#only then it's easy to go through your day

[buckyseternaldoll]

kinky side quest

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: Valentina warned you both: no kinky side quests. You hadn’t planned on it—until her words lit the fuse. The mission went perfectly. The real side quest? Very much in progress.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, blowjob in car, clothed grinding, denied fingering, face riding, cunnilingus (f receiving), fingering (f receiving), metal fingers use, vaginal sex, rough sex, bathroom sex, shower sex, wall sex, riding, multiple orgasms, creampie, breeding kink talk, dirty talk, begging, praise kink, soft dominance, aftercare, established relationship, post Thunderbolts settings

Word Count: 9k~ish

Note: This was something I've written in parts before I took the time for myself and vanished. Any mistakes would all be mine. Hope you'll enjoy whatever this was 💜

You were deployed to clear a simple task with Bucky, your boyfriend—though sometimes it still felt unbelievable that you’d scored him at all. Valentina had given you both that flat stare before you left the Watchtower briefing room, like she could see straight through you.

“No kinky side quests,” she’d said, pinning you both with her glare.

You and Bucky had both nodded like good little agents. Really, you hadn’t planned anything. It hadn’t even been on your mind… until she reminded you. Until she said it out loud, and your entire body remembered you were ovulating. Remembered you hadn’t fucked him in days. Remembered how hungry you’d been for him last night when you’d come to bed late and he’d just curled around you to sleep, murmuring he was too tired to start anything.

You’d promised yourself you’d wait. Get through the mission. Earn your prize. You’d ask for him to rail you stupid after you both got home safe. That had been the plan.

But Val’s warning had lodged itself in your skull like a dare.

You’d kept your head in the game right up until you were actually in the car. Just a normal sedan—sleek and fast but nondescript enough for local traffic. Bucky had insisted on driving, fingers loose on the wheel, eyes sweeping the road in practiced arcs. He was so good at this part, so focused it made you ache.

It should only be forty-five minutes to the drop point. Easy. But you were in the passenger seat fidgeting your fingers in your lap like a kid. Trying not to look at him too much. Trying not to think about his thighs in those dark tac pants.

Because while your mind was set on the assignment, your traitor of a heart had latched onto Val’s rule like it was a forbidden fruit. It wouldn’t stop playing the what-if game.

What if he let you?

What if he wanted it too?

Bucky cleared his throat at the wheel. His gaze didn’t even flick to you, but you knew him—he’d been watching you out of the corner of his eye for the last ten minutes.

“Baby,” he drawled, voice low and gentle. “What’s on your mind?”

You swallowed, eyes snapping to the side mirror instead of him.

“Mm. Nothing.” You shifted your hips in the seat, realizing too late you’d been leaning toward him like gravity had given up on pretending.

He huffed a faint, knowing sound, thumb tapping the wheel.

“Something wrong?” he pressed, voice rich with genuine concern. Not annoyed. Not suspicious. Just… worried about you.

You hesitated.

Your brain screamed don’t say it. Don’t ruin the mission. You’d promised yourself. You were going to wait until the op was over.

But you’d been so wound up. So deprived. So embarrassingly wet for him for days now that your mouth betrayed you.

You twisted in your seat to face him fully, fingers clenching in your lap. Your voice cracked with nerves.

“Can I… suck your cock before we get there?”

It dropped into the quiet like a grenade.

Bucky actually flinched. You saw it—a tiny twitch of his jaw tightening, a hard swallow.

For one harrowing second you thought you’d fucked everything up.

But then he let out a short laugh—just air, really, a puff of relief, as his shoulders eased.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, and this time he finally glanced at you properly, eyes soft, mouth curved in that tired but patient little grin he reserved for you alone. “That was what was bothering you?”

You squirmed in your seat, cheeks on fire. Couldn’t look at him for a second.

You nodded anyway. Shame was there, hot in your belly, but so was something else—so was the defiance of I want you.

Technically, you hadn’t arrived at the drop yet. This was just transit. Not the mission. Not really.

Bucky’s brow furrowed for a split second like he was actually considering the ethics of it. But then he huffed again, softer this time. Like he’d decided.

“C’mere,” he said.

He took his right hand off the wheel—his warm flesh hand—and reached across to your restless fingers, prying them gently apart. He squeezed your hand once, firmly. Grounding.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he guided your palm down.

Down to his lap.

Pressed it flush over the front of his pants.

You felt the heat there immediately. Even soft, he was thick. Heavy. But under your hand he shifted and you felt it twitch—just a little at first, then again, firmer. Filling.

You bit back a whimper, heat roaring through you.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just let you feel it. Let you watch the way his eyelids went half-mast as his cock stirred and hardened under your palm.

It was wordless permission.

But he still gave you the grace of saying it.

“My cock’s all yours, baby,” he said quietly. His voice was impossibly tender. “If that’s what you need, take it.”

That undid you.

Your hesitation shattered, replaced by raw, urgent want.

You fumbled at his fly, unzipping him with shaking fingers. He lifted his hips just enough—obedient, helpful, letting you work without rush—to free him from the confines of his tactical pants.

And there he was.

Big. Thick. Gloriously hardening in the dark of the night.

Ready for you.

—

You didn’t rush.

You made yourself pause. Forced yourself to just look at him.

Your breath caught when you took in the sight of his cock, freed from his tactical pants—thick, veined, standing proud and heavy. Even in the near-dark of the car, you could see it: the occasional slash of passing streetlights cast pale ribbons across his lap, glinting off the slick wetness gathered at the tip. It curved ever so slightly toward you, shameless in its want.

Your mouth actually watered.

God. It was big. So fucking big. It always struck you just how massive he was, the kind of size you could never forget once you’d taken him. Exposed like this, twitching for you, he looked almost vulnerable. Needy.

You wondered—not for the first time—if the serum had anything to do with it. If it had made every part of him harder, stronger, bigger. Or if he’d always been this blessed.

Either way, you were the luckiest woman on Earth.

You owned this cock. Like a queen. Like it was a gift he’d given you to worship and keep.

You flicked your eyes up.

Bucky kept his gaze on the road, hyper-aware of their route even now. But you saw the tension in his jaw, the way the streetlights striped over the hard line of his throat when he swallowed.

His shifted his flesh hand on your back.

He was holding you there, palm warm and firm between your shoulder blades, thumb stroking slow, calming circles over your spine like you were the one who needed reassuring. It made you shiver.

The car’s interior was shadowed and private except for those brief sweeps of city glow through the windshield. You felt hidden and exposed all at once.

“Easy, doll,” he rumbled, voice low and husky but so soft. “Take your time.”

You let out a breathless, shaky laugh, your lips hovering inches from his cock.

“Don’t tell me that unless you mean it,” you warned, your voice cracking with how badly you wanted him.

His hand squeezed your back, fingers flexing a little like he was fighting to stay gentle.

“I mean it,” he promised, voice firm but warm. “I want you to enjoy it.”

That ruined you.

You bent closer, deliberately slow, letting your lips ghost over the tip in the barest, most teasing kiss. The salty smear of his pre-cum met your tongue when you finally flicked it out to taste him.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, grip tightening reflexively on your back.

“Fuck,” he whimpered.

That sound went straight to your core. You fucking lived for those rare cracks in his control.

You licked him again, circling the head, savoring the heat and weight of him, feeling the slight tremor that ran through his thighs. He pulsed in your hold, swelling even harder.

His hand pressed you just a little closer, not forcing but anchoring you to him. His thumb traced slow circles over your spine, soothing in direct contrast to the filthy act you were committing in the front seat of a moving car.

“Good girl,” he murmured so low you barely heard it over the hum of the tires on asphalt.

It burned through you like fire.

You moaned softly against the head of his cock, the vibration making him twitch, before finally opening your mouth wide and taking him in.

He was so fucking thick your lips stretched around him, your jaw ached immediately in that delicious, obscene way you craved.

Bucky let out a strangled groan above you, deep and broken, his fingers digging lightly into your back.

You bobbed your head slowly at first, letting him feel the searing heat of your mouth, your tongue pressing flat along the underside of his shaft as you sucked him in. The wet, sloppy sounds filled the darkened car, mixing with the low, even roar of the engine.

His hips shifted once, restrained—like every part of him screamed to fuck up into your mouth but he wouldn’t let himself.

“Jesus, baby,” he rasped, voice rough as gravel. “Just like that. So fucking perfect.”

You moaned around him, eyes fluttering shut at the praise, your own hips squirming in the seat as slick gathered hot and heavy in your panties.

You let your right hand slide down, wrapping tight around the thick base of his cock, your fingers barely meeting. You stroked him in perfect rhythm with your mouth while your left hand pressed hard into the muscle of his thigh, feeling it tense under your touch.

He was so hot. So alive. So yours.

You needed air. You pulled back with a wet pop, strings of spit stretching between your swollen lips and his glistening cock.

You let your tongue swirl around the tip, gathering more of his salty pre-cum and spreading it with relish.

“God,” you groaned, voice breaking on a whimper. You leaned in to press wet, open-mouthed kisses along his shaft between words. “I missed your thick, fat cock… too fucking much.”

Bucky’s chest rose in a ragged inhale. You saw the way his nostrils flared, eyes tight as he forced himself to keep them on the road.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice cracking. “You’re gonna kill me, doll.”

You moaned at that, licking deliberately slow down his length, tracing every pulsing vein, every ridge, until your mouth reached the base. Your breath was hot and greedy, your mouth glistening as you finally pulled back just enough to see his ruined expression reflected in the side mirror.

“My cock,” you sighed, nearly sobbing with want, before swallowing him whole again in one greedy slide.

Bucky groaned. A low, wrecked sound.

You worked him harder now, your head bobbing faster and wetter, your tongue pressing and flicking under the crown with every stroke. Your hand twisted at the base in perfect rhythm, squeezing tight, milking him.

You felt it when he lost the battle for control. The way his hand on your back shook before squeezing you tighter, pressing you close in silent desperation.

“Baby, fuck,” he gasped, voice going hoarse with strain. “That feels so good. So fucking good.”

You popped off just long enough to pant out a feral little laugh, lips slick and spit-drenched.

“I know,” you breathed, eyes glittering as you licked him from base to tip again, before plunging your mouth back down.

Your pace turned relentless.

Wet, obscene slurps filled the car, the only soundtrack to your sin. His ragged breathing cracked and broke, mixing with the constant rumble of the road beneath you. Your own cunt clenched around nothing, neglected, soaked through, but you didn’t care. You’d make him fall apart for you.

You felt him start to pulse, harder, thicker on your tongue.

His voice hitched, went ragged.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard once we’re back,” he groaned, the threat edged with promise, with desperate need.

You moaned around him, the vibration making him jerk in your mouth.

Your hand at the base squeezed tighter, stroking faster, matching your mouth’s relentless pace.

“Let go for me, baby,” you slurred around his cock, words muffled but clear. You pulled back just enough to meet his blown pupils in the mirror, your lips swollen and wet, your breath coming hard.

“Come for me, Bucky.”

And then you swallowed him whole again, eager and hungry, determined to take everything he gave you.

—

You felt it the moment he lost the last scrap of control.

Bucky shuddered hard, the tremor rolling through his thighs, his hand clenching against your back in a bruising grip as he choked out a guttural moan.

You didn’t slow. Didn’t stop.

His cock twitched once—twice—and then he was coming in your mouth, thick and hot, salty and utterly his.

You swallowed automatically, greedy, taking as much as you could. But there was so much of him, and you’d pushed yourself so deep that some of it leaked from the corners of your mouth, sliding down to your hand still pumping him at the base.

He cursed—low, strangled, wrecked.

“Fuuuck—baby—”

You finally let yourself pull back, gasping a breath as you tried to swallow the last of it, licking your lips shamelessly. You felt it smear on your chin and thumbed at it, giggling a little breathlessly despite how hard your own cunt clenched at the taste.

God. He always tasted good to you. Like an appetizer crafted just for you.

Your eyes flicked up to his face, taking in the sight of your normally stoic, disciplined supersoldier boyfriend looking… ruined.

His cheeks were flushed, eyes half-lidded and glassy from release. A faint sheen of sweat caught the occasional streetlight slashing through the windshield. But to your infinite jealousy, he wasn’t panting or out of breath. His chest rose and fell evenly. Enhanced stamina, you thought with a petty, hungry little growl in your head.

He was already recovering.

You wiped at your mouth with the back of your hand, only smearing a little more of his cum over your thumb before popping it into your mouth, sucking it clean deliberately, knowing he was watching.

Bucky’s jaw flexed hard.

“Fuck, baby,” he finally managed, voice raw and ragged. “That was so good. But…”

He swallowed, voice going lower, darker, more dangerous.

“I need more.”

Your heart skittered at that tone.

You let out a breathless laugh, reaching over him for the small pack of tissues you kept in the door pocket. You flicked one free and carefully wiped the remaining mess off his flushed cock, cleaning him up with an absurdly tender touch. He lifted his hips obediently, giving you access, hissing as the tissue dragged over oversensitized skin.

“Easy,” he breathed.

“Don’t ‘easy’ me,” you teased, voice husky. “You came so much I almost choked.”

That earned a strained chuckle from him, one that ended in a low groan as you tucked him back into his tac pants, carefully zipping him up.

You tossed the used tissue aside and smirked, settling back into your seat, your eyes bright and wicked in the glow of the passing streetlights.

“I know you need more,” you purred. “So let’s get this shit done ASAP.”

You leaned in closer, until your mouth brushed the shell of his ear. Your voice dropped to a filthy whisper, warm and mean and so needy you almost trembled saying it.

“Then you can fuck my wet cunt so hard you break me apart.”

He let out a noise halfway between a laugh and a growl, teeth bared in a grin that was feral and fond all at once.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He didn’t even hesitate.

His right hand—his warm, calloused flesh hand—slid right back to you. You grabbed it, guiding it ruthlessly between your legs, pressing it tight over the seam of your tactical suit.

He could feel the heat. The damp. Even through the heavy-duty fabric, there was no hiding it.

Bucky sucked in a breath, thumb twitching experimentally over you.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, voice cracking with lust. His eyes flicked to you briefly before darting back to the road, like he couldn’t afford the distraction.

But you didn’t miss the way his pupils blew wide.

“See what you do to me?” you teased, grinding just once against his palm before pulling back, breath shaking.

His fingers curled reflexively, wanting to follow, to press harder.

“Oh, I feel it,” he rasped. His tone was low, dark, but the smile tugging at his lips was all Bucky. Soft. Devoted. “I’m going to fuck you relentlessly.”

You shivered at the promise.

He punctuated it with a single, deliberate kiss to your left cheek—a press of warm, slightly chapped lips that felt less like affection and more like sealing a contract.

You felt your heart kick against your ribs, your whole body thrumming with anticipation.

Sex for hours. That was the deal now.

And you’d be damned if you didn’t earn it.

You settled back in your seat, trying to calm your breathing, a determined glint in your eyes.

Your brain was already plotting the mission, calculating shortcuts, prioritizing targets.

For the good of the assignment.

And for the goddamn sex, you thought, biting back a delirious grin.

—

You and Bucky handled the assignment a little too quickly, if you were being honest.

Like the perfect, ruthless duo Valentina trained you to be.

Intels extracted. Servers wiped. Physical evidence torched. The drop point reduced to smoking debris in the darkness after Bucky triggered the silent detonator, both of you already on the move before the muted whump even finished echoing.

No one saw a thing. No cameras left to prove you’d even been there.

You tapped the comm in your ear, eyes scanning the dark street as you headed back to the car.

“Mission complete. Back to HQ,” you reported, voice low and steady.

Valentina’s cool voice crackled back a moment later.

“Copy. Don’t make me regret pairing you two alone.”

You smirked as you shut the comm off with another tap, cutting the line.

Beside you, Bucky did the same, pulling out his own in-ear and tucking it in his pocket. You saw the way his mouth quirked despite himself, even as he scanned the perimeter one last time.

Professional to the end.

But when you finally got back in the car, the doors shutting with dull thuds in the night, it was like all that icy discipline melted in an instant.

You tugged your tactical gloves off and dropped them on the dash with a clatter. The car reeked faintly of gun oil, burnt electronics… and sex.

You didn’t even try to be subtle about inhaling.

You glanced at Bucky as he started the engine, headlights cutting through the dark. Streetlights flicked past in rhythmic sweeps, carving his face into alternating slices of shadow and gold.

His lips were still a little swollen. You felt your own throb in sympathy.

He caught you staring. Didn’t say a word. Just smirked—slow, knowing.

That smirk widened when he reached across the center console and took your left hand in his, squeezing your fingers.

But he didn’t keep it there.

Instead, he let go and dragged his big, calloused palm right to your lap, pressing between your thighs.

You whimpered.

His fingers grazed the seam of your tac pants, right over your cunt, even through the thick material sending a sharp jolt of heat straight up your spine.

You gasped, pressing back against the seat, hand grabbing his wrist to either stop him or guide him—you couldn’t tell which.

“Still damp,” he said, voice low, cracked with hunger.

You swallowed hard.

“From sweat,” you tried to lie, your tone cracking in embarrassment, knowing full well he could practically smell you.

He huffed out a disbelieving laugh, deep and rough.

“Nah,” he said, voice going even lower, his grin turning feral as streetlights washed his face in amber. “Smelled too fucking sweet for sweat.”

You shuddered at that, your thighs instinctively pressing together around his hand.

Bucky’s fingers moved. He pressed more firmly, dragging slow, heavy lines along the seam of your tac pants, forcing a muffled moan from you.

You squirmed in your seat. The thick, tight fabric was torture. Too much and not enough.

You let out a frustrated sound and reached for the fly of your pants with shaking fingers, unzipping them with a harsh zzzzp.

Bucky’s eyes cut to you once, quickly, heat banked in his stare, before flicking back to the road.

“Good girl,” he murmured, voice almost lost under the hum of tires on asphalt.

You wiggled your hips in the seat, shoving the tac pants down just enough to free your cunt—still covered by the thinnest pair of dark stretch shorts you wore underneath.

They were drenched.

The proof was in the way the fabric clung wetly to you, your slick staining it in a dark patch that even the dim streetlights couldn’t hide.

Bucky let out a harsh breath at the sight, his hand immediately dropping to press right against it.

He grunted, fingers flexing hard.

“Jesus,” he rasped. “So fucking wet for me?”

Your moan was half-words, half-desperation.

“Always,” you managed, your voice wrecked.

You didn’t even try to be coy. Your own fingers closed around his wrist, dragging his hand tighter to you. You ground shamelessly against his palm, feeling the heat of him even through the thin damp shorts.

You hissed at the friction, head falling back against the seat, eyes fluttering closed.

He didn’t move away. Didn’t tease. He let you use him, fingers pressing in harder, tracing the soaked line of your folds through the fabric with slow, deliberate pressure.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice going even rougher, ruined with affection and lust all at once. “So needy you’re fucking yourself on my hand in the front seat.”

You let out a strangled sound that might have been his name.

His thumb found your clit through the damp cloth and pressed just firmly enough to make your hips jerk.

You bit your lip to stifle the whine that threatened to escape.

He chuckled darkly, that sound so deep it rattled you.

“Better hope no one’s watching,” he teased, glancing at you sidelong, eyes glittering with heat and mischief as the streetlights cut over his features.

Your breath hitched, heart hammering.

You smirked through the haze of lust, voice shaking but defiant.

“Drive faster, Sarge,” you managed. “Or I’ll make myself come before you even get me home.”

Bucky’s grin turned savage at that.

“Oh sweetheart,” he crooned, voice so low it felt like velvet dragging over your skin. He pressed even harder, thumb circling your clit, slow and merciless. “You’re not coming without me. That’s a promise.”

Your answering moan was wanton and helpless, your fingers still gripping his wrist as you rutted against his hand.

And Bucky just smiled, turning back to the road, driving into the night with one hand on the wheel—while the other stayed buried between your legs, making sure you remembered exactly who you belonged to.

—

Bucky didn’t finger you.

No matter how badly you whined. No matter how your voice cracked, wrecked and breathless, your hips rolling up shamelessly into his touch.

He just kept his fingers right there over your soaked shorts, teasing the seam of your folds through the wet fabric but never pushing inside.

“Please, baby,” you panted, your voice a broken plea. You grabbed his wrist tighter, forcing his fingers to press harder until you felt them sink into the dip of your folds—even through the thin, soaked barrier of your shorts. Your clit throbbed at the friction. “Fuck—please, finger me.”

He huffed out a breath that was half a laugh, half a strained groan.

“No,” he said, voice so low it felt like it vibrated straight through you.

You let out a desperate little whine.

He glanced at you sidelong, jaw tight, eyes flashing as another passing streetlight cut across his face.

“Not here,” he growled. The words were soft, but they snapped like a command. “I’m not giving you that in the damn car.”

Your nails bit into his wrist.

“Bucky—”

He exhaled sharply, his hand flexing against you just once before he dragged his palm away.

“I said no,” he repeated, this time softer, more patient, the dominant control edged with fondness. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard once we’re home. That’s it. That’s the deal.”

You grunted in frustration, biting back a curse as your hips bucked one last time. You could feel the slick mess you’d made in your shorts, heat and wetness smearing against his palm before he pulled away completely.

You shivered, angry at the loss.

But you didn’t want to risk making him change his mind.

With a ragged groan, you finally reached down, yanking your tactical pants back up. You wriggled your hips in the seat to get them over your ass, cursing quietly as the wet fabric clung to your folds in the worst way. You fumbled with the zipper, finally sealing yourself back up—like it made any difference now.

Your pussy ached.

Bucky didn’t help, either. He just gave you this smug little sideways look, his lips curling at the edges in a knowing grin.

But his eyes were dark.

Hungry.

You swallowed and shifted again in your seat, trying to get comfortable even as you stayed pressed close enough to grip his hand. You clung to it, even after zipping up. Even after you’d shoved down the raw want just enough to stop begging.

He squeezed your fingers.

Hard.

Reassuring. Possessive.

The rest of the drive back to the Watchtower was torture.

Because you didn’t stop.

Neither of you did.

You whispered every filthy promise you could think of, voice ragged with need. You told him exactly what you wanted—what you needed from him the moment you got through that door.

How you wanted him to shove you against the wall.

How you wanted his cock so deep you could barely breathe.

How you needed to taste yourself on him as he fucked your mouth raw.

How you’d been thinking about him all week, even on missions, touching yourself in the shower and whining his name.

Bucky listened. He didn’t shut you up.

He just smiled.

That little wolfish grin breaking out whenever your words got especially dirty. His jaw flexed tight when you moaned out your filthiest demands.

And all he did was grunt, voice rough, promising you over and over:

“Yeah?”

“You want all that?”

“You’re gonna get everything, sweetheart.”

He leaned heavy on everything, each time making your stomach swoop, your pussy clench.

“Everything you want. Once we’re home.”

You could barely sit still. The seatbelt felt like a restraint you wanted to tear off.

Your fingers stayed knotted together, his thumb dragging slow circles over your knuckles, deceptively gentle.

—

By the time you pulled into the Watchtower’s garage, you were shaking.

Bucky parked in the same precise, methodical way he did everything, even though you could see the tension in his arms, the white-knuckled grip on the wheel.

When you finally stepped out, your legs felt like jelly.

But you forced yourself to walk normally beside him through the darkened hallways, past the security doors.

The elevator ride up was somehow worse.

Your body screamed to press against him. To climb into his lap and grind down until you soaked his pants.

You wanted to maul him. Bite his bottom lip. Kiss him sloppy and breathless.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Valentina had cameras in all the common areas.

You felt her ghost in the walls even now. Watching. Judging.

So you stood there beside Bucky, trying to look normal. Professional.

Except your thighs kept pressing together in helpless, instinctive pulses. Your breath was too fast. Your face too hot.

Bucky noticed. Of course he did.

He let out a single, low chuckle that rumbled in his chest.

He gripped your hand tighter, fingers interlacing with yours so firmly you couldn’t pull away.

“Behave,” he murmured, voice so soft no one else could hear.

You shivered.

But you didn’t dare meet his eyes.

If you did, you’d lose it.

You didn’t know he was struggling too.

That behind that cool, battle-hardened expression, he was undone.

That all he wanted was to drag you back into that car, crawl over the center console, and fuck you right there until you couldn’t walk.

But he didn’t.

Because you both knew the rules.

For now.

But the moment that elevator door opened?

All bets were off.

—

As soon as the door banged shut behind you, Bucky didn’t waste a second.

He spun you around and pinned you hard against the door, his metal arm braced beside your head to cage you in. His right hand flicked the light switch on in one smooth motion, flooding the room with warm brightness before it immediately dropped to curl tight around your waist, holding you in place.

You didn’t even have a second to register the room before his mouth crashed into yours.

It was sloppy, messy, starved—all teeth and tongue and wet, hungry sounds. Your lips smashed together so hard it hurt, but you moaned anyway, clawing at the thick fabric of his jacket to pull him even closer.

He sucked your bottom lip into his mouth and bit it, just hard enough to make you gasp.

But then—just when you thought you’d drown in the filth of it—he gentled.

His lips softened against yours, his tongue slowing, licking lazily into your mouth like he was savoring you. Like he couldn’t get enough.

Your whole body trembled.

You felt his crotch grow against you—no other word for it. His cock hardened rapidly in his pants, thick and pressing into your stomach through both your suits. You couldn’t help it—you rolled your hips against him, needing anything, groaning at the friction even though the layers between you made it frustratingly dull.

“Fuck,” you panted, breaking the kiss for air, your head thudding back against the door.

Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you.

His pupils were blown wide, nearly eclipsing those blue eyes. His mouth was wet and red from your kisses, stubble scratching deliciously along your jaw.

He licked his lips once.

“You asked for this, baby,” he growled, voice low, gravelly, dangerous but so fucking tender underneath. His lips curled into a knowing, vicious little smile. “No backing out. I’m gonna fuck you so hard you forget your own name.”

Your breath hitched.

“Please,” you whispered, completely wrecked already.

That did it.

He grabbed you under your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing.

You immediately hooked your legs around his waist, ankles locking behind him, grinding your soaked pussy shamelessly against the hard ridge in his pants. He groaned, fingers digging into the meat of your ass to hold you up as he turned and carried you toward the bathroom.

You didn’t stop kissing.

You attacked his mouth over and over, teeth clacking, tongues tangling, panting breath filling the narrow hallway. Every time you rolled your hips into him, you felt him jerk slightly, his cock pressing harder into you.

“Fuck—so needy,” he growled, breathless this time.

“Yours,” you gasped. “I’m yours, Bucky. Always.”

That made him snarl low in his throat, and he crushed you harder to his chest as he kicked open the bathroom door.

He set you down only long enough to rip at your clothes.

Your fingers were shaking so hard you fumbled the zipper on your tactical suit. Bucky didn’t wait. He grabbed it, yanking it down so fast the teeth nearly split.

“Off,” he ordered, voice so low you felt it in your cunt.

You obeyed, peeling it away, your soaked shorts practically peeling off your sticky folds with a wet noise that made you whimper in embarrassment. The cold bathroom air hit your soaked pussy and you hissed, thighs instinctively pressing together.

But Bucky was already shrugging out of his jacket, tossing it aside. You helped him with the rest, fingers frantic as you unbuckled his belt, shoved his pants down.

His cock sprang free, fat and flushed and so fucking hard it slapped against his lower belly. You both paused for half a heartbeat just to look.

It twitched.

You moaned, biting your lip, fingers already reaching for it before he caught your wrists.

“Shower,” he ordered.

You whimpered.

He didn’t let you protest.

He hoisted you up again, your legs wrapping automatically around him, and reached behind you to flick the shower on.

Warm water blasted from above immediately, steaming the room. It hit your back first, making you gasp, then sluiced over Bucky’s broad shoulders and the hard planes of his chest. His hair slicked back against his head, water streaming down his stubbled jaw.

He pressed you against the tile, shifting you slightly higher on the wall, your slick folds lining up perfectly with his length.

You couldn’t help it—you shifted your hips, dragging your soaked, desperate pussy along his thick shaft, smearing your slick all over him even as the shower rained down.

You both moaned, loud, unfiltered.

“Fuck—baby—” he panted, voice going wrecked.

You felt him adjust, one hand bracing you under your ass, the other reaching between you to grip his cock, lining it up.

You barely had time to suck in a breath.

He shoved in.

You screamed.

Your head thunked back against the tile, eyes rolling as his fat cock split you open, inch after inch pressing impossibly deep until he bottomed out.

“Fuuuuck,” you sobbed, nails raking his shoulders.

“Yeah?” he growled, breath ragged against your ear. “That what you wanted?”

“Y-Yes—fuck—Bucky—”

He pulled back and slammed in again, the wet, filthy slap of your bodies colliding echoing off the tile walls.

He fucked you relentlessly.

He set a brutal pace, hips snapping forward with hard, wet slaps, your breasts bouncing wildly between you. Water splashed off both your bodies, steam billowing around you.

Your nipples grazed his chest, slick and swollen. Once, they smacked against his face as you jolted in his hold, and he groaned—open-mouthed and hungry—before burying his face between them.

He sucked a nipple into his mouth hard enough to make you wail, his teeth scraping, his tongue swirling messily.

Your moans turned into raw, broken sobs of his name.

“Bucky—Bucky please—fuck—so deep—”

He snarled, mouth muffled against your tits.

“Mine,” he growled, words wet, hot breath burning your skin. “All fucking mine.”

Your cunt spasmed around him, milking him as you clenched so hard you almost forced him out.

He held you pinned to the wall with sheer strength, thrusting deeper, harder, until your vision went white.

You screamed for him, voice cracking, nails digging so hard you drew blood from his shoulders.

He let out a strangled groan against your chest, his thrusts turning erratic.

Then he froze.

Burying himself as deep as he could, cock pulsing hard as he came inside you, heat flooding your core.

You felt every twitch, every thick spurt filling you, even as the shower water washed over you both.

You moaned for it. Wanted it. Loved it.

You clung to him, legs still locked tight, until you both finally sagged.

He held you there, breathing hard against your collarbone, his cock still buried inside you, softening slowly as your walls milked out every last drop.

When your legs finally gave out completely, he eased you down gently, arms wrapped around you to keep you steady.

You both wobbled under the spray.

He tucked a wet strand of hair behind your ear with shaking fingers, pressing his forehead to yours.

“You okay?” he rasped.

You nodded weakly, still shivering with aftershocks.

“Fuck—yeah,” you whispered. “More than okay.”

He smiled. Soft. Gentle.

“Good.”

He helped you finish showering after that, washing you carefully, checking you for any bruises he’d left. You washed him too, fingers tender as they traced over the strong lines of his chest, the scars you both knew by heart.

Finally you both stepped out, skin pink and steaming, drying off just enough to wrap yourselves in thick, fluffy bathrobes.

You were both still flushed, still breathing too hard, still so far from finished.

But that was for the bedroom.

And as he toweled off his hair, watching you with those blown, heated eyes, you both knew you were about to ruin the bed next.

—

You didn’t bother pretending anymore.

He dropped the towel, letting it fall to the floor in a heavy, wet heap. Bucky’s gaze tracked every inch of you, unapologetic, hungry.

Your bathrobe followed with a flick of your wrist, sliding off your shoulders like it offended you. His fell away too, careless, pooling at his feet.

And you both lunged at each other.

Mouths smashed together in another sloppy, wet kiss—needy, uncoordinated, breathless. His hands roamed your body without hesitation, palms hot, fingers digging in to leave bruises.

Your own hands scraped through his damp hair, tugging him closer until your teeth clicked.

He growled low against your mouth, nipping at your lip before sucking it into his own, tongue tracing the sting he left behind.

Your bare, slick bodies pressed together, chest to chest, skin sliding wetly. His cock, still soft from the aftershower, twitched between you, thickening almost instantly from the friction of your bellies rubbing together.

You moaned at the sensation of it hardening right there, growing against your stomach, the heat of him unmistakable.

You fumbled backwards, lips parting just enough to pant for breath before you fell back onto the bed with a bounce.

You lay there, hair splayed on the sheets, chest heaving, legs instinctively parting wide in invitation.

Your eyes locked on him.

He stopped, looming at the foot of the bed, gaze dropping to your glistening cunt.

His pupils were blown wide, nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath.

“Fuck, doll…” he rasped.

His right hand, flesh and warm, wrapped around his own cock. He stroked it slowly, deliberately. The head already leaking, pre-cum beading before smearing over his thumb.

You watched, moaning at the sight, your own walls clenching in empty need.

“Bucky,” you whimpered.

That got his attention.

He climbed onto the bed, bracing himself over you, his cock dragging against your belly as he lowered his mouth to yours again.

You kissed hungrily, teeth clacking, breath mingling.

Your hand snaked between you, fingers wrapping around his slick length, feeling the heat, the pulse. You stroked him slowly, thumb smearing the wetness over the head.

He groaned into your mouth, hips twitching.

“Fuck—baby—”

You broke the kiss with a gasp.

“Please… finger me,” you begged, voice cracking with desperation. “I need it so bad.”

He stilled for just a second, eyes searching yours, face tightening with lust and affection all at once.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I got you.”

He shifted, bracing himself better. He knelt between your parted thighs, feet anchored into the mattress for leverage. His flesh hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the taut peak while he supported himself on his elbow.

The metal hand slid down your belly, cool and hard and precise, making your muscles twitch.

You whimpered, hips rolling up to meet him.

He paused, watching you squirm.

“Spread,” he ordered softly.

You obeyed instantly, thighs falling wider apart.

