a pout, “w-where did kkuma go?”

you flip open the washer lid. “she’s grabbing her baby.”

seungcheol’s inner demons were confirmed. “her baby?”

you hum in confirmation.

he sadly flicks his eyes to the door to the rest of the apartment. as you shut the lid down and press the appropriate buttons, you feel his fingers weaving into yours; slowly, he drapes his body weight onto you, head searching for his crook. you smile and pat his head.

you both hear little paws barrel toward you both. entering the door frame is little kkuma with her big baby hello kitty doll.

seungcheol’s head lifts up from your body.

kkuma gives him a little shake, showing him and her baby dominance.

he makes eye contact with you. “your childhood pillow?”

you correct him, enunciating your words, “her baby.” his arms sneak around your waist, eyes never leaving the white dog.

he repeats after you, “her baby.”

you hum and nod, pecking his cheek before sauntering out of the room. seungcheol bites his lip, smile breaking through, and skips after you. his arms return to hug your waist as he leans both your bodies sideways with a kiss—soon followed by an onslaught of fleeting smooches.

you blush. “cmon you big baby lets go to bed. you have an upcoming comeback and tour that doesn’t need you to fall ill again. i don’t need you to do that.”

he hums and sways your bodies, widely walking both of your feet in that direction like penguins.

he only hummed, not saying anything. you look at him for any other confirmation. he only beholds your eyes that swallow the rest of the world.

he knocks his head playfully with yours. “my baby.”

a/n: first uploaded fic please have mercy on my soul. also not proofread.

i have some works in the notes app but so far this is the one that is currently making me want to publish because i just got in the mood and it’s his bday. also this is totally not based off my own dog

if you made it here, congratulations! have a nice day/night!! 🫶

tag: @jacixbliss

[glorifiedagents]

Paid to be Ruined — agatha harkness

"YOU LISTENED." Agatha’s voice was velvet and steel, laced with amusement and unmistakable hunger. Her gaze dragged over you — slow, knowing, lingering on the bare skin of your thighs peeking from beneath your coat. She took a step closer, fingers brushing the belt at your waist, her smirk deepening as she tugged — just enough to loosen it. "Good girl."

SUMMARY: agatha hires you for the night again - and you know for a fact that she's gonna ruin you PAIRING: g!p agatha harkness & escort!fem!reader CAUTION: swallowing cum, creampie, deepthroat, size kink, stomach bulge, spit, dom!sub!dynamics, overstimulation, escort!reader, g!p agatha, degradation and slight aftercare from agatha WORD COUNT: 5.1K AUTHOR'S NOTE: not proof read, let me know if i made mistakes! currently going through my agatha phase - literally need fucking help

You weren’t new to this.

The job, the money, the whole give them what they want, take what you need, and walk away thing. You had it down to a science. You knew how to read people, how to figure out exactly what they were looking for and play the part they wanted. It was easy. Simple. No emotions, no attachments, no mess.

But then there was her.

Agatha Harkness had been different from the start. The first time she hired you, you had expected the usual, maybe a drink, some small talk, a client who wanted to pretend there was more to this than just an exchange. But Agatha? She didn’t do small talk. She didn’t waste time.

She had taken one look at you, studied you with those dark, unreadable eyes, and smirked like she already knew exactly how the night would go. Like she had already decided how far she was going to push you. And the worst part?

She was right.

That night, she had left you wrecked. Not just satisfied — ruined.

You had walked away with sore thighs, a raw throat, and a pay-check big enough to make your head spin. You should have left it at that. Should have chalked it up to just one really good night with a really dangerous woman.

But then she called again. No discussion. No questions. Just a time, a room number, and the unspoken expectation that you would show up.

And against your better judgment, you did.

Only this time, you weren’t just going to show up. This time, you wanted to see just how much further she could break you.

You remembered something she had said the first time around, almost offhand but still deliberate in that way she did everything.

"Red suits you."

So you wore red.

Your best set — delicate lace, thin straps, garters and thigh-high stockings that made you feel like sin itself. And as the elevator carried you up to the top floor, heart pounding, pulse racing, you knew one thing for sure.

You weren’t just getting paid tonight.

You were getting owned.

The black car idled outside the grand hotel, its sleek design gleaming beneath the golden glow of the streetlights. You sat in the back seat, smoothing your hands over your thighs, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. The fabric of your long coat was soft, but it did nothing to still the pounding of your heart.

The driver hadn’t spoken much since picking you up from your apartment — just a clipped greeting and a quiet confirmation of the address before pulling away from the curb. You were grateful. Any attempt at conversation would have been wasted on you. Your mind was too preoccupied, too restless, too consumed by what awaited you on the top floor of this building.

Your breath hitched as you stepped out of the car, heels clicking softly against the pavement. The grand entrance of the hotel loomed ahead, its revolving doors ushering guests in and out with quiet efficiency. The warm air inside wrapped around you as you stepped through, a stark contrast to the crisp night air outside.

The lobby was a sight of wealth — high ceilings, polished marble floors, chandeliers dripping with crystal. The hum of quiet conversation surrounded you, but none of it registered. You walked with purpose, straight to the bank of elevators tucked near the back of the lobby.

Agatha’s message had been simple. A room number. A time. Nothing else.

Your fingers toyed with the belt of your coat as you waited for the elevator, a mix of nerves and anticipation coiling low in your stomach. You had dressed for her. The finest red lace and silk clung to your curves beneath your coat, the bra delicate yet daring, framing your breasts perfectly. The matching panties sat low on your hips, sheer enough to leave little to the imagination. Garters held up sheer thigh-high stockings, adding an extra layer of tease.

She would appreciate the effort. And then she would ruin it.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and you stepped inside, pressing the button for the top floor. The space was empty save for you, the only sound the soft hum of the elevator rising.

Your pulse quickened. You could already imagine the way she would look at you. The weight of her gaze, dark and knowing, as she took in every inch of you. The way she liked to test your limits, the way she devoured, possessed. She was dangerous in the most intoxicating way, and you had walked straight into her grasp.

Another chime. The doors opened.

The hallway was quiet, lined with plush carpeting that softened the sound of your steps. Each step forward sent another jolt of anticipation through you, every breath felt heavier. The door number burned in your mind.

And then, you were there.

Before you could knock, the door swung open.

Agatha stood in the doorway, bathed in the soft glow of the suite’s lighting. Her dark button-up was partially undone, sleeves rolled up to her forearms, revealing toned, elegant wrists. She looked effortless, but you knew better. Everything about her was intentional.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Agatha wasted no time. She had you pinned before you could take another breath, her strong hands pressing you back against the door, her body a solid wall of heat against yours. Her mouth crashed onto yours—hungry, claiming, her teeth scraping against your lower lip before she bit down just hard enough to make you gasp. She swallowed the sound with a satisfied hum, her tongue slipping past your lips as she deepened the kiss, rough yet tantalizingly slow, like she had all the time in the world to ruin you.

Her fingers trailed from your wrists, still trapped against the wood, down the length of your arms, her touch featherlight—teasing. By the time she reached your shoulders, she slid her fingers beneath the delicate straps of your red lace bra, pulling them down achingly slow, her mouth never leaving yours until she finally ripped herself away.

"Look at you," she murmured, stepping back just enough to take in the sight of you, her dark eyes raking over your body like she was devouring you whole. "Dressed up like a good little whore, just for me."

Heat flared through your body at the way she said it, dripping with amusement but edged with something dangerous, something that made your pulse stutter in your throat.

You barely had a second to react before she was on you again—her mouth hot against the curve of your jaw, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your throat. Her hands were everywhere at once—sliding down your arms, gripping your hips, owning every inch of you as she backed you up toward the bed. You whimpered when she took one of your nipples into her mouth, sucking hard, her tongue circling the sensitive peak before her teeth grazed it just enough to make you jerk in her grasp.

"Mm, so fucking sensitive," she mused against your skin before switching to the other, her free hand rolling the abandoned nipple between her fingers. Your hips bucked reflexively against her, needing more, desperate for friction.

And fuck, you felt it. The thick, hard length of her cock pressing against your stomach through her slacks, the outline making your mouth water as you squirmed beneath her.

"Pathetic," Agatha laughed, the sound low and mocking, her fingers trailing down your stomach, stopping just at the waistband of your panties. She could feel how wet they were, her smirk widening as she pressed her fingers against the soaked lace, applying just enough pressure to make you moan. "This soaked already? And I haven't even touched you properly. Such a desperate little thing."

"Agatha, please—"

A sharp slap to your thigh cut you off, the sting making you whimper as your skin burned beneath her palm.

"Did I say you could fucking beg?" she growled, her tone dark, commanding. "You're so needy it’s pathetic. You don’t deserve my cock yet."

You let out a choked sound of frustration, your body aching for more, but she just smirked, dragging her fingers up the inside of your thigh, making you tremble.

Then, without warning, she dropped to her knees.

You gasped at the sudden shift, your breath hitching as she pressed a kiss to your hip, her mouth lingering over the thin straps of your panties. She breathed you in, her nose nudging against the damp lace before she let out a low, satisfied hum.

"Fucking filthy," she murmured, dragging her tongue over the wet fabric, slow and deliberate, tasting you through it. The friction was exquisite—a teasing, maddening pressure that made your thighs shake. She licked a second time, the heat of her mouth soaking through, her fingers digging into your hips as she held you still.

You whimpered, your hands gripping the sheets behind you as your hips jerked up, chasing her mouth. But she pulled away just enough to deny you.

"Patience," she scolded, voice thick with amusement, before reaching up and undoing the garter straps excruciatingly slow, watching your face the entire time.

And then—fuck.

She hooked her fingers into the waistband and pulled your panties down, dragging them down your legs inch by inch, her lips brushing along your thighs as she went. And then, instead of tossing them aside—

She brought them to her mouth.

Your breath caught as she slid the drenched fabric between her teeth, her dark eyes locked onto yours as she pulled them taut, letting them drag over her tongue. She moaned like she was savoring the taste, her smirk never fading as she finally removed them—only to shove them into your mouth.

"Since you can't seem to stop moaning like a desperate slut," she taunted, her fingers trailing down your exposed cunt. "Now you can keep quiet."

You whimpered against the soaked lace in your mouth as she finally pressed two fingers between your folds, spreading you open. She groaned at how wet you were, her thumb finding your clit and rubbing in slow, devastating circles.

"Fuck, look at this mess," she muttered, her fingers teasing your entrance, just barely pushing in before pulling away. "So fucking needy for me. Do you even have a single ounce of dignity left?"

You tried to respond, but your voice was muffled by the panties in your mouth.

Agatha laughed. "That’s what I thought."

And then, without warning, she thrust two fingers inside of you.

Your entire body arched off the bed, a muffled scream escaping past the gag as she filled you all at once, stretching you open with zero hesitation. She set a relentless pace immediately, her fingers driving into you with obscene, wet sounds that only seemed to fuel her amusement.

"Listen to you," she groaned, her free hand palming her cock through her slacks. "Taking my fingers so fucking well. You were made to be used like this."

Her thumb pressed against your clit, circling in time with the thrusts, sending sharp jolts of pleasure racing through your core. The pressure was unbearable, the pleasure so intense that your legs started shaking.

"You're gonna come already, aren’t you?" she mocked, watching you struggle. "Go on. Make a mess."

And then—fuck, fuck, fuck.

She angled her fingers just right, curling them against that perfect spot inside of you while pressing harder against your clit. Your entire body locked up before pleasure exploded through you, a sharp, overwhelming rush that had you squirting all over her fingers, your release dripping down your thighs as you writhed beneath her.

Agatha groaned as she watched you come undone, fucking you through it, her pace unrelenting as she worked you through every wave. "That's it. So fucking messy for me."

When she finally pulled her fingers out, they were dripping. She brought them to her lips, eyes locked onto yours as she sucked them clean, humming at the taste.

Then she stood, undoing her slacks, letting them pool at her feet.

Your breath caught at the sight of her thick, hard cock springing free, the tip glistening. You reached for it immediately, but she caught your wrist, pinning it back against the mattress with a warning glare.

"You don’t get to touch until I say so," she growled, leaning over you, pressing the heavy length against your overstimulated clit, making you whimper. "And you will take every fucking inch."

And fuck, you knew she meant it.

Every single word.

Agatha’s cock drags against your slick folds, teasing, the head catching on your clit with every slow, deliberate stroke. The obscene, wet sounds fill the room, mixing with your breathy whimpers and the low, guttural hum of amusement from her lips. She’s playing with you, watching the way you tremble beneath her, the way your thighs try to clamp together, only to be forced apart by her strong grip.

"Spit." The command is sharp, leaving no room for hesitation.

Your lips part instantly, tongue pushing forward as a warm strand of saliva drips onto her waiting fingers. She smears it over her cock, mixing it with the slick beads of pre-cum already glistening at the tip. A slow, shuddering breath leaves her as she fists herself, pumping with languid strokes, eyes heavy-lidded as she watches you. A few stray drops spill onto your stomach, smearing across your skin, and marking you.

She lines herself up again, pressing the swollen tip against your entrance but not pushing in. Instead, she leans in close, mouth ghosting over yours, her breath hot and teasing.

"You want it?" she murmurs, smirking as she rubs herself against you, teasing, taunting. "Say it. Beg for it."

"Please," you gasp, fingers digging into the sheets. "Please, Agatha, I need—"

The words cut off in a sharp cry as she thrusts into you in one smooth motion, burying herself to the hilt. The stretch is instant, overwhelming — your walls clenching desperately around her thick cock as she fills you completely.

But she doesn’t give you time to adjust.

She sets a ruthless pace from the start, each powerful thrust driving deep, punching the air from your lungs as she claims you. The slap of skin on skin echoes through the room, the mattress creaking beneath the force of her movements. Your back arches, head falling back against the pillows as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you.

"Feel that?" she growls, grabbing your wrist and guiding your hand down to your stomach. She presses your palm flat against your lower abdomen, right where she’s buried so deep inside you. "Feel me stretching you out? Fucking you open?"

The sensation is dizzying — you can feel the thick, hard outline of her cock through your own skin, feel the way she moves inside you, relentless and unyielding. Your body is burning, electric, the pressure coiling tight in your core with every brutal thrust.

"You’re squeezing me so fucking tight," Agatha groans, her fingers bruising against your hips as she fucks into you harder, deeper. "Like your body's desperate to milk me dry."

The words send a violent shudder through you, the pleasure teetering on the edge of something devastating.

"That’s it," she pants, her grip tightening as she slams into you harder. "Come for me, you filthy little thing — fucking soak me."

It’s too much. The overwhelming fullness, the sharp slap of her hips against yours, the way her cock presses against that perfect spot inside you — it sends you spiralling. Your body seizes, the orgasm ripping through you like a lightning strike, white-hot and all-consuming.

Fuck.

A strangled cry breaks from your lips as the pleasure turns into something explosive — your walls clenching down in rhythmic, desperate spasms, forcing liquid heat to gush from you, soaking Agatha’s cock, your thighs, and the sheets beneath you. The release is violent, messy, your body shuddering uncontrollably as the pleasure crashes over you in waves, each one dragging you under deeper.

Agatha curses under her breath, watching as you fall apart, watching the way you soak her cock, your slick dripping down onto her thighs. Her movements grow erratic, her breath ragged as she slams into you one final time, burying herself to the hilt as her own pleasure overtakes her.

A deep, guttural groan rumbles from her chest as she comes, filling you with heat. You can feel it — the thick warmth spilling deep inside, coating your insides. As if it was seeping into every inch of you. She doesn’t pull out, just grinds against you, making sure every drop stays buried within you.

Your body is still trembling, aftershocks pulsing through your core, your skin flushed and feverish. Agatha finally collapses against you, her cock still inside, pressing a searing kiss to your jaw, her breath still ragged as she murmurs against your ear:

"Mine."

Agatha pulls out slowly, deliberately, watching with dark, predatory eyes as your walls clench around nothing, your body still trembling from the force of your release. A satisfied smirk curls at the corner of her lips as she watches the thick spill of her cum start to leak out of you, glistening as it drips onto your thighs.

"Messy little thing," she muses, voice dripping with amusement and something darker, something possessive. Her fingers trail down your stomach, teasing over the sensitive, overstimulated skin before she presses two fingers against your entrance, spreading you open just enough to watch more of her cum seep out.

"Don’t waste it," she commands, and when you hesitate, she grabs your wrist, guiding your hand down. "Use your fingers. Push it back in."

Your breath stutters, but you do as you're told, your own fingers gathering the warmth of her release, feeling it slick and sticky against your skin before pressing it back inside, your walls fluttering around the intrusion. The act is filthy and it makes you burn with humiliation and arousal all at once.

Agatha hums approvingly, dragging her thumb over your bottom lip, her smirk widening. "That’s a good girl."

But she isn’t done with you.

"On your knees."

Your body obeys before your mind fully catches up, slipping off the bed and sinking onto the floor. The shift makes more of her spend trickle down your thighs, and Agatha notices; her gaze flicking down, her smirk deepening.

"Open your mouth," she orders, tilting your chin up with two fingers.

The second your lips part, she grips the base of her cock and taps the heavy length against your tongue. She’s still hard, impossibly thick, coated in a mix of your slick and her own release. The taste is intoxicating — salty and musky. The scent clings to her skin, warm and heady, something rich and masculine with the faintest hint of sweat.