He hummed his approval and pressed one cold vibranium finger to your slick folds, sliding it through the mess you’d already made.

You moaned, head falling back, eyes rolling.

He traced your entrance before pressing in slowly, one thick finger stretching you open, the temperature contrast making you gasp.

You clenched around it reflexively.

“That’s it,” he crooned. “Open up for me.”

You keened as he started pumping slowly, his metal thumb rubbing teasing circles around your clit.

“More,��� you whimpered. “Please, more.”

He rewarded you immediately, sliding in another finger.

You cried out, walls fluttering around the intrusion, slick dripping onto his hand.

Bucky bit his lip watching you, the cords of his neck standing out with restraint.

“You look so fucking good like this,” he muttered.

You could barely answer, only managing a desperate moan.

He kept going, pumping those two thick metal fingers in and out, dragging them along your walls, feeling you squeeze down on him. His flesh hand squeezed your breast firmly, thumb and forefinger pinching your nipple hard enough to make you jerk.

“Bucky—fuck!”

“Such a good girl,” he praised, voice cracked with hunger. “Taking my fingers so well.”

You could hear the wet, obscene sounds of your cunt being fucked on his fingers.

You grabbed at his ass, nails digging in, pulling him closer.

He chuckled, low and mean.

“You want more?”

“Please,” you sobbed.

He rewarded you with a third finger.

You wailed, back arching off the bed as he stretched you wide.

“Fuck, fuck—baby—it’s so full—”

He curled his fingers deliberately, finding that spot inside you that made your vision shatter.

Your body locked up, breath stuttering.

He didn’t let up.

He kept thrusting, harder, faster, the cold metal unrelenting.

Your moans turned to screams, nails dragging red lines down his ass.

He dropped his head and took your other nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, teeth grazing before soothing it with his tongue.

Your entire body convulsed, muscles seizing as pleasure detonated.

He felt it, the way you clenched and spasmed around his fingers, and curled them even harder.

“Come on, baby,” he growled against your breast. “Come for me.”

You did.

You came so hard you saw stars, your pussy squirting wetly around his fingers, slick splashing onto the sheets in messy, humiliating waves.

He kept working you through it, thumb circling your clit, mouth latched onto your breast like he couldn’t get enough.

Your cries broke into choked sobs of his name.

“Bucky—baby—please—”

He finally slowed his thrusts, your cunt still spasming weakly around his fingers, making obscene wet sounds that filled the room.

You felt your walls clench one last time before going slack.

He drew his metal fingers out of you deliberately, slowly, letting you feel every ridge and bump as they dragged from your soaked, oversensitive entrance.

They left with a wet, filthy squelch that made your face burn with embarrassment. Strings of slick clung between his fingers and your pussy, stretching and breaking, leaving messy strands smeared across your inner thighs.

You shuddered helplessly.

Bucky's eyes never left yours.

He lifted his metal hand, studying the mess you’d made of him with hungry, approving eyes. Then he brought those slick-coated fingers to his mouth.

He licked them clean slowly, tongue dragging over the metal with practiced precision, making sure you saw every movement.

You whimpered at the sight, body twitching weakly on the sheets.

He smiled around his fingers, pulling them free with a soft pop.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he rasped, voice thick and ruined with pride and lust.

You swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from how overwhelming it all felt.

You nodded shakily.

“Yeah,” you breathed out, voice cracking.

That earned you a low, satisfied rumble from his chest.

He shifted his weight on the bed, knees sinking deeper into the mattress between your spread thighs as he leaned over you. His warm, flesh hand braced beside your head, metal arm planting firmly next to your hip to cage you in.

Then he bent down and kissed you.

It was slow. Tender. A total contrast to how he’d just wrecked you.

His lips moved gently over yours, patient and grounding, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You whimpered again, your hands fluttering up weakly to clutch at his damp hair, nails scraping lightly along his scalp.

He hummed against your mouth, nuzzling you with the tip of his nose, pressing sweet little kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your jaw.

But even as he comforted you, you felt it.

His cock.

Hard as granite. Pressed hot and heavy against your thigh. Twitching every time you squirmed, smearing his pre-cum onto your skin.

He wasn’t even pretending to hide it.

And you both knew—

He wasn’t even close to done with you yet.

—

You were still shaking.

Your whole body felt boneless, oversensitive. But the ache between your thighs wouldn’t quit. Even as the aftershocks made your cunt twitch and flutter, you felt yourself need again.

Bucky noticed immediately.

His thumb brushed your lip, swollen from his kisses, and you sucked it automatically.

Your hips squirmed, legs twitching open.

He watched your expression melt into need.

“Oh, you’re not done,” he rumbled softly, smiling darkly.

Your answer was a half-sobbed whine.

“I need more.”

He chuckled, deep and knowing.

“I’ll wreck you, baby.”

You let out a broken laugh, grabbing at his shoulders for leverage.

With all the strength you had left, you shifted, shoving him back against the bed. He let you, grinning, his big frame relaxing against the pillows with his arms spread wide in invitation.

You climbed over him on trembling thighs, straddling his chest for a moment. He grabbed your hips immediately, fingers digging in to hold you steady.

You kept going, shifting your weight until your dripping pussy hovered directly over his face.

He groaned the second you lined yourself up.

“Fuck,” he whispered, eyes blown wide as he stared up at your glistening folds. “Look at you.”

You didn’t wait. You sank down onto his mouth.

Bucky growled so deeply it vibrated right through your cunt.

You gasped, hands flying to the headboard for support as he immediately got to work.

His tongue was expert, sliding through your folds, flicking your swollen clit with practiced precision. The hot, wet strokes made your thighs clamp around his head.

He loved that, humming deep in his chest so the vibration traveled straight into you.

He slurped noisily, unbothered by the mess, his mouth smearing your slick everywhere. He devoured you like a man starved, dragging his tongue through the spill from your last orgasm, licking you clean only to make you messier.

You moaned, half-choked, rolling your hips desperately over his face.

“Baby—fuck—Bucky—”

He pulled you down harder, metal hand bracing one thigh while his flesh hand gripped the other, keeping you wide open for him.

Then he changed tactics—his tongue pushed inside you.

You nearly screamed.

He tongue-fucked you hard, messy, deep, alternating with dragging licks up to your clit before plunging back inside. Your hands scrabbled at the headboard, trying to get away and get closer all at once.

He didn’t let you move.

He moaned into your pussy, filthy and approving, eyes fluttering shut as if savoring you.

“Fuck—please—I’m gonna—Bucky—”

You couldn’t finish.

You broke apart on his tongue, cumming with a raw wail, grinding desperately against his mouth as your juices spilled.

He didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, swallowing everything you gave him, the obscene wet sounds echoing in the room until you were practically sobbing above him.

When you finally slumped forward, twitching and wrecked, he only gave you a second.

His arms tightened, lifting you like you weighed nothing.

You whimpered as he dragged you lower, lining you up with his cock, so hard it slapped wetly against your thigh.

He didn’t tease.

He shoved in.

You both moaned—his a guttural, broken sound, yours a strangled cry.

You barely had time to adjust before he was fucking up into you from below.

Your body jolted with every savage thrust. You tried to ride, but your thighs trembled uselessly.

Bucky noticed, smiling through gritted teeth.

“Too fucked out to move, baby?”

You mewled, half-sobbing.

He slowed, stopped.

But only to shift.

He sat up, his hands bracing under your ass, lifting you until only the tip remained inside.

“Hold on,” he ordered.

You barely had time to obey before he slammed you back down onto his cock.

You screamed, walls clenching violently around him.

He lifted you again, set the pace himself. Up. Down. Faster. Harder. Using his strength to fuck you on his cock.

Your breasts bounced, slapping his chest and face. He buried his face between them, biting and sucking, leaving raw marks that made you keen.

“Mine,” he growled, voice muffled. “All fucking mine.”

You nodded frantically, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

“Yes—Bucky—yours—fuck—”

He panted, hips slamming up to meet you, cock driving so deep you swore you could feel it in your throat.

Your own movements grew sloppy. You tried to ride him back, changing the rhythm—slamming down, grinding in circles that made you both curse, then bouncing again.

Your cunt squelched wetly, obscene, soaking his cock and thighs.

You felt him twitch inside you, cock pulsing.

He stopped again only to reposition.

He lifted you, arms flexing hard, standing up from the bed in one smooth motion.

You clung to him, arms around his neck, legs around his waist.

He walked you to the nearest wall and slammed you against it.

You gasped, head falling back.

“Bucky—please—”

He didn’t answer with words.

He fucked up into you, pinning you to the wall with raw, bruising thrusts.

Your back scraped the wall lightly with every slam. His cock pistoned in and out with wet slaps that filled the room.

You were crying out openly now, voice wrecked.

“Bucky—Jesus fuck—please—fuck—so deep—”

“Yeah?” he growled, teeth bared in a savage grin. “That’s what you want? You want me to breed you? Fill you up?”

You sobbed.

“Yes—please—fill me—want it—want you to come in me—”

That broke him.

He rammed in hard, deep, so deep you saw stars.

Your orgasm ripped through you violently, making you scream his name over and over.

He groaned, voice cracking as he spilled inside you, cock jerking, flooding you with thick, hot spurts of cum.

He held you pinned there, buried to the hilt, making sure you took every last drop.

You shook in his arms, twitching, boneless.

He stayed like that, breathing hard against your neck, his cock still sheathed inside your spasming cunt.

He kissed your temple, breath shaky.

“Good girl,” he rasped. “My good fucking girl. Took all of it.”

You whimpered, pressing your forehead to his.

His hands caressed you slowly, thumb stroking your thigh where it was wrapped around him.

He didn’t rush to pull out.

He just stayed buried in you, letting you both come down, letting your cunt milk him for every last bit of heat he’d given you.

And when he finally carried you back to bed, lowering you onto the sheets, his cum still leaking from you, he kissed you tenderly.

Like you were the only thing in the world.

—

Your body was limp, boneless. You felt the wet smear of him between your thighs, hot and sticky on the sheets, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care.

Your lids felt impossibly heavy. You tried to fight it, blinking slow and sluggish.

“Mmh… Bucky, I’m—s’fucked up,” you mumbled, voice thick and slurred, the words tumbling clumsy and broken from your slack lips.

Your eyes only opened halfway before fluttering shut again.

Bucky let out a soft, breathless chuckle.

“Yeah, baby,” he rasped, voice hoarse but warm with amusement. “You are. Did say I was gonna fuck you so hard.”

You made a small, helpless noise of protest, shifting weakly on the sheets but barely moving.

He pressed one last kiss to your temple before pulling away carefully.

“Hold on,” he murmured.

You heard him pad to the bathroom, the water running briefly. He wet a face cloth just enough to make it damp and warm, squeezing it once before turning off the tap.

He came back to you immediately, dropping to one knee at the edge of the bed, eyes soft but focused.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he soothed.

He parted your thighs gently with one big hand, the other carefully wiping you clean.

You whimpered faintly at the contact, twitching once from oversensitivity, but you didn’t fight him.

“Shh,” he hushed you. “I know. Just cleaning you up.”

He was thorough but gentle, wiping away the messy streaks of his cum still dripping from your swollen, used cunt. He made sure you were as comfortable as he could make you, murmuring little reassurances under his breath.

Your breathing evened out, eyelids fluttering but too heavy to keep open.

“Mmh… i—sleep… you…” you tried again, the words falling apart, unintelligible.

But Bucky understood.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I know, baby. Sleep.”

He tossed the dirty cloth aside onto the floor without caring, then crawled fully onto the bed beside you.

He settled on his back first, then turned onto his side to face you. His metal arm slid carefully under your neck like a pillow, the cool vibranium pressed against your flushed, overheated skin. His flesh arm curled around your waist, dragging you gently but firmly into his chest.

You melted instantly.

Your head rested on his shoulder, nose pressed to his throat, inhaling the raw, spent scent of sweat, sex, and his skin.

He pressed a lingering kiss to your hairline, nose buried in your damp hair.

His fingers found your hair at the back of your head and began to play with it slowly, combing through the strands to soothe you.

Your breathing slowed even more, going soft and steady.

He felt you go heavy in his arms.

“Good girl,” he whispered so quietly it was almost for himself.

Your lips parted, a final sleepy huff of breath warming his skin, and you went fully limp, finally out.

Bucky smiled.

He let his eyes drift shut, fingers still tangled in your hair, body wrapped around yours like a shield.

He could feel the faint wetness still smearing between your thighs, his cum still inside you.

The thought made something possessive and hungry coil in his gut, even through the exhaustion.

He sighed, pressing another kiss to your forehead.

Tomorrow.

There would be tomorrow.

Rounds. Plural.

He fell asleep knowing full well he was going to fuck you stupid all over again come morning.

[michellesneptune]

How do you engage in friendships according to Moon?

Fire Moons (Aries, Leo, Sagittarius)

As a fire Moon of course it makes sense that you seek thrill and spark in your friendships! There’s nothing better for you than a shared sense of adventure with people you love. You cannot sit still and will go to great lengths to come up with a purpose, a plan, a scheme — whatever it may be, just to experience it with friends. The journey is the destination. You’ll do things just because, as they gain importance out of the sheer fact that you live through them together. You can’t stand it when your friends prefer to stay home and do nothing (as an earth Moon, that is my idea of fun, sorry guys😭).

Extraordinary experiences and photo album worthy moments are what ties you together and are the source of the feeling of belonging. You love fast-paced hangouts that create memories. When any obstacle comes up, you have the ability to transform it into something that only strengthens the bond — you’re not afraid of challenges as you’re aware that they’re just as important in maintaining a friendship as easy moments and shared laughter are.

Aries Moons=the ultimate challengers!! Whether they’ll challenge you to eat a bug or run a marathon, you’ll find yourself doing things you never thought you would — just to prove something to your Aries Moon friend. Overcoming your fears is a given with them.

Leo Moons, I’ve noticed, often play the role of the glue that keeps a friend group together. They’ll demand of you to come to their party and make sure that the trip does make it out of the group chat. In this day and age I appreciate you guys so much, it’s harder and harder to find someone as dedicated to keep the bong alive🥹 You guys make amazing, trustworthy leaders like that.

Staying devoted to a Sagittarius Moon=staying devoted to solving life’s most perplexing mysteries. Do you believe in aliens? Is time real? If you want to talk about quantum physics — they’re your man. Fancy conversation topics aren’t elitist and boring, they’re fascinating.

Earth Moons (Taurus, Virgo, Capricorn)

One thing about earth Moons is that they are yappers😭. Just not in the intellectual academic philosophical way that air Moons are. They will bring up the same story over and over again, especially if it involves a heartbreak.

Food, talking and the perspective of having no other obligation — that is what heaven looks like for you guys. You tend to be all about the physical so getting cosy and comfortable, on a couch, with a glass of good wine is almost crucial in order to get real with them besties. People would say that Cap Moons are workaholic, Virgo — neurotic in their perfectionism, and Taurus — too focused on money. But the fact is that they really do open up, are talkative, and looove juicy gossip, but with a certain dose of level-headedness and planning.

You are very loyal (who would've thought), but your silent input and help often goes unnoticed and unapreciated. Providing your friends with whatever they need while in trouble is just obvious to the bone for you. I feel like you guys need to learn that it's 100% okay to leave a friendship which does not serve you. But trust me, I do get it. It's painfully hard to acknowledge that someone you loved and trusted may actually not have your best interest.

Taurus Moons=the best party hosts EVER. They're generous like no other and their hospitality actually comes from a very honest place. They do not mind cooking pasta for twelve people or sharing their couch with you. However, it is obligatory to get into their good graces first!!

Virgo Moons=the therapist. If they really value you, they will pay deepest attention to your problems, then carefully analyzing the best solution. They often have the intellect to understand your psyche and thought process really well, ergo you'll feel understood like never before.

Capricorn Moons=the moms. Y’all are so caring because you deeply believe that friendships are for life. I’ve also noticed that you like to do business with your friends and get rich together lol. You take them seriously, for you friendship=respect.

Air Moons (Gemini, Libra, Aquarius)

Each day that passes, my Air Moon friend bombards my phone with text message notifiactions. And it makes me feel so loved. Those are often the most random stories from his work but words cannot express enough how honored I feel that he chooses to text me every single day. Like I feel almost intimidated and awkward sometimes, you know?

You guys cannot ever be out-debated on literally any topic under the Sun. You're also extremely observant and like to discuss everything later with your friends. There is a level of detachment here, so it almost reminds me of a meta-language hahah. You talk about something seemingly miniscule, but the message here is I'm connecting with you because you can access my brain and match my intellect. You like to play make-believe with your friends — your imaginations contain multiple realities. Why settle for a single one then?

Gemini Moons are airy+mercurial which makes for a diabolically intelligent combo. Also, as Moon is our core, our emotions and safe space, when it is touched by Gemini energy, friendships tend to play a big role in the native's life. You’ve probably lived through at least one truly life-changing friendship. Also, a platonic friend could turn out to be a soulmate.

Libra Moons almost always deliver with great gossip about their love life fr. Like where do you guys finds these men. As I've stated in me previous post — I consider Libras intellectual and erudite. They're the best companion to take to a theater for Master and Margarita or to a Chopin concert. They’re also least likely to get mad at you for ghosting them lol.

People with Aquarius energy over their moon, please tell me bizzarre and beautiful stories from your childhood. Things you speak about sound almost like fairy tales to me. Could listen for hours.

Water Moons (Cancer, Scorpio, Pisces)

Water Moons remain the biggest mystery to me. Like they can be anyone and anything. Your friend groups are usually kind of obscure and hidden, containing of people seemingly having nothing in common with each other. Reminds me of an enigmatic, good-looking clique in school that everyone is dying to know more about.

You remain emotionally devoted, even after the friendship has formally ended. You take your ex-friends' deepest, darkest secrets and store deep in your heart. They're probably scared of bumping into you even years later. Also maybe haunted with the feeling of regret

What strikes me most about you is how understanding you are. Most people tend to say things like you can tell me anything. However often, they don’t really mean it. Anything is a difficult promise which you, on the contrary, are willing to actually keep. This makes me feel so safe with you guys🥺. You understand what’s actually important in relationships and would never compromise that. People without Water inner placements in their chart just don’t possess that special watery sensitivity.

Cancer Moons are like a bandage, a remedy to emotional wounds. Many of them become psychotherapists because their knowledge and expertise in human feelings is worthy of an actual professional.

Scorpio Moons are tricky because it’s highly probable that they’ve hidden their real selves so so deep inside that they cannot express a secret to their friends even if their lives depended on it. Nonetheless, I think it’s still worth it to try and open up those scorpions🥺

Pisces Moons are hopeless romantics!! Even in a platonic sense, they be waiting for that perfect friendship straight from Anne of Green Gables. They’re very sacrificing and will treat you like the apple of their eye🍎

It’s summertime again and she’s back <33 thank you guys for reading! 🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Yours forever,

Michelle~

[maruflix]

DO MONSTERS DREAM OF ETERNAL LOVE?

People call him a tyrant, a monster — but Sukuna Ryōmen, in all his monstrous glory, knows how to cherish — and to hate him, while being the target of his affection, is no easy feat.

feat. heian era!sukuna ryōmen　　⎯⎯　wc. 2.8k

cw. female reader, reader is a jujutsu sorcerer, incorrect jjk lore, heian era sukuna, soft sukuna, ooc (this is very self indulgent), cussing, mentions of blood and violence, kissing, smut at the end, unprotected sex, creampie, sukuna has two ...... , no beta we die like my hopes and dreams after reading how jjk ends

note. feeling kinda down lately so i wrote this for myself (mostly) + all soft!sukuna lovers out there ♡

The hum of your power thrums in the air. Or maybe, it was the sound of your own heartbeat.

With fists balled up hard enough to draw blood, you stare ahead at your husband’s courtyard — or rather, what was left of it, — as it burns with your magic, the licks of blue pyre dancing in the night sky. To the far right, a group of maidservants are huddled together, shivering in fear.

Was this enough to rouse his rage?

Without having to turn your head, you know that Sukuna is standing behind you. You can feel it in the way the air shifts, struggling to hold the weight of his jujutsu. Even with him just standing there, the ground seems to tremor in reverence.

“When will this cease?”

You hate how the sound of his voice still makes you freeze. Yet, even as you tremble, you stood with your head held high. Death no longer scares you — if any, it was release.

‘Just do it,’ you thought over and over again, repeating it like a mantra, ‘just kill me already.’

There was a rustle, then a hand on your shoulder. For a moment, you wondered if Sukuna was finally going to grant you your wish. But in one swift motion, you are pulled back into his waiting embrace.

You gasp as Sukuna’s four arms greedily envelops your small body, bathing you in his scent. His chest rumbles with laughter, like you’re the most amusing thing he’s seen all day.

“If you truly wanted to confound me, perhaps you can try killing the servants,” Sukuna muses, then adds, “though I have no need for them anyway.”

You struggle against his grasp, but Sukuna’s strength far overpowers you. Your frustration brought you to tears, knowing that your efforts were, once again, in vain.

“Kill me.” you hiss, through the blur of your own tears.

When Sukuna leans down to whisper in your ear, his voice is low with teasing, “Don’t feel like it. Try harder, won’t you?”

Your whole body trembles with anger, wanting desperately to strangle him. Should you do it? Even if you didn’t manage to kill him, would he finally snap and kill you? Should you? Your hands shiver in anticipation. He is so close, you can almost reach for his neck.

Your killing intent must’ve been so potent that one of Sukuna’s aides moves forward, his eyes roaming your figure in suspicion. He unsheathes his blade quietly, just enough for you to take notice.

You pause in surprise, barely registering the sound of a slash — before his head rolls to the ground.

The blood splatters on the ground, marring the white snow with crimson, and you turn around in shock, seeing Sukuna still lifting one finger, a bored expression on his face. More aides rush forward to deal with the corpse, their bodies trembling.

The air was heavy, then Sukuna returns your gaze — and the pressure disappears. “Come inside, you can’t be standing in the middle of winter with that weak body of yours.”

Your heart burns with an unfamiliar feeling.

It was only after the doors slid to a close that you realize Sukuna has disappeared, leaving his haori secured tightly around your shoulders. The heavy fabric pulsates with warmth, unaffected by the winter winds.

And despite your hatred for the man who has taken away your freedom, you can’t find it in you to throw it away.

When you first entered Sukuna Ryōmen’s palace as his wife, people thought of you as one of his many war trophies, a new plaything that Lord Sukuna will eventually discard once he’s run you dry.

But they are mistaken and misguided.

You will not sit still and wither away until he finally decides that he’s bored of you. In your early days of being Sukuna’s wife, you have rebelled and fought: tying to stir up problems, to make his life harder; you have turned his estate upside down — and with it, all of his aides and retainers, — yet you’ve never succeeded in irking him.

Not even once.

When he would slaughter someone for simply holding their head too high in his presence, Sukuna takes one look at the havoc you wrecked in his estate and laughs.

Now, the insignificance of your own efforts have started to cast a shadow of doubt in your heart.

“Little one?”

You raise your head, your eyes clear without a hint of fear.

Up on his throne, Sukuna gazes at you questioningly. You’ve never sought him out before, but here you are, barging in without a care in the world.

Not that he minds.

“I want to go outside.” You never ask, you demand — and although Sukuna doesn’t always grant you your wishes, he always lets your insolence slide.

“This again?” Sukuna sighs, slowly, like he’s talking to a misbehaving child, “even if you try to run away, I will always find you, so why bother?”

You shake your head. “With you.”

Sukuna pauses, then grins, “I must’ve heard wrong. What did you just say?”

“With you,” you repeat irritably, “I want to walk with you.”

There’s another pause. Sukuna tilts his head, as if pondering. Then he stands. “Very well,” he says nonchalantly, “I shall indulge you.”

Fighting back a smile from blossoming on your face, you cursed yourself in anger. You didn’t know when everything began to change; when his constant presence no longer lights you with fury, when his touch starts to become tolerable, and when you start turning your head to catch a second glimpse whenever he walks past.

You find, in your horror, that your hatred for Sukuna Ryōmen did not grow — it waned.

Sukuna walks a few steps behind you, but his gaze follows your movements intently. Like a snake coiled up, ready to attack; waiting, for you to stir up even more trouble for him.

The streets are deserted. Not a single villager is in sight, opting to hide in the sanctuary of their own houses than risking being seen by the King of Curses.

Maybe you’d take off after the first alley, or try slipping away amongst the buildings. Anything, any trick, was fair game with you — Sukuna may imprison you, but he can’t tell what you were thinking.

At first, he finds your defiance adorable; the way you think your temper tantrums can faze him is amusing. It was hard to remember that you were one of the era’s greatest sorcerers when your powers are not even a fraction of his.

Yet, your fierceness and stubbornness is one that he acknowledges. Even as you tremble and shake in his presence, you are never afraid to meet his gaze — holding it, — challenging him to look away first.

When he looks at you again, you’re already staring at him. “Why are you walking all the way back there?”

You’re looking at him with those eyes again, those insolent eyes that has been following him around lately. It takes every last bit of his willpower not to claim you right there and then in the hallways of his estate when you continue to look at him as he goes about his day, seemingly unaware that your gaze is dripping with desire.

Truly, he can’t seem to discern your thoughts.

“What, were you hoping for me to hold your hand?” Sukuna raises an eyebrow, “You need only ask.”

To his absolute surprise, you stretch out a hand, open, waiting for him to take it.

For all the times you’d asked him to kill you, you sure had a funny way of showing your hatred. Sukuna has a hundred sarcastic comebacks and he’s going through each one, but all of them died in his throat when you sneezed.

He takes your hand in one fluid motion, his other arm snaking around your waist. “You wish to go out, when you’re this weak?” He tries to sound irritated, but his gentle touch betrays him.

You can feel his cursed energy spike, enveloping you comfortably. Gently.

“We’ll walk again when the weather is warmer.”

The winter wind is harsh against your back, but his innocent declaration has set your heart on fire.

Tonight, the estate is empty.

You follow the long streak of blood to the direction of Sukuna’s quarters. Pushing the door open, the moonlight pours into the room, illuminating your husband’s sleeping figure. His haori is thrown on the corner of the room, the ends of his nagagi smeared with red.

Sukuna always drinks after an especially satisfying conquest. And when he does...

Above him, your shadow looms. Under your long sleeves, the glint of a knife shines coldly. Your body shakes as you move forward, half-expecting him to wake up.

But even when you kneel next to him, his chest continues to move up and down, four eyes closed in restful slumber.

You breathe shakily. He’s so close, with no aide to stop you. So close, the knife seems to vibrate in your hand. You can kill him, and he’d be none the wiser.

The sharp edge of the blade now hangs above Sukuna’s neck, the weight of what you’re about to do settling on your shoulders like rocks.

Even if you fail, Sukuna will probably just laugh at you — look at you with the same gentle eyes, mocking you for your folly, your recklessness. “What kind of trick are you pulling now?” he’d say, then click his tongue, “You’d have to try harder than that.”

He’s so close.

But if you do succeed, by some kind of miracle, and you finally put an end to the strongest sorcerer in history — guess Sukuna won’t be able to keep his promise, huh?

There’s a pang in your heart, your resolve weakening — how dare he treat you impossibly gently, yet refusing to lay a hand on you, pretending not to see how you yearn for him? How dare he make you fall in love with him, then not take responsibility for it?

So close.

Tears are blurring your vision now, the grip on your knife loosening—

“I’m not getting any younger here,” In the darkness, Sukuna’s voice resounds, “if you want to kill me, just do it already.”

His voice holds no malice, just mirth — and you break down in sobs, your knife clattering to the floor.

You can’t kill him.

“Do not weep, little one.” Sukuna wipes the tears from your lashes, “Have I not always indulged you?”

How dare—

Sukuna engulfs your shaking figure, shushing you as you sob into his chest. “What a wife I have,” he chuckles, “whatever shall I do with you?”

“Kill me,” — but you don’t want him to, “I hate you.” — but you don’t.

Sukuna’s embrace only gets tighter. “I don’t feel like it. You’re going to have to be more convincing than that.”

Angling your head upwards, you find Sukuna staring at you with twinkling eyes. You take a deep breath, gathering all your courage—

and you kiss him hard.

You thought you’d catch him by surprise, but Sukuna returns your kiss with the same ferocity, one hand holding the back of your head to keep you in place as he pushes deeper.

You’re too busy tangling your hands in his hair to notice that he’s already laid you on the futon, his lower arms gripping your waist possessively.

“You hate me, huh?” Sukuna pulls away to mock you but he does little to hide his own desire when his lips grazes your neck, hot breath sending shivers down your spine.

“I do.” but you push his head further, shamelessly moaning when Sukuna plants kisses down your neck, sucking and tasting, his hands roaming your body in hunger.

Sukuna’s knee settles between your heat, and you blush at the realization of how soaked you are.

“When you break into my room, were you hoping for this?” Sukuna breathes against your ear, mercilessly teasing you again, “For me to pin you down and have my way with you?”

Your heart thunders in your chest as you glare at him, half-heartedly.

Sukuna snickers at your inability to make a comeback, squeezing your hips when the top of your knee brushes against the bulge in his pants. “Careful now,” he hisses.

“Are you afraid?” you reply as Sukuna’s eyes returns to you, searing you with the heat it holds.

“You really are an insolent woman.” Sukuna’s grip on you tightens, “Just because I always indulge you, it doesn’t mean I will be merciful.”

You shudder when he pulls open your kimono with a jerk of his hand, leaving your body exposed. Before you can cover yourself, two of his arms are pinning your wrists up above your head, the other two roaming your body before dragging your underwear to your ankles with unconcealed urgency.

“I haven’t even touched you down there but you’re already soaked,” there’s that teasing voice again as Sukuna’s hand lingers around your thigh, “what a naughty girl.”

“Shut up,” you hiss, but you’re pushing your hips up, trying to chase his hand —

Sukuna meanly pulls back, refusing to grant you pleasure. “Beg.” he grins, spreading your thigh open.

You bite your lip, almost going crazy. “Please,” you finally cry out, “touch me, I need you—”

That’s all it took for Sukuna to bury his face in your cunt, licking and sucking before parting your folds with his long tongue. You scream when he fingers your clit before inserting a finger in, his tongue still hot inside of you.

“Fuuuck, look at you,” Sukuna groans, one of his arms pushing your legs even farther apart as he pumps his finger in and out, “so good for me.”

Your toes curl as you come all over him, moaning his name.

Sukuna disrobes, and — while panting from the high of your orgasm, — you let your gaze trail down his body, down to the large mouth in his stomach, and even further down.

Sukuna catches you staring and chuckles, pressing himself close to you — one cock against your entrance and the other laying flat on your lower stomach. “Like what you see?”

You’re breathless, “Y-you’re not going to fit.”

But your words only excite him more. “We’ll see,” and he pushes into you, making you scream at the sudden stretch of your walls, hot and pulsating.

Sukuna is groaning on top of you, four arms holding you in place as he mercilessly pushes himself deeper, thrusting raggedly. “Fuck,” your walls are clenching and unclenching, desperately trying to adjust to his size, “spread those legs wider, little one.”

You comply, feeling him driving into you, finally setting a steady pace. Every slap sends shocks of pleasure down your spine. The way his cock splits you open has you panting breathlessly—

“Not there!” you scream as he brushes against a spot that sets your nerves aflame.

Sukuna grinds against that spot harder, your screams and cries falling on deaf ears. “What a weakling,” he mocks, voice rough, “you’re squealing.” but he’s also leaking, his cock layered in white as he thrusts into you, the other cock dripping in pre as he buries his mouth in your breasts, licking and biting.

You’re seeing stars now — every part of your body claimed, “I’m—” you breathe out, feeling your lower stomach squeeze in pleasure.

Before you can finish, Sukuna presses his mouth to yours, his tongue slipping inside. You moan at the kiss, feeling your walls clamp harder around Sukuna’s length, trying to milk him.

Sukuna groans and bottoms out with one brutal thrust. “Take it,” he moans, twitching inside you, spewing thick ropes of cum. “take it all.” his second cock spurts out white all over your abdomen all the way up to your breasts.

He collapses on top of you, refusing to pull out. Both of you are panting.

“Do you really love me?” you whisper, eyes fluttering, struggling to stay open.

“Do you think I am incapable?”

“Just answer the question.” grumbling, you weakly reach out for him.

Sukuna catches your hand and intertwines it with his. “We shall talk again in the morning.”

But you are already asleep, exhausted, content.

He watches over your sleeping figure, eyes caressing your features tenderly. From the soft strands of your hair down to the graceful slope of your back, until the rest of your body disappears underneath the silk sheets —

Sukuna studies the sight of you carefully and commits it to memory.

When you entered Sukuna Ryōmen’s palace as his wife, people thought of you as one of his many war trophies, a new plaything that Lord Sukuna will eventually discard once he’s run you dry.

But their opinions are insignificant, and so, so very wrong, for your presence has shaken Sukuna’s estate to the very core — and your figure, the only thing reflected tenderly his crimson eyes.

[pencil-n-pen]

──────BROKEN DOWN AND HUNGRY FOR YOUR LOVE ───

⋆౨ৎ˚˖ ࣪

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touchstarved ! rookie! reader x training officer! tim

summary: Tim had said ‘no more rookies’ after Lucy, but well. Things don’t always go according to plan. Just like you never thought you’d be staring at your training officer’s arms, wondering how they feel wrapped around you.

cw: daddy issues (seriously this is a tim x reader like. don’t we all have daddy issues) mild depression, descriptions of child death and abuse (it’s one scene and pretty easily skippable but yk police call stuff) tbh could be read as platonic this isn’t super romantic i just want tim to hold me i don’t care how he does it

a/n: in this universe chenford never happened even tho i ship it with every cell in my body. also im only like halfway through season two so take my depiction of characters and events with a grain of salt. buckle up this one’s LOOOOOONGGG

title taken from Lover You Should've Come Over by Jeff Buckley (jeff buckley i miss u)

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Tim Bradford has really nice hands.