You could get used to this.

Agatha doesn’t ease you into it. She grips the back of your head and pushes forward, the thick head stretching your lips wide as she sinks deep, pressing against your tongue. The intrusion makes your throat tighten, and she groans at the feeling, her other hand coming to rest heavy on the back of your neck.

"That’s it. Take it," she growls, rolling her hips forward, pushing deeper until your nose nearly brushes the coarse, dark hair at the base of her cock. There’s just enough of it for you to feel against your skin, soft yet undeniably masculine, a reminder of how utterly she’s claiming you.

Your fingers twitch at your sides before you reach up, cupping her balls — heavy, full, sensitive under your touch. You can feel the heat of them against your palm, the weight of them tightening slightly as she thrusts into your mouth.

"Look at you," Agatha sneers, pulling back just enough to let you gasp for air before she thrusts forward again, setting a punishing rhythm. "Nothing but a desperate little cock-sleeve for me, aren’t you? So fucking needy, drooling all over yourself just to have me in your mouth."

Your throat constricts around her, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, saliva pooling and spilling from the corners of your lips. Your body shudders, caught between humiliation and arousal, between submission and the raw pleasure of being used like this.

"Messy, pathetic thing," she continues, her voice sharper now, laced with satisfaction. "You love this, don’t you? Love being on your knees for me, choking on my cock like the filthy little slut you are."

Her words send a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs, and she notices the slight tremor in your body, the way your nails dig into her thighs as if trying to ground yourself.

"You’re getting off on this," she chuckles darkly, shoving deeper, holding you there for a moment as your throat spasms around her. "Of course you are. You’d let me ruin you, wouldn’t you?"

She groans as she pulls back, letting you breathe just for a second before thrusting forward again, deeper, harder, until you’re gasping around her, tears streaking down your cheeks. And still, you don’t pull away. You take it.

Just like she knew you would.

Agatha’s grip tightens at the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair as she thrusts deeper, groaning low and guttural as she feels herself teetering on the edge. You can feel the way her cock pulses on your tongue, the way her breath stutters, her rhythm faltering just slightly as she chases that final burst of pleasure.

"Fuck—" she growls, her hips snapping forward one last time, holding you down as her release spills down your throat. The taste is thick, warm, — salty and rich, coating your tongue in waves. She doesn’t let you pull away, making sure you take as much as you can, but it’s too much — some of it dribbles from the corners of your lips, spilling down your chin in hot, sticky trails.

She watches with dark, satisfied eyes as you gasp for breath when she finally pulls back, her cock glistening with spit and the remnants of her orgasm.

"Messy little thing," she murmurs again, thumb swiping at the cum dripping from your chin before pressing it against your lips. "Swallow every last drop."

Your throat bobs as you obey, the act making her smirk in satisfaction.

Then, without warning, she grabs you and pulls you up onto shaky legs, her lips crashing onto yours in a bruising kiss. The taste of her own release lingers between you, and she doesn’t shy away from it —if anything, she deepens the kiss, claiming your mouth with a dominance that makes your knees weak.

She moves you easily, pushing you back onto the bed, her body covering yours, heavy with heat and lingering hunger. Her cock, still hard, presses against your stomach, smearing the last of her release against your skin. You’re panting, dazed, body still trembling from the relentless pleasure she’s wrung from you, but when she starts to pull away, you catch her wrist, eyes glassy with need.

"I wanna ride you," you gasp, the words tumbling out breathlessly, your body aching but desperate for more.

Agatha chuckles, low and smug, dragging her fingers down your chest, teasing over your already-sensitive skin. "You think you can handle that?" she taunts, tracing slow circles over your overstimulated clit, making your thighs twitch. "You’re still shaking, baby. After everything I’ve done to you, you really think you can take control?"

The challenge sends another shiver down your spine, your breath hitching as you push up onto shaky arms. "Let me try," you whisper, lips brushing against hers, your voice filled with determination despite the exhaustion in your limbs.

Agatha leans back against the pillows, her body stretched out beneath you, radiating heat and authority even in repose. Her cock, still thick and glistening with a mix of your slick and her own release, stands hard between her legs, a silent challenge. The way she watches you; head tilted, lips curled in a knowing smirk; makes your pulse spike, a flush crawling up your chest.

"Go on then," she murmurs, voice laced with amusement, fingers idly trailing up her stomach. "Show me what you can do, baby."

Your thighs tremble as you shift forward, crawling into position, your body still aching from the relentless way she’s used you but the hunger still simmers beneath the exhaustion, pulsing low in your belly. You want this. Need this. Need to take her in deep, to feel every inch stretch you open again.

You straddle her lap, your hands braced against her stomach, feeling the taut muscles flex beneath your palms as you hover just above her length. The heat of her cock brushes against your swollen folds, sending a fresh shudder through you. She feels like fire against your skin. Thick and rigid, pulsing with need, the tip teasing against your entrance as you roll your hips ever so slightly, coating her in your arousal.

Agatha hums in approval, her hands gliding up your thighs, slow and possessive. "Look at you," she murmurs, her thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin where your legs meet your hips. "So desperate to have me inside you again. Can’t get enough, can you?"

You bite your lip, but she catches your chin between her fingers, forcing your gaze to meet hers. "Say it."

Your breath stutters, your body burning from the inside out as you whisper, "I can’t get enough of you."

Her smirk deepens. "Good girl."

She releases you just as you sink down, your breath catching in your throat as the thick head of her cock pushes past your entrance, stretching you inch by inch. The burn is instant—blissful, overwhelming, your walls struggling to take her all at once.

Agatha groans beneath you, her fingers digging into your thighs. "Fuck, you’re tight," she rasps, watching with hooded eyes as you slowly lower yourself onto her, taking her deeper, letting the length of her disappear inside you.

Your head falls back as you bottom out, her cock nestled impossibly deep, pressing against every nerve inside you. The sensation is devastating, a perfect mix of pleasure and pressure, and you tremble above her, nails scraping against her abdomen as you struggle to catch your breath.

"Feel that?" Agatha murmurs, her voice smug as she presses a hand against your lower stomach, right where she’s buried to the hilt. "So deep I can feel myself inside you again. Fuck baby."

You whimper, rolling your hips experimentally, the movement sending sharp waves of pleasure through you. The drag of her cock against your walls is slow and torturous, every inch brushing against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

Agatha watches you struggle to find a rhythm, her grip tightening. "Come on, baby," she taunts, giving your thigh a sharp slap that makes you jolt. "You wanted to ride me. Show me how much you need it."

A determined fire flares in your chest, and you plant your hands against her shoulders, lifting yourself just enough before sinking back down, harder this time. The impact sends a delicious jolt through you, pleasure sparking at the base of your spine.

Agatha groans, her hands sliding up to your chest, palms covering your breasts, squeezing as she rolls your sensitive nipples between her fingers. The sensation makes you gasp, the mix of pleasure and pain sending a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your thighs.

"That’s it," she murmurs, her grip firm but teasing, playing with your body as she lets you work yourself on her cock. "Such pretty tits, bouncing every time you take me. Keep going, baby. Make yourself cum on me."

The words send a rush of heat through you, your movements growing desperate, erratic, your nails digging into her skin as you chase the high she’s leading you toward. The pleasure coils deep in your belly, unbearably tight, and when Agatha tweaks your nipple just right, rolling it between her fingers, it snaps.

A strangled cry rips from your throat as your climax crashes over you, your entire body shaking as pleasure consumes you. Your walls clench down around her, pulsing, milking her cock with every wave of your release.

Agatha groans, her thrusts turning erratic as she follows, burying herself deep inside you with one final snap of her hips. The warmth of her release floods your core, thick and hot, filling you completely as her grip tightens around you.

Then, with a smirk, Agatha leans in, nipping at your jaw but this time, her touch is softer. As you collapse onto her chest, spent and trembling, she strokes a hand down your back, her other hand massaging the sore muscles of your thighs.

"You did so well for me," she murmurs, pressing lazy kisses against your shoulder. "My good girl."

You hum, barely able to keep your eyes open as her hands knead away the ache, working out the tension she put into you. The warmth of her touch soothes the lingering sting of overstimulation, and for a moment, you think about letting yourself drift off.

But you don’t. You can’t.

The rules are the rules. Your rules.

With effort, you shift, slipping from her grasp, your limbs still shaky as you slide out of bed. Agatha watches as you stand, stretching despite the soreness in your legs, and move toward where your clothes are strewn across the floor.

"You’re not gonna shower?" she asks, her tone casual but curious as she props herself up on an elbow, watching you with sharp eyes.

You shake your head, pulling your clothes back on with practiced efficiency. "I’ll do it at home."

Agatha doesn’t say anything for a moment, just studies you as you gather your things. Then, without breaking eye contact, she reaches for the bedside table, grabs the check she had prepared, and hands it to you.

"You know…" she starts, voice slower now, something unreadable beneath the surface. "You can stay the night."

The offer lingers in the air between you, heavier than it should be.

But the rules are the rules.

You take the check, meeting her gaze one last time before slipping out the door.

And Agatha watches you go.

[leighsartworks216]

Puppy

Sylus x gn!Reader

Inspired by the quality time work/study animation when he looks up from cleaning his gun and he just looks so soft and sweet 🥺 And also from the in-game phone call "Crow"

Warnings: swearing, pet names, biting, teasing, fluff

Word Count: 1,142

Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

“Where’s Sylus?”

The temperamental crow looked at you with one glowing red eye, beak turned away coyly. You have to wonder what kind of programming went into making him have so much attitude. It’d probably go right over your head, anyway.

“Wanna make a deal?” You keep an eye on Mephisto as you reach into your pocket, rooting around until cold metal touches your fingers. You lift the shiny metal nut like a prize. “Hm? A nice shiny trinket for you if you show me where Sylus is? What d’ya say?”

His metal wings fluttered at his side, feet stepping unsurely on his perch. But all crows are alike, mechanical or otherwise. He swoops down and snatches the metal from your fingers. You feel the brush of talons, barely escaping having your hand sliced up by an overeager metal chicken.

His caw sounds like a laugh as he leads you down the many halls of the mansion. When he stops to wait for you to catch up, he croons at his shiny new knickknack, pecking at it and staring at it from every angle with his red eyes. He glides through the open crack of a door.

You peek in first. It’s a study, with shelves lined with old paper books and vinyls. There’s a desk with guns neatly laid out on top. Mephisto perches on the accompanying chair. And on the couch, head tilted back and eyes closed, is Sylus.

You wonder if he’s really asleep this time. He’s tricked you before, but as you listen closely you hear the soft snores giving him away.

How cute, you think. A little midnight nap.

The door doesn’t make a sound as you push it open enough to slip inside. You don’t close it back all the way, and Mephisto’s wings nearly clip your head as he flies back outside of the room. That damn bird will always have it out for you, you’re sure of it.

You creep along the elegant carpet to your target, slowly lowering yourself to sit on the other end of the couch. As much as you love messing with Sylus, you didn’t actually want to wake him up now. So, being very careful, you lay down and rest your head in his lap.

“If you want to cuddle, you don’t need to sneak around for it.”

You smack his chest. “You’re such an asshole!” Your heart was racing from the scare, but you don’t get up from your new position. Sylus rewards you by beginning to comb his fingers through your hair. “Were you actually sleeping?”

He hums. There’s a gravel to his voice you didn’t notice before. “Yes, I was.” He finally lifts his head from the back of the couch to look down at you. “Until someone gave Mephisto a shiny new item for his collection.”

You chuckle despite the unimpressed look on his face. “He told on me again?”

“You’re all he seems to talk about these days,” he sighs. He brushes some hair away from your forehead. “At least it’s positive, this time.

“Did you need something from me?”

“Not really. I was just… lonely.”

He smiles slightly. “Well, I’m always happy to keep you company, sweetie.”

It’s easy to doze while he plays with your hair. He seems to know all the right spots, all the right techniques to ease your troubles away. In his care, your hair doesn’t tangle or get caught. It’s heaven.

-

When you wake up, you’re exactly where you were. Sylus’s lap was warm under you, and you wondered if his legs fell asleep at any point during your nap. If they did, he’d suffered through it for your sake.

His hand was nearly still in your hair now. It didn’t move in those perfect ministrations as before. Instead, it was almost completely still, moving at a snail’s pace along the crown of your head. You blink your eyes open to figure out why, maybe even pout and whine about it just to annoy him, but you can’t stop from just staring.

If he notices you’re awake or watching him, he doesn’t say anything. His thumb scrolls through his phone, probably looking at the latest underground news on shady deals or skimming over messages from desperate people wanting to deal with him. Something that drew his attention away from you, at least.

So you take your time drinking him in.

He’s pretty, there’s no arguments there, but it’s his own kind of pretty. It’s sharp and multifaceted, like a crystal. His eyes are intense, lashes so dark and thick it looks like he’s wearing makeup. You wonder if he does. He’d look even more gorgeous with dark red eyeshadow and sharp cat eyeliner. His lips are pressed into a thin line, soft pink drawing your eyes to them. You quickly turn your attention to the slope of his nose before he catches you.

With a sigh, Sylus closes his phone and sets it aside. His hand in your hair goes back to a normal speed, his fingers scratching at the nape of your neck as he finally looks down at you, And just like that, all that sharp beauty is replaced.

Instead of his usual intense gaze, his eyes are soft around the edges, just a little bit wider, relaxed. His lips quirk up slightly at the sight of you, softening his cheekbones. He tilts his head playfully, eyebrows raising as though asking if you’re enjoying the view.

“Puppy.”

He blinks, and it’s gone. His brow furrows, his lips dropping into a frown, eyes sharpened with suspicion. “What?”

You smirk. It’s rare to feel like you have the upper hand. You reach up and touch his cheek. He leans into it, though his expression remains.

“Sometimes you get this look on your face,” you tell him. Your thumb runs under his eye. “It makes you look soft, like a little puppy.”

He scoffs, but his lips quirk up again. “Just how long have you been waiting to use that on me?”

You hum, running your fingers down his cheekbone to his jaw. “Since I asked you to join me while I study a few days ago.” You traced the sharp cut of his jawline, tracking the movement with your eyes. “I looked up for a minute, and you were looking at me like I’d just promised to scratch you behind the ears.” To emphasize your point, you reach to do just that.

He catches your hand before you can, thumb pressed to your palm to keep your hand open. He brings your fingers to his lips, eyes watching you intently as he bites down on them, one at a time, nipping at the tips and knuckles with a smirk. “Careful, kitten,” he warns. He bites at the soft skin on the back of your hand. “This puppy bites.”

[angelic--kitty]

𝖘𝖍𝖊'𝖘 𝖆 𝖒𝖆𝖓𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖊𝖗!

𝖋𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖛𝖆𝖒𝖕𝖎𝖗𝖊!𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖌𝖚𝖆𝖓𝖌

warnings: smut (mdni), wlw content, dom vampire!ningguang x sub!fem reader, biting/blood, leash + collar, cunnilingus, heel-grinding, fingering, reader is ningguang's "pet" and calls her "tianquan" and "mistress"

a/n: sorry again, please consider this as kinksgiving now.

𝖕𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖋𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖔𝖋 𝖐𝖎𝖙𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖐𝖙𝖔𝖇𝖊𝖗

such a sweet, devoted thing you were. always at her beck and call whenever she needed you. so eager to give her anything she desired; your time, your attention, your blood, even your tongue.

she loved keeping you just like this, kneeling beneath her desk while she worked, your head oh, so lovingly laid on her lap, looking up with such sweet eyes. she could hardly ignore you when you looked up at her like that.

the hand holding her quill set it down, falling to cup your cheek, brushing a few stray strands of hair away. "you've been behaving exceptionally well these days. it almost has me wondering if you want something?" she muses, catching the way your eyes widen just a fraction.

"tianquan, i-"

"it's alright, pet." she smiles, sliding her heel between your legs, opening them up to reveal your uncovered center for her. one of the many benefits of keeping you bare at all times; easy access to play with her darling little doll.

ningguang smirks softly as she sees the wetness smeared across your thighs as she slowly trails the tip of her shoe up your leg. once she presses the leather to your clit, she's rewarded with a shaky moan and your hands gripping her dress.

she tuts, pushing your hands down to smooth her dress out, but she allows you to grind against her shoe at your pace, admiring you for a moment before getting back to work. she listens to your breathy whines and grunts like she would a record, teasingly pushing her heel into you more firmly to hear you squeal.

but before you completely dirty her shoe, she pulls away, enjoying your confused little whimpers as you chase her foot helplessly.