This is, undoubtedly, not at all something you should be noticing about your training officer. Probably the most strict, unpredictable, unrelenting, high-key-wants-you-to-fail training officer in the LAPD.

And yet.

Here you are, noticing.

His arms are really nice too. The chords of muscle flex in a particular way while he drives. Especially when turning or when he’s conducting a car chase and his hands go white-knuckled on the steering wheel.

You think to yourself that his hands are probably warm. Tim seems like the kind of man to run hot.

Tim also makes sure that you understand how much he doesn’t like you.

You get it. Kind of. He’d been on his way to becoming a sergeant when it’d been decided that during the coarse of his career, not enough of his officers actually made it past being a rookie.

“One last go,” The captain had said on your first day, “Should be easy. This rookie’s the most self-sufficient thing since Officer West. If she doesn’t make the cut, I want to know why.”

So yeah. You’re pretty sure Tim tuned out the conversation after hearing ‘one last go’.

Additionally, you two have… clashing personalities. You’ve always prided yourself on being self-sufficient- on not needing anyone else. But Tim makes it his mission every single day to remind you of all the million different ways you need to rely on your partner and need them— need him.

It’s annoying on a good day and humbling on a bad one.

And then there’s the matter of Lucy Chen. One of the few rookies to survive the Tim Tests and actually make it past rookie, all the while gaining his respect and friendship.

You don’t even try to hope to reach what she accomplished. Lucy Chen is an inspiration, a pipe dream, and an unreachable standard wrapped up in blue. It’s clear that Tim is proud of the cop she’s become. Proud of his work.

You’re not sure he could ever be proud of you.

But you didn’t raise yourself to be a quitter. So you get up everyday and take the Tim Tests in stride. You work and learn and learn and work and pretend the lack of relationship or bond you have with your fellow rookies doesn’t bother you.

You pretend you don’t dream of being held by warm arms and wake up in the same position, alone and cold.

You pretend the heated blanket you bought during the Academy with your meager funds feels just like human warmth. You pretend it’s enough.

And you do what you always do: you manage.

—

Like with any job, there’s good days, and there’s bad days. You try not to dwell on the bad days, but you usually end up doing so anyways, usually in your silent, empty apartment as you try to fall asleep.

Your shift today is only half over, and you’ve already lost a suspect during a chase —Tim ended up catching her, and the look he shot you as he cuffed him was nothing short of fiery— you accidentally tampered with evidence —in your defense, you weren’t aware that piggy banks were used to move drugs, but accidentally dropping it made you want to crawl into a hole and die— and the cherry on top was the suspect you apprehended today, who, in her desperation to get away from you and jail, kicked you in the leg while she was on the ground. With her very long, and very skinny heel.

‘I got stabbed in the leg with a stripper’s heel’ isn’t a sentence you ever thought you’d say, but here you are. The wound isn’t that bad, thankfully. Just all the usual pain that comes from being stabbed with a fairly blunt object.

You sit in an uncomfortable hospital chair in the waiting room, elbow digging into the hard, wooden armrest and holding your head up by your forehead, while your other arm presses on the still sluggishly bleeding wound on your lower, mid thigh, leg stretched out in front of you.

You’re tired.

Recently, the bad days have outweighed the good ones. You knew this would be the case when you signed up to be a cop. You knew your apartment would feel empty and cold, but you thought that maybe, maybe, you’d make a few friends in your coworkers and it wouldn’t feel so unbearable.

But it turns out there isn’t enough time to make friends when you’re busy trying to get the highest scores in the Academy. And by the time you graduated, you’d been written off as a stuck-up teachers pet. Tolerated by the other rookies at best, occasionally sneered at and mocked at worst.

No fellow rookies, no friendly coworker, no nice neighbors in your apartment. Your training officer doesn’t like you, and the watch commander regularly enjoys singling you out for rookie-typical ridicule.

You’re tired.

The wound on your leg hurts like a bitch, already bruised to hell and back in that way that blunt force injuries usually do. Your pants are dark and sticky with blood, and the hand that’s applying pressure is uncomfortably tacky as you bleed, clot, and dry, over and over again.

It’s shitty. You feel shitty.

The fluorescent overhead lights are making your head pound and there’s so much noise in the waiting room, overlapping and, for lack of a better term, stabbing your eardrums in a pounding beat, and the pain is starting to make you a little nauseous, or maybe that’s the smell of anti-septic, and you fucked up so badly today, and oh god what if you get sepsis or a staff infection, that heel was so dirty, who knows where it’s been, and why won’t you just stop bleeding, and—

“Boot.”

—you haven’t called your mom in ages, she deserves better than that, and god your leg really hurts, and you don’t want to go home after this because—

“Rookie.”

—you’re most definitely being sent home, you got stabbed with a fucking heel for christ’s sake, and unlike after a normal shift you won’t have the exhaustion to just send you straight to bed, chores be damned, your apartment is so, so so quiet and you hate it—

“Hey!”

Snapping fingers in front of your face and Tim’s shout jolts you from your pain-slash-panic-induced spiral, and you reflexively clench your fists, then hiss in pain as your grip tightens over the wound.

He’s crouched in front of you, dark, steady eyes scrutinizing your face.

“Sorry,” you huff, face hot with embarrassment. “It’s, um, it’s loud in here.”

He just nods once, looking rather unimpressed. You resist the urge to fidget.

“You good to stay here while I go back out?”

The thought of waiting in the ER alone, and then more than likely catching an Uber to the station and then ignoring possible doctors orders to drive yourself home from there is… less than pleasant.

But if it has to be done, then it has to be done.

“Yeah,” You say easily, the lie slipping right off your tongue. “Yeah, yeah I’ll be good.”

Your injury had already been called in, so Grey wasn’t expecting you back at the station. Tim would go back on shift and you’d take care of yourself like you always do. You’ll be fine eventually. You always are.

You expect Tim to take the easy out. You’ve handed it to him on a silver platter. Express permission to not have to deal with you anymore today.

He sighs, unexpectedly, then stands, and you look down so you don’t have to watch him walk away, and wait to hear the sound of his retreating footsteps.

They don’t come.

The chair next to you creaks as someone sits down in it.

As Tim sits down in it.

You blink, looking up at him. “Officer Bradford?”

He’s crossed his arms across his chest, sparing you a small glance. “What?”

You look down at your lap. “Nothing.”

He doesn’t say anything, just pulls out his phone, clearly texting someone —probably Officer Lopez— and pretty much ignores you as you wait to be called back.

His presence is enough, though. It chases away some of that creeping panic and chill in your chest. You relax in increments. Your posture slouches, your hand unclenches, and you feel like you can take a breath without throwing up.

Eventually, your name gets called, and maybe you just look especially pathetic as your stiffly and shakily climb to your feet and begin ambling towards the indicated trauma room, but you hear another annoyed sigh, and then Tim’s mumbling “Here,” and then your arm is around his shoulders and his arm snakes behind your back and just above your waist.

And fuck.

If you thought that having him near you was something, having the arms of the man you’ve literally dreamt about doing nearly this exact same thing is… it’s a drug.

Your skin is on fire where’s he’s quite literally holding you together as you awkwardly shuffle across the waiting room. His hands are warm even through the under shirt and your uniform shirt. The rush of chemicals in your head is dizzying at the contact, your brain startlingly aware of each and every place the two of you are connected.

To him, it’s nothing. To you, it’s everything.

If this is what hard drugs feel like, you sympathize with the addicts. All it takes is his arm around you, safe and steadying, and you’re gone. Hooked.

You try your best to file the feeling away in your head, to commit it to memory, so later, when those bad days have their cold nights, you can take it out and remember it. Remember what felt like to be even half wrapped like this. Supported and steadied.

It’s an uncharacteristic show of care on Tim’s part. He’s not exactly a touchy-feely kind of guy. He’s more like the ‘deal with it or quit’ kind of guy.

But he’s helping you here, now. More than he knows.

You don’t comment on any of this, of course, because you don’t want to draw attention to how much you’re leaning into his touch.

You hope he writes it off as needing help walking.

—

The first night after the stabbing —Tim does not let you drive yourself home, though looks vaguely impressed that you were completely willing, and instead drops you off and has Officer Lopez drive your car back to your place— is great. You sleep clear through the night without waking up once. The memory of Tim holding you up, touching you, is fresh in your mind. Sleeping is easy. You arrive to work for once not faking your enthusiasm under layers of professionalism. You actually, genuinely feel okay.

As the weeks progress though, you start flagging.

By the time a month has gone by, you’re downright miserable. You didn’t realize just how empty your chest could feel after actually feeling how warm and full it could be.

This, of course, means doubling over on professionalism, because there’s absolutely no way that anyone can know how much you’re starting to fracture, bit by bit. You’re strong, put-together, and self-sufficient. You take Tim’s training in stride and you never complain. You don’t rise to the bait when you get singled out for hazing, and laugh when you become the subject of a rookie prank.

You do not stare at Tim’s arms or hands out of the corner of your eye when he’s not looking, you do not imagine the big pillow you hold at night is him, and most importantly you do not even entertain the fantasy in which Tim holds you, really holds you, and you don’t have to keep it all together anymore.

It’s not realistic. You’re always going to hold everything together. You always have and you always will.

But sometimes, every now and then, you get something well and truly right, and Tim says “Good job, boot.” And he means it. Gets that crinkle near his eyes and that twitch in his jaw when he’s trying not to look impressed or pleased. And it chases away the empty, just for a little bit. Makes how hard he pushes you just a little more worth it, each time.

It’s starting to get to you, though. Has been for awhile. Because it’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it, to think these things about your training officer? Someone who would never, ever do the things you want him to do? As trivial and stupid and childish as they are?

And look. You’re not stupid. You know exactly why you’ve fixated on Tim Bradford specifically. You’re well versed in the art of “intellectualizing your feelings so you don’t have to feel them” and your want of your training officer’s touch is no mystery. He checks all your boxes- Brooding, emotionally unavailable, harsh, attractive, and more importantly, in a position of power over you. So you get it. Daddy issues, your emotional needs not being met growing up, blah blah blah. It’s whatever.

What’s not whatever is your inability to stop obsessing over it. Him. You need to get a grip.

You want to become a detective. And, not to mention, you’ve worked incredibly hard to be a damn good cop.

But here you are, sitting in the shop with Tim, spacing out when you should be paying attention because you saw one of your old friends post the anniversary for her and her boyfriend last night and now you can’t stop thinking about how she probably look at every couple and wonder how it feels to have someone around, constantly, to soothe the near permanent ache in your chest and itch under your skin.

She probably doesn’t have the ache or itch at all.

“Boot!” Tim barks, voice sudden and loud. “Where are we?”

You jolt in place. “Uh—“

Tim slams on the brakes, your seatbelt snapping against your chest. “I’ve been shot. I’m dead. Where were you just now?”

You scramble for an answer. “I was—“

“Your head wasn’t here,” He jams a finger onto the center console. “And in this line of work, that means you’re dead. It means people die on your watch.”

He starts the car, and without the crackling of dispatch over the radio, it’s awhile before he speaks again.

“What’s wrong?”

The words sound so foreign coming from Officer Bradford that you pause.

“Is that a trick question? Is the answer…um… I should focus more…?”

“Well, yes, and no,” He responds, face set in a slight grimace, “Yes, you need to focus more, but no, that wasn’t a trick question.”

When you don’t immediately respond —what are you supposed to say to that?— he keeps going.

“You’re spacey. You don’t get spacey. But you’ve been all over the place lately, so something’s up.”

“Nothing’s—“

He levels you with a Look.

Now it’s your turn to sigh.

One of the main reasons you didn’t get along with other students at the Academy was your unwillingness to sacrifice your career for a social life. You didn’t tell anybody your sob story— didn’t need the pity, didn’t care what they thought.

And you don’t really want to tell Tim either, but for a different reason. An opposite one, really. You do care what he thinks. A lot. And you don’t want to sound whiny or sensitive or any less of a capable cop. You need to prove to him that you can do this.

But Tim also has the best bullshit sensor of anyone you know, and will immediately see through you if you try to lie.

“I moved to California right before I started at the Academy. I was focused and career driven. And I’ve never really been social. It just, uh, kind of hit me, I guess. That my family is a thousand miles away.”

“What, you don’t have any friends from the Academy?”

His confidence in your social skills is nice, if not very misguided.

You shrug. “I gave up everything to move here. I thought that if I went out to bars and parties, I’d lose focus and fail. I couldn’t, and still can’t afford to.”

Tim’s saved from responding by a call close to your location crackling out from dispatch. And thank god for that. You’re sure as hell not itching to restart the conversation, and besides. Tim wants you to get your head in the game, so you do. Complete and utter focus on the call.

It goes well. But Tim doesn’t say anything as you climb back in the shop, not even a not-displeased hum.

“That’s stupid, you know.”

You look up from where you were checking something in the system. “What?”

“This thing you’re doing. You’re not even living. You’re just going to work and then going home. Your performance is shitty because you feel shitty.”

You gape for a second before rushing to respond. “My performance isn’t—“

“Yeah, it is. Don’t argue me on this, boot. You’re drowning, is what you’re doing. You have no work life balance. You’re going to burn out, and then you wash out.”

He turns to you, eyes bright and jaw set. “And you better not wash out, because you’re my last rookie and I need you to win.”

Right. Yes. Of course. Tim needs you to win, so he needs you to get focused, and get real.

The smile you give him is perfectly practiced and hollow. You ignore the nausea churning in your chest.

“Don’t worry. I don’t do anything other than win.”

—

Even though it’s most definitely stupid and insane, you ignore Tim’s advice. Since when have you had the energy to do things outside of work but rot in bed? And besides. Going out would mean losing precious sleeping hours, which are already hard enough to come by as it is. You don’t need to make your energy levels any worse than they already are by adding going to bed late on top of incredibly fitful sleep.

So it’s fine. You’re handling it.

—

You’re not handling it.

You’re exhausted. All the time. The more tired you are, the more you have to work to make sure your performance at work isn’t suffering. Which makes you more tired.

And you just… can’t sleep. You toss and turn all night, wake up a million times, and usually end up reliving your worst cases with added bonuses, like Tim being injured, and then berating you for it, and then the watch commander calls you into his office and fires you.

And then there’s the guilt. The sickening, nauseating guilt that follows you day after day, choking and clogging your throat because you know you’re better than this. You’re better than this. But you’re not getting better.

You should’ve taken Tim’s advice, maybe. Should’ve heard it two, three, maybe four months ago and extended yourself to other people and tried going out, making a routine of trying new things other than sleeping, watching tv, or working, but it’s too late now and you’re just so fucking tired.

And alone.

Really, really, alone.

When you finally lose it, it’s because of a call. A bad one. A really bad one.

It’s a little girl. No older than nine or ten. Her mother had reported her missing when she’d come home from work and her daughter and her husband were missing. At first, the report hadn’t been taken seriously, but the mother begged and pleaded. It was Lucy who’d pulled up the woman’s husband and found several previous charges for domestic violence and abuse that dispatch had sent multiple units after the child.

Whom you found. Locked in a car.

You were the one to break the window. You were the one to get her out.

You were the one who had to call an RA unit for a nine year old girl, not conscious, not breathing.

Tim pulled you away from the scene. From her. Kept a hand on your shoulder and steered you towards the shop, and you were shaking. Are shaking. You’re in the shop. You can’t get your hands to stop shaking.

Tim is uncharacteristically silent. He doesn’t start the car. You can see him watching you out of the corner of your eye. You need to stop shaking. You need to get it together.

It’s just. That was you. Could’ve been you. Almost was you, once or twice.

You spent a lot of time in locked cars growing up.

“Boot,” Tim says softly, too softly, he’s babying you, “You need to take a minute.”

“No, no,” The first no is shaky and the second is no better but you need to be fine, “I’m fine, I’ll be fine. I need to adapt, need to get used to this kind of thing.”

He makes a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat. “No you don’t. Becoming desensitized to this kind of thing isn’t what you want to happen. Trust me.”

You breath is starting to hitch a little, and your eyes are beginning to burn. Why can’t you stop shaking? It happened so long ago.

“I’m fine. I’m— It’s okay. We should get back on the road.”

Your voice wobbles at the end. You clench your jaw, steel yourself against the onslaught of emotions and will yourself to just get a fucking grip.

“Hey,” Tim starts, voice that lower, gentle tone he sometimes uses on victims, and that’s messed up, because you’re not a victim, just dramatic, “It’s okay to not be okay after something like that.”

“I’m fine!” You snap, “I survived. She didn’t.”

Oh.

You feel the first few tears begin falling, and immediately scrub them off your face as fast and as hard as you can.

“I’m sorry,” You half-whisper, mortified at the action of crying and snapping at him. “I’m sorry, this is, this is really unprofessional—“

You hunch, pressing the heels of your hands so hard into your eyes starbursts of color are whirling behind them.

Tim doesn’t say anything, which only adds to your mounting anxiety, until you hear the semi-familar sound of him typing on his phone, and then a steady tik. Tik. Tik.

You look up, your eyes already puffy.

Tim sets his phone down on the console between the two of you.

“That timer is set for ten minutes. For ten minutes, you are not going to be fine. Ten minutes while we drive. Got that?”

You sniffle pathetically. “Ten minutes is a long time to put up with me crying.”

He shrugs. “If I give you your ten minutes, and you get this out, then you’ll be more focused on the job. Seems like a fair trade off to me.”

You’re not expecting the firm hand to land on your shoulder.

“This was your first d-o-a. Even the best cops are shaken after something like that. It changes you. That is not something be ashamed of.”

You let yourself lean into the touch, ever so slightly. The tears start falling easier after that, and, still not entirely comfortable with crying in front of your TO, you cover your face with your hands.

The crying bit is over in only a few minutes. The rest of the time on the timer is spent staring down at your lap and trying to calm yourself down, and when that doesn’t work, you pull out your phone and soothe yourself by organizing one of your Pinterest boards. Ah, the peace that comes from setting arbitrary rules that affect no one and organizing pictures based on these rules. Bliss.

Tim only removes his hand after you stop crying, which. You try your best to memorize the touch —no matter how mortifying the circumstances— and try your best not to think about how it almost seems like starting to catch onto the messier parts about yourself you’d like to keep hidden.

—

Sometimes it’s hard not to feel well and truly and completely alone.

You know you’re not. Not really. Not if you tried harder, extended yourself more. Made an effort to get out there. But you don’t have any energy for efforts. You don’t have anything left to give.

Tim’s touch and approval and just there-ness haunt you on your off days and are, if you’re being embarrassingly and horrifyingly honest, the only thing you really look forward to anymore.

You like your job. You do. But you’re tired. And how many times can you say that? Can you think that?

I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired.

Please, someone, put me down, let me go, give me a minute, I’m tired.

So it’s not really surprising when you get sick.

You’ve been running yourself absolutely ragged, day in and day out, and when you wake, feeling like death warmed over, you don’t even groan. It makes your throat hurt.

Your head pounds with pressure from your sinuses and your hands shake as you put on your uniform in the locker room. Your slow-and-unsteady gait gathers a few looks as you make your way into the, surprisingly empty, roll call room.

Is it really empty if one person is in it? Tim’s in it. He’s leaned up against the front desk, where you usually sit with the other rookies. Only time you’re really ever near them. He looks mad. Why’s he mad?

“Boot,” He starts, voice low, and that’s never a good sign, “Is there a reason you decided not to show up to roll call today?”

You blink, thoughts going about as fast as a fish in frozen water, “But it’s not time for roll call yet.”

It’s not. You woke up when your alarm went off, took cold medicine (probably more than you’re supposed to, and the wrong combination of them, but who cares) and drove to the precinct. Same as you always do. Minus the cold medicine.

Tim frowns. He’s always frowning. He frowns deeper. “You’re over an hour late.”

That…doesn’t make any sense. How’d you lose an hour of time? Did you fall asleep somewhere along the way? You don’t remember falling asleep. You’re not missing any memories, no blank spots, no black outs.

“Boot!” He barks, and you flinch and the noise, pressing a hand to your forehead as if that’ll help the sharp stab of pain in your head that accompanies his raised voice.

Tim is downright glaring at you now. “Are you hungover?”

“No!” You reply indignantly, then instantly regret it due to the burn you now feel in your throat, “I’m just like. Kind of sick.”

Did that come out convincing enough? You’re sure you can still work. You worked through every cold and flu and fever back at the Academy. You can totally do this, right?

Tim pushes off the table and stalks towards you. arms crossed. He uncrosses them as he gets closer and—

Oh. That’s nice. His hand’s cool.

Your eyes flutter shut, unbidden, as the cool skin of the back of his hand presses to your forehead. If your eyes were open, you’d be able to see that his frown has taken on a concerned brow furrow to accompany it, but you’re too busy enjoying the simple contact to notice. Or keep your eyes open.

He takes his hand away with a sigh, and you stumble forward a little.

“You feel like you’re on fire. Jesus- did you drive here?”

You nod, to avoid angering your throat, and end up angering your headache instead.

“Yeah, you’re going home.”

Panic stabs you in the chest.

“No!” You rasp, “I’m fine. I’m a rookie, it’s my job to keep working no matter what—“

“It’s also,” Tim interrupts, “Your job to take care of yourself, but you’re shit at that, which is why you’re sick in the first place. So I’m going to drive you home and make sure you’re not going to die by yourself while you’re sick.”

You shake your head. “I used to work through being sick all the time at the Academy, I can do it.”

“And you were stupid for doing that too. The key difference here is that you’re not responsible for peoples lives at the Academy. I’m not going to get shot today because you’re too hopped up on cold medicine to cover me.”

“But—“

“I’m sorry,” He growls, “Were you under the impression that you have any sort of say in this decision?”

You close your mouth.

“That’s what I thought. Go wait at my desk while I clear this with the watch commander.”

You trudge solemnly to his desk, head and vision swimming. Great. Now Tim’s upset at you and you feel awful. Why is everything so terrible?

You slump into the chair at his desk, dropping your head onto your arms and allowing your eyes to close. The walk from the briefing room to Tim’s desk exhausted you. And your uniform feels extra uncomfortable.

You just want to be at home, not sick, and maybe sleeping restfully for the first time since becoming a cop. Maybe you’re not cut out to be a cop. Maybe you should quit. Maybe—

Someone gently shakes your shoulder, and your straighten, blinking blearily.

“Come on, up we go.”

A strong arm hooks under yours and carefully hauls you up, and let out a small whine at the movement. Tim’s desk is comfortable. And smells vaguely like him.

“Don’t give me that. I’m taking you home. We need to go get your stuff from the locker room.”

You whine again, as if the noise will somehow convey everything you’re feeling at the moment.

I don’t want to leave the temporary and fake saftey of Tim’s desk. I don’t want to go home cause my home is empty and I’m sick. I’m extra miserable because I’m sick. My brain isn’t working and I don’t remember what locker I put my stuff in. I don’t even know if I brought my stuff. Is it somehow possible for my technical-boss to take me to his house instead and tuck me into his bed that smells like him and has him in it so I can sleep next to another human being and feel safe for even twenty minutes?

Of course, none of this is relayed to Tim, who’s currently half holding half dragging you over to the locker rooms, grip firm but not unkind.

After assuring you that no one else is even going to be in the locker room because you’re now over an hour into your shift, he goes with you and helps you find and take your stuff. In your sick daze, you did manage to bring your bag and water bottle, but neglected to put any water in your water bottle or put your wallet in your bag.

Tim just mutters an “Alright, come on,” once your stuff has been acquired, and escorts you out to the parking lot.

Two things occur to you.

One, Tim is no longer dressed in his uniform. Instead, he now sports jeans and a dark gray henley.

Two, you’re both headed towards the personal parking lot.

If Tim isn’t in work clothes anymore, and he’s taking you towards his car, that means he’s not just dropping you off at your house.

He is, presumably, going to look after you. Because you’re sick.

He ushers you into the passenger seat, going so far as to help you up and grab the seatbelt for you. He leans over you when he does it, and there’s a second where he’s pressed against you and it’s so nice and you kind of want to live in the moment forever but you can’t because you’re sick and he’s mad at you and he shouldn’t have to deal with this and you should’ve been better.

You sniffle just as he starts the car, momentarily thankful for the engine turning over hiding the sound, but unfortunately, the second the tears start, they don’t stop.

Tim notices immediately, because of course he does.

“What’s wrong?”

You hiccup a half-sob. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called out.”

“Yeah, you should have.”

You sniff again, harder, cause now your nose is running. “I thought I could do it. I thought I could handle it.”

He eases the car out of the parking space. “Having a brain-cooking fever isn’t really something you can just handle.”

He eyes the fat tears rolling down your cheeks and you see the muscles in his jaw work.

“Why didn’t just call out sick?”

“I don’t like calling out. I wanna be a model employee. Model officer. Wanna be reliable. I wanna be—“

You swallow, voice hoarse and wobbly. “I just wanna be good.”

The car is silent for awhile. A long while. Tim doesn’t respond, and with your nerves now thoroughly fried and your immune system making a minor attempt on your life, you’re pretty sure you fall asleep.

You wake to Tim shaking you, albeit gently, and helping you out of the car. He instructs you to leave your bag and to go inside and change.

He really doesn’t have to tell you twice. You feel awful. So bad. Terrible. Horrible.

Changing clothes only serves to exhaust you further, so you trudge out to the living room and collapse onto your couch, shivering. There’s a blanket only a few feet away, but it’s just so far.

You hear your front door open and the sound of heavy-footsteps, and then there’s the creak of your shitty fridge opening and a few mumbled curses.

You ignore the noises behind you and dedicate all of your energy to grabbing the remote off the coffee table and finding something you don’t have to think about watching. Maybe Criminal Minds. Or Bluey.

“I,” Tim starts, then annoyedly snatches the blanket off the end of the coach and drags it up over you, “Am going to the store, because your fridge looks like it hasn’t been used since the eighteen-hundreds. Don’t die while I’m gone.”

“Okay,” You say, but your voice is hoarse and muffled by the blanket so it comes out more like, “Mmomhay.”

You end up watching Jurassic Park, because nothing makes you feel better like dinosaurs and people getting eaten by them. Classic.

Tim does return at some point, right about when you’re thinking of just binge watching every single Jurassic Park/World movie, and starts making noise in your kitchen. Which you also ignore.

You’re doing a lot of ignoring today.

It’s easy though, is the thing. Tim is cooking something, if the sounds of grocery bags and pots and pans and chopping are anything to go off, and he’s handled you and his’s shifts, so there’s no work to worry about, and you’re really honestly too sick to think about any other things that need to be done.

Tim’s taking care of it. So you don’t have to worry, cause he’s cooking something, and people are getting eaten by dinosaurs on the tv in front of you, so maybe everything will be okay for the time being.

The okay feeling comes to a swift and brutal end when Tim comes around the edge of the couch and tells you to sit up.

“M’ comfy,” You mumble, indignant.

He rolls his eyes, ever exasperated. “You can’t eat soup while laying down.”

“Watch me.”

“No. Come on, sit up.”

You whine as he pulls you forward, stuffing pillows behind you so you don’t actually have to put effort in to staying upright. He then places a tray you didn’t know you owned (maybe he bought it?) on your lap and places a small bowl of soup and a sleeve of saltines.

Your eyes begin to burn with unshed tears again.

Tim groans. “It’s just soup, Boot.”

You sniff harshly. “No one’s made me soup before.”

He sigh’s long-sufferingly, but his vocal exasperation is undermined by the careful way he dabs at the tears on your cheeks.

“Thought you liked your mom.” Tim says, a question hidden in his voice.

“I do. But we were really poor, so she couldn’t really afford to take time off work because I was sick. And I got sick pretty often so,” You pick up your spoon with shaky fingers. “I got good at taking care of myself.”

“Yeah?” Tim says, opening the package of saltines for you, “Then where’d all that skill go?”

He clearly means it as a joke, but you still can’t help the small stab of guilt in your chest.

You set the spoon back down. “I’m just really tired.”

He doesn’t sigh again, but he does purse his lips in that way he does when he’s upset about something and can’t quite decide how to show it.

When he moves, it surprises you. He takes the soup off your lap, moves the tray to the little coffee table by your couch. Turns the TV volume up. Loud enough to hear the audible crunch of the Spinosaurus battling the T. Rex.

Then, he reaches forward and just. Reaches his arms around your waist and back and pulls you forward, then borderline man-handles you into a comfortable position with your legs now where your head used to be, and your had pillowed on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you just that much closer.

You couldn’t have stopped yourself from melting into the embrace even if you weren’t hopped up on cold medicine.

After a few minutes of mindlessly watching a Spinosaurus go on a rampage, he speaks again.

“You wanna know what I think?”

You nod into his arm, face smushed.

“I think you got really good at making people not worry about you. You probably had to.”

For a brief second, you think about hunger, and sickness, and locked cars.

“And I think that in my haste to get through this training period and make it to Sergeant, I didn’t bother looking deeper to find out if you were lying or not.”

You shift in place, now a little uncomfortable as the conversation has switched over to you. “It’s not really your responsibility.”

“It is,” Tim says easily, tone-matter-of-fact. “You’re my rookie. And it shouldn’t have taken me this long to learn what kind of training and support you needed.”

You sit up at his words. Which is a huge mistake, because then you get really dizzy and nauseous and there are weird stars dancing across your vision.

“You—“ You pause, taking a deep breath, “This is police work. I shouldn’t have to be coddled every step of the way.”

“Lay back down,” He tugs you down by your waist. “You aren’t coddled every step of the way. You’re a capable cop. You’re good at your job. I’m not holding your hand. I’m giving you what you need.”

You sink lower on the couch, trying to hide your face from this mortifying experience. Unfortunately the closest thing to hide your face in is Tim’s side.

Oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers.

He rubs your back consolingly. It only feels a little patronizing.

“But,” He continues, “I don’t know what you need if you don’t tell me.”

“I don’t want to bother you with that. You’re my T.O.”

“And you’re my rookie,” Tim continues smoothly, “I can’t send my rookie out on the streets if any criminal can get to her through a hug.”

“Hey,” You grumble, “That’s mean.”

“No it’s not.”

You pull your face away from his side and go back to facing the TV.

“But what if I need this a lot? What if my brain gets… screwy when I’m alone for awhile, and this is what fixes it?”

“Then I’d say it was a fairly normal reaction and need.” Tim shrugs.

You look up at him questioningly.

“Look. I didn’t have a great dad either. It’s not…” He trails off, jaw working. “Bad things happened to you. You dealt with them the only way you knew how. But now you need a little extra help. That’s all.”

“That sounds like something Lucy would say.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “How could you tell?”

The conversation lulls into a gentle silence. Tim continues trailing his hand up and down your side. Up and down, up and down, up and down. And occasionally pause to rub, knead, or scratch. All of which you lean into with equal amounts of shame and enjoyment.

“You’re like a cat,” He mumbles, eyes trained on the still rampaging Spinosaurus, “Can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before.”

You don’t have it in you to do anything more than make a non-committal hum.

A couple beats pass.

“Thank you.”

Tim’s hand trails a little higher on the next pass, his large palm curling up over your shoulder and to the back of your neck.

“For what?”

⋆౨ৎ˚˖ ࣪

masterlist | kofi

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[sunsetmade]

request for calm and older rafe (twenties) and hyper independent reader when they run into her father and she just like freezes bc she's remembering childhood trauma. she gets kinda scared and like hides behind him and is just super freaked out and distant and weird for the next few days

(I made a request like two minutes ago but I had another idea sorry 😭)

Sorry for taking longer! Hope you enjoyed your other request!

Meaningless Judgement

Older! Rafe Cameron x Independent! Reader

Rafe never thought he’d enjoy grocery shopping.

Not until her.

It used to be a chore — something he either rushed through or avoided entirely, leaving it to delivery apps and takeout menus. But now? Now it’s something else entirely. Something quieter. Softer. Almost sacred.

It’s become one of his favorite parts of the week.

Not because of the food. But because it’s them.

No distractions. No schedules. Just the two of them moving through aisles lined with bright packaging and fluorescent lights, sharing small jokes and easy silences. There’s something grounding in the simplicity — hands brushing as they reach for apples, debates over which cereal is actually superior, her soft laugh echoing between shelves like a song only he gets to hear.

Today, his arms are wrapped around her waist as she pushes the cart.

He’s not really helping. More like a weighted blanket draped over her back — chin resting on her shoulder, breath tickling her neck, his fingers loosely interlaced at her stomach. His tall frame shadows hers as they move, slow and unhurried, down the aisle.

She doesn’t mind. She never does. Sometimes she leans back into him with the faintest smile, like she’s trying to pull him even closer, like she needs the warmth of him pressed against her spine — and every time, it leaves Rafe dizzy with how much he adores her. Right there in the middle of the store, next to bags of lettuce and boxes of rigatoni.

She’s wearing one of his sweatshirts — sleeves swallowed past her fingertips, hood bouncing slightly against her back as they move. Her hair is tied up in that lazy, thrown-together way she does when they’re just hanging out, and every time she tilts her head toward him, he catches the faint scent of her shampoo. It’s familiar and warm and so her that it tightens something in his chest.