"hush," she sighs, scooting her chair back to settle you between her thighs. "you've proven to be quite the tempting little distraction, and i've grown restless from work. be a good pet and relieve me, hm?"

the haste at which you hurry to slide her dress up is almost laughable, but she adores your desperation. she clips your leash onto your collar, tugging it to hear you whine.

she spreads her thighs for you as you lean in, looking up at her wicked expression, her slight grin leaving her fangs exposed as you squeak, hurrying to get to it.

you nuzzle into her thighs, tracing the tip of your nose across her skin before placing a little kiss on the edge of her pussy, only urged on when she tugs your leash once more.

she feels your tongue gently lap over her, a sigh falling from her lips as she leans back, keeping a firm hold on your leash. not that she'd need to pull you in, you're practically smushing your face into her cunt at this point.

she holds your head for you, hips grinding on your tongue as her grunts turn higher pitched, head tilting back. "you're always- ah- so good for me-" she moans, thighs threatening to squish your head as your tongue presses inside of her, your nose pushed against her clit.

ningguang rides your tongue, using you for her pleasure until she finally cums with an almost animalistic snarl, shoving you impossibly deeper while you lap up her essence dutifully.

you can hear her panting, regaining her composure as she clears her throat. "up," she commands, patting a spot on her lap for you. as you kneel over her, she can almost see your pussy dripping from her teasing earlier. "you've been such a good girl for me... i've been rather mean, haven't i?" she coos, mostly talking to herself, but you nod regardless.

she slides two fingers into your mouth, playing with your tongue just enough to get them wet, sliding them down to your needy hole. with great restraint, you try not to buck your hips as she smiles to herself, adoring how well she's trained you before finally giving you what you need.

she's rewarded with the softest, sweetest moans, your eyes scrunching shut when she pumps them in and out of you, not even bothering to be embarrassed by the lewd noises.

you feel her lips trailing over your neck, fully aware of what comes next, and you bare your neck for her, wanting to feel the sting of her fangs and the euphoria of her venom. she praises you, something unusual for her before she curls her fingers and sinks her teeth into your shoulder.

she hears you cry out for her, grabbing onto her, but letting her feed freely while your hips buck against her fingers, riding them as you would one of her many expensive toys.

your blood is heavenly to her, more divine than teyvat's finest wine, thick and rich as it spills over her tongue and down your chest. her eyes flit up to watch you as she feeds on and fucks you at the same time. you're completely lost to the sensations, your cum spilling over her fingers once, twice, her thumb teasing your clit as your collar jingles with every movement.

once you start to look woozy, she pulls away, lapping at the wound. she dips her head to trace the blood that spilled over your chest, teasing your nipple with the tip of her tongue before kissing the bite marks on your neck.

you whimper and whine as she eases her fingers out, completely dazed and fucked out when you look at her, blinking sleepily. "you did well, my pet." she hums, cleaning her mouth with her thumb.

eventually, she pushes you back down to your knees beneath her desk, sleeping comfortably with your head on her lap as she works and admires your body. how lucky she is to have such an eager little plaything....

[misaerabl]

Protocol

𝝑𝑒 putting officer caitlyn in her place

CW: tension, D/s dynamic, rough-ish, handcuffs, not proofread, sub!cait, dom!reader, orgasm denial, no physical descriptions of reader

A/N: she just HAS to be put in her placeeee. this is really fucking short (also, another smut??? boo!!!!! where's the fluff sae!?)

You’d always butted heads with Caitlyn Kiramman.

Not because she was incompetent—far from it. She was sharp, capable, refined. But it was that same refinement, that unflinching poise, that made your blood boil. And maybe, if you were honest, it turned you on.

You were both rising stars in the Enforcers, often paired on high-profile cases. But tonight’s stakeout had run long. Hours crammed together in a surveillance van, tension thick enough to slice. Caitlyn’s clipped tone, her relentless critiques, her constant need to lead—it finally pushed you past your limit.

“Can you stop trying to run everything for five seconds?” you snapped, eyes locking with hers.

Her brows arched, smug. “I’m not trying. I’m succeeding.”

That was it.

You slammed the door behind her when you returned to headquarters. The building was quiet, dim. Just the two of you.

She didn’t flinch when you pinned her against the lockers.

“What’s your problem?” she hissed.

“You,” you growled. “You act like you’re untouchable. Like you’re above everyone. But I’ve seen what’s under all that polish, Caitlyn.”

She swallowed, her breath catching.

“You want someone to shut you up, don’t you?”

Silence.

Then, almost inaudible: “Prove it.”

Your mouth crashed against hers, fierce and demanding. She moaned into it, fingers gripping your uniform. You shoved her back against the cold metal, hands already tugging at her belt and jacket.

“Off. Now.”

Caitlyn stripped without question. Her shirt hit the floor, boots kicked aside, pants sliding down those long, perfect legs. She stood in just her matching black lace set—until you pulled her bra down and slid her panties to her knees.

“On the desk. Bend over.”

She obeyed. Her hands braced against the wooden surface, her back arched, legs parted. Her skin flushed, her breath shaky.

You ran your hand down her spine, fingers teasing between her legs.

“God, you’re soaked,” you murmured. “This is what being put in your place does to you?”

She whimpered.

You slid two fingers into her—deep and slow. She gasped, hips jolting.

“Ah, ah,” you scolded, pulling your fingers free. “Hands behind your back.”

She hesitated, so you pulled a pair of cuffs from your belt. Snapped them around her wrists.

“There. Now you’ll listen.”

You plunged back into her, harder now, curling your fingers with every stroke. Her body shook under your touch. You leaned over her back, lips brushing her ear.

“Don’t you dare come until I say.”

She nodded weakly, voice cracking with need.

You added a third finger and she nearly screamed—biting her lip hard, trying to stay quiet.

“Louder,” you growled. “I want to hear how desperate you are.”

She moaned, raw and broken. “Please—fuck, please—let me—”

You pulled out, ignoring her desperate cry, and spun her around.

“On your knees.”

She dropped fast, flushed and hungry. You hiked your leg onto the edge of the desk and guided her face between your thighs. Her mouth was eager—tongue flicking, lips sucking, desperate to please.

You gripped her hair and ground into her mouth. “That’s it. Use that mouth, officer.”

Caitlyn moaned, voice muffled, and you nearly lost it right there.

When you finally pulled her up, lips slick, eyes glassy, you bent her over again—this time, to finish what you started.

“Now,” you said, fingers back inside her, relentless, “you can come.”

She shattered. Loud and shaking, body clenching around your fingers, completely undone.

[aventurineswife]

So I got myself sucked to lost media rabbit hole, especially lostwave. So imagine, reader once make music but stopped because they either busy or just want to take a break from making music. And one day the character somehow get a clip of their music video but only for 20 second of it, but that 20 second definitely hit the spot. And so the hunt of lost media begun. It would be even more perfect when reader make these music at 2010-2014, the song is pretty old but that doesn't mean they would give in like that.

Sorry for yapping, just had this idea crossed my mind out of the blue. Lost media fascinate me since there's soo many good content but it lost :(

HELP?! WHY DO PEOPLE LOVE THIS AU SO MUCH?! 😭🙏 LIKE IK ITS GOOD AND ALL BUT OMG-

It begins as a whisper.

The first time one of the characters hears the faintest trace of your music—an old track they never knew existed—something unsettles them.

March 7th finds an ancient clip while casually browsing through some files she stumbled upon. It's barely 20 seconds long, fuzzy and grainy, almost like it's been hidden away on the internet for years, untouched by time. The footage is barely enough to recognize, but the music? The song? It hits different.

The sound is distinctly your style, laced with melancholy and nostalgia, but it’s from a different time, a time they didn't know you existed in.

Welt is intrigued by the song’s complexity. He immediately starts analyzing the structure, the style, the instruments. “This feels like something from the early 2010s, but with such… an unusual vibe.”

Himeko is more emotional. “There’s something haunting about this. Like it’s pulling at a part of us that we didn’t even know was there.”

They both agree: the song has to be part of your lost history. You, their mysterious Creator, must have made it before becoming so busy or stepping back from the world.

Blade is silent for an uncomfortably long time after hearing the song. It seems to evoke something deep within him—something personal.

Dan Heng watches him, sensing Blade’s sudden vulnerability. He, too, finds himself drawn into the music. The melancholy and rawness of the sound tug at something deep inside him, though he can’t place it.

They decide that the 20 seconds of your music isn’t enough. They want more. They need more.

Aventurine immediately gets obsessed. “Do you hear that? That’s the sound of our Creator’s soul, calling out from the past. We must find it!”

Sunday takes a different approach. He starts delving into ancient records, combing through anything he can find about you, trying to understand what this music means. To him, this is no longer a song—it’s a divine relic. "This is a sign! We must reclaim our Creator’s lost art!"

Both of them begin searching everywhere for any trace of the missing music, becoming obsessed with the idea of uncovering your lost creations.

Kafka smirks at the sound, recognizing the haunting undertones. "This is definitely a piece of your past, isn’t it?"

Black Swan agrees. “There’s an unmistakable sadness to it. They’ve hidden it for a reason. But why? What made them stop?”

They both turn inward, wondering what you went through to stop creating, to step back from making music. But they can’t ignore that the music is still a part of you—they want to find the rest of it, to reconnect with the “artist” behind the music.

Luocha listens quietly, feeling the melancholy in every note. "It’s almost like a dream, fading away with time."

Jing Yuan, always curious, notes, “This song… it’s old. But the way it feels—almost as if it were made just for us.”

The two of them decide that the song might hold clues about your past, and with that, they set off on a personal quest to recover the lost music. They search for anything that might lead them to more pieces.

Characters begin digging deep into old files, secret music vaults, archives, and obscure corners of the universe. The hunt for the lost music intensifies.

Every lead seems to go nowhere, but every time they find something—whether it’s an old video link or a half-deleted file—it’s like a spark of hope ignites. They keep digging, convinced that you—the enigmatic Creator—are still out there, waiting for them to rediscover your music.

And then it happens. They find a full video, a full song. Or maybe just another short clip. It’s old, but it’s yours.

The world falls silent. The moment they hear it, they know. This is you. This is the music you created.

But now the real question emerges: Why did you stop? Why did you hide it?

They now obsess over every note in the song, the subtle melodies, the emotions that drip from each lyric.

Blade & Dan Heng? They are absolutely smitten with this lost piece of your soul, so much so that they start debating what it means to your identity.

Aventurine & Sunday? They go as far as to frame the clip, treating it like a sacred relic, while constantly talking about how “they knew you had this hidden talent.”

Kafka & Black Swan? They can’t stop wondering if this song holds more than just music. Could this be a message? Something you wanted to share with them, even though you never fully revealed yourself?

Eventually, the search for the rest of your lostwave music becomes a personal journey for each character.

Some believe the rest is out there, waiting to be found. Others begin to accept the mystery, considering that the music might remain lost forever. But deep down, they know that one day—if you ever decide to return to the world of music—you'll reveal yourself again. And they'll be ready.

Sigh, 😞 how tf...

[batsovergotham]

the fight for yourself pt2

"You've got the costume. You've got the power. You're Spider-Woman. Act like it."🕷🕸️

Main!Mark Grayson x Spider-Woman! Reader

warnings: SMUT IMPROPER USE OF WEBBING LOLLLL, some angst with comfort, biting/scratching in a sexy way mark gets TORE UP, not many warnings this chapter honestly

w/c: 15.3k

a/n: yall this is so nasty im so sorry. lmk ur thoughts in my inbox or in the comments!

The room is heavy with silence.

You’re still on your knees, the skin on your back raw and stinging, lungs gasping for air, shoulders trembling with every shallow inhale. Your fingers twitch where they rest against the dust-covered floor, still wet from the tar-like aftermath of the symbiote peeling itself from your body.

You think it’s over. It’s not. The symbiote, what’s left of it, lies motionless for exactly three seconds. Then it moves. Not toward you. Toward Mark.

A streak of black, fast and silent, shoots off the ground like a snake and wraps around his boot. His eyes widen. His body jerks backward, but not fast enough. You scream.

“MARK–!”

The thing lunges up his leg, fast as a bullet. You watch it spiral around his thigh, up his back, across his shoulder like it already knows the architecture of him. Like it’s been waiting. Plotting. Hoping for a chance. It wants him. It needs him now. And you see the moment it starts to sink in, Mark’s jaw tightens. His eyes darken. His hand goes to his chest too late. The symbiote bursts across his side and up his throat.

“Shit,” he breathes, stumbling, one hand catching the wall.

It climbs higher. You scramble toward him, still raw, still a mess, but you force your body to move.

Mark grits his teeth. You can see his muscles locking. His fingers twitching. He’s not going down easy. But the thing is fast, and it’s been inside you, it knows how to latch on. How to offer exactly what you don’t want to need.

“Don’t listen to it,” you rasp. “Mark, you have to fight it--!”

His hands are shaking. One goes to his temple. You see the color leave his face. And you know what it’s doing. It’s talking to him.

“You couldn’t stop it from hurting her. We can.”

Mark flinches.

“You were too slow. We can make you faster.”

He sags a little against the wall, gritting his teeth.

“Shut up,” he mutters.

“Too weak. Too late. We make you enough.”

You reach him. Grab his wrist. Shake him.

“Mark, look at me.”

His eyes meet yours, and for a split second, you see something off behind them. Not gone. But shaken. You lower your voice.

“It’s trying to get inside your head.”

“I know.”

“It’s lying.”

“I know that too.”

His tone is flat, strained. But his grip tightens on your hand. You step in closer. Closer than he wants you to. But he doesn’t stop you.

“Don’t let it rewrite what happened. Don’t let it twist it,” you whisper. “I’m here. I’m still here. Because of you.”

His shoulders shake once. “You almost died.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Because you fought it off,” he says, voice flat. “I didn’t save you.”

“You didn’t let go.”

He looks at you. Brow furrowed. Tired. Angry.

“I’ve never saved anyone by letting something like that into me,” he says. “You think I don’t want to be stronger? You think I don’t want to be faster?”

The black spreads across his collarbone. He ignores it.

“if it thinks that’s enough to win me over, it really doesn’t know who it’s dealing with.”

You press your hand to his chest. And he grabs your wrist.

“Hold it steady,” he says. “I’ve got it.”

His other hand flies to the emitter clipped to his arm. You hear the hum before he even flips it on. The light glows hot. It burns against your skin even a foot away. The symbiote knows what’s coming.

It screeches inside his skull,through him, into you. The sound is less words now, more emotion. Rage. Desperation. Need.

But Mark? Mark does not hesitate. He slams the emitter against his own chest and fires. The shockwave bursts through the room. The black tears backward immediately, like it’s being sucked off his bones. It peels itself off in thick, violent streaks, clawing at his shoulders, his throat, trying to hold on. It can’t. He won’t let it.

You watch him double down, pushing the device deeper against his ribs, letting it burn through every remaining thread of the suit. He grits his teeth. His eyes are bright with pain. But he doesn’t stop.

The symbiote lets out a guttural, warping shriek and collapses off him like a dying animal. It slaps the ground, writhing. And this time, he’s ready. Mark drops to one knee beside it, eyes locked on the convulsing mass, and dials the emitter again. The pulse hits a second time. The suit seizes up. And it stops moving. Just a slick, trembling puddle. Still. Breathless. Contained. Defeated.

Mark slumps back on his heels. His knuckles are scraped. His side’s bleeding again. Sweat rolls down his neck. But his eyes, his eyes are clear. And locked on you. You’re still frozen where you knelt beside him. Chest rising and falling in stuttering bursts. And for the first time since this started, neither of you are possessed. Just two people. Broken. Bleeding. Breathing. Still you. Still here.

The pulse from the emitter fades.

Mark lowers it with a shaking hand. The black goo on the floor stutters once, then goes still again. Not dead. But weak. Dazed. Whatever will it had left is sputtering.

You watch it carefully from where you sit, chest still heaving. Your skin is cold now, sweat cooling too fast on your face.

Mark crouches beside it, eyes sharp.

“That thing’s not gonna stay down,” he says, voice hoarse.

“No,” you rasp. “It won’t.”

He looks at you. Then over his shoulder. “Where’s the container?”

Your head jerks up like you’re waking from underwater.

“Harry,” you breathe.

Mark nods. “Yeah. He said he built it in case something went wrong. Just in case it tried to... do this.”

You reach for your thigh, where you’d clipped the hard-shell pack earlier that night. The shock of the symbiote attacking had made you forget. But it’s still there.

Still sealed.

You unclip it with shaking fingers.

It’s small, maybe the size of a football, but dense, black and chrome with etched hexagonal plaiting and a lock seal along the front that glows faint blue when it senses movement. Harry designed it to be airtight, pressure-sealed, and independent of power grids, in other words, immune to manipulation or hacking. Self-contained.

Even the GDA hadn’t thought of that.

You pass it to Mark.

He takes it with both hands, grimacing a little at the weight. The casing vibrates once as it powers on, then hums low and steady.

“Lid’s pressure triggered,” you mumble. “It won’t open unless you manually release it. It’s set to auto-seal on contact with organic matter.”

Mark nods. “How long do we have?”

“Until it recovers?” You swallow. “Seconds.”

That’s all he needs.

Mark leans in toward the pile.

The symbiote shivers.

The moment it senses movement, real movement, it twitches, almost reforming a partial tendril, like it might lunge again. But Mark is faster.

He slams the container down over it.

There’s a wet, shrieking hiss the moment the mass touches the inner wall. Like acid meeting metal. The casing glows red for half a second. Then clamps shut.

Click.

Click.

Whrrrr.

The lock seals.

The sound stops.

And the room,what’s left of it,goes quiet.

Mark stares down at it. One hand still pressed to the top.

You watch him. Wait for him to speak.

He doesn’t.

Not for a minute.

“That was inside you?”

You don’t answer.

You don’t have to.

He sees it on your face.

Mark exhales, sharp. “Jesus.”

You close your eyes.

Your whole body is aching. Your voice is barely a whisper.

“Harry said it couldn’t be destroyed.”

Mark lifts the container, just slightly.

Inside, you hear something tick.

Not like a clock.

Like teeth.

Mark grimaces. “Then we never let anyone near it again.”

You nod.

Your legs give out. You sit down fully on the floor. Finally.

Mark joins you a second later, letting the container rest on the ground between you like a live grenade. It’s cool to the touch. But still breathing.

Not loud.

Just enough to remind you it’s still awake.

Still waiting.

But not free.

Not anymore.

You lean back against the wall, dragging in a breath that feels like it scrapes your ribs from the inside. You’re shaking less now, but you can still feel it, residue. Like static in your joints. Your fingernails have dried blood under them. You can’t tell if it’s yours.

Mark doesn’t look at you. But you know he wants to.

So you speak first.

Voice dry. Quiet. “How bad is your side?”

Mark blinks. Then exhales like you just reminded him he still has a body.

“Hurts like hell,” he mutters. “Probably cracked. I’ll be fine.”

You nod. But it’s tight. Forced.

He finally looks at you.

And says your name.

Just your name.

You flinch.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t. You didn’t do this.”

You scoff under your breath. “No. I just let it in.”

“You didn’t know what it was.”

“I didn’t stop it when I did.”

You keep your gaze away. On the floor. On your scraped hands. On the black smear of symbiote residue still staining your elbow.

Mark shifts. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

There it is.

The question that’s been circling for weeks. Days. Long before tonight.

You laugh. It's a small sound, not even amused. “Because I thought I could fix it before you ever noticed. That I could handle it.”

“Handle it?” he repeats. “You were gone.”

You wince. He sees it.

Mark leans forward. His voice drops low, not angry. Just rough. Honest.

“You stopped calling me. You pulled away. You picked fights. You let me think I’d screwed up. Like maybe I did something wrong. And the whole time it was that thing… feeding on you.”

You say nothing.

“I could’ve helped,” he says. “I wanted to help.”

You turn your head toward him. Slowly.

“And what would you have done?” you ask, not accusing, just tired. “You can punch holes in buildings, Mark. But this? You couldn’t fix this.”

Mark doesn’t flinch.

“I don’t care,” he says. “I would’ve sat with you anyway. I would’ve fought it with you. I would’ve believed you.”

You swallow hard.

“You didn’t want to be saved,” he says. “You wanted to suffer through it alone.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“You already did.”

That stings. But not because it’s cruel.

Because it’s true.

You lower your voice. “I didn’t trust myself.”

Mark breathes in slowly.

“I trusted you.”

The silence after that is heavier than the air when the suit was still inside your body.

You finally whisper, “I’m sorry.”

Mark stares at the container. It’s still humming, low and steady.

“I am too,” he says. “I should’ve known something was wrong. I should’ve pushed harder.”

You shake your head. “You were trying to respect my space. I just,” you sigh, “I used that to hide behind.”

He’s quiet a moment longer.

“When you looked at me back there, when you said my name… it felt like you were already gone.”

“I was almost.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

You don’t respond.

Because you know.

“I didn’t know if you were going to come back,” Mark says.

He’s not yelling. He’s not raising his voice. But he says it like it’s still stuck in his throat.

“I didn’t know if I was gonna lose you,” he finishes.

You finally lift your eyes to his.

And that’s when you say the one thing you’ve been avoiding for weeks.

“I almost stayed.”

Mark stills.

You clarify. Quiet. “In it. With it. I almost let it have me.”

He doesn’t say anything for a few long seconds.

“Why didn’t you?”

You laugh. A real one this time. Just a breath.

“You.”

His head turns slowly toward you.

“You didn’t back off. Not when I hit you. Not when I nearly lost it. You–” your voice wavers, “you made me feel like I was still worth pulling out.”

“You were.”

“You didn’t know that.”

“I didn’t need to,” he says.

You stare at him.

And then say, “I don’t want to be her again. The version of me that let that thing win.”

“You’re not.”

“How do you know?”

Mark turns fully to face you.

“Because she tore it off with her bare hands and didn’t let it take me, either.”

You try to look away. He reaches out.

Just gently.

Fingertips to your wrist.

“I never needed you perfect,” he says. “Just honest.”

You look down at his hand.

“Then you’re stuck with someone pretty fucked up.”

Mark gives a small snort. “Cool. We match.”

That draws a breath from your chest that almost feels like a laugh.

Almost.

He lets go of your wrist. But he stays close.

Neither of you speak again right away.

Because you don’t have to.

The worst is over.

But the pain?

Still here.

And now, finally, you’re not carrying it alone.

You’re still sitting on the floor.

Your body’s heavy. Your arms feel like they’re filled with concrete. Sweat slicks your spine, cold now that the heat of the fight has passed. The air in the room has turned thick, quiet, almost syrupy, like time itself is slowing down just to let you catch your breath.

Mark hasn’t moved from your side.

The emitter lies on the ground nearby. Still glowing faintly. Still warm. And the containment unit sits a little further away, dark chrome, its surface scratched from the struggle, but locked. Secure. You can’t hear the thing inside anymore, but you feel it. Like pressure behind glass.

Mark’s rubbing his palms over his knees, breathing steady but strained.

You lean your head back against the wall. Eyes closed.

“You know we have to tell Harry,” you murmur, voice low.

Mark lets out a breath. “Yeah.”

You open your eyes again and glance down at the small comm clipped to Mark’s belt.

You hesitate.

Not because you don’t want to talk to him.

But because you know what he’s going to say.

You twist the comm and press the center.

It clicks.

Three seconds of dead air.

Then,

“...I’m outside.”

Your heart lurches.

You blink. “What?”

Mark straightens a little. “Was that Harry?”

You frown. “Harry–what?”

“I’m outside the building,” he repeats, voice level, but tense. “I picked up a location ping. From the containment case. And then it went dead. I figured that meant the suit was loose.”

You stare at the speaker. “You were tracking it?”

“Of course I was.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“I brought backup,” he says. “Medical kit. Containment restraints. Sedatives.”

Mark gives you a look like ‘see? I like him now.’

You almost smile.

You press the comm again. “How long until you’re inside?”

“Ten seconds,” he says. “Can you open the side door?”

Mark drags himself to his feet with a groan, limping slightly to the rusted double doors on the far side of the floor. You hear the wrenching sound of twisted metal, a grunt, and then the door creaks open about halfway before something metal snaps with a pop.

And Harry’s silhouette appears in the frame.

Black jacket. Face drawn and sharp. Green-tinted goggles shoved up on his forehead. He looks like he hasn’t slept all night, and probably didn’t intend to.

His eyes land on you first.

Then Mark.

Then the case.

And something in his face drops.

The bag on his shoulder slides down his arm, and he crosses the distance between you without a word.

He crouches in front of you. Doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t ask.

He just says, “Are you still you?”

You nod, slow. But your voice comes out brittle. “Mostly.”

Harry exhales. His shoulders drop. For a second, he looks like he might fall apart, but then he catches himself.

His hand lifts, resting gently on your shoulder.

“I knew something was wrong,” he murmurs. “But I thought–”

“I thought I could fix it before it got this far,” you say quietly.

Mark stands behind him, silent.

Harry’s jaw clenches. “You didn’t have to go through that alone.”

“I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“Well, you’re stuck with me,” Harry mutters. “So too bad.”

You almost laugh. It catches in your throat like dust.

He rises, glances at Mark. “You okay?”

Mark nods stiffly. “Yeah.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “You’re bleeding.”

“Cracked rib,” Mark says. “Maybe.”

Harry lets out a soft scoff. “Of course.”

He walks over to the case. Looks down at it. The air between them is thick and uncomfortable.

He crouches. Pulls a scanner from his jacket and runs it across the metal.

The screen lights up. He frowns.

“It’s active. Barely. But there’s still movement.”

You drag yourself to your feet, wincing at the pull in your lower back. Mark offers a hand. You take it.

Harry stands again, turning toward you both.

“You tore it off?” he asks you.

You nod.

“Then you did what it never expected you to do,” he says. “You chose yourself.”

Your throat tightens.

Mark watches you. Doesn’t say anything.

You murmur, “It still tried to take him.”

Harry blinks. Looks at Mark again. “And you didn’t let it?”

“Blasted it off,” Mark mutters.

Harry stares at him. Then at the containment case. “Then we don’t destroy it.”

Mark raises a brow. “What?”

“We study it,” Harry says. “We learn its limits. We make sure this never happens to anyone else.”

You exhale shakily.

Mark looks at you.

Then back at Harry.

“Just… make sure it doesn’t escape.”

Harry gives a tired smile. “Wouldn’t be much of an Osborn if I didn’t build the trap first.”

He crouches again. Carefully re-locks the outer shell. Then hoists the case into a reinforced sling on his back. He rises slowly, adjusting the strap with a grunt.

“I’ve got a car downstairs. Clean. Quiet. Back entrance.”

Mark nods. “We’ll follow.”

Harry pauses. Then glances at you one more time. His voice softens.

“Next time,” he says, “you don’t go through this alone.”

You nod. Slowly. “Next time.”

Mark glances between the two of you. Then mutters, “Not that there’s gonna be one.”

Harry scoffs. “You think I’m letting her near that thing again?”

You finally crack a real smile.

And for the first time in hours,

It doesn’t hurt.

You’re almost to the car when Mark’s comm goes off.

The tone is short. Piercing. Specific.

You don’t have to ask who it is.

Mark doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even check the name.

Just mutters, “Of course.”

He taps the device and lifts it to his ear. His voice is steady, but lower than usual. Controlled in that dangerous way that means he’s done being polite.

“Yeah.”

There’s static on the line for maybe half a second.

Then Cecil’s voice comes through, flat and urgent.

“Report. Now.”

Mark doesn’t even slow his stride.

“It’s contained.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m the one holding the emitter,” Mark replies. “I’m sure.”

You hear Cecil exhale like he’s been holding his breath. 

“We tracked a Level Five spike. The suit attempted a secondary bond?”

“Yeah,” Mark says. “It got creative. Tried to take me after she ripped it off.”

The silence that follows is just long enough to feel intentional.

“Is she still compromised?”

Mark glances at you. You’re half-draped against the car door, your hands scraped raw, your pulse finally starting to steady.

“She’s still herself,” he says.

Cecil doesn’t respond immediately.

Mark’s voice flattens. “You’re going to want to call off the response team.”

“They’re less than five minutes out.”

“Then pull them back,” Mark says. “It’s done.”

“I’ll make that call when I’m satisfied with the intel.”

“You’ve got it,” Mark snaps. “We locked it in a reinforced case Harry built days ago. It’s stable. Not dead, but caged. If you trust me, then trust that.”

“I trusted you to call me the second it escalated,” Cecil says. “Instead, I’m hearing about this after two emitter discharges and a body-level threat.”

Mark stops walking.

That gets him.

You see his spine straighten. His hand twitch around the comm.

Then, voice low, “You sent me to fix it. I fixed it.”

Cecil doesn’t back down. “I sent you to assess. I sent you to stop it from spreading. Not to make judgment calls about containment protocol.”

Mark scoffs. “Yeah? Then maybe you should’ve sent someone who doesn’t give a shit.”

There’s another pause. The air outside is thick. Sticky with morning fog and the kind of humidity that comes after buildings collapse and the city doesn’t ask questions.

You glance toward the open alley behind you,broken glass, warped concrete, the crater where you collapsed as the symbiote screamed through your lungs.

Cecil finally responds.

“Where is it now?”

“In the case,” Mark says. “Sealed. Reinforced. Sedated by the emitter pulse.”

“And who’s got it?”

Mark glances back at Harry, who’s just now loading it into the trunk, fingers tight on the latches like he expects it to claw through the steel.

Mark turns away from the car.

“We do.”

There’s an audible change in Cecil’s tone.

“You’re not bringing it here?”

“No,” Mark says.

The word is clean. Sharp. Not up for debate.

Cecil’s voice hardens. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“You gave me 48 hours,” Mark says. “I’m taking them.”

There’s a silence that stretches thin, like tension in your teeth.

Then Cecil says, very carefully, “You’re compromised, Grayson. Emotionally compromised. You’re too close.”

Mark’s breath is quiet through the comm.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower. Not angry.

Resolved.

“You’re right. I’m close. I watched it tear her apart. I pulled it off her when she couldn’t scream anymore. It tried to crawl inside my head, too. And I still did my job.”

He pauses.

“You want the suit? Fine. But you’re not getting it until I say it’s safe.”

Cecil’s voice flattens again. “You’re gambling with something we don’t understand.”

“No,” Mark says. “You are.”

You glance at him from the passenger seat. He hasn’t looked at you once during the call.

But you can feel it.

He’s speaking for you.

“I won’t let the GDA dissect her in the name of national security,” he says. “And I’m not letting you bury it and hope it doesn’t find someone else to wear.”

Cecil exhales. “Mark,”

“You have your update. We have the case. That’s all you need to know.”

Silence.

Cecil says. “If that case so much as hums, I want it in a vault underground. If you lose control of it again,”

“I won’t,” Mark says.

“If you do,” Cecil continues, “I send a kill team.”

Mark’s eyes harden.

“You send one bullet,” he says, “and I’ll make sure it never gets a second shot.”

Then he ends the call.

The line goes dead.

Mark doesn’t say anything right away.

He just stands there for a second, his shoulders rising and falling as he slips the comm back into his belt.

Harry’s watching him from behind the trunk. You from inside the car.

Nobody speaks.

Then Mark walks to the driver’s side door and gets in.

Starts the engine.

Lets the silence stretch for a few heartbeats.

Finally, “He’s going to keep watching us.”

You nod.

Harry shifts in the back seat. “Good. Let him.”

Mark glances at you in the mirror.

“You okay?”

You nod again. A little slower this time.

“I’m okay.”

Mark looks down at his hands on the steering wheel.

They’re still shaking.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

He drives.

The road ahead is quiet.

The case in the trunk stays silent.

But the clock?

Just started ticking.

The car’s been moving for fifteen minutes, but the silence inside it has barely shifted.

The city rolls by outside, gray buildings still soaked in the residue of last night’s storm. The occasional flicker of a traffic light, the haze of sunrise behind thick clouds. But the world feels muted. Distant. Like it’s happening in another timeline.

Inside the car, it’s just the three of you.

You in the passenger seat, Mark behind the wheel, and Harry in the back with the case. Still sealed. Still humming. Still full of that awful, familiar pressure, like a heartbeat underwater.

But no one says a word.

Until Mark finally does.

His voice cuts through the quiet like a dull blade.

“You told Harry.”

You don’t look at him.

But yeah. There it is.

Not a question.

Just a statement that lands with more weight than it should.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Mark stares at the road. Doesn’t blink. “When?”

You hesitate. “The day after it happened.”

Harry speaks from the back, soft. “She came to me when it started getting worse. I didn’t even know what I was looking at at first. I just knew it wasn’t good.”

Mark’s knuckles flex on the steering wheel.

“I could’ve helped.”

“I know,” you whisper.

“Then why didn’t you let me?”

You glance out the window.

“I thought I could handle it.”

Mark shakes his head once. “And when you couldn’t?”

“I didn’t want to drag you down with me.”

“You didn’t drag me down,” Mark says, voice tightening. “You cut me out.”

That stings more than anything else could have.

You sit with that for a second.

And then Harry says, gently, “I told her you’d be better off knowing. But she wasn’t ready.”

Mark lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, lucky you. At least she told someone.”

“I was scared,” you say again, quieter this time.

Mark looks over at you. For the first time in the whole ride.

“And you thought Harry Osborn was the better choice?”

You wince. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

Harry shifts in the backseat. “Hey. Look. I didn’t try to hide it from you. I figured it wasn’t my place to bring you into something she wasn’t ready to explain.”

Mark doesn’t respond.

You say, carefully, “I wasn’t choosing him over you. I just–I needed help, and I couldn’t say the words out loud yet. He saw something was wrong and offered to help. That’s it.”

“Is that it?” Mark asks, voice sharp.

You blink. “What are you saying?”

He exhales hard through his nose. “I’m saying it didn’t feel like I was your boyfriend anymore. It felt like I was… some guy you were tolerating until you figured out how to cut me loose.”

You flinch. “Mark…”

“I didn’t know what I did,” he says. “You’d go quiet for days, or you’d show up looking like you hadn’t slept, and I’d ask if you were okay, and you’d say fine, every time.”

He pauses. “You weren’t fine.”

“No,” you admit. “I wasn’t.”

“I would’ve stayed. I would’ve helped you through it.”

“I know.”

“But you didn’t let me.”

You close your eyes.

And then Mark adds, voice lower, rawer.

“You didn’t trust me with the worst part of you.”

That’s what he’s really saying. That’s the part he hasn’t wanted to admit until now.

That it wasn’t the secret. It was the silence. It was that he wasn’t the person you came to.

You turn toward him. “It wasn’t about trust.”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Then what was it?”

“I didn’t want you to look at me differently,” you say. “I didn’t want to see that shift in your face. The moment you stopped seeing me as someone you loved and started seeing me as someone dangerous. I knew it would happen. It always does.”

Mark finally pulls the car to a stop at a red light. His jaw tightens. His eyes stay on the intersection ahead.

Then, slowly, “I saw you at your worst.”

You look down.

He continues.

“You were screaming. Bleeding. Half gone. And I was still trying to hold your hand.”

You don’t say anything.