They’re in the pasta aisle when it happened.

At first, Rafe doesn’t notice him.

Just a voice — deep and clipped — that cuts through the soft rhythm they’d been floating in. A little too sharp. A little too pointed. The kind of tone Rafe’s come to recognize. Not loud enough to make a scene, but calculated enough to land like a slap.

Her body stiffens against him.

And that’s when Rafe sees him.

Her father.

The man’s standing at the end of the aisle, arms crossed, wearing the same judgmental expression Rafe remembers from the one time they’d met — the kind of look that scans for weakness, catalogues flaws, and wears superiority like a well-tailored suit.

His eyes flick from the two of them — the way Rafe is wrapped around her, the oversized sweatshirt she’s swimming in, the closeness they wear like second skin. And then come the comments. The kind that sound casual, offhanded even, but carry barbs meant to draw blood.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, gaze sliding down his daughter with a subtle sneer, “Looking… comfortable.”

Rafe doesn’t move.

He just stands there, solid and unmoving behind her, chin lifting slightly, arms firm around her waist now. Protective. Grounding. Saying without words: I’m not going anywhere.

She forces a smile. “Just grabbing groceries.”

Her dad’s eyes drop to the cart. He doesn’t say anything at first — doesn’t have to. The look on his face is familiar. That same subtle tilt of his head, the faint twitch of his mouth. It’s not overt, but it’s pointed — like he’s scanning for evidence, for ammunition. The boxed mac and cheese. The frozen dinners. A pack of cookies she’d grabbed without thinking. Nothing unusual, but under his gaze, it all starts to feel like proof of something shameful. Proof that she’s still not living up to whatever standard he decided she should meet years ago.

“Looks like you’re doing… fine,” he says eventually, with a pause that’s so slight it almost sounds natural. “Domestic life suits you, I suppose.”

Rafe stays behind her, close. He hasn’t moved an inch since the moment her father appeared — still resting against her back like a silent wall, solid and unmoving. A quiet protector. His fingers are no longer loosely laced; now they’re steady, grounded. Anchoring her.

But he feels it — the change in her.

She shrinks. Not dramatically, not visibly to anyone who doesn’t know her. But Rafe knows her. And he notices the subtle way her spine straightens, how her shoulders tighten, how her voice drops just a notch too low — like she’s afraid to be too loud in front of this man. She’s not just uncomfortable. She’s small. Made smaller by habit. By years of these encounters that always left her questioning herself even when she swore they wouldn’t.

And it wasn’t like her at all. She never backed down—never shrank herself for anyone. That fire in her, the one that made her speak her mind and meet the world head-on, was part of what Rafe loved most about her. But now, standing in front of her father, she looked smaller somehow. Quieter. Like she was folding in on herself just to survive the moment. And that’s what made Rafe’s blood boil—not the man’s words, not even the subtle judgment in his tone, but the way he was stealing her light right in front of him. Stealing the parts of her that burned brightest. Like he’d done it so many times, she’d learned to dim herself on command.

Rafe clenched his jaw, fingers tightening where they rested on her waist.

Rafe hates it. Hates the way that man still makes her doubt, even now. Even with Rafe standing right there, ready to defend her if she so much as breathes the word.

“I am doing fine,” she says, voice even but tight. “Really good, actually.”

Her father’s gaze flicks back to Rafe then. No change in expression, no raised voice — just that same measured stare. There’s nothing in it, and yet everything. A subtle kind of disdain, dressed up in civility. Then his mouth tugs at the corner — not quite a smirk, but enough to feel like a challenge passed silently between men.

“You’ve always had a soft spot for lost causes,” he says mildly.

It takes her a second to realize he isn’t talking about himself.

Rafe’s jaw ticks behind her. Still, he says nothing — his silence louder than anything else in that aisle. But his grip at her waist tightens slightly, as if reminding her: You’re not alone. I’m here if you need me.

Her father’s voice cuts in again, casual. “He the reason you haven’t called in six months? Or were you just… busy?”

She swallows hard. “I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.”

“I suppose not,” he replies, with a quiet, amused exhale. “Not much to say when everything’s so perfect.”

It’s not the words that cut — it’s the delivery. That calm, rehearsed tone he’s always used. Like he’s playing a character he’s mastered: the concerned father. The well-meaning man. As if he hadn’t made her flinch more with his politeness than others ever could with anger.

“We should finish up,” she says softly, eyes still on the cart.

Her father gives a small nod, like he’s granting permission instead of just acknowledging her choice.

“Take care of yourself,” he says — and maybe, to someone else, it would sound kind. But not to her. Not with that undertone. That implication. Like it’s a reminder. Like he doesn’t trust her to manage it.

Rafe doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even look at him.

He just shifts slightly, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head, and tightens his arms around her waist — guiding her away from the aisle, from that man, from everything heavy that clung to the moment like a shadow.

And as they walk on, her hand reaches down and covers his where it rests at her stomach. No words. Just touch. Just the quiet echo of everything she didn’t have to say.

After they pass another two aisles Rafe clears his throat and speaks up.

“Hey,” he says quietly, feeling her fingers rub over his. “You okay?”

She nods too quickly. “I’m fine.”

Rafe doesn’t call her on it. Just nods once, pulling her in this time tighter — like a shield. He lets her push the cart again, doesn’t pressure her to talk. But the rest of the trip, she’s… quieter.

It’s heavy. Withdrawn. She doesn’t hum to the store music like she usually does. Doesn’t debate with him about Pop-Tart flavors. Doesn’t even react when he makes a joke about off-brand frozen pizza.

And when they get home, it didn’t stop.

She walks into the house ahead of him, the front door swinging open with a soft creak. She doesn’t say anything — just heads straight for the kitchen and sets the grocery bags down on the counter like she’s going through the motions on autopilot.

Rafe follows behind her at a slower pace, watching closely.

She doesn’t move to unpack like she usually does. She just stands there, her fingers lingering on the top of one of the paper bags, lightly brushing at the fold like she’s forgotten what comes next. Like she’s somewhere else entirely.

It’s subtle, but to Rafe, it’s loud.

“You don’t have to unpack,” he says gently, stepping up behind her. His voice is soft, a hand brushing lightly against her lower back. “I got it.”

She gives the smallest nod, not quite looking at him. “Thanks,” she murmurs — so quiet it’s almost lost in the hum of the fridge.

And then she’s gone, disappearing down the hall without another word.

The sound of the bedroom door clicking closed carries more weight than it should.

That’s when Rafe knows — really knows — this isn’t something she’s just going to shake off.

She never lets him do things for her, not like that. Not without a little smile or a “You sure?” or a shared glance that says we’re a team. But tonight, she handed it off. Let it go.

And that scares him more than anything her father said.

He unpacks the groceries slowly. The crinkling of the bags fills the quiet space around him, and for once, it doesn’t feel like a home — it feels like he’s just filling time until he can check on her.

Every few minutes, he glances down the hallway. Wondering. Worrying. Trying to figure out what version of comfort she needs tonight.

Sometimes she wants distraction — a stupid show, a dumb joke, something light to pull her out of her head. Sometimes she climbs into his lap without a word and just needs him to hold her until she can breathe again.

But tonight?

Tonight she needs quiet.

So he gives it to her.

He wipes his hands on a towel and makes his way down the hall, careful not to make too much noise. The bedroom door is closed but not locked. When he opens it, his chest tightens at the sight.

She’s curled up on the bed, tucked into herself, knees hugged to her chest. She’s wearing his hoodie — the one he threw on this morning, the one that still smells like him — and the sleeves are bunched around her hands like she’s trying to disappear inside them.

She’s not crying.

That almost makes it worse.

Her eyes are distant, fixed on some spot on the wall like if she stares hard enough, the ache will leave her. Her breathing is slow and shallow, every inhale like she’s fighting to keep something down — a wave, a memory, a crack in her composure.

Rafe walks over slowly, crouches down in front of the bed, gaze level with hers. His voice is barely above a whisper.

“Baby? Can I sit with you?”

She nods, the movement small and tired.

He climbs up beside her, moving slowly, carefully, like she might break if he comes too close too fast. He settles behind her, legs stretched out, and gently pulls her back into his chest. One arm comes around her waist, the other resting over her folded knees, anchoring her to him.

Her hands stay still in her lap, her body rigid for a beat.

But then — slowly — she softens against him, like she’s letting herself trust the weight of his presence.

They sit like that for a long time.

No words. No pressure. Just the quiet rhythm of breathing, the soft creak of the mattress, the occasional sound of wind outside the window.

He presses a kiss behind her ear. Then another one to her shoulder, through the fabric of the hoodie.

And finally, he speaks. Low and steady. “He doesn’t get to talk to you like that.”

She lets out a shaky breath, not quite a sigh. “It’s just how he’s always been.”

Rafe’s arm around her waist tightens. “That doesn’t make it okay.”

She doesn’t argue, but she doesn’t agree either. Her voice is distant when she answers. “I used to think if I just… tried harder, he’d stop. That maybe if I said the right thing, or didn’t say anything at all, or acted the way he wanted—”

Her voice breaks, just for a second, and she stops herself before the emotion can fully rise.

Rafe’s heart twists.

“You shouldn’t have had to,” he says quietly, his forehead pressing gently to the side of her head. “That’s not what love is. It’s not something you earn by being quieter or smaller or ‘better.’”

She doesn’t respond right away.

And then, finally, she says it — soft, broken:

“He always made me feel like I was hard to love. Like no matter what I did, it wasn’t enough for him to want me.”

Rafe turns her gently toward him, just enough to cup her face in his hands. His thumbs brush along the corners of her eyes, warm and grounding.

“He was wrong,” he says firmly, eyes locked on hers. “He was so fuckin’ wrong.”

She doesn’t cry — not exactly. But her eyes glisten, and her lips tremble like the weight of it is finally too much to carry alone.

She leans into his touch, nose brushing his palm.

“I didn’t think seeing him would mess me up like this,” she whispers. “But it’s like… the second I heard his voice, I felt twelve again. Powerless. Like I shrunk back into that same version of me he spent years tearing down.”

Rafe’s hands slip down to cradle her jaw, gentle but unflinching.

“You didn’t shrink,” he tells her. “You stood there and held your ground. You didn’t let him in. You didn’t let him touch you — not really. And you don’t have to carry his words anymore. Not here.”

She closes her eyes at that, lids heavy with the weight of everything she’s been holding in. Her forehead drops gently against his, and for a moment, she just stays there — letting his presence quiet the noise still echoing in her chest.

“I just hate that he still has that kind of grip on me,” she breathes, voice fragile but honest. “I hate that I can still feel so small.”

Her words hang there, quiet and raw. Like they’ve been waiting to come out for years.

Rafe doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t rush to fill the silence with reassurances or empty comforts. He just lets her speak, lets her be honest in the safety they’ve built together.

Then, in that low, certain voice of his — the one he only ever uses when it matters — he says, “You’re not.”

His hand lifts, brushing a strand of hair away from her cheek as his eyes lock with hers. “Not to me. Not ever.”

The way he says it… it’s not just comforting. It’s unshakable. She feels it settle inside her like something sacred — like an anchor in the middle of the storm.

He shifts then, wrapping both arms around her fully, pulling her against him like he never intends to let go. And she lets him — melts into him — her body molding perfectly to his, her cheek pressed against his chest, right over the steady beat of his heart.

Rafe moves one hand in slow, grounding circles across her back. The other stays firm around her waist, holding her as if to remind her she’s safe, she’s home. He whispers softly — not advice, not corrections, just little nothings meant only for her. I’m here. I’ve got you. You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.

And in the stillness of their bedroom, wrapped in the warmth of his arms and the quiet strength of his love, something inside her finally exhales.

The tightness loosens. The ache dulls.

And for the first time in what feels like hours — maybe longer — she lets herself breathe again.

Deep.

Steady.

Real.

[zyettemoon1800]

Saja Boys reacting to you getting your nipples pierced

This is mostly a self-indulge hc for me. I just got my done yesterday and I feel like I'm going through it. If you have any tips to make the pain go away or may them heal faster, PLEASE let me know.

For almost a year, you have been saying that you were going to get your nips pierced, but you were kind of scared because it is a needle going through you. You and your friend were going to go get it done together, but she chickened out and you didn't want to do it by yourself. When you came back home sad, your boy was circling you asking what was wrong. After telling him, he decided to take you the following day to go get them done.

Romance

He was more excited about the piercings than you are

He took you to the store to get some piercings and doesn't mind buying a large amount of them. Even when you tell him that you have to keep the same pair in for like a year, he will just shush you and pay for them

When it was time to get them done, he is right there holding your hand the entire time.

If he sees you getting nervous about the needle, he will try to take your mind off of it by talking to you about some random things

He is about ready to cry when you squealed in pain as you closed your eyes tight

After it was all done, he carried you away whispering sweet nothings into your ear

Baby

He decided to get his nipples done with you and even made a bet with you over who would cry or scream first

He will take you shopping to get matching sets

When it is time to get them done, you go first, and because you didn't want to lose the bet, you just squeeze his hand and hold your breath. After it was done, you took some deep breaths and swiped the sweat from your forehead.

Since you did okay, Baby thought that it would be pretty easy for him. However, as soon as that needle entered him, he was cussing and gripping the hell out of your hand

Needless to say, you won the bet and had to cuddle him when you both got home

Jinu

He had already planned everything out and prepared.

Since he didn't want you to go through a lot of pain, he does transfer most of it to himself without you knowing

You knew your pain tolerance was okay, but the piercing didn't hurt at all. You look over at Jinu to ask him how they look, only to be met with a silent crying Jinu who is smiling and telling you they look perfect

Abby

He already has one, and he said that it wasn't so bad, saying, "It's like someone pinching you on the nipples.

Y'all bought the jewelry at the piercing shop to be sure that they are authentic

As you were waiting, he was gassing you up, talking about how you got this and it won't hurt at all

And you believed him until the needle went through your skin and all the color drained from your face

While you were stunned, the piercer quickly did the other one and cleaned you up

Abs carefully held in his arms as he called your name, though you remained silent

The piercer handed him an ice pack to put on you and told him to stay in here with you until you came too

He never downplayed anything again

Mystery

He has watched videos and reactions from people getting their nipples pierced, and he doesn't want you to go through the same pain because he would kill the piercer.

And since he made his own piercings appear without any help, he wants to do the same thing with you

He will want you to show him a picture of the jewelry you want and ask you to lay shirtless on the bed

He will mutter something as his hands hover over your boobs as the piercing suddenly appear on your nipples already healed and painless.

[prettydaisygirl]

hi babes. I love your James fire chiefX pregnant reader serie

Can you do one about the reader having a hard natural birth but in then all ends well? a mix of angst and fluff, please 🙏

Love your work ♡

hiii lovely! Thank you so much for your request, I can't wait to write him as a dad now too :))) I hope you enjoy this one, though I will say I made the birth vague because I have no knowledge or experience with labor lol okay hope you enjoy, lovely! <3

firechief!James Potter x fem!reader who goes into labor at the worst time ✿ 1.2k words

cw: fem!pregnant!reader, birth scene (vague), emt!Reggie helps reader give birth, unexpected birth/home birth, i'm sorry that the extent of my birth knowledge comes from grey's anantomy

james potter masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

It had been a relatively easy, calm day for James and his crew at the fire station. So much so that he’s already uneasy. He doesn’t like sitting still, it makes him anxious. He’s already borderline frantic knowing that you’re sitting at home, ready to go into labor at any moment. This is his last shift before he has some time off to spend with you and the baby. 

So, despite the fact that he continues to say he’s not an anxious person, he’s worried about you. 

It gets worse when the newbie says “Wow, it’s been a good day!” 

Immediately, a sharp tension takes over the crew. James’ shoulders tighten, and Sirius says “mate.” while rubbing his temples with his fingers. 

James knows things are inevitably going to go wrong. 

They do. Almost immediately the station gets swamped with calls, and he has to split everyone up for fires at multiple locations. 

James heads to one scene, barking orders at the other men, though not in a cruel way, just loud and instructive. He needs them to move faster, always faster, as flames threaten to consume the entire building. Water sprays viscously from hoses, people run around frantically, and firefighters yell at each other over the roar of the flames. 

In the midst of all the chaos, James doesn’t hear his phone ring. Not the first time, or the second, or the third. In fact, by the time he manages to glance at the screen, there are 13 missed calls from you. His heart sinks and he immediately presses answer when you call again, raising the phone to his ear.

“Is everything okay, Angel?” He plugs his other ear to try and each better, taking a few steps away from the scene, though it doesn’t block much of the sound of his pounding heart or the commotion of the fire.

“Well, um…” Your voice is shaky, a bit strained. You take a deep breath and speak again. “I think I’m in labor.” 

He’s been expecting this call. Of course it happens at the worst possible time, and his heart leaps into his throat. “Did your water break?” 

You don’t answer the question right away, and when you do, it’s not the answer he is expecting. Or wanting.

“Well, um…” You start slowly again, a nervous habit when you have to really think about each word coming out of your mouth. “Actually, it broke a few hours ago.” 

This time it feels like his heart stops entirely, the scene around him drowned out by worry and the rush of blood to his ears.

“*What?*” He takes a few more steps away, “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Well, I- I know most women have ah- hours after their water breaks, especially with their first birth, and so I thought I’d let you finish out your shift. But now my contractions are ah- only a minute or two apart.” 

Fuck.

“Okay, Angel just… lay down, breathe through it, and I’m going to be right there.” James almost drops his phone as he stomps his way back to the scene. 

“Please don’t hang up!” You cry out on the other end, forcing yourself to breathe. He can hear it, feel your panic through each inhale and exhale.

“I’m not, I’m not, baby. Just hang on.” James doesn’t know what to do, he can’t think, he can’t breathe even though he’s telling you to. His eyes land on Sirius, and he stomps over quickly. 

“I have to go.” He kicks into Sirius’ shoulder a bit, just enough to get his attention, leaning in so his best mate can hear him. 

“Now?” Sirius glances back at the still roaring fire.

“She’s in labor!” James tells Sirius, whose eyes widen dramatically and he starts nodding and shoving James in the direction of some ambulances. 

“Go!” Sirius encourages with a nod, “Take Reggie’s ambulance, I’ll take over!”

“Thank you!” James manages to say before breaking into a run toward the ambulance, his body resisting due to the weight of all of his equipment. Reggie, Sirius’ younger brother, hops into the driver's seat without question. 

“Where are we going?” He asks as James moves to climb in the back. He tells Reggie his address and the two are off, lights and sirens. 

The whole time, the sound of your breathing and curses of pain reach his ears, he tries to calm you by whispering soothing words of his own into the line. He doesn’t know if it’s helping.

“James.” You groan, hissing an inhale through your teeth. His heart pounds, you only call him by his full name when you’re really stressed. “I think the baby is coming right now.” 

“Just- just hold on.” He doesn’t know what to do. Reggie drives faster, turning onto your street. “We’re almost there, angel, just a minute.”

“I don’t know if I have a minute!” You screech into the phone, and James doesn’t know whether you’re truly about to have the baby or if you’re just scared. 

He doesn’t even wait for Reggie to fully stop the ambulance before he hops out, running inside. He finds you in the bedroom, sweating and grimacing, and runs to your side. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” James coos softly, trying to soothe and take in the entire situation. “I have to see where you’re at baby, can I look?” 

You nod, grimacing as James lifts up your maternity dress to look between your legs. Obviously he’s been there plenty of times before but… it feels a bit different this time. 

James isn’t entirely sure what he’s supposed to be looking for initially, but it becomes obvious when he looks. Because he can see the head already.

“Reggie!” He calls out to the EMT, who darts into the bedroom behind him. He takes in the scene and quickly realizes what’s going on, that there’s no time to get to the hospital. 

“Shit, okay.” Reggie takes James’ place, and James moves up by your head to hold your hand. 

Everything happens quickly from there. Reggie is able to talk you through what to do. James feels like he might pass out, but he focuses on you. Looking at you, brushing your hair away from your sweaty forehead, letting you squeeze his hand as hard as you need.

This is definitely *not* the birth plan the two of you had made. 

But when all is said and done, when the two of you hear the baby cry and James helps you into the Ambulance to head to the hospital, he finds himself oddly calm. He holds his newborn son as Reggie wheels you into the ER. The doctors check over the both of you, and though they’d like to admit you for a few days just for observation, James still only feels euphoric.

Because everything is fine, you are healthy and safe, and you’ve given him a son. 

James can’t find it in himself to stay panicked. Like he says, he’s never been an anxious person. 

He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, then the baby’s. 

“I love you.” He whispers to the baby, and then his eyes meet yours. “I love you.”

You blink exhaustedly, but smile, and cuddle your son tighter to your chest. 

“I love you too.” 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

© prettydaisygirl

[40kmps]

CARNAL

werewolf husband x reader | 18+| 3k

your husband is a painter who makes a meager, but comfortable living for you both creating portraits for nobles. his love of painting stems from his adoration of the night sky and the moon. he disappears one night and returns three days later—changed, distant, aggressive, and ravenous. not long after, you discover the reason for his behaviors and face the consequences of curiosity.

warnings; dead dove, dubcon, explicit sexual content, yandere content, knotting, breeding kink, grotesque + horrific imagery, detail + prose heavy.

proofread by @hantaslittlearsonist . ty, my lovely friend for your time and skills🙏🏻.

this is a repost from my deleted blog.

to see more of my work, both old and new, please interact and reblog this post!!

He was the wretched thing you kept behind locked doors with the rising of each full moon.

Once, the pale moonlight had been a thing of beauty to you both. To you it was an exquisite, lustrous pearl which seemed so small pinched between your fingers, squeezed and blurred through narrowed eyes. He, on the other hand, admired it in a different manner, staring adoringly at its craggy features and the wan, white halo it emitted.

By trade, he was a painter and made a meager living for you both from it. His portraits were most popular as nobles found his style palatable, brushwork concealing all flaws that showed in their faded clothes, tarnished jewelry, ravaged flesh and inbred faces. He knew what they'd wanted in a painting and created these fabrications as they wished because it meant more than old bread and leathery meats for dinner.

For you, he endured such mundanity if it meant you could eat well and dress warmly and in an enviable way to the neighbors. He enjoyed your simple delight; how little it truly took to keep you happy, how easy your marriage had been up until that point. You loved him and you loved the things he provided for you.

When it came night-time, far into the blackest hours where the world seemed seized in so forceful a hush, you made no objections when he pulled you from bed to go outside with him to view the sky. There, he painted by the orange embers of lantern light and tried to capture the likeness of the night sky with its misty moonlight and glittering, starry veil.

Sometimes you held the lantern for him, sometimes you did nothing but sit by his side holding the paint palette and lean into his hip, leaching away warmth from his body. Most nights, you were a handsome fixture and most beloved companion, trying to squash the moon like a grape with your fingers while speaking every thought out loud.

But, one night he went out alone and did not return for three days. He had left with his easel and stretched canvas and precious paint board, yet had come back to stand in the doorway with neither.

“Darling,” you hesitated, starting out firm in case he was inebriated or altered aggressively in some way. You looked at him as though he were some strange person. “Where are your things? Your paints? Your canvas? My love, where have you been?”

“I—I don't have much of an answer to that. I'm sorry.” Then, he strode past you to the bedroom, shuttered the windows to muffle light and sound, declaring he needed rest. “Please, let me be. I'll look for my things another time.”

Later, he was ravenous at the dinner table and ate more than you thought it’d ever be possible for one man to do. You sacrificed your own portion in hopes he'd be sated, but he only turned irritable and mute, as if he were aware nothing good would come of his words to you. At the time, you'd feared that you had upset him in some way, that he perhaps no longer thought you lovely and fashionable or dependable as his partner and wanted to do away with your marriage.

That would mean you could only return home to rural hardship, or to the slums in the neighboring kingdom. The world would know your unwanted status, how much of a disappointment you'd been to satisfy your own husband, and you would never know another moment of quiet luxury again.

You couldn't accept such a fate, so you bathed him carefully that night. Purposeful with how you dragged the soapy sponge down along his back, fingernails a featherlight graze between the valleys of muscle and flesh protecting his spine. You kissed the back of his shoulders, lips a smouldering touch against his neck.

Then, you felt from stomach down to his hips, swirling your fingertips against the bony protrusions and in the fragrant water before wrapping your hand around his cock, stroking him to hardness. He still said nothing as he kissed your lips, tongue relentlessly pursuing your teeth to get inside your mouth, and pulled you into the tub with him fully clothed.

He fucked you deep and hard and bent over the edge of the tub that night, hips pistoning up against your ass, skin slapping raw, thrusting into your wet walls at an angle that had you writhing with a face warped in equal parts exquisite bliss and agony. It wasn't until one of his hands gripped you around the neck, levering you against him, that you noticed a wound on his forearm right below where purple and green veins pulsed under his skin, translucent.

They were tooth marks—two rows of them. Crooked and sharp, arranged in a way that reminded you of jagged spears wet by sea spray at the base of a cliff. They looked deep, like whatever had bit him held on, yet hadn’t had the intention to tear his arm off of the rest of him. The punctures were purple-red and abyssal as you studied them, vision jarred by his cock ramming you, his panting in the crook of your neck. The bruise surrounding it bloomed a concentration of colors resembling spilled ink.

How had you not noticed it before?

“I fear what may come on certain nights from now on. When I ask it, lock the bedroom and shutter the windows from the outside. Do not ask me questions for I have no answers to give you.” He did not offer you the reassurance you had wanted, but it was enough to help you confidently stride through the days, knowing that your marriage wasn't in crisis.

Afterwards, it became imperative for you to act as someone educated because you needed to understand what was happening to your husband those nights.

It started days before a full moon: he became impatient, easy to displease, indignant upon any perceived blunder you made. He did not gorge on wine, but whatever meats were preserved in storage and what you could afford now with his inconsistent employment. You tried hiding these poor portions in thick stews with vegetables that had been infused in simmering beef stock for hours, but he was never fully sated by it.

At the same time he started to demand distance from you, he ravaged you at strange hours in your shared bed, tearing at your clothes to suck on your nipples, to lap the glisten between your legs. New was his biting to leave marks and sup the blood mixed with his own saliva. More than once, he would come on your body in hot, thick ropes and squirt piss on you like an animal marking its territory.

When the night of the full moon arrived, he was transformed and horrifying. You had heard furniture crashing and shattering in the bedroom where he'd barricaded himself. Even his yowls throughout the evening had changed, no longer sounding like agony in the cries of the man you'd married, but something far more bestial. It came from within the chest, in the lungs behind the ribs, and was wholly not human.

You had made the mistake only once to check in on him during this point in his shift, as you hadn't known any better. Your voice was a panicked flutter, a whisper of fear that something else might have broken through the fortress of wooden boards nailed against the windows from either side of it.

“My love? Darling, are you alright?”

He was there. You thought he was there because of the silhouette clambering across the broken remains of your shared dresser and vanity. The difference was that this thing was enormous. A creature with a bristling back, hair or spines standing out like a porcupine threatening with its quills.

It stood and was forced to hunch from the low ceiling of your house. A canine-like countenance glowered at you, red eyes partially obscured by patchy fur. Raw skin shined in the barren spots in the lantern light you'd forced into the room. That hair didn't fully cover his abdomen nor his groin.

He was as much still human as he was this ugly beast. You'd thought to take another step into the room when he snarled and lunged towards the door. A shrill shriek pulled from your throat as you fully withdrew from the room, bolting the door shut with an iron key. He never made a ruckus against the door, and you left for the neighbor's immediately after, claiming that your husband had wanted space after an argument.

The next morning, your husband had somehow managed to escape the bedroom and sat in the kitchen clothed from the waist down, disoriented by the sunlight and his placement at the table. He didn't remember his transformation into the beast, but he did remember you.

Perhaps that's what gave you the courage to try to enter the bedroom the night of yet another shift. His yells of anger and pain had cooled after several hours, quieting to beastal groans and his heavy footfalls endlessly pacing the floorboards inside.

The door squealed, a call out to the darkness and creature within, and that creature responded with a growl—low, reverberating in darkness, a warning that you wouldn't be tolerated. You invaded the space carefully, meat and fish and other morsels for offering in a basket you'd woven yourself, that he had told you he thought was particularly artful at completion.

“Darling, I've brought you something. It's food. I've put fresh milk inside, too.” You caught sight of him near the boarded window, massive back rounded as he crouched low into a posture which looked as unnatural as when he tried to stand on his bent legs. “I know it— I know it won't ease your suffering, but you must still eat.”

He approached you, but it was unlike times before where he'd jump at the door to scare you away. This time he crawled towards you instead of intimidating you with his height— he wanted you to stay, and tried to appear small by dragging his long tail across the floor. The fur sounded like the coarse bristles on a broomstick.

“Oh, my love. My love. My love. What has happened to you?” You moved away from the coverage of the door into the dark space, using your body to close it behind you so that he couldn't get out. You couldn't be sure how he'd behave if he left the house. “I'm here. Oh, you're so sweet. Look at you.”

You'd placed the basket aside neatly, making your movements obvious so as not to inspire ire, and didn't react when his long snout pressed into your abdomen. Stubble and whiskers pulled back to reveal long, stalagmite teeth which chewed mindlessly at your clothes. His damp nose nudged under your layers, pressing flush to your skin, startling you with a nasally gasp.

It was the instance where his nose left your stomach and went lower, pushing between your legs to lick you through your pants that you tried to cower, sidle out of his reach. He must've retained some semblance of himself because his arms rose to flank you at the waist, claws digging to the grain of the door, his strong snout pinning you, tongue knowing your shape even through cloth.

The fabric between your legs was wet, sticking flush to you, giving him as much nearness he could achieve without stripping off the layers separating him from your taste. The luscious imprint of you was unfulfilling, not even a teasing drop of what he instinctively knew he could have.

Your pants were removed unkindly; ripped at the waist, torn through impeccable artistry and threads and delicate fabric he had once paid for. Neither complete fear nor anger kept you silent, motionless for him to do as he pleased by yanking the pants off of your legs, but swelling curiosity. You wondered how much of your husband still remained inside this beast when the full moon was high.

The same unkindness followed him shredding through your underwear with his strange teeth, gnawing the fabric to a thin, sopping string before he could finally have you. Inhale you. Taste you with the paddle flatness of his tongue and make you squirm when his teeth skimmed you.

“O-oh—” this wasn't like when he did it with his human tongue, as masterful as it was. He licked you with fervor you'd never felt, like he was reaching for something deep inside your viscera, blood and gore. Every subtle change of his immense nose and tongue was white heat behind your eyes, jostling pulses of electric, immodest moans, your hips driving forward on their own accord to help him find the treasure he sought within you.

Then, he stopped and hauled you to the floor with a single arm twice the thickness of that of his human counterpart. He knew no gentleness even now, dropping you onto your knees and palms against splintery floorboards which vented cool air up through the gaps, into your skin from the draft rising from underneath the house.

That cold reached deeper, seemed to lift off the ground to meet you as your husband—the beast—thrust your chest against the stiff boards and spread your legs apart with his mass. His claws sank into your hips without piercing your flesh, though their sharpness was undiminished to you regardless.

You knew agitation would not serve you here, neither would bursts of courage to escape. He would catch you with those talons, eat your insides with them and fuck you all the same.

He mounted you clumsily, then.

Enormous, coarse-haired hips grinding against your bare ass, prickling you, making you wince from where your face was nearly pressed into the wood below. You shivered at the first pass of his cock between your legs. Stiff and girthy, arched so well that you felt the moist tip drag across you, catching on spots he'd licked to flinching sensitivity, eagerly prodding at you.

The beast made a sound; a suffering groan with the tremble of his hips before he was thrusting inside of you. The sheer viciousness of his hips hammering against the globes of your ass and his heaviness forced you flat to the floor, where you reached out from the sides of your body for something to hold and grip for comfort. It was barren everywhere you touched.

Your walls were still tight around his cock even as the moments passed, growing no closer to accommodating his size than before, strokes animalistic and messy. While his fur muffled the friction of your skin, the airless dark of your bedroom was compacted with lewd squelching and moans you'd never known you were capable of making. Your noises were high-pitched and vile, paced with his hips, the curve of his cock stroking your velvety insides, and the wet suction releasing when he'd partially withdraw.

Above you, he panted with his long tongue lolling, dripping strings of saliva onto your back where they cooled upon contact and made you feel filthy. Your body ached from his weight pinning you to the inflexible floorboards, cold numbing your skin, hardening your nipples, grinding them down with each of his thrusts.

The enclosed space held an unusual smell, one apart from what you knew was sex. How sweat and salt and cum clung to the mustiness of old places. This was more pungent; earthier and heavier as it filled the room and leaked out of your hole, oozing down your thighs like nectar from a weeping peach.

You continued to let the beast—your husband—fuck you into the wood, the grain, to make you an impression in the floor as nothing else could be done. But you were sore now and sure to be swollen, as you were an uncomfortable fit for him again; virgin tightness which gripped every vein and ridge in his cock.

The grinning beast bared even more of his teeth, clicking them together as he released a shuddering sound, too distant to be human but not entirely monstrous. He rutted into you carnally, pushing your legs as far apart as they could go from where you were on your stomach, and went deeper inside of you still.

Something about the depth was so wrong—not meant to be, not meant to be experienced by a creature so simple as yourself. It was divine pleasure and pain, it was a threshold that shouldn't have been crossed, yet he had persevered and fucked you into screams.