“Not because I wanted to be the hero,” he says. “Because I wanted you. Even like that. Even scared. Even falling apart.”

You finally whisper, “You could’ve died.”

“I was willing to risk that.”

You look up at him.

He glances over at you again. The pain in his face is clearer now, no longer buried under adrenaline and anger.

“I’m not saying this because I want to fight,” he says. “I just–I needed you to say something. I needed to feel like you still trusted me with the truth.”

You nod.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Mark exhales. “I know.”

The light turns green.

He starts driving again.

Harry shifts behind you. “If it helps, I knew the day she walked in and didn’t argue with me once. That’s how I knew something was wrong.”

You almost smile.

Almost.

Mark says, “I get it. I’m not mad you trusted him. I’m mad you didn’t think you could trust me.”

You reach for his hand.

He hesitates.

Then laces his fingers through yours.

It’s quiet again.

But this time, it feels like something's finally mending.

The ride continues in that strange, quiet tension. Not silence anymore,not the suffocating kind from before,but something heavy that hangs in the space between you, dense and unspoken.

Mark’s still got one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting loosely in yours. His thumb isn’t moving. He’s not drawing circles. He’s not trying to soothe you. He’s just there, and you don’t know if that’s better or worse than him pulling away.

You don’t talk much. Not now. Not after what he said.

He hasn’t repeated himself. He hasn’t raised his voice. He’s been calm, controlled. Painfully calm. But you can feel it. There’s more he wants to say. More that he’s holding back.

And when the lab comes into view, tucked behind the main Oscorp building, you feel something in him shift.

He slows the car. Pulls into the narrow alley behind the building and puts it in park.

And then?

He sits there.

Engine off. Hands still on the wheel.

His voice is low when he speaks again.

“Once we’re patched up,” he says, “we’re gonna talk. For real.”

You swallow. “Okay.”

“Not like that,” he says. “Not another quick sorry and ‘I was scared’ and then we move on like none of this happened.”

Your heart thuds hard against your ribs.

Mark finally turns his head to look at you. His eyes are tired, rimmed red. Not from crying. From everything.

“You almost died,” he says.

You nod.

“I watched it,” he continues. “Watched you lose pieces of yourself. Bit by bit. You stopped letting me in, and I kept telling myself it was just stress, or burnout, or, you know, maybe I did something wrong and didn’t realize it.”

“You didn’t,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says. “Now I know. But back then? It felt like you were slipping away from me and I didn’t know how to stop it. And the worst part?”

He stops.

You hold your breath.

“I was scared to push,” he says. “Scared that if I asked too many questions, you’d cut me out completely.”

You stare at him.

“Because that’s how you looked at me some days,” he murmurs. “Like you were already halfway gone.”

Your throat tightens. “I didn’t want that.”

“I don’t care what you wanted,” he says quietly. “It still happened.”

That lands hard. Not cruel. Just true.

You look down.

“I know I messed up,” you murmur.

“I don’t need you to fall on a sword about it,” he says. “But we do need to talk.”

You nod slowly. “After we patch up.”

“Yeah.” He runs a hand over his face. “After I stop bleeding internally, maybe.”

You breathe out a shaky laugh. Just one. He doesn’t smile.

You get out of the car together.

Harry’s already ahead of you, scanning his keycard at the service entrance and muttering under his breath about electromagnetic shielding and heat containment. He doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t look back. He knows this part isn’t for him.

You and Mark follow him into the lab, your footsteps slow and uneven. Your whole body aches. But your heart aches worse. Because Mark said it quietly. Said it without throwing it at your feet like a weapon. But that didn’t make it hurt less.

“We’re gonna talk.”

He’s still walking beside you. Still offering his hand when you stumble slightly. Still Mark. But you can feel the pressure under his skin. The grief. The need to understand why. And that’s not something you can push off forever. Not anymore.

The door to Harry’s lab hisses shut behind you, and for the first time in hours, maybe longer, your body starts to come down. Not all at once. Not like a wave crashing over you. It’s slower. A crawl. Like your limbs are remembering they’re attached to gravity.

You lean heavily on the wall by the door as Mark follows behind, grunting quietly as he lowers himself into the nearest chair. There’s a long, shallow cut across his side, already crusted with blood. His jacket’s torn. His right hand is swollen. His brow furrows, but he says nothing.

Harry’s across the room already, typing something into a security console with one hand and pulling open a concealed wall panel with the other. You know this part of the lab. You’ve sat in front of that medkit more than once, post-training sessions, scraped knuckles, the occasional fractured wrist. But it feels different now. Clinical. Too bright. The lights sting your eyes.

Harry pops open a drawer and starts unloading supplies onto a rolling cart.

“Take off your shirts,” he says flatly. “Both of you.”

Mark raises a brow. “Don’t even buy me dinner first?”

You don’t laugh. Neither does Harry.

Mark sighs. Shrugs out of what’s left of his shirt and hisses as it peels away from the dried blood along his ribs.

You sit down slowly beside him, fingers fumbling with the hem of your top. You manage to lift it halfway before your shoulder locks up. Mark’s hand is there before you can ask, steady, warm, and he helps you get the rest of it over your head without saying a word.

You’re both covered in a patchwork of bruises and grime. Mark’s left shoulder is already darkening with impact trauma, and your back’s streaked with dried black veins, residue from the symbiote. Harry doesn’t comment. He just gets to work.

The antiseptic stings. Neither of you flinch. You’ve both been through worse. But something about the stillness in the room, the cold hum of the lab machines, the quiet beep of the vitals scanner Harry hooks you up to, makes it all feel heavier.

Mark winces as Harry sprays the laceration across his side. “You sure that’s not acid?”

“Would you prefer I cauterize it?”

Mark squints at him. “You really know how to flirt.”

Harry tapes gauze over the wound without replying. You suck in a breath as he gently cleans along your spine. The black tendril-marks don’t sting so much as they ache, like echoes of where the symbiote held you.

“It didn’t fuse completely,” Harry mutters. “But it tried. These patterns are consistent with full nerve branching. You were one more episode away from losing full motor control.”

You nod once. “Yeah. I felt it.”

He pauses. “You didn’t say anything.”

You don’t respond. Mark watches you.

Harry turns away and starts prepping another dose of antibiotic foam. “Vitals are stable. No signs of external parasitic re-entry. Whatever you tore off? It’s not in you anymore.”

You nod again. But it doesn’t feel like you.

Harry presses a fresh wrap over your ribs. “You both need sleep. Fluids. Compression on the joints. That was,” He stops. Shakes his head. “You shouldn’t have made it out.”

Mark mutters, “Yeah, well. We did.”

Harry packs up the remaining gauze and tools, tucks them into the drawer, and pulls a blanket from a cabinet. Tosses it to Mark without looking.

“Bed is yours if you want it.”

Mark catches it. “Thanks.”

Harry doesn’t wait for a response. He just points to the door behind the lab’s main console. “I’ll be monitoring the case from the side room. Don’t touch anything. Don’t bleed on my floor. Try not to murder each other.”

He leaves before either of you can answer. The door hisses shut. Silence falls again.

You’re both sitting on the edge of the exam table now, shoulders hunched, legs dangling. Your hands are in your lap. His are on either side of him, fingers curled into the steel.

For a while, neither of you say anything. Mark leans back slightly, pressing his head against the wall behind you. He lets out a long, slow breath.

“You feeling anything?” he asks, not looking over.

You shake your head. “Just tired.”

He nods. “Good.”

You both sit there like that for a minute. Maybe two. Maybe longer.

The room is cold. The lights too bright. Mark shifts, wincing a little, then pulls the blanket up over his shoulders and offers you part of it. You scoot closer without thinking. He doesn’t move away.

Your head ends up against his shoulder. Not quite resting. Not quite leaning. Just… there. Together. And finally, finally, when the tension in your chest has thinned enough for your voice to come back, you say, “Thank you.”

Mark doesn’t respond right away. “For what?”

“For not letting go.”

He exhales through his nose. “Wasn’t gonna.”

“I know.”

His voice is lower now. Closer.

“We’re still gonna talk.”

You nod against his arm. “Yeah.”

“Once we’re not bleeding.”

You huff a breath. Not quite a laugh. But close.

“Okay.”

Another long pause.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” you say. “I really didn’t.”

Mark doesn’t look at you. Just pulls the blanket tighter.

“Too late,” he mutters. “Saw you. Still here.”

You don’t say anything after that. Neither does he. But you don’t move. And neither does he. Not yet.

The lights in the lab are dim now.

Harry left hours ago to crash on the cot in his surveillance room, muttering something about programming a motion sensor to scream if the symbiote so much as hiccupped. You’d offered to take the couch, but Mark didn’t let that happen. Not tonight.

So now you’re both in the spare room, his room, technically, when he’s here too long to justify flying home. It’s small. One bed. One lamp. Blank walls, and a window facing an alley too narrow for moonlight.

There’s a half-empty bottle of antiseptic on the nightstand. A towel that dried pink with blood draped over the back of the chair. Two sets of discarded clothes piled in the corner, too soaked in ash and sweat to salvage.

And the bed is quiet.

It creaks a little as Mark shifts his weight beside you, the blanket pulled halfway up both your torsos. You’re laying on your side, facing the wall, breathing slow, shallow, counting the seconds in between the hum of the building.

Neither of you have spoken since you lay down. But the silence isn’t empty. It’s weighted. Like you’re both waiting for something. Mark finally breaks it,his voice low, rough with exhaustion.

“You’re not cold, are you?”

You shake your head. “No.”

He exhales. “Good.”

Another beat.

Then, softer, “You can sleep. If you want.”

You swallow. “You first.”

Mark scoffs, barely a sound. “Yeah, not happening.”

“Why not?”

“Still thinking too loud,” he says.

You pause. Then whisper, “About earlier?”

His breath catches. Just faintly.

“Yeah,” he says. “That, and…”

He trails off. You shift slightly. Turn onto your back, eyes tracing the shape of the ceiling in the dark.

“And what?”

Mark doesn’t answer right away.

“I dunno,” he says finally. “Just... everything. The suit. Cecil. You.”

You glance over. You can barely see his face in the low light, but his body is close enough to feel the heat of it.

“You mad at me?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “No.”

“But?”

“But I’m not fine either.”

That honesty hits like a stone in your chest. But you nod.

“I don’t want you to pretend to be.”

“I wouldn’t,” he says.

Another quiet beat. You stare up at the ceiling again.

“I feel like I missed months,” you say softly. “Like my life kept happening, and I just… wasn’t really there.”

Mark rolls onto his side, facing you now. You feel it more than see it. The shift in pressure. The way the blanket tugs slightly.

“I noticed,” he says. “I didn’t want to say it. Thought maybe if I waited long enough, you’d snap out of it.”

“I wanted to.”

“I know.”

The silence hangs again.

Then he says, quieter, “When I saw it on you… the suit, I mean. When it took your voice. Your face. That wasn’t you.”

You blink. “It felt like me.”

“Didn’t look like you,” he mutters. “Didn’t sound like you. It smiled with your mouth but it was hollow. Like someone was wearing your skin.”

You flinch.

He catches it. “Sorry.”

“No. Don’t be. You’re right.”

He shifts again, closer this time. You feel the warmth of his hand under the blanket, brushing lightly against your wrist.

“I didn’t know if you were coming back,” he says.

You whisper, “I didn’t either.”

The bed creaks softly as he adjusts, just enough to touch his forehead to yours. Not pressing. Not forcing. Just… there. You breathe in slowly. He does the same.

And then, almost too quiet to hear, “I’m glad you did.”

You close your eyes.

“Me too.”

There’s a long pause. Not awkward. Just full. He doesn’t move away. You don’t pull back. You stay like that, foreheads barely touching, breathing the same air.

He whispers, “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

“But tonight…”

“I know.”

His hand finds yours under the blanket, and he laces your fingers together.

“Just stay,” he says.

You nod.

“I will… but I used to think you were cheating on me.”

The words slip out before you have time to second guess them. Mark goes still beside you.

His head lifts slightly from where it had been resting near yours. “What?”

You roll onto your side to face him, not sure why you said it, but knowing you can’t walk it back now.

“I mean, I didn’t know that. It wasn’t a fact. Just… a feeling. Back when we first started getting serious and you’d come back with bruises. Cuts. Random nights where you’d leave. All the excuses.”

You pause. “I thought maybe there was someone else.”

Mark’s brows draw together. “But that was–”

“I know,” you cut in. “I know now that it was because you’re Invincible. But back then? I didn’t know that. And I was losing sleep trying to figure out what I was doing wrong.”

He goes quiet. You look at him.

You give a tiny, humorless laugh. “You want to hear the dumbest part?”

He doesn’t answer, but his eyes soften. You say it anyway.

“I thought it was Eve.”

Mark flinches just slightly, and you wave it off with your free hand.

“I know, okay? I know it’s not like that. I know she’s your friend. I’ve seen how you are with her. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t eat at me sometimes.”

His voice is gentle. “Why?”

“Because she’s perfect,” you say, and the words burn your throat as they come out. “She’s smart, and funny, and she’s beautiful in that easy, effortless way. She knows what to say. She’s confident. She flies. She’s literally has  pink glitter cosmic power and–”

Mark winces. “Okay, I get it.”

You cover your face with your hands. “I didn’t mean that in a jealous psycho way. I just–God, I hate how insecure it makes me feel. Because she’s her, and I’m just, me.”

Mark doesn’t answer.

You whisper, “I thought, even if you weren’t cheating, maybe you wanted to. Maybe it was easier to be around someone like her. Someone who always has it together. I felt like a mess next to her.”

He finally speaks.

“You’re not a mess.”

You glance up at him. “That’s sweet. But it’s not true.”

“It is,” he says. “Because you care. You try. You beat yourself up over every little thing. That doesn’t make you weak,it makes you real. I don’t need someone flawless. I need someone who actually gives a shit.”

You look at him for a long moment. “She does.”

“I know,” he says. “So do you.”

Your throat tightens.

You whisper, “I just felt like I was failing you.”

Mark frowns. “How?”

You look down at the blanket. “Because I was gone all the time. With the Spider-Woman stuff. Saving people, fighting, disappearing for hours. I’d come back and I’d be too tired to even look you in the eye. And then you started doing the same thing. I thought it was karma.”

He blinks. “You thought you deserved it?”

You shrug. “I thought I was neglecting you. You’d go quiet. Miss dates. Show up with bruises and lies, and I thought,‘Oh. This is what I did to him.’”

Mark sits up slightly, leaning on one elbow.

“That’s not what happened.”

“I know that now,” you say again. “I just didn’t back then. And then the symbiote came, and I stopped feeling anything except guilt and fear. I couldn’t talk to you. I couldn’t talk to anyone.”

Mark shifts closer. His knee brushes yours under the blanket. You let him.

He says softly, “You know what I thought when you disappeared?”

You don’t answer.

“I didn’t think you were cheating,” he says. “I thought you were dying. And just didn’t want me to watch it happen.”

You close your eyes. His hand slips back into yours.

“I don’t want perfect,” he says. “I want you. Even if you’re tired. Even if you’re late. Even if you’re falling apart.”

You try to hold it together, but a tear rolls out of the corner of your eye before you can stop it. You feel his thumb catch it. Not roughly. Just there.

The dark is soft now. Not heavy. You’ve both sunk into the mattress, half-covered by the blanket, too sore to move, too awake to sleep. You’re not touching anymore. Not because you don’t want to. Because the space between you is still unfinished. There’s quiet. And then Mark speaks again. His voice is rough. Tired. But direct.

“I’m not gonna lie… I’m still kind of pissed you didn’t tell me.”

You close your eyes. You were waiting for it. Not because he’s trying to hurt you. But because it’s the truth. The kind that lingers in his chest like a bruise that didn’t fade.

“I know,” you whisper.

He sighs and shifts on his side, facing you.

“I keep thinking about the nights you’d leave for patrol and come back barely standing. And I’d ask if you were okay, and you’d just brush me off like it was nothing.”

You don’t say anything.

“You weren’t okay.”

You nod. “No. I wasn’t.”

He swallows.

“And Harry knew.”

You wince.

“Yeah.”

Mark isn’t raising his voice. He’s not pressing. But it still aches.

“I kept trying to tell myself it didn’t matter,” he says. “That you had every right to talk to whoever you wanted. That it didn’t mean anything. But I think I’ve been jealous of him for a while.”

You turn your head toward him. “Mark…”

“Not in a weird way,” he adds. “Just…he’s always the one you call first.”

“He’s my best friend.”

Mark nods. “Yeah. I get that. I do. And I know you’ve known him longer. That’s not what bothers me.”

You wait.

He exhales. “What gets me is… you were hurting. And you didn’t come to me. Not even when it got bad. Not even when it started changing you.”

You feel your throat tighten.

“I wanted to,” you say. “I just… couldn’t.”

Mark doesn’t answer. You shift a little, the blanket tugging across your chest.

“I didn’t trust myself to say it the right way,” you admit. “And I didn’t want to mess it up. I didn’t want to risk saying something that made you look at me different.”

His brow furrows. “You thought I’d judge you?”

“Not because I thought you were cruel,” you say. “But because you always know what the right thing is. You’re grounded. You don’t lose yourself in all of this the way I do. You’re still you, even when things get bad.”

Mark shakes his head. “That’s not true.”

“It feels true,” you whisper.

“Well, it’s not,” he says. “You think I always know what I’m doing? That I don’t wake up some mornings wondering if I even deserve to be with you? You’re out there saving people, holding yourself together with duct tape and grit, and I keep screwing up. Missions. Relationships. My own head.”

You blink. “You never showed it.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, well. I’m not exactly good at letting people in either.”

You both go quiet for a second.

Mark looks at the ceiling.

“I guess we were already slipping away, huh.”

“Yeah.”

You lay still for a moment. Then say, softer, “That’s why I told Harry.”

Mark turns his head toward you.

“Because we were already drifting,” you say. “And I didn’t want to put more weight on something that was already broken. Harry noticed something was wrong, and it just… came out. And once it did, it was easier to keep talking to him than it was to figure out how to open that door with you.”

Mark listens. Doesn’t interrupt.

“I thought you’d be disappointed in me,” you say. “Or think I was weak.”

“You’re not,” he says.

You smile faintly. “It didn’t feel that way.”

Mark reaches out. Just barely. His fingers brush the edge of your hand.

“I’m not mad that you needed someone,” he says. “I’m mad that you didn’t think I’d stay.”

You blink hard. He shifts closer. Not pressing. Just… there.

“I want you to tell me things. Even the ugly stuff. Even if you think I’ll get weird about it. I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” you say.

He gives you a look. “You know what hurts worse than the truth?”

You don’t answer.

“Not knowing anything at all.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah.”

You both lay there, breathing through it. It’s not fixed. Not yet. But it’s finally open. It’s quiet again.

The kind of quiet that makes your ears ring. Like your body’s waiting for something else to go wrong. You’re still on your side, curled toward Mark, your hand resting near his ribs beneath the blanket. He hasn’t moved for a while now. His eyes are open. You know because you peeked. And then, without turning toward you, his voice breaks the stillness.

“I lied to you too, you know.”

You blink.

Mark stares at the ceiling. His tone isn’t sharp. Not accusing. It’s heavy with something that’s been sitting on his chest way too long.

“I mean,not about the suit. Or Harry. Or us. I just… I didn’t trust you either. Not completely. Not at first.”

You stay quiet. Because this isn’t something he wants to be interrupted.

He rubs a hand across his face. “When we first got together, I used to keep half my life off the table. Like… the Invincible part. The GDA. The missions. All of it. I was always going missing, and I knew it was hurting you, but I figured… I don’t know. Maybe if I didn’t talk about it, it’d be less real.”

You shift to look at him.

He turns his head too. His eyes are dark in the low light.

“I didn’t want you to know how messed up it was,” he says. “How much it breaks you down. Being this person. Watching the world fall apart again and again and having to show up anyway. I didn’t want you to see how bad it can get.”

You nod slowly.

“I hated not knowing,” you whisper.

“I know. I just…” He pauses. “My dad left. And before he did, he nearly killed me. I watched him beat the hell out of me while people died around us. And I still thought–I still thought he’d stop before it was too late.”

You blink, eyes wide.

“I don’t think I ever really got over that,” he mutters. “Not the beating. Not even the part where he said I didn’t matter. It was the fact that he lied to me for my entire laugh and acted like he never cared.”

You reach for his hand again. He lets you take it.

He stares at the ceiling again.

“So I started lying too. Little ones. To protect people. Or maybe just to protect myself.”

You squeeze his hand gently. He exhales.

“And when Angstrom came back and hurt my mom, after everything we’d already lost, I realized I couldn’t go through that again. Couldn’t let someone I loved get hurt because of me.”

You nod slowly.

“So you kept it all to yourself,” you say.

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t tell me because you thought if I knew, I’d get pulled in deeper.”

Mark swallows. “I’ve already lost one parent. Almost lost my mom. Almost lost you. I was tired of losing.”

You let that sit. Because you finally get it. He wasn’t just afraid of being judged. He was afraid of losing someone else. And the minute he started loving you, he started holding his breath, waiting for the fallout.

“I wish I’d known,” you whisper.

“I wish I’d told you.”

You both lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling like it has answers. Then Mark adds, voice even quieter, “I didn’t want you to see me as my Dad. Not like him.”

You roll to face him. “You’re not him.”

Mark looks at you. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah. Because you came back.”

He swallows hard. Looks away.

You tug on his hand a little.

“You didn’t run when it got bad. You didn’t leave to go space and pretend you didn’t care. You stayed. You stayed for me. Even when I wasn’t myself.”

“I was scared,” he says.

“I was too.”

He looks at you again. “You still are?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Me too.”

You smile, barely.

“I think we’re allowed to be.”

He chuckles once under his breath. “God. What a pair, huh?”

You shift closer. His arm goes around you naturally now.

“Hey,” you murmur. “For what it’s worth?”

Mark hums.

“You’re the only person I ever wanted to come back to.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

But when he does, it’s soft. A little broken.

“I needed that.”

“I know.”

You bury your face against his chest. He holds you closer. And this time, the silence that follows? It’s gentle. It’s earned.

You wake with a sharp, soundless gasp, heart jackhammering against your ribs, sweat clinging to your skin like oil. The dream lingers, thick and black around the edges of your vision, the symbiote whispering again, crawling over you in that sick, intimate way it used to, promising power, promising belonging. Lying. Always lying.

Mark stirs beside you, warm, solid. His arm slips around your waist like instinct, like gravity, like it’s always known where it belongs. “You okay?” he murmurs, voice husky with sleep but threading quick with concern.

You don’t answer right away. You can’t. The words feel too thin for the weight on your chest. Instead, you nod against him, your fingers curling tight in the fabric of the sheets, like they might tether you here, away from the memory of teeth and tendrils.

“Was it… it again?” he asks softly, and you can feel the tension coil in him, under the steady rhythm of his breath.

“Yeah,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “It was… inside me again. Talking. Like it never left.”

His hand moves, slow and careful, up your back, beneath your hair. You melt a little into the touch, even as the shame creeps in like frostbite.

“I hate that it still gets to me,” you admit. “I know it’s locked up. Harry’s containment thing works, I know that, but sometimes I feel like it’s still in my head. Like I’m never gonna be clean of it.”

Mark presses his forehead to yours. “I get that.” There’s no judgment in his voice. Just something tired. Bruised. “I feel that way about my dad sometimes. About what he did. Like he left fingerprints on who I am.”

Your throat tightens. “That’s not the same.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes glinting in the low light. “It is. It’s exactly the same. You trusted something that turned out to be a lie. That doesn't make you weak. It makes you human.”

You look away. “Then why did it take you so long to say that?”

There’s a pause. One heartbeat. Two.

“Because I was pissed,” he says, blunt and quiet. “You went to Harry first. About all of it. And I know he’s your best friend, I do, but… I was jealous. And scared. And I didn’t want to admit that I felt like you didn’t trust me.”

You flinch, a pang in your chest. “It wasn’t about trust. I just… I thought you’d see me differently. That you’d look at me like I was something wrong. Harry, he never did. He knew me before I was this.”

Mark leans in again, his hand cradling your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. “I should’ve told you who I was sooner. Before you found out. Before everything. But I was scared too. I didn’t want you to see me as just Invincible. Or worse, Omni-Man’s son.”

You breathe in the space between your mouths. It's full of unspoken things, and you know if you say the wrong one, it'll all go sideways.

“You know,” you murmur, voice like broken glass, “the symbiote loved how angry you got. Every time you doubted me, it fed on it.”

Mark’s jaw tightens, his fingers stilling on your skin.

“Did you love it back?” he asks.

You close your eyes. “Sometimes. When I hated myself enough, I think I did.”

He doesn’t pull away. He just holds you tighter.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” he whispers. “You don’t even have to be okay all the time. Just… let me be there. Let me see it. Even when it’s bad.”

The heat behind your eyes stings. “I wanted to protect you.”

“Then let me protect you too.”

Your hand finds his chest, steady, strong, beating for you. You nudge your leg between his, curling into him like maybe if you press close enough, the past won’t win. Maybe if he sees all of it, all your guilt, all your ache, all your fractured edges, he’ll still stay. Still hold you through the dark.

“Tell me you’re not leaving,” you breathe.

His voice is fierce and raw. “Never.”

The air between you is thick, warm from your bodies, heavy with the scent of sleep and sweat and something deeper, unspoken. That dream still pulses under your skin like a bruise, the echo of the symbiote's voice hissing through your skull, slick and invasive. You can still feel its claws scraping the back of your mind, even though you know it’s gone. Contained. Locked away in some reinforced vault Harry built, but its presence still lingers in you like phantom limbs.

Mark's hand is on your waist, steady, grounding. The only thing anchoring you to the present.

You shift closer under the sheets, your thigh sliding over his, the soft cotton of his boxers brushing your skin. You tilt your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in,soap, warmth, something distinctly him. Your fingers drift across his chest, slow at first, then with more intent, curling into the fabric of his T-shirt. You speak quietly, your lips brushing his skin.

“Mark…”

He tenses slightly, like he's already expecting something he's not sure he’s ready to handle. Your hand slips beneath his shirt, fingertips tracing the lines of his stomach. He’s warm, toned, solid. Familiar. Yours.

“I need you,” you whisper, not begging, not performative. Just honest.

His breath hitches. He doesn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he shifts so he’s facing you fully, one hand sliding up to your jaw. His thumb brushes along your cheekbone. His blue eyes, barely visible in the dark, search yours like he’s reading something delicate, maybe even dangerous.

“I want to,” he says, voice rough from sleep and something else. “I just…” He swallows. “I don’t want this to be something we use to avoid everything else.”

You look at him, really look at him. “Do I seem like I’m running?”

“No,” he says quickly, his hand moving to your back, fingers curling against your spine. “You don’t. But I know what it’s like to want to feel something, anything, just so you don’t feel that anymore.”

You exhale, frustrated and aching, pressing your forehead to his. “It’s not about forgetting. It’s not about pretending things aren’t still fucked up. I just… I want to be close to you. Not Invincible. Not the guy with the weight of the world on his shoulders. You. Just Mark.”

He’s silent for a moment, his breathing shallow and careful. Then he nods, just a little, his fingers tightening at your hip like he needs to hold onto something real. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

You kiss him.

It starts soft, gentle, tentative, but there’s heat underneath it, coiled and tight. His lips part under yours, and when your tongue brushes his, he makes a sound in his throat, low and involuntary. Your hands roam under his shirt, over his ribs, his chest, and he shudders.

His hands move too,one to your thigh, gripping it as you roll closer, flush against him now. You feel him hardening, feel the tension pulling taut inside both of you. His free hand threads into your hair, holding you still as the kiss deepens.

You break the kiss for a second, breathless. “Then don’t hold back,” you say quietly. “Please.”

He hesitates, like he’s still balancing on that ledge between control and surrender.

“I’ve wanted you like this for so long. Not with that in me.” you whisper, your voice tight. “I just didn’t know how to ask.”

His grip on your thigh tightens. “You’re killing me,” he mutters.

“You’re already hard,” you breathe, your lips brushing his jaw. “So what are you waiting for?”

His hand slides to the small of your back, pulling you firmly against him, and this time there’s no hesitation in the way he kisses you. It’s hungry, he’s hungry. His hand moves under your shirt, splaying across your stomach, then higher, over your ribs, your breast. You moan into his mouth, soft and aching, pressing yourself against his palm.

“I don’t want to be careful right now,” he mutters, voice gravelly.

“Then don’t be,” you gasp, hooking your leg over his hip. “I can take it.”

He moans low in his throat, and suddenly the sheets are being pushed down, your shirt tugged up, his mouth moving from yours to your neck, hot and open, kissing and biting along the skin like he’s trying to brand you. One hand slips between your legs, over the thin fabric of your underwear, and you gasp, your hips jolting at the contact.

“You’re already soaked,” he mutters against your skin, like it physically hurts him to realize it. “Fuck.”

You grip his shoulders, pulling him closer, desperate now. Every nerve in your body is lit up, every part of you tuned to him. You’ve never needed someone like this, not like oxygen, not like blood.

Not until now.

The room is quiet but humming, filled with the soft rustle of sheets and the sounds the two of you are making just breathing against each other, mouths brushing, hearts pounding like overlapping drumbeats. You’re straddling Mark’s hips, the soft cotton of your panties sticking wet between your thighs, your body rocking slow, barely-there, more tease than motion. His hands rest on your hips like he’s trying not to grip too hard, like he’s not sure if he should still be letting you lead.

But you’re not leading, not like before.

Not like last time.

He’s staring up at you, chest rising and falling beneath your palms, warm and solid and steady, like he's trying to read you, like he still half-expects something else to surface. Something wrong.

You catch the hesitation in his eyes, the question he doesn’t want to ask, and it stings in a way you didn’t expect. Because he’s right to wonder.

You look down at him, fingers curling lightly in the soft fabric of his shirt. “Hey,” you whisper, voice soft, uncertain. “I’m me. Right now. Just… me.”

Mark nods slowly, eyes still on you, his thumbs brushing lazy circles against your bare thighs. “I know. It’s just, last time, it wasn’t you on top.”

You swallow, your heart kicking hard behind your ribs. The memory flashes, unwanted, the symbiote’s voice in your head, silky and smug, telling you what to do, how to move, how to take what you wanted. Telling you he wanted it too, that you were giving him what he couldn’t admit he craved.

And Mark hadn’t stopped you. He could’ve. But he didn’t. Because some part of him had wanted it.

But not like this.

“I hated it afterward,” you admit quietly, your hands trembling just a little as they move from his chest to his face, cradling it. “I thought you’d never look at me the same. I didn’t know if it was even me doing it, or if I was just watching from the back of my own mind.”

Mark closes his eyes for a second, turning his face to kiss your palm. “You were still you. Just… buried.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m trying to be her again,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “I don’t want you to think I need to be that way for you to want me.”

His eyes snap open, sharp and aching. “Don’t. Don’t say that.”

You blink, startled, and he sits up slightly, propping himself on one elbow so he can meet you at eye level. “I didn’t want her. I wanted you. Even then. And when I realized it wasn’t… all you anymore, I should’ve stopped it. I should’ve said something.”

You stare at him, stunned by the rawness in his voice, the guilt simmering underneath.

He presses his forehead to yours, his breath shaky. “But I didn’t. And I’m sorry. I should’ve been stronger.”

You shake your head. “We were both scared. Both just trying to hold it together.”

Mark exhales through his nose, the air warm across your cheek. “So if you’re on top now… it’s because you want to be.”

You nod. “I want to be close to you. That’s it. No masks. No… weird voice in my head telling me what to do. Just me. Just us.”

He looks up at you like you’ve just said something holy.

Then his hands move, sliding up your back, under your shirt, warm and slow. You arch into him instinctively, your chest brushing his nipples, tight against the thin cotton barrier. He kisses your neck, reverent, lingering.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me,” he murmurs, voice low, vibrating against your skin.

“I know,” you breathe. “But I want to feel like this. Like I get to touch you. Like I choose to.”

Mark groans softly, his hands gripping your hips now, grounding you as your bodies start to move again,slow, intimate, a soft dry rhythm building between your soaked center and the thick heat straining inside his boxers.

“You feel so good,” he breathes, dragging his hands along your back. “So fucking warm…”

You lean down, kissing him slow, your lips trembling a little because it’s different this time. It’s not about dominance. It’s not about control. It’s about the way he sighs into your mouth like your breath matters. About the way he shudders under you when you roll your hips just right.

He’s not resisting. He’s not trying to flip you or take over. He’s giving you this. And it means more than any bruising grip or forced surrender ever could.

You pull back just enough to whisper, “You still okay?”

Mark nods, breath ragged. “Yeah. More than okay.”

You bite your lip, smiling shyly. “Okay. Good.”

And when you lean down again, kissing him deeper this time, he meets you halfway,hands on your hips, thighs flexing beneath you, mouth eager and open, like he’s not thinking about the past anymore. Like it’s just now. Just you. Just this.

The room breathes with the two of you, shallow, needy, and heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid and everything happening now, here, under your fingertips. The dim moonlight spills over his face, catching in the sheen of sweat already forming along his collarbone. You’re straddling him, thighs snug around his hips, your soaked panties grinding against the thick, hot bulge in his boxers with every slow roll of your hips.

Mark’s hands roam your body like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. He grips your waist, then your back, then your hips again, each touch firmer than the last. But there’s tension beneath it,something caught behind his eyes. The way his muscles twitch beneath your thighs. The way he keeps holding back.

You lean down, kissing him soft and slow, feeling his lips part beneath yours, his breath catching as you shift your weight down and grind into him. The moan he lets out is deep, restrained,almost pained.

You pull back slightly, your voice a shaky whisper. “You’re holding back again.”

His eyes meet yours, dark and glassy. “I’m trying not to lose it.”

You study him for a heartbeat. Then, with a flick of your fingers behind your back, you feel it, the warm, familiar tingle of the webbing activating, quiet and controlled. A line shoots from your palm, quick and silent, and before Mark can react, it catches his right wrist and yanks it up toward the headboard.

“What the–?” His eyes widen as his arm is pinned, the webbing sealing fast, clinging to the wood with practiced tension.

Before he can move, the second strand fires from your other hand, snagging his left wrist and pulling it tight to the opposite post. His arms stretch over his head, his back arching slightly under you, muscles tensing like he’s just been shocked awake.