His hips stuttered violently and he growled; he snarled; he whimpered like an actual beast mortally wounded. You gasped in awe at an enormity of sensations: his cum gushing inside of you, spurting out in thick ribbons to join the rest that had dried on your thighs, and his knot stretching your walls, locking his hips against your ass.

You fidgeted from the bulbous growth, clenching around it, whining wanly while he insistently humped you to burrow the knot as far as it could go. He was trying to breed you; plug his spend inside of you just as he would have had another creature of his sort. Because you were his spouse, perhaps he was only able to perceive you as his mate.

His movements soon slowed, calmed in the way of someone who'd been taken by blows of exhaustion and draped his large body across your back, prodding you with his spinose fur. There was some tenderness in how he kept his arms outside of you, bracing his weight onto them so as to not smother you. He did it to adjust his knot and half-hard cock inside you as well, unforgiving to the idea that you might have forgotten his fullness, that you were brimmed with his cum and felt bloated from it.

Nothing would come from this, only the shame of knowing you'd moaned and screamed for this beast, but not the human you'd married.

[kandized]

♡ bite me, mark me. — polytrix

summary. rumi knew accepting her demon side meant accepting the features that came with being a half demon. the sharp fangs, sharp, pointy nails that could cut the thickest of fabrics. rumi was okay with that, she was becoming okay with that. what she wasn't okay with though, was this new found libido. but luckily, her gfs have her back.

warnings. zorumi content. polyamory. zoemi. established poly couple. only zoemi have sex here, miras being a boss lady. g!p rumi. top!rumi. rabid!rumi. needy!rumi. bottom!zoey... for now. demon rumi. dubcon. blood kink. rumi bites zoey and drinks her blood like a depraved weirdo. zoey is okay with that. marking kink. a/b/o without the weird hierarchy. ao3. pt.2

₊ ˚ • . ♡ rumi knew the lesson she was learning was to embrace every flaw and all, to never change the way she was to fit another’s view because the people who truly loved her would stick around no matter who she was.

she'd spent years hiding, dulling herself down and smoothing over the jagged edges so she wouldn’t be too much, too loud, too demonic. So she wouldn’t scare the people she loved.

but that wasn’t love—not really.

love didn’t come with conditions.

and once she accepted that—once she accepted herself—things started to change.

the demon side of her, the part that had been coiled up and silenced for years, finally started pushing through.

a little more every day.

the fangs came first—sharp, dainty, easy enough to hide until they weren’t.

then the nails—long and knife-like, perfect for climbing, for clinging, for tearing. She learned to retract them, but sometimes they came out on their own when she got overwhelmed.

and accidental teleportation while sneezing? yeah, that one was harder to explain.

either way, It all made sense.

she accepted herself—marks, instints, chaos and all—and her body responded.

she was showing herself freely, finally.

she could go to the bathhouse with zoey and mira without flinching at her reflection. she could wear crop tops and short shorts without caring who saw the way her marks curved and shimmered across her skin. she could breathe.

and when the Huntrix girls finally sealed the Honmoon, and the patterns on her skin shifted into that smooth, glimmering tone—like they’d always belonged there, like her body had been waiting to recognize itself—

that should've been the end of it.

It wasn't, of course.

now all of a sudden, there was this… hunger.

a constant, gnawing need that started in the pit of her stomach and radiated outwards like fire. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t soft.

It was primal, ancient.

she thought it would pass, it was a phase. a burst of hormones from her body regulating two different species, or just a side effect of the stress they'd been under.

but it didn't fade, it got worse.

rumi had trained her whole life to be a hunter—agile, lethal, sharp in every sense of the word. her body was built for survival, speed and power, honed from years of movement, discipline, and control.

add that with her training of being a kpop idol—choreo drills that lasted for hours, vocals, performance, cameras—her body was running in overdrive constantly.

she was an athlete through and through, and because of the rigorous use of her body, she needed more maintenance, more food, more energy, more sex.

It made sense. It was natural.

but this wasn’t.

this wasn’t just a strong libido. this was instinct clawing under her skin. this was her demon blood catching up with the years she spent ignoring it, suppressing it.

and now that it had permission to come out?

It was ravenous.

then dating two insanely attractive women only made it worse.

after everything happened, the fear of losing eachother only brought them closer, confessing their feelings for eachother.

she thought that was the reason.

that was why couldn’t stop looking at them, they were together. it made sense to always want your partner.

always.

zoey with her wide, innocent eyes, soft curves and thick thighs, ass like a fever dream. Always smiling, always gentle, always brushing her hand against rumi's arm like it meant nothing.

and mira—oh mira. tall, sculpted, sharp around the edges with abs like carved stone and arms that could throw rumi across a room if she let her.

just being around them—smelling them, hearing their voices, watching them stretch after rehearsals—made her ache.

It wasn’t like she hadn’t had sex before. she had. before she was with the girls, it wasn't often, maybe a desperate fan who had Zoey's pretty eyes, or Mira's sharp features, it didn't matter—she’d scratched the itch, satisfied the need when she had to.

but this?

this was new.

this was old magic in her bones screaming to be fed.

this was her demon side trying to make up for all the years it had been caged.

and now it was breathing down her neck every second of every day.

° ｡ㅤ→ ༄ ‧ ₊ ˚

rumi's hands curled tighter around zoey's waist, her fingers digging into the soft dip just above her hips like she was anchoring herself there. her breath hitched as she buried her face into the curve of zoey's neck, lips parting against warm skin.

“ah!” zoey giggled, tipping her head without thinking, exposing more of her throat. “rumi, that tickles—quit it!”

rumi didn’t quit.

she only hummed low in her throat, lips brushing over Zoey’s pulse as her nose nuzzled into the dip beneath her jaw. she inhaled deep—like she was breathing her in, tasting her through scent alone.

zoey squirmed in her grip, hands coming up to weakly push at her arms around her. “seriously, I wanna make our ramyeon,” she pouted, voice breathy and already half-lost in a laugh.

rumi's arms tightened just a little, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep her there. Her body was warm against zoey's back—feverish, solid, insistent.

“but you smell better than dinner,” rumi murmured, mouth curved into a grin against zoey's neck. her voice was low, teasing—almost a purr. “sweeter, too.”

a soft gasp escaped her lips, her thighs pressing together as her stomach flipped traitorously. “you're being weird again,” she mumbled, squirming. “you've been sus all week.”

rumi chuckled, the sound sending vibrations down zoey spine. she kissed her again, slow this time, lips plush against the delicate line of her throat, tongue flicking out for just a second—barely there, enough to make zoey twitch.

“have I?” rumi whispered, voice warm and thick with restraint, her hands sliding up zoey's waist to grip her soft breasts, pinching her nipple between her thumb and forefinger.

“mhm.” zoey made a small, embarrassed sound, glancing down at rumi's hands before tilting her chin to glare halfheartedly over her shoulder. “you're being unfair,” she huffed, cheeks pink and glowing.

rumi's smirk deepened, her thumbs hooked into the waistband of zoey's shorts—soft cotton and just a bit too loose—and she began to ease them down inch by inch, her knuckles dragging warm along zoey's skin.

“rumi,” she warned, voice soft and cracking at the edges, but she didn’t step away. she didn’t stop her. her hands hovered, unsure whether to push or pull.

a low growl rumbled in rumi's chest as she stepped forward, pressing Zoey back against the cool counter. Zoey was caged now, delightfully trapped. "god, I can smell how wet you are," rumi murmured, more a raw confession to herself than a statement to zoey.

a wave of heat bloomed deep within zoey's core, radiating outwards as her hands instinctively found purchase on the counter's surface, gripping tight.

the words stirred something molten deep inside zoey, warmth pooling and blooming like fire in her core. her fingers dug into the counter, grounding herself against the overwhelming heat of the moment.

rumi's own shorts joined zoey's on the floor, revealing the thick, slick head of her cock, already weeping with desire.

with a swift, fluid motion, rumi spun zoey around, pressing her lower back against the cool edge of the counter. One strong hand found zoey's thigh, lifting her leg to hook it over rumi's hip.

zoey let out a soft whine, her hands coming up to rumi's chest, a weak protest forming on her lips. "at least let me turn the stove—" a sharp gasp tore from zoey's throat, cutting off her words as rumi's thick, unyielding cock pressed into her, stretching her walls beyond belief.

the sudden invasion was overwhelming, a rush of fullness that stole her breath and any coherent thought. her fingers curled into rumi's shirt, pulling her closer, even as her body screamed at the exquisite pressure.

rumi didn't give her a chance to adjust, she couldn't, the feeling of zoey's warmth wrapped so tightly around her, scratching that aching itch was too much to give up.

she pressed in deeper, then pulled back just an inch before she plunged forward again.

zoey's eyes rolled closed, a strangled moan escaping as her body began to instinctively match rumi's rhythm. the friction was immediate, scorching, a burning heat building rapidly inside her. She could feel every inch of rumi, every rigid vein, every slick glide.

"that's my sweet girl," rumi rasped against her ear, her breath hot, laced with her own burgeoning need. Her hand moved from zoey's thigh, sliding around to cup the soft mound between zoey's legs, thumb brushing over her swollen clit.

a delicious jolt, like liquid lightning, arced through zoey, stealing her breath and weakening her legs. a soft whimper escaped as she clung to rumi, her head falling forward to bury itself against rumi's shoulder, utterly consumed by the rising tide of sensation.

rumi's thrusts deepened, each powerful stroke driving zoey back against the counter, the hard edge digging insistently into her spine, but rumi didn't heasitiate.

she swept zoey into her arms, cock still buried inside of her girlfriend whose legs instinctively wrapped around her waist as she was carried to the nearby couch and gently lowered.

the way rumi had picked her up with ease, laid her down so gently, the way her marks pulsed like a heart beat, her teary expressions. rumi looked so fucking good right now and it made zoey's cunt pulse around rumi's cock, a responsive, hungry clenching that elicited a low, guttural groan from rumi.

rumi moved between zoey's spread legs, her mouth finding zoey's neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her sensitive skin.

with a sharp pull of her hips, rumi slammed deep inside zoey once more, eliciting a ragged gasp that was half pleasure, half shock.

zoey's back arched into the thrust, her fingers digging into rumi's shoulders, nails biting gently into taut muscle while rumi buried herself in zoey neck.

the rhythm was primal, demanding, and each withdrawal was a fleeting agony, each re-entry a profound, mind-numbing bliss.

bite.bite her.mark her.make her yours.

the instinct hit rumi like a wave—hot, ancient, and deep in her bones. It wasn’t just thought anymore. It was need. It was law.

zoey. hers. mira. hers.

their bond sealed with the Honmoon was glowing again, alive and humming beneath her skin, demanding to be felt.

rumi's hands trembled against zoey's waist, her body pressing flush to hers as her cock slammed into her cunt with damning pace.

her pupils blew wide, golden eye glowing brighter than ever, and then—

a low growl slipped from her throat, unrestrained this time. not just hunger. possession. her lips parted, and her fangs—longer now, wicked and sharp—descended from her gums with a wet click.

“r-rumi…!” zoey gasped, the sound caught between panic and something else. something breathless, heady.

god. that sound. that look.

rumi’s breath fanned hot across her throat. her nose brushed Zoey’s pulse point—and it was pounding, wild and sweet. her tongue flicked out, tasting sweat and skin and the faintest hint of desire that clung to Zoey like perfume.

and then she bit.

instantly, rumi's mind blanked.

her fangs pierced skin in one clean, precise motion, sinking into the delicate flesh of zoey's neck. hot, stinging pain bloomed immediately—sharp, burning like a brand—and Zoey screamed.

the sound tore through rumi, sent shockwaves down her spine. Zoey's body arched into rumi, hands grabbing at her stomach, nails dragging lines down her skin—but she didn’t push her away.

she took it.

rumi moaned low in her throat, the sound guttural, broken.

the taste—fuck. It was better than anything she’d ever known. It burned across her tongue like fire and honey, thick and heady, setting every nerve alight. her hips moved without thought, fucking into Zoey’s trembling pussy as she drank.

she could feel her. every twitch, every gasp, every pulse of heat in her core. It pushed her over the edge, and zoey too.

She felt the way zoey tightened around her, cumming around her cock.

zoey was reacting to it. the pain. the bond. the rush.

something deep inside her unfurled, ancient and primal. a tether stitching itself between their bodies, pulling tight, pulling home.

her hand slid to zoey's stomach, holding her there, grounding her. she could feel the heat radiating off her skin, the subtle tremble in her legs, the flutter of her pussy.

she wasn’t hurting her. she was claiming her.

her mate.

the thought hit rumi like lightning—and for the first time since the hunger started, she felt relief.

zoey was still shaking. But she hadn’t told her to stop.

and Rumi would stop if she did.

but until then—

she drank—deep, greedy pulls that echoed inside her chest like a second heartbeat. She could hear it too, the obscene wet sound of blood sliding down her throat. could feel it flooding into her, setting her veins on fire, lighting up every buried nerve.

her hands trembled on zoey's waist. not from guilt—but from the unbearable, intimate rightness of it all.

zoey gasped again, her breath stuttering into a whimper, body jerking with another sharp pulse of heat. Her legs fell from around rumi's thighs. her back lowering back into the couch as if she was about to pass out.

and rumi knew.

she had to stop.

right now.

Or she wouldn’t.

with a choked groan, rumi ripped herself away—fangs sliding free with a soft pop, blood smeared across her lips and chin. her breathing came ragged. Shallow.

zoey slumped against the couch, dizzy, flushed, glowing. Her pulse raced beneath rumi's fingertips like a hummingbird’s wings.

“bed,” rumi rasped, not even meaning to say it. Her voice didn’t sound like hers—it was lower, frayed. possessive.

zoey didn’t speak. didn't protest.

she just nodded.

the bedroom door clicked shut.

the night blurred into hot skin and tangled sheets—rushed kisses and desperate sounds swallowed into pillows.

hands roamed. teeth grazed.

her mate, her girl, under her—wrapped around her.

everything Rumi had denied herself.

everything her demon had waited for.

♡ ° ｡ㅤ→ ༄ ‧ ₊ ˚

later—much later—zoey lay curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket she barely remembered pulling over herself. her buns were long gone, just hair now cascading down her back--mussed, cheeks flushed, and her throat still tingled where rumi had bitten her—two small red puncture marks blooming against the delicate skin of her neck.

her eyes were glassy, dazed, half-lidded with the weight of being thoroughly turned out, she could still her cunt occasionally flutter, squeeze around absolutely nothing.

the apartment door opened.

mira stepped in, shoulders tight from rehearsal, working with choreographers for their new single, sweat still cooling on her skin as she pulled her hoodie off. she tossed it toward the hook without looking.

“mi-mi? zo?” she called out, freezing mid-step when she caught sight of her.

zoey blinked up from the couch like a doll coming to life, lips parted and face glowing. “oh, mira!” she breathed, trying to sit up—but her legs gave out halfway and she collapsed back into the cushions with a soft oof.

mira's brow furrowed. her boots were off in seconds as she crossed the room quickly, kneeling beside the couch.

“jesus, are you okay?” she asked, hands already reaching to steady Zoey. "you look like you got tossed around."

zoey grabbed her arms with shaky fingers—mira's toned biceps flexing slightly under the sudden grip. her palms were warm. desperate.

“you have to leave,” zoey hissed, eyes wide and frantic. “something—rumi—she’s possessed!”

mira's gaze dropped instinctively to zoey's neck.

she went still.

the bite was unmistakable.

fresh. red. raw.

her breath caught. “zo… what the hell happened?”

zoey just shook her head, hair falling in front of her face as she whispered:

“she bit me. and not like a sexy nibble like you do—I mean bit, mira. fangs. growling. her eyes were glowing.”

she leaned closer, whispering hoarsely like rumi might still be listening.

“I think I saw stars. I couldn’t think. I was so dazed and she just picked me up and moved me. put me in position and fucked the absolute life out of me! It was like something was pulling me out of my body. please,” she begged, voice trembling. “just go. just go before she sees you.”

before Mira could respond, the air shifted.

she knew rumi had been acting off lately and now she was about to find out why.

heavy. electric.

and then—footsteps.

slow, quiet ones padding in from the hallway like a cat stalking prey.

rumi rounded the corner.

she wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore.

her skin was glowing faintly, golden warmth pulsing beneath those shimmering patterns that spread across her collarbone. her tank top was twisted slightly, darkened with sweat, one side of her braid undone and clinging to her cheek.

her eyes—one bright amber, the other glazed and dark—locked immediately onto Mira.

rumi blinked once. tilted her head. said nothing.

but mira felt it.

that look.that heat. that hunger. she could see it radiating off her—like it was no longer just Rumi standing there, but something older. something deeper. something that knew what it wanted.

mira straightened instinctively, every nerve on edge. her body screamed fight, screamed move—but all she could do was stare.

because it was over.

and they both knew it.

rumi's lips curled just slightly at the edges. “mira.”

and mira realized, with a sudden, burning flush down her spine—

It was her turn.

edit: i will write pt 2. soon.

[foxsdenofmuses]

"I don't need YOU to worry about me. I'm perfectly capable of defending myself with ease, and clearly a bus isn't going to do anything to me as you just saw." Kitsunami did have to fight the urge to summon his water and threaten Sonic with them given how he suddenly got into his personal space without much warning. Only person who could do that was Surge, and maybe Belle on a good day.

"I know Sonic the Hedgehog isn't complaining to me about being reckless. Why don't you worry bout working on that yourself first?" Silas would cross his arms as he spoke, though focused on Surge. "Yeah, that doesn't tell me jack. Mind giving me some more detail than that?" The mole asked as that could mean a number of things in all honestly.

"Surge turned herself into G.U.N to make sure I was allowed to walk away freely. You seem to know Surge on a personal level, or before she was Surge. Start talking old man. I want information and I want it now as if you knew Surge before then you knew me too. I will beat it out of you." Kitsunami was clearly trying way too hard to be tough and intimidating like Surge, though he was clearly going over board and being all over the place with it.

"Whoa, easy there kid. Ya just gotta ask as you and me are cool. Well, we were cool before you became... this," Silas said motioning to Kitsunami. "Clearly Sparks got to ya, though I ain't surprised. You followed her around the gym like her number one fan. Tried your hardest to copy her too, despite your cousin's attempts to get ya to stop."

"Cousin? I had a cousin?" Kitsunami asked, his body starting to relax all of a sudden. "Yeah... yeah, I remember, sorta. She was, taller than me, and over protective. I can't picture a face, though she was a bit, weird." The fennec scratched his head as he was now stumped. "Okay, progress is good. That's what Surge said. Gotta head to the town."

===========================================================

"You'd be surprised the amount of support one can receive even just by sitting behind a desk and doing paperwork. Gardon is a prime example of this as while I may often be the one out in the field, protecting Sol, and handling the bigger issue's Gardon does much himself, even if some may see his task as minor or small. It allowed me to leave him in charge while I'm away, and no a single person complained because he works hard, and is good at talking to people. You are as well Jewel." Blaze knew there was more to being a good leader than being out in the field or handling only the big issue's.

"However, if you truly do require a break to regain your bearings and bring yourself to a better mental state then I'd be fine with taking the reign's for awhile. It'll assist me in getting back into the swing of things for whenever I return to Sol. And when you're ready to come back, I shall mentor you if you wish. Personally I think Amy was far too eager to return to the field and should've make sure you could've handled everything the job requires." Blaze might need to have a bit of a talking to when Amy recovers about her haste.

===========================================================

"I'm sure as soon as I leave the base G.U.N will be tracking my every move, so no real place I can go to completely avoid them." Belle was sure they'd either have someone follow her or just use state of the art satellite to track her. The tinkerer would simply embrace it has best she can and keep her head up high. She wouldn't be afraid of them.

"I started working on this after we got out of Eggman's city from Starline's trap. I sorta realized when I was hooked up to Metal Sonic the only way to really reason with him is through action, not words. He's so obsessed with speed and power to beat Sonic, though also respects him to some level. It's was certainly a learning experience."

Sonic was pretty lost in thought as he had to slow down alot for the kid to walk and think things out. He honestly didn't like to think much as it often lead him to depressing thoughts. Hence why he kept moving all the time, and never stopped to think much past what was in front of him. But he also knew Kit had alot of things to work out in his head and that all of this was alot for him to process.

He didn't even initially respond to Kit's warning as he looked up from his thoughts and sort of freaked out! the bus was coming right at them! and Sonic just assumed Kit had the speed to avoid it which he did! So he jumped back to let it speed by--- THEN this crazy kid took a bus to the face! and didn't even flinch!

Chip damn it that kid was crazy!

" ARE YOU INSANE!!!! "

He shouted as he scrambled over to Kit to see if he was ok! even though he was sure he could survive a hit like that it didn't make it less crazy!

" That was a bus! you coulda i don't know! hurt yourself or something! "

He snapped his head around at the old man as he came out of the Bus. One half of him wanted to throttle the bastard, and the other wanted to see if he was ok. Instead he just leaned toward the old man with a discerning stare.

" Can we address your wreckless driving first... damn dude... seriously..."

He crossed his arms like a scornful mother!

" Surge is uhh indisposed... also you hit him WITH A BUS! "

==============================================

Jewel smiled at Blaze as she appreciated the princesses kind words and yet she wasn't sure she was so sure herself. She sat behind a desk, filled out papers and other more qualified people did the hard work. She was a glorified bureaucrat! She didn't exactly go to school for this sort of work. In fact it was closer to what her father wanted her to do and be. That thought made her shoulders sink as the last thing she wanted was to think of her criminal family. Only one who really knew was Tangle and she was a tad afraid of others finding out.

" Perhaps... but i didn't do anything Amy couldn't have done on her own. I just wanted to help... i'm not really qualified for this job...i'm a Geologist... i specialize in crystals... gems and rare minerals. I'm hardly qualified to run an organization like this..."

She took a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves down as it was clear all this shook her.

" I should have known what Clutch was up to... but i let him lead me along like chao to water... i don't know. I think after all this... i need to pass the torch to someone else at least for awhile... i miss my crystals... i miss my museum... and all this has just rattled my carapace... "

Jewel piled up several papers on a Desk in preparation for the GUN Agents. Yet it was more to keep herself busy so the stress didn't get to her. On that note she did hope her father didn't get wind of Clutches little attack on her. He would probably put a hit on him... Family was Family he'd say regardless if she was disowned. She'd have to talk to him before that happened... bad man or not she didn't want to see Clutch get killed because of this either.

===============================================

Miles rubbed the back of his neck with a sheepish smile as he was both proud of Belle and worried for her. He had come to respect that free will of hers and her ingenuity. In a real way she was the legacy of Tinker... and Eggman both. Not just some bot who could think but an innovator... and he couldn't help but hope she had a future free of men like the general.

" Heh you're the boss... i wouldn't pretend to tell you what to do Belle. Mostly just want to make sure you get someplace safe till this dies down ya know? "

He placed his hands behind his back and marched alongside her with his tails swishing behind him.

" So when did you build this? pretty impressive... reminds me a little of the old tornado... man i shoulda put my face on that! why didn't i think of that... "

[littledykeblue]

──𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐍;

(college roommates!vi x reader): you've been doing a really good job and avoiding vi and the confrontation of your own feelings, but not for too long.

PART ONE HERE!

wc: 4.9k | cw: kinda mean!reader, fingering (r!receiving), orgasm denial, getting together, tonally the same as part one so, cocky!vi, lots of banter, MINORS DNI.

note: i have toiled for many hours to bring you the long-awaited part two (requested specifically by: @urbanshadow, @peskylez, @zriyyyy-blog, @bonemarrowstew & @meow4510) enjoy ur meal!

You and Vi did not, in fact, fuck upon returning to your dorm room.

In fact, you’ve spent the better part of a week doing your most convincing impression of a ghost. You’ve made yourself into a shadow. Quiet, barely there, and absolutely impossible to pin down. Because simply put: you can’t fuck Vi.

You live with her.

And if it goes wrong—and it will, because these things always do—you’ll be stuck in it. Stuck in the aftermath. The weird, quiet mornings. The awkward tension. The casual mentions of a new girl. There’s a level of vulnerability that comes with going all the way, and you don’t want to hand that over to Vi. Not her. Not when you’re still not even sure you like her.

You didn’t even like her before she fingered you in the back of her truck.

And now? Well…it’s still up in the air. Let’s go with that. That feels safer than the alternative.

Because you know about Vi’s habits whether you wanted to or not. Everyone does. She’s incredibly well-known around campus. Not because she tries to be, but because people talk. People always talk. She’s the captain of the soccer team, she’s loud, she's hot, and she leaves a trail of broken hearts in her wake like it’s nothing.

Vi likes the game. She likes the flirting, the tension, the slow unravel. She likes making girls fall apart for her. She’s a professional at it.

And once she gets what she wants, she lets go. Just like that.

The difference between you and every other girl she’s tossed behind her? You still have to live with her. You still have to brush your teeth in the same tiny bathroom. You still have to see her half-naked in a towel when she gets back from a shower, hair wet and dripping, skin glowing under shitty dorm lighting.

There’s no version of this where you come out unscathed.

You’re painfully sure that Vi is good at sex. Probably great at it. The kind of great that ruins you for other people. And you honestly can’t think of anything worse than having the best sex of your life only to get booted from the starting lineup the next day. Still having to see her in your room. Still hearing her laugh through your headphones. Still watching her bring some new girl around, all smiles and easy charm, while you're sitting there remembering what could be yours.

So, no. You haven’t talked to her.

Avoiding her’s been surprisingly easy. Vi’s schedule is relentless—practice, classes, social shit you can’t keep track of. She’s not exactly glued to your side to begin with. She’s busy, and you’ve taken full advantage. You’ve created a little routine. A survival plan. Pack up your laptop, disappear to the farthest corner of the library, and stay there until long after the sun’s down. You don’t come back to the dorm until you’re sure she’s asleep. Some nights, you find her knocked out across her bed, one leg kicked over the edge, mouth open in nothing but her sports bra. Other nights, the room is blissfully empty.

You’ve passed each other a few times. In the kitchen. In the hallway. In the doorway, side-stepping each other like strangers in a tight space.

Like ships in the night.

Vi hasn’t pushed. She hasn’t tried to chase you down or demand an explanation. She hasn’t cornered you in the room or forced a confrontation. She just…lets you play whatever little game you’re playing. Or maybe she thinks she’s the one playing.

You’re half-asleep on your bed, laptop open, cursor blinking on a blank document that hasn’t changed in two hours, when your phone starts buzzing beside you. You blink down at the screen and see your friend’s name.

You consider ignoring it. You already know what they want.

Still, you sigh and swipe to answer. “Hey.”

“You’re coming tonight.”

There’s no preamble. No hello. Just a declaration.

You frown. “What?”

“The party at Kappa Sig. Everyone’s going. Don’t tell me you forgot.”

You shift, already shaking your head. “Yeah, I’m not really feeling it.”

There’s a dramatic groan on the other end. “You never feel it. All you do lately is ghost me and rot. I swear to god, if you keep hiding out like this you’re gonna forget how to speak to actual human beings.”

“I talk to people,” you say, weakly.

“Your laptop doesn’t count.”

You rub a hand over your face. “I just don’t know if I’m up for a whole thing.”

“Well, tough shit. You need to get out. I love you, but you are one bad day away from turning into a cryptid. Go shower, put on something slutty, and come drink with me.”

You open your mouth to argue again but you can’t. Because they’re right. You’re restless. Cooped up. You’ve been avoiding Vi so hard it’s turned your whole life into one long detour. Maybe going out, getting drunk, being around noise and people and anything else will shake something loose.

“…Fine,” you mutter.

“Yes! I’ll text you the address. Don’t bail. I swear to god.”

Forty-five minutes later, you’re in the back of an Uber, nervously tugging at the hem of your skirt. The house comes into view a block away—already loud, already packed. Bass vibrates through the ground as people swarm the front lawn, red cups in hand, someone sitting on the roof with a blunt and shouting down at the crowd like a prophet.

You thank the driver and step out, immediately hit with the smell of weed, beer, and something grilling. Surely, drunk people handling open flame can’t be a good idea. There are at least fifty people milling around outside, and the inside looks worse.

You pull your phone out and text:

where are you

Then you square your shoulders and head in.

It’s loud. Hot. Bodies everywhere, grinding in time to a beat you can’t even hear properly over the roar of voices. Someone offers you a jello shot in passing. Another guy bumps into your shoulder, mumbles a half-assed apology, then keeps moving. You duck through the crowd, trying not to trip over the discarded beer cans and crushed Solo cups.

You make a beeline for the kitchen. You’re not surviving this without at least one drink. Or, several.

There’s a half-stocked table with a plastic bottle of vodka, two mixers, and a tub of something suspiciously blue. You reach for the vodka, grab a clean-ish cup, and start pouring. Your focus is entirely on not thinking about how sticky the counters are and whether this juice is warm when you hear:

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

The voice cuts through the noise, smooth and unmistakable.

You freeze mid-pour.

Then slowly, you turn your head.

Vi is leaning in the doorway, solo cup in hand, tank top clinging to her chest like it was painted on, smirk lazy and eyes very, very focused on you.

“If you close your eyes right now, it’ll be like you didn’t,” you answer with a shrug. Vi doesn’t move from the doorway, just leans her shoulder against the frame, her gaze sliding down your body and back up like she’s sizing you up…and clearly liking what she sees.

You don’t rise to it. Not right away.

Instead, you turn back to your drink and finish pouring. “And why are you here, Violet?”

“I pretty much live here on the weekends,” she says, mouth already lifting into a grin. “What’s your excuse?”

You take a sip before answering. “Got dragged. Against my will.”

Vi pushes off the doorframe and starts walking into the kitchen. Too casually. Like she’s not closing the space between you on purpose. “Don’t look so miserable. You clean up nice.”

“Don’t flirt with me.”

“Wasn’t flirting,” she says, stopping just close enough that her voice cuts clean through the noise around you. “Just stating facts.”

You glare at her, annoyed at how easily she can slide back into this. How much she’s making you want to slip right back into it with her. 

“I thought you were letting me play my little game,” you say dryly.

Vi’s mouth quirks up. “I was. But now you’re here. Looking hot. Making eyes at me.”

“Making eyes at you?” You scoff. “You wish.”

“I do, actually.” She raises her cup like a toast. “What can I say? I’m a dreamer.”

You narrow your eyes at her, the way she’s standing just a little too close. It’s definitely so you can hear each other better over the party. Definitely that. But it doesn’t help that she smells like sweat and smoke and whatever cologne it is that she wears, and she’s standing there with her stupid arms out, tattoos peeking past the edge of her tank top, grinning at you like you’re already halfway in her bed.

You hate her. You hate how good she looks right now.

“You’re exhausting,” you mutter.

Vi leans in, voice low. “You missed me.”

You roll your eyes. “I missed not hearing your voice.”

“Aw,” she says, cocking her head. “So you were thinking about me.”

You don’t respond. Not with words. Just take another sip and shoot her a look that should tell her to back off.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she shifts even closer, the edge of her cup tapping yours.

“You know,” Vi says, grin slow and smug, “you can keep pretending you don’t want me, but that act’s wearing real thin.”

You force yourself to meet her gaze, even if your heart is punching through your ribs. “And what if I don’t have to pretend?”

She raises a brow, clearly enjoying the hell out of this. “Then why are you still standing here? In my space. Drinking my shitty vodka. Looking like you want me to push you against the fridge?”

You scowl, because the worst part is that she’s not entirely wrong. You swallow hard and tilt your chin up. “Maybe I just came for the punch.”

“Sure.” Vi smiles, wide and slow. “Though, I’d prefer you come for me.”

You deadpan, not missing a beat. “That just gave me chills.”

She laughs, clearly unbothered. “Hot ones?”

“You really gotta work on your lines, Vi.”

She shrugs, still grinning like she’s winning. And she is—she’s got you pressed up against the counter, the edge biting into your lower back as she takes another slow step forward. Her arms come up, bracketing you on either side, palms flat against the cabinet behind you. It’s not quite trapping you, but it’s close.

Way too close.

You can smell the beer on her breath, the smoke in her hair, the clean hint of her soap still clinging under the sweat and party haze. Your eyes flick up to hers and she's looking at you like you’re already undressed. Like she’s just waiting for you to fold.

She leans in, just slightly, and you freeze.

The noise of the party dims in your head, like it’s been pushed underwater. All you can hear is your own breathing. Hers. The way the air shifts between your mouths as she tilts her head and lowers it, the way her eyes drop to your lips for just a second too long.

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re not sure if you want to close the distance or if you’re just waiting for her to do it for you. Her mouth brushes yours just barely. Not a kiss. Just contact. Just heat.

And you know you’re not going to pull away. You know you’re about to be making out with Vi in the middle of a party, entirely sober and of sound mind. So much for restraint.

But then, before anything else can happen, a fresh wave of people bursts into the kitchen. Loud, laughing, drunk and jostling. The door slams against the wall, someone yells something about shots, and then—

“Ayo!” someone shouts. “Vi, hell yeah, gettin’ some tonight!”

A chorus of cheers and whistles follows, all directed at the two of you.

Vi doesn’t react much. She just sighs, still too close, jaw tight like she’s annoyed but not surprised.

You, on the other hand, snap right back into reality.

Your body goes cold. Whatever haze you were in clears like a slap to the face. You duck under her arm without thinking, pushing past her hard enough that she takes a step back.

“Hey—” she starts, reaching after you.