You blink down at him, heart pounding. “Too much?”

Mark freezes beneath you, mouth open, breath ragged. For a second, you think he’s going to break free, rip through the bindings like tissue paper. But then… he doesn’t.

He exhales a shaky breath, head falling back against the pillow. “Jesus. No. Just caught me off guard.”

Your chest lifts and falls in time with his. “Sorry,” you say, a little breathless. “I’ve never really… used it like this before.”

He tilts his head to look at you, eyes flicking between your face and where his wrists are bound. There’s something sparking there now, something molten. “You know I could break out in, like, half a second.”

“I know,” you murmur, slowly lowering yourself down so your chest brushes his. You press a kiss to his jaw, then the edge of his mouth. “But you won’t.”

Mark groans, low and frustrated in the best way, and shifts beneath you. The headboard creaks slightly as his biceps flex against the webbing, his chest rising sharply under yours. But the bindings hold. Not because they’re stronger than him–they aren’t. But because he’s choosing to stay.

You lean back just enough to look at him fully, taking in the way he’s spread out beneath you. Hands pinned, chest flushed, cock straining against his boxers, his face caught somewhere between awe and restraint. Your thighs squeeze tighter around his hips.

“I like you like this,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his. 

His voice is rough, wrecked. “Fuck.”

You roll your hips again, slow and steady, dragging your wet heat over him through both layers of fabric. His arms flex again, an involuntary jerk, but the webbing holds, and he groans like it hurts to be this patient.

“Look at you,” you murmur, pressing a slow kiss to his throat. “You could snap those restraints without even trying… but you’re just lying there. Letting me move. Letting me take.”

his breath stutters, eyes half-lidded, voice rough and unsteady.

“Yeah… ‘cause if i don’t, i’m gonna lose it. flip you over and–” he swallows hard, “--i won’t stop.”

You smile against his skin, kissing just under his jaw. “Not yet.”

You grind down harder now, panting softly at the pressure building between your legs, the friction catching just right. His hips jerk up into yours, and you gasp, your fingernails digging lightly into his chest.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, voice gone thick with lust.

“So are you,” you whisper back, rolling your hips in a slow circle.

Mark groans, his entire body tensing, wrists pulling tight against the webbing. “I’m not gonna last if you keep doing that.”

You lean down, forehead against his, breathing into his mouth. “Then don’t.”

And you kiss him again, long and deep, while your hips keep moving. And above his head, his wrists stay bound. Because for now, just for now, he wants to be kept.

Your bodies are slick with sweat now, hips grinding together in a slow, desperate rhythm that’s only grown heavier, hotter with each breathless kiss. Every pass of your soaked panties over the thick length trapped in his boxers sends another jolt through you, heat winding tighter in your gut, pulsing low and deep.

Mark groans beneath you, head thrown back against the pillow, jaw tight, arms straining against the webbing,not to break free, but like it’s taking everything he has not to. His chest rises sharply beneath your hands, his abs flexing every time your hips rock forward.

You pause, just for a moment, your breath catching as you sit up a little straighter on his thighs. You look down at him,his chest rising hard, sweat beading at his collarbone, wrists still bound, knuckles white with restraint.

He looks at you like he’s starving.

You reach down slowly, fingers trembling a little as they catch the hem of your shirt. You peel it up and over your head, exposing your chest inch by inch until the air hits your skin and your breasts rise bare and flushed in the low light.

Mark’s breath catches hard. “Fuck,” he rasps, eyes dragging over you like he can’t decide where to look first. “God, you’re beautiful.”

Your cheeks flush, and you can’t help the way your arms instinctively twitch, almost covering yourself, but his voice, raw and reverent, stops you.

“Don’t hide,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Let me see you.”

You let your hands fall to his chest, steadying yourself, and lean down just enough for your nipples to brush his skin. He gasps, actually gasps, and arches up into you as much as the webbing allows.

“I want this off,” you murmur, tugging lightly at his shirt.

He nods, breathless. “Rip it.”

Your eyebrows lift. “You’re serious?”

Mark grins through a pant, nodding again. “Yeah, I'm not going anywhere. You’re in charge. Don’t act like you’re not into that.”

Your pulse stutters at the way he says it, like it’s not just permission. It’s surrender.

You grip the collar of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, and with one sharp tug, you tear it down the center, splitting the cotton apart and exposing his chest beneath. His muscles flex instinctively, a breathless “Shit” escaping his throat as your palms slide over bare skin, slick and warm and perfect.

You lean in, pressing a kiss just below his collarbone, then lower, your lips trailing a path down his sternum as your hips roll again, slower, heavier. Mark groans, deep and ragged, hips jerking up, his cock straining under the thin barrier of his boxers.

Your voice trembles when you speak. “I want these off.”

Mark’s head lolls to the side, his voice wrecked. “Then take ’em off.”

You smile, flushed and breathless, and slowly rise up on your knees, hands slipping down to the waistband of your panties first. You shimmy them down your thighs, dragging the soaked fabric over trembling skin until you toss them aside somewhere near the edge of the bed.

You’re bare now, perched above him, body flushed and wet and aching. Mark’s eyes roam you slowly, reverent, hungry, his chest rising in a sharp gasp when your hand moves next to his waistband.

You hook your fingers under the elastic of his boxers and start to tug them down, slow and careful, revealing inch by inch the thick, throbbing length of him beneath.

He swears again, eyes falling shut for a second like just the feel of the air on his skin is almost too much.

You toss the last of his clothes aside, then settle back on his hips, your wet heat dragging over the length of him, slick and needy. He twitches against you, and his voice comes out in a rasp.

“Please…”

You lean down, kissing his mouth softly, slowly. “I’ve got you.”

Your hand wraps around him, guiding him, not in yet,just sliding the head through your slick folds, teasing, testing, soaking him in your arousal. Mark groans into your mouth, his body straining again, his wrists pulling tight.

“I’m gonna break these fucking webs,” he mutters.

You smile against his lips. “Not yet.”

Your thighs are trembling now, not from fear or nerves, but from the weight of what’s building between you. Every slow, grinding pass of your slick heat over the thick length of him, still slicked between your folds but not quite inside, makes your legs ache with anticipation. The tension in your body mirrors his perfectly. You’re both sweating, breathing hard, held together by nothing but skin and restraint and the overwhelming urge not to let go just yet.

Mark’s arms are stretched above him, wrists still webbed tight to the headboard, muscles flexed hard. Not from struggling, he could snap the bindings like thread if he wanted to. But he won’t. He hasn’t. His eyes are locked on you, dark and hungry and reverent, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of your body, every shift of your hips, every flicker of emotion across your face.

You’re fully bare now, flushed and exposed under the silver light pouring through the window. Moonlight highlights the sheen of sweat on your chest, the curve of your breasts as they rise and fall with every breath, nipples tight and aching as the air touches them. He watches you like he’s trying not to blink.

You lean forward slightly, resting your palms flat against his chest, the muscles beneath twitching at your touch. His heart is pounding fast,too fast for someone with Viltrumite blood,and that alone makes you feel bold.

“Still good?” you ask, voice quiet, trembling slightly.

Mark swallows hard, his voice tight. “You have no idea.”

You smile softly and shift your hips forward, sliding your slickness all the way up his shaft, dragging your wet heat over the swollen head. His entire body jerks, a ragged moan slipping from his throat. His eyes roll back for a moment, and his hands strain reflexively against the webs.

“Fuck,” he hisses, dragging his head back to look at you again. “You’re gonna drive me insane.”

You keep moving, slow and steady, your folds gliding over him, teasing his tip with every roll of your hips. “I’m trying,” you murmur, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth.

He tilts his head to chase your lips, but you pull back just a breath away, your lips brushing but not fully connecting. His hands jerk against the webbing again, the muscles in his arms bulging, cords of tension standing out in his forearms.

“You really like being tied up,” you whisper, a touch of wonder in your voice.

Mark groans. “No. I like you on top of me. I like you looking like this.” His voice drops lower. 

That does something to you. Makes your core tighten. Makes your thighs tremble harder.

You sit up straighter again, your hand slipping between you, wrapping around him, finally. You guide the thick length of him to your entrance, the tip nudging against your slick folds. His breath catches, the muscles in his abdomen flexing, his head lifting off the pillow to watch.

You ease down, slow, inch by inch, letting yourself stretch around him, your walls clenching, sucking him in with aching, desperate need. Your lips part in a gasp, eyes fluttering shut as the fullness overwhelms you, grounding you to the moment.

“Shit,” Mark groans, his body jerking beneath you. “You feel… fuck, you feel perfect.”

You sit fully onto him, your thighs spreading wider, hips settling against his. He’s so deep it makes your breath catch, your back arch, your hands gripping his chest just to hold onto something solid. You shiver, overcome, your inner muscles fluttering around him involuntarily.

“God,” you whisper, eyes still shut. “You’re so deep…”

Mark’s eyes are locked on where your bodies meet, chest heaving, arms straining harder than before, the headboard creaking faintly under the tension. “Move, baby. Please. Ride me.”

You plant your hands on his chest again and begin to move, slow and steady, lifting yourself up and sliding back down, moaning softly as the friction builds. The drag of him inside you is everything, thick, perfect, overwhelming. Every time your hips meet his, it sends another shockwave through you, building pressure, stoking the fire that’s been burning low in your belly since you first touched him tonight.

Mark’s mouth is hanging open now, groaning through gritted teeth, hands jerking against the webbing with every thrust.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he growls. “You’re squeezing me so goddamn hard…”

You roll your hips faster, deeper, chasing that sweet spot inside you as your nails dig into his chest. The slap of skin against skin grows louder, filthier. You’re a mess above him now, hair clinging to your face, lips parted, moaning louder with each bounce. He’s watching you like he’s mesmerized, his arms shaking with the effort not to break free, not to grab you and fuck into you the way you both want.

“You gonna cum for me like this?” you breathe, bouncing harder now, your thighs burning with effort.

Mark grits his teeth, groaning loud. “Not until you do. I swear, fuck, not until you cum first.”

You grind down, hard, your clit catching perfectly against him, and cry out as the first wave crashes over you, your walls clenching so hard around him he nearly loses it. Your head falls forward, moaning into his neck, your whole body trembling as you ride it out, hips still moving, dragging the pleasure out longer and deeper.

Mark’s voice is a wreck now. “Let me–fuck, let me go, please,”

Your legs are trembling, thighs aching from the strain of keeping your pace, but you don’t slow down. You’re riding Mark slow and deep, your rhythm a little messy now, your breath coming faster, but you’re still in control, barely. Every time you sink down on him, you can feel how close he is, how tight his grip gets on your hips, how he fights the urge to take over. His cock is thick, hot, pulsing inside you, twitching every time your walls clench around him.

The heat between your bodies is unbearable now, sweat slicking your skin, dripping down your back, your hair sticking to your cheeks and neck. Your breasts brush against his chest with every bounce, every grind, nipples tight and aching from the friction and the way he watches you.

Mark's lying beneath you, wrists free now but unmoving, eyes glazed over with heat and disbelief. His mouth is open, lips parted as he pants, jaw clenched like he’s holding on by a thread.

You give a shaky laugh, leaning forward, bracing your palms against his chest. His skin is hot to the touch, damp with sweat, his heart hammering against your hands. “I told you I could handle it.”

You smile down at him, flushed and panting, and rock your hips again,just right. Deep. Precise. He chokes on a curse.

“Maybe I am,” you say. “But I’m still on top.”

Mark’s eyes flutter shut for a second, and his head drops back against the pillow. “Fuck. You’re insane.”

“You love it,” you breathe.

He opens his eyes again, pupils blown wide, and looks up at you like you’re the center of the damn universe. “Yeah,” he says, hoarse. “I really do. I love you.”

That hits you harder than any thrust. You falter just slightly, and he notices it, the way your body stutters. His hands finally move, curling around your hips, then up your sides, slow and warm. He pulls you down gently until your chest brushes his, and he kisses you,deep, messy, hot.

It’s not hungry like before. It’s not a power play. It’s slow and open and aching with something you don’t want to name yet but feel everywhere.

You keep moving, though slower now, your pace drawn out and sensual, the drag of him inside you deep and devastating. You roll your hips and he groans into your mouth, one hand fisting in the sheets as he fights to stay beneath you.

“You sure you’re not about to lose it?” you murmur, panting into the corner of his mouth.

Mark gives a breathless laugh, his hands moving back down to your ass, squeezing tight, guiding your rhythm. “I’ve been about to lose it since you took off your shirt.”

You laugh softly, your body trembling with the effort to keep your pace. You can feel your orgasm building again, sharp and low and hot, and your muscles are starting to lock up from the intensity of it all.

You shift your weight and start bouncing a little harder, riding him faster now, chasing that high. His hips jerk beneath you, the headboard hitting the wall with every thrust, the sound of wet skin meeting skin filling the room.

“You know I could stop you,” he pants, groaning, his fingers digging into your hips like he’s barely hanging on. 

“Bullshit,” you whisper, eyes wild, hair sticking to your face. “Then why don’t you?”

You’re too breathless to speak, but your hand moves behind you, snapping the webbing with a single flick. His hands are free in an instant.

And the moment they are, he grabs your hips and slams up into you.

You scream his name, eyes rolling back, as he finally takes control, thrusting up into your soaked, spasming heat with savage, perfect rhythm, every inch of him hitting deep, deeper, your body jerking with every thrust.

He sits up with a sudden thrust of his hips, wrapping his arms around you, mouth on your neck as he drives into you hard from below. You cry out, hands gripping his shoulders, your body slamming down to meet each thrust. You’re shaking, moaning, trying to stay upright, trying to stay in control, but it’s slipping, and he knows it.

You press your forehead against his, gasping, your voice ragged. “What, you holding back on me?”

“‘Was trying to be nice,” he says, voice low and steady even through the haze. 

You bounce harder, grinding down between each thrust, breath catching with every stroke. The pleasure crests fast, unbearably sharp now, your moans breaking into sobs of need. You claw at his shoulders, hold his face in your hands, kiss him like you’re trying to survive it.

“I’m gonna–Mark–”

“Come on,” he pants, slamming into you, his cock hitting deep and perfect, over and over. 

And you do, your orgasm tearing through you in hot, rolling waves that wrack your whole body. You scream his name, full and unfiltered, body jerking as you clench around him.

He gasps, holding you tight as you ride it out, your body spasming in his arms.

Then his mouth drops to your shoulder, voice wrecked. “Fuck–gonna come–shit–”

You clench tighter, grinding your hips down even through the aftershocks. “Do it.”

He groans against your skin, pulls you in deep, cumming hard inside you with a broken, helpless moan, his arms shaking around you as his hips jerk one last time.

You both collapse against each other, chests heaving, skin soaked with sweat, limbs tangled and twitching.

Your breath is still coming in shaky, uneven gasps as you cling to him, his arms wound tight around your waist, his chest rising and falling beneath you. The room smells like heat, sweat, and sex, your skin glistening, your thighs trembling where they’re still wrapped around his hips, his cock softening slowly inside you as the aftershocks still pulse through your lower belly.

Mark leans back against the headboard, dragging you with him, until you’re straddling his lap and collapsing against his chest, flushed and wet and utterly wrung out.

Neither of you speaks at first. You just breathe together.

Then you shift, your cheek brushing his, and kiss the corner of his mouth, gentle, soft, slow. His arms tighten around you. He kisses you back like he needs it, like it’s grounding him again. His lips move over yours with a tenderness that doesn’t match what just happened, his mouth opening slightly, tongue sliding against yours as he exhales through his nose, one hand cradling the back of your neck.

You lose yourself in the kiss, moaning softly into his mouth, your fingers curling into his soft hair at the nape of his neck.

And then his wrists flex, just a small movement, but you feel it. Your body remembers how it looked moments ago. Mark bound to the headboard in tight, glistening strands of your webbing, his muscles flexed against the tension, his hands curled helplessly while you rode him to the edge. While he let you.

You shudder a little at the memory, a fresh wave of heat curling low in your gut.

Mark pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, “That stuff doesn’t dissolve on its own, does it?”

You grin, dazed, and brush your nose against his. “It does. Eventually. But I think I made it extra strong.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So that wasn’t just instinct?”

You kiss him again, deeper this time, tugging lightly at his hair as you straddle his lap tighter. “Nope. That was very deliberate.”

He groans, head tipping back slightly. “God, you’re dangerous.”

“I had you completely at my mercy.” You tease.

“You still do.” He grabs your hips again, but his grip is gentler now, possessive in a different way. “You should’ve seen your face. All flushed, talking shit while I was tied up like I couldn’t break out of it.”

You hum, dragging your lips along his jaw. You shift in his lap, still wet and warm, grinding lightly for no other reason than to feel him twitch beneath you. 

“I loved it,” you whisper. “Having you like that. Knowing you could stop me, but didn’t.”

Mark’s breathing picks up again. His hands slide up your spine, trembling slightly, like he’s holding back again, but this time it’s reverence, not restraint. 

“Next time,” he mutters, voice ragged, “don’t even think about cutting me loose until I come.”

You bite your lip, kissing him again, open-mouthed and slow, moaning as his tongue slides against yours. You can feel him hardening beneath you again, already.

“I can tie you up again,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “Do you want that?”

Mark groans against your mouth, his head falling forward to rest against yours. “You better,” he breathes. “Because after that? You’ve got a lot to make up for.”