But you’re already walking away, cup abandoned on the counter, heart hammering against your ribs. You pull out your phone with shaky hands and shoot off a text to your friend.

stomach’s fucked. heading out early. sorry

You don’t wait for a reply. You’re already pushing through the front door, the throb of the party behind you fading into the night air. Thankfully, most of the people milling about outside have retreated inside, probably to escape the chill. Cool, damp, quiet. You’re barely halfway down the front walk, your arms folded tight across your chest and your heart trying to punch through your ribs, when you hear footsteps behind you.

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“Vi,” you groan, not stopping. “Seriously. What is your problem?”

“Problem?” she echoes, a little breathless as she catches up. “Jesus. You make it sound like I’m stalking you.”

“You are stalking me.”

“Correction,” she says, matching your pace like it’s no big deal. “I’m confronting my emotionally constipated roommate. Totally different thing.”

You stop walking.

Turn.

Cross your arms tighter, like it’ll protect you from the pull of her. “Why, Vi? What’s your deal?”

She raises a brow. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

You gesture between you. “This. Me. Whatever this game is you’re playing. I’m not interested in a one-night stand that turns into six months of dodging you in my own dorm. So if that’s what you’re after, save us both the time.”

Vi doesn’t answer right away. Her grin fades. Her hands slip into the back pockets of her jeans and she shifts her weight like she’s thinking, or maybe just trying not to say the wrong thing. “I feel like you’re doing that right now and we haven’t even done the hooking up part.”

You blink. “What?”

“Hate to break it to you, Firecracker, but I know that you’ve been holding up in the library for hours on end just to avoid me. I’m not stupid which I’m sure is a surprise to you.” She’s looking incredibly amused now.

You sigh, running your hand across your forehead. “Because I didn’t want to have this conversation. Fun fact, this is deeply uncomfortable for me and maybe it would be easier if I was a hundred percent on saying no, but I’m not.”

“Then don’t say no.” she says. Like it’s simple.

You roll your eyes, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself once more. Maybe it’s because you don’t trust yourself to leave them free; you don’t trust yourself to not reach out for her when she’s this close. It’s sickening.

“Vi, as much as I would love to have irresponsible, casual sex—”

“You’re not casual to me. That’s the problem.”

You scoff, but it’s weak. “Vi…”

“I haven’t been able to come,” she cuts in, “without thinking about the sounds you made in my truck. Can’t get you out of my head, if I’m honest. I was trying to do the right thing, letting you have your space and shit but I see you’re the spiraling type. So, maybe that wasn’t the best idea.”

That shuts you up.

You narrow your eyes. “So that’s it? That’s the difference? I made hotter noises than the rest of your rotation?”

Vi groans and steps forward, hands lifting in defeat. Then they’re sliding low to wrap around your waist and pulling you close enough that your hips are pressed together. You’re so fucked.

“No,” she says, voice low now. Honest. “It’s the way you look at me like I’m an idiot and you’re a little bit into it. The way you study until your eyes are bloodshot and you look up at me with that dumb, sleepy look when I tell you to take a break. It’s the fact that you’re mean to me and I think it’s hot as fuck. You’re clever, and sharp, and so fucking pretty when you’re pissed off, and I think about you all the time.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

“And yeah,” Vi adds, a little breathless now, “I would really like to fuck you.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and sweet and dangerous.

You arch a brow, trying not to let your pulse show. “Did you drive here?”

Vi’s lips curl up, sharp and smug. “Yup. No drinks for me. Got a game tomorrow.”

You hesitate just a beat longer, then sigh like it’s a huge inconvenience. “Then take me home.”

Vi grins, all teeth and hunger, and slides a hand up to the small of your back.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

She leads you down the sidewalk, hand warm and steady against your spine, toward her truck.

—

Any reservations you had melt the second Vi kicks your door shut behind the two of you. The sound echoes through the room, heavy and final.

Then she’s on you, pressing forward like she’s been holding herself back for weeks, like she’s afraid you might vanish again if she doesn’t act fast. Her mouth finds yours in a kiss that’s rough and hungry, all teeth and breath and the kind of heat that catches in your throat..

It’s a heady, dizzying realization: that Vi wants you. Not just because she said so, but in the way her hands grip your waist like she’s grounding herself, in the way she kisses you like she's trying to memorize the taste of you.

You let her back you up until your spine bumps against the door. One of your hands slides up into her hair, fingers twisting in those short, soft strands to keep her close. You tug gently, and she groans against your mouth.

She pulls back just enough to say, breathless, “You ever gonna tell me you want me?”

You raise a brow, lips already swollen from the kiss. “And feed your ego? I think not.”

Vi grins, sharp and wolfish. “I’m sure I could get it out of you,” she murmurs, dropping her voice just enough to send a thrill down your spine.Then she presses her thigh between your legs—right up against the seam of your pants—and pushes.

You suck in a breath. Or try to.

Your hips move on instinct, grinding your cunt against the thick muscle of her leg before you can even think twice. The friction is blunt and perfect, not nearly enough, but more than enough to send a pathetic sound crawling up your throat.

You don’t let it out. Instead, you lurch forward, crashing your mouth against hers like you can drown the need with another kiss.

Vi makes a low, pleased noise into your mouth, her hand sliding up to cup the base of your throat.She angles your head with practiced ease, deepening the kiss until you’re melting against her, toes curling inside your shoes.

There’s no time for shame. No room for embarrassment over how quickly your body responds to hers because her hands are already sliding under the hem of your shirt, calloused palms hot against your bare skin.

Vi’s breath catches.

“Oh,” she says, lips brushing your cheek now, a giddy little laugh following. “Nice.”

Her fingers find your breasts without hesitation, palms cupping them with the kind of eager, greedy affection that makes your knees go a little weak. She squeezes once, then again—slow and deliberate—and her grin returns, sloppier this time, more pleased with herself than ever.

“Missed these guys,” she mutters, voice rough, tongue flicking against the corner of your mouth before she kisses you again.

“Missed you.”

“Of course you did,” you manage, trying to sound unaffected, but your voice is a little too breathy and your brain’s already starting to get soft around the edges. Vi just hums, clearly unbothered by your sarcasm. She tugs your shirt up, bunching it just below your collarbone, and then nudges it toward your mouth.

“Bite,” she says, voice low and commanding, like a challenge.

You don’t even hesitate. You take the fabric between your teeth and hold it there, your hands dropping to her shoulders for balance as Vi drops her head.

Then her mouth closes around your nipple, hot and wet and just a little bit teasing.

Vi hums against your nipple, mouth warm and lazy, tongue flicking just to the point of unbearable. Her hands stay fixed around your waist, thumbs stroking the soft skin there like she’s savoring it, like she’s still deciding what to do with all of you. And just when you think you might actually lose it, just when your hips start moving against her thigh again with zero thought behind it—

She pulls away.

You whine, quiet and involuntary.

She leans back enough to take in the sight of you—your shirt still tugged between your teeth, flushed chest rising and falling quick, legs tense and shifting where they wrap around her.

“Well,” Vi says, voice rough but teasing, “we should probably take these off before one of us catches fire.”

You drop the fabric from your mouth, blinking down at her. “You first.” But you’re already pulling your shirt over your head and tossing it in the general direction of your hamper. 

Vi grins. “Don’t tempt me.”

But she steps back, hands finding the waistband of your pants. “Gotta hold yourself up for a sec, baby,” she murmurs, and you do. Just long enough for her to tug your pants and underwear down your legs, dragging her fingers along your thighs like she’s memorizing every inch. She doesn’t even look away as she tosses the clothes to the floor.

She straightens, chest rising with a sharp inhale.

And then, “Yours or mine?”

You glance between the beds.

And then you lie down on hers.

If it has something to do with wanting to be the last thing she thinks about when she’s falling asleep? When she’s lying here alone? That’s your business.

Vi whistles low under her breath. “Now, there’s a sight for sore eyes.”

“Vi. Get naked, now.”

She peels her shirt off without another word, revealing toned shoulders, strong arms, and a sports bra she makes quick work of. Her jeans follow in one fluid motion. She kicks everything to the floor with zero shame and climbs into the bed after you.

She’s on you again in an instant. Mouth back on yours, tongue slipping past your lips without hesitation. Her hands roam now, sliding down your sides, gripping your thigh, cupping your ass. You let yourself melt into her touch, arching up into her touch, matching her kiss with everything you’ve been holding back for far too long.

You shift, pushing her onto her back with a hand on her chest. She grunts, clearly loving the change in pace, and you swing your leg over to straddle her. Her hands immediately slide to your hips, holding you in place.

You lean down, kissing her harder now, hungrier.

She’s warm beneath you, all smooth skin and flexing muscle, and your hands roam greedily—chest, ribs, stomach, the curve of her waist. You press your forehead to hers for a breath, and her eyes search yours like she’s trying to read your mind.

Then you roll your hips down.

The drag of your wet cunt against hers makes you both gasp.

Vi groans, head tipping back into the pillow. “Oh fuck.”

The contact is sharp and blinding. Slick, hot, all pressure and friction and not nearly enough. You shift again, hips rocking, trying to find a rhythm. Her hands fly back to your waist, guiding you, grinding up into you like she needs it just as bad.

You’re both panting now, sweat slick on skin, muscles straining as your hips grind together. Every slow drag of your cunt against Vi’s has your nerves sparking, your legs starting to shake from the effort of holding back. She feels so good beneath you—warm, wet, the swell of her thighs flexing between yours as she meets every roll of your hips with a thrust of her own.

Vi’s got her head tipped back, throat exposed, mouth open like she’s about to start praying. One hand stays locked on your waist, but the other comes up to your breast, squeezing, teasing, the pad of her thumb flicking lazily over your nipple.

“You look perfect,” she groans, voice ragged. “Riding me so pretty. You needed this?”

“Fuck,” is your breathless reply.

Every grind sends heat coiling lower in your gut, building pressure with every slick, perfect stroke of skin against skin. The contact is raw, messy, exactly what you didn’t know you needed. You gasp as your clits slide against one another in a perfect glide, adding just enough pressure to tip you over.

“Vi—” The sound is punched out and whiny.

She hears the edge in your voice. Smirks. “Yeah, baby? You close?”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as your movements grow erratic. “Fuck—fuck, I—”

“Go ahead,” she breathes, clearly on edge herself. “Come for me, baby.”

The orgasm rips through you fast and hot, spine arching, hands bracing against her chest as you cry out. Your thighs tremble around her hips, and you collapse forward with a choked moan, your breath caught somewhere between a sob and a gasp.

Vi holds you through it, grinding up into you a couple more times, groaning and panting into the shell of your ear. It’s enough to have your sensitive clit throbbing against hers. She comes, squeezing you closer, her face buried in the crook of your neck.

The two of you stay like that for a moment, Vi pepping small, wet kisses into the curve of your neck. Then, she’s shifting, sitting up.

With surprising gentleness, she lifts you just enough to slide her body down and reposition you over her lap. You blink down at her, confused, still high from release. Your legs end up on either side of her waist, your cunt spread open against the soft line of her abs and your back still lying on the bed.

“Relax,” she says, grinning down at you like the devil she is. “Keep these open for me?” She asks, tapping your thigh until you fully let your legs fall open. Her hands slide between your legs, thumbs teasing at your folds. It’s soft at first, slow, just gliding over your overstimulated skin. You whimper, twitching.

“You’re alright,” she soothes, fingers spreading your cunt wider so she can really look. “You don’t have to be quiet here. Let me hear those noises. It’s cute.”

She circles your clit once, deliberately light, and you jolt. “Still sensitive,” she muses, and then without warning, sinks two fingers into you.

You gasp, loud and raw, hips bucking forward as your hands scramble for purchase in the sheets below you. Vi moves slowly at first, just enough to keep you hovering on the edge. Her fingers curl slightly, seeking, probing, and when she finds that sweet spot inside you, you swear you see stars.

“Fuck! Vi.”

Her pace picks up. Still steady, but firmer now. Focused. She knows exactly what she’s doing, every thrust angled perfectly to make your whole body sing. Your breath quickens again, pleasure winding you tighter with every stroke.

But just when it starts to crest, she pulls back. Just a little. Not enough to let you fall, not enough to let you come.

You groan, half in frustration. “What the fuck?” You try to fuck yourself on her fingers only to feel her pull further back, forcing you to take exactly what she chooses to give you. “You know what I wanna hear,” she murmurs, fingers still moving, just barely. “Say it.”

Your head tips back. You’re too close, too wrung out to play her games. “What are you talking about?” You whine, trying to clench your legs together to chase some form of relief. Vi makes a disapproving noise and holds your leg open with her free hand.

“Tell me you want this,” she says, voice low and teasing, her other hand sliding up to cup your breast again. “Tell me it feels good.”

You clench around her fingers involuntarily, body betraying your pride.

“Tell me you want me.”

Your breath hitches, chest heaving.

You’re already so close. You can feel it building again, that second wave, just out of reach.

“I—” you pant. “I want this. I want you. It feels…fuck you, it feels so good.”

Vi grins. It’s slow. Satisfied. Almost smug.

“That’s my girl.”

When she starts up again this time, she quickly builds speed. She fucks her fingers into you until your back is arching from the bed. Then, she’s sliding her hand from your thigh to slide her thumb across your clit. You don’t last long after that.

This orgasm hits you even harder. Your whole body locks, thighs trembling, mouth open on a soundless cry as your cunt clamps down around her fingers. She fucks you through it, lips brushing your jaw, murmuring praise until you slump forward, boneless and gasping.

Vi leans down to plant a kiss above your clit before pulling you up and against her side.The two of you remain cuddled together in her bed until the following morning. When Vi wakes up, she takes one look at you, smiles like an idiot and spends enough time kissing you that she’s late for her first class.

It’s about fifteen minutes later when you get a text from her, insisting that you come to her game later. Naturally, you tell her that you’ll be there.

[rhettrosunsets]

Missions And Moss - Petals And Protection Series| Boblena X Fem!Reader

Pairing: Robert Reynolds X Fem!Floral Powered Reader X Yelena Belova (Boblena X Reader)

Category: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Slight Miscommunication, Fluffy Ending.

Summary: Val told you it was supposed to be a simple mission. No agents, no combat, just a cleanup mission to clear a facility of the nature that had taken it over since it had been abandoned. But it didn't end up being so simple, and you returned with a pretty nasty injury. But the worst of all? No one had told Bob and Yelena you'd be going on this mission.

Based on this ask here!

Masterlist

Read More Of The Petals And Protection Series Here!

Warnings: Canon Marvel Violence!! mention of blood, bruises and cuts. Mentions of reader needing stitches for her wound. Mention of reader having a concussion. mention of IV. reader has a similar origin to Bob's and her background is alluded to in parts of this. Use of pet names for reader such as baby, sweet girl, darling-girl, etc. No use of Y/N. No description of reader. Reader is going THROUGH it, yet once again. Bob almost voiding out. Reader miscommunicates with Bob and Yelena a bit. Bob and Yelena don't play about their girlfriend.

Notes: Aaa!! Anon thank you sooooo much for requesting the two parts for this series. This series is my bby and I absolutely adore getting to write for it, so thank you so much for requesting! I hope I did your ask justice and that you enjoy it!❤️❤️

The day definitely hadn’t gone as you had planned. Originally, you were going to try to make some new tea mixes, maybe try making some new healing balms with the herb’s you had asked Yelena to run out to get you. 

But then Val had called you, asking if you could go on a ‘quick’ mission for her. The mission brief had called it a simple debris clearing operation.

There was an abandoned facility where nature had pretty much taken over the entire facility. Apparently there was old paperwork inside that could be useful, and Val wanted it. It was essentially a cleanup task but you were the only one on the team whose powers could manipulate the terrain and nature that had taken over the building.

So, Val sent you.

But she sent you alone. You had no backup, no partner trained in combat. Just a standard earpiece, a vague set of coordinates, and a pat on the shoulder telling you that you'd be fine.

You were scared, but over your time spent at the tower and dating Bob and Yelena you’d become so much more confident and assured of yourself. You’d wanted to do this, to prove something to yourself. 

You knew you didn’t have anything to prove to anyone else, you’d gotten over that. You had a good relationship with the team, you were absolutely adored by your two partners, and you could manipulate nature. This was simply a you vs yourself thing at this point, and you wanted to take your new confidence and see what you could do with it.

There was just a tiny hitch in this process. Bob and Yelena had no absolutely idea you were going on this mission.

They weren’t at the tower when you left. Bob had been helping Ava run diagnostics on something Val had wanted back quickly, and Yelena had gone to pick up some rare herbs you’d asked for from the market.

 It wasn’t that you kept the mission from them per say. You had left a note detailing what you were doing and where you’d be on the window before you had left.

But you’d made a mistake in the process. The window was still open and after you left the tower, a large gust of wind had come and completely blown the note away.

The mission had started out easy enough.

It was just like Val had said it would be, basically a cleanup mission. Your powers worked amazing and you felt really good about yourself. This is something you couldn't have even dreamed of trying to do six months prior and you have your partners to thank for that, as they had been such an important part of your healing process.

The vines and roots parted and worked away from the building as you guided them to a safer location making sure that even if someone came up here to get those files, the plant’s would be okay. It wasn’t fair to blame nature for just doing It’s natural process and you wanted to protect it as much as you could, even if that's not why you were on the mission.

It had been eerily quiet outside the trees barely rustling and so quiet all you could hear was the plants parting and moving, but you chalked it up to abandonment and the fact that the location was so isolated. 

But then it wasn’t so lonely

You hadn’t expected any sort of agents to be here. Val told you absolutely no one would be here, that you’d just come out, do what needed to be done and then you could leave.

But here they were, four agents. They were masked, aggressive and fast. The kind of people who weren’t supposed to be there, and who definitely weren’t expecting someone like you to be on this mission.

You fought, harder than anyone probably thought you could. The training lessons Bob and Yelena had given you seemingly kicked in paired with adrenaline. You managed to punch one of the agents in the nose hearing a sickening cracking noise that made you wince as your own hand throbbed.

You debated using your powers, and started sneaking vines up behind as you kept up in combat. The vines got three of the agents held up as they struggled to get up. But you weren’t quick enough with the forth, who managed to give you a nasty gash across your abdomen. 

You knew that was probably going to require stitches. You got the vines around the last agent, clutching your abdomen with one hand trying to keep as much pressure as you could on it. You ran as fast as you could to the jet, and as soon as you got in, you began to feel dizzy and immediately tip over, your head smacking the ground harshly as everything fades to black.

Back at the tower, absolute panic had erupted.

Yelena had come back from the market, herbs in hand and ready to watch you face light up when she told you that they had everything in stock for once. But she was met with you nowhere in sight.

At first she wasn’t majorly concerned, she was just more so confused?

She started looking around for you, calling your name and maybe figuring you were just taking a nap or had dozed off somewhere. She called Bob to ask if you were with him, but he told Yelena he was with Ava on the way back after finishing some diagnostic mission for some technology Val had wanted. She told him not to worry that you might have just fallen asleep and she’d look for you some more.

But as she kept looking, she found nothing. 

“Where is she?” Yelena asked, barely containing her panic. Bob had finally gotten back to the tower, and you was still nowhere in sight. The kitchen, your shared room, the sunroom, all completely empty with no sign of you.

“Maybe she’s in the green house?” Bob said his voice tight, already moving down the hall. “She said she wanted to check on the lavender pots yesterday.” But the greenhouse was empty.

Bob’s breathing started to speed up, his hands starting to twitch “She wouldn’t just leave?”

“No” Yelena agreed, as she paced slightly. “Not without telling us.” Yelena spotted something resting on the counter that made her eyes widen even more as she walked over and grabbed it.

It was your phone that lit up with a lock screen of you three all making stupid faces into the camera during a movie night, one of your favorite memories. You were making a peace sign while yelena stuck her tongue out and Bob was kissing your cheek.

Now she knew something had to be wrong. "And especially not without her phone?!” Yelena exclaimed loudly, her voice full of panic now.

No one on the team had seen you either. Not since before Yelena had seen you last. Not Bucky, not Alexei, not Ava. Not even John. Not a single person on the team knew where you were, there was no note, and your phone that you took everywhere with you was sitting on the kitchen counter.

That was the moment Bob and Yelena knew something was truly wrong, and they were going to figure out what had happened. The first person on their list that they were going to question was Val.

She had been itching to get you on missions, knowing your powers could help in some instances, but everyone was quick to turn her down. Knowing you were still healing from past traumas and that you needed more combat training before they even thought of you coming with them.

They knew you were strong and that you could handle yourself, that wasn't even a question after everything you had been through. But they wanted you to be able to heal, to not feel exploited after everything. To just have a chance to be yourself without anyones expectations.

Val didn’t even look up when they stormed in, the door whipping opening and slamming behind them with a loud bang that echoed through the office.

“Where is she?” Bob’s voice cracked as he spoke harshly, his hands fidgeting as one of Yelena’s snaked over to grasp his hand in hers.

Val glanced at them over the rim of her coffee with a raised eyebrow and slight scoff. “She’s on assignment.”

Yelena froze, her body stiffening as her eyes darkened entirely, muttering “She’s what?” with such a cool tone, that it would scare anyone in their right mind if they knew her.

“It’s a low-level mission” Val replied nonchalantly looking over some paperwork on her desk. “It’s completely environmental, just clearing an old abandoned facility we needed. She’s the only one who’s powers work with that stuff, and she was happy to take it. No one will be out there anyways.”

“You sent her out alone?” Bob’s voice was dangerous, a deep almost dark tone that Yelena hadn’t heard in over two years. Yelena’s head snapped toward him in alarm as she saw his eyes had begun to flicker, bright gold leaking into his irises. 

Yelena gripped Bob’s hand tighter trying to calm him down silently, ground him a bit while she continued to lash out at Val for being so stupid. “She’s not trained for combat!” Yelena snapped. “She’s not supposed to go without one of us! She needs backup, Val!”

Val set her mug down, rolling her eyes at Yelena’s dramatics. “She’s not a child who needs protecting. She was capable of this mission whether you two like it or not.”

Bob laughed at that, his voice darkening more by the second. “We taught her self-defense in case she needed it. Not so you could send her on a mission alone with absolutely no back up, she-” His fists clenching the desk hard enough that the wood beneath them cracked slightly.

“I assessed the risk” Val interrupted, clearly unbothered as she stared at the two fuming people in front of her. “It’s not a dangerous mis-”

Bob cut her off, his voice unsteady and full of rage “She’s not expendable.”

Yelena’s other hand darted out to grab Bob’s wrist to try to turn him towards her as his now gold eye’s darkened entirely, his whole body humming with fury and rage. The air around them seemed to stop for a moment, as if it was waiting for something to snap. “Bob” Yelena said softly, but urgently trying to get him to look away from Val. “Look at me, look at me, Darling.”

His eyes flicked toward her, his body still shaking with wrath as Yelena continued quickly. “She’s okay. She has to be, our girl is strong and we’ll find her. But we can’t deal with this right now, I need you to come back to me, please."

He exhaled sharply, like he was barely able to hold the weight in his chest as his breathing slowly began to calm, but his eyes still a haunting gold. 

Val folded her arms, leaning back in her chair “I understand you two are upset-”

“No” Yelena interrupted her voice cutting the conversation like a knife. “You don’t understand. If she doesn’t make it back? if you’ve taken her from us for a fucking mission, then absolutely nothing will stop us from what we will do. You hear me?”

Bob’s breathing slowed, but the burn in his eyes and shaking of his hands remained. “She comes back alive.” he said, his voice wrecked and dark “And if anything has happened to her. You have a whole team of people who work for you that will make you regret it.”

Val’s eyes flicked toward them, but she said nothing. The silence eerie as Bob and Yelena’s ragged breaths filled the room.

The silence was broken by the intercom call coming into Val’s office. “Agent has returned and is now in Medical. Agent returned unconscious, deep laceration, and minor head injury. Prepping stitches and IV.”

Bob and Yelena were already gone before the sentence ended, and Val had a chance to look at them again.

Yelena got there first, nearly skidding into the doorway with Bob right behind her. Their breath was ragged and their faces pale with fury and fear.

The second they saw you laid out across the sterile bed with something in your nose to help you breathe better and heavy gauze wrapped around your side, both of them froze.

The nurse walked in behind them and saw the looks on their faces, deciding to give them a run down and hopefully save them some panic. “She’s got a concussion, a deep cut to her lower abdomen that’s been stitched, and some bruises. She hasn’t woken up yet, but her vitals are stabilizing. She’s likely to make a full recovery.”

Bob barely heard her as he and Yelena stood by the bed. His hand trembled as he ran it softly over your face gently. There were still remnants of dried blood near your ear leading up near your temple. “You’re okay, you’re gonna be okay.” he whispered, like if he said it, it would come true.

Yelena stood near Bob with her arms crossed. However her posture betrayed her, she was shaking, her body full of rage and grief as she stared down at you laying in a hospital bed. Eerily similar to how you had been when her and Bob had first found you.

“How long was she bleeding out?” Yelena asked, voice sharp. It wasn’t aimed at the nurse, but she was just so angry at everything that had happened, and seeing you in this state wasn’t helping it at all.

The nurse hesitated a bit, “Rough estimate? Probably forty-five minutes or so. She’d gotten back to the jet and passed out, probably hit her head and that’s what caused the concussion.”

Yelena turned her back to the nurse and gripped the edge of the bed to try to keep any ounce of composure that she could. She mutters softly “She shouldn’t have been alone, this should’ve never happened. She’s ours and we didn’t even know she was gone. She probably thinks we just left her out there for nothing.” Her thoughts overthinking by the second as she tries not to cry then and there.

Bob’s jaw clenched, as he gently grabs Yelena and pulls him into his own shaking arms. “We didn’t leave her because we didn’t know ‘Lena. Val did and we’re going to make sure she never does it again.”

It was almost three hours before your eyes fluttered open.

The light hurt your concussed brain and your mouth was overly dry. You could feel the dull ache in your side before you even moved and the bandages pulling at your skin when you shifted just slightly.

And then you realized, someone was holding your hand. Two someones at that.

“Baby?” Bob’s voice was the first thing you heard clearly, and then you felt a kiss pressed to your knuckles. You could tell that was Yelena because of the faint residue of the lip balm you made her that came off on your hand.

Your blurry vision slowly focused, albeit still slightly fuzzy revealing Bob And Yelena on either side of you, both of their eyes wide and tear filled.

“What happened?” you rasped out, your head pounding in protest as you do so.

“You scared the shit out of us, darling. You went on a mission, remember?” Yelena says softly, trying to be as quiet as she can with your concussion.

You blinked slowly, your brain protesting as you thought through the memories. Using your powers, getting attacked, passing out on the jet, and now waking up here with your partners beside you.

You groan as throw your head back on the pillow, wincing immediately as you do so.

“You almost bled out, baby” Bob whispered, bringing your hand to his lips this time, like it’s helping ground him. “You weren’t supposed to be alone. We didn’t know, otherwise we would’ve come. We will always come for you, baby."

You frowned, wincing slightly as you moved to sit up straighter. “Val said it was a low-level mission.”

Yelena let out a bitter laugh “She won’t be giving you any more missions alone."

“She had no right to do that.” Bob muttered, still trembling slightly. “Not after what happened to you before and not after everything we promised you, Baby.”

You looked between them, your heart aching at how wrecked they both looked. Bob’s eyes were dull with worry, and Yelena looked like she was a thread away from shattering. “I didn’t mean to worry you guys, I swear.” You whispered trying to avoid causing your own head any more pain than it was already in. “I was trying to be useful, and I wanted to prove something to myself. I can take care of myself sometimes too.”

“You are so useful, sweet-girl.” Yelena said instantly, kneeling beside you so she could look at your face better. “But you’re so much more than just someone who has powers or can go on missions. You’re everything to us, missions don’t mean anything, not if it means losing you or loosing the person that you are inside.”

The days that followed were filled with recovery. Bob and Yelena almost never left your bedside.

They only stepped out to grab tea. Yelena set up camp beside you with a stack of books and snacks, watching over you, and the team came by, offering soft encouragement but they all kept their distance, understanding how tense everything still was and how Bob and Yelena were still healing themselves after that scare.

Val hadn’t come by to talk to you, not after the way Yelena and Bob had stormed into her office the night you woke up. They made it very, very clear that if you ever ended up in danger again because of her choices, the consequences would be far worse than anything she’d ever imagined.

However, as your recovery loomed on, your room had begun to feel like a nest and a cage all at once. You were grateful for the rest, for Bob’s warm hands rubbing your back and shoulders, and Yelena’s braiding your hair, and giving you the world's gentlest kisses.

But tonight you needed something else, something normal. Something that made you feel like you again.

So you moved slowly and carefully, trying your best to not wake your partners on either side of you. You grabbed Bob’s soft oversized hoodie from the nearby chair and threw it on as fast as you could before you started to walk to the kitchen.

One hand braced against the wall as you walked as your side was still tight and aching from the stitches beneath your skin. The kitchen wasn’t far just a short walk down the hall and you knew you could make it.

As you entered the kitchen, your little plant on the windowsill, your favorite rosemary plant had begun to perk up again, mirroring your mood. You softly smiled at the plant, happy to have a feeling of normalcy back as you reached for the kettle and turned it on.

The soft whistle of boiling water was comforting, and was so grounding. The tea you chose was your favorite blend that you make, honey lavender.

 The scent wrapped around you like a blanket, the aroma filling the space as you poured slowly, cradling the mug between both hands. You took a sip and let out a soft hum, leaning your body against the counter as you tilt your head back softly, letting your eye’s gently close and taking in the peaceful ambiance.

And that’s when you heard it.

“Sweetheart?”

You froze. Your eyes opening instantly at the sound of Bob’s voice. “I was just making tea,” you said quietly, but not ashamed of your actions.

Bob crossed the room in seconds. “Baby, you’re still healing” he said, voice gentling as he took the mug from your hands like you might drop it, and placed it on the counter “What if you slipped or if you tore a stitch?”

Since your injury they've been more protective than ever, and while you absolutely love them for it. You just want them to go back to treating you like they had before the mission.

You loved them taking care of you, and you loved taking care of them wether it be by creating balms, soothing tea's or even just sitting with them after a particularly long mission, but since that mission and your injury, you hadn't been able to do any of that.

“I needed something normal, just something small.” You murmured back quietly.

Bob let out a soft breath, pressing a hand over his heart. “You scared the hell out of us, again. We woke up and you were just gone from the bed.”

You reached out for your tea, but Yelena was already guiding you gently to the couch, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you sat down with Bob following right behind. and handing you your tea once you were seated.

“I know I messed up, I should’ve told someone I was going. I shouldn’t have gone alone. But I don’t want to be locked away because of this injury.” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “I want to help, if I can. I know I can help, and I know I’ve been through hell, but I’m healing and i'm processing, and I want to use my powers for good when I can. I wan't to take care of you guys the way you take care of me."

Bob’s expression softened instantly. “Oh, baby.” he muttered softly his hands coming out to rub gentle circles on your wrists, so you can still hold your tea.

“We think you’re the strongest person we know, sweet-girl.”  Yelena added, her thumb coming to brush your cheek gently “But strong doesn’t mean you have to be alone. If you want to go on missions then when we find one’s that maybe you can help us with we’ll go on them. But we will go together, and not alone.”

Your eyes widened slightly, not expecting them to say that. “Wait, what? Are you serious?”

Bob continued “Baby. You’re our girl, of course we are going to want you to stay out of danger. But you have powers, and if you want to help and use them, then we aren’t going to tell you no, where your lovers, not your guardians. You’re a part of this team just like we are darling-girl. We just want you as safe as possible, which is why we want someone with you if you are to ever go on a mission.”

Tears stung your eyes, not from pain but from how seen you felt. You knew if you would’ve just talked to them about this beforehand, so much of your pain could’ve been avoided, but hearing the words come out of their mouths felt unreal.

But then again, they’ve always been your rocks, the safest place to be, and the ones who knew you better than anyone else, even yourself.

“But until then” Bob continued, taking one of your hands in both of his “you let us take care of you until your stitches heal. After that, we’ll try to find a rhythm where ‘Lena and I are a bit less overbearing, but you’re still protected and safe, and can go back to making your balms and tea's. Deal?”

You nodded, a bit overwhelmed and very in love with your partners. “Deal.”

Yelena leaned in and kissed your temple gently, her lips softly grazing the scar that was left there. “You’re allowed to need help, sweet girl. That’s not a weakness, that’s trust. The last thing we want to do is make you feel like you’re stuck, we just want you happy.”

You laughed, a bit watery but genuine as you say “I love you guys, so much.”

They both kiss your forehead softly, murmuring back soft 'i love you too's'. Bob helped you back to your feet, one hand on your lower back, while Yelena held your mug like it was the most precious thing in the world and she was guarding it for you.

Yelena softly started walking back to the bedroom and said “You still get your tea, but in bed. That’s non-negotiable for now.”

You laughed lightly, and nodded. The three of you walked slowly back to your room, your side still ached, your head still felt wobbly at times, But your heart? Your heart felt full, and you knew you were loved. 

And as you curled up between the two people who loved you most in the world, tea in hand and arms wrapped around your waist, and getting showered in tons of kisses you realized something.

You didn’t need to prove you were strong, they already believed it.

And now, so did you.

[mxmsuki]

a kid playing soldier.

pairing: abby x fem!reader

content & warnings: WLF abby, angst (and more angst), age gap (reader between 17 - 18 yo, abby 23 years old), slow SLOW burn, slightly smut, emotional hurt/comfort, heartbreak, introspective, raw, heavy with longing, reader turned WLF, multi chapter fic, no ellie/joel, reader insert, no reader description, no use of y/n, female reader, wlw, reader is virgin, 18+ only, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!!!

This is my first time writing, English is not my first language, so please be patient with me. Any constructive criticism is accepted as long as it is done with respect. I write what I'd like to read okay?

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER 1: what survives

The forest is on fire with screaming.

Not flames, not smoke, but chaos. Running feet. Shouting. The whistling, sharp and sudden, cuts through the trees like knives.

You stumble over a root, nearly fall, but Jake grabs your arm.

"Come on, keep going! Just-run, okay?! Just like told you."

You can't breathe. Your backpack is too heavy. You've lost one of your boots. Someone behind you screams, maybe Chelsea, maybe Nolan, you don't dare look back.

The Seraphites are closing in.

They ambushed without warning. A peaceful walk to scout a gas station turned into a slaughter. Now it's just the two of you, Jake, dragging you by the hand, blood on his neck, breathing hard.

"We're almost there," he pants, even though he isn't sure anymore. "Just past the-"

Something punches the air. Like the forest itself holds its breath.

Jake stops mid-step. His face changes, not with fear, but confusion, like his body knows something before he does. He stumbles, hand pressing instinctively to his chest.

And then you see it. An arrow.

Wood and steel jutting out between his ribs.

"Jake?"

He sinks into his knees. Another arrow finds him, lower this time, and crueler. His mouth opens, trying to speak. Blood bubbles at the corner of his lips.

Then his eyers find yours, wide and scared. And still, somehow, he smiles.

"Run," he whispers.

Your legs won´t move. Another whistle pierces the trees.

He grabs your wrist weakly, forces something into your hand, the MP3 player from his jacket. The one he always carried. Your fingers close around it automatically.

"Go."

His hand slips fro yours. He falls forward into your arms, and the last warmth leaves him.

Your scream dies in your throat. There's no time for grief. No time for anything but instinct.

You run.

It's been three days. Maybe four.

You don't know anymore.

You're curled beneath a fallen tree, dried blood caked to your tight. A gash runs hot and deep, the makeshift bandage soaked through. Your whole body aches, from crawling, from trembling, from surviving.

No food.

No water.

Only your brother's voice in your head.

"Run"

The woods are quiet now. Too quiet.

No birds. No footsteps. Just the wind against cracked bark, and the whistle that still echoes inside your ears.

You haven't cried since the first night. You can't. Your body won't let you. You just stay still. Hidden. Like prey.

The MP3 player is dead now. No more Dancing Queen. But you still clutch it like it might bring him back. Like it matters.

A rustle nearby.

Then footsteps. Not barefoot this time, heavy, solid. Boots.

You freeze.

Voices. Barked commands. Guns cocked. Flashlights. You can barely lift your head, but one lands on your face, blinding.

"HEY-"

You don't hear the rest.

Your fingers close tighter around the MP3, and everything fades.

Light burns through your eyelids.

Everything smells like metal and antiseptic. The low hum of voices, distant, like underwater. Your mouth is dry. Your leg pulses, not sharp pain, but something heavy and dull, stiched over with numbness.

You open your eyes.

The ceiling is too high. Bright white lights overhead. A sheet pulled up to your chest. A blanket that isn't yours.

You panic.

You bolt upright, too fast, and immediatly regret it. Your vision spins. Your head throbs. Something tugs at your arm, an IV.

"Easy, kid"

A voice. Calm, but not gentle.

You turn your head. A woman stands neaarby, arms crossed, dark curls tied back under a cloth band. Her expression is unreadable.

"You passed out on the woods. Lucky they found you when they did."

You stare.

Your throat doesn't work at first. Finally, a whisper:

"Where...?"

"Stadium." she steps closer, checks your vitals. "You're with the WLF now."

The Wolves.

You'd heard rumors. Violent. Organized. Merciless.

Her name tag reads Nora Harris.

"What's your name?" she asks.

You give it. It doesn't sound real when you say it.

Nora nods, but doesn't smile.

"You'll talk to Isaac soon. Until then, stay put. Don't try anything."

She leaves.

You're alone again.

Outside the infirmary curtain, boots stomp past. Voices argue. You hear someone laugh, harsh and sharp, nothing warm in it. You grip the edge of the bed, stare at your fingers.

Blood beneath your nails.

Jake's MP3 player is on the table beside your cot. Someone cleaned it, left it there like a cruel joke. You pick it up and press the buttons.

Nothing.

You curl back into the blanket. The sounds of the stadium keep going. So loud. So alive. And you, just a name and a wound.

You wake up again. Two soldiers come to get you.

No names. No smiles. They walk through the underground halls, past armories and makeshift classrooms. You pass people who glance at you like you're a stray animal. Some don't look at all.

You're taken to an office built into the concrete.

Inside waits Isaac.

You've never seen someone so still and quiet and terrifying.

"Sit."

You do.

His eyes stay on you. They don't blink much. You feel like he already knows everything, and is waiting to see if you lie.

"You were found on Seraphite ground."

You nod.

"How long were you alone?"

You try to answer. Your voice barely works.

"Three... four days."

"Who were you with?"

"My brother. A small group. We were headed north."

He watches you.

"Where are they now?

You look down.

"Dead."

A pause. Then:

"And yet you're here."

It's not a compliment. Not a question.

It's judgement.

You don't respond.

He leans back. Fold his hands.

"Some of my men think you're a spy. A plant."

"I'm not," you croak. "I lost my group. My brother-"

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I-"

He steps in front of you again, eyes narrowed.

"Then prove it."

He nods to a soldier near the door.

They drag in a Seraphite prisoner.

Bound. Bloodied. Barely conscious.

A knife is placed in your hand.

"Kill him."

You freeze.

"This is what we do here," Isaac says flatly. "If you're not one of them, you shouldn't have a problem making sure he doesn't go back."

Your hand shakes. You look down at the man. He's barely older than you.

You tighten your grip on the blade-

And then loosen it.

You drop it.

"I won't."

Isaac exhales like it's boring to him. Predictable.

"Of course not."

A pause.

"Maybe that means you're soft. Or maybe it means you didn't want to kill one of your own."

"I'm not one of them-"

"Prove it. If you won't kill him, you'll question him."

You're thrown into a dark room with the prisoner. No instructions.

He won't speak. You don´t make him.

You just sit. Bleeding leg stiff. Stomach hollow.

The hours drag. You don't break. You don't beg.

Eventually, a soldier comes to retrieve you.

You're back with Isaac. This time he doesn't even look up when you're brought back in.

"You didn't kill. You didn't ask. You didn't scream."

A pause.

"You're either very weak..."

He lifts his gaze, cold and calculating.

"Or very disciplined."

You stay silent.

"We'll find out which one soon."

He leans forward.

"You're not part of this pack. Not yet. But Nora needs help in the medbay. You'll go there."

"And if I don't?"

"Then you're wasting my time. And I don't tolerate waste."

You nod once.

"You'll be watched. You're not trusted. You're not welcome. Make yourself useful."

The soldier unlocks the door, doesn't even glance back at you.

"This is it."

He walks off without waiting.

You step inside, letting the door shut behind you.

There are two beds, one messier than the other. A half-unzipped duffel bag spills into the floor. There's a coat draped across the footboard and a cracked mug balanced on the windowsill.

The girl sitting crossed-legged on the far bed barely looks up.

"You're the stray?" she says.

You nod.

"Great," she sighs, and flops back against the matress. "You snore, and I'm kicking you in your sleep."

You don't answer. you just move to te empty bed and set the folded blanket down, stiff and still.

A pause.

"I'm Casey," she mumbles. "You got a name?"

You say it softly, almost unsure it still belongs to you.

She repeats it, then shrugs.

"Okay. You don't talk much. That's fine. Neither do I."

Another pause. She reaches under her pillow, pulls out a half-deck of bent cards, and starts flipping through them.

"Just don´t piss on the floor or anything, and we'll get along."

You sit on your bed slowly. The matress is thin, uneven. The pillow smells like dust and bleach.

You slide a hand into your coat pocket and pull out the old MP3 player. It hasn't worked since the forest.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then, carefully, you flip it over and pop open the battery pannel. One of the terminals is bent. You straighten it with the tip of a bobby pin from your pocket.

Click. Hold.

A flicker of static lighst the screen.

It's working.

You exhale like it´s the first breath all day.

You lie there in the dark, eyes open, listening to the quiet ache in your chest.

The next day, you went to the cafeteria.

The food is warm but tasteless. A gray lump of something in your tray.

You sit alone.

Around you, the stadium buzzes. Conversations, jokes, footsteps, clatter, but none of it touches you.

Then a voice carries across the room. Confident. Low. Laughing.

You don´t hear the words, just the tone. Sharp, solid. Like someone who's never had to make herself small.

Your eyes lift.

Across the cafeteria, a woman stands with a tray in her hand.

Broad shoulders. Muscular arms. Dark green shirt with sleeves rolled up. A smirk when someone nudges her. She walks like someone who belongs.

People seem to make space for her without realizing it. Like gravity.

You've never seen her before. But the way people look at her, you know she matters.

You don't know her name.

But suddenly, you want to.

@strangergraphics credits for the beautiful graphics!

chapter 1 is here! let me know what you think.

please reblog and leave a comment :)

DISCLAIMER

taglist? comment if u wanna be in!

get to know me :)

[jays-bonnie-on-the-side]

BUT NEVER AGAIN

PAIRING : beau arlen x younger fem!reader

SUMMARY : beau sees reader for the first time since he disowned her, on their anniversary of all days, and she isn’t alone.

WARNINGS : age gap. strong language. angst. fluff. smut. unprotected p in v. rough sex. pregnancy sex. makeup sex. semi-pubic sex. creampie. cockwarming. dom!beau. sub!reader. pregnant!reader. daddy!kink (if you squint). size kink. maiesiophilia. physical altercation. jealous!beau. slightly corrupt!sheriff.

A/N : just wanna start off with i’m sorry, this wasn’t supposed to take as long as it did. i have plenty of valid reasons as to why but the cutest one was each time i opened my laptop to write, my cat would hear and wander over to lay on the keyboard and my lap, refusing to get up. and if i dared try moving him, he’d bite me then go back to cuddling. anyways, i hope y’all enjoy the final part of this mini-series! (kind) thoughts are always appreciated.

You couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be happening. It had to have been a mistake. Why would God ever play such a cruel joke on you? After everything you’ve gone through with Beau, this was the last thing you needed. The irony was evident: You wanted nothing to do with your ex, and now you were pregnant with his child.

Fucking shit. You were filled with a mix of emotions: happy, sad, panic, excitement, to name a few. You dreamt of having Beau’s children. Who wouldn’t? He was a great man and, as far as you could tell, a great father. With everything going on, you weren’t sure what to do, but if one thing was certain, you were keeping it.

The problem wasn’t questioning what you’d do with your offspring’s life. No, the issue was your indecisiveness about whether to tell Beau or not. After all, he made his choice. He was ashamed and disowned you, so why would he want a pregnant you? Would you really give him a chance to disown your baby too?

But would he? Would he really want nothing to do with you or the product of love that was growing inside you? Or what if you told him and he only wanted you because of the baby? Too many thoughts were running through your head, making you dizzy. You gripped the bathroom countertop and closed your eyes, inhaling a deep breath.

I just need a sign, you thought. Any sign that tells me if I should tell Beau. Suddenly, your phone rang, causing you to jump in surprise. You looked at the device and your heart quickened with rage. It was your ex-cowboy—your sign. Fuck that!

You had hit the end call button, refusing to speak with him. Really, God? So not funny! You weren’t amused at the sign He sent you, and you weren’t going to listen either. Maybe that was your sign. Knowing how you truly felt when the opportunity to tell the sheriff arose.

After throwing the test in the trash, you walked to your bedroom. This can’t be happening. You climbed into bed and wrapped your body with your duvet, wishing, deep down, it was Beau’s warm embrace. The room was pitch black, the perfect setting to fall into a peaceful slumber, but you couldn’t sleep. No, the news of your unborn baby kept you up. You just wanted to talk to someone, and you hated that that someone happened to be Beau.

A week had passed, but not a moment when Beau didn’t try to win you back, and you certainly didn’t make it easy. You refused to answer his calls or texts, not that he blamed you. So, every morning since his conversation with Emily, he stopped by your work, hoping to get a chance to see you. When he didn’t, which was no surprise, he’d leave your favorite meal, and the most gorgeous roses the florist had to offer with one of your coworkers, instructing that they pass them along. Each bouquet came with a handwritten note, and despite your many warnings, you couldn’t resist reading each and every one.

I’m so sorry, princess. I was stupid and an idiot—a stupid idiot. Please forgive me.

Sweetheart, please call me.

I’m not giving you up, darlin’.

I’ll make it up to you. I’m gonna make this right. For us. I promise.

There’ll never be a moment when you’re not on my mind, sweetpea. I need you more and more.

I love & miss you more than you know, angel.

I’ll never forget the first time I laid eyes on you. Happy Anniversary, beautiful.

If he hadn’t disowned you, his attempts would’ve worked. Your heart wanted to let him in, but you knew better since he broke the very thing you told him not to. It was hard getting over a man like Beau, though you had no choice but to. For weeks, you were a complete wreck over him. However, as time passed, you began to heal. That was until the shock of your pregnancy.

Every reminder of him made your decision harder and harder. You so desperately wanted to tell Beau the truth. There were signs everywhere but you were too damn stubborn to listen. You knew you had to face him sooner or later, and you prayed it was the latter. But as your luck would have it, it was the former.

It was your anniversary, or what would’ve been if you were still together. Your heart was heavy and your body was weak, but you couldn’t call in to work again, especially when you had to train the new hire. So, on the rarest of warm days in early Spring, you put on your favorite summer dress, one you won’t admit was also Beau’s favorite. It was long & flowy, hugging you in just the right places while showing a tasteful amount of cleavage. If you were going to move on from the sheriff, you needed to enjoy the day instead of wallowing in it, and if putting on a nice dress helped, then so be it.

It was almost half past noon meaning your lunch break was coming up; Beau knew it like clockwork. Deciding to get out of the office, you asked Wren, the new associate, if he wanted to accompany you. He was new to town and didn’t know any good spots so you thought you’d be nice. He happily agreed, so you drove to your favorite brunch spot. The only downside was that it was down the street from Dewell & Hoyt Private Investigations, a place your ex-cowboy frequently visited.

Sure, it was risky but you had to rise above. And what were the chances that he happened to be on that side of town as you were? Being the Sheriff, he had more important things going on than keeping his eyes peeled for you everywhere he went...or so you thought. Beau jogs out of their office the second he catches a glimpse of your vehicle. His heart skips a beat as you and Wren exit your vehicle, and he can’t tell if it’s because it’s the first time he’s seen you in three weeks, or if it’s because some man, closer in age, is with you.

He knew this day might come but not this soon. Not when he hasn’t shown you that he’s changed. Not when your last memory of him is heartbreaking. Not while his heart still beat for you. You walk toward the diner and the cowboy’s feet move faster than they ever have before. As if it were slow motion, Wren begins to pull the door open just as Beau’s large hand wraps around your arm.

Instinctively, you pull out of the grasp before you even turn to see that it’s him. And when you do, your eyes widen in surprise. The very possibility of bumping into him materialized before you, and yet, here he stands—unexpected and undeniable. The father of your child. Fuck!

You take a few steps back, baffled that he had the nerve to touch you. “Sweetheart—”

“No. We’re not doing this.”

“Please, darlin’, I need to talk to you.”

His hand goes for yours but you move it away. “Damn it, Beau. No! I don’t want to hear it. Just go on somewhere.”

“But, Y/N, I—” He moves closer, eyes filled with so much emotion you could melt.

Wren steps in between you, unfamiliar with the situation yet brave enough to do so. Intrepidly, he reminds your ex, “Hey, man. She said she doesn’t want to talk.”

Beau’s attention shifts to the man before him, brows drawn together and eyes darker. “Excuse me?”

“You heard her: Leave her alone.”

The cowboy scoffs, amused by the pair the stranger seemed to have. Who the fuck does he think he is? He thought. “Listen, buddy, it’s best you just stay the hell out of our business.”

“I will when you walk away.”

Your ex takes a step closer, a daring look in his eyes. You know that look, and it’s dangerous. As your heart increases rapidly, you move around Wren and try adding distance between the two, but neither man moves.

“Hey, it’s alright. Let’s just go inside.” You encourage your associate.

Beau’s forehead wrinkles. He’s determined to tell you that he came clean to Emily. “I’m not leaving until we talk.”

His hand reaches toward your waist but Wren stops the Sheriff before he can make contact. The younger man shoves Johnny Law, warning him not to touch you. Beau stumbles back, completely caught off guard. An audible gasp leaves your lips; You hadn’t expected the escalation.

Your ex’s once chartreuse eyes turn to a forest green. He steps forward and Wren shoves him again, telling him something neither of you hears. His nostrils flare with rage and you can see the logic and law slip from his mind. Oh, shit... Before you can say a word, you witness Beau’s fist collide with his opponent’s jaw.

The impact makes an audible sound, one you feel in your bones. Wren’s body twists in the direction he was punched, nearly falling from the hard blow. With his balance compromised, he teeters back and forth, surely fighting unconsciousness and you’re shocked it wasn’t a swift knockout. He was a tall and lean male, just taller than your child’s father with a similar build. If you weren’t so hung up on your cowboy you would see how handsome Wren really was.

“You fucker,” The young man spits, swaying slightly.

He lunges forward and tackles the sheriff, nearly taking you down with them. You leap out of the way, fear coursing through your body at the possibility of your baby getting hurt. They wrestle on the ground while you stand back, watching with panicked eyes. Wren delivers a sucker punch to your ex’s cheek and though he deserves it—Lord knows as much—you can’t bear to see Beau hurt.

“Stop it!” You frantically cry.

The cowboy grabs the civilian and flips them over so he’s on top. He’s quick to strike the guy’s pretty face, again and again. Wren grunts in pain and it shatters your heart. You can tell he’s surprised at Beau’s strength as he struggles to break free of his hold. Though you’re terrified to get hit, you refuse to let the fight continue.

“Beau!” You run over and see your associate’s swollen and bloody face. “Beau, stop!” It’s risky but you try catching his flailing arm. “Get off of him!”

Whether it’s the growing crowd or your helpless tugs, maybe even both, Beau ceases the abuse. He rises from the beaten man, panting heavily. He reaches for his cuffs, shouting at Wren to turn over. The sun shines on the brass clipped to the sheriff’s belt and reflects into Wren’s eyes. He sees the badge and immediately curses to himself, knowing he was fucked.

“Now!”

“Okay, okay.” He lifts his hands in surrender and does as he’s told.

Beau immediately wraps Wren’s wrists and with ease, yanks him up from the ground. This isn’t right, you thought. He didn’t know. He was just trying to help me. Your ex escorts the new worker to his vehicle and you follow closely behind.

“Let him go!” You demand. “He didn’t know any better.”

“Sweetheart, stay outta this,” Beau warns sternly.

“No, this is my business, too!”

“We’ll talk later.”

“The hell we are—let him go!”

He opens the rear passenger door and damn near shoves the ‘criminal’ in. The cowboy walks around the front of his Defender and hops into the driver’s seat. You pound on his door, loudly insisting that he free your coworker. Instead, he starts his vehicle and tries his hardest to pay you no mind. He’s almost convinced to let the guy go on your behalf, but he just can’t. So, he speeds off.

You rush to your car, and as soon as you get in, you scream. You scream because of his fight with Wren. You scream because luck was never on your side. You scream because of all the days to see your ex, it had to be on your anniversary. You scream because you’re pregnant with his child. You scream because you realize how much you aren’t over him. You scream because you know if you don’t, you’ll cry.

With a deep breath, you race to the station. By the time you get there Wren’s in lockup, and Beau’s in his office. You aren’t sure if it’s your natural rage or the added hormones but your body was on fire and everyone you passed could see it too. The workers within the station come to a halt, seeing you beeline straight to the Sheriff to unleash some much-deserved wrath. However, one individual makes the mistake of stepping out in front of you.

“He’s busy right now. You’ll have to come back another time,” says Sargent Crowders.

“Fuck off, Madge.” You order and storm past her.

He heard you as soon as you entered the station, your heels clattering angrily against the tile floor. He knew he was in for it but he was ready. Or at least he thought so. He discarded his jacket on the back of his chair, the heat from his anger causing him to shed it. Too upset to sit at his desk, he stood as he waited for the background check on Wren to come through and for you.

“Let him out now!” You command the moment you enter his office.

“‘Can’t.”

“Like hell, you can’t! You’re the sheriff, or did you forget when you were beating the shit out of that poor man?”

He walks past you and calls from the doorframe, “Everybody, leave.”

“But, boss—” Poppernak begins but Beau interrupts.

“NOW!” His voice makes you flinch unexpectedly. You had never heard his voice reach that octave before. “All of you, get the hell out. And be back in 20.”

Everyone shuffles to the front doors, leaving you two alone. He walks back in and silently closes both doors to his space. He shuts each blind before hitting his mark beside his chair. His eyes are the same darkened color as they were earlier. You wait for him to speak before you counter.

“You know I respect you—”

“Oh, please!”

“But I would never tell you how to do your job so don’t tell me how to do mine.”

He had a fair point but you were too prideful and stubborn to admit it.

“He was just protecting me.”

“From who? Me?” He asks, his voice growing louder. “You know I would never hurt you.”

You scoff and the sound hits him right in the chest. “I’ve heard that lie before.”

“It isn't a lie.”

“Right..so tell me why we aren’t celebrating our eight-month anniversary again.”

He shakes his head in disgust at his regrettable actions. “Because I’m stupid.”

“That’s one word for it,” you murmur.

“I made a horrible mistake. Hell, mistakes, and there will never be enough apologies to reflect how sorry I am but I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

You roll your eyes but it strikes your heart. Damn it, Y/N, get it together.

“Don’t bother. I’m done giving you chances. After you kicked me out then pretended not to know me!” The memories are still fresh and it hits you harder today. “You deserve to have your ass handed to you.”

“You’re right.” He admits. “But you know I can’t let him go. He assaulted a sheriff.”

“You’re the one who threw the first punch! And plenty after. You’re supposed to be the sheriff and you abused your power. You could lose your job!”

He sighs in defeat. You’re right. This hadn’t been the first time he’d roughed someone up but it was the first time he’d had witnesses. He could lose his new permanent position. After he convinced Carla to stay in Montana with Emily, he accepted the offer and then met you.

“That’s…something I’ll have to deal with later but right now, all I want to do is talk to you.”

“We have nothing else to talk about unless it’s regarding Wren walking out of here today.”

He glances at the floor, a sly smirk involuntarily tugging at the corner of his mouth before licking his lips to mask it. His eyes lift from the ground and focus on you. God, she's so stubborn. He pauses, thinking it over. He knows he shouldn’t but he’ll do anything to repair your relationship. So, if that meant bending the rules and releasing the man who attacked him then so be it. Though envy influenced his actions, he knew he was wrong. He shouldn’t have reacted the way he did towards the young man.

“I’ll make you a deal,” He piques your interest, but you remain wary. “I’ll let him go after we talk.”

You hesitate but agree. “Fine. Talk.”

“Do you want to sit?” He offers you his large, comfortable chair, but you decline.

“No, I’m good here.”

“Okay,” He clears his throat, suddenly nervous despite his consistent daydreams about this very moment. “I know it’s probably too late, but I told Emily and Carla about you. About us.”

Your heart dares to jump excitedly, but your brain frowns against it. Did he expect you to applaud? Did he want a medal for doing what every boyfriend should’ve done from the start? For once, he’s right: It’s too late. But was it? Deep down, you don’t want it to be, especially with your growing fetus.

“And?”

“And I was foolish. It was all in my head, and to an extent, you were right. I was ashamed; Not of you, but of our age difference. I was scared I’d risk losing Emily when I should’ve thought of you, too. I know a daughter and an ex-wife wasn’t something you signed up for, and part of that turned into fear, that one day you’d wake up and realize you didn’t want me anymore.

“What if you want things I might not be able to give you? Hell, I don’t even know if I can produce any more kids. And I’m only getting older. What if that’s something that affects our decision to marry? To buy a house and live together. I was scared that if you had met the girls, you’d break Emily’s heart if you chose to leave. Most of all, I was scared I wasn’t good enough for you. And after all I’ve done to hurt you, I realized you’re better off without me. Lord knows I don’t want to lose you, but if moving on is what you need...well, I’ll love you even if you can’t ever love me again.”

You’re left speechless. All the anger, all the words, the hurt, and betrayal, suddenly fly out the window. You should be upset that your fire’s been extinguished by his honest and powerful words. Part of yourself curses your ability to be easily swooned. You stare into his precious green orbs, and a thought occurs: I hope our baby has his eyes. And you realize you’ve found your sign.

With a neutral face, you walk toward your cowboy and he swallows nervously. He isn’t sure what you’re going to do. It’s cute—satisfying even—that you make him so vulnerable. You halt before him, your eyes searching his for any sign of lies. When you can’t find any, you wrap your hands around his neck and pull him toward you.

Your lips gently meet his, moving in a soft yet firm dance. His shock paralyzes him for a moment; He didn’t expect this. Without wasting another beat, he kisses you back. All those weeks apart, all the pain, ignites a familiar spark. With much regret, you break away. He stares into your doe eyes, falling even deeper in love.

“I’ve never stopped.” A smile spreads on his handsome face, and you fear you’ll wipe it off after you come clean. All right, now or never. “About the concern of your reproduction...I don’t think that’ll be an issue.”

His brows furrow. I don’t get...Wait. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? Is she..? You see the wheels turn in his beautiful head. So, with a grin upon your pretty face, you confirm his suspicion.

“I’m pregnant.”

The air in his lungs vanishes as if he had been struck hard in the gut. His mind races, and so does his heart. He hadn’t expected this news, maybe ever again but here you were, the love of his life, telling him you’re pregnant with his unborn child. He stands frozen again, making you worry just slightly.

Oh, no. He’s upset. He doesn’t want any more babies, your mind automatically assumes. Suddenly, he breaks free from the block of ice and wraps his arms around you. He sweeps you off the ground, spinning you joyfully in a whirl of laughter, his delight infectious as you both revel in the moment.

“Oh, sweetheart, that’s the best news I’ve heard since Carla told me about Emily.” He puts you down, grabs your arms loosely, and looks at your small belly. “How are you feeling? Have you gone to the OB yet? How far along are you?”

“I’m fine. I’ll see them in a few days to find out. Wanna come with?”

“Are you kidding? I’ll be at every appointment.”

His large hand cups your cheek and he stares into your eyes. Oh, how he’s missed you. You lean into his touch, missing him just as much. Now that he has you again, he isn’t letting you go. So, he sets his lips on yours and takes his sweet time, enamored by the way your mouth responds to his.

He pulls you in closer, pressing your body against his. His right hand rests on your lower back, but as your kisses get deeper, he glides it over the curve of your bottom. His left slips into your hair and cradles the back of your neck while his other hand squeezes your plump cheek; A move he often made when he wanted more. You aren’t opposed. Hell, you thought about calling him a few times over your break just so he could fuck you.

He spins you around, shoving his chair away, and backs you into his messy desk, your thighs leaning against the edge. You know he wants you just as much as you want him. The butterflies migrate to your fanny, begging to be set free by the only key you’ll ever allow to enter your keyhole again. He attacks your neck, kissing, licking, and biting just how you like it. You can’t help the moans falling from your swollen lips but they only spur him further.

The Sheriff kisses the top of your breasts, his beard hair tickling your skin. You want to laugh being as ticklish as you are but the moment he pulls down your strap, the support for your chest falling with it, and takes your sensitive nipple into his warm mouth, you melt. His expert tongue swirls around it, and when his teeth sink in, your body shivers. Instinctively, your arms wrap around his head, and your fingers tug on his perfect hair. The hand perched on your ass moves past your hip, down to the back of your knee, and pulls your leg toward his waist. His free arm wraps around your back, holding you steady. He gingerly sucks your growing boobs, and you can feel the bruises forming.

“Fuck, princess, I want you so bad,” His husky voice murmurs against your chest. “Let me show you how sorry I am.”

You whimper at his words. The hold he has over you is so unhealthy. What can you say, you were a sucker for that cowboy. The pool between your legs begs to be swum in, and you know from experience that he’s an excellent swimmer. So, who are you to deny the wants and needs of your body?

“Fine,” you cave. “But don’t think I’ve forgiven you just yet.”

“‘Course not. I’ll happily spend the rest of our lives making it up to you.”

“Your life,” you joke, lifting the mood.

He chuckles, the crow’s feet around his eyes making their dashing appearance. “Yes. My life. Thank you for reminding me how much older I am.”

You gently hold his head, guiding it closer to yours, to place a soft, tender kiss on the sensitive spot just beneath his ear. The warmth of your lips lingers there, evoking a shiver of pleasure that travels through him. He groans, desperate for more. “You’ll feel young again when you’re chasing our kid around our house.”

He smiles widely at the imagery. “‘Can’t wait.”

“But for now, I need you inside my guts.”

His dick twitches at your request and the tug your teeth deliver to his earlob. “Whatever you want, darlin’.”

You unhook your leg from around his hip so he can kneel before you. He lifts your dress and you take the fabric from his hands, keeping it out of his way. His fingers wrap around the waistband of your drenched panties and he slowly peels them down your legs. You bite your lip in anticipation; He knew you hated taking things slow. When you wanted him, you wanted him right away, with no time to waste.

His lecherous eyes linger on your glistening folds, desperately wanting to devour you, but his need to be in you is stronger. The moment you step out of the soaked underwear, his mouth trails wet kisses up your thighs. Your fingers clutch the strands of his long hair as his lips travel over your hip. When they brush over your abdomen you gaze down at your boyfriend. He presses a light peck to your bump before warning the small fetus.

“‘Sorry, kid. Daddy’s gonna love on Mommy for a bit. ‘Better hold on tight.”

You giggle softly, but the sound quickly fades as he stands before you. A single glance into his deep, intense eyes sends a wave of eros throughout your warm body, leaving you utterly captivated. He holds your gaze, drawing you into a hypnotic trance, and without a second thought, you find yourself reaching for his collar, yanking him close to you. The world around you blurs, and the kisses that follow are urgent and passionate, filled with a raw intensity that makes them feel rushed and almost chaotic, but thrilling all the same. You aren’t sure if it’s the hormones or the desperate longing you’ve had since he was last between your legs but you’ve never wanted him more than in this moment.

Your fingers fly to his button-up and you swiftly undo each one before running your hands up and down his smooth and chiseled chest. Oh, how you missed him, all of him. They move to his Longhorn buckle, unfastening it with ease before reaching for his badge. You yank off his heavy belt and blindly toss both on the leather chair. His tongue explores your mouth as you unzip his jeans, your bodies grow hotter by the second, the anticipation nearly overwhelming.

You shove his pants down, liberating his well-endowed cock from its restraints. Beau reaches behind you and pushes the clutter aside, making room for you on his desk. He leans you back, your legs immediately wrapping around his hips. You break the kiss with a pathetic whimper as his hardened member skims along your inner thigh. He slithers his hand between you and grabs hold of his enlarged gourd. He rubs it through your wet folds, lathering his dick in your juice. Before you have a chance to vocalize your impatience, he aligns himself with your pulsing entrance. Your heels dig into the dimples at the bottom of his spine, urging him in.

Beau presses his swollen tip into your small hole and your breath hitches. He moves forward but your body rejects him. It’s been weeks since he last stretched you out, reverting to how it was before him. His brows pinch together, watching as your body refuses his thick limb. He thrusts again, this time sliding in further.

“Fuck, sweetheart, you’re so fucking tight,” He huffs as he forces himself deeper.

“Mhmmm...”

You couldn’t talk. Not just because it hurt too much to speak but because you felt all the pleasure that also came with it. He tells you to relax and you try your hardest. You can’t help yourself; It hurts so good. With each thrust, you accept him more than you did before.

“Just like that, princess. Open up for Daddy.”

His words nearly make you drool. You hadn’t called him that before, thinking it would be too weird as you were closer in age to his daughter than you were to him. But the way he says it makes you want to call him that more often, sexual or not. You nod, easing up on the vice grip your walls had around him. It didn’t take him long before he bottoms out and you’re squirming underneath him.

His thrusts are relentless. The room fills with the sound of skin slapping skin, as if you’re being punished when really, you’re being rewarded. You don’t have to ask him to go faster or deeper because he already is. Like a madman, he digs his pickaxe further into your cave. He forces your insides to conform around him. Hell, he’d rearrange your guts if your child wasn’t already harbored within.

Beau’s chest brushes against yours as one hand holds onto the edge of his desk while the other wraps around your shoulders. His fingers claim a death grip while yours clutch the fabric of his shirt. You hold on for dear life, your legs trembling around him. The objects around you bounce to the rhythm of your boyfriend’s hips, and somewhere in the back of your mind, you’re questioning the sturdiness of the mahogany table. Your moans flood his ears, loud and whiny. They grow stronger and more consistent when his abdomen rubs against your sensitive clit.

The pleasure becomes too much to bear. You hadn’t expected to last long but the way your cowboy grinds on you brings you closer to your climax than intended. If he were any other man, you would have felt embarrassed, but given your history with Beau, you feel a sense of satisfaction. Only he can get you there as quickly as you deserve, and after he’s hurt you, it seems to be quicker. Maybe makeup sex is the best kind of sex.

He grunts in your ear, only turning you on further. His breathy moans make you forget what he’d ever done. Beau was never shy about making noise, reminding you you’re responsible for each and every one. His face scrunches, and you know he’s as close as you. Your eyes roll back and so does your head as you near sheer ecstasy.