ִ ࣪✮🕷✮⋆˙

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[jujutsukatsuki]

Pretty Baby || Alastor x Reader || 18+

I got a request for Alastor with a Female Reader with a praise kink so here i am to abide! I do not support Viv or their actions! || includes: praise kink so MDI!, Fem bodied reader ||

You sat on the couch in the lobby, a book in hand as you snuggled up in a blanket, Alastor had wandered off to god know's where while you were at the hotel listening to Husk and Angel debate something they saw on tv. The door to the hotel opened and in walked your tall dark and creepy beloved. He walked over and gently used his cane to lift your head, the cold steel made your skin shiver as your eyes met his red ones. "Hello my love, what have you done all day?" You smile as he questions you. "Just read and listen to everyone." You hummed as you stood up and looked up to Alastor's face, his gorgeous grin on his lips. "Good girl. Lets take a walk, go get your coat my love." You shivered at his praise, his smirk got a bit more sinister as he noticed. You dashed up the stairs to change, you put on a dress that resembled something women in Alastor's time when he was alive would wear along with a jacket to go over it. Not like you needed one, hell was hot. "There is my pretty baby." Alastor smiled as he offered his arm to you, you took it as you left out the front door of the hotel. A cold shiver ran up your spine at his words.

"Where are we going Ali?" The nickname was silly, but Alastor loved it. "You'll see my love." He hummed as the two of you walked the streets of hell, demons cowering away from Alastor's presence. Soon enough you noticed the sign that read Cannibal Town. "Aunt Rosies?" You asked Alastor who nodded and walked with you into the shop.

"Alastor you old dog!, and the beautiful Y/n! Still look delicious, sure you dont want to give me a taste? Oh im joking!" Rosie giggled as you let out a small awkward laugh and looked to Alastor who brushed it off. "Darling, why don't you go find a new perfume you like." Alastor smiled and let you walk away. You kept glancing at Rosie and Alastor who passed him a box of sorts. You walked back over to where the two sat. "Alright darling, time to go!" Alastor said as he shoved the box in his pocket. "Oh uh-" You didnt have time to say anything as you were whisked out the door by him. The walk home seemed quiet and longer, once at the hotel, you were taken upstairs to the bedroom you two shared. "Alastor, what-"

The box was pulled from his pocket and he opened it, inside was a necklace that held a small pendent of an A. "Oh Alastor!" You cooed as he clipped the necklace to your neck, his fingers lingering on your skin. "Youre always such a good girl, i figured you were owed a present for all your understanding of my deals and being gone often." You let out a small gasp at his words, his hand still on the back of your neck. He spins you around and grabs your chin. "Good girl." He whispers, letting the radio filter leave his voice. "Alastor.." You mumble and squeeze your thighs together, he was playing a dangerous game. He may be the powerful radio demon with hundreds of souls under his belt, but you. You were the one who was starving for his affection and wouldnt stop until you were satisfied. "What darling? I cant help it. Youre my pretty girl." He guides you to your knees, his red eys staring to your own. "Such a good girl." He pets your hair, his fingers running through your hair. "Now, keep being my pretty, perfect girl and open that pretty mouth of yours." He grinned, it was going to be a very, very long night.

[bookloover35]

How to date a Holmes- Sherlock Holmes.

The flat at 221B Baker Street rarely saw a dull moment. Between Sherlock Holmes's eccentricities and your knack for keeping him on his toes, there was always a spark of life in the air. Married life with the great detective was never ordinary, which suited you just fine.

This morning, however, was quieter than usual. Sherlock was deep into a case, his sharp eyes darting over newspaper clippings and notes pinned to the walls, muttering to himself. You, his beloved wife, sat nearby with a cup of tea, watching his brilliance with equal parts admiration and amusement.

Your moment of peace was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was hurried, almost anxious. You set your tea down and rose, smoothing your dress before opening the door to find none other than Lord Tewkesbury, the Marquess of Basilwether, standing there.

"Lord Tewkesbury," you greeted, surprised. "What a pleasant surprise. Do come in."

He stepped inside, his usually confident demeanor tinged with hesitation. His mop of blond curls looked slightly disheveled, and he clutched a small bouquet of wildflowers.

"I hope I'm not intruding," he began, his voice low.

Sherlock didn't even glance up from his work. "Advice on how not to get yourself killed again? I'd suggest moving to the countryside and becoming a hermit."

"Sherlock," you chided, shooting your husband a look.

Tewkesbury flushed but straightened his posture. His tone turned determined as he turned to you and said, "I'm actually here to get advice from you, Mrs. Holmes."

That caught Sherlock's attention. He glanced up, his sharp gaze flicking from Tewkesbury to the bouquet. "Good grief. You're courting my sister?"

Tewkesbury's blush deepened, but a small smile tugged at his lips. "I'm... trying to. But she's—well, she's a Holmes. And I thought, who better to ask than someone who's successfully married one?"

Sherlock snorted, but you felt a surge of pride. You gestured for Tewkesbury to sit down.

"Enola?" Sherlock muttered, eyeing the flowers. "Of course. Only a Holmes would attract this level of reckless persistence."

"Don't mind him," you said gently. "Tell me, Lord Tewkesbury, what exactly do you need advice about?"

He exhaled, his nerves starting to show. "How to win her over. She's... remarkable, and I don't want to ruin my chances. She's clever, independent, and quite possibly the most fascinating person I've ever met. But I feel like... I don't know how to approach her in the right way."

"Ah," you said with a knowing smile. "You're right that Holmeses are unique. They value intelligence, independence, and a sharp wit. But more than that, they need someone who respects their individuality. Enola is no exception."

Tewkesbury nodded eagerly, hanging on your every word.

"Don't try to smother her," you continued. "She'll run circles around you if you try to control her. Instead, be her partner. Show her that you admire her strength, and don't be afraid to challenge her. Holmeses appreciate someone who can keep up with them."

"Challenge her?" he repeated, frowning slightly.

"Yes, but not in a condescending way," you clarified. "It's about mutual respect. Show her that you value her opinions, even if they differ from yours. And whatever you do, don't underestimate her."

Tewkesbury exhaled slowly, nodding again. "That... makes sense. She's truly extraordinary. I just don't want to mess it up."

Sherlock, who had been listening with a faint smirk, finally chimed in. "The fact that you care enough to seek advice is a good start. But if you hurt her, I'll make sure no one ever finds your body."

"Sherlock," you scolded, though you couldn't entirely suppress your amusement.

Tewkesbury's eyes widened, but he quickly rallied. "Understood. Completely."

You reached over to pat his hand reassuringly. "Don't let him scare you. You're doing fine, Tewkesbury. Just be yourself and let Enola know how you feel. She'll appreciate your honesty."

The young lord offered you a grateful smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Holmes. Truly. You've been very helpful."

As Tewkesbury stood to leave, Sherlock leaned back in his chair, watching him with narrowed eyes. "One last thing," he said. "If you're going to date a Holmes, you'll need to be prepared for danger. Our lives are anything but ordinary."

Tewkesbury squared his shoulders. "I'm not afraid of a little danger."

Sherlock smirked. "Good answer."

After Tewkesbury left, you turned to your husband with a raised eyebrow. "Was the death threat really necessary?"

Sherlock shrugged, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I have to protect my sister's interests."

You shook your head, laughing softly. "And here I thought you'd be glad she's found someone who adores her."

Sherlock's expression softened, and he reached for your hand. "I suppose I am. Though, to be fair, I still don't understand how you managed to put up with me."

"Easy," you replied, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "I figured out the secret to dating a Holmes a long time ago."

"And what's that?"

You smiled mischievously. "Patience, wit, and a touch of madness."

Sherlock chuckled, pulling you into his arms. "Well, then, it seems Lord Tewkesbury has quite the challenge ahead of him."

And with that, life at 221B Baker Street carried on—full of love, mystery, and, of course, the occasional lesson on how to date a Holmes.

[cece693]

Cece!!!! drop another fic and my life is yours!!!!!!

I love the joker fic you wrote. I love love love it. Please i humbly request that you maybe write a part 2. I really enjoyed it.

Please and thank you <3

Painted Devotion Pt. 2

pairing: the joker x male reader tags: harley quinn appearance, she's jay's wingwoman, never underestimate a girl's devotion to the crazy clown, kidnapping, forced to admit feelings

You thought you’d heard it all before. The Joker had been oddly insistent the last time you fought—proclaiming in that maddening cackle of his that he loved you. You brushed it off as another of his twisted jokes, something to keep you off-balance in the heat of battle. Heroes don’t fall for their arch-nemeses, right?

After that night, you did what any good, cape-wearing hero would do: you ignored it. Weeks passed. You put more thugs behind bars, broke up a few shady deals, and spent your evenings patrolling the city’s rooftops. Whenever the Joker’s name came up, you responded with the usual calm detachment. If the clown was serious, you reasoned, he’d show up again soon enough.

It turned out you weren’t wrong, but it wasn’t the Joker himself who paid you a visit first.

It all went down late on a Tuesday evening, when the city’s neon lights glowed under a cloudy sky. You jumped from building to building, scanning the streets below for trouble—typical hero business—when a sudden whack against your head turned everything to black.

You came to your senses strapped to a battered office chair in a musty old warehouse. Why were these villains always obsessed with warehouses? Blinking away the starbursts in your vision, you looked up to see the beaming face of Harley Quinn.

“Took ya long enough!” she chirped, tapping a bat against her shoulder. “I was thinkin’ you’d never wake up.”

You winced, testing the ropes around your wrists. “I don’t suppose you’d consider untying me, Harley?”

She only threw her head back in a bright, almost musical laugh. “Aw, you’re adorable—but no. Listen,” she leaned in, eyes sparkling with mischief, “I need you to see somethin’. And I know you’re all buddy-buddy with logic and morals and justice, so I figured I’d have to knock you out first to get ya here.”

Before you could protest, she hopped behind the chair and gave it a firm shove. You were forced to roll along the cracked concrete floor, deeper into the warehouse. Doors creaked. Muffled laughter (and maybe a scream or two) echoed down some corridor. Eventually, Harley kicked open a metal door and shoved you inside.

The room was…Well, let’s just say the décor put your most devoted fans’ ‘Wall of Weird’ scrapbooks to shame. You saw your face plastered on almost every surface—pictures from tabloids, newspaper clippings, freeze-frames from TV news. Some were ringed by messy hearts in red marker. A few were dotted with random notes, scrawled in that unmistakable loopy handwriting: “My favorite hero.” “Do-gooder with a spine.” “Ugh, I love to hate him.”

At the center of it all, like some twisted shrine, sat the Joker himself. Except…he looked different. His face was devoid of makeup, pale skin showing stubble along his jawline. The vibrant green hair was half faded, revealing scruffy brownish roots. His clothes were wrinkled and rumpled, like he’d been wearing the same outfit for days (and by the smell, he probably had). He stared blankly at the collage of your photos on the wall, barely acknowledging your entrance.

Your eyes flicked around the room. “What is this?”

Harley prodded the back of your chair again, rolling you closer. “This is our problem, handsome. Mistah J’s been moping around for weeks—weeks!—all ‘cuz you’re treatin’ him like the punchline to a bad joke. No pun intended.”

Still bleary-eyed, you caught the Joker’s gaze. He lifted his head only slightly, half-lidded eyes meeting yours. There was something—dare you say it—sad about him.

“You okay there, Joker?” you ventured, voice hesitant.

“Okay?!” The Joker’s voice cracked in a mockery of his usual mania. “Oh, yes, I’m marvelous, darling. Nothing like heartbreak to add a dash of * zest * to life.” His sarcasm dripped, but the spark in his eye was faded.

Harley sighed, pulling a collapsible chair (because apparently she was prepared) out from the corner and flopping down in front of you. “All right, kiddos, gather ‘round. Therapy time. I’ve been watchin’ Dr. Phil reruns, so I’m basically an expert.” She clapped her hands, then pointed the bat in your direction. “Now, let’s address the big, honkin’ elephant in the room: What’s the deal with you ignorin’ my puddin’ after he confessed his oh-so-genuine feelin’s, hmm?”

Caught off guard, you just stared. “What do you want me to say, Harley? He literally told me in the middle of a fight that he…that he loved me.”

At that, the Joker—still slumped in the makeshift shrine—rolled his eyes. “So that’s what’s got you all twisted, is it? You can’t possibly fathom that the Clown Prince of Crime might have genuine emotions?” He offered a weak, mocking laugh, but it turned into more of a pathetic cough. “Ridiculous.”

You shifted in your chair, still unable to free your wrists from the ropes. “It’s not that I don’t believe you. I just—didn’t want to engage with…this.” Your eyes flicked around the shrine. “I mean, look at this place.”

Harley tsked, crossing her legs. “Now, that ain’t so nice. Mistah J put a lotta care into it.”

Joker’s mouth twitched, as though a grin was trying to emerge but couldn’t quite make it. “I tried not to, you know. Tried not to let you worm your way into my chaotic heart.” He gave a theatrical sigh. “But there you are every time I close my eyes.”

You felt a flush threaten your cheeks. “Well, you’re not exactly easy to forget either.”

“Aha!” Harley pointed her bat at you triumphantly. “Progress!” She scribbled an imaginary note on her open palm. “You acknowledge you can’t forget Joker. Step one: acceptance of repressed feelings.”

“Harley, stop reading into every single—”

“Shh!” She pressed a finger to her lips, spinning her bat like a pen. “We’re in therapy. No interrupting.”

You groaned but stayed quiet.

“Now.” Harley turned to the Joker. “Mistah J, it seems like your love life’s gotten messy. You can’t keep starin’ at that collage. Gotta talk it out. Go on, say something sweet.”

The Joker gave another drab cough, then locked eyes with you, his voice quiet and oddly sincere. “I meant what I said,” he began. “For all the times we’ve danced our little dance, you’re the only one who’s ever made me second-guess my own madness. I hate it—and I love it, all the same.”

The room felt eerily still. You swallowed, faint warmth creeping into your chest. “You love that I chase you around the city, busting your plans?”

He shrugged. “I love that you bother to. No one else sees me the way you do. You try to understand my next step. You push back. You hold a mirror up to all my chaos.”

“It’s more than that, though,” Harley interjected, not-so-subtly. “Right, Mistah J?” She gave him a pointed look.

The Joker released a long, melodramatic sigh. “Yes, yes. I find you utterly fascinating beyond the usual cat-and-mouse business.” A half-smile tugged at his lips. “And you have those hero’s eyes; bright with idealism. It’s both nauseating and addictively sweet.”

A flicker of genuine sympathy welled up in you, despite your better judgment. “What do you want from me?”

He rose to his feet, standing unsteadily but with some of his old swagger returning. “Just…don’t pretend it never happened. This feeling—whatever it is. If you hate me for it, so be it. But ignoring me completely?” He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “That’s more torture than Arkham’s solitary confinement.”

You glanced at Harley, who was watching with rapt attention, bat propped under her chin like she was enthralled in a rom-com. Then you looked back at the Joker, disheveled and oddly vulnerable in his half-washed face and patchy green hair. With a deep breath, you admitted, “I…can’t ignore you. You’re in my head, too. Maybe not in the same way, but—”

“Oh, hush.” He cut you off with a wave of his hand, yet there was a trace of relief in his voice. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

Harley squealed in delight, springing up from her chair. “Then that’s settled, right? You’re gonna stop mopin’, Mistah J, and you—” she pointed to you, “—quit actin’ like none of this is happening.”

She spun around the room, picking up a pair of scissors with a flourish. “Now, the therapy rules say if a hostage is no longer needed, I free ‘em.” She winked, then came over to snip the ropes at your wrists. “Ta-da! You two can figure out the rest yourselves.”

With your wrists free, you stood, rubbing the raw lines where the rope had been. Harley strolled off, humming some jaunty tune, leaving you and the Joker alone in the messy hideout. An awkward silence fell between you. Then the Joker nudged a stray newspaper clipping—one featuring a huge, front-page photo of you—underneath a loose pile to hide it.

You met his eyes. They still had that glint of madness, but a note of exhaustion, too. “Listen, Joker,” you started softly. “I’m not saying everything’s changed, just because—”

“Don’t,” he cut in, though his voice was calmer than usual. “Don’t try to define it. It’s not a fairy tale. It’s just…us.”

“…Right,” you said. “But maybe we could handle it better than, you know, kidnapping, murder, property damage, etc.”

He gave a half-hearted chuckle. “We’ll see. Old habits die hard.”

Before you could formulate a witty retort, he leaned in, surprising you with a swift, almost gentle press of his lips against yours. The sensation was oddly quiet, lacking the usual theatrical flourish you associated with him. Just a moment, then gone.

His grin returned—small, but unmistakably the Joker. “Consider that my official invitation not to ignore me next time.”

Your cheeks flared hot, but you managed a smirk. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

And with that, he stepped aside, allowing you a path to the door. There might have been a million unresolved questions swirling in your head—where do we go from here? Is this a trick? Am I supposed to arrest him now?—but in that instant, you simply took a shaky breath and turned away.

You left the hideout feeling strangely lighter. You still had your duty, and he still had his mania, but at least the air between you wasn’t suffocating with unspoken truths. And behind you, in that dingy warehouse, you knew he was probably already painting his face with renewed gusto—maybe even re-dying his hair that trademark green.