Struggling to get the words out, you stutter through, “I-I’m g-gon-na, oh, fuck—”

“Me too, baby,” His lips brush against your ear, purring the words that send you over the edge. “Cum for Daddy.”

You let out a ferocious scream, a primal sound that echoed through the room, one you had never unleashed before. It tears from your throat as the knot in your belly finally snaps, releasing a surge of raw emotion that had been building inside you for far too long. The tension that had gripped you so tightly unravels, leaving you breathless and trembling, as wave after wave crashes around Beau’s solid member. Your convulsions summon his release, so with a halt of his hips and a twitch from his cock, he spews his hot load into your spent cunt. A feral shout rips from the depths of his core, a noise that surprises even himself.

The Sheriff resists collapsing on you like he usually did after a round of intercourse, refusing to apply weight to your growing belly. Your chests heave quickly, your lungs desperately gasping for air. The office is so quiet, you swear you can hear the rhythm of your hearts beating as one. He captures your lips in a kiss, commanding the butterflies to flutter once again. The world fades around you leaving only the intensity of the moment.

The kiss lingers on the edge of breathlessness, leaving you wondering why you came here to begin with. He withdraws his luscious lips and you softly whimper, craving more. You dive into the pools of his enchanting eyes the second you open yours, all of your problems drowning the deeper you swim. He tucks his head in the crook of your neck, breaking the spell he held you in only to place you under another when he begins peppering your exposed skin with tiny kisses. You both lay in a comfortable silence, basking in the blissful aftermath of your physical and emotional unity as your nails lightly trace up and down his back.

“That was...wow.” He breathes.

You chuckle, quipping, “You have such a way with words.”

Beau snorts. He raises his head and a lazy smirk forms, his eyes raking over your countenance. “I got in between your legs, didn’t I?”

“For that, you can get out.”

“S’alright. I got what I wanted anyway.”

“Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“You, pregnant.”

Those two words went straight to your stuffed pussy.

“That so?” You struggle to ask calmly.

“‘Course. Why wouldn’t I want a kid that’s half you? You’re everything and more. I can’t wait to tell everyone.” Your heart melts and his eyes glance at your fleshy mountains above it. “Fuck, darlin’, the thought of my seed growing inside you does things to a man.”

You want to slap him for ruining the sweet moment but you’re too turned on to do so. He lifts himself off of you, careful not to pull out. Beau stares down at your small bump, his impure thoughts untamed. Just maybe, if he said them aloud, he could get another round before everyone returned. The way your breath hitches tells him all he needs.

“You’re gonna look so sexy with a swollen belly. I don’t know how I’m gonna keep my hands off you. You’re gonna be one smokin’ mom. ‘Think I might just keep you pregnant after this one.” He grabs the top of your thighs, pulling you towards the edge of the desk. One by one, he lifts your legs and leans them against his strong chest. He turns his head and presses tender kisses to your right ankle, sending tingling sensations down your legs, and straight to your core. In between pecks, he asks, “How’s that sound, sweetheart?”

You barely register the question as he switches his attention to your other ankle. He chuckles when you murmur something incoherently agreeable.

He can’t help but mock, “You have such a way with words.”

Beau’s kisses halt and he looks at you with dark eyes. You squeeze his hardening dick and in return, he pushes deeper, his bellend brushing your shut cervix. He forces a whimper out of your pretty little mouth, and it drives you both feral. The fire in your tummy reignites and you bite your lip with anticipation. You want him so bad, you don’t care who walks in. His hands secure at your hips and you brace at the new angle, ready for more.

With your arms comfortably propped against his desk, you lean back with a satisfied smile, watching as the hot sheriff tucks himself back into his jeans. The office was quiet except for the occasional and distant ring of the abandoned phones. You should have been ashamed for being apathetic to those calling but your selfishness thrives on the euphoria Beau brought to you moments before. Coming here—in more ways than one—to mend things was the last thing on your mind but you aren’t disappointed with how they turned out. He begins to button his shirt from the bottom up when he notices you staring.

“See something you like?”

“Yes, sir.” Your lip tucks between your sharp teeth, nearly drawing blood. Despite having him twice already, you could go for a third. “Something I really, really, like.”

His fingers fall from his shirt and a devilish smirk makes a broad appearance on his irresistibly handsome face.

He steps between your thighs and leans closer as his sultry voice remarks, “Sounds like you’ve got a problem, princess.”

“I sure do...Daddy.”

His eyebrow raises, and so does his package. “What’d’ya gonna do about it?”

“I would show you but I don’t think you could handle another round.”

“Oh, sweetheart, when have I ever stopped at two with you?” Beau rhetorically questions before seizing your lips.

His mouth moves in sync with yours but he’s damn near ravenous. You moan into the urgent kiss, slightly taken aback by his hunger. It was as if you hadn’t done it twice in the last twenty minutes, a record for him. Sure he’s right, he didn’t stop at two rounds, hell, there’ve been days you never left the bedroom, but there was time between each copulation. His thick fingers run through your hair and massage your scalp, turning your brain to mush. Your arms envelope his torso in a warm embrace, longing for the moment to stretch into eternity, wishing never to let go again.

It had surpassed the 20-minute limit that Beau hadn’t given to his subordinates. They waited outside and would’ve enjoyed the nice weather had it not been for the way the Sheriff had exploded. Despite the copious amount of stress that came with the job, Beau had never reacted in such a way, which caused them all to worry. Everyone had formed small circles, talking amongst themselves about what was happening in the office. Little did they know...

Jenny pulls up to the station and her brows furrow once she sees the individuals. What in the hell..? She throws her ‘96 Bronco into park, her eyes narrow as she scans the crowd for Poppernak after rounding the vehicle. His back faces her but she instantly recognizes her partner. As she walks closer, he hears her boots against the pavement and spins around with a relieved smile.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Y/N. She showed up with hell to pay. They’re in there right now, going at it.”

“How long have they been in there?”

“Just under half an hour,” The detective nods, trying to piece together if that was enough time for you to kill him and hide his body. “The boss said to come back after twenty but we’re all too scared to go in before she comes out. I don’t want to get yelled at again.”

She huffs in slight amusement. “Do you want me to check?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What’d I tell you about calling me ma’am?”

“Sorry, ma—Hoyt.”

Jenny turns on her heel with a roll of her eyes. She walks up the steps and past the glass doors. It was quiet which made her wary. She figured the first interaction since that shameful day would involve yelling but nope. Just silence. A sick feeling set in her stomach. Maybe she had killed him, she thought.

Mo felt guilty for letting his partner go into the belly of the beast alone so he worked up the courage to follow after her. Jenny tiptoed through the station, not wanting to disrupt what may or may not be happening. He takes larger steps and catches up with her quickly, being just as quiet. She hears his heavy and nervous breathing, chuckling to herself. How can a man of his size be afraid of anything?

Then, there it was: The Sheriff’s office. They notice both doors and blinds are closed. This can’t be good. The Deputies shuffle closer and peer into the window of the door, past the vinyl lettering on the tempered glass. Beau’s lips attack your bruised neck and your body arches into his.

Their eyes widen as they watch the intimate scene before them. Your moans shove past the door and fill more than your cowboy’s ears. Poppernak gulps and his body goes hot; This wasn’t what he expected, and neither did Hoyt. She awkwardly chuckles but doesn’t tear her gaze away.

“Well, you weren’t kidding about them going at it.” Before he can respond, she knocks on the door, louder than normal, startling you. You jump while Beau slumps his shoulders. She pushes the door open and says with a sarcastic cheer, “I see you two made up.”

Beau sighs with great annoyance then straightens with a look matching his exhale. Your face blushes bright red, completely embarrassed yet thankful they hadn’t interrupted any sooner. But Jenny knew otherwise. The disheveled clothes, the messy hair, the faint smell of sex, the marks on each of your skins, the reason why the doors and blinds were closed to his office—it all added up. As soon as his partner opened the Sheriff’s door, his eyes stayed glued to the floor.

“What’d’ya want?” The handsome man beside you grumbles.

“Well, I was just wondering if everyone can come back and do their jobs, that is if you guys are done in here.”

You push your dress past your knees and hop down from the desk. Beau wraps his arm around your waist, holding you upright, knowing your legs are bound to give out on you. And he was most certainly right. They tremble underneath your weight but you hide it well. He gives you a look only you know and understand: Are you okay? You nod with a reassuring smile, once again, getting lost in his enchanting eyes until Jenny clears her throat.

“Sorry—Yeah, we’re finished.” You reply.

“Great. I’ll let ‘em know.” She closes the door behind her and takes Mo with her.

You grumble as you bury your flushed face in his naked chest. “Oh my gosh, that was so embarrassing.”

He rubs circles into your aching back, trying his best to comfort you. “I know, at least it wasn’t worse.”

“What would you have done if they came five minutes earlier?”

His brows draw together, glancing at you in question as he confidently answers, “If you’re asking if I would’ve stopped, the answer’s no.”

With a startled gasp, you snap your head towards his and witness his composed expression. He isn’t joking. Your laughter fills the room, instantly settling your nerves. The Sheriff cracks a smile; Oh, how he’s missed you. He was a fool for ever pushing you away and he’ll spend the rest of his life regretting the time he pushed you away. The station begins to fill with bodies, along with a light chaotic chatter, bringing you back to reality.

“I should call my boss. Tell ‘em the sheriff beat up our new hire.” You kid.

He rolls his eyes with a sly grin. “Tell him Wren wasn’t the only pussy I beat up today.”

“Beau Arlen!” Your face flushes at his quip. “I hate you.”

“Love you too, darlin’.”

Wren sat on the steel bench, cursing himself for letting another pretty girl get him into trouble. Footsteps echo down the corridor, grasping his attention enough to whip his head toward the exit. His shoulders slump in solace the moment you walk in but it doesn’t last long. His muscles tighten and his jaw locks in place as he shoots a fiery glare at the sheriff, anger crackling in the air between them. You could cut the tension with a knife and you hated it; It was all a misunderstanding, not that it mattered now.

Beau sighs in defeat as he takes the cellar keys from his pocket. A deal was a deal, and if he’s being honest, he got the better end of it: You. He inserts the key into the lock, and with hesitation to unlock it, he glances at you for assurance. You stare at him with expectant eyes and he knows he has to turn it. With a click, the cell unlocks and he slides it open.

“All right, you’re free to go.”

The inmate’s eyes dart between the two of you, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

You gaze at your boyfriend, and ask, “Could you give us a minute?”

He was wary; He didn’t feel comfortable leaving you alone with the man who attacked him. He didn’t know him and neither did you. How bad could he be if he willingly defended you? You can practically feel Beau’s apprehensiveness, more now that you’re carrying his child.

“Please.”

He nods with reluctance. If he so much as lays a hand on her... “I’ll be right outside.”

You give your undivided attention to your coworker, wearing a look of sorrow. “Listen—”

“Let me guess,” He strolls from behind the bars toward you. “He’s your jealous ex-boyfriend who you’ve been avoiding, but then he sees you with me, unleashes his anger on my face, and now you’re sorry.”

That’s pretty spot on. “Yeah—”

“You could’ve told me he was the damn sheriff.”

“Well, I didn’t expect you to—!” You pause and exhale softly. “Look, I talked to him and he isn’t gonna press any charges, and I really hope you don’t either. I don’t know what came over him, and I’m not excusing how he handled the situation, but he’s a good man.”

“What’s your deal with him?”

Your eyebrows pinch together, confused by the question. “Huh?”

“Just an hour ago, you were demanding he leave you alone and now you’re team Arlen.”

“I—I just, I know he regrets what he did and I don’t want this one mistake to ruin his career.”

“So those hickeys on your neck didn’t influence your change of heart?” Your hand flies to Beau’s canvas, your face growing hot with embarrassment. You totally forgot, but your cowboy sure didn’t. “‘Thought so.”

“It’s not like that. We just, we finally talked, and I’m sorry it came at your expense but please don’t punish him because of me. I never meant for you to get involved and if there’s anything I can do to fix it, I will.”

His eyes scan your countenance, finding only sincerity. He kicks himself; It isn’t your fault that he ended up in a jail cell on his first day of work, at least not all of it.

“Can you fix my face?”

“And take away how badass you look? Nuh uh.” You chuckle whilst praying your persuasion works. “Taking on a sheriff...the girls are gonna be all over you, don’t you worry.”

“Ya think so?”

“‘Course. Everyone loves a bad boy.”

Wren grins, now content with his swelling eye, bruised cheek, and fat lip. “You better be right.”

You were.

A week had passed since you and Beau made up. He took a few days off work and focused on you and your relationship moving forward. You both went to the baby’s first ultrasound and found out you were nearly two months pregnant. The look on your partner’s face was the happiest you’d ever seen. A memory you’d never forget.

From the moment you mentioned you were expecting, he hadn’t shut up about it. He was so proud to be the father of your child. He’d talk about how to raise it, his hopes of it looking and acting just like you, and that he couldn’t wait for Emily to be a big sister. He wanted to call her the day he found out but you both agreed it was best to meet formally first. You didn’t want to overwhelm her; After all, one could argue that you and Beau were moving too fast. Though, neither of you had seen it that way.

The Sheriff had talked of marriage plans, wanting to—legally—keep you forever. You’d be honored to be made his wife, but you didn’t want to upset his daughter by rushing it. So, you each decided to wait until after she adjusted to your relationship and her new sibling. He adored you, even more so, having put Emily’s feelings first. From that moment moving forward, he vowed never to fuck up again.

You were outside of Beau’s trailer in your prettiest dress, setting up the table with four plates, four utensils, and four cups while he cooked on his George Foreman. Despite your efforts to buy him a real, big boy grill, he refused. It was a big day; You were finally meeting Carla and Emily. He looked over and saw the tremble in your hands. ‘Nervous’ didn’t begin to cover how you truly felt.

“Sweetheart,” He pulls you into an embrace, kissing your shoulder as a comfort. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

“What if they don’t like me? What i-if they ask you to break up with me? Oh, gosh, my baby isn’t going to have a father—”

“Hey, hey, hey! Don’t ever say that. Don’t even think it. I would never leave you, just like they’d never ask. They’re going to love you. You hear me?”

He had cupped your face as he assured you, shooing away the tears that formed in your pretty eyes. You nodded softly, letting the words sink in. Maybe he’s right, maybe they’ll love you. With a deep breath, you blinked the tears away, refusing to listen to the doubtful thoughts that haunted your mind. Beau pulled your forehead towards his lips and delivered a lingering peck.

The gravel underneath Carla’s tires crunched as she drove toward the trailer. Emily was ecstatic to meet you properly, as her father’s girlfriend, but her mother...not so much. Sure she had moved on but the thought of her ex-husband involved with a younger girl made her skin crawl. She wouldn’t call it jealousy; She wanted him to be happy, like she was with Avery, but did it have to be with someone half his age? And when the sheriff moved out of the way and she finally saw you, a sliver of envy pierced her heart: You were beautiful.

Your own pounded against your ribcase; There they were. It was time. Beau took your hand and he squeezed it as a reminder that you weren’t alone. They exited the vehicle, both wearing bright smiles, one real, the other fake.

“Hey!” He called, matching his daughter’s grin.

Emily jogged up the porch steps while Carla followed slowly behind. You released his hand before he pulled his daughter in for a hug, watching with a large smile as he held her close, incredibly grateful for her, and her acceptance of the two of you. When she began to groan, he set her free. She turned to you, each of you nervous about how to greet each other. Finally, you settled on a quick embrace.

“It’s so nice to see you again!”

“You too! I’m so glad you’re my dad’s girlfriend.”

“Awe,” Your heart clenched at the lovely comment. “You are so sweet.”

“Did you like the flowers he sent?”

“I loved them.”

“They were my idea.” She bragged.

“I knew it couldn’t have been him. They were too thoughtful.”

“Hey!” He called sternly. “That’s not true.”

You both giggled before you cleared your throat pretending to be serious. “No, of course not.”

Beau rolled his eyes with annoyance, earning another laugh. He should have known how fast it would be before you two turned on him. This next one better be a boy! He grumbles to himself. Carla watched how quickly her daughter took a liking to you so she figured it was only fair to give you a shot.

“Carla, this is Y/N. Y/N, Carla.” Beau introduced.

She extended her hand and you gladly shook it. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

“You as well. I’ve heard so many great things about you.”

“Thanks,” Her eyes glanced at her ex-husband and she playfully remarked, “You’re right about his thoughtfulness. It’s terrible.”

“Okay, okay. That’s enough.” He hollered.

You led them to the table to get to know one another better while he finished cooking. You both agreed to keep the baby a secret for a little while longer so you made sure not to mention it. Time flew by and before you knew it, Beau had finished grilling. The man was right, they loved you. After eating, they stayed well into the night, everyone exchanging stories and having a grand ol' time. He was grateful as he watched the most important women in his world build a bridge he should've crossed a long time ago, and he was ashamed he hadn't done it sooner.

BEAU ALREN MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST | JOIN THE TAG LIST

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[alloftheimagines]

abby anderson | it's you

masterlist

words: 2.4k warnings: 18+, alcohol, drunk!reader, hurt/comfort, vomit, mentions of killing and blood, mentions of death, mentions of harassment, abby punches a guy, wlf!abby x wilf!reader, fem reader synopsis: In which the reader gets drunk and Abby takes care of you, unaware that secret feelings are about to be uncovered.

It’s rare you have a reason to celebrate in the WLF, or the resources, for that matter, but it doesn’t stop the group from throwing the occasional party, unbeknownst to Isaac. Tonight’s is in the top floor of an abandoned warehouse, and you’re pretty damn sure the ceiling is caving in, but you need to blow off steam, so you won’t complain. Even if Manny is super annoying when he’s drunk, and even if your alcohol tolerance is dangerously low these days.

You deserve a drink: there is still blood on your jacket, and it’s your dead mom’s birthday, and you’re pretty sure you’re in love with a woman who could never want you back. So you take anything you’re offered, laugh with your friends, pretend that there is a life beyond the fighting. And when the woman in question, Abby, walks through the door with her usual steely expression, you pretend not to feel the thunder in your heart. Just keep drinking. You don’t want to be in love with her tonight. Tonight, you just want to be wasted. 

Later, she finally acknowledges your existence. Walks over to where you sit by a window, looking out at the pitch-black, bomb-ravaged city. Patrol lights break through the black, a reminder that you’re not supposed to be here — but nobody has come to stop the party, so maybe the nightwatch have decided to go easy on you. Maybe nobody cares anymore. It’s easy to get apathetic so many years into a pointless war. 

“Hey. Watcha doing here on your own?” Abby sits beside you, her thick thigh nudging yours, and you gulp something bitter down — you’ve given up trying to identify what the decades’ old brew is — to try to staunch the churning in your stomach. Of course, it only makes it worse. You can already feel tomorrow’s hangover lurking behind your eyes. 

“It’s a pretty view.” You shrug, words slurred. “You know, I’ve been waiting for that building over there to collapse for years. Every day, it gets a little wonkier. But it never falls. Isn’t that weird?”

Abby dips her chin and smiles. “You’re hammered, huh?”

“Why aren’t you?” 

She leans her elbows on her knees, talking a swig of her bottle. “I’m on patrol bright and early tomorrow morning.”

You snort. “So am I. So is everyone. Who gives a shit?” 

Her brows furrow, forming a little arrow that points to her freckled nose. “You, usually. Did something happen?”

A shake of your head. You squirm, not sure if you want to be around her. Not sure it’s safe to be with your lips this loose. You probably sound like an idiot, and look like one, too, eyes glassy in the reflection of the mossy, half-shattered window. “Nothing worth talking about.”

The concern doesn’t leave her intent gaze as she tilts to scrutinise you properly. You hate it, mostly her lips purse into a perfect pink pout that makes you want to kiss her. She’s strong and beautiful, everything you hoped to be when you moved up the WLF ranks. But you feel like you’re just trying to hold it together most days, in front of her especially. She never shows fear: a born leader, not like you. 

She says your name softly, leaning closer. “You can talk to me.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.” It slips out of your mouth before you can control it, and you just about manage to rein in the end of the sentence: I want to kiss you.

And before you can make it worse, before you can really acknowledge the hurt registering on her sharp features, you get up to walk away. Only, the room spins and you’re not in control of your limbs. Abby jumps to her feet and catches your elbow before you tip over, palm both rough and soft, warm and icy. “Hey. How about we get you to your room, yeah?”

“Party’s not over. Manny hasn’t even ripped his T-shirt off, yet.”

She grimaces. “Is that something you really want to see?”

“Excellent point. But I’m not leaving.” You bat her off, staggering your way to your friends to find another drink. You want to forget her name, and your own, especially when you see her gaze flit to Owen beside you. 

The other reason she doesn’t love you? You’re not him. 

***

Abby can’t peel her attention away from you, no matter how hard she tries. She asks Manny if you’re okay, but he’s already too far gone to offer a coherent answer. On the surface, you seem fine, laughing with Mel and lounging on the ratty couch with your legs over Owen’s knees. But you’ve drunk a lot, more than is probably healthy considering the shit is over two decades old. And you’ve been weird with her, recently. On patrols, during game nights. It’s like you don’t want her anywhere near you, and she doesn’t know what she did. Are you scared of her after seeing her in action with so many Scar attacks recently? Did Owen tell you something? 

It drives her insane, and she’s scratching her palms, wondering if she should just leave. And then she hears the hoarse shouts of the night’s first drunken fight, and she can’t believe it, but she’s sure that one of the voices belongs to you. 

“What’re you gonna do? You gonna hit me, asshole?” you’re snapping at one of the guys, Richie. Complete asshole, someone the two of you exchange bitter anecdotes about from time to time. He’s harassed half the women here, including you. Normally, Abby would have complete faith that you can handle him yourself, only you’re inebriated beyond your senses, and he’s built like a brick shithouse, arms as big as Abby’s and twice her height. She saw him eyeing you earlier. Has already warned him to leave you the fuck alone, go find his fun with someone who wants it. She should have punched him then and there, because he clearly didn’t listen. 

“Gonna teach you a damn lesson, you fucking bitch,” Richie retorts, squaring up. A few of the guys are holding him back, but nobody’s got you. Somebody needs to get you.

“Hey.” Abby weaves between the two of you, pushing you back by the shoulders. You almost fall, and she’s quick to wrap an arm around your waist. 

“That’s right, get your bulldog to protect you, huh?” Richie is crooning. Abby rolls her eyes. Twists. Punches him right in the fucking face, causing everyone to gasp. 

“One of these days, Richie, real fucking soon, I’m going to stop finding reasons not to kill you.”

He spits blood on her boots, but she doesn’t give a shit, her attention set firmly on you. You’re pale, bewildered, almost unrecognisable. In the morning, she’s going to kill Manny for letting you drink so much. Tonight, she urges you toward the door, away from the crowd.  “C’mon. You’re done for the night.”

“Such a fucking asshole,” you’re mumbling over and over. “Fucking hate that guy — fuck!” You trip over the first step on your way downstairs, and Abby grabs your hips swiftly, pulling you into her chest.

“Easy. C’mere.”

“I’m fine. Go back to the party.” You try to shove her away. Fail, because she's sturdy and you're certainly not.

She snorts. “Yeah, right. While you break your neck on these stairs?” 

“What do you care, anyway?”

She won’t answer that, afraid she’s this close to giving herself away. “God, you’re annoying when you’re drunk.”

“You’re annoying when you’re sober!” you point out, and she bites back a chuckle, because she likes it when you’re blunt. Likes prodding you just to see if you’ll blush. 

But you’re being stubborn, which also pisses her off as she tries to walk you, slowly, down the steps. Your T-shirt rides up beneath her hand, her pinkie brushing warm, silken skin, and eventually, your arm ends up around her shoulder, so close she can smell the alcohol lacing your breath and the soap in your hair. 

It feels like eons before you’re outside on the rain-slick pavement, making your way back to base a few blocks down. You’re slowing with each step, leaning all of your weight on her until you come to an eventual stop. Moaning, you lean over and almost fall again. She keeps your head from hitting the concrete, pulling back your hair because she's certain you’re about to vomit. 

“You okay?”

You shake your head. Squeeze your eyes closed. “I think maybe I drank too much.”

“No shit.”

Abby grimaces when you throw up, emptying so much onto the street that she’s surprised you still have anything left in your stomach. 

“Okay,” she soothes as you cough. “You’re okay. I got you.”

“Fuck. Fuck.” You’re trembling, a light sheen of sweat on your forehead as you spit and wipe your mouth with your sleeve. “This was a very, very big mistake.”

“I did try to warn you,” Abby pointed out gently. 

You half-hum, half-groan. “I think I’m gonna sit down for a while.”

“No, you’re not.” She keeps you upright, keeps you out of your own vomit. “We’re almost home. You can sit down there."

“Just leave me here.” You bat her away, and she almost wants to laugh again, but she’s also worried. When should she start watching for alcohol poisoning? Should she take you to one of the medics, just in case?

“Not gonna do that, sweetheart. Come on. Just a few more blocks.”

You make it, somehow, though not without ending up in her arms halfway up to your floor. Your room is further down the hall than hers, so she stops at the former, trying not to jostle you as she opens the door and takes you inside. Your cheek is damp against her collarbone, and you’re still muttering something she can’t decipher. She should never have let you take it this far. She should have gotten you home hours ago. 

“All right. We made it,” she whispers, making her way through the darkness to her bed. Manny is unlikely to come home tonight, so she’ll sleep in his. Or, more likely, perch on the edge of her own to make sure you don’t vomit all over her carpet. 

“Not my room,” you point out as she sets you down on the foamy mattress. 

“Nope. You’re in my room. I want to keep an eye on you.”

“Abby.” You whine out her name without any obvious reason, and she crouches to sit beside you, taking your hand. You turn onto your side, eyes scrunched shut again. 

“I’m here. You’re okay,” she says, smoothing your hair out of your eyes with devastating gentleness. 

“M’ really sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be tomorrow.” She tries to keep her voice light, teasing, but she wishes she knew what’s going on with you. Why you avoid her so much.  “I’m going to get you some water and a really big bucket.”

“I think I’m dying,” you admit. “I think those drinks were spiked.”

“Or maybe just extremely expired?” She’s quick to retrieve the water — and the bucket. She also gets a damp washcloth from the bathroom to place on your forehead, knowing you’re bound to get a headache. She’ll have to raid the med bay for painkillers later. For now, this is the best she can do. 

“Sit up. Let me see you,” she orders, using her pillows to prop you up. 

“Fuck, everything is spinning.”

“I know. Water.'ll help.” She tips the bottle to your mouth, and when you try to push it away, coaxes more. “C’mon, sweetheart. You’ll only feel worse if you don’t.”

When you’ve drank more than half the bottle, she finally lets you lie down again, placing the bucket beside your bed and the towel on your head. You sigh, fingers crumpled in her bedsheets. “Shit. ‘M sorry.”

“You already said that. You don’t need to be sorry right now, okay?” Her voice is so soft, she barely recognises it herself. She traces a scar in your hairline, a freckle on your cheek, and you lean into her touch like it’s instinct. 

“I need to tell you somethin'," you say. 

She wrenches the duvet out from under you, covering you in its warmth. “Shoot.”

“I told Owen.”

She frowns. “Told him what?”

“That you still love him.”

“What?” she stutters out. “Why the hell did you tell him that?” It couldn’t be further from the truth. She hasn’t thought about him like that in months. It’s you who occupies her brain. You and that goofy smile you shoot her every morning, the way it turns sleepy and tender by the end of the day. 

“You’w’re watching him all night.”

“You’re an idiot,” Abby says, rubbing a hand over her face. 

In the dark, she sees you frown. “You’re mad?”

“No, I’m not mad.” She is, but she won’t say so. It won’t last. Never does when it comes to you. “It’s just not true.”

“Saw you. Pining.”

“No. No, you didn’t. I don't fucking pine.”

Through groggy eyes, you search for her. “It’s okay. He’ll take you back. He'd be crazy if he didn’t. You guys will get married at the aquarium n' have really huge kids.” 

“Sounds like a nightmare.”

Your face scrunches in confusion. “No. S’ good. There’ll be those jellyfish hanging from the ceiling. And I’ll pretend.”

Abby grits her teeth in frustration, because you really don't get it, and she isn’t sure how to help you when you’re so out of it. “Pretend what?”

“That m’ happy for you. ‘Cos I’m not in love with you. Only a little.”

Abby freezes. She shouldn’t think anything of it, but she can’t help it. Her stomach swoops and she wants to shake you, tell you it’s you she’s been looking at all night. 

Only she doesn’t know how. That part of her life ended with Owen and she’s afraid she won’t love you properly, the way you deserve, so she’s never tried. 

Really, she’s afraid that if you get too close, you’ll see all the ways she’s broken inside.

She traces the outline of your cheek delicately, watching with a stupid, soft smile when your mouth twitches as she reaches your chin. Your eyes are shut, likely to stay that way, but she knows you’re still here, at least a little. 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

You say nothing, only interlace your fingers with hers clumsily. Your skin is clammy as she squeezes. 

“Get some sleep, sweetheart,” she whispers. 

“‘Are you gonna leave?”

“No. I’ll be right here. And so will the bucket, by the way.”

“‘Kay.” Your breath evens out, but that frown remains. She tries to chase it away with her fingertip, then allows herself the smallest of touches on your arm when whimper again.

And because you’re asleep, she can say it out loud, just once: “It’s you that I want.” 

Her hand stays in yours all night, and she doesn’t dare let go, doesn’t dare fall asleep. Come morning, you remember nothing — but Abby? Abby remembers everything.

[vamplvs]

Waiter! Waiter! One cup of John Walker fluff pretty please with a dozen cherries on top 🙏

anything for you dear customer, so here's some soft domesticity w him <3

"yelena gave me a shovel talk yesterday, y'know," john says as he sits next to you with a bowl of cereal in hand. his lips twitch upward when he sees you wearing his old west point t-shirt.

"oh, yeah?"

"yep," he takes a bite, nodding like it's gravely serious, "said that if i broke your heart, she'd rip mine out and feed it to me."

"well that's... colorful, for sure." john snorts at that.

"tell me about it."

"think she's serious?" you raise an eyebrow at him, and he shrugs. there's a ghost of a smile on his face.

"deadly serious, knowing her." the faint smile turns into a bright grin when you laugh.

"she'll have to make it through me, then," you say resolutely, and he gets this unfairly cute confused look on his face—the one where his eyebrows furrow and he frowns slightly. "no one's hurting you on my watch." you bump your shoulder into his, mirroring his smile.

"even if i break your heart?"

"oh, please, as if you could ever do that." he chuckles when you roll your eyes. "i've got you head over heels, walker, and you know it."

his ears turn a bright shade of red, and instead of replying, he just takes another bite of his cereal.

"you're so easy to embarrass, you know that?"

"only when it's you." now it's your turn to feel your ears go warm.

"ugh, that was so corny, john," you say with a laugh.

"you loved it," he replies with a self assured smile. your chest does something funny when he looks at you, all soft and tender, like you're the only thing in the room worth looking at.

"yeah, maybe i did."

a few quiet minutes go by with you and john sitting in the kitchen eating breakfast. it's an easy silence—no pressure to say or do anything other than carry on with the routine you two have carefully built together. then, john breaks it with the clattering of his spoon against the now empty bowl.

"it's laundry day for us, right?"

"if alexei isn't hoarding the machines again, then yeah it is." you'll never get tired of hearing john's laugh, you think.

"i'll get started on that." he presses a gentle kiss to your temple and gets up to put his bowl in the sink.

you follow after him back to your shared room, watching as he hoists the laundry basket into his arms. it's not particularly heavy—certainly not for a super soldier—but you watch his arms flex slightly as he moves, and he doesn't miss it for even a second.

"like what you see?" he asks as he's already heading out the door.

"you know how hot it is to see you do household tasks for me."

he snorts. "doing laundry is hot to you, now?"

"no, watching you make my life easier is."

it's all easy banter as you both go down to the laundry room—only two floors down in the watchtower, despite how much extra space there is on the main floor the team lives on. you hop up onto the dryer, still watching john as he loads the washer.

"so what's the plan for today?" it's one of the few days off valentina allows you between missions and press junkets—and on one particularly bad week, court hearings.

"well," he snaps the lid of washer shut, "i was thinking we could have a day in."

"and what does that entail?"

"oh, y'know," he moves to stand between your legs, hands gentle as they rest on your waist, "maybe a movie, some takeout, a little bit of peace and quiet without the team."

"i could get behind that." your fingers thread through the back of his hair—it's grown out over the past few weeks. john's made several off-handed comments about getting it cut soon, and you're already preemptively mourning it. strands fall onto his forehead when he works out, and it drives him crazy—and you, too, but certainly not for the same reasons.

even now, there's a few that droop against his face, and you're quick to brush them back. he leans into the touch with a quiet hum.

he looks good like this. blue eyes flitting across your face, small smile gracing his lips. the old t-shirt he's wearing—almost an exact copy of the west point one you have on—seems to smooth out any of his hard edges into a gentler version of him, the one whose fingertips ghost over the skin beneath your shirt like he's revering it.

when you kiss him, it's unhurried and soft. there's a quiet sound that works it's way from his mouth, muffled by yours, and his hands squeeze at your waist.

you pull away first, and he's quick to chase after you—sneaking in another quick peck.

"so, the, uhm, the plan works for you, then?" he clears his throat, trying to sound less hoarse than he is.

"of course it does."